The Cursed Towers

by Kate Forsyth

  So Isabeau knew about the strange fit which kept Lachlan in a state closer to death than life and she knew that Iseult had shouldered the command of the army and was planning a winter invasion of Arran. Several times in the past few months she had slipped down to the scrying pool to watch Iseult and make sure she was well, for Isabeau missed both her twin and Meghan sorely. She was distressed to see how old and drawn the Keybearer was now, and how sad her face. If Isabeau had not made a commitment both to Bronwen and the Firemaker, she would have risked the long and arduous journey back down into the lowlands or tried to persuade Lasair to travel the Old Way again.

  Once more Isabeau called the dragon’s name, despair filling her. If Asrohc did not come, the only way Isabeau could get back to the Cursed Towers was to climb the stairway up Dragonclaw and beg permission to cross the dragons’ valley. That was a journey of at least a week, if not more. She wondered again how the Khan’cohban planned to cross the mountain, thinking with a sinking of her heart that he probably had a skimmer. With the little sleigh the Khan’cohban would be able to travel extremely swiftly once he was on a downward slope.

  Suddenly she heard a great whoosh and a hooked, clawed wing crossed the round orange of the moon. Her heart leapt and she gazed up joyously as Asrohc swooped down out of the green-lavender sky, the wind as she passed almost knocking Isabeau over. ‘Ye’ve come, thank ye, thank ye!’

  The dragon snorted bad-temperedly and landed lightly on the rock, her tail splashing into the water. Thou hadst best be properly grateful, human, for I was just enjoying a nice haunch of venison when thou called and my brother will have eaten it all by the time I return. The dragon’s mind-voice was cold.

  Isabeau knelt and made the Khan’cohban gesture of deep, humble gratitude. I beg your forbearance and hope that ye will forgive me my temerity in asking, but I need ye badly! Please, Asrohc, ye must fly Maya and me to the Cursed Towers.

  The dragon lashed her tail, so that the surface of the loch was whipped into waves. Thy red-robed witch shall never cross her leg over my back!

  Then could ye no’ carry her in your claws as ye would a goat or a deer? Isabeau asked desperately. Ye see, they are all in danger at the tower. An enemy stalks them. I must get there quickly and warn them. He is a Khan’cohban warrior o’ six scars, a formidable enemy indeed. Maya must come so she can transform my father back into a man. He is the only one that can fight such a warrior. I have no’ been found worthy o’ even one scar and Feld is auld. Please, Asrohc! Do ye no’ wish to help the man who saved your life when ye were a babe? The Khan’cohban will kill him if he stands in his way and ye ken Lasair, I mean Khan’gharad, shall if Ishbel or Feld is threatened.

  The dragon’s tail swayed back and forth but it was a thoughtful movement, not one of rage. Very well, she said at last, but only because I grow bored with all thy words and know I shall hear many more unless I take thee.

  Thank ye! Isabeau cried, and bade the dragon wait until she went to get Maya and a few things she would need. The dragon yawned and twitched her tail, examining her claws with slitted eyes.

  Isabeau ran back to the tree-house and curtly told Maya that she had decided to take her to see her daughter on the condition she transform her father back from a horse to a man. ‘Ye must submit to being carried in the dragon’s claws though,’ she warned. ‘It is the only way so do no’ argue with me. Hurry now, for I have such a feeling o’ foreboding.’

  She ignored Maya’s questions and protestations, gathering together the books she had been studying, some of Meghan’s potions and medicines, and some pots and pans and a griddle—the Cursed Towers were not well equipped with cooking utensils and Isabeau had no other way of getting any. With the bulging sack over her shoulder, Isabeau urged Maya down the secret passageway, unable to help feeling an odd frisson as she remembered the last time she had left the tree-house in a mad scramble.

  ‘What do ye mean I must change your father back into a man?’ Maya cried, as Isabeau hurried her through the forest. ‘Ye canna mean that the Khan’cohban I changed into a horse still lives—and that he is your father!’

  ‘Indeed that is what I mean!’ Isabeau snapped. ‘Ishbel the Winged is my mother, and Iseult’s too, and Khan’gharad the Scarred Warrior is our father. He is the only one who will be able to fight off a warrior o’ six scars for he has seven scars and is famous among the prides for his fighting skills. Ye must gather your will and transform him back, for he is our only hope o’ defeating Magrit’s Khan’cohban.’

  ‘But I canna!’

  ‘Ye must!’ Isabeau cried as they reached the edge of the loch where Asrohc sprawled, gleaming like polished jade in the light of the setting sun. The dragon whipped round and fixed the Fairge with her dangerous, cold gaze and the Fairge stared back, hypnotised with terror. Isabeau clambered onto the dragon’s back, and with a mocking cry, Asrohc rose into the air, catching up Maya in her claws as she swept by.

  As they flew through the sky, the mountains below them spread out in an amazing panorama of sunset-coloured peaks and shadowy valleys, with the occasional glint of ice turned to fire dazzling Isabeau’s eyes. The wind was bitterly cold and she huddled her mittened hands under her plaid and wondered how Maya felt with that great, terrible distance below her and only the untrustworthy cradle of the dragon’s claws preventing her from falling. There was no sound from her and Isabeau could only hope Asrohc had not misjudged the tightness of her hold.

  Then they were over the ridge of sharply pointed mountains and soaring over the Cursed Valley. Isabeau could see the tall spires of the Towers rising from the forest, the loch lying dark and mysterious before them.

  Asrohc landed lightly at the edge of the trees, dropping Maya roughly on the ground. Isabeau leapt off her back and made a hasty but heartfelt genuflection. Reluctantly the dragon lifted her claws from the Fairge, who lay still though her eyes were wide open. Her dress was torn and bloodstained from deep scratches where the dragon’s claws had scored her flesh.

  Asrohc turned her angular head towards the Towers and gave a dragonish grin. Lifeblood spills, she said.

  Isabeau dropped her sack and ran down the avenue she had cut through the brambles. Her heart felt like it was being squeezed between giant hands. No’ Bronwen, she thought desperately, then, no’ my mam, please.

  The avenue led her straight up to the great stone door of the Tower, which stood ajar. It was dark under the arching branches but light spilled out from the doorway, illuminating the steps. Isabeau could hear the shrill screams of the stallion and the pound of his hooves, and she leapt up the stairs two at a time.

  Within was a long hall with tall pillars holding up a vaulted ceiling. The walls were exquisitely painted with trees and flowers and faeries, while the ceiling above was painted with gilded suns and moons and comets, which glimmered in the light of the torches flaring the length of the hall. When Isabeau had first come to the Cursed Towers, this hall had been filthy with cobwebs and owl guano, but she had spent weeks scrubbing it out and now it was clean and empty.

  At the far end of the hall was a broad spiral staircase, intricately carved with a fretwork of roses and thorns. Feld lay at the first curve of the stairs, blood spilling from a deep gash in his abdomen. He was feebly trying to keep off a tall, grey, winged creature with his staff while clutching the wound with his free hand. The stallion was rearing and plunging at the base of the stairs, his frantic whinnies echoing around the cavernous hall. Ducking his flailing hooves with contemptuous ease was a tall, horned man dressed all in grey, his brown cheeks clearly showing six thin scars. He held a long dagger in one hand and slashed at the stallion with it, while in the other he gripped a handful of long, fair hair which fell down the side of the stairs like a banner.

  Isabeau’s eyes flew upwards. Ishbel was struggling desperately to fly up the stairs, screaming with pain as slowly but inexorably she was dragged back down by her hair. Bronwen was clutched under her arm, sobbing with terror.

  The Khan’cohban lun
ged forward, his dagger flashing towards the stallion’s breast. With a cry Isabeau threw up her hand and the dagger twisted in his hand and fell to the ground with a clatter. He ducked, the stallion’s hooves missing his head by mere inches, and Ishbel screamed as the movement almost tore the hair from her head. She gripped onto the carved fretwork with one hand, but her fingers were pulled free and she fell back.

  Without even thinking, Isabeau lifted both hands and clenched them before her breast. Her face contorting with the effort, she sent out a thin, hissing ray of blue fire which cut through Ishbel’s hair like a knife. Released like an arrow from a bow, Ishbel shot up the stairs and out of sight as Isabeau’s ray of light cut on through the stone of the stairwell, sending a large block of marble tumbling down to the hall below.

  The Khan’cohban only just managed to fling himself out of the way, the block shattering into myriad pieces on the floor. With great dexterity he rolled one way then another, narrowly escaping Lasair’s hooves, then bounded to his feet. In one swift motion he unhooked a bright star-shaped weapon from his belt and flung it at Isabeau. Instinctively she ducked, but without pausing it swung round and flew back to the Khan’cohban’s hand. He threw the reil at her again, at the same time seizing a sharp skewer from his belt and hurling that at her as well. Isabeau jumped up in the air, bringing her knees to her chest. Both weapons sliced through the air just inches away from her body, the skewer clattering to the ground, the reil returning to the warrior’s hand and then flying out again in a smooth arc so swift it could only be seen as a glittering blur. Only Isabeau’s magic saved her. She deflected it with a scream, scrambling backwards as the Khan’cohban leapt forward into a somersault that took him well clear of the stallion’s savage attack.

  Isabeau saw with dismay that the Mesmerd had darted easily past Feld’s ineffectual staff and had flown swiftly up the stairs in pursuit of Ishbel and Bronwen. The Khan’cohban had seized his dagger again and was advancing on her, Isabeau backing away until she was stopped by a pillar. Her knees were shaking with terror and she gripped her sweaty palms together and tried to anticipate his attack.

  Lasair dashed forward, teeth bared, but the Khan’cohban smashed his fist into the horse’s cheek, causing him to scream and dance away. Isabeau took this momentary break in the warrior’s concentration to run back, sheltering behind another thick pillar.

  ‘Maya!’ she called. ‘Can ye transform the stallion back? Ye must try!’

  ‘I do no’ know if I can!’

  ‘Ye must try! Maya, try, for Eà’s sake!’

  ‘Will ye give me back my baby?’

  ‘If ye do no’ do something, we shall all die!’ Isabeau screamed back.

  The Fairge clenched her hands into fists, her cheeks turning scarlet, her jaw clenched so tightly the muscles could be seen bunching up in her throat and cheeks. ‘I can’t!’ she grunted. ‘I can’t!’

  ‘Ye can!’ Isabeau replied as another grey, winged creature darted at her out of the shadows. She only managed to evade it by falling flat on the floor, the Mesmerd’s grey draperies brushing her as it flew over her. She was almost overcome with its swampy smell, covering her nose and mouth with her hands and scrambling to get out of the Khan’cohban’s reach.

  ‘Ye can!’ she cried again, gathering fire into her hands and flinging a flaming ball at the Mesmerd. It darted away and the sphere of fire smashed into the wall and was extinguished. ‘Come on, Maya, ye ken ye can do it!’

  Maya closed her eyes, pointed both hands at the rearing stallion, her fingers rigid, and said with a deep grunt of effort, ‘Change!’

  The stallion did. His skin shivered and rippled, red hide, white flesh, red hide. His hooves stamped and spun, the sharp tattoo softening into the slap of bare feet. The great dark eyes glared blue, glazed over with shadows, glared blue through a tangle of red hair. The long, delicately boned nose flattened and shrunk into the face of a horned man, wild-eyed and mad with confusion. Khan’gharad neighed and shook his wild red mane and stamped his bare feet and tried to rear, only to fall in a tangle of naked limbs, his body no longer that of the great, strong, four-legged horse but of a man who no longer knew how to walk.

  The Khan’cohban warrior smiled and bent to pick up his dagger. As it turned in his hand it glittered in the light. Isabeau shrieked and tried to twist it out of his grasp but he had too firm a grip on the shaft. Casually he turned and sent the reil whizzing towards her, then bent to seize Khan’gharad by his hair, forcing his head back to expose his throat to the dagger.

  Isabeau was barely able to avoid her own throat being cut by the eight-pointed star, so swiftly did it fly. She fell back on to the floor and then the Mesmerd was upon her, its great clusters of shiny eyes and out-thrusting proboscis filling her vision. The stench of the swamp was in her throat, a strange giddiness like that of love or lust or intoxication filling her veins. Pulses hammering, senses swooning, she clenched her hands together and blue fire leapt from her fists, drilling through one of the Mesmerd’s compound eyes. Its head exploded into dust, and she was enveloped in its soft grey draperies. Choking and coughing she fought her way free, the Mesmerd’s body dissolving into a fine grey dust that stank of mud. She tried hard not to breathe in the odour, reeling away across the room to stand against a pillar, coughing and trying to shake her hair and clothes free of the all-pervading dust. Her vision was obscured by dancing lights and her ears roared. She tried desperately to shake away the darkness overwhelming her, peering down the hall, expecting to see her father fallen in a pool of blood and the Khan’cohban warrior advancing on her with bloody knife.

  Instead she saw her father scrabbling on all fours, his eyes staring blue and mad through the tangled red hair and beard, trying to rear and buck as strange neighing sounds issued from his contorted mouth. The dagger lay on the floor.

  Coughing, her hands pressed against her painful chest, Isabeau stared uncomprehendingly. There was no sign of the Khan’cohban warrior. She heard a loud croak and looked down. A toad was crouched against the pillar, its lustrous black eyes staring unblinkingly. She looked involuntarily at Maya.

  The Fairge smiled. She came down the hall, bent and picked up the toad. ‘He looks much nicer like this, does he no’?’ she remarked. She raised it to her face and looked in its bright, jewel-like eyes. ‘If only your blaygird mistress had been here too,’ she said, ‘ye could have both lived happily ever after together in the swamp. It would have given me as much satisfaction to turn her into a toad as it gave me to turn ye.’ She put it back down on the floor and it hopped a few steps away, hunching its square, ugly head down between its shoulders.

  ‘Bronwen!’ Isabeau cried and started for the stairs. Then she saw the old sorcerer lying on the steps, his hands clutched over the wound in his abdomen. ‘Feld!’ she cried. ‘Oh, no, Feld!’

  His eyes were shut but he opened them at the sound of her voice and smiled feebly. ‘Ishbel?’ he asked in a reedy voice. ‘Is Ishbel safe?’

  Isabeau sent a pleading look back at Maya but the Fairge was already hurrying up the stairs. Isabeau knelt beside Feld, feeling for his pulse. Tears choked her. She could hardly breathe with grief and guilt and the taste of the swamp still in her mouth. ‘Oh, dearling Feld, are ye all right?’

  ‘Aye, lassie, no’ so bad,’ he answered and lifted his blood-stained hands for her to see. She bit her lip at the sight of his bruise-coloured entrails pressing up out of the wound, pulsating slightly with every hoarse breath he took. She tore a strip from her shirt and bundled it into the wound, feeling an unfamiliar helplessness. ‘Ishbel and the babe?’ he asked and she said reassuringly, ‘Maya has gone after them.’

  His look of horror and the frantic scrabbling of his fingers suddenly made her realise that Feld still thought of Maya as the enemy, while she had, imperceptibly, come to think of the Fairge as something more like a friend and ally.

  ‘Save them,’ Feld whispered, gripping Isabeau’s arm with surprising strength. ‘Ye mun save them.’

 
; ‘But—’

  ‘Nay, Isabeau, go! Do no’ worry about me, I beg ye! Save Ishbel and the babe!’

  Isabeau did not stop to argue, nodding her head and stumbling up the stairs, dizzy and confused. She could feel her mother and Bronwen were at the Tower’s height and so she kept running up the stairs, not bothering to search each floor. She saw Maya searching desperately through the corridors of the third floor and called to her to follow.

  Isabeau reached the chamber at the top of the Tower and staggered through the doorway, black dots obscuring her vision. She saw that Ishbel had flown up to the tall, stained-glass windows that lined the walls and was struggling to escape through one mullioned pane. Hampered by the wailing baby, she had not been fast enough to escape the Mesmerd, who hovered just behind her, its claws grasping her skirt. Ishbel was trying to kick the Mesmerd in the face but it evaded her easily, its translucent wings whirring. It sensed Isabeau’s arrival and leant forward, bending its head over Ishbel and breathing directly onto her face. She faltered, and her hold on the struggling baby weakened. With a cry, Bronwen fell.

  The Mesmerd swooped and caught her in its claws. Isabeau dared not try and shoot it down with her witch’s fire, in fear of hurting the little girl. She could only watch helplessly as the Mesmerd darted away like a giant dragonfly, Bronwen kicking and struggling in its grasp. This image suddenly gave her an idea. She shut her eyes and concentrated on the heavy loops of filthy cobwebs strung across the high, domed ceiling. She felt a keen pleasure as the cobwebs dropped like a sticky, dirty net over the Mesmerd, entangling its wings so it could not fly.

  With a strange hoarse sound it fell and Isabeau’s fists flew to her mouth in dismay. Ishbel somersaulted down from the window ledge where she had been clinging and caught handfuls of the web, managing to slow its precipitous descent enough to stop the Mesmerd from slamming into the floor. It fell hard, nonetheless, and Isabeau dragged away the sticky mess from it with frantic hands.