The Cursed Towers

by Kate Forsyth

  As swiftly and effortlessly as a bird, Isabeau glided down the snowy hillside. With a slight sway of her body she changed direction, curving round to leap off a mound, spinning in the air and landing gracefully with an arcing spray of snow.

  As the slope steepened, her descent accelerated until the cold wind was rushing past her face like the brush of fire. Tears streamed down her face and she rubbed her eyes with her white gloved hand to clear her vision. Her skimmer hit a slick of ice and she skidded at a breakneck speed, spun and almost fell, before flying on at an even greater pace. Isabeau whooped in excitement, and swerved again to leap off another round hump of snow. The blue sky spun beneath her feet, the snowy mountains blurring as the blood rushed to her head, then she was upright again, her skimmer landing on the slope with a loud thwack. Her feet shot out from under her, for a moment her arms windmilled wildly, her body bending backwards, then she regained her balance and the snow again hissed under the wood of her skimmer.

  ‘Woah!’ Isabeau cried. ‘That was close!’

  She came to a curving halt under a copse of trees, wiping her streaming nose with her gloved hand and trying to catch her breath. Her cheeks stung and she felt extravagantly, thrillingly alive.

  Above her, needle-sharp mountains stabbed their icy points into a clear, bright sky, while the smooth, white slopes fell down as far as the eye could see, broken only by the occasional copse of dark trees. The snowy hillside was marred with the swooping, erratic line of her descent, and Isabeau frowned a little, knowing her Scarred Warrior teacher would have a few scathing words to say about her style. She looked rather longingly at the steep white slope plunging ahead of her, then up at the sun which was slowly curving down towards the mountains. It was a long walk back up to the Haven, and if she wished to be back before nightfall she should turn back now.

  Reluctantly Isabeau bent to unstrap the skimmer from her feet. Her eye was caught by a flash of gold, and she looked up, excitement and pleasure quickening her pulse.

  A dragon was soaring above the mountains, the sun shining on her gleaming scales. Her clawed wings were spread wide, thin as parchment, and her long tail writhed behind her. Isabeau raised her hand and called: Asrohc!

  Greetings, little human! The dragon responded mockingly, her mind-voice as always echoing through the chambers of Isabeau’s body so that she felt rather nauseous.

  Do ye fly for pleasure or are ye on a journey? Isabeau asked.

  Flying is always a pleasure, the dragon replied, folding her wings and doing a graceful, plunging somersault.

  If I skim to the bottom o’ the mountain, will ye meet me there and fly me back to the top? Please?

  Perhaps.

  Please?

  I will see how I feel when thou reachest the depths of the chasm. Perhaps I shall have a whim to be amused by thine odd human eccentricities, perhaps I shall prefer to gnaw on a warm, bloody carcass. I have seen no deer or geal’teas running so it is probable I shall be in the mood for some diversion.

  The dragon had flown down out of the peaks and was now gliding across the meadows, her huge shadow passing over the humps and dips like the shadow of a thundercloud. As the shadow passed over her, Isabeau felt her knees tremble and her stomach clench in fear, even though she had often flown on the dragon princess’s back in the past eighteen months.

  The young dragon soared away over the valley and Isabeau watched her, indecisive. She glanced back down the steep, pristine slope then gave in to temptation, following the dragon’s shadow in long, swooping curves.

  As her blood quickened, the snow flying away beneath her skimmer, Isabeau forgot her guilty apprehension, shouting in delight as she leapt and spun over the humps. The slope steepened and fell away beneath her so that she really was flying, rushed up to meet her so she fell in a tangle of limbs, hissed away again under her skimmer, rolling and dipping faster than a horse could gallop. She reached the bottom of the hill in a slither of snow, having to turn so sharply to avoid crashing into the trees that her velocity carried her curving back up the hill again. Isabeau bent over, legs trembling with exhaustion, breath sharp in her side, and rested her fists on her knees until she had caught her breath. Then she looked up and scanned the sky. There was no sign of the dragon. Asrohc?

  There was no answer. Anxiety leapt in her. Asrohc!

  The sun was sliding down into the sharp-pointed peaks and shadows were falling across the valley. The only sound was the quiet stammer of water tumbling along under ice. Isabeau felt panic squeeze her throat muscles shut until she could hardly breathe. She had no chance of reaching the Haven before night came. If the dragon did not respond to her call, she would have to spend the night out in the snow and she knew her chances of survival were low indeed. Many who lay down to sleep in the snow never woke again.

  Isabeau looked about her, trying to calm the panic threatening to overwhelm her. She should have known better than to have relied on the dragon’s good nature. Dragons were not known for their benevolence. Just because Asrohc sometimes let Isabeau fly on her back did not mean the dragon princess felt any more warmly to her than a dog did to the fleas that rode on its back. No doubt the dragon had seen a herd of geal’teas that she could run to their death or simply grew bored with the view and returned to Dragonclaw. Isabeau had to think what best to do.

  She unstrapped the skimmer and tied it to her back then looked about her. The slope was steep, snow mounding against the boles of the conifer trees. Round humps concealed rocks and fallen logs along the narrow base of the valley, where black ice showed where a stream would run in summer. She looked back the way she had come and her spirit quailed at the height of the mountain. It would take many exhausting hours to clamber back through the deep snow to the heights and she had to suppress a bitter thought against the dragon, knowing Asrohc would probably hear it.

  With a sigh she began to slog along the base of the valley, looking for somewhere to set up camp. Although her teacher had often warned her about the dangers of the valleys, she thought she was more likely to find a cave or hollow tree down here than up on the bare, windswept slopes. Far better that she find some shelter, build a fire and wait out the long, freezing night than exhaust herself trying to climb the mountain. She could begin the long climb home in the morning, when she was rested and could see the many pitfalls of the mountain clearly.

  Isabeau found a fallen tree that had created a small cave between the rock face and its snow-laden trunk. She crept inside, swearing and shivering as her movement sent snow slithering down onto her back. She huddled her furs around her and scraped around for twigs and branches with which to build a fire. Normally Isabeau was not permitted to use her witch powers while on the Spine of the World, the Firemaker and her kin being constrained by strict laws and customs. The pride were safe in the Haven, however, so Isabeau had no hesitation in summoning a spark of fire and feeding it with her own powers until the wood was dry and a cheerful fire crackling.

  As night fell and a bitter wind rose, Isabeau turned her hands upwards on her thighs and began to meditate in order to distract her thoughts from her cold and hunger and apprehension. She had spent many hours meditating with the Soul-Sage during her first winter on the Spine of the World, and her lessons had continued in greater depth since she had returned to the pride a few weeks earlier. Isabeau slipped easily now into a light trance, the distractions of the outside world drowned beneath the billowing beat of her own heart and breath.

  It seemed as if she slipped out of her body and hung in the night, as pale and insubstantial as her own frosty breath. Faintly she heard a voice, as if in a dream. Child, it whispered. Child …

  She twisted, as if listening, and heard the voice more clearly. Instinctively she wavered towards the voice. She felt fear, for the soft vapour of her being was dispersing in the wind, but then she saw, dim and far away, the angular face of the Soul-Sage. She was haloed in silvery light, her thin body floating behind like candle-smoke, and a long, throbbing cord trailing behind her, t
wisting back through the starry sky. We are coming. Beware …

  Isabeau came back to consciousness with a jolt, her head and heart pounding, a strong feeling of nausea almost overcoming her. Her fire had sunk down to embers and it took a great effort of will to bring it back to leaping life. She huddled her furred hood close about her face and tried not to think about food.

  After a long period of silence when Isabeau nearly nodded off to sleep, she heard the sound of crashing branches and the pounding of heavy feet in the valley outside. Her fear returned in greater force. There were demons in the valleys, her teacher had said. She thought they must be the same creatures that she had heard described in The Book of Shadows as ogres, truly monstrous sounding creatures. She seized a burning branch from her fire and gripped it tightly as the crashing came closer.

  The wind shifted, bringing with it a foul stench. Suddenly a massive hand swept in under the tree trunk. Dark and scaly, it was tipped with curved black claws that caught Isabeau’s leg. She scrambled back, thrusting the fiery branch against it. The ogre howled and the huge, scaly hand was snatched back. The reverberating howls died down into whimpers, then suddenly the ogre’s thick fingers again swept in under the fallen tree trunk and Isabeau was knocked flying. She scrambled back against the rock, panting with fear, and then the groping hand found her fire. The ogre screeched with pain again, and Isabeau brought the fire blazing to life so flames ran up the rough, scaled fingers. He snatched back his hand, dragging the tree trunk away at the same time.

  Isabeau, crouched in terror against the rock, watched as the monster hopped around the clearing, nursing his burnt fingers. Over ten feet tall, he was a hunched, broad figure, his limbs covered with scales, his body bristling with hair. His huge, misshapen head was a grotesque shadow against the stars, tusked and knobbly, with huge eyes that burnt with a reddish flame. He whimpered and sucked his fingers, then turned again to search for her, but Isabeau had slipped away under the cover of the trees, her white furs blending in with the snow. He raised his hideous snout and sniffed the air, then gave a screech of excitement and bounded after her.

  She could not run very easily, hampered by the deep snow and the darkness, and in a few seconds he was upon her. Luckily his hands were so large and clumsy she was easily able to evade his sweeping grasp, grateful for her Scarred Warrior lessons that had taught her to sway away from a blow as effortlessly as a willow in a breeze. She foundered in the snow, though, and fell and his hand came down upon her, trapping her within the cage of his claws.

  Suddenly Isabeau heard wild yells. Flat on her face, almost paralysed with terror, she was able to look up and saw through the bars of her prison a long chain of flaming torches swooping down through the darkness. Relief flooded through her. She scrabbled at her belt and unsheathed her dagger which she thrust up into the hard, scaly palm above her. Although it must have pained him no more than the sting of a midge, he yelped and lifted his hand long enough for her to wriggle out and slide into the shadow of a snow-heaped bush. He snuffled about looking for her, then smelt the torches and looked up. He gave a loud yell of challenge and reared up, shaking his fists. Catcalls and cries answered him, and then tall, dark shapes came whizzing out of the darkness, snow flying up from their skimmers. There was the zing of reils being flung, and the ogre yelped and swiped out with his fists. For a moment he stood his ground, but the Scarred Warriors were too many and too fierce, and so he gave one last cry of defiance and blundered off into the darkness.

  ‘Khan?’

  ‘Yes, I am here,’ Isabeau replied, crawling out from under her bush and shaking off the snow. ‘I am so glad to see you all!’

  The Scarred Warriors did not reply, just unstrapped their skimmers and began to climb back into the snowy darkness. Only one waited for her to retrieve her own skimmer and she could feel his cold disapproval even though he said not a word. ‘I am sorry, teacher,’ she said tentatively.

  ‘Fool!’ he snapped, and gestured to her to follow him.

  Tired and chastened, Isabeau followed, her heart failing within her as she thought of the long, hard climb back up the mountain heights.

  They came out of the copse of trees and Isabeau saw a cluster of flaming torches thrust into the snow at the bottom of the high, steep slope. There were several long sleighs there, a team of shaggy, white ulez harnessed to each one. Sitting bolt upright in one was the Firemaker, wrapped up well against the cold, her snow-lion cloak raised to cover her head so her pale, autocratic face was framed by its snarling muzzle.

  Isabeau fell to her knees, her head bowed, her hands crossed over her breast. Amidst her chagrin and apprehension was a sudden spurt of happiness. The Firemaker had left the safety and warmth of the Haven to come in search of her. Isabeau’s great-grandmother was so cold and remote that the apprentice witch had come to believe she meant nothing to the old woman. The Firemaker must have some feelings for her, though, to ride out into the bitter night.

  ‘Fool!’ the old woman said, in the same curt tone that the Scarred Warrior had used, then she lifted her hand, indicating her great-granddaughter should rise. When Isabeau had obeyed, she said abruptly, ‘Come here, stupid child.’

  Isabeau stepped up into the sleigh and the Firemaker embraced her fiercely, then drew her down and tucked the furs around her. ‘Have you no more thoughts in that fiery head of yours than one of these woolly-brained ulez?’ she asked angrily, and gestured to the Scarred Warriors to proceed. The sleighs wheeled round and then the ulez began the long, slow climb back up the steep slope. Their hooves were flat and spreading, and the ulez were strong so the sleighs slipped along quite swiftly. Isabeau snuggled down into the furs, her cheek against the Firemaker’s thin hand, and was content.

  She was shaken awake much later, as the sleighs reached the heights. The Scarred Warriors gestured to her to climb out and sleepily she saw they had reached the valley of the Haven. Still half asleep she stumbled round the path and into the cave, and saw the Soul-Sage sitting by her fire at the back of the cavern, eyes closed. The Firemaker made a curt gesture of dismissal and Isabeau crept back to her own furs, careful not to disturb the Soul-Sage. As she closed her eyes and began to slip back into sleep, she heard the Soul-Sage whisper, ‘Have I not told you to never trust the dragon?’

  Isabeau was punished for her folly, of course, and her Scarred Warrior teacher was very terse and curt with her when next she went to him for her lessons in ahdayeh. She was told later that he too had been punished for her stupidity, for as her teacher he should have impressed upon her the importance of never skimming so far that she could not return to the Haven. Her teacher had told her so many times, and warned her of the dangers of the valleys, so Isabeau was even sorrier that she had ignored his warnings. She worked harder than ever at practising the thirty-three stances of ahdayeh, and at learning his snow-lore, and was glad when his sternness eventually began to soften. She had discovered that although the Khan’cohbans were habitually grave-faced and humourless, they were nonetheless capable of deep friendship and love and it had hurt her to lose some of her teacher’s regard.

  It was a cold, bitter winter that year and Isabeau wondered often how her family was faring back at the Towers of Roses and Thorns. Feld was so vague he often forgot to feed himself, and she had left the two-year-old Bronwen in his care, as well as Ishbel and the stallion. If her mother had been a different type of woman, Isabeau would not have needed to worry, but Ishbel often exasperated her with her helplessness. Luckily Bronwen was quite capable of demanding her dinner in such a loud and imperious voice that even Feld and Ishbel could not ignore it, and Isabeau knew her mother would have a care for the stallion if not for herself.

  The long hours confined to the Haven were enlivened by the tales of the storytellers, some of the most respected members of the pride. The First Storyteller was an old man with a deep voice that could reach every corner of the massive cavern and wonderfully expressive hands. He told only the most important tales, the stories of gods and heroes.
The everyday fables of animals and weather and naming quests were told by the younger storytellers, who strove hard to match the power and resonance of the First.

  One night, when the wind outside howled like a banshee and the snow had sealed shut the mouth of the cave, the Second Storyteller rose and bowed to the Firemaker, touching his heart, his brow and then sweeping his hand out to the night. She bowed her head and he assumed the storyteller’s position, legs crossed, back straight, hands resting on his lap. Most of the pride brought their furs to the central fire, children curling by their parents’ sides, heads in their laps.

  ‘Tonight I shall tell the tale of the name quest of he who tamed the dragon and so became First among warriors in the Fire Dragon Pride. This is the tale of he who was the youngest to receive the seventh scar, he who crossed his leg across the dragon’s back and flew away, to be lost in the land of the sorcerers.’

  Isabeau had already been sitting up eagerly, for she loved the tales of the storytellers. Grand and tragic, the stories often made her weep or left her with a sense of awe and humility. At the Second’s words, though, she leant forward, her lips parting, eyes shining. This was the tale of her father and she had longed to hear it.

  Her father had been born of tragedy, it was told. The daughter and heir of the Firemaker had died while giving birth to twins, and to the great sorrow and consternation of the pride, her baby daughter had died with her. Her son had lived but none knew what should be done with him, for in the custom of the pride, the male of the Firemaker’s twins was given to the Gods of White as sacrifice and restitution. If he was left out in the snow as usual, however, the Firemaker’s line would die out and there would only be the false Firemaker left, the descendant of the child rescued by the Old Mother of the Pride of the Fighting Cats so many years before. The hatred between the Prides of the Fire-Dragon and the Fighting Cats was cold and hard like glacial ice. The council decided to let the baby boy live.