The Cursed Towers

by Kate Forsyth

  ‘Lightning from a clear sky,’ Meghan murmured. ‘Indeed, no good omen the night before a battle.’

  ‘But for us or for them?’ Iseult asked, getting wearily to her feet.

  ‘Who kens?’ Meghan replied. She let Iseult help her to her feet and went back inside the keep. The Blue Guards had been sitting drinking at the long table, Dide entertaining them with his songs and juggling, Finlay and Lachlan playing a game of chess. With a sinking of her heart Meghan saw the old servant woman was mopping up wine which had been spilt across the table like a stain of blood. ‘Who spilt the wine?’ she whispered.

  ‘I did,’ Lachlan replied with a grin. ‘That crack o’ lightning had me and the lads just about jumping out o’ our skins. Let us hope the men had the forethought to camp under a thorn tree and no’ under an oak.’

  ‘Why?’ Iseult said.

  ‘Do ye no’ ken that auld rhyme?’ Lachlan said. ‘No, happen ye wouldna. It says:

  “Beware o’ the oak, it draws the stroke,

  Avoid the ash, it courts the flash,

  Creep under a thorn, it’ll save ye from storm.”’

  He saw Meghan still looking at the stain of wine and said, ‘Whatever is the matter, Meghan?’

  ‘Ye who remember auld rhymes should know,’ she said harshly. ‘’Tis a bad omen indeed to spill your wine thus.’

  ‘Drink up your cup but do no’ spill wine, for if ye do, ’tis an ill sign,’ Duncan quoted.

  ‘Och, ye and your omens!’ Lachlan said. ‘Everything is an omen to ye! What about that bee sting in Lucescere? Nothing bad has happened to me yet, ye ken.’

  ‘No’ yet,’ Meghan said but Lachlan only laughed at her and ordered the old servant woman to pour him a fresh cup.

  The next morning the Blue Guards rose early and prepared themselves for battle, checking their weapons and armour, and washing themselves carefully. Meghan spoke Eà’s blessing over the soldiers’ heads and watched them mount up with a frown etched on her brow.

  ‘I canna help being afraid,’ she said to Jorge, ‘even though I know they must go. Ever since I saw that flash o’ lightning yesterday, my heart has been uneasy. I shall no’ stay here with ye and Tòmas and the healers as planned. I shall ride out with Lachlan and Iseult and keep them under my eye.’

  ‘Is that wise, my dear?’ Jorge said wearily. In the bright morning light he looked frailer than ever, his face heavily lined, his hand clutching his staff like a bird’s claw. He had not slept well, his dreams troubled with strange visions he could not or would not decipher. ‘Ye are no warrior, and ye ken ye could be a distraction to the bairns—they will be worried for ye and trying to protect ye. Will ye no’ stay here in the peace o’ this wee castle and wait for news with the rest o’ us?’

  ‘Happen they will need my magic,’ Meghan replied. ‘I am too far away here. How can I call the beasts o’ the field and forest to their aid if I’m stuck away here in the forest? Nay, I shall ride out with them.’

  Despite Iseult and Lachlan’s protests, she would not be swayed from her decision and at last one of the spare horses was led out for her. She clambered up quite nimbly for someone of her immense age, the little donbeag clinging to her long grey plait as usual.

  The cavaliers trotted down the road, talking lightheartedly. The sun fell dappled through the canopy of leaves and birds sang all around them. It was hard to remember they were riding to battle and not on a hunt for sport, particularly with Stormwing the gyrfalcon perched on Lachlan’s wrist, a leather hood tied over his head.

  By mid-afternoon the forest was thinning and there were signs of human society—a few felled trees, a great patch of blackened ground where charcoal burners had been flaming, a hunters’ hut. The road ran through an avenue of tall trees, with a rocky cliff to one side.

  Suddenly Iseult reined in her horse, sensing the brush of hostile minds. ‘Lachlan, leannan!’ she cried. ‘I fear—’ Behind her she heard Meghan calling a warning.

  Lachlan wheeled his horse round, scowling, and called to his men. ‘Back, back! An ambush, by the Centaur!’ With a quick tug he released the ties of the falcon’s head and flung the bird into the air.

  Startled, his men pulled in their horses, a few drawing their swords from their scabbards. Duncan Ironfist cried, ‘Call the retreat!’ and the startled herald raised his trumpet to his mouth and blew.

  On the narrow road all was confusion. Lachlan spurred his horse back, shouting to the men to retreat. Then the quiet forest sounds were torn apart by the zing of longbows being let loose. A blizzard of arrows fell upon the cavaliers, piercing leather armour, bone and flesh. Men screamed and fell from their horses. The birdsong was drowned by a cacophony of shrieks, shouts and terrified whinnies. Everywhere Iseult looked she could see wounded men and horses floundering. She drew her dagger and looked for the enemy but there were only the deadly rain of arrows, the dying men and horses, the great trees towering overhead. The falcon shrieked and she looked up, seeing archers hidden in the branches and along the top of the rocky crag. She yelled orders but no-one listened. All were too busy dying.

  She pulled her reil from her belt and sent it whizzing into the trees. Screams and a falling body showed she had hit her target. It came back to her hand and she flung it again. An arrow caught her in the arm and she dragged it from her flesh with a curse. Ignoring the throbbing pain, she wheeled her horse around, looking for Lachlan. Her heart thudded painfully as she saw his black stallion lying on its side, legs thrashing, a dozen or more arrows studding its breast and side. ‘Lachlan!’ she screamed.

  She saw Duncan Ironfist swinging up into the trees and threw her dagger straight through the heart of a Bright Soldier about to plunge a sword into his back. The Tìrsoilleirean fell with a scream. Without taking the time to acknowledge her, Duncan clung to the tree trunk with one hand and laid about him with his sword. Three more Tìrsoilleirean fell and he swung from the trees onto the rocks and began to fight a duel with three archers hidden there, his great claymore whistling with deadly grace.

  Iseult called back her dagger and used it to kill a Bright Soldier trying to drag her down from her horse. As she stabbed him, another of the enemy used his mace to smash her horse’s skull. The mare dropped like a stone. Only quick reflexes saved Iseult from being trapped beneath her horse’s weight. She somersaulted high over the head of her attacker, landed lightly on her feet and killed one soldier with the reil in her left hand and another with the dagger held in her right hand. She gave a small smile of satisfaction, lashed out with her foot and knocked down another Bright Soldier. Then, as three tried to rush her from the bushes, Iseult somersaulted high over their heads and into the trees.

  Looking everywhere for her husband, she unhitched her little crossbow from her back and wound it on with the hook on her belt. Though small, the crossbow was powerful and Iseult deadly accurate. She was able to kill or wound about fifteen Bright Soldiers in the branches about her before she ran out of arrows. She then flung down her bow and unsheathed her dagger again, somersaulting down to fight her way through the mayhem on the ground. Dead or dying Greycloaks were everywhere. Taken completely by surprise, many had not even had time to draw their swords or remove their shields.

  Crouching behind a dead horse, Iseult tried to locate her husband with her mind. To her relief, she felt him nearby and she ran in that direction, killing six or seven Bright Soldiers on the way.

  Lachlan was backed against the rocks, his bow discarded at his feet, his great claymore whistling all round him as he fought like a demon.

  Stormwing fought with him, plummeting from the sky to strike with his clenched talons, then using his powerful hooked beak to tear at any unprotected flesh. As the Bright Soldiers were heavily armoured, it was the force of his blow which was most effective and he soared away and plunged down again so swiftly that none of the archers were able to shoot him out of the sky.

  Meghan was crouched beside Lachlan, her hair falling from its plait, the donbeag shrieking in rage from
her shoulder. Piles of dead Tìrsoilleirean lay on either side, but ten more were fighting to reach them and Lachlan was only just managing to keep them off. Intent on their prey, they did not notice Iseult running up behind them. She killed two before they heard her, and the distraction of her arrival was enough to allow Lachlan to slice through two more. For a few seconds there was hard fighting, then all were dead.

  Lachlan leant on his sword, panting harshly, blood pouring from a cut to his brow and shoulder. ‘Where is Duncan?’ he cried. ‘And Iain? Are they well?’

  Iseult shrugged, trying to catch her breath.

  ‘We’ve been betrayed,’ Lachlan raged. ‘Somehow they knew we were planning to ride down this road. We have a spy in our camp!’

  Iseult nodded. ‘Without a doubt,’ she replied, then ducked so that an arrow which would have caught her in the throat flew overhead and embedded itself in the rock.

  Another group of Bright Soldiers had swung down out of the trees and was advancing on them. Lachlan fought them off with a snarl. When all had fallen, he flew effortlessly and unexpectedly into the branches, the gyrfalcon leading the way. There were screams and then the thud of falling bodies. One almost fell on Iseult and Meghan, and the Banrìgh helped the old sorceress to her feet.

  ‘Meghan, are ye all right? Ye’re no’ hurt?’

  The old sorceress nodded, her face grim. ‘We are hard pressed,’ she said.

  ‘Can ye help us in any way? They are slaughtering us! We are so confined among all these trees, we canna see where they are or how many o’ them there are.’

  ‘I have already called for help, but we are so close to the fields here, there will be no woolly bears or timber wolves nearby, only squirrels and donbeags. Calling fire would only hurt our men as much as theirs.’ The old sorceress suddenly turned and flung up her hand, catching an arrow in mid-air.

  ‘Come, auld mother, ye are no’ safe here!’ Iseult said. ‘Let me take ye to safety!’

  They ducked down among the bracken as a mob of Bright Soldiers ran past, shouting triumphantly. ‘Who could have betrayed us?’ Iseult cried. ‘Only a few knew our plans and I canna believe any o’ our men would have led us into such a trap. The Bright Soldiers no’ only knew where we would ride but when.’

  Meghan’s eyes glittered with anger. ‘Once I find out, I swear on Eà’s green blood that they will be sorry!’

  Dillon sat on the stone wall and kicked his legs angrily, his dog Jed lying curled by his side. Below him the loch gleamed in the bright spring sunlight but Dillon was in no mood for enjoying its beauty. He was angry that Lachlan had, at the very last minute, decided to leave his squires behind with the healers and the servants. Dillon had been looking forward to the battle at Ardencaple, which many said would be the final confrontation before the Bright Soldiers were sent back to Tìrsoilleir with their tails between their legs. He had dreams of so dazzling Lachlan with his fighting prowess that the Rìgh knighted him there and then on the battlefield. Although he knew fourteen was rather young to win one’s spurs, such speedy advancement did sometimes happen in times of war and Dillon saw no reason why it could not happen to him. He had practised his fighting skills every day and listened fervently to all that was said by the soldiers, filing it away for future reference.

  Dillon scowled at the dazzle of light. He knew his fellow squires were relieved at the Rìgh’s decision, and were down in the castle kitchen at that very moment, begging the caretaker’s wife for bits of candied peel. He scorned them for their childishness. He bet Duncan Ironfist had not been so silly when he was fourteen.

  His fingers found a loose piece of paving, and he prised it loose, tossing it in his hand. Then he scrambled to his feet and tossed it out into the loch, counting the number of skips it made across the water’s surface. Five, he counted, pleased with himself, and looked about for another bit of rock. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a flash of white and he stared in that direction, wondering if it was the tail of a deer. City born, Dillon was not too old to get excited at the idea of seeing a wild stag.

  Then his eyes widened. Running low along the edge of the loch was a man in a long white surcoat. The next instant he had ducked out of sight but Dillon had seen all he needed to. He dashed back into the keep, calling, ‘Master! Master!’ Jed bounded along behind him, barking in excitement.

  Jorge was dozing by the fire, his beard flowing over his lap and down to the floor. He woke with a start and said irritably, ‘I do wish ye would stop calling me that, lad. I was born the son o’ a thief in Lucescere, same as ye, and I am no man’s master but myself.’

  ‘Master, soldiers come!’ Dillon cried, almost beside himself. ‘I saw them creeping along the shore.’

  ‘So this is the place,’ Jorge murmured. ‘I wondered when I felt that shiver o’ lightning last night …’

  He got slowly to his feet, fumbling for his staff. The lump of crystal at its apex caught the light of the fire and flashed suddenly red. Dillon helped him up impatiently, saying: ‘We should make sure the gates are shut and see what weapons they have here, should we no’, master? Though it is naught but a wee castle, it is stout. We should be able to hold them off for a while, though there are only a few o’ us and most naught but silly lasses.’

  ‘Aye, do what ye can to hold them off,’ Jorge said. ‘I shall try and reach Meghan and let her know we are under attack. Though if we are being attacked, I think she must be also. Indeed I have been feeling uneasy all morning but thought I must be growing auld and foolish to feel so ill at ease in this peaceful place.’

  Dillon went running to alert the handful of soldiers that had been left to guard them, first making sure the gate in the outer wall was securely fastened. The soldiers were down in the kitchen, talking and laughing with the squires. At Dillon’s hurried explanations, they were on their feet in an instant, alarm and stupefaction on their faces.

  ‘How could they know to attack us here?’ one exclaimed, drawing his sword. ‘We did not know we were coming here ourselves!’

  ‘Someone must have betrayed the Rìgh!’ another cried, buckling up his breastplate.

  They ran out of the kitchen, the healers crying aloud in fear and dismay. Dillon ran after them, then suddenly veered and bounded up the stairs to the south turret in search of his own sword. After only a moment’s hesitation, he opened the door to the chamber where Meghan had slept and rummaged through a chest against the wall. If he was to fight, he wanted the sword he had chosen in the relics room, not the little flimsy play-sword he and the other squires had been given.

  The sword was wrapped in a black bag and hidden at the bottom of the chest, along with Antoinn’s sword, Artair’s dagger and Parlan’s goblet. Dillon had seen Meghan hide the gifts in the chest back in Lucescere when she had decided the boys were far too young and irresponsible to use them. The old witch had given the young rìgh a severe tongue-lashing for giving them to the boys in the first place and Lachlan had been rather sulky as a result and would not listen to their pleas or arguments.

  When he and the other boys had been appointed as the Rìgh’s squires, they had been given small swords to wear at their belts so had been so pleased they had not minded the loss of their gifts so much. Those swords were only flimsy though, and rather ineffectual. Now that Dillon was fourteen and almost a man, he thought it was time to wear his real sword.

  He had no time to withdraw it from its scabbard, much as he would have liked to, but instead hastily buckled it to his belt and ran from the room again, the other boys’ gifts still bundled up in the bag and slung over his shoulder. He flung the bag at his fellow squires as he ran through the great hall, calling to them to follow.

  The view from the guards’ tower gave them all a shock. A sizable force had converged on the little castle, with siege machines and cannons carried on wagons. Already ladders were being dragged to the walls and the cannons were lined up, ready to fire. This attack had been carefully planned and timed.

  ‘I am no’ sure how long we c
an hold against those cannons,’ one soldier muttered to another, his face pale. ‘This castle is no’ built to withstand a major offensive. I wonder why in Eà’s name they have brought such firepower against us? There is naught here but a few healers and the Rìgh’s squires.’

  ‘Jorge,’ Dillon said, understanding dawning. ‘They want Jorge.’

  ‘And the lad wi’ the healing hands too, I’ll be bound,’ another soldier said.

  Dillon nodded, alarm on his face. ‘We must keep Tòmas and Jorge safe,’ he cried. ‘Wha’ would the Bright Soldiers do to them if they fell into their hands?’

  No-one replied but, by the looks on the soldiers’ faces, Dillon knew they too feared the consequences.

  ‘Ye must try and get them away from here,’ the lieutenant ordered one of his men, a burly sergeant called Ryley o’ the Apples. ‘We shall hold them off as long as we can, but I fear it canna be long. There must be some way ye can escape. Ask the caretakers!’

  As he and Ryley ran back down the stairs to the tiny inner bailey, Dillon heard a large bang, followed soon after by the smash of a cannonball into the outer wall, which shook under the impact. Foul-smelling smoke drifted over the wall, making him feel rather sick.

  They found Tòmas in the main hall, gripping the edge of Jorge’s robe with both hands. His thin, white face was frightened. ‘I can feel such hatred!’ he whimpered. ‘They hate and fear us, Jorge, I can feel it. Why? Why do they hate us so much?’

  Jorge smoothed back the little boy’s blond hair with a trembling hand. ‘They do no’ understand our powers,’ he answered gently. ‘What they do no’ understand, they fear, and they hate what makes them afraid, for they think it is a sign o’ weakness.’

  ‘They want to do us harm,’ Tòmas cried, tears brimming in his cerulean blue eyes, far too large for his wizened little face. ‘We have to flee, Jorge. They mean to break in and hurt us, I can feel it.’