The Cursed Towers

by Kate Forsyth

  The road crossed the mountain in three long, steep lines, marked at each turn by another wide platform with a tall archway guarded by two stone dragons. Isabeau found that if she pushed herself hard enough, she was able to reach each platform by nightfall, giving her a more comfortable place in which to set up camp. By the end of the third day she had reached the mountaintop height, the jagged peak looming above her.

  She stepped under the curving archway and saw that this platform was much longer and wider than the others, bounded to the east, north and west by a low wall. Her heart beginning to pound with excitement, Isabeau hurried across the dais so she could get her first glimpse of the dragons’ valley.

  She leant her elbows on the wall and stared down. The peak opposite was still bright with sunset light, but the pinnacle behind her shadowed the crater below, so that Isabeau could see nothing but craggy walls descending into a misty darkness. Disappointed, she unrolled her blanket and stuck her finger in the pot of vegetable soup to heat it up. She had made the soup before setting out on her journey, filling it with as many different varieties of vegetables, roots and grains as she could find. Since Isabeau ate the soup several times a day, she was already heartily sick of the taste, but there was no food to be gathered on this stony road and she had no desire to bear the weight of a wide selection of different foods. For the same reason she carried no firewood and so was unable to light a fire to cheer up the dark nights. Once the sun set there was little she could do but lie on the hard paving stones and watch the stars wheel overhead. Luckily it was midsummer and so the skies were clear and the night air only just touched with chill. Isabeau knew Meghan had climbed this mountain while snow still lay thick on the ground and she thought how cold and grievous the old witch’s journey must have been. She wondered whether Meghan had been nervous of meeting the dragons, but she could not imagine her indomitable guardian ever feeling anything so feeble as fear.

  Meghan woke with all her senses preternaturally alert. All was dark and still. She lay quietly, listening, casting out her witch sense, wondering what sent dread creeping down her spine like a trickle of cold water. After a moment she threw off her blanket and got stiffly to her feet. Gitâ protested sleepily and buried himself deeper under her pillow as the sorceress lifted the flap of her tent and looked out.

  Mist drifted through the army camp, wreathing the tents and blurring the glow of the banked fires. Meghan frowned. It was midsummer and the weather had been hot and clear for weeks, making it difficult for the witches to call up rain to dampen the Bright Soldiers’ fuses or to cover the Greycloaks’ movements. There had been hard fighting indeed, with the Greycloaks winning back towns and villages one week, only to lose them again the next. This night they were camped on the shore of the River Arden, having pushed the Bright Soldiers back into southern Blèssem.

  Although Meghan should have been pleased to see the weather change, her forehead was furrowed deeply and her seamed mouth was grim. After a moment she bent and caught up her staff and plaid. Wrapping the thick wool shawl around her shoulders, she walked out into the mist.

  So quiet was she that the sentries sitting outside the royal pavilion did not hear her coming nor see her small, dark form slipping through the shadows. The sorceress came up behind them and startled one by dropping her hand on his shoulder. ‘Shane, have ye seen or heard anything?’ she asked softly.

  The burly man stifled a gasp and shook his head. ‘Nay, Keybearer, all is quiet,’ he answered.

  ‘The mist began to rise about five, ten minutes ago,’ said the other sentry, a dark-haired man named Byrne Braveheart. ‘But otherwise we have no’ heard even the squeak o’ a mouse.’

  The sorceress nodded. ‘Keep a close eye and ear out and sound the alarm at the slightest hint o’ trouble,’ she said. ‘I have a bad feeling indeed.’

  They nodded, hefting their weapons and scanning the mist with increased vigilance. She hesitated, then slipped away to another tent nearby, lifting its flap and calling softly, ‘Gwilym …’

  He answered her softly.

  ‘I’m sorry to wake ye, but I think I may need ye,’ she whispered.

  ‘I was awake,’ he answered rather thickly. ‘I do no’ know why, for I was exhausted after all that spell-casting we did yesterday. I feel uneasy though …’

  ‘So do I,’ she whispered as he came to the flap of the tent, leaning on his club.

  ‘Mist,’ he said gruffly and sniffed the air. ‘Smells like the marsh,’ he said, his voice rising in sudden consternation.

  She said softly, ‘I thought so too. Mesmerdean?’

  ‘Let us pray to Eà that it is no’ so,’ he replied grimly, a shadow of fear in his voice.

  Suddenly there was a hoarse cry of alarm. Meghan whipped round. ‘The royal pavilion!’ she cried. Both limping as fast as they could, the old sorceress and the one-legged warlock hurried back through the camp to the tall, white tent where Iseult and Lachlan slept. They could see nothing in the all-enveloping mist, then a silvery light sprang up which illuminated the camp all around. They saw a tall, alien-looking shadow bending over the drooping form of a broad-shouldered man. Behind the bent figure fluttered the shadow of long, gauzy wings. Meghan gave an inarticulate cry, terror leaping through her veins. Then she muttered, ‘Nay, Lachlan must be safe, is is the Lodestar shedding all that light and none can raise it but he!’

  They reached the pavilion and saw Shane Mòr lying in the entrance to the royal pavilion. He was on his back, a smile of bliss on his dead face. Meghan and Gwilym did not pause to examine him, lifting their plaids to cover their mouths and noses instead and stepping over his corpse to rush inside the tent.

  Ten of the winged creatures were hovering inside the perimeter of the tent, their stiff, translucent wings whirring, their great clusters of myriad eyes glittering a metallic green in the brightness of the Lodestar which shone like a star in Lachlan’s hand. He and Iseult were backed against the tent pole, both naked. Lachlan was holding the faeries off with the threat of the Lodestar, a little eating knife in his other hand. Iseult had caught up her eight-sided reil but it hung from her fingers as she stared with fascination at the hovering marsh-faeries. Byrne Braveheart lay a few steps into the tent, the same rapturous smile on his upturned face.

  As the witches rushed in, the Mesmerdean turned their handsome inhuman faces their way. Immediately Lachlan darted forward and ran his dagger through the eye of the marsh-faery nearest to him. It exploded into powder and Lachlan danced back, his hand cupped over his mouth and nose.

  It was clear he had already killed two Mesmerdean, for their bodies had dissolved into two little pyramids of grey dust which Meghan and Gwilym were careful to keep well clear of.

  Meghan took one look at Iseult’s dreamy, contented face and clicked her tongue in annoyance. The sorceress would have liked to have shaken the young Banrìgh out of her enthralled state, but half the marsh-faeries had darted towards her and she had to move quickly to fight them off. One she knocked away with her staff, another exploded in mid-air with a flash of blue fire, and yet another was blown off course by a wind that came from nowhere.

  Gwilym had killed one of the ghostly creatures with a skilful thrust of his staff but had overbalanced and fallen, his wooden leg unable to find purchase on the earthen floor. Lying on his side, he sent blue witch’s fire arcing through the air, sizzling one as it dropped towards him. He rolled to one side, covering his face with his plaid as it fell to earth in a shower of dust.

  Meanwhile, Meghan had gathered together a writhing blue sphere of energy and thrown it at another Mesmerd who had flitted down to grasp the warlock with its claws. As the Mesmerd disintegrated, Gwilym was blown over and over, slamming into Iseult’s bare legs and bringing her down in a tangle.

  Lachlan leapt forward and brought the Lodestar slicing through the middle of a Mesmerd threatening him from the side. As it collapsed in a billow of grey draperies, he followed through with the swing and the white light of the glowing orb demolished
another as if it were a sword. As Gwilym and Iseult scrambled to recover their balance, Lachlan and Meghan between them attacked the three remaining Mesmerdean. The winged creatures were wary now, however, moving with such sudden swiftness that time after time they escaped the fate of their kindred.

  Iseult had been shaken out of her dreamy fascination by the fall. Although she was still rather dazed, she bent her wrist and threw the bright eight-sided reil star. It spun round, cutting through the claw and hard shell of one, the iridescent wing of another and the edge of the third’s robe before spinning back to her hand. Lachlan was able to kill one of the wounded with a dagger thrust to the eye, while Gwilym beat the other down with his staff. Iseult threw her reil again, but the remaining Mesmerd deftly avoided it, darting fast as a hornet out of the tent flap to disappear into the mist.

  Choking and gasping in the dust-filed air, they stumbled out after them, neither Iseult nor Lachlan noticing they were still both stark naked. Meghan bent over her staff, coughing, then threw her plaid to Iseult to cover herself as Duncan Ironfist and Cathmor the Nimble came running half naked out of the mists, claymores drawn.

  The camp had erupted, the sounds of fighting and the bright light of the Lodestar having roused the sleeping men.

  ‘Where is the danger?’ Duncan cried. ‘Who has attacked ye, Your Highness? How did they get into your tent? I shall gut those useless sentries myself!’

  Gwilym caught his breath, saying harshly, ‘It is no’ the sentries’ fault, Duncan. Marsh-faeries come and go as they please, without making a sound. It is no’ for nothing that they are called the Grey Ghosts.’

  Iseult huddled Meghan’s dark green plaid around her, trying to still the little shudders that ran over her. She was leaning heavily on Lachlan, her face very white. She had been the worst affected by the stench of the dying Mesmerdean. Worst of all, she was ashamed and mortified by her failure to react to their attack.

  ‘I’m the Scarred Warrior,’ she muttered, ‘but I stood and stared with my mouth hanging open like a foolish bairn. I canna understand it!’

  Meghan said gruffly, ‘I think it mun be because ye almost died in their embrace that time in the Veiled Forest. They seem able to hypnotise their prey, and since ye have fallen into their embrace before, happen ye were more susceptible this time. Do no’ trouble yourself about it, Iseult, they are powerful, uncanny creatures indeed.’

  ‘But what if they come at us again?’ Iseult said. ‘It seems they have no’ let go o’ their vendetta against us. How am I to guard Lachlan if I fall into a swoon at the very sight and smell o’ them?’ She gave a little shudder at the remembrance of their dank, swampy odour.

  ‘I shall guard ye,’ Lachlan said rather smugly. ‘It was rather a nice change to have my Scarred Warrior clinging and helpless for a change.’

  Iseult gave a snort of disgust and said rather curtly to Duncan, ‘Can ye have someone clean out our tent for us? I’ve had enough o’ standing around half naked and having the entire camp gawking at me.’

  Indeed, the plaid barely managed to cover much of her at all and many of the soldiers were transfixed by the sight of her long, bare legs and messy red hair.

  ‘O’ course, Your Highness,’ Duncan replied urbanely.

  ‘Make sure they are careful no’ to breathe in any o’ the dust or let it drift onto their skins,’ Meghan warned. As he nodded and issued swift orders, she clenched her fingers around her flower-carved staff and gazed out into the mist. ‘That is another eleven Mesmerdean to be added to our account,’ she said grimly. ‘Indeed, I do no’ think they will give up on this vendetta o’ theirs.’

  ‘Mesmerdean never forgive and never forget,’ Gwilym said harshly. ‘As I know to my cost. Indeed, they are fitting associates o’ Margrit o’ Arran.’

  Isabeau woke with a jerk, her plaid rumpled over her face and smothering her. She fought it off, at first not knowing where she was. Then she lay staring up at the night sky, feeling vague and unsettled, her consciousness not yet fully returned. She was still snared in her dream, a dream she had had before. A face bending down over hers, a beautiful alien face with great glittering eyes. A face that was both lover and destroyer, that fascinated as it repelled. She gave a little shudder, trying to shake off the effects of the nightmare. After a while, she gathered up her things and began to walk on, afraid to fall asleep again in case the dream returned.

  Later that day Isabeau at last approached the end of the Great Stairway. Her steps quickened with anticipation and apprehension, adrenaline beginning to pump through her veins. She could see the great curve of the archway and the shapes of the stone dragons, wings spread wide. Beyond there was only rock and twisting tendrils of mist. Isabeau came down to the platform with a rush and then stopped, staring out into the valley with wide eyes. It was shaped like a deep bowl, as if some giant had scooped out the top of the mountain with a spoon. A vivid green loch filled most of the valley, its surface wisped with steam. Isabeau had to cover her nose with her hand for the air stank of rotten eggs. The surface of the water stirred and rippled as if touched by wind, but the air in the crater was still and heavy and warm. Occasionally bubbles rose to the surface, so that Isabeau wondered uneasily if some loch monster dwelt in its depths.

  On the northern wall of the crater were seven great arched doorways, all bordered by intricate knots and tendrils of stone. Wide circular steps spread out before the seven doorways like ripples cast from a stone and led down to a broad, paved square before the loch. The warm, sulphurous mist hung everywhere, giving the loch and the yawning dark doorways an uncanny, mysterious atmosphere.

  Isabeau tried to gather the courage to step down from the dais into the valley but found her legs were unaccountably watery. She gripped the bunch of roses tightly and tried to remember all that Feld and Meghan had told her of dragons. Should she wait here until they gave her permission to enter, or should she brave the dragons’ wrath by entering their domain without ceremony?

  Suddenly a deafening bugle resounded around the valley and Isabeau saw a dragon soar out of the central doorway, her hooked and clawed wings spread wide, her tail whipping behind. The dragon circled the valley three times and then landed lightly before her, her wings folding along her side. She was smaller than the dragon Isabeau had seen earlier, and her silk-smooth scales were burnished green in colour. Her topaz-gold eyes were slitted and her crested tail swished around like a cat’s.

  Without warning Isabeau’s legs gave way and she dropped to her hands and knees.

  Thou art wise for a human child, to kneel thus before me, the dragon said, her nose in the air. Wiser than most of thy kind who think they are the lords of the earth and sky. I see thou hast brought my queen-mother roses, as the Great Circle decreed almost a thousand years ago.

  Isabeau nodded, staring down at the rose branch she had dropped on the ground. The flowers were fully open now and quite a few petals had dropped, scattering across the stone like blood-edged snowflakes.

  The queen-mother feels some curiosity about thee and is willing to spare thee a moment to kneel before her and offer her thy homage.

  I thank ye, Great One, Isabeau answered rather shakily, keeping her head down. The closeness of the dragon brought involuntary terror beating through her body and she was conscious of sweat breaking out on her palms and brow.

  Thou hast our permission to enter the dragon’s domain, the dragon said. I shall lead thee into the dragon’s palace. I am Caillec Asrohc Airi Telloch Cas.

  The name sank deep into Isabeau’s mind with a reverberation of power that sent little shudders down her body. She knew she would never forget the strange, heavy syllables, which seemed to have burnt their way into her memory like a brand.

  Thou must understand I do not give thee my name lightly, but thou art the daughter of the great-hearted Khan’gharad who saved me from death when I was a mere damp-nosed kitten. I feel some measure of warmth towards thy clan, who have always been of service to the dragons. Therefore I give thee my name a
nd my forbearance and shall allow thee to cross thy leg over my back and to call me when thou wishest to fly the skies.

  Exultation flooded Isabeau. She was to fly by dragon-back, as Iseult had, and call the dragon-princess friend. Just as she was whispering her fervent thanks, the young dragon yawned widely and added: If I am not sleeping or bathing or playing with my brothers, I may come, for I find those of humankind somewhat amusing. Your womb-sister was often quite diverting. Since she left I have none to talk to except my brothers and, indeed, even a human is better company than they.

  Isabeau nodded rather bemusedly, unable to help thinking the young dragon thought of her as a new sort of pet. The dragon gave a little scamper and turned to lead the way to the cavern mouths.

  Within was a broad hall that descended into the mountain in a sweeping spiral. It was just as Iseult had described—the shadowy ceiling shining with stars and moons and comets, the curving walls painted with trees and flowers and faeries and all the creatures of the forest. Below was the great cavern with its thick pillars and vaulted ceiling, all dark with flowing shadows.

  Isabeau’s breath caught in her throat as she saw seven great, bronze-backed dragons standing guard along its length. One was the dragon that had spoken to her at the beginning of the Great Stairway. He inclined his head, topaz-golden eyes glinting mockingly. The others ignored her, though their long, crested tails swayed back and forth and their eyes narrowed.

  Torches flamed in brackets all along the hall’s length, glimmering off dragon hide and the mound of treasure heaped on the dais at the far end. Asleep on the pile of tarnished coins and necklaces and cups and jewels was a huge old dragon. As large as a hill or a building, her humped back was lost in shadows, her thick tail writhing out through the treasure and down the hall. As her nostrils flared to exhale, a sulphurous wind rushed down towards Isabeau, blowing her hair away from her face and causing her shirt to flutter. Then when the massive old dragon breathed in, Isabeau felt her body tugged forward, her hair whipping over her face, obscuring her vision.