The Cursed Towers (52 page)

"Come, auld mother, ye are no' safe here!" Iseult said. "Let me take ye to safety!" They ducked down among the bracken as a mob of Bright Soldiers ran past, shouting triumphantly.

"Who could have betrayed us?" Iseult cried. "Only a few kent our plans and I canna believe any o' our men would have led us into such a trap. The Bright Soldiers no' only kent where we would ride but when."

Meghan's eyes glittered with anger. "Once I find out, I swear on Ea's green blood that they will be sorry!" Dillon sat on the stone wall and kicked his legs angrily, his dog Jed lying curled by his side. Below him the loch gleamed in the bright spring sunlight but Dillon was in no mood for enjoying its beauty. He was angry that Lachlan had, at the very last minute, decided to leave his squires behind with the healers and the servants. Dillon had been looking forward to the battle at Arden-caple, which many said would be the final confrontation before the Bright Soldiers were sent back to Tirsoilleir with their tails between their legs. He had dreams of so dazzling Lachlan with his fighting prowess that the Righ knighted him there and then on the battlefield. Although he knew fourteen was rather young to win one's spurs, such speedy advancement did sometimes happen in times of war and Dillon saw no reason why it could not happen to him. He had practiced his fighting skills every day and listened fervently to all that was said by the soldiers, iing it away for future reference.

Dillon scowled at the
dazzle,
of light. He knew his fellow squires were relieved at the Righ's decision, and were down in the castle kitchen at that very moment, begging the caretaker's wife for bits of candied peel. He scorned them for their childishness. He bet Duncan Iron-fist had not been so silly when he was fourteen.

His fingers found a loose piece of paving, and he prised it loose, tossing it in his hand. Then he scrambled to his feet and tossed it out into the loch, counting the number of skips it made across the water's surface. Five, he counted, pleased with himself, and looked about for another bit of rock. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw a flash of white and he stared in that direction, wondering if it was the tail of a deer. City born, Dillon was not too old to get excited at the idea of seeing a wild stag. Then his eyes widened. Running low along the edge of the loch was a man in a long white surcoat. The next instant he had ducked out of sight but Dillon had seen all he needed to. He dashed back into the keep, calling, "Master! Master!" Jed bounded along, barking in excitement. Jorge was dozing by the fire, his beard flowing over his lap and down to the floor. He woke with a start and said irritably, "I do wish ye would stop calling me that, lad. I was born the son o' a thief in Lucescere, same as ye, and I am no man's master but myself."

"Master, soldiers come!" Dillon cried, almost beside himself. "I saw them creeping along the shore."

"So this is the place," Jorge murmured. "I wondered when I felt that shiver o' lightning last night . . ." He got slowly to his feet, fumbling for his staff. The lump of crystal at its apex caught the light of the fire and flashed suddenly red. Dillon helped him up impatiently, saying: "We should make sure the gates are shut and see what weapons they have here, should we no', master? Though it is naught but a wee castle, it is stout. We should be able to hold them off for a while, though there are only a few o' us and most naught but silly lasses."

"Aye, do what ye can to hold them off," Jorge said. "I shall try and reach Meghan and let her ken we are under attack. Though if we are being attacked, I think she must be also. Indeed I have been feeling uneasy all morning but thought I must be growing auld and foolish to feel so ill at ease in this peaceful place."

Dillon went running to alert the handful of soldiers that had been left to guard them, first making sure the gate in the outer wall was securely fastened. The soldiers were down in the kitchen, talking and laughing with the squires. At Dillon's hurried explanations, they were on their feet in an instant, alarm and stupefaction on their faces.

"How could they ken to attack us here?" one exclaimed, drawing his sword. "We did no' ken we were coming here ourselves!"

"Someone must have betrayed the Righ!" another cried, buckling up his breastplate. They ran out of the kitchen, the healers crying aloud in fear and dismay. Dillon ran after them, then suddenly veered and bounded up the stairs to the south turret in search of his own sword. After only a moment's hesitation, he opened the door to the chamber where Meghan had slept and rummaged through a chest against the wall. If he was to fight, he wanted the sword he had chosen in the relics room, not the little flimsy play-sword he and the other squires had been given.

The sword was wrapped in a black bag and hidden at the bottom of the chest, along with Antoinn's sword, Artair's dagger and Parian's goblet. Dillon had seen Meghan hide the gifts in the chest back in Lucescere when she had decided the boys were far too young and irresponsible to use them. The old witch had given the young Righ a severe tongue-lashing for giving them to the boys in the first place and Lachlan had been rather sulky as a result and would not listen to their pleas or arguments. When he and the other boys had been appointed as the Righ's squires, they had been given small swords to wear at their belt so had been so pleased they had not minded the loss of their gifts so much. Those swords were only flimsy though, and rather ineffectual. Now that Dillon was fourteen and almost a man, he thought it was time to wear his real sword.

He had no time to withdraw it from its scabbard, much as he would have liked to, but instead hastily buckled it to his belt and ran from the room again, the other boys' gifts still bundled up in the bag and slung over his shoulder. He flung the bag at his fellow squires as he ran through the great hall, calling to them to follow.

The view from the guards' tower gave them all a shock. A sizable force had converged on the little castle, with siege machines and cannons carried on wagons. Already ladders were being dragged to the walls and the cannons were lined up, ready to fire. This attack had been carefully planned and timed.

"I am no' sure how long we can hold against those cannons," one soldier muttered to another, his face pale. "This castle is no' built to withstand a major offensive. I wonder why in Ea's name they have brought such firepower against us? There is naught here but a few healers and the Righ's squires."

"Jorge," Dillon said, understanding dawning. "They want Jorge."

"And the lad wi' the healing hands too, I'll be bound," another soldier said. Dillon nodded, alarm on his face. "We must keep Tomas and Jorge safe," he cried. "Wha' would the Bright Soldiers do to them if they fell into their hands?"

No one replied but by the looks on the soldiers' faces, Dillon knew they too feared the consequences.

"Ye must try and get them away from here," the lieutenant ordered one of his men, a burly sergeant called Ryley o' the Apples. "We shall hold them off as long as we can, but I fear it canna be long. There must be some way ye can escape. Ask the caretakers!"

As he and Ryley ran back down the stairs to the tiny inner bailey, Dillon heard a large bang, followed soon after by the smash of a cannonball into the outer wall, which shook under the impact. Foul-smelling smoke drifted over the wall, making him feel rather sick.

They found Tomas in the main hall, gripping the edge of Jorge's robe with both hands. His thin, white face was frightened. "I can feel such hatred!" he whimpered. "They hate and fear us, Jorge, I can feel it. Why?

Why do they hate us so much?"

Jorge smoothed back the little boy's blond hair with a trembling hand. "They do no' understand our powers," he answered gently. "What they do no' understand, they fear, and they hate what makes them afraid, for they think it is a sign o' weakness."

"They want to do us harm," Tomas cried, tears brimming in his cerulean blue eyes, far too large for his wizened little face. "We have to flee, Jorge. They mean to break in and hurt us, I can feel it." Jorge nodded. "Indeed, ye are right, laddie. I too can feel they mean us no kindness. They are witch-haters, thinking our powers are born o' evil. They are angry because o' their defeats, and long for a chance to have their revenge. I would rather it was no' ye that they wreaked their revenge on, my lad." There was another resounding bang, and the whole building seemed to shake. They heard a malevolent shout of glee and excitement, then there was the sound of metal clashing..

"Have they breached the wall?" Dillon cried.

Ryley nodded. "I fear so, laddie. We must seek some way out. We canna sit here waiting for them to come and find us. There is a dinghy moored down by the kitchen. We shall have to try and escape in that."

"Where is Johanna?" Tomas wailed. "We canna leave her!"

"She was with the other healers in the kitchen," Dillon answered, hurrying down the stairs, Jed at his heels as always. They heard shouting and the clash of arms grew louder. "Quick, master, they come!" Jorge's face was drawn and gray. As they hurried down the passage toward the kitchen he whispered,

"Let us hope it was no true sighting."

"What, master?" Dillon cried, urging the old sorcerer along.

"But my heart misgives me," Jorge continued, not heeding him. "Indeed, my heart grows cold within me." He gave a shudder and faltered, and Dillon had to push him to make him continue. They reached the kitchen, a long room that ran the length of the building, almost level with the water. The caretakers were hovering by the door, their old faces anxious, while Johanna and her team of healers had gathered together their belongings and were waiting calmly. Occasionally one whimpered in fear but Johanna reprimanded them with a glance.

"Thank Ea ye have come!" she snapped at Dillon. "Ye have been such an age. Come, they search the main building. We must get Tomas and the master away. I have readied the dinghy." Dillon looked at her in some amazement. He had always known her as an anxious-faced girl with long, skinny plaits who had been scared of everything. Now a tall girl of sixteen, her plaits were wound round her head and her face was set in an expression of determination. Preoccupied with his own dreams and duties, he had not noticed how much she had changed in these past few years. At one end of the kitchen was a great iron-bound door that led out onto a stone platform. Tied at one end was a shallow dinghy, used for sculling about the loch. Piled next to it were some sacks with supplies and cooking utensils spilling out of them.

Dillon gazed at the little boat in consternation. "There is no way we can all fit in that!"

"I ken," Johanna said calmly. "Ye must take Tomas and the master, and Kevan and his wife, and the youngest o' the lassies. And Parian, o' course, he is still only a laddiekin and shouldna be here at all. Then ye will need Anntoin and Artair to help ye and Ryley row, they are the strongest. The rest of us shall swim alongside the boat."

Dillon cast her a quick glance of admiration. "But ye canna swim," he answered. She nodded and met his eyes fiercely. "I ken that!" she snapped. "But if we hang on tight and kick our legs as hard as we can, we should be just grand. Stop with your blither-blather and help me!" The smell of smoke was thick now in the air and they could hear the cries of dying men. Dillon cast one look back up the hall, saw soldiers running toward him with their swords drawn, and slammed shut the kitchen door. Hastily he bolted it then pushed the kitchen table across it with the help of Anntoin and Artair. He ordered everyone to climb into the boat, and they obeyed with alacrity, some of the younger healers sobbing with fear. Johanna stripped off her dress and petticoats and unlaced her boots, and three of the older healers copied her, leaving their clothes on the platform.

Kevan and his wife hung back. "We canna leave," the old caretaker said. "Her ladyship the NicAislin entrusted us to have a care for this castle. We have lived here all our lives." To all their rapid entreaties, he simply replied, "We do no' wish to go. We shall stay and hide in the cellar. Happen they shall no' find us."

They did not have time to argue. Jorge said simply, "Ea be wi' ye then."

"And also wi' ye," the caretaker answered with a lifted hand, before hurrying to hide. They could hear heavy boots trying to kick in the door, and then there was a small explosion, so that foul-smelling black smoke poured out of the kitchen. They pushed the dinghy off from the platform, Johanna and the three eldest healers slipping into the water and clinging rather desperately to its side. Jed rushed back and forth, barking madly, then jumped into the water at Dillon's imperious whistle. He swam right behind the boat, his head held high.

Dillon heard shouting and saw soldiers standing on the platform pointing after them. Then more soldiers came, propping strange long weapons on shoulder-high prongs and squinting down their length. Then there was a loud bang and puffs of white smoke issued from the mouth of the weapons.

"Get down!" Ryley cried. "All o' ye! Lie flat if ye can." He tried to push them down into the dinghy but one of the healers suddenly cried aloud and toppled backward, a crimson star opening in his forehead. Everyone screamed.

"Those long things be harquebuses," Ryley said, trying to row while keeping his head and shoulders down. "We fought against them at Rhyssmadill. They are like arrows o' lead and smoke. Keep down, all o' ye."

The dinghy was shallow, though, and overcrowded. It was difficult to row while trying to hunch below the sides of the boat's hull, particularly since the healers were crouching as low as they could get. Again the harquebus-iers fired their weapons. Artair gave a high-pitched scream and fell forward, blood streaming from a wound in his throat. Almost simultaneously Ryley cried out and clutched his shoulder. For a moment the boat veered wildly, then Dillon lifted his oar clear of the water, calling to Anntoin to do the same. Keeping his body low, he leaned over Artair, his pulses thumping. The boy was dead, his eyes glassy. For a moment Dillon could not move or think. His heart beat so loud he could hear it in his ears. He had grown up with Artair on the streets of Lucescere and he counted him as a brother. The sharp bang as the harquebusiers fired again roused him, although he felt cold and shaky. Without a word he tipped Artair over the side of the dinghy, first removing the little sword and the jeweled dagger at his belt. Anntoin cried out and Dillon turned a fierce gaze on him. "He's dead. We need to lighten the load," he said harshly. Parian crouched down, sobbing, and Dillon turned to him. "Do no' start greeting now," he said in the same angry voice. "Get ye to that oar, Parian, and row as hard as ye can." Sniffling, Parian obeyed as Ryley bound up his shoulder with his shirt and seized his oar again. The boat shot forward over the sun-dazzled water, Johanna and the other healers still swimming valiantly along behind.