The Cursed Towers

by Kate Forsyth

  ‘Aye, it’s true the Mesmerdean are no friends o’ ours,’ Iseult replied with a little shiver. Even though it was two years since the marsh faeries had first attacked them in the Veiled Forest, she knew they would not have forgotten or forgiven the death of so many of their kin. Their attack last summer was proof enough of that.

  ‘Be gay, my lassies, for ye may soon be wed,

  And summer is a-coming in today,

  Let us make a garland o’ the white rose and the red,

  In the merry morn o’ May.’

  ‘Well, at least the Fairgean are on the rise again and are keeping the sea free o’ the Bright Soldiers’ ships,’ Lachlan said, bowing and smiling as some girls in the crowd threw him a handful of roses. ‘Who would have guessed we’d have occasion to be grateful to those black-blooded sea demons?’

  ‘Well, I think we should push on for Dùn Eidean,’ Iseult said. ‘Ye ken Meghan is keen to win back as much o’ Blèssem as we can so she and Matthew the Lean can plant the fields. And the MacThanach is worried indeed about his mother, who’s been holed up for all this time. They must be close to starving in there, but the auld dowager has sworn she will no’ give in.’

  ‘A feisty auld biddy,’ Lachlan said appreciatively. ‘Who would have thought she could keep the Bright Soldiers from Dùn Eidean for so long?’

  ‘We need to keep the MacThanach’s support,’ Iseult said, shifting her son to the other hip to ease her arm. ‘If we lose him, we lose the Blèssem lairds and all o’ their men. That’s almost half our troops. Besides, I think it will take the Bright Soldiers by surprise. They know as well as we do that our forces are being split. They’ll expect us to concentrate on driving them back one way or another, no’ drive right down the middle and split their forces.’

  ‘Och, as long as we do something soon!’ Lachlan cried, shaking his wings. ‘It’s been a year since we won Blairgowrie, and since then we’ve been scuttling back and forth across Blèssem like crabs! It seems we cut off the head o’ the monster only for it to grow two more.’

  ‘War is like that,’ Iseult replied sombrely as the laughing, singing procession below them passed out of the gates and down the hill.

  Lachlan bent down and picked up a rose to give her. ‘Happen we’ll win peace in the end, leannan, and then we can rest and raise our son and have nothing to worry about save how to spend our Lammas tithes.’

  Iseult smiled slightly and tucked the rose into her bodice. ‘The Khan’cohbans say, “If ye want peace, prepare for war,”’ she answered. ‘Come, let us see if we can find a way to free Dùn Eidean and we’ll worry about peace when we have it.’

  Meghan sighed and sipped from her goblet of wine. ‘Come, my lairds, must we always be arguing? The Rìgh has made his decision, now it is your job to help ensure his commands are carried out. This war has dragged on a year and a half as it is, and it is time we struck another decisive blow. Has anyone any ideas how we can break the blockade at Dùn Eidean?’

  A chorus of angry voices answered her and she sighed and threw up her hands. The war council had been sitting for several days now, and all that the lairds did was argue and prevaricate.

  To everyone’s surprise, Elfrida leant forward and said in her clear, childish voice, ‘Ye will never make the Tìrsoilleirean turn and run merely by showing strength o’ arms, Your Highness. They are taught to think the only honourable death is dying with a sword in their hand.’

  ‘Then if we canna make them retreat, we’ll just have to beat them back by force,’ the MacThanach boomed.

  ‘But, my laird, ye ken we have less than half their number, even if we pull all the MacSeinn’s men away from the east and bring them in to reinforce us,’ Iseult said with the most patience she could muster.

  The arguments broke out again and Elfrida had to raise her voice to cut across them. ‘But what if ye could make them run away?’

  Iseult turned to her wearily. ‘But I thought ye just said they would never retreat and never surrender. They are like the Scarred Warriors then; it is no use dreaming o’ what might be.’

  ‘I said force o’ arms would no’ make them flee. I did no’ said nothing would.’

  Iseult’s gaze sharpened. ‘If no’ force, then what?’

  Elfrida shrugged, a little discomfited. ‘Well, ye ken I have been spending time talking with the Tìrsoilleirean prisoners o’ war and persuading them to our cause.’

  Iseult and Lachlan nodded, while Meghan stroked Gitâ’s soft brown fur, her face tired. ‘Well, it seems the Bright Soldiers think ye are some incarnation o’ Auld Clootie,’ Elfrida continued, colour rising in her face.

  Meghan looked up, her interest caught, though Lachlan frowned and said, ‘Auld who?’

  ‘Auld Clootie,’ Elfrida repeated. ‘Ye ken, the Archfiend, the Prince o’ Darkness.’

  The Rìgh and Banrìgh looked at each other, puzzled.

  ‘The Tìrsoilleirean believe in omnipotent forces o’ absolute good and absolute evil,’ Meghan said, a slight trace of sarcasm in her voice. ‘They call their idea o’ evil manifest the Archfiend, among many other names.’

  Lachlan’s skin darkened. ‘Ye mean they think me some sort o’ spirit o’ evil?’

  Elfrida nodded, blushing even more.

  ‘What have I ever done that’s so evil?’ Lachlan cried. ‘I did no’ invade their country and burn their houses! I do no’ ask my women soldiers to cut off their breasts or give up their family life! I do no’ sacrifice bairns to a bloodthirsty god!’

  ‘Neither do we!’ Elfrida cried. ‘I’ve never seen the elders kill a baby!’

  The Rìgh rose to his feet, his face ugly. ‘I will give them evil!’ he cried, slamming his fist into his hand. ‘I will give them more wickedness than they ever dreamed o’!’

  ‘Hush, leannan,’ Iseult murmured, rising also and laying her hand on his tense upper arm. ‘Ye always knew this was a holy war. O’ course the priests and the berhtildes have tried to make ye seem evil and depraved. This is no surprise, and the lady Elfrida would no’ bring it up if she did no’ see how we could turn it to our advantage.’

  Elfrida’s colour subsided and she nodded her head once, jerkily. ‘Indeed, Her Highness is right. I did no’ mean to insult ye, Your Highness, truly I did no’.’

  Lachlan remained standing, his jaw still gritted tight with anger. ‘Well, then, what advantage is it to us to have the Bright Soldiers calling me this Prince o’ Darkness?’

  ‘It is hard to explain because ye ken so little about what we … I mean, the Tìrsoilleirean believe,’ she said slowly. ‘It is true we are taught there is an evil force that spends its entire existence trying to overthrow our God the Father. As there are many angels that support our Holy God, so are there many demons that support the Archfiend. It is said the Prince o’ Darkness is the first angel that sinned. The elders say he deceived the whole world and was cast out into the earth, and all his angels cast with him. Ever since, in his sinful pride and ambition, he has sought to regain his place in heaven.’

  ‘I do no’ see what all that has to do with me!’

  ‘It is because o’ your wings,’ Elfrida said. ‘And all ken ye once had claws like a bird. In some auld drawings the Archfiend has hooves like a goat, in others they are like talons. In Tìrsoilleir we are taught we must resist this fallen angel, who seeks to turn us from the path o’ righteousness. As long as the Bright Soldiers believe ye are the Prince o’ Darkness, they will fight to the last breath in their body to overthrow ye, else they face eternal damnation.’

  Lachlan sat down heavily, his glossy black wings still tense and erect. ‘So it is a fight to the death.’

  ‘No’ necessarily,’ Elfrida replied, leaning forward. ‘It is true we could use this to our advantage. Auld Clootie is regarded with such dread that we could cause absolute terror in the ranks, and some at least would break and run. I have a better idea though.’ She took a moment to gather her thoughts then said softly, ‘Ye ken I was raised in prison and had never walked f
reely or seen the whole wide sky until I was sent to Arran to marry Iain.’

  The lairds all nodded, many with open sympathy on their faces.

  ‘A few years before I was released, another prisoner was brought to the Black Tower where I was incarcerated. Only the most important prisoners were kept there, the ones who were meant never to see daylight again. I heard much about this man from my gaolers. He was a prophet called Killian the Listener, for it was said he heard the voices o’ the angels. Killian the Listener said the General Assembly had grown arrogant and corrupt. He said the elders had grown away from the true meaning o’ the Word and sought only their own power and material comfort. He grew famous in Bride for standing on the steps o’ the cathedral and denouncing the Fealde as she came to hear the service.

  ‘Killian the Listener warned the elders that God our Father would no’ tolerate their pride and corruption. He said the dark-winged angel o’ death would come wi’ his flaming sword and topple them from their gilded altars, and then the people o’ the Bright Land would be free o’ their terrible tyranny. He lost his ears and his liberty for his audacity, the elders saying the divine voice he heard was that o’ the Archfiend and not o’ our Holy God.’

  ‘They chopped off his ears?’ Lachlan was aghast.

  ‘Aye, even though he told them it was no’ with the ears o’ the body that he heard, but with the ears o’ the soul.’

  ‘But what has this earless prophet to do with rescuing the people o’ Dùn Eidean?’ the MacThanach boomed.

  ‘She means to make the Bright Soldiers think Lachlan is this angel,’ Iseult said, her serious blue gaze intent on the other woman’s face. Elfrida nodded, glad to be understood so quickly.

  ‘But did ye no’ call it an angel o’ death?’ Lachlan cried. ‘How is that any better than this other angel ye spoke o’, the fallen one?’

  ‘The angel o’ death is no force o’ evil,’ Elfrida replied. ‘He stands on God’s right hand and is called the Prince o’ Light, as the Archfiend is called the Prince o’ Darkness. He is the warrior angel, the angel o’ vengeance who fights for the faithful. He is God’s messenger on earth. If we can make the Tìrsoilleirean army believe ye are the angel o’ death, they will fall down before ye and throw down their arms. O’ course, the berhtildes shall say it is more trickery on the part o’ Auld Clootie and punish cruelly those who believe, but the Tìrsoilleirean have always been willing to be martyrs. Once they are convinced the Holy God our Father is angry with the Fealde and the elders, they shall take up arms against them, I am sure o’ it!’

  ‘And how are we to convince them?’ Lachlan said sceptically. ‘They have travelled hundreds o’ miles on this crusade o’ theirs. Ye think they will go home because I tell them to?’

  ‘They might,’ Elfrida replied seriously. ‘Particularly if the ground is prepared by another seer. Prophets are much feared and respected in the Bright Land. Ye have told me how Jorge travelled around telling how a winged warrior would come to save the land. Could he no’ do so again? If I taught him the language o’ fire and brimstone, he could surely win the Bright Soldiers to our side wi’ the telling of his prophecies.’

  ‘Nay!’ Meghan exclaimed. ‘It is much too dangerous! What would the berhtildes do to him if they caught him? There must be another way!’

  Jorge turned his blind head towards her. ‘There is no better way,’ he said gently. ‘Do no’ fret, auld friend. I have seen what I must do. It shall be as the NicHilde decrees.’

  Meghan protested again, her face creased with worry, but the blind seer was adamant. Since his fainting fit in the winter, he was frailer than ever, his opaque eyes sunken back into his skull, his limbs as thin as sticks. His kindly old face was often shadowed in melancholy and he had confessed to Meghan that he slept uneasily, all his dreams filled with visions of blood and fire. He would not return to the safety of Lucescere though, despite all Meghan’s urging, for he knew his powers would be sorely needed. When Meghan once more protested that he was too precious to be risked, he shook his head at her and smiled. ‘Ye canna say that, my dear, when ye risk yourself each day. What would I do in Lucescere when all whom I hold dear are here at the battle-front? Nay, let me alone, Meghan. What Eà wills will be.’

  The war council broke up again into talk and argument. For some minutes the controversy raged, then Iseult leant forward, her scarred face a little flushed as she strove to repress her exasperation. ‘To win, deceive,’ she said. ‘Elfrida, how else can we trick these Bright Soldiers o’ yours into believing Lachlan is this angel o’ light?’

  Elfrida smiled. ‘I shall need to teach him some new songs,’ she replied. ‘And can anyone here play a trumpet?’

  Jorge leant on his staff, his old hands trembling, as he listened to the clatter of horses’ hooves approaching along the road. He waited until they had drawn abreast of him, then stepped out from behind the shelter of the trees. The two horses in the lead shied, neighing loudly. Their riders cursed and dragged their mounts’ heads back. Jorge raised his blind face and pointed directly at the berhtilde.

  ‘Night-winged and flame-eyed, the angel o’ death shall strike ye, for ye have forgotten the Word o’ God,’ he cried. ‘The teeth o’ beasts shall gnash ye, the claws o’ birds shall slash ye, the venom o’ things crawling in the dust shall sicken your blood. For ye have been led astray by false words and false promises! Oh, ye who call evil good and good evil, who mistake darkness for light and light for darkness, who put bitter for sweet and sweet for bitter! The arrows o’ God the Father have been loosed against ye.’

  The berhtilde shrank back in superstitious terror, but almost immediately regained control of herself. She drew her sword and spurred her horse forward, crying, ‘Die, false prophet, creature o’ the Archfiend! Deus vult!’

  A raven screeched, beating its midnight-black wings around the berhtilde’s head. To her consternation, the horse reared, then bucked her off. She landed heavily on the stones of the road, directly at Jorge’s feet. He pointed his frail hand at her and said, ‘The anger o’ God the Father knows no bounds. The very mountains shall quake, the sea shall rise up and sweep across the land, the whirlwind shall reap its bitter harvest, his wrath shall have no bounds until your false-hearted leaders are all swept away and truth and mercy again prevail.’

  The berhtilde struggled to rise but invisible chains held her prisoner. She tried to speak but her tongue was a stone in her mouth. Jorge bent over and touched her between the eyes and she fell back in a faint. He straightened and swept the rest of the company with white, clouded eyes. ‘The angel o’ retribution comes,’ he said gently, then turned and stepped away.

  The soldiers glanced at each other in fear and consternation. Most knew of Killian the Listener and were dismayed to hear another prophet spouting his words. They remembered, too, reports of the birds of the air and the beasts of the fields fighting at the command of their enemy. They had been told of rats swarming out of sewers to attack those battalions besieging towns, of swarms of wasps descending upon Bright Soldiers as they marched through fields, of cavalry horses becoming unaccountably spooked and throwing their riders in the midst of battle. They had heard that dogs of all shapes and sizes fought at the side of the heathen warriors, and that wolves obeyed their commands. Some had themselves seen the black-winged warrior with the golden eyes and could not help wondering if the words of the prophet were true and this was indeed the messenger of God.

  By the time the soldiers had gathered their wits, the old, blind man had disappeared into the forest. The captain sent scouts crashing through the undergrowth in search of him, but they found no bent twig, no footprint, not even a bruised leaf to show he had even been there. There was only the raven hovering far above them, like a hole torn in the blue of the sky, to prove it had not all been a dream. One for sorrow, the captain thought and felt a shudder run down his spine.

  It was a red dawn, the thin clouds stained with the light of the blurred, crimson sun that crept up from behind the low hills
. The Bright Soldiers camped in orderly rows and circles around Dùn Eidean glanced at the sky with troubled expressions. They had come to view the changes in the weather as omens for the future. When the sky was clear and the sun shone, it augured well. When the horizon was heavy with rain clouds or when mist rose from the fields, it meant only trouble.

  The outer walls of Dùn Eidean lay in rubble, squads of soldiers in silver mail and long white cloaks patrolling the narrow streets of the town. Many of the buildings in the town had been burnt or demolished, but those still standing served as shelter for the berhtildes and the officers. White pennants marked with a scarlet fitché cross fluttered from the rooftops, and from the tents and pavilions that encircled the hill town. Only one flag defied the dominance of the scarlet cross. Green and gold, carrying the design of the MacThanach scythe, it flew defiantly from the castle battlements, mocking the soldiers who marched below.

  Standing on the battlements was an old woman, a green and yellow plaid wrapped close about her body against the wind. Her face was very thin and pale, the bony nose standing out from the sunken cheeks like the prow of a ship, but her hazel eyes were alive with determination. She shook her clenched hand at the besiegers as if it were a gauntleted fist instead of a knob of thin, twisted, vein-knotted fingers. Standing with her was a middle-aged woman who had once been plump but whose skin now hung in folds. She was grey with exhaustion, but her jaw was set firmly, deep lines running from the corner of her compressed lips to her drooping chins.

  ‘Come in from the cold, my lady,’ she implored. ‘It does ye no guid to stand here in this wind. If the MacCuinn is riding to our aid, we shall hear soon enough. Ye mun rest and save your strength. If ye should fail, ye ken the hearts in our bodies shall fail too, and then the castle shall surely fall.’

  The old woman turned on her fiercely. ‘Do no’ be a fool, Muire,’ she snapped. ‘We have withstood those cruel-hearted bastards for nigh on twenty-two months. Do ye think I would let ye give in now, even if I should die in my sleep tonight? I’d reach out from the very grave and throttle ye if such a thought should even cross your foolish mind. The MacCuinn shall come, never ye doubt, and he shall send these piddling soldier-lads whimpering home with their tails between their legs. Has no’ that auld gypsy friend o’ yours promised it?’