The Cursed Towers (46 page)

"Call Gwilym the Ugly in," Lachlan said, grinning. "I think it is time we made auld MacBrann walk again." Mist hung heavily over the dark trees, and the sentry crossed his arms over his breast and rubbed vigorously. His armor was ice cold to the touch and his white cloak did very little to warm him. He peered out into the thick, wooly whiteness and wished he were back at home. He heard a twig crack and shrank back into the shelter of the hemlock tree.

Unlike the berhtildes and the priests, he had no desire to convert these witch-loving heretics to the One God. He himself was no great lover of the Kirk, but all Tirsoil-leirean had to do their military duty, and he had been unlucky enough to be conscripted into the invading army. Here he was, enduring a bitter winter camped outside the tallest, stoutest walls he had ever seen in his life, when he could have been toasting his toes in front of his own fire. For two years they had been besieging this fortress and none of their attacks had made the slightest impression on Rhyssmadill's walls. Most of their cannon-balls fell harmlessly into the ravine or knocked a few boulders flying from the rocky walls of the crag on which the palace was built. Their catapults and mangonels were just as useless. The only fighting they had seen in two years was against the ferocious sea-faeries who twice a year rode into the firth on their sea serpents and forced them to scramble to safety in the hills or countryside.

He and his fellow soldiers were cold, hungry and more than a little apprehensive. Rumors of ghosts and curses and spells were being whispered around the campfires, making them all edgy and unhappy. Only a few days ago he had himself seen the walleyed prophet who had been plaguing their troops. He had appeared out of the mist, pointing his frail, shaking hand directly at the soldiers and intoning, "Doom to those who disturb the peace o' the dead. Doom to those who dare defy she who cuts the thread. Doom!" By the time they had gathered their wits together and gone after him, the strange old man had gone. Although they searched the parklands with drawn swords and flaming torches, he had simply disappeared. Their berh-tilde ordered a party of twelve soldiers to once again search the tomb that lay in the heart of the park. They did so reluctantly, their swords trembling in their gaunt-leted fists. The Bright Soldiers had a profound respect for prophets. All there remembered Killian the Listener and knew he had foretold the downfall of the elders of the Kirk. Everyone knew about the riot at Dun Eidean, and the appearance of the angel of death. They knew many of their comrades-in-arms had thrown down their weapons and defected to the army of the winged warrior, and only the threat of the berhtildes prevented them from defying their officers and doing the same.

The tomb was cold and silent, though all felt as if the stone ravens perched on the rim of the scrolled pillars were watching them. Thrusting their torches into every antechamber, the soldiers suddenly heard a weird swishing sound and spun around, swords raised. Floating down the steps was the figure that had been lying on the dais. His eyes glowed with unearthly green light, and he moaned eerily. His mouth was stretched into a travesty of a grin, and his hands groped for them. As one the twelve soldiers turned and fled.

The sentry shuddered at the memory. That ghostly figure still haunted his dreams. He just hoped it was not an omen of coming death, for he greatly wished to see his home again and drink apple cider on his porch on a long summer evening. He shifted his shoulders, still raw from the whipping he had endured. Half their number had been executed for their cowardice. He was just grateful that he was one of the six who had survived, even though they had been severely beaten and given night duty around the tomb, much to their horror.

Again he peered out into the mist. For several hours he had heard soft sounds—hurried footsteps, leaves rustling, a horrible dragging sound. He shivered and huddled back against the hard bole of the tree. Although he hated and feared the berhtildes, he feared ghosts even more. He would stay quiet and still and hope the phantom sounds disappeared with the night.

Trumpets sounded with a flourish. A white-clad herald strode to the edge of the ravine, carrying a pennant marked with a scarlet fitche cross. He unrolled a scroll and began to read out the Tirsoilleirean army's demands. He had done this many times over the past two years and his voice was flat and rather hurried. Once he reached the end of the scroll, he turned to go back to the meager shelter of his tent without waiting for any reply. The faint sound of a shout from the palace on the opposite side of the ravine stopped him in his tracks.

The captain of the garrison was leaning over the battlements of the gatehouse, his hands cupped over his mouth to try and make his words carry further. Even so, the dawn wind caught the sound and carried it away. The herald cupped his hand to his ear and the captain made a sweeping motion with his hands, as if inviting them in. Then his head disappeared from view. To the herald's complete astonishment, he soon heard a loud grating as the drawbridge began to lower. He turned and ran ponderously back toward the pavilions, his heavy armor and the rough ground making his progress difficult. By the time the drawbridge had crashed down, a company of cavaliers and infantry had hurriedly been ordered into place. Caught between suspicion and elation, the Tirsoilleirean seanalair ordered them to cross the drawbridge and investigate.

"We know there can only be a handful o' defendants left and they must be weak indeed from hunger, but we had best make sure they have no tricks up their sleeve," he said to the captain of the berhtildes, a massive woman with one pendulous breast.

She nodded, saying, "Aye, they must be desperate by now, so many dead they've thrown over the cliffs this past winter. They have sent no emissary out, though, which makes me doubt they mean to surrender."

"Then why open the drawbridge?" the seanalair answered, waving the soldiers forward. "They must have seen the size o' our encampment. They canna hope to withstand us."

The foot soldiers marched across the slender stone bridge and then onto the wooden drawbridge, their boots sounding like the rattle of hailstones. As they passed under the sharp points of the portcullis they glanced up apprehensively as if expecting it to come crashing down upon their heads. It did not move, however, and they disappeared into the barbican.

On their signal the cavalry trotted forward, their horses as heavily armored as the riders, who had their helmets lowered over their faces.

Beyond the portcullis was a long tunnel running through the thick enclosure wall and under the barbican. It led out into a courtyard surrounded by the solid, fortified walls of the gatehouse. The only windows were long, narrow slits and the ironbound oak doors leading into the watchtowers were all locked. All was quiet.

The horses shifted uneasily and the captain of the cavaliers dismounted, issuing terse orders to ram the doors open. Then one of the foot soldiers tried the inner gate and found it unlatched. With shouts of excitement, they flung it open and ran through to the outer bailey. Beyond was the palace, enclosed within the inner wall. Its tall spires and towers soared above the walls, which were of much older and cruder workmanship.

Confident now, the soldiers spread out, searching through the maze of stone walkways beyond. The original keep had been designed to withstand just such an attack as this, however, and a complicated arrangement of towers, protected gates and ramps forced the attackers to follow a route devised by the defenders. Before they knew what was happening, the soldiers were picked off by archers hidden behind the watchtowers' battlements or by guards concealed within the walls.

Meanwhile, the soldiers milling around in the courtyard were suddenly deluged with boiling oil. There were screams of agony as they fell writhing to the ground. Flaming brands were tossed out the slit windows and those soldiers to the rear leapt back in alarm as the oil exploded into flame. The fallen soldiers were engulfed in fire, rolling in agony on the cobblestones in a vain attempt to extinguish the conflagration.

Holding their shields above their heads to protect them from the boulders now falling from the battlements, the soldiers again tried to batter down the doors. Again boiling oil poured down from the windows, but the soldiers below were protected by their shields and most of it splattered on the ground without causing harm. The Bright Soldiers ran back as flaming torches were again tossed down and waited until the flame had spluttered out before once more trying to batter down the thick oak doors. At last they were smashed in, but the first soldiers to venture through were speedily killed by the' defenders hiding within.

Within the confines of the gatehouse, the Bright Soldiers' advantage of numbers was lost. They had to fight their way in over the bodies of their fallen comrades, only to be met by soldiers far better nourished and rested than they. The Bright Soldiers had been camped outside Rhyssmadill for so long, hunger, disease and a depression of spirits had weakened them, and the unexpected ferocity of the defense took them by surprise.

More Bright Soldiers were pounding down the drawbridge, making the inner courtyard so crowded it was hard to move. The cavalry captain tried to wave the reinforcements back but they misunderstood his gesture and surged inside, almost knocking him off his feet. A few of the great destriers reared, excited by the smell of blood and the sound of swords clashing, and there were screams as foot soldiers were knocked down and trampled underfoot.

At last the sheer mass of soldiers forced the defenders inside the gatehouse back, and they ran out onto the battlements, locking the doors behind them. The Bright Soldiers down in the outer bailey saw them and ran with yells of rage and excitement to engage them. The doors into each watchtower were tightly locked, however, and as the soldiers tried to break them down, they too were deluged with boiling oil and ignited with flaming brands.

Lachlan and Iseult were watching from the battlements of the inner wall. Every now and again one would issue a crisp command, and soldiers would run to obey. A squad of Tirsoilleirean soldiers fought their way through the chaos of the gatehouse, carrying the sharpened trunk of a felled tree with which to pound the gate into the inner bailey. With a ferocious snarl, Lachlan snapped at the archers hiding behind the merlons. They leapt to their feet and fired through the embrasures. The soldiers below fell beneath the rain of arrows, the heavy ram crushing many as it crashed to the ground. More Bright Soldiers came running to pick up the ram again, but again and again the arrows rained down. Soon the ground beneath the inner wall was piled high with the bodies of the Tirsoilleirean, but still they kept coming, climbing over the corpses of the slain to try and ram the gate down. Great cauldrons of boiling oil were tipped over the battlements, drenching the thick tree trunk and splattering those who struggled to carry it while still holding their shields over their heads. Then the longbowmen dipped their arrows in barrels of burning pitch and shot them into the ram. The oil ignited and the ram began to smolder. Soon the flame had crept up its length and it was burning merrily. Meanwhile, the doors from the watchtowers onto the rampart had been broken down and fighting now surged all along the top of the outer wall. Although the Graycloaks were well rested and well prepared, they were vastly outnumbered and were slowly being forced back, overwhelmed by the number of white-clad soldiers still pouring in over the drawbridge.

The Bright Soldiers carried tall ladders with them, which they tried to raise against the inner wall. At first the defenders were easily able to throw them down, but soon there were so many men climbing the rungs that those above had trouble pushing them off. The defenders poured burning oil down the rungs and many of the soldiers jumped off, willing to risk broken bones rather than being burnt to death. Then sharp-eyed Iseult saw a wagon piled high with a hastily dismantled siege tower being whipped across the stone bridge. Behind it trundled another wagon armed with a massive trebuchet, capable of catapulting huge iron balls and boulders nearly three hundred yards. It would certainly do a great deal of damage to Rhyssma-dill's defenses if the Bright Soldiers were able to get it through to the outer bailey. Iseult gripped Lachlan's arm and pointed. "Time, do ye think?" she said. They looked about them and saw that the sheer force of numbers was slowly overwhelming their own defense. Grimly Lachlan nodded. "Aye, I think so," he answered. Lachlan beckoned to Parian, who ran to his side, his face white with fear. "Call the Key-bearer," Lachlan snapped. "It is time for her and the witches to do their work." Meghan, Jorge and Gwilym hobbled out of the corner turret where they had been sheltering and Dughall came striding along the battlement, Iain on his heels. They had already prepared a circle of power and each of the five witches hastily took up positions at the points of the pentagram drawn within the circle. They held hands and, as the wheels of the first wagon clattered onto the wooden drawbridge, shut their eyes and concentrated. Suddenly the drawbridge disintegrated beneath the weight. With screams of terror, the carthorses were flung down into the chasm, the wagon plunging after. The horses pulling the second wagon had already set foot on the drawbridge and they too fell, the weight of the great catapult propelling the wagon over the edge. Down, down, into the raging torrent the wagons fell, to be smashed to pieces on the rocks below.

"Shame about the horses," Lachlan said tightly.

Iseult nodded, her face grim. She could see the rage and consternation of the troops left on the far shore, and the sudden panic of the soldiers trapped within the palace. Without hope of reinforcements or retreat, they could be slowly and comfortably slaughtered at the defendants' leisure. For the next hour there was close hand-to-hand fighting all through the outer bailey and along the rampart, but gradually the Bright Soldiers were overcome and those who were not killed were taken prisoner and herded down to the palace cellars where they were left under lock and guard. Meanwhile, the Bright Soldiers on the far shore had not been idle. With renewed fury they had rearmed their cannons and trebuchets and begun firing at the palace perched on its finger of stone. Most of the boulders and cannonballs fell harmlessly into the ravine, but a few pounded into the outer walls; then the witches brought rain sweeping in from the sea to dampen their fuses and gunpowder and render the cannons useless once again.