The Cursed Towers (47 page)

The Bright Soldiers tried to make a ramp to cross the open space between the edge of the bridge and the yawning gateway, once closed off by the drawbridge. Once or twice they almost succeeded but the witches simply disintegrated the ramps with a thought and those soldiers manning them fell screaming into the ravine.

Iseult and Barnard the Eagle had climbed to the top of the highest tower and were watching anxiously for any sign of their own reinforcements. At last Iseult saw a great, dark mass sweeping in from the east. Inexorable as a flood, the Righ's army marched through the rolling meadows until it finally reached the Rhyllster. She saw the columns and squares break up as the Bright Soldiers defending the bridges moved to engage. She sent Dillon running to Lachlan with the news, excitement thrilling through her. The MacThanach had seven thousand men under his command, three thousand of them Tirsoil-leirean prisoners-of-war or deserters who had sworn allegiance to the MacCuinn. It was their hope that many among the Bright Soldiers camped in the park would join their comrades, the ground well prepared by Jorge's prophecies and the tales of miracles and marvels.

Iseult watched until it was clear the Graycloaks had seized the bridges over the Rhyllster and were advancing through the ruined city, then she turned her attention to the north and west, where Barnard was leaning out over the battlements, his hand shading his eyes. They were expecting fresh troops from Lucescere to attack the Bright Soldiers from the rear, having marched through the Ban-Bharrach hills and along the foot of the Whitelock Mountains. Murdoch of the Axe had been sent to guide them and had promised to bring Lachlan and Iseult nearly a thousand men and women, though most were untried and only half trained. The element of surprise would be their greatest weapon, and Iseult hoped that all the activity at the palace would distract attention from the back gate.

Lachlan had sent Stormwing to fly over the palace park and the gyrfalcon soon circled down to report Murdoch's company had crept in through the back gate and were advancing stealthily through the woods.

With a brief but heartfelt prayer of thanks, Iseult and Barnard then hurried to the west wall and gazed out anxiously.

The great forests of Ravenshaw stretched away to the west and it was impossible to see anything through the tangled branches, but Iseult watched until her eyes ached, nonetheless. Dughall had promised them the MacAhern would come but they had had no word, and since they did not know him, they could not scry to him for news of his approach, nor could the falcon's keen eyes pierce the forest's thick canopy. Dughall was down with the other witches, bombarding the white tents on the far shore with fireballs and making sure all attempts to cross the chasm failed. Iseult had just decided that she would ask him to try and reach the MacAhern that evening at sunset when Barnard touched her arm respectfully.

"Look, Your Highness," he said. "There is some disturbance at the forest's edge." She glanced where he pointed and saw a small white figure running toward the western boundary of the Bright Soldiers' camp. Then white-clad soldiers were frantically gathering together their weapons and scrambling into defensive formation, their faces turned to the forest. Her heart lifted, and then she saw a wide column of cavalry trot out from under the shelter of the trees, pennants flying. For a moment they paused at the edge of the open parkland, surveying the vast tangle of tents and pavilions that stretched before them, large as a town. Then the horses broke into a gallop, streaming down the slope toward the Bright Soldiers' camp.

"Quick!" Iseult called to Anntoin. "Run and tell Lach-lan the MacAhern is here as promised! We shall surely win the day now!"

By sunset it was all over. Seven thousand Bright Soldiers lay dead on the field, their white surcoats torn and reddened. The churned-up soil was wet with blood, and smoke from the burning siege machines hung heavy as fog, half obscuring the trampled tents and tattered flags. The moans of the injured rent the dusk, and as Meghan and her healers moved through the tangle of overturned wagons and broken picket lines, hands reached out to them, pleading for succor.

All were tended, whether dressed in white surcoats, gray cloaks or the black cassocks of the Tirsoilleirean clergymen. By the light of flickering torches, the healers washed and bound, stitched and splinted, administered healing potions and pain-numbing drugs. Soldiers, many of them bandaged themselves, helped carry the worst injured into the shelter of the palace. Tomas walked among them, laying his hands on all he passed, even though his fingers trembled and great, purple bruises hung beneath his eyes. He wept as he worked, the tear tracks running white down his grimy, blood-smeared face.

After a while Johanna came and led him away. "Ye will kill yourself if ye lay hands on them all," she scolded. "Come and eat and rest a while, and ye can touch them again when your strength has returned." He dragged against her hand, protesting, but her grip was firm and he was too worn out to fight her. The little boy was too late to save the MacThanach, who had died at the crossing of the Rhyllster. The death of the bluff, hearty man weighed on them all, for the MacThanach had proved most staunch and loyal over the past two years. Also among the dead were Hamish the Hot and Hamish the Cool, who had died in the defense of Rhyssmadill's gatehouse, and Cathmor the Nimble, who had been shot through the throat in the last furious minutes of fighting. Lachlan was distraught at the loss of three of his most faithful officers, and he wept with the other Blue Guards as they laid them out in state in the great hall, wrapped in their plaids with their claymores on their breasts,

"More dead for the Tomb o' Ravens," he said somberly. "Indeed, Gearradh has eaten well this day." Although the army celebrated that night with what scanty supplies they had, the Righ sat sunk in a black melancholy, his face haggard with weariness and grief. Iseult sat with him silently, her blue eyes somber. Every now and again she poured him some more whiskey, and once she said with unusual gentleness,

"The purpose o' battle is slaughter and the price o' victory is blood. That is the nature o' war." He cast his glass away from him, saying, "Ye think to comfort me thus? Ea damn ye and your Scarred Warrior proverbs!"

She shrugged. "Who said I tried to offer comfort?

What comfort is there in lost friends and comrades? I do but tell ye what war is. Ye did always think it was like the songs o' the jongleurs—a game o' chivalry and tactics like that game o' chess ye play with Finlay. Well, it is no'. The purpose o' battle is slaughter and the price o' victory is blood." When he said nothing, she rose and went to leave, but he caught her arm as she went by and pulled her to him, burying his face in her lap. He took a sobbing breath, like a child, and she smoothed his unruly black hair. "Come to bed,
leannan,"
she said. "We have waded in death today; let us drown ourselves in love and forget. We at least are alive and there is something in that."
The Soul-Sage

As swiftly and effortlessly as a bird, Isabeau glided down the snowy hillside. With a slight sway of her body she changed direction, curving round to leap off a mound, spinning in the air and landing gracefully with an arcing spray of snow.

As the slope steepened, her descent accelerated until the cold wind was rushing past her face like the brush of fire. Tears streamed down her face and she rubbed her eyes with her white gloved hand to clear her vision. Her skimmer hit a slick of ice and she skidded at a breakneck speed, spun and almost fell, before flying on at an even greater pace. Isabeau whooped in excitement, and swerved again to leap off another round hump of snow. The blue sky spun beneath her feet, the snowy mountains blurring as the blood rushed to her head, then she was upright again, her skimmer landing on the slope with a loud thwack. Her feet shot out from under her, for a moment her arms windmilled wildly, her body bending backward, then she regained her balance and the snow again hissed under the wood of her skimmer.

"Woah!" Isabeau cried. "That was close!"

She came to a curving halt under a copse of trees, wiping her streaming nose with her gloved hand and trying to catch her breath. Her cheeks stung and she felt extravagantly, thrillingly alive. Above her, needle-sharp mountains stabbed their icy points into a clear, bright sky, while the smooth, white slopes fell down as far as the eye could see, broken only by the occasional copse of dark trees. The snowy hillside was marred with the swooping, erratic line of her descent, and Isabeau frowned a little, knowing her Scarred Warrior teacher would have a few scathing words to say about her style. She looked rather longingly at the steep white slope plunging ahead of her, then up at the sun which was slowly curving down toward the mountains. It was a long walk back up to the Haven, and if she wished to be back before nightfall she should turn back now.

Reluctantly Isabeau bent to unstrap the skimmer from her feet. Her eye was caught by a flash of gold, and she looked up, excitement and pleasure quickening her pulse.

A dragon was soaring above the mountains, the sun shining on her gleaming scales. Her clawed wings were spread wide, thin as parchment, and her long tail writhed behind her. Isabeau raised her hand and called:
Asrohc!

Greetings, little human!
The dragon responded mockingly, her mind-voice as always echoing through the chambers of Isabeau's body so that she felt rather nauseous.

Do ye fly for pleasure or are ye on a journey?
Isabeau asked.

Flying is always a pleasure,
the dragon replied, folding her wings and doing a graceful, plunging somersault.

If
I
skim to the bottom o' the mountain, will ye meet me there and fly me back to the top? Please?

Perhaps.

Please?

I will see how I feel when thou reachest the depths of the chasm. Perhaps I shall have a whim to
be amused by thine odd human eccentricities, perhaps I shall prefer to gnaw on a warm, bloody
carcass. I have seen no deer or
geal'teas
running so it is probable I shall be in the mood for some
diversion.

The dragon had flown down out of the peaks and was now gliding across the meadows, her huge shadow passing over the humps and dips like the shadow of a thundercloud. As the shadow passed over her, Isabeau felt her knees tremble and her stomach clench in fear, even though she had often flown on the dragon-princess's back in the past eighteen months.

The young dragon soared away over the valley and Isabeau watched her, indecisive. She glanced back down the steep, pristine slope then gave in to temptation, following the dragon's shadow in long, swooping curves.

As her blood quickened, the snow flying away beneath her skimmer, Isabeau forgot her guilty apprehension, shouting in delight as she leapt and spun over the humps. The slope steepened and fell away beneath her so that she really was flying, rushed up to meet her so she fell in a tangle of limbs, hissed away again under her skimmer, rolling and dipping faster than a horse could gallop. She reached the bottom of the hill in a slither of snow, having to turn so sharply to avoid crashing into the trees that her velocity carried her curving back up the hill again. Isabeau bent over, legs trembling with exhaustion, breath sharp in her side, and rested her fists on her knees until she had caught her breath. Then she looked up and scanned the sky. There was no sign of the dragon.
Asrohc?

There was no answer. Anxiety leapt in her.
Asrohc!

The sun was sliding down into the sharp-pointed peaks and shadows were falling across the valley. The only sound was the quiet stammer of water tumbling along under ice. Isabeau felt panic squeeze her throat muscles shut until she could hardly breathe. She had no chance of reaching the Haven before night came. If the dragon did not respond to her call, she would have to spend the night out in the snow and she knew her chances of survival were low indeed. Many who lay down to sleep in the snow never woke again.

Isabeau looked about her, trying to calm the panic threatening to overwhelm her. She should have known better than to have relied on the dragon's good nature. Dragons were not known for their benevolence. Just because Asrohc sometimes let Isabeau fly on her back did not mean the dragon-princess felt any more warmly to her than a dog did to the fleas that rode on its back. No doubt the dragon had seen a herd of
geal'teas
that she could run to their death or simply grew bored with the view and returned to Dragonclaw. Isabeau had to think what best to do.

She unstrapped the skimmer and tied it to her back then looked about her. The slope was steep, snow mounding against the boles of the conifer trees. Round humps concealed rocks and fallen logs along the narrow base of the valley, where black ice showed where a stream would run in summer. She looked back the way she had come and her spirit quailed at the height of the mountain. It would take many exhausting hours to clamber back through the deep snow to the heights and she had to suppress a bitter thought against the dragon, knowing Asrohc would probably hear it.

With a sigh she began to slog along the base of the valley, looking for somewhere to set up camp. Although her teacher had often warned her about the dangers of the valleys, she thought she was more likely to find a cave or hollow tree down here than up on the bare, windswept slopes. Far better that she find some shelter, build a fire and wait out the long, freezing night than exhaust herself trying to climb the mountain. She could begin the long climb home in the morning, when she was rested and could see the many pitfalls of the mountain clearly.

Isabeau found a fallen tree that had created a small cave between the rock face and its snow-laden trunk. She crept inside, swearing and shivering as her movement sent snow slithering down onto her back. She huddled her furs around her and scraped around for twigs and branches with which to build a fire. Normally Isabeau was not permitted to use her witch powers while on the Spine of the World, the Firemaker and her kin being constrained by strict laws and customs. The pride were safe in the Haven, however, so Isabeau had no hesitation in summoning a spark of fire and feeding it with her own powers until the wood was dry and a cheerful fire crackling.