Weatherwitch: Book Three of The Crowthistle Chronicles (53 page)

“Wait!” Accompanied by one of the weather-prentices, Ryence strode up and squatted on his haunches to speak to the child. “This lad with me, his name is Cador. When you go, I pray you to take him with you. As soon as you are both clear and safe, direct him towards Orielthir. That is all I ask.”

Solemnly Mairead nodded. Ryence smiled, patted her on the shoulder and stood up.

“You have played a worthy part,” Galiene said to the child. “Put a safe distance between you and ourselves. Begone! Begone!”

Servant and prentice took to their heels, disappearing into the rustling foliage.

“You must not wait for the wounded,” muttered Sir Isleif as he sank to the ground on the crest of the hill Galiene had pointed out. His face was haggard and wan, a smear of chalk in night’s gloom. “Go on! Hasten! My task is completed.”

“We are all weary,” said Galiene, “and some of our people are no longer young and able. Besides, many of us have suffered greatly from inhaling smoke, and are struggling for breath. We are safe here, for the moment. We would rest awhile anyway, whether or not you were hurt. But you are injured, and I would fain bind your wounds while we have time.”

She wound a strip of torn fabric about the gashed brow of Sir Isleif. The task was not easy; her hair was blowing across her eyes, while her cloak snapped and billowed like a loose sail in a hurricane. Driven before the blustering gale, the ferns swayed and hissed; a violent ocean. The air’s severe turbulence heralded the mage-summoned storm that was racing towards Cathair Rua. Between bouts of coughing, Baldulf was still steering the atmospheric disturbances with hand and voice.

The weathermasters were of one accord—they would sojourn briefly amongst the ferns, gathering their strength, before making a break for freedom. Crouching in the tangle of tossing leaves, they and their chivalrous
guardians stared out across the dark and restless slopes to the terrible blossom of fire that was the Red Lodge.

“It must be all they can do to contain the blaze, with the wind so strong and unpredictable,” remarked Engres, before being seized by a coughing fit.

“I wish it would rage out of confinement and burn down the king’s house,” said Ryence.

Galiene said quietly to Ryence, below the wind’s moan, “We must depart soon, before Uabhar suspects we have escaped. Yet even if we manage to leave the marches of the city undetected, I do not hold much hope for us. We are so far from home, and there is no refuge in this country likely to guarantee our security! We cannot travel as speedily as Uabhar’s forces, and where shall we go?”

“Towards Orielthir,” Ryence answered promptly. “I have already sent young Cador ahead, to warn Thorgild and to beg him to come swiftly to our aid. The lad is fleet of foot, besides being small and sly enough to have a chance of evading Uabhar’s scouts.”

Wind hissed through the bracken with the sound of myriad tiny bubbles fizzing through water, and fern fronds thrashed in a manic dance. The clamor of men’s shouts wafted to their ears on a puff of wind, drawing the weathermasters’ attention back to the vigorous blaze atop the opposite hill.

“This summit where we stand is a good vantage point,” Ryence added. “From here we can keep surveillance for signs of attack. Soon we must move again. Meanwhile we ought to rest, and fix our attention on the weather. If we do not continue to drive and direct the currents, the storm might wander off the desired course.”

“I wish fervently that the storm will reach us before Uabhar does,” said Galiene. “It is our only real hope, our single weapon.”

As she spoke her breath, unseen, was snatched away by the wind, which bore it down the hillside and across the shallow vale, dancing above the spear-tips of the howling warriors who surrounded the flames consuming the Red Lodge. The heat from the conflagration was so intense that the Desert Paladins had fallen back, leaving a wide vacancy around the perimeters of the blaze. Bathed in red-gold illumination, they were yelling and brandishing their weapons. Servants were unloading barrels of water from wagons. They broached the vessels and drenched the surrounding ground in efforts to prevent the fire from spreading.

As for Chohrab Shechem the desert king, supported by the officials of his household—by now he was in hysterics, stammering and shrieking, unable to tear his gaze away from the holocaust. He alternated between tearing his
hair and yelling “Hurrah!,” screeching “Drive them out!” and wailing, “Ádh, O Starred One, O Míchinniúint, mighty Axe-Lord, save me from the wrath of the weatherlords!”

From a cooler and more comfortable location beneath a canopy further back amongst the ranks, the king of Slievmordhu observed the proceedings with increasing discomposure. “All doors and windows are being watched, but the puddle-makers have not issued forth,” he said to Primoris Virosus, who stood nearby, leaning on his staff. “Neither have the servants. Are they all such heroes that they have forfeited their lives for the sake of pride?”

“I cannot say,” the ancient druid replied, somewhat sardonically.

His king was too intent on his own deliberations to take note of the sage’s tone. “1 find it hard to believe the puddlers would sacrifice themselves; harder to credit that they would not permit the scullions to escape the frying pan. There is some mystery afoot.” Beckoning his lord chancellor, he said, “Is there any other way out of the Red Lodge?”

“Why no, Sire!” stuttered the courtier. “At least—that is to say—I believe there was once a siege tunnel, but its existence was a secret known only to a few in the upper echelons—”

Uabhar stared at his noble retainer, the veins on his brow standing out like worms crawling beneath his skin. “Flad you informed me earlier, we might have sent men-at-arms to attack them from within the lodge itself, you quatch-buttocks! For this oversight you will be hanged!”

The lord chancellor could only execute a deep obeisance as he struggled to disguise his dismay.

“Where does this siege tunnel make its exit?” demanded his sovereign.

“Sire, I understand it issued forth somewhere beyond the city walls.” Uabhar, in fury, shouted, “Imbecile!” Then he suddenly checked his ire, and fell silent, as if cogitating. Perceiving this slammed-shut cliff of ice where lately a furnace had roared, the lord chancellor winced.

Presently Uabhar turned to a commander of the Desert Paladins and said, “Tell your brigadiers to remain at the burning lodge with their drunken braves.” To High Commander Mac Brádaigh and other officers he gave a series of rapid orders. “Find the tunnel’s exit. Select a few discreet men who can be trusted to hold their tongues and dispatch them there immediately. Let them stand guard. They must slay anyone who emerges, and scour the surroundings for signs of escapers. Muster the druids. Send guards to the city gates—should any citizens emerge in an attempt to gawk at our business, turn them away. Tell them they must not come near, or they will be
subject to the death penalty. Bring down a curfew. Go at once!” Driven by the extremes of tethered rage, he gnashed his teeth until his jaw convulsed.

The storm was rapidly approaching. From the corner of his eye Uabhar caught sight of a flicker of light in the sky, and glanced up. Heavy clouds were flooding across the stars in a dark tide.

“The weathermasters do indeed live,” he said, his lip curling in a snarl. “Behold, they are summoning a thunderstorm. Let us hasten to receive them at this secret sallyport!”

The king flung himself astride his charger. Surrounded by a cavalcade of bodyguards and officials, he galloped away, calling for Chohrab to follow. Several scouts, already mounted, had hastened ahead. When Uabhar arrived at the low bluff where the tunnel opened onto the hillside, the scouts informed him they had encountered nobody, but had discovered splashes of fresh blood upon the vegetation at the tunnel’s mouth.

“Someone has passed this way not long since,” they said. “Someone who was grievously stricken.”

At that moment a runner dashed up to the king of Slievmordhu. “We have lit upon the weathermasters!” the messenger cried. “They are gathered atop that nearby hill, at bay. We did not approach, for they threatened to hurl balls of fire. But the soldiers have surrounded them.”

“This I shall see for myself!” cried Uabhar, tugging on the reins so cruelly that his mount reared and squealed, its mouth torn. The king, a practiced horseman, remained in the saddle. “Is Virosus not here yet? Send a chariot for him!” he shouted, clapping his heels to the flanks of his steed. Away he rode, with Mac Brádaigh close behind, to confront the cornered weathermasters.

The low hill was limned by the glimmer of moon and stars, their radiance smoke-yellowed, like old paper. Fibrous bracken-ferns, almost waist-high to a man, surged like ocean swell, the greens and golds rendered tangerine and scarlet in the glare of the encircling torches. A knot of windblown figures crowned the hill, most standing up, others on their knees half-submerged in swaying foliage. Several were seen to be molding nothingness with their outstretched hands, crying out in an incomprehensible tongue, their lilting phrases rising and falling with the blowing of the wind.

Flushed with triumph, inebriated with vindictive joy, Uabhar witnessed the forsakenness of the weatherlords; castaways on a lonely isle with nowhere to hide and nowhere to flee. The troops awaited his orders, not daring to approach. Despite their mood of insobriety and relative abandonment, they remained in awe of the denizens of Rowan Green,
and besides, they had been well drilled in obedience. Uabhar’s victory was almost complete. He felt he could afford to gloat before the final stroke.

And the stroke
would
be final. All along he had intended to slay the senior weatherlords, and now the opportunity was at hand. To Mac Brádaigh, who attended him, he said, “Most of the Councillors of Ellenhall are here. The missing pair, the chit and the dotard, will be easily taken care of when they no longer have the support of their kindred. Once all are gone, nothing stands between myself and absolute power, save for two armies unprepared for war. Aided by the Sanctorum, my allies both secret and acknowledged, the tricks of the goblin artifact and the advantage of surprise, I will sweep away all opposition. Dispatch someone to the palace to fetch some lethal adulterant, Mac Brádaigh; wolfsbane is my favorite. Order plenty. There shall be no witnesses to this.”

“At once, Your Majesty,” said Mac Brádaigh. “High King of Tir!” He bowed deeply to show his devotion, yet there was a certain look in Uabhar’s eyes that made him uncomfortable. He had witnessed extreme monomania before in other men, and knew he glimpsed it now. After conveying his liege lord’s instructions to an errand-runner and seeing the man off, he said sanguinely, “Our position is excellent, despite our original plan being frustrated.”

“Ah, yes.” Reminded of this fact, the king directed his gaze over towards the group on the hilltop. He frowned. “It is a pity we did not achieve our objective of driving the meddlers out of the Red Lodge and imprisoning them in my dungeons. After they were thus rendered powerless it would have been easy to kill them with slow poison, or by means of an ‘accidental’ fire; some tragedy whose blame could not be laid at my doorstep. Now it is a different kettle of fish, for they are here, on this open mound, in full view of my soldiers and Chohrab’s knights. If only it had been possible to act without all this fuss!” Uabhar’s elation appeared to be ebbing. “What is to be done now, eh Mac Brádaigh?” he said sharply. “What is the best course of action?”

“We could rush them,” the High Commander suggested.

Above the dark distant horizon, a thin, dazzling crack opened and closed. Shortly thereafter, a low grumbling noise rolled across the skies. “Look at that!” the king shouted. “Thunder and lightning are drawing near!” He rounded on Mac Brádaigh. “Time is not unlimited, do you understand? If we rush the weathermasters they will drive us back, again and again, until their storm arrives to blast my troops and save them.”

Mac Brádaigh bowed by way of acknowledgment. He began to fear that they might be losing control of the situation. It was clear that Uabhar’s triumph
was turning into panic as he started to comprehend their position. He seemed verging on hysteria as he shrieked again, “Where is Virosus? Where is he?”

The withered sage was duly fetched to join his sovereign at the foot of the ferny hill, clinging to the metal sides of a chariot as it bumped its way along. Two younger, stronger druids flanked him, and others followed in a convoy of conveyances.

As soon as Primoris Virosus stepped down from the chariot, Uabhar took him aside.

“You must help me now,” he said, almost pleadingly. “We have trapped the weathermasters but they have not surrendered. They are making a stand, and with every moment that passes their storms draw closer, flying to do their bidding. If we wait any longer, the wild weather will be upon us. Against elemental forces no human army can triumph. If the weatherlords escape now, they will unleash dire vengeance upon us. Our foes will support them—Narngalis and Grïmnørsland—there will be no chance for Slievmordhu. Soon the lightning will be at the fingertips of the mages. Use your resources. Seize them, man, before there is such slaughter done here that our enemies from every land will descend on Slievmordhu in its debility.”

The aged druid scrutinized the king from beneath his hooded lids. “Uabhar,” he said, “although I have not hindered their entrapment I have never been party to any scheme
to slay
the weatherlords. Know that if you do this deed, as appears to be your desire, then the wrath of Ellenhall will hammer upon Slievmordhu in any case. Granted, the flower of Rowan Green is within your grasp, but there are others of that kindred who are not here amongst them—the Storm Lord and the powerful Storm Maiden Asrathiel, to name but two.”

“So you keep saying. Consider you, that the Sanctorum and Slievmordhu are no match for a dotard and a wench?”

The druid continued, “Your majesty has been remarkably ill advised in this venture. Or perhaps you have acted on impulse, I cannot say. Know also, Uabhar, that I am not fool enough to directly assault weatherlords. Should I do so, even the Four Fates would not protect me.”