The Cursed Towers (56 page)

"He saw what was to come," Dillon choked, "yet still he smiled at us as we left him. How could we?

How could we?"

At last Meghan composed herself, her hand creeping up to cup the little donbeag who cuddled under her chin. "What is done is done," she said harshly. "Let us ride on and teach those Bright Soldiers a lesson they shall never forget!"

So they marched on into the fields, not caring that their boots were trampling fresh, green crops into the ground. Behind them surged the faeries, so that it seemed as if the forest itself marched at their command. Ahead, Ardencaple rose from the plain. Built on a small hill circled on three sides by the river Arden, it was a pretty town with pointed roofs and round turrets set at regular intervals about the outer wall. The white pennants of the Tirsoilleirean army fluttered from the towers and the Graycloaks set their jaws and gripped their hands into fists at the sight.

A column of dark smoke rose from the center of the town straight into the still air, and as they marched, the Righ's army fixed their eyes upon it in a sort of horrified fascination. All were unable to think of anything but the old man who had died in that fire, and all hoped that the few people unaccounted for among the dead had not been lashed in with him.

As they came nearer to Ardencaple they saw with dismay that the rest of their army had been lured into a trap too and was slowly being obliterated. The Bright Soldiers had lined up their cannons along the outer wall and, with the day so still and warm, were having no trouble in lighting their fuses. Again and again the attacking Graycloaks were bombarded with cannonballs, men and horses falling screaming at every shot. It was clear the Tirsoilleirean had been fully prepared for their attack and had lured the Duke of Killiegarrie within firing range by leaving their gates open and their men hidden. Although the Duke was trying to call the retreat, the bridge behind them had been blown up and the Graycloaks were trapped between the town and the river.

Meghan and her party came to a halt at the crest of a slight hill which gave a view across the battlefield. Beside them the Arden River flowed through willows and alder trees, shading them from the hot sun. Iseult bit her lip thoughtfully, examining the lie of the land and the extent of the Tirsoilleirean defenses. Although she felt as if her body was a cup overbrimming with rage and pain, she had herself under tight control. She fixed Iain and Gwilym with her grave stare and said shortly, "Any chance o' calling up rain to dampen those fuses? We canna hope to win the day if we do no' disable those blaygird cannons o'

theirs!"

They glanced at each other and then at Meghan. "If we all work together, happen we could," Gwilym said hesitantly. "This still, warm air will work against us though."

"We are c-c-close to Arran," Iain said. "I f-f-feel my m-m-m-mother's hand behind this hot weather. We are n-n-near the coast and should be f-f-feeling a sea wind."

"Very well. Call the other witches. Do we have enough to make a circle o' power with Jorge and Matthew gone?"

Again Gwilym glanced at Meghan. The old sorceress was staring up at the sky, her face crumpled and worn with grief. With her white hair and haggard face, she looked every one of her four hundred and thirty years.

"I do no' ken if Meghan is up to much works o' power," Gwilym said in a low voice. Even though she was some distance away, Meghan turned at that and limped toward them, saying harshly, "Worry about your own powers, Ugly! I have more power in my little finger than ye have in your whole body, never forget that!"

He gave a wry grin, saying, "How could I possibly?"

"I shall stay with ye and lend ye my powers, then ride to join the men when we are done," Iseult said.

"Indeed, my will and my desire are strong today. I long to strike at those foul, loathsome, slimy maggots that call themselves men. Bright Soldiers! Better that they should be called filthy, black-hearted, mud-dwelling, blood-sucking scum!"

She paused, getting control of her temper again while the others stared at her in some amazement, never having heard Iseult raise her voice or utter anything but the most well-considered words. They saw the muscles in her jaw clench, then she said calmly, "Wait while I talk with Duncan and work out the best approach, then I shall be with ye."

Gwilym found a clear patch of earth near the water and carefully laid a fire, using a bough of each of the seven sacred woods, which the witches always made sure were included among the supplies. Then he drew a wide circle around the fire with his witch's dagger, leaving a small gap to act as a doorway. Within he drew a hexagram for, with Iseult joining them, they had six witches, including Dide and Dughall. Neither Iseult nor Dide was fully trained but both had power and would be able to supplement the strength of the others. Working weather was always difficult unless you had a Talent for it and so Gwilym was doing everything he could to focus and augment their strength.

The one-legged witch then sprinkled the circle with water, earth, ashes and salt, chanting: "I consecrate and conjure thee, O circle o' magic, ring o' power, symbol o' perfection and constant renewal. Keep us safe from harm, keep us safe from evil, guard us against treachery, keep us safe in your eyes, Ea o' the moons."

He did the same along the crisscrossing lines of the star. "I consecrate and conjure thee, O star o' spirit, pentacle o' power, symbol o' fire and darkness, o' light in the depths o' space. Fill us with your dark fire, your fiery darkness, make o' us your vessels, fill us with light."

The army marching past watched solemnly as the witches prepared themselves to work their magic. They washed themselves in the river and performed calming and centering exercises, breathing deeply and slowly, focusing their minds. Meghan would have liked them to have undressed completely, but here on the edge of the battlefield they were vulnerable enough already and so they simply stripped off their plaids and jerkins and rolled up their sleeves.

Iseult joined the little group by the river and washed herself and unbound her red-gold curls. When she was ready she stepped within the gap in the circle and sat at one of the six points of the star. Gwilym closed the circle behind her and they all held hands and closed their eyes. The sun beat down on their heads but they ignored it, chanting softly: "In the name o' Ea, our mother and our father, thee who is Spinner and Weaver and Cutter o' the Thread; thee who sows the seed, nurtures the crop, and reaps the harvest; by the virtue o' the four elements, wind, stone, flame and rain; by virtue o' clear skies and storm, rainbows and hailstones, flowers and falling leaves, flames and ashes; in the name o' Ea, we call upon the winds o' the world, in the name o' Ea we call upon the waters . . ." Then at a counterpoint to the other witches' voices, Gwilym began to chant:

"Come hither, spirits o' the west, bringing rain,

Come hither, spirits o' the east, bringing wind,

Come hither, spirits o' the west, bringing rain,

Come hither, spirits o' the east, bringing wind."

On and on they chanted and felt the first stirring of a breeze against the hairs on their arms. Their spirits lifted and the force of their chanting increased. Iseult gripped Meghan's and Gwilym's hands tightly, focusing every ounce of her strength of will and desire upon the words. A bitter wind lifted their unbound hair, blowing it about wildly. Icy wetness touched their cheeks. Their chanting slowed and then stopped. The witches opened their eyes to see snow whirling all about them.

Dillon hurried down the road, bent over from the waist so his body would be hidden behind the hedgerow. His freckled face was set in an expression of determination and his hand gripped the hilt of his sword tightly.

The squire had been ordered to stay behind with the healers and the unconscious body of Lachlan in the little grove by the river, but Dillon had waited only long enough for the Graycloaks to march out of sight down the road before following close on their heels. Behind him Anntoin and Parian ran, doubled over as well with the big shaggy dog bounding close behind. No one had noticed them go, for the witches were busy casting their spells and Johanna and the healers were busy stripping bark from the willows. The battle in the forest had depleted their healing stores greatly and Johanna had been too well trained not to take advantage of such an abundant source of pain relief.

Soon Dillon could hear the sound of swords clashing and men shouting. The air stank of gunpowder smoke, making his eyes sting. Behind the acrid smell of smoke was the smell of blood, an odor he had grown too used to.

The squire hesitated at the end of the hedge, watching the battle with dismay. Several companies of Tirsoil-leirean knights had ridden out to engage with the broken remnants of the Righ's army, wielding their swords and lances with contemptuous skill. Most of the Graycloaks were on foot, their horses either shot dead or too spooked by the noise and smell of the cannons to be ridden. Row upori row of harquebusiers were firing from the walls, aiming for the Eileanan leaders and flag-bearers so that the foot soldiers were completely demoralized. The river was choked with dead men and horses, overturned wagons and broken barrels. A pall of smoke hung over everything and several trees were aflame, their blackened twigs looking like pain-tortured fingers.

Despair and rage flooded through Dillon and he drew his sword with a curse. It sprang free of the sheath with a hissing noise. He waved it above his head and ran yelling into the heart of the conflict. Swords sprang at him and, yelling still, Dillon knocked them away, a straight cut, a downward slash, a high thrust, an extended lunge, a jab under his arm. A red mist rose through his brain. The sword danced in his hand. He parried and thrust, feinted and riposted. Men screamed, falling before him. He heard their shrieks and gurgles only dimly. The stench of burning was in his nostrils, the smell of blood. He was icy cold. He shook with cold and fever. All he could see was Jorge's sad, sweet smile, the bloody gash at Lachlan's temple, the sound of Tdmas's screams, and his flailing, desperate hands. As Dillon stabbed, slashed, hacked and dismembered, he wept tears that turned to bloody icicles on his pale, freckled face. Iseult stared at the thickly driving snow in stupefaction, then turned and looked at the other witches. They were all staring at her.

"We call rain and she brings snow—in the middle o' a heatwave!" Gwilym said with a twist to his mouth.

"Indeed, I wish ye'd worked with us last summer w-w-when we were trying to break my m-m-mother's hold on the w-w-weather," Iain said. "We could've done w-w-with a snowstorm or two then!" Meghan smiled grimly. "Well, well, lassie, snow in the middle o' May!"

"Will it do the job?" Iseult said harshly.

They could not see through the whirling snowflakes but listened intently. Although the sound of arms clashing continued, there was no cannon fire.

"I think so," Gwilym said, hastily rolling down his sleeves. "Brrrrr, but it has turned cold!"

"Then open the circle and let me join my men," Iseult said.

Gwilym complied and they all gladly stood up, stamping their feet and huddling into their plaids. So swiftly did the snow fall that the ground was already covered and the river was icing over. The narrow green leaves and hanging catkins of the willows were tinkling with ice, and the sky to the north, so blue and sunny only a scant ten minutes earlier, was leaden with snow clouds. Johanna and Lilanthe were trying to cover Lachlan's sleeping body with their cloaks but the bitter wind kept blowing them up into the air. Both girls had blue lips and nails, having been dressed for summer. The horse-eel was stamping and shivering miserably, shrunken down to the size of a goat. Even the seelie looked miserable, icicles forming at the end of his pointed ear lobes.

Gwilym snapped his fingers and the fire at the heart of the sacred circle sprung up into a roaring bonfire. Gladly the healers huddled close to its warmth, holding out their hands to its blaze. The seelie crept closer, his desire for warmth overcoming his instinctive fear of fire. For once even Lilanthe dared to come close to the flames, feeling her sap slowing and thickening in her veins in response to the cold. Iseult ignored the bitter wind, strapping on her weapons' belt and cradling her crossbow in one arm. She bent and kissed her unconscious husband between the eyes, smoothing back his black curls, then set off down the road without a word. Iain and Dide caught up their weapons and hurried to join her. Suddenly Meghan cried out and pointed up at the sky. "The dragons come!" Iseult whipped around, her eyes flying up to the turbulent sky. Flying out of the maelstrom were seven great dragons, gleaming gold in the sun which shone on the clouds from the south. Their wings were spread wide as they battled against the storm and they bugled aloud in defiance and joy.

"Dragons!" Gwilym cried in alarm. "Ea forbid, the dragons fly!" The healers screamed in terror and fell to the ground. Even Iseult, who had flown the dragon's back, felt dragon-fear quicken her pulses and loosen her bowels.

Meghan was exultant. "The queen-dragon has kept her promise!" she cried. "Come, Iseult! We must call for our men to retreat, lest they be flamed to death as well."

The old sorceress did not wait for a response but began to run down the road as nimbly as if she were nineteen like Iseult. The Banrigh ran after her, Iain, Dughall and Dide on her heels. Gwilym stared after them longingly, leaning on his club, then looked up with fearful awe as the dragons wheeled around, bugling still.

Dide reached the edge of the battlefield first. He lifted his hands to his mouth and gave the call for the retreat as loudly and clearly as if he held a trumpet to his lips. Again and again he called, and all over the field gray-clad soldiers heeded the call, disengaging and retreating back toward the river. As they ran, the dragons wheeled one more time, then they folded their wings and plummeted toward Ardencaple, fire streaming from their mouths.

Flames billowed up the turrets and walls, casting lurid shadows over the battle scene below. The dragons dived and soared, shooting great screaming balls of flame into the center of the town. Barrels of gunpowder exploded and a terrible shrieking rose as the townsfolk and soldiers trapped within the walls began to panic. The Bright Soldiers out in the field were aghast, turning to watch, their swords dropping from their fingers. Some wept and shook their fists. Others were too shocked to move. Only one small figure fought on. Covered in blood from his thatch of sandy hair down to his boots, Dillon battled on, disregarding the dreadful, magnificent sight of the flaming dragons. He was breathing in harsh, gasping pants, his chest heaving, his wrist wavering in exhaustion. Even though the soldiers he attacked had to wrench their attention away from the burning town to protect themselves, he did not falter. Jed was at his heels as always, his white fur stained and rusty, his jaws red. Meghan saw the boy and the dog and her gaze sharpened. "Och, the foolish lad! He's taken Joyeuse." The old witch strode through the dead and wounded, her plaid wrapped close about her against the cold. Behind her were the remnants of the Righ's army, standing on the frozen river, their faces upturned to the sky. All were watching in fascination the aerial maneuvers of the dragons as they rode the storm winds with spreading wings as thin as beaten gold.