Dragonclaw

by Kate Forsyth

  Trudging along the side of the hill, her boots squelching, wet through to the skin, Iseult wished she had never agreed to come. By the scowl on Bacaiche’s face, the hunchback felt the same.

  It was just on sunset on the first clear day in a week that the omen occurred. Meghan saw a hawk plunge from the sky, rising a few seconds later with a coney in its talons. She frowned. ‘I have such a sense o’ danger,’ she murmured. ‘I feel a shadow across me—something is happening!’

  Iseult lengthened her stride, gazing about her with keen eyes, and wondering if the copse of trees ahead could be concealing a legion of soldiers. Suddenly she cried out and staggered, her hand to her head. She would have fallen if Meghan had not caught her arm and held her. As it was, her knees buckled and she slid to the ground, Meghan’s arm about her back.

  ‘My head!’ Iseult put her hand to her forehead, as if feeling for blood.

  ‘What is it? Are ye hurt?’ Meghan demanded, kneeling beside her, and probing her brow with gentle fingers.

  ‘I feel … like I’ve been hit,’ Iseult said faintly. ‘Ow! It hurts!’

  ‘I can see no wound or bruise,’ Meghan answered. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I do no’ ken … I feel strange. My head aches.’

  ‘Can ye go on? Do ye need to rest? I wonder … I have a feeling … I think we should keep on moving, if ye can, Iseult. Let us move quickly! I’m afraid something may have happened to Isabeau.’

  Unable to prevent resentment from choking her, Iseult stumbled to her feet, and kept on walking, her hand to her head, which throbbed with invisible pain.

  They reached the long meadow above the Pass just before dawn, and paused in the edge, of the forest to examine the lay of the land. Although she was pale under the faded tam-o’-shanter, Iseult sat down with her usual grace.

  Meghan’s lips tightened as they looked down on another encampment of Red Guards, the flags on the peak of their tents fluttering in the dawn breeze.

  ‘How many o’ these blasted soldiers does she have?’ Bacaiche scowled. ‘She must have conscripted every able-bodied man in the land!’

  ‘The dragons wiped out a full legion o’ three hundred at Dragonclaw, and we saw signs o’ more on our way down. These must be fresh troops,’ Meghan mused.

  ‘How are we to get round them?’ Bacaiche asked. ‘They’ve camped right at the mouth o’ the Pass, and there’s no other way through.’

  All three lay on the ground and watched the camp begin to wake, Bacaiche and Meghan arguing about the best course of action. After a moment Iseult rolled her eyes and slipped away, knowing they would argue all morning if she let them. She slid down the hill on her stomach and approached the camp cautiously from the rear. It was easy to see the Redcloaks were not used to fighting wars. No guard was set, and the tents had been set up haphazardly, with little regard for security, so Iseult’s task was easy. Within ten minutes she had found what she was looking for and was slithering back up the hillside, taking her time so as not to overexert her tired sore body. By the time she reached the lookout, the whole camp was astir, fires being lit, horses fed, and breakfast cooked.

  ‘She probably got frightened at her first sight o’ soldiers and ran away,’ Bacaiche was saying sourly.

  ‘I do no’ think so,’ Meghan said, and Iseult was pleased to see her face was creased with concern.

  She slipped into place beside Meghan and was warmed even more to see the witch’s face relax in relief. ‘I have uniforms,’ Iseult said, and dropped her armload of red jackets, cloaks and white breeches, the cavalry uniform of the Banrìgh’s Guards.

  ‘Where did ye get those?’ Bacaiche asked, flabbergasted.

  ‘From the back o’ a tent.’ Iseult sounded as though the answer was obvious. ‘The only way we can get through their lines is if we camouflage ourselves. They’re obviously a collection o’ raw recruits from the way they’re milling around down there. I would say no-one kens anybody else, so ye and I should be able to conceal ourselves without too much trouble. Meghan, I dinna think there is any way ye could be disguised as a common soldier, particularly no’ with all that hair. So we have two choices—ye can either try and talk your way through as ye are, which I think may be risky given all that ye’ve told me about recent events. Otherwise, we could wrap ye up in one o’ these cloaks and ye could be a haughty leader. We can hang your plait down inside the cloak, see?’

  ‘And what are we going to do when they notice all these clothes missing? They’ve got to belong to someone,’ Bacaiche said disagreeably.

  ‘Och, no, I took these from the storemaster’s tent,’ Iseult said gently, as if talking to a child. She passed them to Meghan who turned them over in her hands.

  ‘They still have the seamstress’ label on them,’ she said. ‘I would say they have been freshly made.’

  ‘It is no’ a very well organised camp,’ Iseult said disapprovingly. ‘They are all very nervous. They seem to spend a lot o’ time looking at the sky, and muttering about dragons.’

  ‘Well, that is to be expected, I suppose, if they have heard about the revenge the Circle o’ Seven wreaked for the death o’ their pregnant queen.’ Meghan considered the problem seriously, and wished that she had the power of illusion—sometimes her talents seemed so unspectacular compared to some of her former brethren. Still, they perished and I survived, she told herself, and thought about possible diversions.

  ‘There is one problem that I think ye at least should have considered, Meghan,’ Bacaiche said in an injured voice. ‘Your ward here was worried about the problems o’ trying to disguise ye as a soldier. Have ye considered the problems o’ concealing these?’

  And to Iseult’s complete astonishment, Bacaiche sat up, tossed back the dirty cloak, and spread out a great pair of black wings. As long as his body, they gleamed in the dappled sunlight, rising high above his head.

  ‘Bacaiche! What if someone saw! Hide yourself,’ the wood witch snapped.

  Bacaiche folded back his wings. Even then, he looked magnificent; suddenly the burly shoulders and thick neck seemed perfectly in proportion, the haughty expression inevitable. He stared at Iseult with a dangerous gleam in his eyes. ‘How do ye propose to hide my wings, Iseult o’ the Snows? Or my talons?’ And leaning down he stripped away the rough sacking to show taloned feet, like an eagle’s claws. ‘I canna imagine the Banrìgh designing a uniform that would hide my deformities, can ye?’

  Iseult could only gape at him. She could not understand how she had not noticed before. True, he had nearly always had that revolting cloak wrapped tightly around him, but still!

  ‘Ye see our problem now, Iseult,’ Meghan said dryly. ‘Bacaiche is rather hard to conceal, particularly under close scrutiny. The Banrìgh must ken by now that the rumours are true and there is indeed a winged man roaming the countryside and causing trouble everywhere he goes.’

  Iseult could not find words. She gaped at Bacaiche, who folded his arms and stared right back at her.

  ‘I had planned to take Bacaiche to a friend o’ mine who can help us. However, I did no’ expect the countryside to be crawling with Red Guards, nor for the stupid lad to blow his cover by returning to the Tower of Two Moons. If we can just get to Tulachna Celeste, then I think we shall be safe, at least for a while …’

  Her words tailed off and Iseult guessed she was worrying about the missing Is’a’beau. Her guess was confirmed when Meghan said, half to herself, ‘I keep getting such dreadful feelings. Isabeau is in danger, I ken it!’

  Iseult turned her attention back to the camp, and began to think. ‘If we canna hide Bacaiche, we should no’ try,’ she said. ‘When they caught ye coming up through the Pass, what did they intend to do?’

  ‘The Grand-Seeker had caught me herself,’ Bacaiche said sourly. ‘She was going to take me back to Caeryla, turn me over to the Grand-Questioner for a while to wring out details o’ the Underground, then send me, broken and bleeding, down to the Banrìgh at Dùn Gorm. Ye can be sure I did no’ want to
do that!’ And he shuddered, the black wings rustling. Iseult found she had to avert her eyes from him if she was to think at all, so turned her eyes resolutely back to the camp.

  ‘So if any o’ the troops up above had caught ye, they too would try and take ye to Caeryla?’

  ‘Bound hand and foot and slung from the belly o’ a mule,’ Bacaiche grinned.

  ‘Then that is what we will do,’ Iseult said, and passed Meghan the great crimson cloak and the plumed helmet she had stolen from the camp.

  ‘What do ye mean?’ Bacaiche snapped, rearing backwards.

  ‘I mean we will tie ye hand and foot and sling ye from the belly o’ a mule.’ Iseult answered. ‘Can ye get us a mule, auld mother? I think we will need horses too.’

  ‘Och, I can call us horses,’ Meghan responded, smiling rather grimly at her new ward. ‘There are many herds o’ wild horses in these mountains. But they will have no saddle or bridle, nor will they be shod, and I canna believe the commandant o’ that camp will believe our story if we ride up on unbroken, unbridled horses.’

  ‘So what do we need? I could steal them from the camp.’

  ‘Surely they would notice?’

  ‘No’ if we had a diversion o’ some kind …’

  ‘The only diversion I’ve been able to think o’ that would work is an attack by a dragon, and indeed I do no’ think they would penetrate this far. I convinced them to attack the Red Guards at their very gate, but I think they would see an attack on soldiers at the Pass into Rionnagan as a declaration o’ war, and I just canna see the mother-dragon sanctioning that.’

  ‘But if we can make them think the dragons are on the way …’

  ‘What are ye talking about?’ Bacaiche demanded, and huddled back into his cloak.

  ‘Getting through the Pass, o’ course,’ Iseult responded, making no attempt to disguise her impatience. ‘Meghan, can ye call up the diversion? Including horses? I’ll go down and steal us some … what did ye call them? Bridles? You’d better tell me what they look like and where I’m likely to find them.’

  When, some time later, Iseult returned to their hiding spot in the trees, she dragged with her a wide variety of riding tack, including a gorgeously decorated saddle with a high pommel.

  ‘Do no’ tell me no-one’s going to miss that!’ Bacaiche said.

  ‘We need to make Meghan look like one of their commanders. That is what they use, though it’s as foolish as those gaudy clothes they wear—such easy targets they make. I itch to practise my archery on them.’ She was looking the most alive they had ever seen her, her blue eyes sparkling, the scars sharp against her flushed cheeks. ‘I hope I got everything we need. I really could no’ tell what was what!’

  Meghan had spent the time sitting cross-legged in the shelter of a great tree, her eyes closed, sending out her thoughts to any animal she could find. She was dressed in the uniform Iseult had brought her and looked surprisingly like a seanalair of the Red Guards with her strong nose and piercing eyes, her long braid hidden beneath the helmet and cloak. Iseult dressed herself quickly in the red coat and white knee-length breeches, stowing her clothes—or rather Isabeau’s clothes—away in her pack, and hoping no-one would notice the shapeliness of her calves.

  The horses came first, galloping and whinnying, their manes tossing and their hooves drumming. While Iseult and Bacaiche anxiously kept an eye on the camp in case an overvigilant sentry noticed too soon, Meghan spoke to the great stallion of the herd, who reared high over her, his hooves dangerously close to her head. The conversation seemed to go on forever, and Iseult could tell the stallion did not want any human being to cross their leg over his back, or the back of any of his herd. Meghan spoke to him gently, and let her natural charm for animals sway him. At last he cut out three old mares from his herd, and let Meghan saddle and bridle them, before leading the rest of the herd in a mad dash down the valley towards the camp.

  The stampede of horses had exactly the effect Iseult had hoped. The camp was thrown into confusion as soldiers ran to get out of the way; the seanalair stamped about, shouting orders that no-one listened to; some of the soldiers tried to catch the horses with rope, but were run down for their pains. Everyone was shouting and pointing back into the mountains. Quite a few watched the sky in fear, thinking—as Iseult had hoped—that it was a flight of dragons that had put the herd of wild horses into such a swelter.

  The stream of animals that followed seemed to confirm their fear. Stags galloped out of the forest; flocks of birds flew overhead, squawking loudly; coneys bolted and donbeags scampered. Even a pride of elven cats showed their faces before slinking back to their holt.

  ‘Can ye speak the language o’ dragons?’ Meghan asked her cousin, who was watching the effect of the animals’ flight on the soldiers with glee.

  He shook his head. ‘No, my education was interrupted quite young, if ye remember,’ he responded sarcastically.

  ‘Ye can, though, can ye no’, Iseult?’

  ‘O’ course.’

  ‘Good. I want ye to make a bugling sound, as loud as ye can. Dragon on the warpath—ye ken what I mean. I will try and enhance the sound, though that is no’ something I’ve ever had much need to do. I’ve seen it done, though, in plays and musicals put on at the Tower, so I ken it can be done.’

  Iseult nodded, took a deep breath, and waited for Meghan’s signal. When it came she opened her mouth and gave the most blood-curdling cry imaginable. It sounded just like the clamour the dragons had made following the mysterious spell on the night of the comet. Meghan, concentrating hard, was able to magically enhance the sound so it echoed from the hills. Immediately there was chaos. The animals that had been pretending to run in terror immediately began to in earnest, and the screeches of the birds, the terrified whinnying of the horses and the hoarse bellowing of the stag could not have been bettered. Down in the camp the horses were rearing and bucking, trying to escape, while soldiers milled about in a state of panic.

  They galloped down into the camp at full pelt, whipping up the horses and glancing nervously behind them. It was only the calming presence of Meghan that kept the three wild horses in thrall, though their rearing and bucking and the wild rolling of their eyes seemed added proof that dragons were in the area.

  ‘The dragons!’ Iseult shouted in as deep a voice as she could, hoping she sounded convincing. ‘They’ve wiped out our entire legion!’

  In a moment she was surrounded by a mob of soldiers, grasping the bridle of her mount and bombarding her with questions. Bacaiche, much to his angry disgust, had been bound to one of the horses by Iseult, who had taken some pleasure in ensuring the ropes were authentically tight. Iseult continued to babble about dragons and was gratified to see the many fearful glances cast back in the direction of Dragonclaw. No-one seemed to notice the mismatched tackle or that the horses were unshod.

  ‘We need to get through to Caeryla!’ Meghan commanded. ‘The Grand-Seeker must be informed o’ the latest developments, and we have a very important prisoner for her. Prepare yourselves to move north—ye are the last legion left in the Sithiche Mountains. Ye must mobilise to attack the dragons!’

  For a moment it seemed their trick was going to work, for the soldiers stood back to let them through, while others went running to get the camp on the move. However, the seanalair had not been idle and he came striding up immediately, saluting Meghan with a fist to his heart and then to his forehead. ‘Seanalair MacGrannd at your service!’

  ‘Seanalair Collene at yours!’ Meghan responded, and Iseult hoped she had said the right thing.

  ‘What is all this talk o’ dragons?’ he frowned. ‘Come to my tent and make a report.’

  ‘No time, Seanalair MacGrannd,’ Meghan answered, impressing Iseult with the timbre and resonance of her voice. Obviously the wood witch could mimic the sounds of other humans as well as those of animals. ‘The dragons struck our camp just on dawn two days ago. The Grand-Seanalair sent us to get reinforcements, and to take the prisoner to Caery
la. I fear the dragons are on our trail.’

  Iseult felt the soldiers stir all around her, and wished Meghan had not insisted that she hide most of her weapons in the pack strapped to the horse’s saddle. She felt uneasy and vulnerable without them.

  ‘I doubt very much that the dragons would come this far south,’ Seanalair MacGrannd said, and Iseult’s heart sank. ‘I want to hear your full report afore ye go through the Pass. We were given strict instructions to allow no-one through.’

  ‘And we were given strict instructions to get this prisoner to Caeryla as soon as possible!’ Meghan snapped.

  ‘I am seanalair o’ the legion, and I command ye to dismount and give me your report!’

  Meghan sat very straight on the back of the restive mare, her red cloak stirring in the breeze. Iseult got a brief glimpse of the end of her plait trailing below the hem of the cloak, and hoped no-one else had noticed. ‘Very well, if ye insist, Seanalair MacGrannd, but may I tell the Grand-Seeker Glynelda that our delay was at your instigation?’

  Seanalair MacGrannd fell back a step, dismay clear on his face. ‘The Grand-Seeker demands your presence?’

  ‘Indeed! We have here an uile-bheist that she is very anxious to have put to the Question. Any delay will displease her greatly.’

  The seanalair looked at Bacaiche, bound tightly to the saddle, his mouth gagged. ‘He does no’ look like a uile-bheist to me?’

  Meghan nodded wearily at Iseult. ‘Show him.’

  Iseult dragged back the cloak to show the great wings, now strapped tightly at Bacaiche’s side, and the taloned feet. Bacaiche took a swipe at the seanalair with one claw, and shrieked through his gag. The leader of the legion leapt back, surprise all over his face. ‘What is he? I never seen the like!’

  ‘Nor have any o’ us!’ Meghan responded. ‘Now, I must be on my way. The Grand-Seeker was very anxious indeed to examine him!’

  ‘I can imagine,’ the seanalair said, and waved them through. As they galloped down the path that led between the great cliffs and so to Rionnagan, Iseult could hear him shouting as he ordered the camp to be struck and the soldiers to march north. None of them looked very happy about it.