The Cursed Towers

by Kate Forsyth

  ‘So do I,’ said Maya surprisingly. ‘And other things too, I’m no’ sure what.’ She indicated the chest, saying with an odd fluctuation of colour, ‘It belonged to a wizard I knew …’

  ‘Please, will ye no’ come home with me? I promise to let ye go again if only ye’ll let me cast off this curse properly. I give ye my word.’

  Maya nodded. ‘Very well. But do no’ try and trick me for I know the way out o’ the valley now and if I have to, I will transform ye, I warn ye.’

  Isabeau bit back bitter, angry words and said merely, ‘I know.’

  Mist swirled all around the resting army, making the stark trees look as if they were swaying forward, reaching out with skeletal hands. When the marsh-faeries drifted out of the haze, the sentries all gave strangled shrieks before composing themselves enough to call the alarm. Most of the soldiers leapt to their feet, hands on their weapons, but a grim-faced Iain gestured them back and went forward to meet the Mesmerdean alone.

  There were hundreds of them, their inhuman faces strangely beautiful. Their multitonal humming filled the air, thousands of many-veined wings whirring, thousands of claws rubbing against their hard abdomens. Iain looked very small and very alone, standing before them. There were long, long minutes of silence and then the humming changed. It deepened, softened, harmonised, sounding much like the satisfied purr of a cream-fed cat. The Mesmerdean’s wings lowered and folded back, and they dropped their claws.

  Gwilym’s grim face lightened a little. ‘The Mesmerdean have accepted Meghan’s offer and have pledged us their support! Who would have believed it was possible? They must want ye very much indeed, Keybearer.’

  Iseult’s expression only became more sombre, and she put her hand on Meghan’s shoulder. The little donbeag Gitâ clung to the old witch’s collar, his whole body quivering in distress. Meghan nodded her white head a few times and twitched her grim old mouth, soothing Gitâ with a hand that trembled.

  Duncan gave swift orders to pack up the camp and advance, and all round the clearing the rigid stance of the soldiers relaxed. Swiftly they rolled up their blankets and shouldered their packs, while the ranks of Mesmerdean slowly and deliberately stripped off their fluttering, grey draperies and flung them into the bog. Without their covering they looked more alien than ever, with a long, hard, segmented body that curved forward, ending in a sharp point. They had six legs, the highest also the longest and most manoeuvrable, the others curling back into their body. Their stiff wings were in constant motion and they darted about in unexpected directions, causing many of the soldiers to jump, startled and alarmed.

  With the bogfaeries scouting ahead and the Mesmerdean flying all about, they were able to press on into the swamp at a much faster pace. Many times the Thistle’s men tried to ambush them but, despite the fog which rose up thick and stifling all around them, the Greycloaks were forewarned and able to beat them off. As the day passed, most of the army’s casualties were due to mudsprites, who reached their bony hands out of the bog and dragged unwary soldiers in, drowning them before their frantic comrades could rescue them. A few were bitten by poisonous snakes, dying quickly but painfully, despite the attempts of their companions to suck out the poison.

  Most of the Greycloaks learnt to carry their ropes tied at their belts, not coiled in their packs, for the ground was treacherous and many of the soldiers slipped into bogs or quicksand and had to be dragged free before they were sucked under.

  Now that they had the Mesmerdean as allies, Duncan and Iseult had decided to abandon any attempts at stealth and so were making their way towards one of the few roads that wound through the marshes. The Thistle needed a solid highway for the wagons that carried Arran’s exports out to the world and brought in the many luxuries the banprionnsa required. The Banrìgh had not attempted to use the highway previously, knowing it was heavily guarded, choosing instead to trust to Iain and Gwilym’s knowledge of the secret ways through the swamps.

  They camped that night uncomfortably and uneasily but managed to survive with only a few casualties, thanks to the Mesmerdean who drifted along the chain of campfires like ghosts, thwarting any attack by the Arran soldiers. They went to sleep in dense fog and woke to the same close, impenetrable dampness, so thick that each man could barely see the soldier marching a scant few paces ahead.

  As they neared the road, the fighting grew much fiercer and many Greycloaks were lost, despite the assistance of the marsh-faeries. Nebulous flickering lights led the soldiers astray so that they stepped into quicksand or were killed from behind by a quick dagger thrust. The men of the swamp knew the terrain and were easily able to conceal themselves in the clumps of rushes and sedge grasses, or in the huge water-oaks that grew out of the many patches of still water. Suddenly a rain of arrows or poisoned darts would hit the marching columns of men, killing or injuring many before the soldiers could bring up their shields or take cover.

  Although the witches could sense the minds of the hiding men, they were all marching at the head of the column and so the Thistle’s men simply waited until they had passed, then poled silently through the watercourses in flat-bottomed boats or crept up through the hidden ways to attack the men marching behind. After several such silent attacks, Iseult sent Gwilym, Iain, Niall and Dide to walk with those of the prionnsachan who did not have any witch senses, and asked the Mesmerdean to fly out through the marshes and disable any of the Thistle’s men hidden some distance away. After that they had no more major casualties, although the attacks continued in increasingly desperate forays.

  They reached the highway just on dusk. It was a narrow, winding road, built on a firm base of stones and shale which was continually having to be shored up to stop the highway sinking back into the bog. The mist continued to shroud everything in a pale gloom and many of the Greycloaks were jumpy and anxious, so that Iseult ordered an extra ration of whiskey to be passed around, to warm their chill bodies and settle their nerves. They camped on the road itself. Although hard and stony, it was a far more comfortable camping spot than the treacherous bogs had been. They were able to camp close together and set up sentries to patrol the perimeters rather than being scattered through the marshes on whatever patch of firm ground they could find, with the constant fear of being dragged into the quicksand by a mudsprite.

  The alarm was called just before dawn. Iseult woke from uneasy dreams with a start and leapt to her feet, staring out into the misty darkness. Duncan was by her side, his claymore drawn, and they listened in dismay to the sound of marching feet on the road. It sounded as if hundreds of legions were advancing towards them, their hobnailed boots ringing on the stone.

  ‘Can we have light?’ Iseult called.

  Torches were lit from the embers of the fires, and Gwilym summoned witch light at the end of his staff and raised it high. Iain gathered together all his strength to blow away the fog which hung over them still, but to his surprise the mist parted easily. The red light of the torches and the blue blaze of Gwilym’s light illuminated the road ahead of them, and sighs and groans of dismay were wrung from the Greycloaks.

  An army of immense size was marching towards them down the road, weapons glittering in the torchlight, faces under steel helmets grim and determined. As far as the eye could see, the Thistle’s army stretched in rows of a dozen men, all armed with long pikes and great, double-handed swords. Many more approached through the marshes on either side, making no attempt to conceal themselves.

  Duncan began to shout out orders and hurriedly the Greycloaks jumped up from their blankets and gathered together their weapons. Iain frowned and rubbed his hands through his soft, brown hair. ‘Where could my m-m-mother have got so many m-m-men?’ he wondered. ‘Arran has n-n-no standing army …’

  Gwilym too was frowning. ‘Something does no’ smell right to me,’ he muttered. He turned to Meghan, saying softly, ‘Keybearer?’

  Meghan had been silent and distracted since the pact with the Mesmerdean had been made, but she roused herself now from her de
ep abstraction to gaze at the approaching army, almost close enough for the archers to begin firing. The mist drifted and wavered over the road, making it hard to see more than the dim shapes of the approaching men. As the archers ran forward to take up position in the first row, arrows set to their bows, she stroked Gitâ’s soft fur thoughtfully then gave an odd little smile.

  ‘The mistress o’ illusions weaves her spells,’ she said softly.

  Gwilym gave a harsh laugh. ‘O’ course! So cannily she weaves I was no’ sure.’ A master of illusions himself, he gave a negligent wave and suddenly the legions of men disappeared like smoke. The Greycloaks gave a triumphant yell and ran to engage, while Margrit’s men—revealed now to be no more than a few hundred—groaned in dismay. They fought savagely, however, knowing it was far better to die here on the road than to run back to the Thistle with the Greycloaks at their heels.

  League by slow league, the invading army pushed their way down the road, the Mesmerdean patrolling the swamps on either side. The sun rose but the mist had descended again, so thick it was like trying to breathe through cotton wool. They heard groans and sighs all around and strange shapes drifted towards them out of the mist—ghosts of horribly maimed warriors, huge slimy monsters with gaping jaws and groping tentacles, wailing banshees, giants with flaming eyes. The soldiers faltered, some crying out in fear and horror, but Dide began to sing a rousing battle song:

  ‘Behold I am a soldier bold,

  And only twenty-four years auld,

  A braver warrior never was seen,

  From Loch Kilchurn to Dùn Eidean.

  The wind may blow, the cock may crow,

  The rain may rain and the snow may snow,

  But ye canna shock and ye canna scare me,

  For I’m the bravest lad in the whole damn army!’

  The soldiers began to sing too, at first rather raggedly, then with great cheer and loudness, swinging their swords in time to the rhythm. With the song ringing in their ears and their eyes on their opponents, they did not see the strange monsters, and so after a while the wails and groans faded away and there was only the clash of arms and the sound of the soldiers’ singing.

  Then voices began to call out of the mist and many of the soldiers glanced up, glad recognition flaring in their eyes. They saw pretty young women with outstretched hands, old women with pleading faces, children begging to be picked up. Many of the Greycloaks would have stepped off the road and followed the illusions into the marshes if it had not been for the witches, who called out in warning voices or caused the glamourie to dissolve back into mist.

  At last they saw a great stretch of water ahead of them, its far shore hidden by mist. The road widened out into a large square, surrounded on three sides by low warehouses, their roofs thatched with sedge. A long jetty thrust out into the loch, with barges and small boats moored alongside.

  Here, on the shore of the Murkmyre, the tattered remnants of the Thistle’s army made one last, desperate stand. There were witches among them, dressed in flowing purple robes, who fought with flame and wind and illusion, but Meghan, Dughall, Gwilym and Iain were easily able to combat their magical powers. One by one they fell, studded with arrows or slashed with gaping wounds, or were seized in the arms of the Mesmerdean and kissed to death.

  With the Mesmerdean fighting at the Greycloaks’ side, the men and witches of the marsh had little hope of winning, but they defended the last bastion of the fenlands with their lives. Despite all Iseult’s offers of quarter, they fought to the very last man. Even the Banrìgh felt rather sick at heart when they had finally hacked down the last man and stood panting on the jetty, leaning on their swords.

  Only then did the fog begin to drift away, and the Greycloaks saw the pearly spires of the Tower of Mists rising out of the serene water, built on an island in the centre of the loch. So still was the water that the towers were reflected in perfect mirror image, stretching almost to their feet.

  Iseult stood and stared, overawed. The palace was simply the most beautiful and fantastical building she had ever seen, its towers and minarets all painted in dawn-pink and ice-blue, violet and softest green, scrolled and pointed and domed. Rising as it did from the water, it shone like something spun from rainbows. She heard indrawn breaths all round her and saw Iain’s hands clench, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.

  ‘It’s bonny,’ she whispered and he nodded, blinking away tears.

  ‘I’ve been away far too long,’ he answered quietly. ‘The marshes get into your blood like a pox. I’ve missed them indeed.’

  ‘Well, let us take ye home then,’ she replied with a sigh of sympathy as she thought about her own snow-bound home, long unseen. She nodded to Duncan, who gave the order to board the punts.

  As the long, narrow boats were poled across the Murkmyre, Iseult heard a hoarse, drawn-out cry and glanced up. ‘Look!’ she cried.

  Flying up into the sky was a carved sleigh pulled along by twelve crimson-winged swans. Crouched in the sleigh, whipping them mercilessly on, was a tall woman dressed all in black. She turned and glared down at them and shook her fist, then the sleigh curved away, the swans’ wings beating strongly.

  ‘The NicFóghnan flees,’ Meghan said, her face losing its look of melancholy for a moment. Gwilym gave a swift order and a drove of Mesmerdean nymphs took flight in pursuit. They did not have the strength or speed of the swans, however, and were left far behind. The swan-carriage soared into the clouds and disappeared.

  A ring of tall white candles encircled a fire built on the rock shelf near the curve of the waterfall, where the waters of the loch poured over the edge of a cliff. It was sunset, moonrise, on the night of the spring equinox. One of the key events in the witches’ calendar, the vernal equinox marked the death of winter and the birth of summer, the first day of the year when the hours of sunlight lasted as long as the hours of night. An auspicious time for the breaking of a curse.

  The smoke of the candles smelt sweet, rising into the dusk like blue, wavering ribbons. Maya sat at the point of the pentagram, naked. The firelight glittered on her scales and made strange shadows of her fins. On either side of her were Isabeau and Bronwen, also naked, while Ishbel and Khan’gharad sat at the opposite points of the star. They found it hard to look at Maya, bending their gaze instead to their clasped hands.

  Isabeau said softly, ‘It is sunset. Time for the Ordeal to begin.’

  Obediently they all closed their eyes. Isabeau breathed deeply of the forest-scented air and tried to find peace. Despite the stillness, serenity eluded her and as the long hours trickled away, she found herself crying. Occasionally she heard a muffled gasp or sob from elsewhere in the sacred circle and knew she was not the only one to weep.

  She felt the tide of the seasons turning within her, more clearly than she had ever felt them before. Isabeau opened her eyes and said, with a choke in her voice, ‘It is midnight and the tides turn. Let us chant the rites.’

  The husky voice of the Fairge, the sweet, weary stumble of the little girl, Ishbel’s light voice and Khan’gharad’s deep baritone all chanted with her:

  ‘Darksome night and shining light,

  open your secrets to our sight,

  find in us the depths and height,

  find in us surrender and fight,

  find in us jet-black, snow-white,

  darksome light and shining night.’

  The familiar chant soothed her as the long hours of meditation had not, and her voice grew stronger. She said in a low sing-song: ‘Ever-changing life and death, transform us in your sight, open your secrets, open the door. In ye we shall be free o’ slavery. In ye we shall be free o’ pain. In ye we shall be free o’ darkness without light, and in ye we shall be free o’ light without darkness. For both shadow and radiance are yours, as both life and death are yours. And as all seasons are yours, so shall we dance and feast and have joy, for the tides o’ darkness have turned and the green times be upon us, the time for the making o’ love and harvest, the ti
me o’ nature’s transformations, the time to be man and woman, the time to be child and crone, the time o’ grace and redemption, the time o’ loss and sacrifice …’

  Although tears came again, it was not the hot, stifled, painful weeping of earlier but a flood of cleansing tears which left her feeling pure and empty. Bronwen wept too, from sympathy and tiredness and fear at the coming separation. Isabeau had explained to her that she was to leave with her mother in the morning. At first the little girl had been distraught but all her tears and tantrums had not moved Isabeau to relent and say she did not need to go. So at last the banprionnsa had grown sulky, refusing to speak to Isabeau at all and clinging close to her mother. Her sullen anger had hurt Isabeau far more than her tears, and she had found the previous day one of constant heartache. It was some comfort to her to hear the child’s weeping and to know that Bronwen would miss her as much as she would miss the little girl.

  The chant came to an end and Isabeau let go of Maya and Ishbel’s hands, wiping her face and pushing away the unruly curls from her face. ‘Maya, it is time to break the curse.’

  Slowly the Fairge lifted the black bundle from where it had lain by the fire. In the candlelight her eyes glittered oddly. She took her jewelled eating knife and slowly and deliberately cut the knot that bound the cloth together.

  ‘Darksome night and shining light,

  By the power o’ the moons so bright,

  Words o’ grace be spoken,

  Power o’ the curse be broken,’ she chanted.

  The cloth fell open, revealing the little poppet all bound up in its stained, crumpled ribbon, smelling of evil and poison. A wave of such malevolence passed over Isabeau that she almost gagged, and both Bronwen and Ishbel gave a little cry and shrank back. Khan’gharad’s bearded face was stern and sad, and he looked at Maya with cold anger in his eyes.