The Cursed Towers

by Kate Forsyth

  Jorge nodded. ‘Indeed, ye are right, laddie. I too can feel they mean us no kindness. They are witch-haters, thinking our powers born o’ evil. They are angry because o’ their defeats, and long for a chance to have their revenge. I would rather it was no’ ye that they wreaked their revenge on, my lad.’

  There was another resounding bang, and the whole building seemed to shake. They heard a malevolent shout of glee and excitement, then there was the sound of metal clashing.

  ‘Have they breached the wall?’ Dillon cried.

  Ryley nodded. ‘I fear so, laddie. We must seek some way out. We canna sit here waiting for them to come and find us. There is a dinghy moored down by the kitchen. We shall have to try and escape in that.’

  ‘Where is Johanna?’ Tòmas wailed. ‘We canna leave her!’

  ‘She was with the other healers in the kitchen,’ Dillon answered, hurrying down the stairs, Jed at his heels as always. They heard shouting and the clash of arms grew louder. ‘Quick, master, they come!’

  Jorge’s face was drawn and grey. As they hurried down the passage towards the kitchen he whispered, ‘Let us hope it was no true sighting.’

  ‘What, master?’ Dillon cried, urging the old sorcerer along.

  ‘But my heart misgives me,’ Jorge continued, not heeding him. ‘Indeed, my heart grows cold within me.’ He gave a shudder and faltered, and Dillon had to push him to make him continue.

  They reached the kitchen, a long room that ran the length of the building, almost level with the water. The caretakers were hovering by the door, their old faces anxious, while Johanna and her team of healers had gathered together their belongings and were waiting calmly. Occasionally one whimpered in fear but Johanna reprimanded them with a glance.

  ‘Thank Eà ye have come!’ she snapped at Dillon. ‘Ye have been such an age. Come, they search the main building. We must get Tòmas and the master away. I have readied the dinghy.’

  Dillon looked at her in some amazement. He had always known her as an anxious-faced girl with long, skinny plaits who had been scared of everything. Now a tall girl of sixteen, her plaits were wound round her head and her face was set in an expression of determination. Preoccupied with his own dreams and duties, he had not noticed how much she had changed in these past few years.

  At one end of the kitchen was a great iron-bound door that led out onto a stone platform. Tied at one end was a shallow dinghy, used for sculling about the loch. Piled next to it were some sacks with supplies and cooking utensils spilling out of them.

  Dillon gazed at the little boat in consternation. ‘There is no way we can all fit in that!’

  ‘I know,’ Johanna said calmly. ‘Ye must take Tòmas and the master, and Kevan and his wife, and the youngest o’ the lassies. And Parlan, o’ course, he is still only a laddiekin and shouldna be here at all. Then ye will need Anntoin and Artair to help ye and Ryley row, they are the strongest. The rest of us shall swim alongside the boat.’

  Dillon cast her a quick glance of admiration. ‘But ye canna swim,’ he answered.

  She nodded and met his eyes fiercely. ‘I ken that!’ she snapped. ‘But if we hang on tight and kick our legs as hard as we can, we should be just grand. Stop with your blither-blather and help me!’

  The smell of smoke was thick now in the air and they could hear the cries of dying men. Dillon cast one look back up the hall, saw soldiers running towards him with their swords drawn, and slammed shut the kitchen door. Hastily he bolted it then pushed the kitchen table across it with the help of Anntoin and Artair. He ordered everyone to climb into the boat, and they obeyed with alacrity, some of the younger healers sobbing with fear. Johanna stripped off her dress and petticoats and unlaced her boots, and three of the older healers copied her, leaving their clothes on the platform.

  Kevan and his wife hung back. ‘We canna leave,’ the old caretaker said. ‘Her ladyship the NicAislin entrusted us to have a care for this castle. We have lived here all our lives.’ To all their rapid entreaties, he simply replied, ‘We do no’ wish to go. We shall stay and hide in the cellar. Happen they shall no’ find us.’

  They did not have time to argue. Jorge said simply, ‘Eà be wi’ ye then.’

  ‘And also wi’ ye,’ the caretaker answered with a lifted hand, before hurrying to hide.

  They could hear heavy boots trying to kick in the door, and then there was a small explosion, so that foul-smelling black smoke poured out of the kitchen. They pushed the dinghy off from the platform, Johanna and the three eldest healers slipping into the water and clinging rather desperately to its side. Jed rushed back and forth, barking madly, then jumped into the water at Dillon’s imperious whistle. He swam along behind the boat, his black-patched head held high.

  Dillon heard shouting and saw soldiers standing on the platform pointing after them. Then more soldiers came, propping strange long weapons on shoulder-high prongs and squinting down their length. Then there was a loud bang and puffs of white smoke issued from the mouth of the weapons.

  ‘Get down!’ Ryley cried. ‘All o’ ye! Lie flat if ye can.’

  He tried to push them down into the dinghy but one of the healers suddenly cried aloud and toppled backwards, a crimson star opening in his forehead. Everyone screamed.

  ‘Those long things be harquebuses,’ Ryley said, trying to row while keeping his head and shoulders down. ‘We fought against them at Rhyssmadill. They are like arrows o’ lead and smoke. Keep down, all o’ ye.’

  The dinghy was shallow, though, and overcrowded. It was difficult to row while trying to hunch below the sides of the boat’s hull, particularly since the healers were crouching as low as they could get. Again the harquebusiers fired their weapons. Artair gave a high-pitched scream and fell forward, blood streaming from a wound in his throat. Almost simultaneously Ryley cried out and clutched his shoulder. For a moment the boat veered wildly, then Dillon lifted his oar clear of the water, calling to Anntoin to do the same. Keeping his body low, he leant over Artair, his pulses thumping. The boy was dead, his eyes glassy. For a moment Dillon could not move or think. His heart beat so loud he could hear it in his ears. He had grown up with Artair on the streets of Lucescere and he counted him as a brother.

  The sharp bang as the harquebusiers fired again roused him, although he felt cold and shaky. Without a word he tipped Artair over the side of the dinghy, first removing the little sword and the jewelled dagger at his belt. Anntoin cried out and Dillon turned a fierce gaze on him. ‘He’s dead. We need to lighten the load,’ he said harshly. Parlan crouched down, sobbing, and Dillon turned to him. ‘Do no’ start greeting now,’ he said in the same angry voice. ‘Get ye to that oar, Parlan, and row as hard as ye can.’

  Sniffling, Parlan obeyed as Ryley bound up his shoulder with his shirt and seized his oar again. The boat shot forward over the sun-dazzled water, Johanna and the other healers still swimming valiantly along behind.

  Again and again the harquebusiers fired, but the dinghy was out of range. When Ryley was sure they were clear, they pulled the swimmers and the wet, frightened dog aboard and rowed on, aiming for the far shore. Dillon could see soldiers racing out from the little castle and he yelled at them all to row faster. At last they came in under the shelter of the trees and scrambled out of the boat in some confusion, Jed showering them all with water as he shook himself dry.

  ‘We must head through the forest towards Ardencaple,’ Dillon said. ‘We must see what has happened to the Rìgh! He may be hurt, wounded! He may need us. Johanna, can ye walk?’

  The girl was exhausted, her bodice and long bloomers dripping wet, her face white, but she nodded, snapping, ‘Aye, I be fine! Let us get moving!’

  They pushed the dinghy back into the loch, then, carrying the sacks of supplies and medicines, hurried on into the forest. Ryley was losing blood fast, but he said nothing, pressing the swab deeper into the wound.

  It was not long before they heard the sound of pursuit as the Bright Soldiers came crashing along the side of th
e loch. Frantic with worry, Dillon kept trying to urge them to walk faster, but Jorge was old and very frail and could barely totter.

  ‘Ye must leave me,’ the old seer said, but Johanna cried, ‘Dinna talk that way, master, we shall no’ leave ye!’

  ‘Ye do no’ understand,’ Jorge said, stopping to lean on his staff and catch his breath. ‘I have seen the time and manner o’ my death and this, I fear, is the time.’

  ‘But the Bright Soldiers will hurt ye horribly,’ Tòmas cried. ‘I can hear their thoughts, I ken what it is they plan!’

  ‘As do I, my bairn,’ Jorge replied. ‘Do ye think I do no’ wish to avert my fate? I feel it rushing hard upon my heels, though. I feel Gearradh’s cold breath on my neck. If ye leave me, ye shall all be able to escape. If you wait for me, we shall all die. This I can see clearly.’

  Tòmas seized the old man’s sleeve. ‘Come on, master, they come, they come!’

  ‘We shall no’ leave ye, sir,’ Ryley said respectfully, although he could not help glancing back at the ever louder pursuit. ‘Come, let us try and find a place to hide.’

  Jorge shook his head. ‘Dillon, have a care for Tòmas. He must be your charge. I would gladly give myself up to save his precious life. Go, my bairns.’

  ‘No, no!’ Johanna wept, pressing close to the old man, taking his delicate, clawlike hand and pulling on it urgently. ‘Please, master!’

  The children of the League of the Healing Hand all clustered close around him, begging him to come, all sobbing. Even Anntoin and Dillon wept in grief and terror. The shouts and crashing of the Bright Soldiers was so close now, they knew they would be within sight in just a few minutes. The old seer would not move, though, gripping tightly to his staff with both hands.

  ‘I have just one wish,’ he said gently. ‘Tòmas, will ye touch me before ye leave me? Now that my time has come, I find I long to see the world all clad in brightness again. It has been many years since I last saw the sky.

  ‘No, no,’ the little boy sobbed and buried his face against the seer’s blue robe.

  Jorge patted his head with one thin, trembling hand and said, ‘Grant me this, my laddiekin. It would give me great pleasure to see all your faces, when your voices and hearts are so dear and familiar to me. Please.’

  Choking with tears, Tòmas slowly raised his wet face, peeled back the black gloves he wore and raised his two small hands. Jorge bent his head and the little boy laid both hands on the old man’s forehead, one on either side. A rush of colour flowed over the old man’s ashen skin and the cloudy eyes cleared and brightened. He straightened, a peaceful smile on his old mouth, and looked about him.

  He gazed at the overarching trees, all clad in green, with catkins hanging or nuts swelling along the branch. He looked up at the sky, a brilliant blue between the shifting canopy of leaves, then raised his blue-veined, liver-spotted hands and gazed at them wonderingly. A bright-winged bird flashed past and his smile widened in response.

  Then he looked round at them all, smiling gently. They stared back, smiling through their tears and clustering close about him. His gaze lingered on their faces and he put out a shaky hand to pat their cheeks or shoulders.

  ‘Eà bless ye all,’ he said, his eyes shining with tears. ‘Go now, my bairns, and keep yourselves safe, I beg ye.’

  Tòmas buried his head again, refusing to let go, but Johanna prised his fingers free. ‘Come, laddie, we mun do as the master wishes. Come along, dearling.’

  They had to drag him for the first few steps, the little boy sobbing despairingly. Jorge stood calmly in the middle of the clearing, no longer having to lean so heavily on his tall staff, looking around with simple wonder at the butterflies dancing in the shadows, the birds flying sapphire-winged through the air. As they plunged again into the undergrowth they all looked back at him with tear-stained cheeks and he gazed after them and raised his hand, smiling.

  Iseult lifted her head above the rocky outcrop and threw her reil with a flick of her wrist. It sailed in a wide circle, cutting one soldier’s throat as it passed, before embedding itself in the breast of another. He fell with a clatter and the reil extricated itself and flew back to Iseult’s hand. The soldier left standing turned with an oath and started for them and Iseult threw her reil again.

  Meghan glared angrily at an archer in the rocks above them and he suddenly cried aloud, his hands clutching his breast, as he fell backwards. Another aimed directly for the old witch but she caught his arrow with ease, just inches from her face, the archer tumbling head over heels as if thrown by an invisible hand.

  Suddenly the sorceress’s eyes lost focus and she stared off into the forest, a horrified expression on her face. ‘Och, no!’ she cried. ‘Jorge!’

  From the corner of her eye, Iseult saw another archer leap to his feet above them and take aim. His arrow sped straight towards Meghan’s heart. Lost in her thoughts, the sorceress did not notice. With a cry Iseult dived forward, pushing Meghan out of the way. The arrow plunged through her leather breastplate and into her shoulder. She staggered and fell back. Meghan scrambled to her feet, her black eyes snapping with rage, and clapped her hands together. Suddenly the rocky crag collapsed with a roar and a shower of small stones and boulders. The bodies of many Bright Soldiers were flung down, screaming.

  ‘I hope none o’ our own men were up there,’ Meghan said as the whole cliff subsided into a pile of boulders and broken slabs, only a few scraps of white cloth or dented armour showing where the Tìrsoilleirean had been buried.

  ‘Duncan was up there last time I saw him,’ Iseult panted, trying to pull the arrow out with both hands. ‘I hope he got off …’

  A wave of red-hot pain swept over her and she almost fainted. Meghan stopped her, saying, ‘It’ll be barbed, dearling, let me …’ She cauterised the point of Iseult’s dagger with her finger and cut the arrowhead out. Iseult bit her lip till the blood flowed but did not scream.

  ‘I thank ye for saving me,’ Meghan said gently. ‘I did no’ see that arrow coming.’ Her brows drew together and she looked away again, searching the forest with fearful eyes. ‘I am afraid … I think Jorge is in danger, dreadful danger. I have felt …’ Her voice faltered and she shuddered, drawing her cloak around her. ‘Please, Eà, let it no’ be true,’ she whispered.

  Lilanthe hurried through the thick undergrowth, heedless of brambles or thorns. Brun bounded along at her heels, his triangular face anxious.

  ‘What is wrong, my lady?’ Niall called, having to jog to keep up with her, despite her lame leg.

  She paused, waiting for him to catch up. ‘I do no’ ken, but I have a very bad feeling indeed.’ The tree-shifter looked off into the forest. ‘There are soldiers,’ she murmured. ‘They are filled with hatred …’

  Brun swivelled his flurry ears. ‘Crash smash bang clang,’ he said.

  ‘Ye can hear fighting? Come, let’s hurry!’ Lilanthe turned and looked behind her, raising her arm in a beckoning motion. Behind her the forest surged forward. There were tall tree-changers with swaying manes of leafy branches, crowned with golden berries. Corrigans lurched forward, waving their clubs of stone, looking like rolling boulders all covered with lichen. Hairy araks swung through the undergrowth, shrieking hoarsely. A stag trotted close behind Lilanthe, nisses clinging to his proudly raised antlers. Galloping off to one side was a herd of sharp-horned satyricorns, their necklaces of teeth and bones bouncing on their naked breasts.

  Lolloping towards the end was the horse-eel, his green-black skin glistening, his webbed feet leaving slimy puddles behind him. Riding on the horse-eel’s back was a seelie, his beautiful face turned dreamily to watch the sun strike through the leaves. They had come across the seelie in the deepest heart of the forest and, overtaken with wonder at the strangeness of their calvacade, he had joined them.

  A woolly bear raised her snout and called mournfully, and without realising what he did, Niall called back in reassurance. In the ten months that they had been patrolling the forests, the big man had g
rown close to all the creatures of the forest but closest to the bear. He had confessed to Lilanthe one night that his grandfather had lived with a woolly bear he had saved from a trap as a cub. Niall had often seen the huge creature lumbering around in the forest outside his grandfather’s cottage and had come to be called ‘the wee bear’ after his grandfather. The nickname had stuck, probably because of his great size and thick, brown hair.

  The past ten months had been the happiest of Lilanthe’s life. She had been able to wander through the forests at will, enjoying their peaceful beauty and sinking her roots in rich, dark soil. She was never lonely for she had Niall and Brun to talk to, the antics of the nisses to laugh at, and the quiet, wise presence of the tree-changers to teach and inspire her. At first there had been many confrontations with encampments of Bright Soldiers scattered through the forests, but the satyricorns, gravenings and shadow-hounds had done most of the fighting. As the months passed, the Bright Soldiers had all been driven out of Aslinn and their days had fallen into a more peaceful pattern. In the depths of the forest they encountered many other faeries and Lilanthe spoke to them all, convincing them of Lachlan the Winged’s integrity and peaceful intentions.

  Two weeks earlier she had been bathing as usual in one of the many calm, green pools strung through the forest when she had seen Dide’s face slowly appear in the ripples of light dancing over the surface. The jongleur had been calling her name rather anxiously, and Lilanthe had responded automatically.

  The tree-shifter had never scryed before but she had seen Dide talk to Lachlan through water and once she had spoken mind-to-mind with the young jongleur when he had been lost in the marshes of Arran. She stared at him in mingled pleasure, perplexity and embarrassment. The last time she had seen him was in Isabeau’s bed two and a half years ago, the memory bringing colour to her face in a hot rush. She could not help smiling at him, though.

  The young jongleur showed no sign of embarrassment, though his gaze lingered on her slender form so intently that she had to quickly sink below the water so that all he could see of her was her face and the green floating tresses of her hair. He asked after her affectionately and she told him all the news. He asked a few questions about the movements of the Tìrsoilleirean army through Aslinn and she told him that they had seen no sign of any of the Bright Soldiers since the previous autumn.