The Cursed Towers

by Kate Forsyth

  The commander of the Red Guards smiled and whipped his horse after them. ‘Pursue!’ he cried. ‘Ye can kill the rabble, but make sure ye catch the uile-bheist alive!’

  The cavalry thundered down the fields, chasing Lachlan and his men as they scrambled towards a narrow pass in the surrounding hills. As the commander entered the ravine, he saw Lachlan only a few hundred yards ahead, disappearing into the drifting mist. He lifted his sword, urging his destrier into a canter with a triumphant shout. His troops surged after him, straining to see through the thickening rain.

  Suddenly the commander felt himself pitched forward as his horse plunged into a quagmire up to its withers. He shouted in alarm as another horse crashed into his mount’s rump, driving him deeper into the mire. All round him were shouts as the Red Guards struggled to climb out of the thick, sucking mud. Only then did the commander remember that the small stream which ran through the ravine meandered through marshy ground for some distance. The heavy rain had turned the marsh into a veritable bog. Twisting in his saddle, he saw many of his men-at-arms had fallen into the marsh and were slowly being sucked under by the weight of their armour, some trampled by the panicking horses. Suddenly the long, slanting lines of rain became arrows, fired from above. The cries of alarm became screams of pain. As those who had been at the rear tried desperately to drag their comrades free of the swamp, grey-clad soldiers swarmed from their concealment behind rocks and bushes and fell on them from behind. As a narrow-tipped arrow smashed through his armour and into his breast, the commander realised he had been lured into a trap.

  Lachlan reined in his horse to an abrupt halt and flung himself from the saddle. ‘Has it worked?’ he cried anxiously. ‘Did they follow us into the marsh?’

  ‘Aye, it worked,’ Meghan replied, opening her eyes and breaking her concentration.

  They looked out into the rain and mist, which she and the witches had summoned, and smiled rather grimly. It had been a terrible risk, this plan of Iseult’s, but they had not had the time or the resources for a long siege, and so trickery had been their only hope. If Renshaw had not sent his men out to engage with the Greycloaks, Lachlan would have had little hope of breaking the impasse. They could have spent a year camped outside Blairgowrie’s stout walls, as the Bright Soldiers had been camped outside Rhyssmadill and Dùn Eidean. Gradually disease, lack of foodstuffs and clean water, and the diminishing of hope would have wreaked as great a havoc among Lachlan’s men as among the defendants of the town. Lachlan had needed a resounding victory, and he had needed it fast. So, although it had been hard for him, he had swallowed his pride and allowed himself to look like a young, vainglorious fool who had more courage than sense. It had been Iseult who had convinced him. She had raised her serious blue eyes and said to the war council, ‘To win, deceive.’

  ‘What do ye mean?’ the MacThanach had asked, impressed against his will.’

  ‘To win, deceive,’ she repeated. ‘If ye can attack, feign unfitness. If ye are active, feign inaction. If ye are near, make it appear ye are far away. When far away, make it appear ye are near. Thus will ye triumph.’

  The whole council stared at her, feeling uneasy for such tactics did not fit their ideas of chivalry. Iseult read their thoughts and smiled disdainfully. ‘Do ye wish to win this war?’

  They nodded, and she again quoted dreamily, ‘To win, deceive.’

  So the Greycloaks had acted out an elaborate masquerade, designed to impress their lack of experience upon Renshaw and his men and to tempt them into rash action. The plan had worked beyond all expectations.

  ‘I could no’ believe it when I heard the Grand-Seeker had given ye till dawn to retreat, else he was riding out to engage,’ Meghan said, her grey hair plastered to her head despite the plaid she had lifted to protect her against the rain. ‘I thought we would have to spend some weeks pretending to build siege machines and to mine out the foundations before he finally lost patience. He was even more arrogant than we had thought!’

  ‘He has reason for his arrogance,’ Lachlan raged. ‘Isabeau has betrayed us. She has taken the Fairge babe to our enemy! Half the countryside will flock to Renshaw’s side if they fall for his filthy lies!’

  ‘I do no’ believe it!’ Meghan cried.

  ‘Well, believe it! I saw the babe wi’ my own eyes, and so did my entire camp. Renshaw was no’ surprised when he saw the number o’ my men falling—he expected half the troops to desert at the news he had the babe. I am only surprised more did no’ actually run away, instead o’ merely pretending to!’

  ‘I saw the babe t-t-too,’ Iain said sombrely. ‘She had the M-M-MacCuinn white lock, no d-d-doubt about it.’

  ‘It must be a trick,’ Meghan said. ‘Isabeau would never deliver Bronwen into the hands o’ your enemies. She knows the implications as well as ye do yourself.’

  ‘She could have been captured,’ Gwilym said, his face set in stern lines. ‘I am sure she would no’ give the babe into Renshaw’s hands o’ her own free will.’

  ‘What could have happened to her?’ Meghan asked anxiously. ‘I had no premonition o’ danger.’

  ‘We must make haste to Blairgowrie before news o’ the trap reaches Renshaw,’ Lachlan said. ‘I must get the babe back in my hands.’

  They turned back to the battlefield and saw the Greycloaks had won a decisive victory. Those of the Red Guards who had not drowned in the marsh had been cut down by the archers hidden in the rocks above the ravine, or by the foot soldiers who had waited for the Red Guards to charge past them before attacking from the rear. Quickly the Greycloaks tore the red flags from the hands of the standard bearers and dressed themselves in the torn and bloodied uniforms of the dead Red Guards. It was not enough to lure the garrison away from the town; Lachlan had to win the town itself and exact punishment on those who had defied him if he was to win the respect and support of those who still wavered in their allegiance.

  They rode back to Blairgowrie through the pelting rain, singing and banging their daggers against their shields like a victorious army returning home. The streets were lined with townsfolk, cheering and waving banners, and the soldiers raised their hands and accepted the tribute, their helmets still lowered over their faces. They were not challenged until Lachlan dismounted within the inner bailey of the keep and flung back the commander’s great red cloak to reveal his sable wings. There was some fierce fighting then as the few soldiers left to guard the Grand-Seeker tried desperately to hold the Greycloaks off. It was futile, though, with more than four thousand enemy soldiers having penetrated the town’s defences. With Duncan Ironfist wielding his claymore like a madman on one side, and Murdoch striking out with his double-headed war axe on the other, Lachlan fought his way into the great keep itself.

  When he flung open the door to the main hall, there were screams as the servants ran to hide, or seized what weapons they could to defend themselves, hopelessness in their eyes. Traditionally, any besieged town or castle that was taken by assault was ransacked ruthlessly, and all inhabitants slaughtered for their defiance. The servants of the Blairgowrie Keep had no doubt this winged prionnsa, with his blazing golden eyes and dark look of fury, would have no mercy.

  Lachlan seized a terrified page by the scruff of his neck and shook him. ‘Where is the traitor Renshaw?’ he cried.

  The boy shut his mouth and refused to answer, and Finlay Fear-Naught drew his dagger with a curse.

  Duncan shook his head and said softly, ‘Do no’ die for that piece o’ worthless scum, lad. This is the true rìgh. We shall no’ harm ye if ye tell the truth.’

  The page swallowed his terror and pointed with a shaking hand up the stairs. ‘The Grand-Seeker’s rooms be on the third floor, through the gilded doors,’ he managed to say.

  ‘Do no’ call him the Grand-Seeker!’ Lachlan flashed. ‘The Awl is dead, my lad, and shall never raise its cruel head again in my land!’ He broke into a run, then to the astonishment of the cowering servants, spread his wings and soared up to the gallery above
. With a glance at each other and a shrug, Duncan, Iain and Finlay hastened up the stairs, Bald Deaglan bringing up the rear with a curse at his rìgh’s impetuosity. They found Lachlan standing in the centre of an empty suite of rooms, his claymore in his hand, frustration and rage in every line of his taut body and wings. ‘The serpent has slithered away yet again,’ he spat.

  On the floor was a crumpled heap of crimson where the Grand-Seeker had flung his robe. A cradle near the window showed the indentation of a small body. Duncan Ironfist crossed the floor and laid his hand on the sheets. They were still warm. ‘He canna have gone far,’ he said. ‘Finlay, Deaglan, close the keep. Search every closet and every room, and examine the face o’ every man, woman and child in this Eà-forsaken keep. And do it fast!’

  It was too late, though. Renshaw the Ruthless had fled, and with him went the babe with the white lock, the child he had named Banrìgh.

  The Greycloaks took possession of Blairgowrie with disciplined ease. Contrary to the townsfolk’s expectations, there was no looting, no rape and no executions. The local merchants and farmers were encouraged to bring in their produce to sell and were given a fair price for it. The dead from both sides were buried with the appropriate rituals, much to the relief of the local populace. They had dreaded the vermin and disease that invariably came after a major battle, since the dead and wounded of the defeated army were usually left to rot where they had fallen, prey to scavengers of both the human and animal kind.

  Even more surprising, the wounded Red Guards were taken into Blairgowrie and given the same care as the injured Greycloaks. Usually those who were badly injured would lie among the corpses until they too were dead, sometimes killed by the scavengers who came hunting for anything of value but more often just kicked aside so the scavengers could seize their dagger or tear off their boots. Their bodies would then be picked clean by carrion birds or animals, until nothing was left but a few scattered bones to be turned up by a farmer’s plough in centuries to come.

  Lachlan’s mercy astounded those used to the casual cruelty of the Awl, and stories soon spread of the miraculous healing hands of a young boy who travelled in Lachlan the Winged’s train. Within a few days the local peasants were bringing in their sick and maimed for Tòmas the Healer to touch, and many who had believed that all witches were inherently evil found their assurance shaken.

  Those Red Guards who refused to take service under Lachlan’s banner were marched back to Lucescere under heavy guard to work in the mines and labour in the rebuilding of the Tower of Two Moons. Many were happy to throw their lot in with the young rìgh, however, impressed by the ease of his victory at Blairgowrie and pleased at his ready payment of their soldiers’ shilling. Renshaw the Ruthless had not paid them anything, promising them recompense once the Awl was again in power. They found they were watched closely and any breach of discipline harshly punished, but this only increased their newfound respect for the Rìgh and his staff of officers.

  Many of the Red Guards’ horses had been rescued from the marsh, and the weapons had all been stripped from the corpses before burial, so Lachlan’s troops were better equipped than ever before. They did not rest long after the Battle of Blairgowrie, for much of the surrounding countryside was occupied by the Bright Soldiers and Lachlan was eager to begin his campaign against them.

  Meghan and lain kept storm clouds low and heavy, for the Tìrsoilleirean burnt crops and farms as they retreated, and the witches wished to save as much of the land from the torch as possible. As a result, many of the battles in the following weeks were fought in rain and fog, the Bright Soldiers in their heavy armour struggling to keep their footing in the muddy battlefields.

  The Tìrsoilleirean began to dread the sight of an ominous sky, for the Greycloaks materialised out of mist, giving no warning of their attack and disappearing as mysteriously as they had arrived. Worst of all, the Bright Soldiers’ gunpowder was kept permanently damp, disabling their cannons and harquebuses and depriving them of one of their greatest advantages. As spring turned into summer, the Bright Soldiers were driven back towards the coast, squeezed between the Greycloaks and the Fairgean as if between the pincers of a giant crab.

  The sea-faeries had swarmed into Dùn Gorm, taking the Tìrsoilleirean soldiers by surprise. Before they had had time to retreat into the countryside, most of the soldiers stationed at the blue city had been impaled on a Fairge trident or dragged into the water by a giant tentacle and drowned. The ships moored in the harbour had all been sunk by the sea serpents, which coiled their long bodies around the bows and crushed them to splinters.

  Meanwhile, the crofters of Clachan had retreated to the rocky crags that thrust out of the flat coastal plains like petrified fingers. On the summits of these tall crags were ancient walled towns, built long ago when the high tides of early spring had swept in from the sea every year, drowning the land and bringing the Fairgean hordes in pursuit of the blue whale. In the four hundred years since Aedan’s Wall had been built to keep the tides back, the Clachans had spread out across the plains, building towns and villages where they pleased. Now they crowded into the old towns, leaving their fields and villages untended.

  For the Fairgean had set their sea serpents and giant octopi to tearing down great sections of the bulwark, crumbling from years of neglect, and the tide again flowed as it pleased. The battalions of Bright Soldiers marching through Clachan had been caught by surprise. Some were drowned as the sea raced in across the flat land; others died in fierce fighting as the Fairgean transformed into their land shapes and attacked in a wild, triumphant charge. In great confusion, the shocked and exhausted Tìrsoilleirean had retreated into Blèssem, only to be greeted by Lachlan’s orderly and well-rested troops.

  When the high tide had rushed into the Berhtfane, it has washed away many of the wrecked ships that littered the harbour and had spilt into the streets of the ravaged city of Dùn Gorm. The Fairgean rode the tide up the winding course of the Rhyllster to Lucescere Loch, so that the soldiers left to guard the city looked down from the garrison walls to see the loch far below seething with scaled bodies, like the palace fishpond. Some of the Fairgean tried to leap the Shining Waters, but the waterfalls fell almost two hundred feet down a sheer cliff-face, and not even the strongest Fairge could leap that high. Others left the water, transforming their shapes to attack the city from the land, but Lucescere was impregnable on its island between two great rivers. After many Fairgean had died trying to swarm over the Bridge of Seven Arches, the sea-faeries retreated and concentrated on killing Bright Soldiers, who had no such impregnable defences.

  With the seas thick with murderous sea-dwellers, the fleets of Tìrsoilleirean ships no longer sailed down the coast and into Dùn Gorm harbour to discharge their cargo of fresh troops and weaponry. Sea serpents or giant octopi sank many ships before the Fealde learnt her lesson and stopped sending out her navy. Instead, she concentrated on sending fresh battalions of Bright Soldiers into southern Eileanan through the marshes of Arran. As a result, Lachlan’s army found itself attacked from the rear and had to retreat back into Rionnagan to avoid being caught between the two forces of Tìrsoilleirean, one desperate and angry at the reversal of its fortunes, the other untried but anxious to prove itself.

  Iain MacFóghnan gazed through the window of Blairgowrie Keep and shook his head wearily at the burning blue sky. Now that summer had arrived, bringing long days of sunshine, it was harder for Meghan and him to control the weather. The clouds they summoned melted away in the warmth of the summer sun, and the Greycloaks were no longer able to hide their forces in mist and rain. The Bright Soldiers’ gunpowder dried out and they were again able to fire their cannons and harquebuses upon Lachlan’s troops. The tide retreated, and with it went the Fairgean warriors, to hunt the blue whale in the summer seas. All along the soft sand of the Strand, female Fairgean gave birth to their young, protected by the younger Fairgean males. Without the threat of Fairgean attack, the Bright Soldiers were again able to mobilise their f
orces and Lachlan’s army found itself hard pressed. The fighting surged back and forth across the meadows and fields of Blèssem, villages being burnt to the ground, crofters intimidated and murdered, and the spring crops trampled.

  Iain, his bony fingers clenching the windowsill, remembered the most recent disastrous engagement with a heavy heart. Many good men had died, men he had come to think of as friends. He could not understand what obsession drove his mother. Why she should allow the soldiers of Tìrsoilleir to march through her land and into southern Eileanan, unleashing such death and devastation, was beyond him.

  Arran was a beautiful and mysterious country, with fens that rustled with bulrushes and cattails, diverse waterways, slow-moving rivers and shallow lochan. Snow geese and crimson-winged swans flew the skies; the song of the giant frogs reverberated through the rushes, and shy bog-faeries peered through the grasses with huge, lustrous eyes. It was not a rich country, however. Most of it was covered with lakes and marshes, so it did not have much arable land that could be ploughed and planted, unlike Blèssem with its fields of wheat and corn, its lush grazing meadows, its laden orchards. It had no abundant lodes of iron or gold or any thriving industries like Rionnagan.

  Although it was not as rich as Blèssem or Rionnagan, Arran was not a poor country however. Its marshes were thick with fish and fowl, and it had a monopoly on the export of rys seeds, the aphrodisiac honey of the golden goddess flower, and the mysterious fungi called murkwoad which grew nowhere else and had such remarkable healing properties. These three commodities had made Iain’s mother a wealthy and powerful woman. The Tower of Mists was filled with every imaginable luxury, and Margrit Nicfóghnan had many servants to cater to her every whim.