The Forbidden Land

by Kate Forsyth

  For a long time they fought with neither regaining the upper hand. Lachlan’s face could be seen to gleam with sweat behind his visor, and occasionally the berhtilde paused for breath, leaning on her sword instead of pressing the attack. There were many cries and moans from the crowd, all caught up in the drama of this fight to the death between two combatants so evenly matched in strength and skill.

  Then the berhtilde seemed to decide the battle must be finished. Whether she was growing tired in her heavy armour, or whether she felt she now knew all Lachlan’s weaknesses was impossible to tell, but she attacked with blow after heavy blow, forcing Lachlan ever further back. Soon the wall was pressing up behind him and he had nowhere else to go.

  He glanced behind him, then suddenly set his sword in the dust and used the wall behind him as a springboard, somersaulting high into the air. This was a Scarred Warrior trick and had never been seen before by the Tìrsoilleirean audience, who all cried aloud in amazement. Lachlan lifted his sword as he somersaulted high over the berhtilde’s head, smashing her on the crown of her helmet with the massive hilt of his claymore. As he landed behind her, she rotated drunkenly to face him, overbalanced and fell with a clash of steel. Lachlan leapt forward and drove his sword down between the join of her breastplate and guardbrace, deep into her shoulder. She screamed and struggled to rise, but she was pinned there, the sword having passed through her body and into the ground below. With her other hand she seized the hilt of Lachlan’s sword and slowly, painfully, dragged it out. Using the sword as a crutch she staggered to her feet, and stood there, facing Lachlan, leaning on his sword, her own sword held out in defence. Slowly she straightened, then turned and flung Lachlan’s sword out of the arena.

  ‘She be as strong as a horse,’ Duncan Ironfist hissed in amazement. ‘That should’ve ended it, that blow.’

  ‘But now Lachlan be without his sword,’ Finn said, gripping her hands together.

  The Rìgh had drawn his court sword and his dagger, both much shorter and lighter than the great broadswords. She swiped at him with her sword, and he ducked under it, came up close to her body and stabbed at her visor with his dagger. It glanced off the edge of the metal, scoring it deeply but failing to penetrate. So he bashed at her injured shoulder with the hilt of his sword and she staggered back, dropping her sword. Lachlan kicked it aside, lunging at her with the court sword and tearing the chain mail at the join of her thigh and groin. She seized his arm and threw him over her shoulder and to the ground. Before Lachlan had a chance to regain his feet, she was stabbing down with her short sword. The Rìgh rolled first one way, then the other, then came to his feet with a nimble backflip, spinning on one foot and kicking out with the other. His boot took her full in the chest, and she stumbled backwards, lost her balance and fell heavily. For a moment her arms and legs moved weakly, like an overturned beetle trying to regain its feet. In that instant, Lachlan bent and dragged her helmet free, seeing his opponent’s face for the first time.

  She was only young, with a square, brutish face that stared up at Lachlan without expression as he knelt upon her chest, his blade against her throat. ‘Do ye ask for quarter?’

  The berhtilde did not reply. Her glacial-grey gaze did not waver. Lachlan leant a little on the sword. Blood ran up its edges. Still she did not speak. With a sigh Lachlan stepped back, lifting his sword. She did not hesitate, scrambling to her feet as quickly as her heavy armour would allow her and attacking him ferociously with sword and dagger.

  ‘The chivalrous fool,’ Duncan Ironfist said affectionately.

  The clash of steel against steel filled the arena. The short sword was a different weapon entirely than the great claymore. It was much lighter, with a sharp point made for thrusting and edges designed for parrying, rather than slashing. Because wielding it involved only one hand, the other could be used to feint and stab with the dagger, to jab or throttle or throw dust or poke at undefended eyes. In the next few frantic minutes, both combatants took full advantage of this freedom. It was soon clear, however, that here Lachlan had the advantage. Aided by his wings, he was able to leap and sidestep nimbly. He had been trained to fight by a Scarred Warrior. Swords were not weapons used on the Spine of the World; fists and feet and elbows and the side of the hand were employed as deadly weapons, and so Lachlan had many tricks and manoeuvres the berhtilde was not familiar with. In addition, she was weary and sorely wounded. Soon it was clear she was failing. Then Lachlan suddenly lunged forward, his sword at shoulder length. Cleanly it pierced the berhtilde’s unprotected throat, emerging on the far side smeared and bloody. She gave a horrible little gurgle and fell back, her weapons falling from nerveless fingers. Lachlan was dragged down by her weight, falling on one knee beside her body.

  For a moment there was a stunned silence, and then the three hundred Greycloaks were on their feet, cheering. Elfrida leapt up and flew into Iain’s arms, laughing and weeping. Iseult dropped her face into her hands, surprised by a rush of tears, while the League of the Healing Hand leapt about in their joy, banging each other on the back.

  Suddenly Iseult started to her feet, her face all scrunched and crimson, wet with tears. ‘Lachlan!’ she screamed.

  At that moment an archer concealed in the Fealde’s grandstand rose to his feet, lifting a long bow to his shoulder. Swiftly he fired, the arrow hissing down towards Lachlan’s kneeling figure.

  At Iseult’s scream, Lachlan leapt to his feet, his closed eyes springing open. The arrow was curving down towards his breast. Everyone stood, frozen in shock and horror. Automatically Lachlan threw up his hand and caught the arrow only a few inches from his heart. Again the archer fired. Again Lachlan caught the arrow in mid-flight, just before it plunged into his throat. There was an amazed sigh from the crowd.

  ‘How did he do that?’ Brangaine whispered.

  ‘I do no’ ken how,’ Iseult said, weeping again. ‘I have seen Meghan do it, but she be the most powerful sorceress in the land. I did no’ ken Lachlan could do such a thing.’

  ‘God’s hand protects him,’ Elfrida said.

  Lachlan stood alone in the centre of the stadium, his fist holding the arrows, black anger in his face. Then deliberately he broke, them over his knee and flung them away. He bent and hauled his sword free of the dead berhtilde’s body then advanced, limping, upon the Fealde’s grandstand.

  Again the archer fired, though the crowd in the stands was hissing and booing. Lachlan spread his wings and soared high into the air, the arrow curving down and clattering uselessly on the ground. He landed gracefully before the cowering Fealde, his sword held to her throat. ‘Is this how ye receive God’s judgement, ye treacherous bitch? Well, now shall ye surfer his retribution!’

  And thus the Bright Wars were finally ended, the Forbidden Land finally conquered, in that final act of thwarted perfidy. So sensational had been the battle, so dramatic its outcome, that there was remarkably little resistance to the Greycloaks taking control of the city. Indeed, so complete had Lachlan’s victory been that most truly believed him to be the angel of death he had declared himself to be. When he limped from the stadium, the people of Bride pressed close all about, touching his dusty, disarrayed feathers, his bloodstained surcoat, some weeping with joy. Elfrida was greeted as uproariously. Few disavowed her right to rule when her champion had proved her claim so triumphantly in the trial by combat. The gates of the inner city were flung open for her and she was swept towards her family’s ancient stronghold on a wave of shouting, cheering Tìrsoilleirean.

  The euphoria did not die for several days. The hated elders of the General Assembly were all arrested and imprisoned in the Black Tower, awaiting trial. To everyone’s dismay, the Fealde was not included among them. The woman in the golden armour who had watched the ordeal by combat so impassively was not the true Fealde, but only her servant. While her champion had been fighting to the death for her cause, the Fealde had been escaping from the city with as much of the royal treasury as she could carry.

  Lachlan
had been healed by Tòmas so that he was returned to his usual strength and vigour less than an hour after the ordeal by combat. He was exhilarated by his success, his golden eyes blazing, his dark face alive with excitement. Again and again he relived the battle, describing this thrust and that feint, until at last Iseult laughingly begged him to desist. ‘That was one o’ the longest hours o’ my life and I never want to suffer such an hour again,’ she said.

  On the afternoon of the spring equinox, when the hours of daylight finally lasted as long as the hours of the night, Elfrida Elise NicHilde was crowned banprionnsa of Tìrsoilleir by the new Fealde of Bride, Killian the Listener. She was dressed very simply in white, with the red MacHilde plaid flung over her shoulder and fastened at her breast with her clan badge. Over the other shoulder she wore the heavily ornamented baldric from which hung her father’s golden sword, that had been carried by every MacHilde since Berhtilde the Bright Warrior-Maid herself. She looked very young and frail with the heavy crimson and gold crown on her head, but very regal. When she drove back to the palace in an open carriage drawn by four white horses, the crowd went wild, throwing flowers and sweet cakes to her and tossing their hats high in the air.

  The League of the Healing Hand were all guests of honour at the feast that night. They were given new clothes to wear and, although these were rather drab by Lucescere’s standards, were much grander than the rough clothes they had been wearing for months. Brangaine was particularly happy to be dressed as a girl again, though her hair was still too short to be put up, hanging below her ears in a silken bob.

  When Finn came down the stairs, dressed in a dark brown velvet gown, with the elven cat riding on her forearm, Jay bowed to her and said, ‘Look at ye, fine as a proud laird’s bastard.’

  ‘Hey, ye’re stealing my patter!’ Finn protested. ‘Next ye’ll be saying I’m grand as a goat’s turd stuck with buttercups.’

  ‘Indeed ye are,’ he answered, offering her his arm. ‘Grander.’

  ‘Well, are we no’ the courtier tonight,’ she said. ‘I must say ye look grand too in that suit, though rather sombre. And look at the NicHilde! She’s really flying the flag tonight, with a wee bit o’ white lace at her neck. Are they no’ a peculiar race o’ people? Remember Captain Tobias and his disapproval o’ our buttons?’

  The feast was as subdued as their clothes, with no fire-eating or sword-swallowing, acrobatics or music to amuse them while they ate. The feast had been organised by the ladies of the court, who were clearly a long way away from daring to put away their habit of austerity. The Rìgh’s quartermaster had rolled out some barrels of wine, however, which Lachlan’s retinue all drank rather surreptitiously. Much to Finn’s disgust, she and the others not yet of age were given only fruit juice to drink.

  After all had eaten their fill, Elfrida began to formally receive the lairds and ladies of the court. Lachlan beckoned Dide, Finn and the others and they bowed, made their farewells and retreated to one of the magnificent antechambers, where decanters of whiskey and jugs of wine and ale had been set out for them.

  ‘By the beard o’ the Centaur, what a dreary party!’ Lachlan exclaimed. ‘We must just hope that Elfrida has learnt something about the art o’ hospitality while living in our lands, else she’ll never be able to persuade any o’ us to visit her again!’

  Dillon poured them all wine or warm ale, and they settled themselves comfortably on couches around the fire. Although it had been a warm day, Gerwalt was a cold and draughty palace and all were glad of the fire’s warmth.

  ‘Ye’ll all be glad to ken that I shall return to Lucescere a much richer man than I was when I left,’ Lachlan said with satisfaction. ‘Although the former Fealde, Eà curse her black heart, did her best to empty Elfrida’s coffers, the NicHilde has still been able to pay restitution to me for the cost o’ the Bright Wars as well as a very handsome tithe. This is good news indeed, for I promise ye, if I had levied any more taxes the people o’ Eileanan would have risen up in rebellion once more, I be sure o’ it.’

  They all congratulated him and he described with a great deal of enthusiasm the beautiful war galleon Elfrida had given him as part of her tithe. Lachlan had decided to call it the Royal Stag and he was looking forward to sailing home in it very much. ‘I was most envious o’ all your adventures on the Speedwell,’ he told Brangaine and Finn. ‘Brangaine, ye shall have to sail with me so we are sure to have fair winds all the way home. No more slogging along on foot for me!’

  Remembering the Devil’s Vortex, the attack by the sea serpent and the terror of their shipwreck, Finn could only stare at him in amazement. ‘Ye’re stark raving mad, Your Highness!’ she cried. ‘I’d be happy if I never had to set foot on a ship again.’

  ‘Aye, but like all cats, ye dislike getting wet,’ Lachlan teased. He lifted his goblet for Dillon to pour him some more wine, then said, ‘The war is over at last! Let us drink to victory!’

  They all joined in the toast enthusiastically, then Iseult said, ‘To celebrate our triumph, Lachlan and I have prepared a few gifts for ye all, to thank ye for all that ye have done.’

  ‘Firstly, I think,’ Lachlan said, ‘we should reward Dillon, who has been the best squire any Rìgh could hope for. Indeed, I am very sorry to lose him.’

  ‘Lose me?’ Dillon said anxiously. ‘What do ye mean, Your Highness?’

  ‘Dillon o’ the Joyous Sword, will ye kneel down afore me?’

  Looking rather dazed, Dillon obeyed. With a few light touches of his court sword, Lachlan knighted him and appointed him a Yeoman of the Guard, one of the Rìgh’s personal bodyguards. ‘Arise, Sir Dillon,’ he said.

  Smiling, Iseult held out a small pile of clothing for him. There was the blue kilt and jacket that all Yeomen wore, a long blue cloak, a plaid, and a silver brooch depicting a charging stag, the badge of the Yeomen. Dillon took them, unable to speak with joy and surprise, though Jed the scruffy white dog barked enthusiastically and knocked over a goblet with his wagging tail.

  ‘Connor, I ken ye are young to be a squire but ye did such a good job while Dillon was away in my service, the job is yours again if ye wish it,’ Lachlan said to the boy, who flushed crimson and cried, ‘Would I!’

  Iseult then gave him back the livery of the Rìgh’s squire, which he had surrendered so reluctantly to Dillon upon his return. Connor gave a squeak of excitement and scampered away to change.

  Tam was given a heavy purse of gold, to help him buy his own farm or business. He accepted it with stammered thanks and shining eyes and Iseult said teasingly, ‘I hope we shall soon be hearing some happy news o’ ye, Tam.’

  ‘It be only three months until Midsummer’s Eve—plenty o’ time for ye to return to Kirkclanbright and ask that bonny lassie from the apple orchard to be jumping the fire with ye,’ Lachlan said encouragingly, not having the same subtlety as his wife.

  Tam blushed bright red and stammered inaudibly.

  Ashlin was given a beautiful silver flute, which he clutched to his breast with trembling fingers, unable to even mutter a thank you. Brangaine was promised help and money in rebuilding Siantan, with a purse of gold in payment of the first instalment. She accepted it graciously, saying, ‘I thank ye, Your Highness. There is naught ye could have given me that would have pleased me more. I shall use it to feed my people, who have been hungry indeed these past few years.’

  ‘Ye are a good NicSian,’ Lachlan said. ‘I hope to see Siantan returned to prosperity under your benevolent rule.’

  ‘If ye are true to your promises to help drive out the Fairgean, I believe that hope will be fulfilled,’ she returned.

  He sighed. ‘No’ a week has gone past since we finally conquered the Forbidden Land and already she wants me to start attacking the Fairgean.’

  ‘It canna be soon enough for me,’ she answered.

  He nodded. ‘Nor for any o’ us, Brangaine. Let us no’ talk about it now though, please? This is meant to be a joyful occasion.’

  ‘I am sorry, Your Highness,’
she said with a graceful curtsy and retired back to her seat, her point made.

  ‘Johanna, o’ all o’ the League o’ the Healing Hand, ye have seen the uglier aspects o’ this war,’ Lachlan said. ‘Ye have worked hard and willingly for years now, and we have watched ye grow into a good woman, with a gentle heart and hands. On this journey, ye have no’ had the skill o’ Meghan or Isabeau to assist ye, yet ye have shown good judgement every step o’ the way. We therefore have great pleasure in telling ye that ye have been appointed head healer.’

  Everyone cheered and Johanna thanked him with tears in her eyes. Iseult had had a long green robe prepared for her, embroidered on the breast with a bunch of healing herbs and a mortar and pestle. Johanna slipped it over her head, then stood holding out its silken folds with wonderment in her eyes. ‘Are ye sure?’ she said. ‘There are so many talented healers in our team … and I still have so much to learn.’

  ‘We’re sure,’ Iseult assured her and Johanna sat back down in silence, stroking the pale green robe with reverent fingers.

  Lachlan then knelt before Tòmas, who sat quietly on the edge of the couch, regarding him with wide blue eyes. ‘Tòmas, I have no words to express the thanks I feel in my heart for all that ye have done for us. So many men and women can still walk and laugh and play with their children because o’ ye, myself included. I shudder to think o’ the feast Gearradh would have devoured these past few years if it was no’ for ye. Indeed, it was a wonderful thing for us, that ye should have such power in these two small hands o’ yours. I ken ye have paid a terrible price for your magic and for that I am very sorry. I have tried and tried to think how I can repay ye, but it is impossible. All I can say is that I hope this is the end o’ it, that we can all go home to our families and be at peace now.’