Hamish's Makeover

Chapter 21

Hamish strode through Kilrain's market, boots thumping cobblestones, Robert's list tucked in his belt. The morning sun warmed his shoulders, but the air carried a sharp bite, laced with the earthy smell of fresh produce and baked bread. His stomach growled, and he muttered, "It's a straightforward job. Just get the goods and avoid distractions." Yet the village's bustle tested his resolve, a gauntlet of temptations pulling at his senses.

A café's aroma hit first, creamy Cullen skink wafting from its door, smoky and warm. His steps faltered, the scent tugging like a rope. Work first, food later, his mind urged, but a stout woman behind the counter caught his eye, her grin sly. "Go on, lad," she said, "you're lookin' hungry enough to eat the lot."

His stomach roared agreement. She's not wrong, he chuckled to himself. "A wee bowl wouldn't hurt, would it?" he asked, half to himself.

She ladled a steaming portion, enough for three. "Yer friend wouldn't begrudge ye a bite," she said, eyes twinkling.

Hamish tossed a coin, defeated. "If you ever want to bribe me," he said, spooning the rich soup, "it'll be with yer delicious Cullen skink." The first bite melted his resolve, warmth spreading through his chest. She handed him a chunk of fresh bread, and he grinned. "Strong men like me need good food. Ye've done yer part to keep me alive another day; I could kiss yeh!" Her blush pleased him, and he moved on, bread dipped in soup.

Back on task, he hit a fruit stall, apples and berries glistening. "Morning to ye," he said, sniffing an apple. The vendor eyed him warily, unsure if he'd buy or brawl. "Yer finest apples, pears, and berries," Hamish said. "Preferably ones that don't taste like a cow's backside."

The man's frown twitched into a half-smile. "We don't sell those kinds here, sir."

"Good to know," Hamish said, tossing coins. "Wrap 'em up. Don't skimp on the blackberries. They're for a mage's magic garden, ye ken."

The vendor blinked, startled. Subtle, Hamish, real subtle, he chided himself. "A mage's garden?" the man asked.

"Aye," Hamish leaned in, voice low. "But don't tell anyone. He's a wee bit sensitive about people thinkin' he's off his rocker."

The vendor laughed, wrapping the fruit, and sent him off. Hamish's satchel grew heavy, his mood light. Smooth as butter on a scone, his mind crowed. Then he saw the ale stall, barrels labeled "Finest Scottish Ale" and "Magically Brewed Courage." No gimmicks for me, he resolved, but curiosity pulled him closer.

"Oi! You there!" the vendor called. "A man of yer stature deserves a drink fit for a warrior."

"Aye, and what makes yer brew so special, eh?" Hamish asked, arms crossed.

The vendor leaned close, whispering, "Enchanted, lad. One sip, and you'll feel like you can take on the whole bloody world."

Hamish snorted. "I've plenty of courage already. What I lack is beer for the road."

The vendor laughed, handing over a stout bottle. "Here ye are, lad. Finest ale this side of the Highlands."

Hamish tossed a coin, warning, "If this turns out to be goat piss, I'll be back to have a word with ye."

"Enjoy it, SIR!" the vendor called. Hamish tucked the bottle away, feeling smug. Then he spotted Langston.

Langston moved through the crowd, clutching a leather satchel like it held his soul, his frown cutting through the bustle. That man's trouble, Hamish's jaw tightened. Langston's disdain for magic oozed from him, and Hamish trailed him, keeping distance, curious about his purpose.

Langston stopped at a trinket stall, eyeing charms with contempt. Hamish couldn't resist. He stepped up, casual. "Fancy seein' you here, Professor. Shoppin' for more ways to stir trouble?"

Langston froze, then turned, his lips tightened in a sour expression, like he smelled something foul. "MacLeod," he said, clipped. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"Funny," Hamish said, arms crossed. "I could say the same about you. Thought you'd be locked in some lab, dissectin' dirt and sneerin' at magic."

Langston scoffed, adjusting his satchel. "Some of us are trying to advance human understanding, MacLeod. Not waste our time chasing fairy tales."

"Aye, and here you are, sniffin' around magical trinkets," Hamish said, nodding to the stall. "Looks like someone's got a secret hobby."

The vendor, a wiry man in a crooked hat, perked up. "Everything here is genuine," he said, grinning. "Charms, talismans, artifacts, guaranteed to bring luck, love, or power."

Langston barely glanced at him. "Useless baubles," he muttered.

The vendor's face fell, but Hamish pressed. "If it's all so useless, why bother with the satchel, eh?" he asked, eyeing the bag.

Langston's grip tightened, his smirk cold. "Not that it concerns you, but I've acquired something of importance. Something your so-called mage friend would do well to leave alone."

Hamish's eyes narrowed. "Oh? And what's that?"

Langston's smirk widened, smug. "A relic from the dig site. It's going to The Enclave for study, legitimate study, not the magical nonsense your kind peddles. With enough time and proper analysis, it could revolutionize our understanding of this so-called magic you cling to."

Hamish's temper surged, his fists clenching. "Aye, and what exactly are ye plannin' to do with it?"

Langston's eyes glinted, determination sharp. "Neutralize it," he said flatly. "Magic is an unstable force, a relic of a bygone era. The Enclave will find a way to contain it, perhaps nullify it entirely. Humanity doesn't need magic, MacLeod. It needs progress."

Hamish stepped closer, voice low. "And who decides what progress is, Langston? You? Yer Enclave? You think ye can rip magic out of the world and call it an improvement?"

Langston held his ground, smirk faltering. "Magic is a threat, and you know it. It's volatile, uncontrollable…"

"It's life," Hamish cut in, fists tight. "It's part of this world, like the air we breathe. If ye think I'm lettin' ye walk off with somethin' that could destroy it, you're dafter than I thought."

They glared at each other as the market's bustle faded around them. Langston didn't back down, but he didn't push. "You can't stop progress, MacLeod," he said, voice tight, striding into the crowd, satchel clutched.

Hamish stood, chest heaving, itching to grab him. Not my call, his mind growled, grim. Chief's decision. Muttering, "Progress, my arse," he grabbed the remaining list items and hurried back.

Robert sat in the settlement's new common hall, sketching plans, when Hamish burst in, boots clattering on stone. His urgency jolted Robert, who stood, papers forgotten. Hamish dropped the sack with a thud, his face drawn and heavy with what he knew. "Chief!" he called, slamming the sack onto the table. "I've got the goods, but there's somethin' ye need to hear. It can't wait."

"What's wrong?" Robert asked, hands braced on the table.

Hamish sank into a chair, uncorking a jug of ale, swigging deeply. "Langston," he said, eyes hard. "Ran into the smug bastard in the market. He's got somethin', Chief, somethin' dangerous."

Robert frowned, gripping the table. "What do you mean? What did he say?"

Hamish recounted his morning, detailing the café, market banter, and Langston's boasts, each word dripping with disdain. "He wouldn't shut up about it," he growled. "Went on about a way to stop magic, how it's a danger to the balance of the world. Said he's got somethin' from the dig site, an artifact. He's takin' it to The Enclave for 'study.'"

The words struck Robert. An artifact to nullify magic? Dread coiled in his gut. If Langston spoke true, their work, Albion's revival, was at risk. "How long do we have before it's out of his hands?" he asked, voice tight.

Hamish shook his head. "Didn't say. But the way he was clutchin' that satchel, I'd wager he's not lingerin' here long. Man's got an ego, but he's not stupid."

Moira's voice slipped into Robert's mind, solemn. "This is no idle threat, vessel. If The Enclave nullifies magic, Albion's connection could unravel, severing the Endless Knot itself."

Robert blinked. Endless Knot? his mind raced.

"The Endless Knot," Moira said, her tone heavy. "It binds Albion and Earth, a weave of magic and existence. At its intersections, the veil thins, letting magic flow. Your dig site isn't just a portal; it's an anchor, a Knot convergence."

Robert sat heavily, mind swimming. Hamish, watching closely, frowned. "Are you all right, Chief?"

"Moira," Robert murmured. "What happens if the Knot's severed?"

She paused, grave. "Albion's magic would fade from Earth. No portals. No connection. The echoes of Albion's loss would destabilize nature's balance."

Robert exhaled, thoughts dark. Moira continued, her voice soft with sadness. "Certain times and places feel magical because of the Knot: dawn, dusk, ocean edges, foggy glens. These are where Albion touches Earth. Severing the Knot would destroy these in-between places, draining the world's wonder."

Robert glanced at Hamish, his concern clear. "Robert?" Hamish prompted.

"Langston's artifact," Robert said, voice steady, "threatens everything we're building. If The Enclave gets it…" He trailed off, implications heavy.

Hamish leaned forward, serious. "What do ye want to do, Chief? 'Cause if ye ask me, I'll march to that Enclave and crush it myself."

Robert smiled faintly at his bravado. "I don't doubt that, Hamish. But this needs care. Act too soon, we tip our hand. Wait too long, it's too late."

Moira's voice returned, firm. "Your move must be calculated, vessel. You're not alone. Albion's power flows through you, and your allies stand ready. Trust that."

Robert nodded, grounded. "First, we secure the settlement," he said, eyeing the sack. "Make this place a symbol of magic's good. Inspire the villagers, and we'll have strength to face Langston and The Enclave."

Hamish crossed his arms. "And after that?"

Robert met his gaze. "We take back what's ours. Take Snow through the dungeon. Get gear for you and her. Teach her to fight, to work as a team."

Hamish nodded grimly, excitement flashing in his eyes. Moira's voice tickled their minds, urgent. "Hamish… Keep her safe, will you?"

Hamish pressed his fist to his chest, vowing, "On my life, m'lady." Robert sensed Moira's reassured smile. "Here, Hamish," she said, "let me give you something." A glittering streak shot from the portal, gathering motes of light rising from the Albion earth near the portal. It swirled, then surged into Hamish's chest, staggering him backward as a rush of magic filled him. His whole body tensed, light crawling over his skin. His scream echoed, raw with pain and power.