The Cursed Towers

by Kate Forsyth

  ‘Isabeau,’ she whispered.

  ‘Iseult, dearling.’

  ‘I was just thinking o’ ye,’ Iseult said. ‘It has been so long and no word o’ ye. Are ye well?’

  Isabeau nodded and said, ‘And ye?’

  Iseult’s face was grim. ‘I have had happier days.’

  ‘It’s our birthday.’

  Iseult nodded. ‘Yes, and today I march to war. Already the frost is melting and yet we still have no’ set foot in Arran. May the White Gods blast those stupid lairds to dust!’ Her voice and face were bitter.

  ‘And Lachlan? The curse still holds?’

  Iseult nodded, though surprise flashed briefly across her face. ‘Ye know o’ the curse?’

  ‘I have watched ye through the scrying pool before. I saw what happened at Ardencaple.’

  ‘I thought I felt ye then, and other times as well. I tried to reach ye once through the scrying pool at the Tower o’ Two Moons but ye were too far away or too preoccupied, or something. It was cold, snowing, and ye were crying. I thought, I had a feeling that ye were at the Haven but surely no’ …’

  Isabeau nodded. ‘I spent the previous two winters there. They shake their head over me and say I shall never be a Scarred Warrior like ye.’

  A smile flashed across Iseult’s face. ‘I should think no’!’ She paused and frowned and fingered her weapons’ belt. ‘The Ensorcellor’s babe?’

  ‘Bronwen is safe wi’ me at the Cursed Towers,’ Isabeau replied, rather defensively.

  Iseult straightened her back and smiled with relief. ‘I knew ye had no’ betrayed us! They were saying ye had given the Ensorcellor’s babe to Maya and the Awl but I knew ye would no’.’

  Isabeau’s smile faltered but Iseult did not notice, saying, ‘I canna stay. It is time for me to march out and we have already tarried too long. Glad I am indeed to see ye and speak wi’ ye this way, peculiar as it seems. I was just thinking that all whom I love are far away or lost or cursed, and indeed they were unhappy thoughts.’

  ‘Meghan?’ Isabeau cried in sudden alarm, and Iseult smiled in reassurance. ‘Auld mother is here and safe. I know no’ what I should’ve done without her these dark months. Have a care for yourself, Isabeau …’

  ‘And ye,’ Isabeau whispered. ‘I hope all goes well wi’ ye and that ye win this war and break the curse.’

  Iseult’s face darkened. ‘Auld mother says the curse can only be broken by the person who cast it. If it was Margrit o’ Arran as we suspect, then I just hope we can win through and force her to our will. It seems so unlikely though. She is a powerful sorceress and rules the marshlands.’

  ‘Beware the Mesmerdean,’ Isabeau whispered, filled with dread. There was so much she wanted to say but could not find the words.

  Iseult said with a little shudder, ‘I do, believe me, I do. I dread them more than anything, such a spell they can cast over me …’ She squared her shoulders, blue eyes sombre. ‘Let us no’ think o’ them. I must go.’

  ‘Happy birthday, twin,’ Isabeau said, her eyes stinging with tears. ‘Eà be wi’ ye.’

  ‘And wi’ ye.’

  Iseult’s face blurred away as Isabeau’s tears fell into the pool, breaking the image up into little, dark ripples. She sat back, wiping her face with her hands. ‘May Eà’s bright face be turned on ye this day,’ Isabeau whispered, and rose to go back to the Tower.

  Iseult stood at the doorway to the royal pavilion, looking out across the army camp to the curtain of mist that hung at the far edge of the paddock. She had to resist the urge to turn back into the tent, lie down behind her still, cold husband and pull the blankets over her head. It was nine months since Lachlan had fallen and broken his back and his wing, nine months since his restless vitality had been smothered beneath this unnatural sleep.

  Nine months, spent arguing with the lairds, trying to raise funds from the merchants, and gathering together an army to march on Arran. They had suffered such losses at Lochsithe and Ardencaple that it had taken this long to recruit enough new soldiers and train them up. Worst of all, many of the lairds were reluctant to invade the fenlands, having heard so many stories about Margrit of Arran’s sorcerous powers and the dangers of the marshes. With Lachlan still lying asleep, unresponsive to all their pleading and shaking and pricking with pins, the lairds were quick to find excuses to withdraw their men.

  Although the three divisions of the army had been under the command of the MacSeinn, the MacCuinn and the MacThanach clans, the majority of the foot soldiers owed fealty directly to their own lairds. This meant that if the lairds withdrew their support and went home to their own lands, the majority of the foot soldiers would leave too. Although the lairds all admitted Iseult was a skilled warrior and witch, it was quite a different thing to put themselves and their men completely under her command.

  ‘A whistling maid and a crowing hen is fit for none,’ they said to each other with a grin and a shrug.

  Lachlan had refused from the very beginning to use any kind of forcible conscription, since that had been one of the most hated tactics of Maya and her Red Guards. So they had to rely on volunteers and the support of the lairds to swell their numbers, and after more than three years of constant warfare, both wells were running dry.

  Only the fear that more Tìrsoilleirean would come creeping through the marshes kept the lairds and prionnsachan faithful to Iseult and the Coven, and so the young Banrìgh was conscious that they needed a swift victory in Arran if they were to hold the army together. Luckily Anghus MacRuraich had marched to her assistance with close on three thousand men, and his loyal support had stiffened the resolve of the MacSeinn and the MacAhern.

  Iain had advised them that the best time to attack Arran was in the winter. If it was cold enough, parts of the marsh would freeze over, making it easier to move large numbers of men through its twisting, tortuous paths. Most importantly, in the winter months the golden goddess lay dormant and the Mesmerdean were in hibernation, removing two of Arran’s biggest dangers.

  But the stags had begun to bellow in the woods and pigs to hunt for fallen nuts before new agreements between the Crown and the lairds were drawn up, and the snow was already beginning to melt by the time the Rìgh’s army reached the borders of Arran.

  They had made camp along the edge of the marsh, no-one able to help feeling a shudder of apprehension at the wall of whiteness which hid the fenlands from their view. It was so uncanny the way the mist just hung there, never dispersing, never blowing over into Blèssem, marking the exact border of the two lands like a curtain between adjoining rooms. Those soldiers with imagination found it constantly preying on their minds, as if it were forming into spectral fingers reaching out towards them. Even those of a more pragmatic nature could not help wondering what it hid.

  Iseult had tried to cast her witch senses into the fog but it baffled her extrasensory perceptions as completely as it did her eyesight and so she too felt her apprehension mounting as the time to venture within approached. The fact that none of the witches, not even Meghan, could sense what lay beyond, only increased her misgivings. She knew, having been told over and over again, that not once in the history of Eileanan had an invasion of Arran succeeded. The treacherous terrain, the dangerous inhabitants of the marsh and the sorcerous powers of the MacFóghnan clan caused every attempt to fail with many casualties. In response to her troops’ misgivings, Iseult had only said, over and over again, ‘Where others failed, we shall succeed. Do we no’ have lain o’ Arran himself to guide us? It is our only chance o’ restoring Lachlan and winning lasting peace. Do no’ tell me why we shall fail. Tell me instead how we can win.’

  Iseult sighed and slowly picked up her crossbow and slung the quiver of arrows over her shoulder. Then she walked out into the army camp, rehearsing in her mind what she had to say to the soldiers. At the sight of her, they raised a ragged cheer and beat their daggers against their shields. She acknowledged their reception with a raised hand, though her stern, cold face did not relent.<
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  She faced them, saying calmly, ‘We go today to punish Margrit o’ Arran for her treachery. Too long the NicFóghnan has stood out against the other lands o’ Eileanan, plotting to undermine the Crown and win power for herself. It is time Eileanan was a united country, where all are free to live in peace and amity. Margrit o’ Arran has helped our Tìrsoilleirean enemies invade our lands and bring great suffering to our people. She has stolen our children, encouraged insurrection and cast a curse upon our rightful laird and Rìgh. We canna and willna stand for such faithless and traitorous actions! So in Eà’s name we go forth with sword and spear, and in Eà’s name, I pray that ye fight with courage and strength so we may all live with peace and mercy. May Eà be with ye all.’

  ‘And wi’ ye,’ the soldiers murmured in response.

  Iseult nodded and gave the command to advance. Dillon brought Iseult her shield and she took it onto her arm, saying sternly, ‘I wish ye to stay behind, Dillon, do ye hear me? And keep that blaygird sword o’ yours sheathed. Too many o’ the League o’ the Healing Hand have been lost already. It is your job to stay and guard Tòmas and Johanna and the other healers. Understand?’

  He nodded mutely, rubbing Jed’s black-patched head. Although the past nine months had helped the horror and grief of that day at Ardencaple fade, Dillon had not fully recovered his usual cheeky energy. Despite all that Meghan and Johanna said, he blamed himself for the deaths of Parlan, Artair and Anntoin and missed their companionship keenly.

  Iseult walked to join Duncan and Iain at the head of the double column. Meghan and Gwilym were waiting there for her too, both leaning on their staffs, both with very grim faces. They fell into place behind Iseult as she led the advance into the marshes, the young prionnsa of Arran pointing the way. Behind came Dide and Niall and the Yeomen of the Guard, most newly appointed and eager to prove their worth. Marching along behind them were the other lairds and prionnsachan, each leading his own company of men, their pennants drooping in the still air.

  After long argument the lairds and prionnsachan had all agreed to leave their horses behind, for the paths were narrow and treacherous. This had been a sore point with the lairds, for only common soldiers walked into battle. It was a sign of wealth and position to ride to war. Purchasing and maintaining a cavalier’s armour and horses cost as much as the plough teams for a dozen peasant families. There were many lairds who virtually bankrupted their families to pay for their horses and none of the cavaliers took kindly to the suggestion they leave such valuable commodities behind. Common sense had won out in the end, though, and so the lairds and prionnsachan walked with their men-at-arms, swords at the ready.

  At first all was quiet, the drifting mist concealing nothing more than banks of sedge and bulrushes. Forced by the thick undergrowth and the patches of bog to keep to the path, the army advanced in long columns, four by four. All were grateful for their long, grey cloaks. Not only was the air damp and chilly, but the magically woven cloaks offered more concealment here than they had in the green, sunlit fields of Blèssem. With the fog pressing close about them, each man was only able to see the men a few paces ahead, the others simply merging in with the winter-grey landscape.

  They had walked for several hours when Gwilym suddenly paused, listening and smelling the air. Iain stopped abruptly too, his knuckles on his sword-hilt clenching white.

  ‘Can ye smell them?’ Gwilym asked rather hoarsely.

  Iain nodded. ‘I hope my sense o’ smell d-d-deceives me, though,’ he whispered back. ‘It’s m-m-much too early for the nymphs to have shed their w-w-winter husk. Unless …’

  ‘Could your mother have somehow hastened the last instar?’

  Iain shrugged. ‘If she rigged up some kind o’ incubator, I suppose it is possible. All they need is the coming o’ warmth.’

  Iseult stared around apprehensively. The mist smelt dank and heavy, like a freshly dug grave. She said softly, ‘Mesmerdean?’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ Iain replied grimly. ‘Let us do what we can to see.’ He closed his eyes and concentrated, his hands gripped into fists. Slowly the mist swirled away. The sky above emerged a pale blue, the bushes and trees all about grey and colourless in its thin warmth. Before them lay an open stretch of evil-smelling swamp. Floating in the mud were hundreds of pale, bulbous eyes, staring unblinkingly. Those nearest the edge of the swamp had reached out long, skinny, mud-smeared hands. One was only a few scant inches away from the toe of Iseult’s boot and she stepped back with an involuntary cry.

  ‘Mudsprites,’ Gwilym said gloomily, then added even more glumly, ‘and Mesmerdean, Eà curse them.’

  Floating above the swamp were hundreds of the tall marsh-faeries, their veined, translucent wings whirring, their great clusters of eyes fixed with implacable intent on the little group of soldiers and witches that had just emerged from the undergrowth. The only sound was the slight humming their wings made, and their very silence was far more intimidating than the usual loud bravado projected by an opposing army.

  ‘Another few steps and we would’ve been in the swamp!’ Dide exclaimed, his face white.

  Iseult retreated a few more steps as the bony, muddy hand crept further out of the bog. ‘Look, there are men there too, and witches,’ she cried, her uncannily acute eyesight penetrating the gloom at the far side of the swamp. ‘They lie in wait for us. This is no’ the place for us to fight a battle, Iain. We’ll be all drowned by those blaygird sprites o’ yours before we even reach your mother’s army. Is there a better spot for us to retreat to? Firm ground, away from those creepy things?’

  Iain opened his mouth to answer, but the tense silence was shattered by the blast of a war-horn. It seemed the creatures of the marsh had only been waiting for the signal. Immediately they surged forward and the battle was begun.

  Iseult, the witches and the Yeomen of the Guard took the brunt of the attack, most of their soldiers still back on the path. With swamp before them and thick, boggy undergrowth behind them, the Yeomen had nowhere to go. So they stood their ground and fought like madmen, hacking off the hands and heads of the mudsprites that sought to drag them into the swamp, and seeking to impale the Mesmerdean that darted past like huge, evil-eyed dragonflies. As fast as the marsh-faeries fell, more rose to replace them and then the Thistle’s army rushed from the sides to engage. Tall, surly-faced men armed with poles and scythes, they did not have the weaponry or skill of Iseult’s troops but they knew the terrain far better. Where many of the Blue Guards slipped in the mud and fell, they stood firmly on their hobnailed boots or leapt easily from one hassock of grass to another. All around were the screams and gurgles and groans of dying men.

  Anger and despair filled Iseult and she conjured a great, hissing ball of flame and flung it across the swamp. To her amazement, the very air took flame. Mesmerdean darting overhead were incinerated into ash in a moment and the mudsprites shrieked and dived beneath the mire. The sphere of fire exploded into the hordes of men concealed on the far side of the swamp and they heard agonised screaming and saw a few flaming forms leap and run.

  ‘Marsh gas!’ Gwilym cried. ‘O’ course, it burns!’ Lifting his staff, he conjured another ball of flame and flung it to where the Mesmerdean buzzed as thick as a swarm of midges. Meghan followed suit, and in seconds those Mesmerdean not incinerated had fled.

  They could not flame the Thistle’s men, though, for to do so would have been to incinerate their own soldiers. As Iseult and Duncan fought on, side by side, the big captain panted, ‘We need room … to move, Your Highness. Can … ye bring ice … again?’

  Iseult swallowed. She was so tired that only her years of training kept her on her feet, ducking, leaping, thrusting, evading. She found the working of magic far more tiring than fighting hand-to-hand and the gigantic ball of fire had drained her completely. She said abruptly, ‘I will try. Guard me?’

  Duncan nodded. ‘O’ course, Your Highness,’ he replied with great respect and affection in his voice.

  She smiled at h
im rather grimly, bent her head and concentrated all her will upon the mire. Slowly, slowly, the ooze of the swamp congealed and froze, hard as diamonds. The Blue Guards were able to leap backwards to avoid a thrust without being afraid of stumbling into the mud and drowning. The fighting spread out and those soldiers still lined up back on the road ran out to engage.

  ‘Fire and ice,’ Duncan said respectfully. ‘Indeed, ye have an unusual Talent, Your Highness.’

  The mist was swirling up again, and it had grown bitterly cold. With a shout Margrit’s soldiers turned and ran back into the swamp, disappearing into the thick fog. Swiftly Duncan shouted orders and the Blue Guards plunged on in pursuit while the rearguard organised litters to take the injured back to camp. Within minutes the chaos of the battlefield had been restored to order, and the Banrìgh’s army was again marching on into the swamp.

  Suddenly there was a faint hissing sound and men began to fall with screams. They thrashed about on the ground in agony, their faces turning a mottled purple, a discoloured foam covering their lips. A thin black thorn extruded from their necks.

  The hissing sound came again and Iain cried, ‘Get down! Get down!’ All along the path men dived for cover, some using the still thrashing forms of their comrades as protection. Then lain called, ‘Aaiiieeeeeeeee!’

  Immediately there was silence, and then they heard a tentative, ‘Aaiieeee?’

  ‘Aaaaiiieeee,’ Iain called back reassuringly.

  ‘Ee-ann?’

  ‘Aye, it’s Iain. Who goes there?’

  From all round them dark, round heads popped up out of the marsh, showing their fangs in broad grins. They clambered out onto the path and clustered round Iain, hugging their arms around his waist which was as high as they could reach. In their four-fingered hands they carried blowpipes made of reeds and over their shoulders were tiny quivers stuffed full of black thorns.

  Dressed in an odd collection of cast-off clothes, their skin was the dark purple of sea grapes, rippled all over with short, plush fur. Their anxious faces were dominated by huge, black, gleaming eyes. They all chattered away in their high-pitched language and Iain patted and stroked them as he answered in the same wailing speech.