“By the powers!” said Galiene in disbelief, “the tyrant means business.”
“Indeed he does,” said Baldulf, his face drained of color.
Several knights piled furniture in front of the portal as reinforcement, while the weathermasters retreated to the dining hall. Ryence and Engres armed themselves with short flagpoles from the courtyards and roasting-spits from the kitchens, where a couple of terrified young scullery-maids huddled together in the inglenook.
Most of the Shield Champions filed down the narrow corridor to the door, where they waited—standing well back—for it to collapse inwards, as it must, eventually, under that onslaught. Without pausing in their storm-summoning labors, the weathermages listened while the ram roared again and again, until at last the thunder of splintering wood and collapsing furniture announced that the attackers had broken through.
A mage-summoned flash of flame greeted the first couple of fighters to burst in. They stumbled over broken woodwork and rolled in fire, bellowing, until the blows of the Shield Champions put an end to their agony. No sooner were they vanquished than a second pair of warriors barged in to take their place. Flowever, no more than two soldiers could pass through the doorway at a time, and each pair encountered the wrath of Sir Isleif and his second-in-command who were vigorously defending the stronghold. Behind their captains, more knights of Grïmnørsland waited with upraised weapons in case one of the defenders fell. From beyond the ruined door rumbled the tumultuous and throaty cries of armed men clamoring for entry, howling for blood.
“Ó Maoldúin will never get in here,” Ryence said to Baldulf, as they peered down the passageway and beheld Sir Isleif dispatching another warrior of the desert, “and our storm is on the way!”
In the dining hall, Galiene stood, statuesque in flowing grey raiment, her eyes closed, murmuring the words that steered and drove the elements. Her senses traced the dynamics of pressure systems and temperature inversions, of wind currents, of the interfaces between air masses of varying temperatures and densities. Feeling a tug at her sleeve, she interrupted her labor and looked down, to see a young servant-girl cowering before her. The child’s face was pinched and pallid, her eyes large, rimmed with dark smudges. “Let me help you,” she gasped.
“What can you mean?”
“It is wrong, it is a terrible wrong, that weatherlords should be persecuted. I can help you.” The scullery-maid was trembling.
“I thank you for the offer, child,” said Galiene gently. “Nonetheless, if we can hold off our foes for long enough we will not need your help. You are risking your own life by siding with us. What is your name?”
“Mairead.”
“Go back to your kitchen, Mairead. Stay out of harm’s way, and do not trouble yourself on our account.”
Child and weathermage held one another’s gaze in a compassionate clasp, and at that moment the voice of Uabhar could clearly be heard, raging above the hubbub. “The knights collude with our foes. Set the Red Lodge alight! If anyone flees out of the fire, run them through!”
A cheer erupted from the soldiery; an ocean breaker smashing against a cliff. Ryence barked out an oath of incredulity.
“Wheel of the Hag!” the young servant girl screamed in terror. “They mean to slay us all!”
Presently the roar of cheering merged with another sound; the thud of branches being piled against the outer walls, the slurp of drenching oil, the crackle of torches, the windy murmur and lick of flames against the timber walls. Soon, by the garish glare at the high window and outside the disintegrated door, and by the change in temperature, the weathermasters knew that vast sails of flame were climbing the building. The lodge was ablaze.
“Uabhar is incinerating his own stronghold in his own country!” Baldulf shouted in horrified disbelief, as a thick cloud of smoke billowed along the corridor and began to fill the interior.
“It burns quickly. The flames will reach us before our storm arrives,” cried Galiene.
Sir Isleif and seven knights came dashing into the dining hall, spattered with gore. “You speak truly, my lady,” said the captain of the Shield Champions, panting as he caught his breath. “There is no time left. We burn.”
Not one of the elderly servants or young scullery-maids was to be seen; they had rushed off somewhere in fright. The air was darkening with reeks, making breathing difficult. Many weathermasters were coughing as if they would surely choke. “Dip these cloths in water,” commanded Galiene, handing out swatches of linen she had scavenged from the kitchens. “Wrap them around your mouth and nose.”
Ryence scanned the smoky chamber with red-rimmed eyes, as if taking the measure of each person present. “Let us break out of here and die on the sword, or escape if there is any chance under cover of darkness,” he said at last.
“Aye,” said Baldulf. “Better to die by blade than fire.”
“Unbar one of the back doors,” said Ryence, “and pull those shields down from the walls. Let us arm ourselves with any weapon that comes to hand.”
Sir Isleif wiped grime and sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “We shall enclose ourselves in a tight fence of shields,” he said, “with the women in the center. Thus we shall make our exit, chopping a road through the briar-patch of halberds, to freedom.”
All understood the hopelessness of their position. With so few trained fighters against so many, they had no chance. Yet even a vain shred of hope was better than despair, and both Ryence and Sir Isleif inspired courage in everyone.
“Very well,” said Baldulf, lifting a shield from its hook, “let us make such a valorous assay as will long be remembered in song!”
While the Councilors of Ellenhall prepared for this desperate bid, Galiene once again felt a tugging at her sleeve. The pale, frail servant girl had reappeared. She whispered fearfully, “Mistress, follow me. I will show you the way. A hidden siege-tunnel leads from here. Our masters believe we have no knowledge of its existence, but we have always known. My fellow servants have already fled that way. Bring lights!”
“Gather, knights and kinsmen! Gather to me!” cried Galiene. Just at the point when all hope had taken flight, Galiene’s spirits began to rise. Her companions clustered around her, carrying lanterns, and their guide led them from the smoke-filled hall. With naked swords at the ready, twelve of the knights strode ahead of the group, while the other twelve brought up the rear. Along cramped passageways they sped, and through fungous trapdoors, and down wooden ladders and many a spiral staircase that plunged deeply into the gloom of the cellars. The noise of shouting and the crackle of flames grew fainter as they progressed. Eventually they arrived at a damp and slimy tunnel hewn from water-glistening rock. This underground passage dipped still further, and they swiftly descended the slope, their path lit by the lanterns they had brought with them. One of the older weathermages stumbled. Baldulf set his shoulder beneath his comrade’s arm, half-carrying him.
“Where does this lead?” Galiene quietly asked their rescuer.
“Right out of the city,” Mairead replied. “Past the eastern ramparts.”
The floor began to slant upwards, and presently the tunnel came to an end. In front of a small aperture amongst the stones, fringed with wild grasses and tendrils, the young girl halted. The opening looked out upon an ebony sky splashed with stars, and a fresh breeze blew against the faces of the escapers.
“Douse your lanterns,” the scullery-maid said.
Slim ringlets of smoke coiled from the extinguished wicks, while the eyes of the weathermasters adjusted to night’s dimness. Between the blowing silhouettes of the leaf-blades glittered the cold, silent stars, like phosphorescent fractures in black ice.
Upon a Ferny Hill
I had a comb of silver to decorate my hair,
They said ’twas made by goblins; I said I did not care.
But goblin work’s illusion, trickery and dreams;
And goblins can’t be trusted—nothing’s what it seems.
I had
a comb of silver, I cast it on the ground.
A mighty forest sprouted and burgeoned all around!
For goblin work’s illusion, trickery and dreams;
And goblins can’t be trusted—nothing’s what it seems.
—“THE GOBLIN COMB”
The escape party pushed past the foliage, and emerged quietly to find them-selves upon a draughty hillside. At their backs loomed the embankment and parapet of the city walls, behind which the hill of the Red Lodge towered, now crowned with fire and smoke. Before them rose a low hill covered with tall fronds of bracken-fern, soughing and bending in the wind. No observer was in sight. Even as the refugees began to hasten away from the burning hilltop, one of the Shield Champions fell, bleeding, to his knees. His comrades raised him to his feet, but Galiene, abruptly noting that Sir Isleif had also sustained injuries and appeared dazed, declared, “We have eluded our attackers, but there are wounded and weary folk amongst us. We must soon rest. Make for the next hilltop. There we will lie hidden in the ferns for a short time, that we may at least bind some of our hurts.
“As for you, dear Mairead,” she addressed the young serving girl, “blessings upon your next nine generations. Take this.” She unpinned a brooch from her cloak and pressed it into the maid’s hand. “It is all I have to give you by way of thanks. Now go.”
“Wait!” Accompanied by one of the weather-prentices, Ryence strode up and squatted on his haunches to speak to the child. “This lad with me, his name is Cador. When you go, I pray you to take him with you. As soon as you are both clear and safe, direct him towards Orielthir. That is all I ask.”
Solemnly Mairead nodded. Ryence smiled, patted her on the shoulder and stood up.
“You have played a worthy part,” Galiene said to the child. “Put a safe distance between you and ourselves. Begone! Begone!”
Servant and prentice took to their heels, disappearing into the rustling foliage.
“You must not wait for the wounded,” muttered Sir Isleif as he sank to the ground on the crest of the hill Galiene had pointed out. His face was haggard and wan, a smear of chalk in night’s gloom. “Go on! Hasten! My task is completed.”
“We are all weary,” said Galiene, “and some of our people are no longer young and able. Besides, many of us have suffered greatly from inhaling smoke, and are struggling for breath. We are safe here, for the moment. We would rest awhile anyway, whether or not you were hurt. But you are injured, and I would fain bind your wounds while we have time.”
She wound a strip of torn fabric about the gashed brow of Sir Isleif. The task was not easy; her hair was blowing across her eyes, while her cloak snapped and billowed like a loose sail in a hurricane. Driven before the blustering gale, the ferns swayed and hissed; a violent ocean. The air’s severe turbulence heralded the mage-summoned storm that was racing towards Cathair Rua. Between bouts of coughing, Baldulf was still steering the atmospheric disturbances with hand and voice.
The weathermasters were of one accord—they would sojourn briefly amongst the ferns, gathering their strength, before making a break for freedom. Crouching in the tangle of tossing leaves, they and their chivalrous guardians stared out across the dark and restless slopes to the terrible blossom of fire that was the Red Lodge.
“It must be all they can do to contain the blaze, with the wind so strong and unpredictable,” remarked Engres, before being seized by a coughing fit.
“I wish it would rage out of confinement and burn down the king’s house,” said Ryence.
Galiene said quietly to Ryence, below the wind’s moan, “We must depart soon, before Uabhar suspects we have escaped. Yet even if we manage to leave the marches of the city undetected, I do not hold much hope for us. We are so far from home, and there is no refuge in this country likely to guarantee our security! We cannot travel as speedily as Uabhar’s forces, and where shall we go?”
“Towards Orielthir,” Ryence answered promptly. “I have already sent young Cador ahead, to warn Thorgild and to beg him to come swiftly to our aid. The lad is fleet of foot, besides being small and sly enough to have a chance of evading Uabhar’s scouts.”
Wind hissed through the bracken with the sound of myriad tiny bubbles fizzing through water, and fern fronds thrashed in a manic dance. The clamor of men’s shouts wafted to their ears on a puff of wind, drawing the weathermasters’ attention back to the vigorous blaze atop the opposite hill.
“This summit where we stand is a good vantage point,” Ryence added. “From here we can keep surveillance for signs of attack. Soon we must move again. Meanwhile we ought to rest, and fix our attention on the weather. If we do not continue to drive and direct the currents, the storm might wander off the desired course.”
“I wish fervently that the storm will reach us before Uabhar does,” said Galiene. “It is our only real hope, our single weapon.”
As she spoke her breath, unseen, was snatched away by the wind, which bore it down the hillside and across the shallow vale, dancing above the spear-tips of the howling warriors who surrounded the flames consuming the Red Lodge. The heat from the conflagration was so intense that the Desert Paladins had fallen back, leaving a wide vacancy around the perimeters of the blaze. Bathed in red-gold illumination, they were yelling and brandishing their weapons. Servants were unloading barrels of water from wagons. They broached the vessels and drenched the surrounding ground in efforts to prevent the fire from spreading.
As for Chohrab Shechem the desert king, supported by the officials of his household—by now he was in hysterics, stammering and shrieking, unable to tear his gaze away from the holocaust. He alternated between tearing his hair and yelling “Hurrah!,” screeching “Drive them out!” and wailing, “Ádh, O Starred One, O Míchinniúint, mighty Axe-Lord, save me from the wrath of the weatherlords!”
From a cooler and more comfortable location beneath a canopy further back amongst the ranks, the king of Slievmordhu observed the proceedings with increasing discomposure. “All doors and windows are being watched, but the puddle-makers have not issued forth,” he said to Primoris Virosus, who stood nearby, leaning on his staff. “Neither have the servants. Are they all such heroes that they have forfeited their lives for the sake of pride?”
“I cannot say,” the ancient druid replied, somewhat sardonically.
His king was too intent on his own deliberations to take note of the sage’s tone. “1 find it hard to believe the puddlers would sacrifice themselves; harder to credit that they would not permit the scullions to escape the frying pan. There is some mystery afoot.” Beckoning his lord chancellor, he said, “Is there any other way out of the Red Lodge?”
“Why no, Sire!” stuttered the courtier. “At least—that is to say—I believe there was once a siege tunnel, but its existence was a secret known only to a few in the upper echelons—”
Uabhar stared at his noble retainer, the veins on his brow standing out like worms crawling beneath his skin. “Flad you informed me earlier, we might have sent men-at-arms to attack them from within the lodge itself, you quatch-buttocks! For this oversight you will be hanged!”
The lord chancellor could only execute a deep obeisance as he struggled to disguise his dismay.
“Where does this siege tunnel make its exit?” demanded his sovereign.
“Sire, I understand it issued forth somewhere beyond the city walls.” Uabhar, in fury, shouted, “Imbecile!” Then he suddenly checked his ire, and fell silent, as if cogitating. Perceiving this slammed-shut cliff of ice where lately a furnace had roared, the lord chancellor winced.
Presently Uabhar turned to a commander of the Desert Paladins and said, “Tell your brigadiers to remain at the burning lodge with their drunken braves.” To High Commander Mac Brádaigh and other officers he gave a series of rapid orders. “Find the tunnel’s exit. Select a few discreet men who can be trusted to hold their tongues and dispatch them there immediately. Let them stand guard. They must slay anyone who emerges, and scour the surroundings for signs of esca
pers. Muster the druids. Send guards to the city gates—should any citizens emerge in an attempt to gawk at our business, turn them away. Tell them they must not come near, or they will be subject to the death penalty. Bring down a curfew. Go at once!” Driven by the extremes of tethered rage, he gnashed his teeth until his jaw convulsed.
The storm was rapidly approaching. From the corner of his eye Uabhar caught sight of a flicker of light in the sky, and glanced up. Heavy clouds were flooding across the stars in a dark tide.
“The weathermasters do indeed live,” he said, his lip curling in a snarl. “Behold, they are summoning a thunderstorm. Let us hasten to receive them at this secret sallyport!”
The king flung himself astride his charger. Surrounded by a cavalcade of bodyguards and officials, he galloped away, calling for Chohrab to follow. Several scouts, already mounted, had hastened ahead. When Uabhar arrived at the low bluff where the tunnel opened onto the hillside, the scouts informed him they had encountered nobody, but had discovered splashes of fresh blood upon the vegetation at the tunnel’s mouth.
“Someone has passed this way not long since,” they said. “Someone who was grievously stricken.”
At that moment a runner dashed up to the king of Slievmordhu. “We have lit upon the weathermasters!” the messenger cried. “They are gathered atop that nearby hill, at bay. We did not approach, for they threatened to hurl balls of fire. But the soldiers have surrounded them.”
“This I shall see for myself!” cried Uabhar, tugging on the reins so cruelly that his mount reared and squealed, its mouth torn. The king, a practiced horseman, remained in the saddle. “Is Virosus not here yet? Send a chariot for him!” he shouted, clapping his heels to the flanks of his steed. Away he rode, with Mac Brádaigh close behind, to confront the cornered weathermasters.
The low hill was limned by the glimmer of moon and stars, their radiance smoke-yellowed, like old paper. Fibrous bracken-ferns, almost waist-high to a man, surged like ocean swell, the greens and golds rendered tangerine and scarlet in the glare of the encircling torches. A knot of windblown figures crowned the hill, most standing up, others on their knees half-submerged in swaying foliage. Several were seen to be molding nothingness with their outstretched hands, crying out in an incomprehensible tongue, their lilting phrases rising and falling with the blowing of the wind.
Weatherwitch: Book Three of The Crowthistle Chronicles Page 38
