Dragonclaw

by Kate Forsyth

  Mention of the witch-sniffer did little to reassure Isabeau, who made much of yawning and pretending to wake. Once her eyes were open she saw standing just inside the door two guards in the red jackets and dark green kilts of the common soldier. Beside them was one of the biggest men Isabeau had ever seen, almost seven foot tall and as thick as a tree. He wore a scarred leather jerkin and had a black hood over his head that caused a small whimper to escape her.

  ‘I see ye’re be having your usual effect on lassies, Blyn,’ one of the Red Guards laughed. ‘Some time I must ask ye to teach me how ye do it.’

  The hooded giant gave a growl and the Red Guard stepped back involuntarily. Blyn then shouldered his way into the cell, which suddenly appeared half the size. Isabeau tried not to cower back on the bed of straw, but it was more than she could manage. She had never been so frightened before in her life. He stood over her and said gruffly, ‘Get up.’

  Although her knees were quivering, Isabeau managed to rise, keeping her hands behind her back so they would not notice the loose ropes.

  The Red Guards stepped forward too. ‘Ye are under arrest on suspicion o’ stealing a stallion which belongs to the Lady Glynelda, Grand-Seeker o’ the Awl and Regent o’ Caeryla. Ye are also charged with the most foul and heinous crime o’ sorcery, and for using your sorceries to steal this horse. The penalty for such crimes is death by drowning.’

  Isabeau opened her mouth to protest, but the other Red Guard stepped forward and slapped her so hard across the face that she fell back against the wall. ‘Ye will be put to trial this afternoon afore my Laird Serinyza and his judges,’ he said, ‘and if the charges o’ witchcraft be proven ye will be put to the Question thereafter. When the Grand-Questioner is finished with ye, ye will be executed by water.’

  Isabeau sobbed quietly, pressing her burning cheek into her shoulder. She had never been hit before, Meghan preferring to discipline her in other ways. The shock of the blow and the guard’s confidence that she would be executed combined to fill her with something approaching despair. Then she realised the guards were still standing over her, leering quite openly at the glimpse of flesh below her torn shirt.

  ‘I never stuck a witch before, should be quite an experience,’ the soldier said, stepping forward and lifting his kilt.

  Almost before Isabeau understood his words, the hooded guard had stepped between them with a grunt and a jerk of his thumb towards the door. Both soldiers protested his interference vociferously but he lifted his lip and snarled, causing both to back away nervously.

  ‘Havers, Blyn, ye should have said ye’d marked her out for yersel’,’ one said.

  Their words caused terror to rear again in Isabeau’s throat, and she measured the giant’s size, wondering if she could take him by surprise and escape. To her relief, he went out after the guards and relocked the door. Hearing how the key turned in the lock gave Isabeau some idea of how it worked, and desperation lent her courage. As soon as the sound of the guards’ footsteps had died away, she again began to probe the lock with her mind.

  After delicate tinkering, she began to understand the mechanics of the lock, hearing little clacks as the levers within moved up and down. Sweat sprang up on her brow, for she was manipulating air in a way that she had never had before. One by one she shifted the levers into place, and heard a loud click as the lock sprang open. She sat back on her heels, her head swimming, then turned her attention to the wooden bar across the outside of the door. It took much longer to throw back this time, and when at last it was unbarred, Isabeau was sick and dizzy with the exertion. She waited until her breath was calm again before daring to ease the cell door open.

  Her cell was one in a row of ten, facing onto a dark corridor that ended in an iron-bound door at either end. Isabeau tiptoed to the left first, since that was the way the guards had gone. Putting her ear against the crack she listened intently but heard nothing. Silently she slipped back to the other end of the corridor and listened again. This time she heard a thin scream that was cut short at the end, and her blood ran cold. Without hesitation she retraced her steps and began to work on the other door. The lock finally clicked open and Isabeau, barely able to breathe for fear, slowly turned the handle and eased it open a crack. She could see or hear nothing and so at last opened the door wide enough for her slim body to slip through.

  On the other side was a guard-room, with shields and axes hung on the wall, a fire burning merrily on the hearth, and a table with the chairs pulled out roughly. On the table was a clutter of tankards, a sign that the guards could not be too far away. Isabeau began to creep forward, closing the door behind her. She was almost halfway across the room when she heard approaching voices and gruff laughter, and in blind terror she dashed across the room and dived behind the woodpile. There was just enough room for her to conceal herself behind the pile of logs before the giant Blyn returned with two other guards. All three were dressed in black leather trousers, a leather hood and studded leather straps that criss-crossed their bare torsos. Isabeau did not think she had ever seen a more sinister sight.

  The three guards poured themselves some more ale and sat down at the table, one pulling out a pair of dice and throwing them on the table, calling out, ‘Flowers!’

  And there they sat for another hour, while Isabeau almost went mad with impatience. Only once did all three men leave the room together, and Isabeau was just beginning to scramble out when the giant returned with a tray of cold meat and bread. She was able to conceal herself again in time, though the close call had her heart thudding so loudly that it was a wonder the guard did not hear it.

  The conversation between the guards was mainly devoted to beer and horses, though the occasional coarse joke was uttered and smirked over. They talked a lot about Lasair who, it seemed, was of the Angharar bloodline and so extremely valuable. Isabeau knocked her forehead against the ground in anger at herself for being so stupid as to steal a blood stallion and then ride it gaily into the biggest town in the northern highlands. She had been lazy, she decided, and arrogant too. She should have let Lasair go as soon as she could, and made the journey on her own inconspicuous feet as Meghan had intended.

  ‘The Lady-Seeker is mad as hell that her stallion was stolen, and she sleepin’ right next to it,’ one guard said, a beefy man with thick black brows over tiny black eyes. ‘Ye ken the Banrìgh gave her that horse? She wouldna want to lose it, that be for sure.’

  ‘That be some cheek,’ the other said in obvious awe. ‘I do think that lass must be a witch, to be stealing the seeker’s own horse.’

  ‘Obh, obh,’ Blyn said. ‘That’s no’ witchcraft. I heard o’ horse thieves that could steal the Rìgh’s own beast while he be sittin’ on it.’

  The other guards scoffed noisily, and for a while the conversation centred round the great horse thefts of all time. Isabeau almost dosed off, the stones of the fireplace hot at her back and the room filling with smoke and the smell of ale. Talk soon veered to town politics, however, and she roused herself in order to listen, for one never knew when local knowledge would come in handy. Certainly if she had known that the seeker Glynelda was so well placed in Caeryla she would never have come near the place!

  How a seeker of the Awl could become regent over Caeryla was another problem vexing Isabeau’s mind. The Awl had been set up after the Day of Betrayal to hunt down and prosecute witches and uile-bheistean, but it should have nothing to do with the lairds of Eileanan, who ruled their lands with almost as much right and power as the Rìgh himself.

  Although the MacHamell family, lairds of Caeryla, were not one of the ten great clans descended from the First Coven, they were still very powerful with close connections to the Rìghrean. The sadly missed Lavinya, the mother of the current Rìgh, had been a Caerlyian. Her sister’s son had inherited the castle from his mother, and the last time Meghan and Isabeau had travelled to Caerlya, he had jumped the fire with the daughter of another great laird, causing much celebration in the town. What had happened
to that young laird that there be need for a regent in his land?

  By listening carefully, she was able to discover that the laird was dead and his young son had inherited the castle. The guards seemed rather sorry for Laird Serinyza, who apparently was kept very close, and allowed little freedom. How Glynelda had managed to be appointed regent remained a mystery, but she was obviously feared and even hated, given the way the guards’ voices lowered when they spoke of her. Isabeau noticed that Blyn said nothing, although he encouraged the others to be indiscreet, pouring them more ale when their throats grew dry and occasionally muttering an encouraging rumble. The presence of the Red Guards at the castle was an obvious sore point, the two loquacious guards calling them Redcloaks in a contemptuous manner, and mocking their fighting ability. ‘Pretty nancy boys in their pretty cloaks,’ one of the guards muttered.

  It was well after noon before Isabeau was finally able to crawl out from behind the logpile and continue with her escape. The dice game had finally come to an end, and one of the guards was stretched out on a bench in front of the fire for a snooze. The other two stretched and yawned and finished their tankard, before shrugging their weapons on again and going out the door. Luckily none thought to check the prisoners and so Isabeau’s escape was still undetected. By now her confidence was beginning to return, and so she stretched cautiously and tiptoed across the room, being very careful not to make any noise that might wake the sleeping guard. Before leaving the room she gave it a quick search but could find no sign of her pack with its all-important talisman. She had no choice but to keep on searching.

  Beyond the guard-room was another long room which seemed to perform the function of a kitchen, being hung with cured hams, ropes of garlic, large copper pans and a wide array of iron utensils. At first Isabeau felt quite faint, thinking the utensils some kind of instruments of torture, but once she saw the hams and garlic she relaxed. Once again she had to find a quick hiding spot as voices came near and she dived behind some sacks of flour and barley, trying to keep her head down. Luckily the owners of the voices passed right outside but did not come in, and she was able to crawl out a few minutes later, covered in flour dust but safe.

  The kitchen opened out onto a square courtyard at one end, with another door in the centre of the left wall. Isabeau risked a quick look out of the windows and saw the courtyard -was filled with guards fighting with padded shields and clumsy claymores made of wood. Blyn was calling out instructions with his bass rumble and the other soldiers stepped back or attacked as he directed. On the opposite wall a man was strung up between two poles, his shirt torn and bloodied from what must have been a harsh whipping. He was either dead or unconscious because he did not move, despite the flies gathering thick on the torn, reddened flesh. Nausea swept over Isabeau, and terror, too, for if they punished one of their own so severely, what would they do to her?

  Trying to control her trembling, she slipped back to the other door and cautiously opened it. Beyond was a much smaller room, hung with bright tapestries, and with a cushioned chair behind a table. On the table lay Isabeau’s pack, the contents spilling out over the well-polished surface. With a glad cry she ran forward and seized the leather satchel, rummaging quickly through. Just as her fingers closed on the slender triangle, she heard the soft click of a latch behind her, and spun round.

  A tall, very thin man was leaning against the doorframe with a most unpleasant smile curving his lips. ‘So,’ he said, ‘the witch managed to slip past three locked doors and a full contingent o’ guards. It will be an interesting trial, will it no’?’

  Isabeau slowly removed her hand from its hold on the black pouch, hoping the man had not seen how anxious she had been about the talisman. ‘I do no’ ken wha’ ye mean,’ she said, trying to look and sound stupid.

  The man was not deceived and he pulled back his bloodless lips from his teeth in a terrifying smile. ‘My lady will be most pleased at this further evidence o’ your witchcraft,’ he said. ‘She said she hunted ye as far as the Great Divide and back, and she’s never known a slipperier fox. It was a mistake, ye ken, to anger her. Now, me, I have no temper. I find such displays of anger quite amusing. I see you have red hair—I hope you will lose your temper with me.’

  Isabeau said nothing, looking about her casually in an attempt to find some means of escape. Again the man smiled, and Isabeau’s blood ran cold. ‘Do ye ken who I am?’ he asked, and she shook her head. ‘I am Baron Yutta, the Grand-Questioner o’ the Awl. That is a nice way o’ saying I am their most creative torturer. I have been looking forward very much to meeting ye. I was most disappointed when I went to have a chat with ye and found ye had slithered away again. How did ye escape this time?’

  Isabeau found she could not speak. He smiled, and said, ‘Och, soon we’ll ken the answer, bairn. We’ll ken all the answers. I am looking forward to it so much. I hope ye will fight me—it is always a disappointment when my subjects break too easily. Are you afraid o’ pain?’

  Suddenly Isabeau’s legs were moving of their own accord. She grabbed the pack from the table and bolted for the door. The Grand-Questioner moved smoothly to intercept her, smiling thinly, but she kicked him hard between the legs and was out of the door and into the corridor, straight into the arms of the Red Guards. They marched her back into the room, where Baron Yutta was leaning against the table, his face a little green but otherwise showing little effect from Isabeau’s savage kick. Even his smile was still in place, although twisted.

  ‘Take the witch to the questioning room,’ he said mildly. ‘We have a lot o’ work ahead o’ us.’

  Surrounded by Guards, Isabeau was marched back through the long corridors and rooms to the cell block. Her legs were trembling so much she could hardly walk, and they prodded and pushed her forward with their spears, sometimes piercing her skin with the sharp points. This time she was marched straight past her cell and through the door at the other end.

  The room was long and dark, the ceiling wreathed in smoke from the burning braziers. Here and there were tables with manacles attached, some with wheels at either end, the purpose of which Isabeau hardly dared guess. On one wall hung a young man, naked, his body marked all over with burns and bruises, his torso shiny with sweat and blood. At the sound of the door opening, he opened his mouth to scream but no sound came out, just a silent agony that swept over Isabeau in sickening waves. She began to retch and cough, but they pushed her forward so she sprawled into the stinking straw. As she lay there, trying to catch her breath in terrified sobs, the Grand-Questioner swept in, dressed now in long, red robes with the twisted emblem of the Questioners emblazoned on his breast.

  ‘Strip her, chain her to that table,’ he said, pointing, ‘then leave us.’

  Despite all Isabeau’s kicks and squirms, her breeches were stripped off, to the accompaniment of much fondling and squeezing, her shirt torn from her back, and her naked body strapped to one of the upright tables. One of the guards squeezed her nipple so hard that Isabeau screamed, and the Grand-Questioner smiled. ‘I like that sound,’ he murmured, so that the guards were encouraged, hurting her badly with their pinches and slaps. At last they reluctantly left, leaving Isabeau shamed and bruised, and more conscious than ever of Meghan’s warning. ‘Do no’ fall into the Awl’s hands,’ she had said. ‘They will break ye like a doll.’

  Baron Yutta came and stroked her bruised cheek. ‘Poor wee one,’ he said, and lifted away her matted hair so he could look down at her body. Isabeau flinched away from his fingers, but he only smiled, running the great length of her hair through his hands like a rope. ‘It’s never been cut, has it?’

  Isabeau said nothing, just looked away over his head to the ceiling. There were all sorts of strange instruments hung from chains up there, and she shuddered.

  He took her chin in his hand, and forced her to look at him. His eyes were a strange pale colour, most unusual in this land of dark-haired, dark-eyed people. ‘So, tell me, who sent ye to rescue the uile-bheist? Are ye in contact
with any o’ the rebels? What are their names and where are they?’

  Isabeau could not look away so she stared back at him with as much defiance as she could.

  ‘Good,’ he crooned. ‘Fight me, witch. Resist me. I can tell ye are a stubborn lassie.’ He stroked her cheek with one finger. ‘I like that. Let us see how long ye can resist me.’ Isabeau tried to gather moisture in her mouth so she could spit in his face, but her mouth was dry as a desert.

  He moved away, and began arranging tools on the long table. Several he put in the fire to heat, and one he took to a wheel and began to sharpen. At the sound the young man hanging on the wall jerked his head back in terror. The Grand-Questioner went over to him and stroked one finger along his cheek. ‘Ah, ye remember, my sweet pigeon. Ye ken what I have in store for the red-haired witch, do ye no’?’ Like a hypnotised coney, the man nodded, staring at Baron Yutta in terror. ‘Tell me, what would ye like me to do to the girl? The first touch is your choice. It is your reward, for screaming so sweetly for me.’

  The man began to throw his head from side to side. ‘Choose,’ the torturer said. When the young man said nothing, Baron Yutta put his hand up and gripped the young man’s balls in his fist. ‘Choose,’ he said in his mild voice, twisting viciously. The man screamed and fainted, but the Grand-Questioner went back to his instrument table and got a small flask to wave under the victim’s nose. When he coughed into reconsciousness, Baron Yutta smiled and stroked his cheek. ‘Choose,’ he said.

  ‘Burn her, burn her,’ the young man screamed.

  ‘Mmm, lovely,’ he said. ‘The flat o’ the blade?’ When the young man nodded, he kissed him on the mouth. ‘My sweet boy. Where?’ Again the young man moaned and flung his head from side to side, and the Grand-Questioner took his balls in his hand and bounced them gently. ‘The back,’ the young man choked out.

  ‘Ye disappoint me,’ Baron Yutta said. ‘Have ye no imagination? Lady Glynelda is unhappy with this witch. She wants her to be hurt.’