The Forbidden Land

by Kate Forsyth

  ‘What should we do?’ Duncan Ironfist asked, distress on his battered face. ‘If we can see the smoke from here it is too late to do aught but try and succour those left alive.’

  Lachlan nodded angrily. ‘We must go back. It is on our account that they incurred the displeasure o’ the Bright Soldiers. We must take Tòmas and the healers and see what we can do.’ He gave a deep sigh then straightened his shoulders once more. ‘The purpose o’ battle is slaughter and the price o’ victory is blood,’ he quoted. ‘I do no’ ken why I always find it so hard to remember this.’

  Iseult took his face between her hands and kissed him. ‘Because ye are at heart a good and gentle man,’ she said. ‘And that is why I love ye.’

  Weary of heart and body, the company turned round and headed back the way they had come. It seemed like a very long time ago. As they came down the road into the valley of Kirkclanbright, they could see flames still leaping high all through the valley. The kirk blazed like a torch, casting rippling orange reflections across the river. Where Rowanglen had stood was a smouldering ruin.

  Tam was hurrying at the head of the calvacade, and he cried aloud in pain. ‘No, no! Da! Mam!’

  Beside him were the other folk of Kirkclanbright, who had set out so blithely that morning. Many of them cried aloud in distress. Some wept, leaning on their pitchforks.

  ‘The Bright Soldiers may still be about,’ Lachlan said grimly. ‘Och, no, Tam! Take care!’

  Tam had gone running up the avenue of rowan trees, not heeding the Rìgh’s shout. Dide dashed after him, his sword drawn, and the others followed in close formation.

  Tam’s father and mother and sister were all working to douse the flames, their faces black with soot. Tam threw himself on his mother with a great sob of relief. ‘Ye’re alive!’

  ‘We took refuge in the woods,’ Great Tam said shortly. ‘Bessie o’ the Apples came running to warn us. They saw the kirk being torched and guessed what had happened.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,’ Tam wept.

  ‘Och, lad, it is no’ your fault,’ his mother said, setting down her buckets with a sigh. ‘It is the Fealde’s black-hearted soldiers that set the fires, no’ ye.’

  ‘The Bright Soldiers always have to burn,’ Lachlan said sombrely. ‘Ye should have seen what they did to Blèssem. It was a black char-pit when they finished with it, no’ a tree or head o’ corn left standing.’

  As he spoke the Rìgh was signalling to his soldiers to help put out the fire and although all had marched a long way and fought a hard battle, they set to with willing hands.

  ‘I am so very sorry that your help to me should be so cruelly rewarded,’ Lachlan said.

  Great Tam shrugged. ‘Well, we truly be at war now.’ He spoke stiffly, gazing at his ruined house with sombre eyes, but there was no rancour in his voice.

  ‘Aye,’ Lachlan said unhappily. ‘I am sorry but we must ride on. There are others that must be helped too. I will leave a squad o’ soldiers to guard ye and assist ye.’

  ‘Well, thank ye for that,’ Great Tam replied.

  All night they worked to douse the flames and help the injured. The Bright Soldiers had been swift and brutal in their reprisals, but luckily many had been forewarned and had taken refuge in the forest. Only a few had lost their lives, among them the rotund little pastor, struck down while trying to save his kirk.

  A patrol of Lachlan’s soldiers found the Bright Soldiers camped only a few miles away, all enjoying a good night’s rest after their long day’s labour. The captain had not expected any trouble and so had set only one sentry who was easily overcome, allowing the patrol to capture the entire encampment without the shedding of a single drop of blood. They were taken back to Kirkclanbright and lashed in with the other prisoners, stripped of their armour and weapons, with chains about their wrists and necks.

  ‘I hate prisoners,’ Lachlan said gloomily. ‘What am I meant to do with them?’

  ‘Set them to work rebuilding Kirkclanbright,’ Iseult said.

  ‘Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap,’ Killian said in agreement.

  Lachlan sighed and nodded. ‘Very well. I shall leave a company o’ soldiers here to assist and guard them, and to scour the countryside for any more o’ the blaygird things. Eà’s green blood, I hate Bright Soldiers!’

  Just then Duncan Ironfist came riding up with a squad o’ Yeomen. Across his lap was slumped the figure of a man. Duncan let him fall to the ground. It was Dick Dickson. He lay in the dust, his head twisted unnaturally, his eyes closed. Blood seeped from three deep wounds in his breast.

  ‘We found him impaled to his front door with a pitchfork,’ Duncan said shortly. ‘No way o’ kenning who the pitchfork belongs to. Every house in this valley has a few.’

  Lachlan nodded. ‘Very well. Bury him with the others.’ He sighed and rubbed his eyes with his fingers. ‘Well. What now?’

  ‘Now we bide a wee and rest up,’ Iseult said. ‘Tomorrow we’ll ride out once more.’

  He nodded, his face shadowed. She laid her hand on the back of his neck, under his curls.

  ‘I am sick o’ the stench o’ death and ashes,’ Lachlan said. ‘I seem to carry it round with me, like Gearradh’s cloak.’

  ‘We are at war,’ Iseult answered.

  ‘Fancy that,’ Lachlan replied. ‘Who would have guessed?’

  She smiled at him wearily. ‘Come and wash your face and hands. Ye’re as black as a chimneysweep’s arse, as Finn would say. Happen when ye are clean ye shall no’ think ye spread the stench o’ death like Gearradh!’

  Autumn laid its bright mantle over the land of Tìrsoilleir. Stags bellowed in the forest, and the swineherds knocked down nuts from the trees to fatten the pigs before they were slaughtered for the winter. The villages were pungent with the smell of freshly brewed ale. In the mornings mist lay heavy over the valleys, the bare crests of the downs rising like islands out of a white sea. Although the days remained warm, the nights were cool and crisp and the Greycloaks were all glad to huddle close around their campfires.

  Bride, the capital city of Tìrsoilleir, lay just on the other side of the bay but the Greycloaks were in no hurry to besiege the home of the Great Kirk just yet. They had won all of southern Tìrsoilleir to their cause with only a few battles and minor skirmishes, and were now intent on moving at a leisurely pace across the Alainn River and through northern Tìrsoilleir to approach Bride from the rear. All hoped the northern lairds would be as quick to pledge their support to Elfrida NicHilde as the southern lairds had been.

  At first Lachlan had been restless and edgy, wanting to thrust towards Bride in a great rush of raw energy, hoping they would carry all before them. He was sick of the war and anxious to be at home with his wife and children, enjoying the fruits of peace. His first-born son and heir, Donncan, was now five and a half years old while the younger children, the twins Owein and Olwynne, were only eighteen months in age. Their mother and father had been absent for a quarter of their entire life. It hurt Lachlan greatly to be missing out on this stage of their growth, when they were all wonder and delight. Although they received regular news of home, Lachlan wanted to be there with them, not hearing it all second-hand.

  Iseult missed her children terribly too but it was she who had counselled patience. ‘Now is the time to be like snow,’ she told him. ‘Snow is gentle, snow is silent, snow is inexorable. Fight hard against snow and it will always smother you with its softness and silence. Submit to snow and it will melt away afore you.’

  Lachlan had been impatient with her Scarred Warrior maxims, but to his surprise Leonard the Canny and Duncan Ironfist had agreed with her.

  ‘Aye, ye should let the rumour mill work on your behalf,’ Leonard said. ‘Already the tales o’ your rescue o’ the auld prophet are racing around the country like wildfire. Allow time for speculation and wondering. Let the people talk amongst themselves and, as much as possible, give them the chance to hear Killian speak so that he can sway them wi
th his words. Allow time for the lairds to approach us and discuss terms, and weigh the matter carefully. None will throw in their lot with us quickly. They need time to consider the consequences.’

  ‘This is the one time when biding our time will be to our advantage,’ Duncan agreed. ‘The Bright Soldiers are in the superior position here. They are all trained from birth, while our soldiers were being apprenticed as farmers and blacksmiths and cobblers. They are fighting on their own terrain and have all the advantages of supplies and numbers. Let us no’ waste our strength on futile charges. Let us remember the lessons we learnt during the Bright Wars. Remember the tactics that worked so well at Dùn Eidean and Rhyssmadill? Let us allow the prophet to do his work, as Jorge the Seer did so well; let us use trickery and deception where we can; let us build up a fearsome reputation so that they truly believe we have the hand o’ their god upon us, and see if we can win this war without striking a single blow.’

  ‘By biding our time, we shall be making the Fealde very nervous,’ Leonard said in satisfaction. ‘And that can only bode well for us.’

  So Lachlan repressed his homesickness and his impatience and did as they counselled. Killian the Listener preached in every village square and kirk, and the crowds that came to listen to him grew greater every week. Elfrida rode out on her white palfrey, visiting the sick and the poor with the healers, meeting with the local lairds and guildmasters, and stopping to talk to plump matrons in the marketplaces. With her sweet face and demure manner, she soon became a favourite with the countryfolk, many of whom retained a romantic longing for the old days when the MacHilde clan had ruled.

  Strict discipline was maintained amongst the army. It moved slowly and inexorably, accompanied by its own supply wagons laden with sacks of grains, bales of hay and poultry in coops, and its own herds of pigs, sheep and goats. Any extra supplies that were needed were paid for by the quartermaster, a shrewd and canny man known for his excellent bargaining ability. Consequently, the dismay which the sight of the Greycloaks had once engendered was replaced by eagerness amongst the local farmers and merchants, confident that their women and possessions would be in no danger and that a fair price would be paid for their merchandise.

  There were many clashes with bands of Bright Soldiers, but the Greycloaks were never persuaded into pursuing their enemies, concentrating on choosing their ground well and keeping a tight formation, making it difficult for the Tìrsoilleirean army to do more than harass their edges. The closer the Greycloaks drew to the Alainn River, the more frequently the skirmishes occurred but the sheer size and weight of the Rìgh’s army and the hilly terrain discouraged any major confrontations.

  Lachlan and Iseult passed the days studying with Gwilym the Ugly, learning as much as they could about the Tìrsoilleirean religion and culture, and practising their fighting skills. Dide was often to be found studying with them, although he was still reluctant to pledge himself fully to the Coven. He was fascinated by magic, however, and eager to learn more. Jay, Finn and Brangaine also joined the lessons daily, all finding to their pleasure a natural adeptness at the use of the One Power. Gwilym the Ugly was a stern taskmaster, but an excellent teacher. He imbued them all with a love of knowledge for its own sake, so that Finn found herself borrowing books to read later and pestering him with questions about all sorts of things. Gwilym had spent the years of the Burning at the Tower of Mists, the only witches’ tower where the ancient library remained intact, so he had an extraordinary breadth and depth of knowledge.

  Dide and Jay also spent much of their time with Enit and Nellwyn, learning more about the use of magic through music. Ashlin often joined them there, leaving Finn and Brangaine to their own devices. They helped Johanna and the other healers gather leaves, flowers, roots, nuts, seeds and bark, and learnt how to grind them or distill their precious essences to make medicines, healing salves and pain-numbing potions. They accompanied Elfrida on her expeditions, sat in on many of the war conferences, and played many a game of trictrac or cards, Finn puffing away on her pipe. Brangaine even joined Finn in her daily fighting lessons with the other soldiers, learning how to draw a bow, wield a short sword, and repel an attacker with one quick, fluid movement.

  They crossed the Alainn River a week after the autumn equinox, and fought their first bloody battle. Though the cost was high, the Greycloaks were eventually victorious, driving the Bright Soldiers back and securing the land all the way up to the Great Divide. Once again Lachlan wanted to press their advantage, but was counselled again to bide his time. Reluctantly he submitted to his advisers and set up camp at a strongly walled town called Kirkenny, built within the deep curve of the river so it was surrounded on three sides by water. From there they rode out in small, well-guarded expeditions, Killian preaching in the kirks, Lachlan and Elfrida meeting with the local powers, the soldiers clashing with those who still stood against them. On each occasion the Greycloaks were able to overwhelm the Tìrsoilleirean army with their speed and ferocity, or unnerve them with clever tricks. The Greycloaks began to be regarded with superstitious awe, the countryfolk whispering that they were protected by God and could not be beaten.

  One night in late October, a pigeon arrived from Lucescere with letters for the Rìgh and Banrìgh. Lachlan had been absent from his lands for four months and had been anxious indeed for news. Eager to hear what had been happening in the rest of the country, Finn and the others clustered close around the Rìgh’s pavilion. As usual, they had joined Lachlan and Iseult for their evening meal, which was served on a long trestle table set with candelabra and fine tableware. Gwilym the Ugly, Elfrida, Iain, the two seanalairs Duncan and Leonard, and Lachlan’s staff of officers also joined the meal every night. Dinner was usually followed by much talk and laughter, some soft-voiced performances from Nellwyn and the jongleurs, and games of chance. Tonight, however, all gathered round to hear the news.

  The package had to be small by necessity, since it was carried by a pigeon, but it had been written in very small writing and contained much news of interest. The Fairgean were on the rise again, returning to their winter home after spending the summer in the southern seas. A new coast watch set up by the MacRuraich had proved most helpful in tracking their movements, however, and some defensive measures had been taken that had proved to be of use. Also from Rurach came the news that Gwyneth NicSian was once again with child. Finn was both happy and astounded by this news, whispering to Jay, ‘Och, well, Da must have managed to spend some time at home this summer!’

  ‘Isabeau also writes that the NicThanach has finally given birth to a very healthy little boy, which be glad news indeed,’ Iseult said. She was reading the letter out, being the only one able to decipher her twin sister’s cramped handwriting. ‘They have called him Fymbar, because he be so tow-headed, then Lachlan for ye, leannan.’

  ‘Och, that be nice o’ them,’ Lachlan said, smiling. ‘Fymbar Lachlan MacThanach is a grand name!’

  ‘She says Meghan is very happy with the progress o’ the students in the Theurgia, though she willna admit it, o’ course, calling them all woolly-headed slowpokes.’

  Lachlan grinned and made a wry comment, and Iseult went on, ‘Apparently she has taken on a new apprentice now Isabeau is a fully fledged witch. He’s a young boy with a shadow-hound for a familiar. Fancy that! Isabeau says all the dogs in the city come to his whistle.’

  ‘That must be a sight to see!’ Lachlan grinned. ‘What about the laddiekins, leannan. Does she no’ write o’ them?’

  ‘Isabeau says the lads are as artful as a bagful o’ elven cats. Look, Elfrida, she’s enclosed a letter for ye from Neil. She says his lessons are coming along well.’

  Neil was Iain and Elfrida’s son, only three months younger than Donncan. He had been sent to stay in the safety of Lucescere while his parents rode to war, for Donncan and he were the very best of friends. Elfrida received the roughly scrawled missive with an upwelling of tears, turning it over proudly and exclaiming at how well he was forming his letters no
w.

  ‘Leannan, Isabeau says Olwynne is talking quite well now but that Owein hardly says a word, letting his sister do all the asking for him. We shall have to do something about that when we get home! Oh, but she says Owein has taken his first flight! Oh, Lachlan, he be only nineteen months auld. Did Donncan fly so young?’

  ‘I canna remember, leannan. I do no’ think so,’ Lachlan replied proudly. He and Iseult smiled at each other, both feeling a tightness in their throat at the thought they had missed their baby boy’s first flight.

  ‘What else does Isabeau say?’ Dide asked eagerly. ‘Has she truly decided to stay at the Tower o’ Two Moons now?’

  Iseult nodded. ‘Aye. I told ye she sat for her Third Test o’ Powers on Midsummer’s Eve, the night we were all meeting clandestinely at Rhyssmadill? Well, she says here that she has already sat her First Test o’ Elements and won her ring o’ fire. She is wearing the ruby ring that she found at the Cursed Towers, the one that belonged to our ancestor Faodhagan the Red.’

  ‘Och, she mun be aye powerful, this sister o’ yours,’ Nellwyn said. ‘To be only twenty-two and already admitted into the Coven as a fully fledged witch, and then to win her first elemental ring within only a few months!’

  ‘Aye, the Keybearer believes she may be the strongest young witch the Coven has found since the Burning,’ Gwilym said. ‘Definitely a chance for a new sorceress there, I’d say.’

  Dide had been staring into the depths of his goblet, but now he raised it to his lips and tossed back the dark wine within. ‘Well, that would make the Keybearer happy,’ he said wryly and poured himself another cup, slopping some of the wine on the white tablecloth. ‘Let us drink to Isabeau the Red and her ruby ring!’ he cried, leaping to his feet and holding his goblet high.

  ‘To Isabeau!’ the table echoed, sipping their wine.

  ‘And to Fymbar Lachlan MacThanach, heir to Blèssem,’ Lachlan said, and everyone toasted the new baby enthusiastically.