Ashalind drew a heavy velvet cowl up over her cropped head. Its shadow draped across her face.
‘Mayhap he will not notice,’ agonised Caitri, wringing her hands.
‘It will scarcely escape his eyes. No doubt he is already aware of my new mode. Squirm not! Do you consider him our tutor, to rap our knuckles for misbehaviour? As though there has been some wrong-doing? And if my hair is cut off, what is it to such as he?’
‘He will be angry. It is certain.’
‘My coiffure is my own business. A fig for the wrath of Morragan,’ said Ashalind carelessly, but she trembled.
An odour of brine and rotting vegetation penetrated the dreary chamber. Two men appeared under an archway festooned with stone ivy. Around them, spriggans emerged from the shadows, their tails switching with vindictive impatience. The wights bowed peremptorily to the damsels, then twitched and jumped as though they had been stung. Obviously it sorely irked them to be forced to make obeisance to mortalkind.
‘You—come,’ their driftwood voices creaked.
The two men stood rigid, still, impassive. Passing close to them as she and Caitri joined the spriggan sprawl, Ashalind noted they were the doomed mortal servants of the Each Uisge, bound in eternal, ageless servitude. Pallid as drowned flesh, blank of eye, they turned with precision to fall in behind the damsels and their unseelie entourage, completing the escort.
‘May we all be sained,’ muttered Caitri in tones of dread, snatching a glance at the identical Maghrain brothers who strode silently, their sea-blue Ertish eyes fixed on some point in eternity. Caitri’s hand fluttered to her neck, where a tilhal would have hung, had the charm not been torn off during the wild flight with the Hunt. Ashalind pulled the velvet cowl a little closer around her face and the spriggans jabbered peevishly amongst themselves. She longed to ask them for some tidings of battle, but their malign and sidelong glares deterred conversation.
Through the spacious halls of the fortress they hastened—halls wide and high as clearings in an ancient forest, which diminished those who passed through their mighty interior spaces, making of them mere beetles crawling across the floor. Fifty feet above, in the intricate beamwork of the ceilings, grotesque or beauteous faces peered down, smiling serenely or scowling. Tongues protruded obscenely, cheeks bulged like iris corms. Most of these effigies were fashioned from wood or stone. Others were not.
‘Do you mark something?’ Ashalind asked Caitri from the corner of her mouth.
‘No. What?’
‘The sounds of mining in the walls. They have ceased.’
Caitri listened past the rusted-hinge phonetics of the spriggans.
‘So they are!’ She shuddered. ‘Even dunters dare not arouse his ire.’
Ashalind glanced back over her shoulder.
‘Iainh!’ she called. ‘Caelinh!’
The men of the Isles made no response. Not by so much as a flicker of an eyelid did they indicate whether they had heard their names uttered.
‘Sons of the Maghrain!’ Ashalind called. The spriggans now hopped as though they danced on a red-hot griddle. Their tails spun madly, their squinting eyes flashed.
‘No talking!’ they screeched. ‘Be silent!’
Their slanting slits of eyes glinted with malice. The prisoners did not speak again to the human slaves of the Each Uisge.
On they wended, ascending many vast and tortuous stairs, across a pillared courtyard of green marble where sunken pools brimmed with languid reflections. Leafy vines twined about the pillars; from them, flowers budded, sprinkling pink petals on the water. Here was a window—which was not a window at all, but an interval between the crook of two branches, framed by a collage of leaves. A glimmer there caught Ashalind’s eye, and breaking away from their escort, she climbed into an embrasure, a bower of foliage. Peering through the trelliswork of the tree boughs she saw across a great distance, as though the clear air of Darke magnified her perception, mysteriously allowing vision far beyond the borders of Evernight to the west of Namarre.
In the gloom of uhta two armies, ranged rank on rank, faced each other across a strip of heathland severed by a stream which gleamed like a metallised ribbon. On the Namarran side, a few clumps of pine trees pointed up into the pre-dawn sky, like spindles from thorny undergrowth. The sparsely wooded land swept up to a ridge, whereon stood the ruins of a stone castle. Western Namarre lay breathless, silent, brittle as dark crystal; a lacuna of uncanny stillness.
At an appointed moment, a roar erupted from the throats of thousands of Imperial troops. A tremendous barrage opened from the Imperial side, with a deluge of arrows and the thunderous explosion of burning projectiles from Windship-borne catapults. Instantly, the Namarran lines across the intervening space of No Mortals’ Land broke into one long seething flame of white-hot bursting naphtha. Hurled by Imperial catapults, blazing missiles as large as barrels of cider, with tails of fire as long as lances, thudded into the ground like volcanoes. The soil came down like a hailstorm for minutes afterwards.
Under cover of this fire, Imperial troops threaded their way in single files through the tangle of undergrowth to the centre of No Mortals’ Land, with arrows tearing overhead on their way to the Namarran lines. There they paused, awaiting signals from platoons supporting on either flank. The barrage from the Royal Archers and armed Windships was already creeping forward, and, fearing to wait longer, the Imperial troops began to advance. Soon they came up to the curtain of missiles which had reached the Namarran front line and their rate of advance from then on was simply regulated by the speed of the barrage. They crossed the enemy front line without stopping. Such rebels as survived had fled to the shelter of the pines, from which they emerged later to surrender in small groups. Some of the legionaries ran into their own barrage and fell, wounded.
‘Come away!’ hissed the spriggans at Ashalind’s side. They tugged at her elbows. ‘Hasten!’
She ignored them, intent on the unfolding scene.
Following the barrage closely, the Imperial troops crossed through a denser belt of pines. Some twenty yards behind this belt ran a ditch, occupied by a number of the enemy who fled at the sight of the Imperial forces. They were all shot down.
Up the slopes of the ridge yellow naphtha fires flared like unnatural flowers, stinking of brimstone, gushing oily black smoke. They burned fiercely, yet without spreading out of control in the rain-soaked vegetation. Throughout the area behind the Imperial line there was keen elation at the news that the whole attack was going successfully. The reserve battalions, taking up position on the slope of a hill, looked out upon the ridge opposite and on the whole scene: the Windships flying and fighting against a dawn sky striped with carnation and topaz, the naphtha missiles punching black smoke plumes from the ruins on the summit, the troops for the later attack lining up under the coloured flags of their battalions, chariots marshalling in the shadowy meadows, companies of cavalry moving up through the heath with a jingle of metal plate, and the reserve archers swiftly stringing their crossbows.
The first objective having been taken, an infantry brigade continued its attack up the southern shoulder of the ridge, west of the stream, with the King-Emperor’s Battalion still advancing immediately east of the water. Meanwhile, a company of knights pushed forward along the top of a low rise west of the stream. By their watchfulness, it appeared they expected strong opposition at the ruins of the old castle in the Namarran second line. This ruin, a few low piles of stones overgrown with brambles, sheltered many barbarian warriors. It lay immediately behind a wide ditch, screened by a narrow hedge.
The spriggans began to pinch Ashalind’s arms. Impatiently she pushed them off.
‘Budge now!’ they creaked. ‘Too long at the window she has spent.’
‘I shall come soon! Soon!’ said Ashalind, unable to wrench her gaze from the battlescape.
By now, dust and smoke from burning projectiles were making it impossible to see for any distance. Unable to take their bearings from landmarks, the c
hivalry pressed on, following the rising ground, keeping as close to the barrage as possible so as to be able to make the best use of their striking force whenever opposition was encountered. These tactics proved effective. On several occasions, at the instant the barrage lifted, the Empire’s troops rushed to attack, causing the enemy to scatter in panic. Some hand-to-hand combat took place, the combatants hewing at each other with sword and axe, but generally the opposition was feeble.
By now the spriggan escorts were dancing up and down in a fury of panic, trying to stamp on Ashalind’s toes. With no compunction she kicked out at them.
‘Hurry! Hurry!’ they squawked. ‘Must answer the Summons or master will be angry!’
‘One moment—just one moment more,’ she cried.
The Royal Company of Archers with infantry, assailing the defences immediately north of the ruins, had been met by the discharge of two rapid-fire mangonels emplaced on the top of a stone buttress. This forced the troops in that area to ground, and the check seemed likely to become dangerous. For a few moments they watched the barrage of projectiles play on the place, and as it lifted and the enemy arrows commenced to whine, they charged. One of the Royal Archers, an outstanding markswoman, slew three of the shotmen attending the mangonels with swift arrows from her longbow. The rest fled. Assured of the idleness of the war-engines, the captain rushed forward with a lieutenant and the men nearest them. The moment they surged past the crumbling walls, panic seized the Namarran defenders. In a solid line, they abandoned their weapons and fled, many of them shot through by arrows as they ran, others being killed as they ran into the continuing catapult barrage.
The fight was over in a very short time, and two catapults captured. The Royal Archers stood among the ruins along the horizon and shot the rebels down, doing great execution and taking vengeance for crimes by land and sea.
The Severnesse Eighth and the King-Emperor’s Battalion bivouacked at their final objective, one hundred yards beyond the alignment of the old castle. Reserve divisions were brought up and it could be clearly perceived that it would not be long before the entire ridge was securely held, all objectives taken.
The Legions of Erith were advancing towards the High Plain. Morragan’s raiders and brigands fell back before them, retreating without putting up much resistance. Of unseelie wights, oddly there was no sign.
Ashalind drew away from the window.
‘Master will be wrathful! Depart instantly!’ creaked the spriggans angrily, hefting their pikes in their grimy paws. Leaves fell into place, obscuring the view.
She whispered to Caitri, ‘The Imperial troops have the advantage!’
As they left the embrasure, Ashalind looked back at the leaf curtain. Had it been but fancy? It seemed there had been a certain flash of gold upon the small finger of a hand, the ungauntleted hand of the Imperial Army’s Supreme Commander …
The green marble courtyard gave onto a luxurious salon, carpeted in sombre yellow. It was filled with massive wooden furniture upholstered in tawny shades of marigold and spice. Here and there fires burned in small, pierced braziers of bronze. Lizardlike saurians darted on bats’ wings from fiery nests to mantelshelves, their lithe forms armoured in copper scales. The chairs were adorned with hideous feet, clawed and taloned. Grotesque faces grinned from chair backs. One of these moved its mouth and spoke. It was in fact attached to a shrivelled body which sat like a toadstool in a squat chair, its hands clutching the armrests.
‘You thought yourself rid of me, eh, erithbunden?’
Yallery Brown grinned like a row of old candles. A skinny rat peered from among the withered dandelions growing in his hair. Ashalind heard Caitri’s sudden indrawn breath. She herself flinched, but hurried on after a brief glance at the unsavoury wight.
‘Make haste, make haste,’ he jeered at their retreating backs. ‘Yallery Brown will not be far behind!’
The yellow salon opened onto a gallery the colour of apricots. Underfoot, fallen leaves formed a carpet. Sombre amber paper lined the walls, stamped with leaf motifs. The furnishings and hangings were of coppery velvet. From the crevices of the bracketed ceiling high overhead fell a continuous shower of leaves in Autumn hues: ochre, scarlet, saffron, umber. The spriggans pranced and capered in the rustling drifts, sniffing for larvae.
Stolidly the foundered Maghrain brothers marched on behind their charges. Here, time seemed drawn out, spun like thread from a sack of lint. As they walked, one day might have passed, or several—doubtless one of the tricks played by the bewitched fortress, but surprisingly, the two damsels experienced no discomfort or undue fear.
‘The Lady of the Circle arrives!’ a clear and lilting voice declared.
Two Faêran lords stood on either side of a door. Lofty was this portal, Winter-white, hinged and studded with lustrous metal. Indeed, it soared thrice the height of the Faêran knights. Ashalind tightened her grip on the folds of the cowl beneath her chin. Leaves whispered, swirling in gouts and streamers, lightly brushing her cheek. Had Morragan’s lords found the Gateway in Arcdur? Doubtless not—they would not appear so equanimical had they discovered their way home. Indeed, they would not have returned to Annath Gothallamor.
The eyes of Lord Iltarien rested upon Caitri, not unkindly. Leaning down, he laid his hand lightly upon her head.
‘Accompanied by her pet nightingale,’ he added to his previous announcement. Stepping back, he said, ‘Enter!’
The white door swung open.
A blast of icy air assaulted Ashalind and Caitri, and went hunting after the swirling leaves. The mortals walked forward into a parlour wherein miniscule motes drifted like swans’ down.
A snowy ballroom.
It seemed Winter dwelled here. Icicles depended from chandeliers, where slender tapers burned with a glacial flame. Snow sifted like Sugar-dust across the floor and piled up in banks against the legs of couches and sideboards, the walls of shimmering ice. Star patterns frosted great mirrors. Rime edged everything with silver stitchery. Through this freezing haze, the shapes of furnishings loomed indistinct. Slowly the mortal girls wandered into the mist.
The Prince’s bard appeared.
‘Someone left the window open,’ commented Ashalind.
Ergaiorn laughed. With a movement so swift it might have been imagined, he cast something from his hand. Gratingly, like the rim of an iron wheel on gravel, a sphere of crystal came rolling along the floor. It ground to a halt in front of Ashalind. Her gaze was drawn and clinched into its limpid heart, where an image developed.
‘Behold!’ said Ergaiorn. ‘The Legions of Erith are come to Evernight.’
Below gaunt turrets, the outer walls of Annath Gothallamor dropped, sheer and vertical, to join the folded and crevassed skirts of Black Crag. A narrow road wound down to the open flat of the High Plain which spread out to form a circle half a mile in radius. Gibbous rocks covered this tableland—curious, lumpy stones in odd shapes and sizes, some of which seemed to roll of their own accord, or to suddenly sprout skinny limbs, or to dissemble into shadows between equally queer-shaped bushes and stunted trees racked by the wind. The High Plain teemed with wights.
Visible beyond the rim of the plateau lay a vast sea of winking lights: the campfires of the five armies of the Empire.
‘See the Legions of Erith,’ said Ergaiorn as Ashalind contemplated the crystal’s moving pictures, ‘encamped some small distance from the foot of the escarpment. They have defeated the mortal brigands of Namarre—all are taken prisoner or slain or fled. Far have the Legions advanced, but they are mistaken if they believe victory is within their grasp, for although the wights of eldritch have harried and harassed them, they have not as yet mounted any genuine adversity. Having beguiled the Legions with a hollow simulation of battle, giving ground before them to lead them on, now the Unseelie Host is ready for encounters more devastating. Should eldritch powers in earnest be brought to bear, mortals shall find themselves sore oppressed. And though the men of Erith might zealously use the tight-spru
ng limbs of their battery against these saucy foes, they shall fling missiles in vain, for gramarye eludes brute force and passes it by, to smite with stealth from the flank most unguarded, using the very frailties of men to great advantage.’
Ashalind dragged her gaze from the jewel’s heart. In the Winter room she stood at Caitri’s side, and despite the snow her blood ran warm and rosy. Ergaiorn’s hand enclosed the crystal sphere. The Leantainn Pipes hung at his side, ebony wood mounted in silver.
‘What frailties?’ she demanded of him. ‘Hearts that rule our heads? Fear of the dark? These are not frailties. Merriment lacking in deep joy, passion that knows no true love—those are true frailties, and they belong not to my race!’ She stepped closer to the Bard, driven to boldness by sorrow and anger. ‘Have you a conscience, Ergaiorn? You are forsworn! You and all of Morragan’s gallants are forsworn! By opposing Angavar, you have broken your oath of fealty to your sovereign.’
Coolly he replied, ‘Only because thou art favoured of the Fithiach do I have reason enough to justify the deeds of Faêran knights to thee, erithbunden maid, and because of the beauty of thy face. Ephemeral beauty remains ever a cause for leniency among us. ’Tis true, all Faêran lords swore never to take arms against our High King. This vow we keep intact. We swore never to succour his enemies. This vow also remains virgin. No promise was made to hinder his enemies and we hinder them not. Wights may plague the human race as they have done for millennia—what is it to us?’
‘Then you contrive at semantics,’ cried Caitri, ‘like the lawyers of Erith, to thwart and pervert the very purpose of the contract!’
‘Thy tongue rattles overloose in thy head, sweetness,’ warned the bard with a cold smile. ‘Beware lest it grow so long as to trip thee and make thee fall. The Legions of the Empire outnumbered the defeated barbarians,’ he continued, tossing the translucent orb from hand to hand and spinning it on his fingertip, ‘naturally. They have advanced into Evernight. At Plain’s Edge the vanguard is forced to halt. At that place they are vulnerable to attacks launched from the plateau above, from secret forests on either flank and from Fridean delvings underground. Be not mistaken, the battle plan has been drawn. The strategy of the Fithiach is certain. When the Imperial forces threaten Annath Gothallamor they shall find themselves at the mercy of the Raven. With but a simple gesture, how easily the Fithiach might strike them down.’
The Bitterbynde Trilogy Page 139
