The Cursed Towers

by Kate Forsyth

  ‘The Scarred Warrior moves as swiftly and silently as the wind, is as unfathomable as clouds when hidden, and strikes as suddenly and as fatally as lightning,’ she had said. ‘One should no’ dress like a fool to fight.’

  Most importantly, no metal had been wasted on decorative features or heavy plate armour that would only slow the soldiers down in a campaign where every advantage of surprise and mobility would have to be taken. Instead the troops wore armour of toughened leather, with leather gaiters to the knee, and all of their weapons were light and easy to wield. Although many thought Lachlan’s army drab and rather dreary, nicknaming them the Greycloaks, the result was an army that could move both quickly and silently.

  With Owein’s Bow in one hand, the Lodestar gleaming in the other, and the MacCuinn badge pinning together the green folds of his plaid, Lachlan looked every inch a rìgh. He stood proudly on the dais, his wings spread, and addressed his army in ringing tones. As he reached the crescendo of his speech, he raised the Lodestar so it shone bright as a star, all who watched dazzled with its brilliance. He beckoned Iseult forward, and she turned and took her son from Sukey’s arms so she could raise him high.

  A great roar went up from the troops, and they beat their leather shields with their daggers till the forecourt rang. The little boy, startled by the sound, flung up his hands, his tiny golden wings flying open. Again the crowd roared, and Lachlan moved to embrace his wife and child. Iseult leant her face into his shoulder, only to feel him jerk back with a cry.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Naught but a sudden pang,’ Lachlan replied, with a puzzled frown, one hand moving to rub a spot on one wing, his feathers fidgeting uneasily. ‘Happen I was stung by a bee.’

  ‘That is no’ a good omen,’ Meghan said frowning. ‘Bees are wise creatures indeed, and loyal. They revere their own queen and would no’ sting the rìgh o’ the land lightly. I wonder what this means.’

  He shrugged, and said, ‘It means I was stung by a bee, Meghan. It happens every day; no need to read more into it than that.’

  ‘I hope you are right,’ she said as he moved forward to give the order for the troops to ride out.

  Blairgowrie rose grey-walled from the rolling meadows, built on a steep hill so it commanded a view of the countryside for miles around. Crowded within the town’s thick walls were many peaked roofs. On each corner was a lofty tower made with massive protruding feet to frustrate any attempts at undermining the walls’ foundations. From the battlements hundreds of crimson flags and pennants fluttered, each carrying the design of a golden clàrsach. Lachlan ground his teeth in rage at the sight.

  ‘They are no’ shy in declaring their allegiance,’ Duncan Ironfist observed as they rode up the winding road towards the town. The thin sunshine of early spring illuminated the freshly tilled and planted fields on either side, though along the low hills to the south, heavy clouds lay. ‘I wonder where they found so many o’ Maya the Ensorcellor’s pennons? There must be three or four hundred o’ the things up there.’

  ‘If the gossip be true, every former Red Guard in the country has flocked to Renshaw’s side, damn them,’ said Hamish the Hot, one of Lachlan’s most able officers. He was named for his quick temper and readiness to quarrel, unlike Hamish the Cool who was renowned for the calmness of his demeanour. Both had fought with Lachlan for some years, though they had known him as Bacaiche the Hunchback until only a few months previously.

  Lachlan and Duncan had together appointed a general staff of twelve officers to the Yeomen of the Guard, rewarding the most faithful and able of those men who had helped the Rìgh gain the throne. As well as the two Hamishes, there was lain of Arran, Dide the Juggler, Murdoch of the Axe, Cathmor the Nimble, Byrne Braveheart, Shane Mòr, Bald Deaglan, Niall the Bear, Finlay Fear-Naught and Barnard the Eagle. All but Dide, Cathmor and Niall had accompanied Lachlan and his battalion as they had marched through northern Blèssem, the first two riding for Dùn Gorm, the latter accompanying Lilanthe of the Forest in her journey to Aslinn.

  Lachlan and his troops had encountered only a few companies of Bright Soldiers on their way to Blairgowrie, surprising them with sudden attacks and retreats so that the Tìrsoilleirean had been unsure how many men were involved or from which direction they had struck.

  Meanwhile, the MacThanach had marched directly south with four thousand men, following the course of the Rhyllster as if heading straight for Dùn Gorm and the palace. In their train had been several long wagons, pulled by teams of six carthorses and piled high with the frames for siege machines and towers, which had been built within the safety of Lucescere’s walls. Already Lachlan’s reconnaissance officers had reported the Bright Soldiers were retreating from the surrounding countryside, preparing to defend Dùn Gorm and the harbour, and to reinforce their troops at Rhyssmadill. The MacThanach would change direction at the last moment and head away from the sea and the river before the spring tides brought the Fairgean to invade the coast.

  Lachlan reined in his black stallion and stared up at Blairgowrie’s forbidding grey walls now looming above him. He could see a handful of figures hurrying up the steep hill and smiled grimly. Even if the sentry guards had not seen the long line of soldiers approaching, the local crofters were making sure the town had ample warning of the Greycloaks’ advance.

  There were only two gates into the town, each topped by a heavy barbican and protected by a long passage and portcullis. Even from this distance they could see the gates were heavily guarded, with all who tried to enter being challenged and thoroughly questioned before being allowed through. As the troops came to a straggling halt behind Lachlan, they saw the massive, ironbound doors slammed shut behind the last of the peasants. Blairgowrie knew they were there.

  ‘Set up camp, men, and this time try no’ to make such a blithering mess o’ it!’ Duncan shouted. ‘Make sure ye encircle the entire town—we want to leave no weak positions, do ye hear me?’

  The soldiers broke ranks, some running to the supply wagons at the rear of the cavalcade to fetch the tents, others attempting to picket the horses, most milling around, unsure of what to do.

  Lachlan dismounted and waited for someone to take his horse, but his squires were staring up at the thick walls silhouetted ominously against swirling clouds. He spoke sharply to Dillon, who grasped the stallion’s bridle and led him away, still overawed by the town’s strong fortifications. Lachlan looked around, but there was no tent set up for him, not even a chair for him to sit on. Acutely aware of the many eyes watching from the battlements above, he shouted angrily for someone to attend him. At last the young Rìgh was brought a log to sit on while his attendants struggled to set up the royal pavilion.

  Near sunset the camp was still in a state of chaos, with only half the tents raised, and the officers striding about, shouting orders, red-faced with exasperation. Lachlan watched sternly from the entrance to his tent, then raised the farseeing glass he had brought from the observatory at the Pool of Two Moons. He could clearly see dark figures crowded on the town’s battlements, watching them. He tucked the glass under his arm and strode forward so he could berate a harassed-looking Duncan. They stood arguing for some time then Lachlan flung himself into his tent, calling for Anntoin to bring him some wine. By the time darkness fell, the town was ringed with the winking eyes of many campfires, but the men slept rolled only in their cloaks, the wagons still unloaded.

  A few days later, when their camp was at last set up and fortified with hastily dug ditches, Lachlan and his officers rode up the steep, winding road to the town’s gates. Dillon proudly carried the Rìgh’s standard, his shaggy dog loping at his pony’s heels. Lachlan was dressed in the MacCuinn tartan, with a green velvet jacket and cap, and carried Owein’s Bow, the quiver of arrows hanging down between his wings. He sat straight-backed on his black stallion as Hamish the Cool shouted up to the battlements, the other officers clustering close about him to protect him from any fire from above. Their approa
ch was greeted by hoots of derisive laughter. Undaunted, Hamish took out a long parchment from which he proceeded to read at the top of his voice.

  ‘“Ye, the citizens of Blairgowrie, have defied the royal order o’ Lachlan Owein MacCuinn, Rìgh o’ all Eileanan and the Far Islands, and are thus declared rebels and outlaws. We demand that ye surrender to His Royal Highness immediately. If ye do so, no action shall be taken against this town, as long as those traitors and rebels harboured within are taken into custody and submit to the Rìgh’s lawful authority. Any who wish may take service with the Rìgh to fight against the invaders from Tìrsoilleir; those who do no’ choose to serve their Rìgh and their country may go free, unhindered, as long as they do no’ again take up arms against His Royal Highness. The leaders o’ this ill-fated rebellion will be tried and judged in a court o’ law by His Royal Highness, the highest arbiter o’ all justice in the land, and subject to such punishment as he sees fit.”’

  While he spoke, soldiers hanging over the battlements and peering through the narrow slits in the walls constantly mocked him. He ignored them, continuing to read out Lachlan’s terms and demands. He finished by saying, ‘Ye have until dawn tomorrow to submit, else we shall raze this town to the ground.’

  ‘Wi’ what?’ one defender shouted. ‘Your fingernails?’

  ‘Ye mun be joking!’ another cried loudly. ‘Have ye no eyes in your head? Ride home, ye fools! Ye’ll no’ take Blairgowrie!’

  ‘Look at the bonny laddie wi’ his bow and arrow! Ye think ye’ll get far wi’ those, my pretty? Ye’ll need bigger weapons than those to scare us.’

  The commander of the garrison leant over the wall, jeering as loudly as his men. ‘If it is no’ the Pretender himself! Ye may as well ride home now, my bantling, else we’ll come out and give ye a whipping ye shall no’ forget. His Eminence the Grand-Seeker o’ the Awl has a mind to be merciful and gives ye till dawn tomorrow to pack up and get ye gone. Else he shall ride out on behalf o’ the rightful Banrìgh, Bronwen MacCuinn, and when we have dragged ye in like the traitorous cur that ye are, we shall hang ye from the battlements.’

  ‘I am the rightful rìgh!’ Lachlan’s voice quavered with anger, and the soldiers jeered, ‘The laddiekin is going to greet, the poor wee bairn.’

  Lachlan clenched his hands and cried loudly, ‘I hold the Lodestar, and by the ancient law, he who holds the Lodestar holds the land. I am the Rìgh!’

  ‘But what if the Lodestar was stolen?’ a silky smooth voice called from above. Lachlan peered up to see a tall figure standing on the lowest battlement, dressed in a long robe of crimson. ‘Bronwen MacCuinn was named heir by her father on his deathbed, and ye only won the Lodestar and the throne with evil magic and treachery. Jaspar the Noble denounced ye and called ye fiend and uile-bheist …’

  ‘No, that is no’ true!’ Lachlan cried, his voice breaking. ‘I won the Lodestar fairly, I am the rightful rìgh, no’ that Fairge baby! She is the uile-bheist, no’ I!’

  Renshaw lifted up his arms, and they could see he carried a baby girl, about six months old, dressed grandly in red velvet with gold embroidery. A white lock was like a blaze through her dark curly hair. ‘I give ye Bronwen MacCuinn, rightful Banrìgh o’ all o’ Eileanan and the Far Islands!’ he shouted, and from the walls of the town came cheering and the clanging of daggers on shields. ‘She is no uile-bheist, this bonny babe. Does she have wings like some evil fiend from the auld tales? Do her eyes gleam yellow like a carrion bird? Nay, her eyes are blue like any babe’s should be, and ye can see she has the white lock that shows she has held the Lodestar, as only a true MacCuinn can. Ye stole it from her, a defenceless babe, and tried to murder her—’

  ‘That’s a lie!’ Lachlan would have spurred his horse towards the gate in fury if Duncan Ironfist had not reached out and caught his bridle. He lashed at Duncan’s hand with his reins but the burly soldier did not relent.

  Renshaw laughed mockingly. ‘Ye have till tomorrow to withdraw, my arrogant young fool, else we shall ride out and prove the Banrìgh’s right to rule on the battlefield. Ye think ye can prevail against us with your haggerty-taggerty army? Ye think I do no’ know your soldiers are naught but peasants wielding pitchforks and foolish lads seeking glory? Look at your camp! Ye canna even set up a circle o’ tents in an orderly fashion. Why, your mother’s milk has scarcely dried on your lips, and ye think ye can challenge the might o’ the Awl?’

  ‘The Awl is finished!’ Lachlan spat. ‘It’s dead and gone!’

  Renshaw laughed again. It was a cold, mocking sound. ‘I think ye will find the Awl is alive and well,’ he replied. ‘It is your pitiful attempt at seizing the throne that is finished. We shall give ye no quarter, uile-bheist. Ye shall die, and all who stand with ye shall die as well.’ Renshaw raised high the baby again, shouting, ‘Long live Bronwen NicCuinn, long live the Banrìgh!’

  The Red Guards cheered and shouted the words, banging their daggers against their shields again so the air rang with the sound. Lachlan and his party rode back down the hill with the derisive sound loud in their ears. That night, the circle of winking campfires around the town was far thinner, with dark gaps in its fiery garland.

  Staring down at the besiegers, the commander of the Blairgowrie garrison smiled, leaning his elbows on the parapet. He said contemptuously to his captain, ‘See, already the cowardly curs are deserting the young Pretender. His Eminence was right when he said his army would flee at the might o’ the Truth. It shall be like whipping a child, to break that young fool’s blockade.’

  His captain grinned and poured them another dram of whiskey. ‘Let’s drink then, to the triumph o’ the Awl! We shall crack that laddie like a cockroach beneath our heel.’

  ‘To the triumph o’ the Awl!’ the commander echoed, swallowing down his dram with a ferocious smile.

  Maya was careful to keep her exultation from showing on her face. Her daughter and victory so close! She had heard the rumours that Renshaw and the Red Guards had the little banprionnsa but had hardly dared give the stories credence until now. It had seemed so unlikely that Isabeau the Red had taken Bronwen to Lachlan’s enemies. It had seemed far more likely that Bronwen had been murdered at the young Rìgh’s behest, and Maya had been riven with anxiety at the thought. With Bronwen dead, all her hopes of regaining power would be smashed, for she was not naïve enough to think Eileanan would give her the throne when she was merely the widow of the former Rìgh.

  She hid her mouth with her mug of ale, keeping her eyes lowered, as the soldiers around her discussed the confrontation between Lachlan and Renshaw and the likelihood of victory on the morrow. The Greycloaks were edgily confident, reminding each other that the young Rìgh had a few witch tricks up his sleeve, though Maya could tell much of their confidence was mere bravado. She herself was feeling more assured of success than she had been since Jaspar had died. She had overseen many a confrontation in the past sixteen years and had been surprised and rather disgusted by the confusion of Lachlan’s ragtag army. True, he was only young and untried, but many of his advisers had served under his father, Parteta the Brave, and should have known better.

  Maya had left Lucescere on the heels of the army, as had many of her fellow whores. The Shining City was to be left with only a skeleton garrison, and there was good money to be made as a camp follower, though the work was dirty and undignified. She and the other whores had found lodgings in a small town some miles north of Blairgowrie and had hired a cart to take them out to the army encampment once darkness fell. They knew that many a young soldier would pay well for what could be their last embrace. Maya was not really interested in the money, though any coin she could add to her jealously guarded hoard was welcomed. It was news of her daughter she was seeking, and she knew she had to stay near Meghan and the young MacCuinn for that.

  Maya had been horrified when the palace chambermaid had told her about Bronwen’s disappearance. All that was left of the little banprionnsa were a few clothes and a jewelled rattle, which Maya had hid
den under her skirt in the hope Wee Willie would be able to use it to find Bronwen. She had taken the rattle to the wizard a few weeks after the army had left Lucescere, when she thought she would likely be safe from betrayal. She had had to wait until the waning moons were both dark, the best time for working black magic such as the casting of a curse.

  The streets of Lucescere had been deserted that night, the only light shed by the occasional lantern hanging on a street corner. Maya had huddled her shawl close about her face, for the nights were still cold even though spring was well advanced. The stars swarmed thickly in the narrow gaps between the roofs but she had no glance to spare for their beauty. Every nerve in her body was coiled tight, and she had to consciously unclench her fingers from the neck of the sack she carried close to her body. If the sack was stolen, she would lose her chance of revenge against the young MacCuinn. However, if she was searched by any of the city soldiers, she would be arrested and executed. Inside the sack was a scrap of MacCuinn tartan, a tuft of black and silver hair taken from the Rìgh’s brush and, most importantly, a long glossy feather plucked from the Rìgh’s wing. The young chambermaid had done well.

  The warehouse was dark, the surrounding streets empty. Maya could hear nothing above the roar of the waterfall, but she listened for a long moment anyway, unable to shake a sense of unease. Determinedly she told herself the dwarf would not betray her. The lust in his eyes at their last encounter had been hot and unfeigned, and Maya was used to inspiring obsessive love. Surely he would rather keep their bargain and have his chance at her than break faith for gold he could not use? She reminded herself that the Rìgh and his Coven of Witches were far away, then crossed the road and knocked gently on the door of the warehouse.