The Cursed Towers (34 page)

"I do no' see what all that has to do with me!"

"It is because o' your wings," Elfrida said. "And all ken ye once had claws like a bird. In some auld drawings the Archfiend has hooves like a goat, in others they are like talons. In Tirsoilleir we are taught we must resist this fallen angel, who seeks to turn us from the path o' righteousness. As long as the Bright Soldiers believe ye are the Prince o' Darkness, they will fight to the last breath in their body to overthrow ye, else they face eternal damnation."

Lachlan sat down heavily, his glossy black wings still tense and erect. "So it is a fight to the death."

"No' necessarily," Elfrida replied, leaning forward. "It is true we could use this to our advantage. Auld Clootie is regarded with such dread that we could cause absolute terror in the ranks, and some at least would break and run. I have a better idea though." She took a moment to gather her thoughts then said softly, "Ye ken I was raised in prison and had never walked freely or seen the whole wide sky until I was sent to Arran to marry Iain."

The lairds all nodded, many with open sympathy on their faces.

"A few years before I was released, another prisoner was brought to the Black Tower where I was incarcerated. Only the most important prisoners were kept there, the ones who were meant never to see daylight again. I heard much about this man from my gaolers. He was a prophet called Killian the Listener, for it was said he heard the voices o' the angels. Killian the Listener said the General Assembly had grown arrogant and corrupt. He said the elders had grown away from the true meaning o' the Word and sought only their own power and material comfort. He grew famous in Bride for standing on the steps o' the cathedral and denouncing the Fealde as she came to hear the service.

"Killian the Listener warned the elders that God our Father would no' tolerate their pride and corruption. He said the dark-winged angel o' death would come wi' his flaming sword and topple them from their gilded altars and then the people o' the Bright Land would be free o' their terrible tyranny. He lost his ears and his liberty for his audacity, the elders saying the divine voice he heard was that o' the Archfiend and not o' our Holy God."

"They chopped off his ears?" Lachlan was aghast.

"Aye, even though he told them it was no' with the ears o' the body that he heard, but with the ears o' the soul."

"But what has this earless prophet to do with rescuing the people o' Dim Eidean?" the MacThanach boomed.

"She means to make the Bright Soldiers think Lachlan is this angel," Iseult said, her serious blue gaze intent on the other woman's face. Elfrida nodded, glad to be understood so quickly.

"But did ye no' call it an angel o' death?" Lachlan cried. "How is that any better than this other angel ye spoke o', the fallen one."

"The angel o' death is no force o' evil," Elfrida re plied. "He stands on God's right hand and is called the Prince o' Light, as the Archfiend is called the Prince o Darkness. He is the warrior angel, the angel o'

vengeance who fights for the faithful. He is God's messenger on earth. If we can make the Tirsoilleirean army believe ye are the angel o' death, they will fall down before ye and throw down their arms. O'

course, the berhtildes shall say it is more trickery on the part o' Auld Clootie and punish cruelly those who believe, but the Tirsoilleirean have always been willing to be martyrs. Once they are convinced the Holy God our Father is angry with the Fealde and the elders, they shall take up arms against them, I am sure o' it!"

"And how are we to convince them?" Lachlan said skeptically. "They have traveled hundreds o' miles on this crusade o' theirs. Ye think they will go home because I tell them to?"

"They might," Elfrida replied seriously. "Particularly if the ground is prepared by another seer. Prophets are much feared and respected in the Bright Land. Ye have told me how Jorge traveled around telling how a winged warrior would come to save the land. Could he no' do so again? If I taught him the language o' fire and brimstone, he could surely win the Bright Soldiers to our side wi' the telling of his prophecies."

"Nay!" Meghan exclaimed. "It is much too dangerous! What would the berhtildes do to him if they caught him? There must be another way!"

Jorge turned his blind head toward her. "There is no better way," he said gently. "Do no' fret, auld friend. I have seen what I must do. It shall be as the NicHilde decrees."

Meghan protested again, her face creased with worry, but the blind seer was adamant. Since his fainting fit in the winter, he was frailer than ever, his opaque eyes sunken back into his skull, his limbs as thin as sticks. His kindly old face was often shadowed in melancholy and he had confessed to Meghan that he slept uneasily, all his dreams filled with visions of blood and fire. He would not return to the safety of Lucescere though, despite all Meghan's urging, for he knew his powers would surely be needed. When Meghan once more protested that he was too precious to be risked, he shook his head at her and smiled.

"Ye canna say that, my dear, when ye risk yourself each day. What would I do in Lucescere when all whom I hold dear are here at the battlefront? Nay, let me alone, Meghan. What Ea wills will be." The war council broke up again into talk and argument. For some minutes the controversy raged, then Iseult leant forward, her scarred face a little flushed as she strove to repress her exasperation. "To win, deceive," she said. "Elfrida, how else can we trick these Bright Soldiers o' yours into believing Lachlan is this angel o' light?"

Elfrida smiled. "I shall need to teach him some new songs," she replied. "And can anyone here play a trumpet?"

Jorge leant on his staff, his old hands trembling, as he listened to the clatter of horses' hooves approaching along the road. He waited until they had drawn abreast of him, then stepped out from behind the shelter of the trees. The two horses in the lead shied, neighing loudly. Their riders cursed and dragged their mounts' heads back. Jorge raised his blind face and pointed directly at the berhtilde.

"Night-winged and flame-eyed, the angel o' death shall strike ye, for ye have forgotten the Word o'

God," he cried. "The teeth o' beasts shall gnash ye, the claws o' birds shall slash ye, the venom o' things crawling in the dust shall sicken your blood. For ye have been led astray by false words and false promises! Oh, ye who call evil good and good evil, who mistake darkness for light and light for darkness, who put bitter for sweet and sweet for bitter! The arrows o' God the Father have been loosed against ye."

The berhtilde shrank back in superstitious terror, but almost immediately regained control of herself. She drew her sword and spurred her horse forward, crying, "Die, false prophet, creature o' the Archfiend!

Deus vult!"

A raven screeched, beating its midnight-black wings around the berhtilde's head. To her consternation, the horse reared, then bucked her off. She landed heavily on the stones of the road, directly at Jorge's feet. He pointed his frail hand at her and said, "The anger o' God the Father knows no bounds. The very mountains shall quake, the sea shall rise up and sweep across the land, the whirlwind shall reap its bitter harvest, his wrath shall have no bounds until your false-hearted leaders are all swept away and truth and mercy again prevail."

The berhtilde struggled to rise but invisible chains held her prisoner. She tried to speak but her tongue was a stone in her mouth. Jorge bent over and touched her between the eyes and she fell back in a faint. He straightened and swept the rest of the company with white, clouded eyes. "The angel o' retribution comes," he said gently, then turned and stepped away.

The soldiers glanced at each other in fear and consternation. Most knew of Killian the Listener and were dismayed to hear another prophet spouting his words. They remembered, too, reports of the birds of the air and the beasts of the fields fighting at the command of their enemy. They had been told of rats swarming out of sewers to attack those battalions besieging towns, of swarms of wasps descending upon Bright Soldiers as they marched through fields, of cavalry horses becoming unaccountably spooked and throwing their riders in the midst of battle. They had heard that dogs of all shapes and sizes fought at the side of the heathen warriors, and that wolves obeyed their commands. Some had themselves seen the black-winged warrior with the golden eyes and could not help wondering if the words of the prophet were true and this was indeed the messenger of God.

By the time the soldiers had gathered their wits, the old, blind man had disappeared into the forest. The captain sent scouts crashing through the undergrowth in search of him, but they found no bent twig, no footprint, not even a bruised leaf to show he had even been there. There was only the raven hovering far above them, like a hole torn in the blue of the sky, to prove it had not all been a dream.
One for sorrow,
the captain thought and felt a shudder run down his spine.

It was a red dawn, the thin clouds stained with the light of the blurred, crimson sun that crept up from behind the low hills. The Bright Soldiers camped in orderly rows and circles around Dun Eidean glanced at the sky with troubled expressions. They had come to view the changes in the weather as omens for the future. When the sky was clear and the sun shone, it augured well. When the horizon was heavy with rain clouds or when mist rose from the fields, it meant only trouble.

The outer walls of Dun Eidean lay in rubble, squads of soldiers in silver mail and long white cloaks patrolling the narrow streets of the town. Many of the buildings in the town had been burnt or demolished, but those still standing served as shelter for the berhtildes and the officers. White pennants marked with a scarlet fitche cross fluttered from the rooftops, and from the tents and pavilions that encircled the hill town. Only one flag defied the dominance of the scarlet cross. Green and gold, carrying the design of the MacThanach scythe, it flew defiantly from the castle battlements, mocking the soldiers who marched below.

Standing on the battlements was an old woman, a green and yellow plaid wrapped close about her body against the wind. Her face was very thin and pale, the bony nose standing out from the sunken cheeks like the prow of a ship, but her hazel eyes were alive with determination. She shook her clenched hand at the besiegers as if it were a gauntleted fist instead of a knob of thin, twisted, vein-knotted fingers. Standing with her was a middle-aged woman who had once been plump but whose skin now hung in folds. She was gray with exhaustion, but her jaw was set firmly, deep lines running from the corner of her compressed lips to her drooping chins.

"Come in from the cold, my lady," she implored. "It does ye no guid to stand here in this wind. If the Mac-Cuinn is riding to our aid, we shall hear soon enough. Ye mun rest and save your strength. If ye should fail, ye ken the hearts in our bodies shall fail too, and then the castle shall surely fall." The old woman turned on her fiercely. "Do no' be a fool, Muire," she snapped. "We have withstood those cruel-hearted bastards for nigh on twenty-two months. Do ye think I would let ye give in now, even if I should die in my sleep tonight? I'd reach out from the very grave and throttle ye if such a thought should even cross your foolish mind. The MacCuinn shall come, never ye doubt, and he shall send these piddling soldier-lads whimpering home with their tail between their legs. Has no' that auld gypsy friend o'

yours promised it?"

Muire nodded, though the lines of anxiety between her brows deepened. It had been almost a month since she had last spoken with Enit Silverthroat through her scrying bowl, and Muire could not help the growing trepidation which gnawed at her every moment of every day. Dun Eidean had not been provisioned for such a long siege, having been at peace for hundreds of years and the attack of the Bright Soldiers having come with little warning. The castle was crowded with folk from the surrounding countryside and the town, most of them old and feeble, or young and weak. The flower of Dun Ei-dean's youth and strength lay wasted on the battlefield outside the town. Only a handful of soldiers remained to protect the castle walls, and for all the Dowager Banpri-onnsa's brave words, Muire knew they could not withstand the Bright Soldiers much longer. Hunger and illness were taking their toll. Every day more corpses were tossed over the battlements in the hope disease would spread through the encampment below and do the job of the arrows Dim Eidean no longer had.

"Whatever the cost, we must carry the yoke," the old woman said. "Never let it be said the clan o' the Mac-Thanach faltered under the load. My son shall come, and the MacCuinn with him, and we shall rebuild Dun Eidean, stronger than ever."

"Aye, my lady," Muire said. "But will ye no' come in? It looks like rain and ye shall do none o' us any guid if ye fall ill and give me the trouble o' nursing ye."

The old woman gave a little laugh and let her maid draw her away from the edge. Blood red, the sun heaved itself clear of the horizon, a gray, mizzling rain drifting across the ruins of the town. The harquebusiers sighed and huddled into their cloaks, knowing there would be no attack today. The rain would dampen their gunpowder and their fuse, rendering their harquebuses useless once again. Under their breaths they cursed the Fealde who had described the golden fields of Blessem lying open and vulnerable under a warm sun. Never had they known such a miserable climate or such stubborn defendants, and they fervently wished they were home again in Tirsoilleir. At the very edge of the camp, a squad of Bright Soldiers were making their dawn patrol, as unhappy and uncomfortable as the harquebusiers. Before them the trampled fields stretched as far as the eye could see, bloodied and charred. No living thing stirred, no bird sang or insect chirruped. The small loch that lay in the dip of the valley was choked with refuse, its shores all churned into mud. Piles of ash showed where the funeral pyres were lit each day. Not only were the casualties of both sides incinerated there, but also those Tirsoilleirean soldiers who had tried to desert or had disobeyed orders or were too badly wounded to fight on. Although none of the squad discussed it, they had all heard of the lad with the miraculous healing hands who cured the sick and wounded, regardless of race or religion. All secretly hoped that, should they be wounded, the enemy would find them. If their own side retrieved them, all they could hope for would be a quick dagger thrust and a fiery mass funeral. The morale of the Bright Soldiers was very low. They had not eaten a decent meal in months; they were sick of the war and uneasy about the reports of a blind prophet roaming the countryside south of Dim Eidean. The prophet's words were repeated in mutters around the fires at night, and the pastor of the camp had begun to preach impassioned sermons against him. The berhtildes were harsher than ever in their punishments, anyone caught trying to run away dying a slow and horrible death. The patrols around the perimeter of the camp were as much to keep people in as to guard against attack from without, a duty that made the soldiers of the dawn squad most uncomfortable.