The Cursed Towers (19 page)

She had stolen the wizard's chest because she knew that was where he kept his spell book. She had thought all she would need to do was find the right spell in the book, follow its instructions and she would once again be safe behind the mask of glamourie. It was not so easy though. It took almost a month of constant study and repeated attempts before Maya was able to conjure the illusion and hold it for more than a few seconds. During that time, she held a shawl close about her face as if she was as horribly disfigured as Molly Pockface, sheltering in barns and under hedges where she could to avoid detection. One day she had mumbled the spell while gazing in frustration at herself in a pool of still water. To her amazement and triumph, her features changed, though only for an instant. That afternoon she bought a hand mirror at a village market. By the end of the week, she had conquered the spell of glamourie and was once again able to travel abroad without fear.

Immediately, she had searched out the Righ's army, desperate for news of her daughter and for a chance to strike at her enemies.

Now that she had the dwarf's treasure trove as well as her own hoard of gold coins, she no longer needed to sell her body for funds. However, a whore was the perfect disguise. Not one of the soldiers drinking around the campfires would ever believe she had once been their Banrigh. Still, if she did not start plying her trade, they might grow suspicious, so when a young, pimple-faced soldier clumsily approached her, she smiled, drank down the last of her ale and allowed him to lead her to his bedroll. Tomorrow he could be dead, and Maya's fortunes transformed. She did not begrudge him one last night of pleasure.

Dide yawned and stretched, hearing tired bones crack. At the sound of marching feet, he crouched back down in the shadows.

"Well, it seems we have at last put down those bluidy insubordinate bastards," a soldier said in the clipped accent of the Tirsoilleirean. "We have no' seen hair nor hide o' one in three nights, and the sergeant said they've been seen running from the city like the mangy curs they are."

"Ye've got to worry about what they're up to," his comrade said, boot heels clicking on the cobblestones.

"It's been six months since we landed in Dun Gorm, and in all that time they've been fierce as gutter rats. It seems odd to me that they've turned tail and run like that."

"Happen they've realized they canna hope to defeat us. The sergeant says there's naught to stop us controlling the city now, and soon we should break the siege o' the palace," the first soldier said as they turned the corner and passed out of sight.

Dide smiled rather grimly. The retreat of the one-time rebels from Dun Gorm had gone as smoothly as planned, and now the city was as empty as an abandoned house. Only those merchants who were trading with the Bright Soldiers and refused to give up the chance of making a profit were left, and Dide was happy to leave them to their fate. He, Cathmor the Nimble and a handful of their men were making one last sweep of the city's docks and warehouses to warn anyone who might still be in hiding before they too retreated back into the countryside. They would then lead their forces to meet Lachlan and the MacThanach at Dun Eidean, the besieged capital city of Blessem, hopefully taking the Tirsoilleirean army there by surprise.

The once grand city of Dun Gorm was a ruin. Constant bombarding by the Bright Soldiers' cannons had reduced many of the buildings to rubble, while many others had been put to the torch. Wrecked and burnt-out ships littered the harbor, and the gates, which had once protected the Berhtfane from the sea, gaped like broken teeth. Starving dogs roamed the streets looking for food, and great mounds of earth in vacant lots were a testament to the many who had died in the fight against the Bright Soldiers. Dide moved silently along the wall, keeping a sharp lookout for any more soldiers as he made his way to the far end of the docks. The water gleamed in the gray dawn light, lapping against the smashed stones below him as the tide came sweeping in from the sea. He glanced out through the mouth of the river and suddenly froze in horror.

A sea serpent was swimming up the firth, its long green body undulating through the waves, its tiny head held high. On its neck rode a scaled figure with tusks like a sea stirk, a long trident in its webbed hand. Trailing behind the serpent was a throng of Fairgean warriors mounted on great horse-eels, their black snouts rising up through the foam and sinking below it again as they galloped into shore. More Fairgean were swimming through the waves on either side, and Dide could hear a high-pitched whistling as the figure on the sea serpent pointed up the river with his sharp-pronged trident. Out to sea were several more serpents, while a long tentacle broke the smooth surface of the water some distance out as a giant octopus followed close behind. The waves were thick with the sleek, dark heads of the Fairgean as they bodysurfed to shore, long spears or tridents held close to their opalescent bodies. For a moment Dide could not move, blood pounding in his ears, then he was running down the docks as fast as his legs could carry him, not caring if anyone saw or heard him. When he reached the corner he paused only long enough to put two fingers in his mouth and whistle piercingly. Then he was running again. Behind him he heard an ululating wail as the sea serpent swam into the harbor, then alarm bells began ringing. Dide whistled again and was relieved to hear his call returned. Then Cathmor the Nimble was swinging down out of a burnt-out warehouse, his lean cheeks drained of all color.

"We have to get out o' here fast," he cried. "Have ye seen what the tide brings in?" Together they raced through the streets, their comrades close behind. They reached their hide-out and untied the horses, hastily tying their packs behind the saddles. Three of their men were missing, but they did not hesitate in mounting and riding out at a gallop. They had all heard the stories of how the Fairgean had swept up the river last autumn, killing all living creatures on its shores. Fairgean warriors could survive out of water for up to six hours and they used that time to penetrate as far into the countryside as possible. They were as deadly on the ground as they were in the water, and nearly as swift. Even worse, the Fairgean had been known to swim through underground water and sewerage systems, emerging in farmyard wells to kill any human or animal within their reach. Dide and his men had no intention of staying in Dim Gorm a moment longer than necessary. They only hoped they had time to escape the city before the onslaught of sea warriors reached the shore. Behind them they heard the ululation of the sea serpent, and then the sound of shouting and the clash of weapons.

"Well, at least that'll keep the Bright Soldiers out o' our hair for a while," Dide shouted to Cathmor with a grin, spurring his horse on with a wild whoop.

"Aye, but for how long?" Cathmor shouted back, and bent lower over his horse's neck. With much blowing of trumpets, the gates of Blairgowrie opened soon after dawn. A cavalcade of Red Guards rode out, followed by a long line of men-at-arms carrying heavy pikes. Even Duncan Ironfist looked grim at the sheer size of the company. With so many of Lachlan's army leaving under the cover of darkness, they had little more than two thousand men, and only eight hundred of those were mounted. Grand-Seeker Renshaw had the advantage of numbers and position, with the hill at his back and the town to retreat to if things went badly. Lachlan and his army had only hastily dug fortifications and a tangle of tents and picket lines. Canvas walls were not much protection against a pike or a sword. All the long morning the fighting surged around the walled town, the ground being churned into bloodied mud and littered with the bodies of the dead and injured. A heavy mist obscured the battlefield, and so for some hours Lachlan's troops held their own, fighting with reckless courage and ardor, their gray cloaks melting into the fog. Soon after noon, however, the superior skills and experience of Renshaw's men slowly and inexorably forced the Righ's army backward. Rain began to fall, making the footing even more treacherous. More and more of Lachlan's men fell, unable to withstand the charge of the cavalry. First one, then a few, then many of the Graycloaks began to flee the carnage, scrambling back over the bodies of their comrades. Lachlan tried to stem the tide, but at last, with a despairing cry, he too spurred his horse away from the battlefield, Iain galloping close behind.

The commander of the Red Guards smiled and whipped his horse after them. "Pursue!" he cried. "Ye can kill the rabble, but make sure ye catch the
uile-bheist
alive!" The cavalry thundered down the fields, chasing Lachlan and his men as they scrambled toward a narrow pass in the surrounding hills. As the commander entered the ravine, he saw Lachlan only a few hundred yards ahead, disappearing into the drifting mist. He lifted his sword, urging his destrier into a canter with a triumphant shout. His troops surged after him, straining to see through the thickening rain. Suddenly the commander felt himself pitched forward as his horse plunged into a quagmire up to its withers.

He shouted in alarm as another horse crashed into his mount's rump, driving him deeper into the mire. All round him were shouts as the Red Guards struggled to climb out of the thick, sucking mud. Only then did the commander remember that the small stream which ran through the ravine meandered through marshy ground for some distance. The heavy rain had turned the marsh into a veritable bog. Twisting in his saddle, he saw many of his men-at-arms had fallen into the marsh and were slowly being sucked under by the weight of their armor, some trampled by the panicking horses. Suddenly the long, slanting lines of rain became arrows, fired from above. The cries of alarm became screams of pain. As those who had been at the rear tried desperately to drag their comrades free of the swamp, gray-clad soldiers swarmed from their concealment behind rocks and bushes and fell on them from behind. As a narrow-tipped arrow smashed through his armor and into his breast, the commander realized he had been lured into a trap.

Lachlan reined in his horse to an abrupt halt and flung himself from the saddle. "Has it worked?" he cried anxiously. "Did they follow us into the marsh?"

"Aye, it worked," Meghan replied, opening her eyes and breaking her concentration. They looked out into the rain and mist, which she and the witches had summoned, and smiled rather grimly. It had been a terrible risk, this plan of Iseult's, but they had not had the time or the resources for a long siege, and so trickery had been their only hope. If Renshaw had not sent his men out to engage with the Graycloaks, Lachlan would have had little hope to breaking the impasse. They could have spent a year camped outside Blairgowrie's stout walls, as the Bright Soldiers had been camped outside Rhyssmadill and Dun Eidean. Gradually disease, lack of foodstuffs and clean water, and the diminishing of hope would have wreaked as great a havoc among Lachlan's men as among the defendants of the town. Lachlan had needed a resounding victory, and he had needed it fast. So, although it had been hard for him, he had swallowed his pride and allowed himself to look like a young, vainglorious fool who had more courage than sense. It had been Iseult who had convinced him. She had raised her serious blue eyes and said to the war council, "To win, deceive."

"What do ye mean?" the MacThanach had asked, impressed against his will.

"To win, deceive," she repeated. "If ye can attack, feign unfitness. If ye are active, feign inaction. If ye are near, make it appear ye are far away. When far away, make it appear ye are near. Thus will ye triumph." The whole council stared at her, feeling uneasy for such tactics did not fit their ideas of chivalry. Iseult read their thoughts and smiled disdainfully. "Do ye wish to win this war?" They nodded, and she again quoted dreamily, "To win, deceive." So the Graycloaks had acted out an elaborate masquerade, designed to impress their lack of experience upon Renshaw and his men and to tempt them into rash action. The plan had worked beyond all expectations.

"I could no' believe it when I heard the Grand-Seeker had given ye till dawn to retreat, else he was riding out to engage," Meghan said, her gray hair plastered to her head despite the plaid she had lifted to protect her against the rain. "I thought we would have to spend some weeks pretending to build siege machines and to mine out the foundations before he finally lost patience. He was even more arrogant than we had thought!"

"He has reason for his arrogance," Lachlan raged. "Isabeau has betrayed us. She has taken the Fairge babe to our enemy! Half the countryside will flock to Ren-shaw's side if they fall for his filthy lies!"

"I do no' believe it!" Meghan cried.

"Well, believe it! I saw the babe wi' my own eyes, and so did my entire camp. Renshaw was no'

surprised when he saw the number o' my men falling—he expected half the troops to desert at the news he had the babe. I am only surprised more did no' actually run away, instead o' merely pretending to!"

"I saw the babe t-t-too," Iain said somberly. "She had the M-M-MacCuinn white lock, no d-d-doubt about it."

"It must be a trick," Meghan said. "Isabeau would never deliver Bronwen into the hands o' your enemies. She knows the implications as well as ye do yourself."

"She could have been captured," Gwilym said, his face set in stern lines. "I am sure she would no' give the babe into Renshaw's hands o' her own free will."

"What could have happened to her?" Meghan asked anxiously. "I had no premonition o' danger."

"We must make haste to Blairgowrie before news o' the trap reaches Renshaw," Lachlan said. "I must get the babe back in my hands."

They turned back to the battlefield and saw the Graycloaks had won a decisive victory. Those of the Red Guards who had not drowned in the marsh had been cut down by the archers hidden in the rocks above the ravine, or by the foot soldiers who had waited for the Red Guards to charge past them before attacking from the rear. Quickly the Graycloaks tore the red flags from the hands of the standard bearers and dressed themselves in the torn and bloodied uniforms of the dead Red Guards. It was not enough to lure the garrison away from the town; Lachlan had to win the town itself and exact punishment on those who had defied him if he was to win the respect and support of those who still wavered in their allegiance.