The Cursed Towers

by Kate Forsyth

  The old man let her in, holding a shaded lantern so only a thin ray of light fell on the ground. Muttering to himself, he led her through the piles of junk and broken furniture towards the secret door. Everything was silent. Not even a mouse scuffling disturbed the heavy hush. Maya tried to calm her racing pulse, holding her head high and listening with every nerve strained. As she closed the wardrobe door behind her she thought she heard a faint sound, like a breath being released. Slowly she climbed the stairs and, as she stepped into the dwarf’s overheated room, nonchalantly pulled back a chair so it stood near the door.

  The dwarf rose to meet her, smiling and rubbing his hands together. He wore a long dressing-gown of opulent silk, hanging open to reveal a hairless, sunken chest, and purple slippers on his feet.

  Maya averted her eyes. ‘Ye see I am here, as arranged. Are ye ready to do as ye promised?’

  He poured wine for her, saying affably, ‘No need to be so hasty, my lady. Let us drink together, relax a little.’

  Reluctantly she took the wine and sipped it. He pulled her down beside him on the chaise-longue. One hand caressed her breast eagerly, and she drew away from him. ‘Business first,’ she said, trying to hide her revulsion.

  ‘Nay, payment first,’ he leered. ‘I am looking forward to it very much.’

  Maya shook her head. ‘No. No’ until ye have done as ye promised.’

  He tried to persuade her, but she stood up, saying, ‘I have heard there are many cursehags selling their wares in Lucescere. I shall go to them with my business if ye will no’ help me.’

  He pouted and shrugged. ‘Well, if ye wish a mere cursehag to do the job … but they will no’ have the strength or the subtlety o’ the Wizard Wilmot.’

  ‘But their price is far lower,’ she replied harshly and picked up her sack as if to go.

  He seized her wrist. ‘Nay, be no’ so hasty,’ he said. ‘Tell me what it is ye wish me to do.’

  She eyed him suspiciously, then slowly drew the jewelled rattle out of the sack. ‘Can ye tell where the child who held this is?’

  The dwarf took it, closing his eyes for a moment, then shook his head. ‘I canna tell where the child may be,’ he said. ‘She is too far away, or there is a sea or mountains between us, or some form o’ magical shield.’

  Maya thinned her mouth in frustration and fear. ‘Can ye tell if the child is alive still?’

  He squeezed his pudgy fingers over the rattle, concentrating, then shrugged. ‘Nay, I canna tell. Happen the babe was too young to give much o’ her personal energies to the toy.’

  Maya took the rattle back with a cold feeling around her heart. She then drew out a long snake of copper hair. The wizard stared at it in surprise, but took it as she directed, and concentrated hard. After a moment he shrugged and said, ‘Certainly a braid o’ hair is easier than a mere rattle, but still it is hard to tell. I sense cold … and loneliness … but where I canna tell. I am no MacRuraich.’

  Maya slipped the red-gold hair back into the sack with an acute sense of disappointment, wishing she could command the MacRuraich as she had once done. He had betrayed her, though, along with the other prionnsachan. Now she had to rely on such unreliable tools as the dwarf.

  Wee Willie smirked at her and tried to fondle her breast again, saying, ‘So are ye ready to seal our bargain, my lady? I presume ye have no’ changed your mind?’

  Maya stepped away from him, saying, ‘Ye must cast the curse first.’

  ‘Have ye a lock o’ hair for me, or some fingernail parings?’

  Slowly she reached into her sack and withdrew the glossy black feather. He recognised it instantly. ‘But that would be treason!’

  ‘Whom did ye think I meant when I said I wanted ye to curse my bitterest enemy? O’ course I meant the Winged Pretender,’ Maya said impatiently, wondering at the odd note in his voice.

  ‘I thought it were some other whore, or perhaps the brothel owner,’ Wilmot replied shrilly. ‘Do ye no’ ken how dangerous it would be to curse the MacCuinn? The most powerful sorcerers in the land surround him, and it is said he has some witch skill himself. He would be closely guarded against such bad-wishing, and the curse would simply recoil on me. I will no’ do it.’

  ‘We made a pact, Wilmot,’ Maya said cajolingly, leaning forward slightly so the curve of her cleavage deepened. ‘Are ye no’ as clever as any o’ those Tower witches? Are ye no’ as strong?’

  ‘I be stronger!’ the dwarf boasted, and she sank gracefully on to the chaise-longue in a billow of skirts so she no longer towered over him. Lowering her eyes, she crooned, ‘Shall ye no’ help me, Willie? Shall ye no’ save me from these desperate straits? I ken ye can cast a curse o’ great power. Will ye no’ help me?’

  Unable to take his eyes from the pale skin revealed by her low-cut gown, the dwarf hesitated. ‘All bad-wishing can be turned away by a strong mind and will, no matter how strong the wizard casting the curse,’ he said slowly. ‘It takes subtlety as well as strength.’

  ‘Are ye no’ the great Wizard Wilmot?’ she cried. ‘I know ye can do it.’

  He frowned like a sulky child, flattered against his will. Very softly, so he had to lean forward to hear her, she crooned, ‘I need ye, Willie, please, shall ye no’ help me?’

  For a moment she thought she had won him, for he swayed a little, his eyes glazing. Then he flickered a quick glance towards the door and said loudly, ‘Nay, I will no’ do it. I am a loyal citizen and shall do no harm to the rightful rìgh. Ye ask me to commit treason!’

  All Maya’s suspicions suddenly flared into life again. Quick as a thought, she leapt to her feet and kicked the chair hard against the door. ‘Ye think to betray me?’ she hissed.

  He cringed back in fear and cried shrilly, ‘Quickly! She has guessed! Come to me!’

  Maya heard loud, hurried steps on the stairs, then a shoulder was thrust against the door, jammed closed by the chair. So livid with anger she could barely see, she dragged her dagger from her sleeve and brought it flashing down. It slipped easily through the flesh of the wizard’s breast, hit bone, grated and slid sideways, embedding itself to the hilt. Blood spurted, and the dwarf looked up at her with a surprised expression on his face. For a moment she had to look into his eyes, then they rolled up and he fell.

  Her stomach rebelled, and she had to stand very still, breathing heavily through her nose, to avoid vomiting. Her hand was stained with blood, the hem of her gown too. Mechanically she wiped her fingers on her skirt, then stood and stared down at the dead man at her feet. Although her mind screamed at her to hurry, she could not force her limbs to move.

  Then the door splintered. She caught up the wing feather and thrust it back in her sack. Looking around her wildly, she swept the wizard’s paraphernalia off the little table into his chest and slammed it shut, fastening the clasp. Then she picked up the chest, and with all her strength hurled it through the windows at the far end of the room. As soldiers swarmed into the room, she dived out of the smashed window, falling down into the great surge of the waterfall that plunged past and down the cliff.

  The Shining Waters fell more than two hundred feet into the loch below, and Maya fell with it. Even though she transformed into her seashape as soon as the water swallowed her, she was so pounded and bruised by its monumental force that she almost lost consciousness. She hit the water below with tremendous force, but automatically straightened her body and arms so that she cut through it like an arrow.

  Deep below the surface she plunged, her nostrils automatically closing to keep the water out, the gills on either side of her neck opening wide. The Fairgean could dive deeper than three hundred feet without harm, a natural reflex slowing the heart rate and reducing their consumption of oxygen. Although Maya was thrust deep into the loch, she was only dazed and eventually she was able to slow her descent, then twist and strike for the surface.

  Beneath the falls the water boiled like a maelstrom, and she had to fight to keep from being sucked under again. Kicking out with
all her strength, her fingers touched the bobbing wizard’s chest and she clung to it, using its buoyancy to help her swim clear of the pounding waters.

  At last she crawled out onto the shore of the loch, shivering with cold and exhaustion. The strength her anger had lent her had dissipated, and she retched weakly, trying to thrust away the memory of the way her knife had slid into the dwarf’s flesh, how he had stared at her like an astonished child. At last she fell asleep where she had fallen, soaking wet still and aching in every limb.

  In the cold dawn she woke and began rummaging through the wizard’s chest. To her satisfaction, she had found it stuffed with bags of coins and jewels, the magical paraphernalia including bottles of rare dragons’ blood, mandrake roots and, best of all, his thick spell book. So well made was the chest that everything had still been dry, and Maya had been able to read the spidery writing in his book quite easily.

  Just the thought of the dwarf had been enough to turn her sick and cold. She had had to force herself to turn the pages as she struggled to understand the spells and incantations within. Maya had always thought it was the magic of the Mirror of Lela that had enabled her to disguise her Fairge features and transform her enemies into birds, horses, wolves, rats or whatever creature had most amused her. Since the dwarf had told her such magic was innate, she had tried many times to cast the spell of glamourie herself but had failed each time. The casting of illusions was not a skill of the Fairgean and so she had never been taught how to do it.

  She had stolen the wizard’s chest because she knew that was where he kept his spell book. She had thought all she would need to do was find the right spell in the book, follow its instructions and she would once again be safe behind the mask of glamourie. It was not so easy though. It took almost a month of constant study and repeated attempts before Maya was able to conjure the illusion and hold it for more than a few seconds. During that time, she held a shawl close about her face as if she was as horribly disfigured as Molly Pockface, sheltering in barns and under hedges where she could to avoid detection.

  One day she had mumbled the spell while gazing in frustration at herself in a pool of still water. To her amazement and triumph, her features changed, though only for an instant. That afternoon she bought a hand mirror at a village market. By the end of the week, she had conquered the spell of glamourie and was once again able to travel abroad without fear.

  Immediately, she had searched out the Rìgh’s army, desperate for news of her daughter and for a chance to strike at her enemies.

  Now that she had the dwarf’s treasure trove as well as her own hoard of gold coins, she no longer needed to sell her body for funds. However, a whore was the perfect disguise. Not one of the soldiers drinking around the campfires would ever believe she had once been their Banrìgh. Still, if she did not start plying her trade, they might grow suspicious, so when a young, pimple-faced soldier clumsily approached her, she smiled, drank down the last of her ale and allowed him to lead her to his bedroll. Tomorrow he could be dead, and Maya’s fortunes transformed. She did not begrudge him one last night of pleasure.

  Dide yawned and stretched, hearing tired bones crack. At the sound of marching feet, he crouched back down in the shadows.

  ‘Well, it seems we have at last put down those bluidy insubordinate bastards,’ a soldier said in the clipped accent of the Tìrsoilleirean. ‘We have no’ seen hair nor hide o’ one in three nights, and the sergeant said they’ve been seen running from the city like the mangy curs they are.’

  ‘Ye’ve got to worry about what they’re up to,’ his comrade said, boot heels clicking on the cobblestones. ‘It’s been six months since we landed in Dùn Gorm, and in all that time they’ve been fierce as gutter rats. It seems odd to me that they’ve turned tail and run like that.’

  ‘Happen they’ve realised they canna hope to defeat us. The sergeant says there’s naught to stop us controlling the city now, and soon we should break the siege o’ the palace,’ the first soldier said as they turned the corner and passed out of sight.

  Dide smiled rather grimly. The retreat of the one-time rebels from Dùn Gorm had gone as smoothly as planned, and now the city was as empty as an abandoned house. Only those merchants who were trading with the Bright Soldiers and refused to give up the chance of making a profit were left, and Dide was happy to leave them to their fate. He, Cathmor the Nimble and a handful of their men were making one last sweep of the city’s docks and warehouses to warn anyone who might still be in hiding before they too retreated back into the countryside. They would then lead their forces to meet Lachlan and the MacThanach at Dùn Eidean, the besieged capital city of Blèssem, hopefully taking the Tìrsoilleirean army there by surprise.

  The once grand city of Dùn Gorm was a ruin. Constant bombarding by the Bright Soldiers’ cannons had reduced many of the buildings to rubble, while many others had been put to the torch. Wrecked and burntout ships littered the harbour, and the gates, which had once protected the Berhtfane from the sea, gaped like broken teeth. Starving dogs roamed the streets looking for food, and great mounds of earth in vacant lots were a testament to the many who had died in the fight against the Bright Soldiers.

  Dide moved silently along the wall, keeping a sharp lookout for any more soldiers as he made his way to the far end of the docks. The water gleamed in the grey dawn light, lapping against the smashed stones below him as the tide came sweeping in from the sea. He glanced out through the mouth of the river and suddenly froze in horror.

  A sea serpent was swimming up the firth, its long green body undulating through the waves, its tiny head held high. On its neck rode a scaled figure with tusks like a sea stirk, a long trident in its webbed hand. Trailing behind the serpent was a throng of Fairgean warriors mounted on great horse-eels, their black snouts rising up through the foam and sinking below it again as they galloped into shore. More Fairgean were swimming through the waves on either side, and Dide could hear a high-pitched whistling as the figure on the sea serpent pointed up the river with his sharp-pronged trident. Out to sea were several more serpents, while a long tentacle broke the smooth surface of the water some distance out as a giant octopus followed close behind. The waves were thick with the sleek, dark heads of the Fairgean as they bodysurfed to shore, long spears or tridents held close to their opalescent bodies.

  For a moment Dide could not move, blood pounding in his ears, then he was running down the docks as fast as his legs could carry him, not caring if anyone saw or heard him. When he reached the corner he paused only long enough to put two fingers in his mouth and whistle piercingly. Then he was running again. Behind him he heard an ululating wail as the sea serpent swam into the harbour, then alarm bells began ringing. Dide whistled again and was relieved to hear his call returned. Then Cathmor the Nimble was swinging down out of a burntout warehouse, his lean cheeks drained of all colour.

  ‘We have to get out o’ here fast,’ he cried. ‘Have ye seen what the tide brings in?’

  Together they raced through the streets, their comrades close behind. They reached their hide-out and untied the horses, hastily tying their packs behind the saddles. Three of their men were missing, but they did not hesitate in mounting and riding out at a gallop. They had all heard the stories of how the Fairgean had swept up the river last autumn, killing all living creatures on its shores. Fairgean warriors could survive out of water for up to six hours and they used that time to penetrate as far into the countryside as possible. They were as deadly on the ground as they were in the water, and nearly as swift. Even worse, the Fairgean had been known to swim through underground water and sewerage systems, emerging in farmyard wells to kill any human or animal within their reach. Dide and his men had no intention of staying in Dùn Gorm a moment longer than necessary. They only hoped they had time to escape the city before the onslaught of sea warriors reached the shore. Behind them they heard the ululation of the sea serpent, and then the sound of shouting and the clash of weapons.

  ‘Well, at least tha
t’ll keep the Bright Soldiers out o’ our hair for a while,’ Dide shouted to Cathmor with a grin, spurring his horse on with a wild whoop.

  ‘Aye, but for how long?’ Cathmor shouted back, and bent lower over his horse’s neck.

  With much blowing of trumpets, the gates of Blairgowrie opened soon after dawn. A cavalcade of Red Guards rode out, followed by a long line of men-at-arms carrying heavy pikes. Even Duncan Ironfist looked grim at the sheer size of the company. With so many of Lachlan’s army leaving under the cover of darkness, they had little more than two thousand men, and only eight hundred of those were mounted. Grand-Seeker Renshaw had the advantage of numbers and position, with the hill at his back and the town to retreat to if things went badly. Lachlan and his army had only hastily dug fortifications and a tangle of tents and picket lines. Canvas walls were not much protection against a pike or a sword.

  All the long morning the fighting surged around the walled town, the ground being churned into bloodied mud and littered with the bodies of the dead and injured. A heavy mist obscured the battlefield, and so for some hours Lachlan’s troops held their own, fighting with reckless courage and ardour, their grey cloaks melting into the fog. Soon after noon, however, the superior skills and experience of Renshaw’s men slowly and inexorably forced the Rìgh’s army backwards. Rain began to fall, making the footing even more treacherous. More and more of Lachlan’s men fell, unable to withstand the charge of the cavalry. First one, then a few, then many of the Greycloaks began to flee the carnage, scrambling back over the bodies of their comrades. Lachlan tried to stem the tide, but at last, with a despairing cry, he too spurred his horse away from the battlefield, Iain galloping close behind.