The Pool of Two Moons (48 page)

"Aye," Dughall whispered. He drew Jaspar back into the shelter of the wall, dread coiled like a snake in his belly. They were unarmed, dressed only in thin nightgowns and slippers. For the Bright Soldiers to have penetrated the Righ's own suite meant the guards must be dead. Any moment the Tirsoilleirean would realize the Righ's bed was empty, and they would search the suite.

"They will murder Maya!"

"Quietly, my Righ, else they will find and murder us," Dughall replied, casting his mind about for someone who could help them. He sent an urgent mind-message to Latifa, hoping she was awake, hoping she would heed the call. He knew the old cook worshipped the ground on which the Righ trod and had the force of character to overcome any objections the guards might have to obeying her orders. From the harbor came the sound of explosions. The wind turned acrid, smoke billowing past the spire. It was brown against the pale sky. Within the room there was the sound of shouting. The Bright Soldiers had evidently discovered the Righ was missing from his bed. Dughall pressed back against the wall, one hand clamped on the Righ's thin arm. The curtains swished aside and a man stepped out, a dagger held at the ready.

In one clean, swift action, Dughall stepped forward and kicked the soldier hard in the small of his back. The man stumbled forward and half fell over the stone balustrade. For a moment he teetered, shouting with alarm, the knife falling from his grasp. Dughall did not wait, but caught the man about the legs and tipped him over. With a scream he fell, his white-clad body tumbling over and over. It took him only a few seconds to fall hundreds of feet to the steep-angled roof below. He landed with a sickening thud. His witch senses screaming beware, Dughall whirled around in time to see another man rushing toward him through the billowing curtains. He too wore chain mail beneath his white surcoat, the scarlet fitche cross like a stain of blood on his torso. Dughall had time only to lurch sideways as the dagger in the soldier's hand whistled past him. It struck the stone wall, missing his stomach by inches, but before Dughall had time to do more than regain his balance, the dagger struck again. It penetrated deep into his side, bringing with it a cold so intense Dughall could do nothing more than cry aloud and fall to his knees. The dagger stabbed again and Dughall threw up what power he could to deflect the blade. The soldier hissed through his teeth as the dagger was wrenched awry in his hand and kicked Dughall brutally in his wound, crying, "Sorcery!"

For a moment Dughall could muster no will, no desire, to strike back. He forced his eyelids to open and saw the burly figure sail over his head. His eyes were wide open, staring with terror, his mouth shrieking. Dughall clutched his bleeding wound with both his hands and looked up at Jaspar. The Righ's hand was stretched out, the fingers splayed. Horror and triumph were mingled together on his face. He said shakily,

"Seems I have more Talent left than I thought I did."

A long line of Tirsoilleirean marched up the highway, the rising sun glinting on their silver mailshirts and the winding line of their pikes. As they marched, the Bright Soldiers surveyed the rich countryside with covetous eyes. They did not notice that the fields were empty of workers, despite it being harvest time and the sun already risen. Neither did they notice the absence of the fine flocks for which Blessem was famous. Not one white fleecy sheep or one milk-heavy goat was to be seen anywhere in the meadows, although the goat-keep should have called the goats to pasture hours ago. Unheeding they marched on, filled with the glow of righteousness. They were professional soldiers, not farmers. Most had lived all their life in the military barracks in Bride, and they had a profound contempt for the farmers who provided their food and materials.

The Berhtilde raised her hand, and the long line of soldiers stopped in perfect time. She rose in her stirrups and stared down the valley. On a low hillside to the west the walls and spires of Dim Eidean rose above the placid waters of a small loch. The soldiers fingered their swords and harquebuses and prepared themselves for the battle to come. They had already sent on their messengers to beguile the city and confidently expected to find it open and waiting for them. They knew the prionnsa and his family were still traveling back from the Lammas Congress, so there was no one in the city to take command. The Berhtilde frowned. Although the city was too far away to see more than its shape, she did not share the confidence of her soldiers. It had occurred to her that more people should be out and about. Blessem was closely populated, the villages lying no more than a day's walk away from each other. Yet they had seen no one since they had struck camp and marched for Dun Eidean. She shrugged and gave the order to march on.

By the time they reached the shores of the loch, the soldiers were as grim-faced as she was. Not only were the gates of the city shut tight, but outside a large force of men were drawn up in squares and columns. Many were dressed in the uniform of the city soldiery, but there were also five hundred men and women armed with pitchforks, axes and rusty swords. There was implacable determination on their faces. With a curse, the Berhtilde realized all their advantages of surprise, numbers and position were lost. The Blessem folk had the walls at their backs and advantage of height, and there were nearly as many of them as there were of the Bright Soldiers. Nonetheless, none had the advantage of their war training nor any gunpowder. With a gesture, she ordered her soldiers into position. The Fealde of Bride had said Dun Eidean must be taken, and so taken it would be.

Donovan Slewfoot had woken well before the dawn, as he always did. He had eaten his porridge with a dash of whiskey, as he always did, and had gone out to smell the wind. He was still greatly troubled, but his first pipe of the day helped soothe him, and he leaned on the railing, enjoying the ripple of stars in the water.

The first flowering of flame had caused him to straighten, clenching his pipe in his big fist. As one ship after another began to burn, he hurried back into his gate-tower and began to sound the alarm. He rang the bell until his arms ached, and then hurried out to see what he could.

Red light from the burning city shone on the sails of a fleet of ships sailing toward him out of the dawn, while a band of Bright Soldiers hurried toward the watch-tower, grim determination on their faces and long swords in their hands.

He knew at once what they intended. If the Bright Soldiers gained control of the river-gates, their remaining soldiers could be brought safely within the bulwark and all of southern Eileanan would lie open to their forces. If he could somehow manage to jam the gates, then those dozen galleons would be forced to turn and tack against the tide to avoid being shipwrecked on the shore. At best they would sail straight into the gates and be destroyed anyway. Donovan Slewfoot had been harbormaster of the Berhtfane for thirty years. He had worked on the canals since catching a foot in the gates' machinery as a mere lad. He knew the gates better than he knew the craggy lines of his own face. He knew exactly what to do to sabotage them.

Working quickly, he lay on his back and inched under the massive chains, an iron spanner in his hand. Carefully he wedged the spanner into a gap that would prevent the chains from shifting, at least for a while.

The pounding on the massive door at the base of the tower stopped, and for a moment there was silence.
Given up already?
Donovan Slewfoot thought with a wry smile. Then there was an almighty bang that made him clap his hands over his ears, and the tower filled with evil-smelling smoke. The harbormaster was taken aback.
Wha' sorcery is this? Surely the Bright Soldiers are as
witchcraft-fearing as the rest o' Tirsoilleir . . .

The sound of feet pounding up the stairs caused his heart to slam. Limping as fast as he could, Donovan Slewfoot went out onto the walkway and locked the door behind him. As he hurried across the top of the gates, he heard the soldiers whipping the great horses into motion. Slowly the wheel turned, and the gates began to swing apart. Donovan still had some distance to cover before crossing the crack where the two arms of the gate met. With a sinking feeling he hastened his gait, trying to reach it.before the gates swung too far apart.

Just then the gate shuddered to a halt and he was thrown to his knees. The crack between the gates was only a foot apart but it was a long jump for an old man with a crippled foot. Donovan Slewfoot wedged his stick under his arm, prayed to Ea and jumped. Thanks to his quick reflex in catching hold of the rail, he made it.

Behind him the Bright Soldiers were signaling to the ships bombarding the city with fire. As he hurried along the walkway, he saw a caravel turn and head toward him, unfurling its mizzen sail to catch the dawn breeze. Then he saw the dark mouths of the cannons, and it dawned on him what they meant to do.
The
fools!
he thought as he loped forward, desperate to reach the opposite shore.
Do they no' understand
the Berhtfane will flood?

There was a massive boom. Smoke billowed out of the cannons. Ten bronze balls crunched into the first of the gates. As they shuddered under the force of the cannonballs, water spurted through the spiderweb of cracks, quickly turning into thundering water-jets. Just as the gate smashed under the force, Donovan Slewfoot threw himself onto the eastern shore. Though water poured over his body, dragging him sideways, his powerful hands clenched the railing and held him firm.

When at last the flood subsided, Donovan stood on the wall and looked to see the results of the Bright Soldiers' action. It was far better than he could ever have hoped for. Not only had the fleet of galleons hoping to enter the gates been swept away by the force of the escaping water, but chaos reigned among those ships left in the habor. The Rhyllster had not flowed freely to the sea in over four hundred years, and the level of the Berhtfane had sunk alarmingly. Many of the burning ships had sunk, littering the harbor with obstacles the Tirsoilleirean ships found difficult to avoid in the relentless outward sweep of the river. Some had been smashed upon the wrecks, others had run aground on the rocky shore. Many of the caravels and carracks had survived, being more maneuverable than the top-heavy galleons, but their decks were in confusion. It would take some time for the Tirsoilleirean ships to regroup, and with the river-gates gone, the harbor was no longer the safe haven it had been. The ship commanders would now have to contend with the tides, the river and the Fairgean.

Unfortunately, most of the Bright Soldiers were safe on shore and the fighting in the town was fierce, smoke pouring from the burning buildings. Donovan Slewfoot gripped his club and began to limp toward the city. He still had a few fighting years left in him, praise Ea!

Isabeau had been woken by the first explosion. She sat up in bed, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, trying to catch the last remnants of nightmare. Again the ships' cannons sounded, and she scrambled to the floor, sure now the sound of attack was no dream. Her narrow window looked out onto the stables and offered no view of the firth, so Isabeau wrapped her plaid around her nightgown and ran out into the corridor. The halls were filled with other servants, in nightgowns and nightcaps, all milling about uselessly. Isabeau hurried through to the upper floor where there was a window which overlooked the harbor. There she found a crowd watching the lurid play of the city in flame.

Isabeau stared out at the harbor, alight with burning ships. Her sharp eyes saw the dim shapes of the Tirsoil-leirean caravels slipping about the harbor leaving behind trails of flame and destruction. She saw the vicious fighting spilling into every street and square in the city, and the galleons at the wharf unloading great wooden platforms which she knew would be transformed into siege machines for the taking of Rhyssmadill. It seemed her dreams had been prophetic.

Isabeau slipped back to her room and dressed hurriedly. She swiftly packed a few belongings in her satchel and caught up her plaid from the chair, then she hurried back through the crowded corridors, casting out her senses in search of Latifa.

To her surprise she felt Latifa high in the palace. For a moment she hesitated, but instinct told her she should stay close to her mentor. Latifa had the Key, and Isabeau knew she could not let it be trapped by a long siege when Meghan needed it in Lucescere. At the worst, she would have to take it from Latifa by force or trickery, but Isabeau was sure the cook would see the seriousness of the situation as clearly as she did herself.

Confusion reigned in the high-ceilinged halls. Servants were running everywhere, still dressed in their night-clothes. Sprawled across the floor of the front hall were the bodies of three Bright Soldiers. Although she had seen death before, there was something about the pools of blood glistening on the marble that sickened Isabeau.

A band of guards ran down the stairs, their swords drawn. From the inner bailey came the sound of fighting. Isabeau hurried up the stairs. Someone grasped her and shouted in her face, ordering her to fetch water to help quell a screaming, weeping woman. Isabeau shook herself free and hurried on, all her senses attuned to the proximity of danger.

She reached the palace heights. There were no guards at the head of the steps, and she saw blood on the pale blue marble. Her heart pounded in her chest. Keeping close to the wall, she slipped down the corridor. Two bodies were slumped before the Righ's own quarters, their throats cut horribly. Blood was splashed on the walls and puddled on the floor. Isabeau heard Latifa's voice and hurried forward, her stomach churning.

The Righ was sitting up in his bed, a furred gown thrown round his bony shoulders. Lying against him was Dughall MacBrann, his white nightgown drenched with blood. His face was pasty, his breathing quick and shallow.

Latifa was on her knees by the bed, tearing his nightgown open. She was still in her nightclothes and would have looked absurd at any other time, her great bulk unhindered by corsets, her gray hair screwed up into papers. She turned her head as Isabeau ran in.