“She was carried away by enchantment and is now in the castle of the Lord of Strang,” the Storm Lord continued. “It were too bold an undertaking for the hardiest warrior in the Four Kingdoms to bring her back.”
“But is it possible to bring her back?” cried Turlough A’Connacht, eldest of the three brothers.
“Possible indeed,” said Stormbringer. “A battalion or posse would have poor chance against the sorcerer’s defenses; however, one man might slip through. But woe to the mother’s son who attempts it, if he is not well instructed beforehand of what he is to do.”
Turlough said, “I will do it or perish in the attempt. My deeds will be sung in the halls of men, and it will be told how I rescued the maiden from Castle Strang.”
“Stay brother, I shall go,” argued Teague, the second son.
“Nay, it shall be me!” cried Tierney.
“Not while I have breath!” shouted Turlough, the light of glory blazing in his eyes. “For as the firstborn, it is my right and duty! Now, pray instruct me, Lord Stormbringer—what must I do?”
“He who wishes to succeed must kill every person he meets after entering the domains of Strang,” replied the Storm Lord, “and neither eat nor drink of anything he finds in those domains, no matter what his hunger or thirst may be—for if he does, he will fall under the power of the Lord of Strang and maybe forfeit his life.”
Turlough, impatient to be off, said, “I heed what you do say, my lord,” and he commanded the groom to prepare his horse for the journey.
But as the young man strapped on his father’s sword of finest Narngalis steel, Stormbringer said to him, “Take this blade instead,” and he offered Turlough the famous weapon of the weathermasters, Lannóir, called Fallowblade. In days of yore, the celebrated master smith Alfardene Maelstronnar had fashioned it out of sun-forged platinum and plated it with pure gold. It was said to flash like lightning in the fray.
Beholding the intricately wrought scabbard and hilt of Fallowblade, Turlough shook his dark head. “You do me great honor, lord,” he said, “but it is cold iron that burns and repels the eldritch wights of our times, not gold.”
Said the weathermaster, “Wights could never enter a rowan wood. The Sorcerer of Strang is no wight, but a mortal man with the ability to wield some powers of gramarye.”
“Yet Lannóir was forged long ago, in the years of the goblin wars,” said Turlough. “It was made to slay goblins, not wights or mortals. Old weapons are for old men and battles past. Lord, my father’s sword is all I need. It was forged by Lorcán the Blacksmith, and he said it was the best he had ever made. For sure, Marfóir has a keener edge than any blade of gold.”
“As you will,” said Stormbringer.
The wind changed. Taking his leave of the two households, the weathermaster departed for Rowan Green in the sky-balloon, but he left behind the golden sword in case the eldest youth should change his mind. Perceiving that her son would not, the mother of Turlough took the unusual weapon and caused it to be hung over the mantelshelf in the place of honor.
Thus young Turlough A’Connacht packed his saddlebags with provisions and protection against unseelie wights, donned his cloak of fine camlet, and rode out for the domains of Strang. Merrily he rode, and with high hopes his heart was buoyed; but his family and friend never saw him again.
In vain they awaited his return.
After seven days of chafing at idleness, the second son, Teague, said, “I will go to bring back Álainna, and Turlough as well. And if either of them has met with harm, I shall be revenged on the wrongdoer.”
“Remember the words of Aglaval Stormbringer,” warned his mother. “Slay all those you meet in the domains of Strang. Partake only of your own food and drink.”
“I will not forget,” answered her son.
“Be wary of wights, both unseelie and tricksy.”
“I will.”
“And take the weathermaster’s weapon.”
“I need no pretty blade. Steel has bite and backbone. It serves a man better.”
“Turlough did not come back,” said his mother, swallowing her tears.
“Turlough, no doubt, did not heed the advice of the Storm Lord,” said Teague. “That was ever his way. I am not Turlough.” Belting on his sword Búistéir, he kissed his lady mother before he rode away toward the domains of Strang, amulets jingling in his saddlebags.
Teague never came back either.
On the day he departed, Turlough’s horse came home, riderless. Seven days later, Tierney, last of the A’Connacht sons, went to his lady mother.
“I dread what you are about to say,” said this lady sorrowfully, “and I beg you not to say it.”
“For this I ask your forgiveness, Mother,” said he. “I am resolved to go.”
“I oppose your plan,” she answered him, “with all my will. Would you have me lose all my children?”
Her youngest son then pleaded his case before her with all the persuasion he could muster. Through half the night they conversed, and at the end of it Tierney’s lady mother at last gave him her consent.
“Sain thee, Tierney,” she said desolately. “If you go on this terrible quest, pray do this one thing for me—take with you the golden sword of the weathermasters.”
He bowed before her.
“This I will do,” he said.
So Tierney A’Connacht packed his saddlebags, slung on his cloak of stout russell, and set out on his journey.
This is how the three brothers fared:
The eldest, Turlough, had ridden on and farther on. The bells on his horse’s bridle tinkled merrily: a sound to repel unseelie incarnations. At nights he would stop beside some brook, tether his roan mare, and eat his traveling rations of salt meat, hard cheese, oatcakes, and dried fruits. He would sprinkle a circle of salt upon the ground to ward off wights. Then he would lie down inside the circle, roll himself up in his warm cloak of camlet, and sleep beneath the stars. But his dreams were pulled in surreal directions by the braying or musical laughter, the weeping and giggling, the spine-scraping music, the abrupt, unexplained silences and sudden shouts of nocturnal wights. Sometimes he would half-waken, his eyelids would partially unshutter, and he would behold stirrings among the brakes of holly, the juniper bushes and hazel coppices, where pairs of eldritch eyes winked out like snuffed candle flames …
In due course he passed through an ancient line of tall pines. These grim and brooding trees were known to mark the marches of the immense domains of Strang. Just before he crossed the boundary, he paused at a fast-flowing brook to fill his water flask, recalling the rede of the Storm Lord: To eat and drink nothing but his own provender, and to slay every person he should meet.
On he went in the direction of Castle Strang, but he was unsure how to reach that stronghold. No visible road or track opened before him, and although he scanned the vast tracts of meadowlands and forests, he could discern no sign of any building.
One afternoon he came upon a fenced yard overhung by chestnut trees. Beside the yard a small pile of wood was burning, giving off tendrils of sable smoke. Many fine horses were gathered there, and a horseherd was pouring oats into their feed troughs.
“Hey there,” said Turlough. “Can you tell me where Castle Strang is?”
The horseherd looked up. His jerkin was patched and faded, his breeches dirty, his hair and beard full of straw. “I cannot tell you,” he said, “but go on a little farther and you will come to a cowherd, and he perhaps might tell you.”
Turlough made to ride off, then turned his mare and reined her in. He watched the horseherd at his task, and he thought to himself, If I have indeed passed within the domains of Strang then by the merciless instructions of the Storm Lord, I must kill that man. He clasped the hilt of Marfóir and began to slide the weapon from its scabbard, but hesitated. Such a poor yokel, he reflected. He has done me no harm. Surely it is beneath the dignity of a warrior to slay an unharmed peasant. He thrust the sword back into its sheath. Concluding I
shall not soil Marfóir with a churl’s blood, he galloped away.
But the horseherd was no longer standing at his retreating back. In the peasant’s place was a black stallion that trotted into the trees.
The cowherd was distributing bales of fragrant hay amongst the cattle. Nearby, the blue flames of his cooking fire leaped like translucent panes of water, and the pungent scent of burning juniper wood tickled Turlough’s nostrils.
“You,” said Turlough. “Can you tell me where Castle Strang is?”
“I cannot tell you,” said the cowherd, “but go on a little farther and you will come to a shepherd, and he perhaps might tell you.”
In his restless eagerness to pursue his quest, Turlough was not struck by the similarity of the reply. Nor did the sight of this humble farmhand alter his opinion about striking down defenseless serfs. Swiftly he cantered off.
Behind him, the cowherd was no longer to be seen. Where he had been, a black bull stood for a moment before ambling away into a coppice of sycamores.
The shepherd referred Turlough to a goatherd, who sent him on to a swineherd. By this time, the hour was getting late and Turlough was becoming increasingly intolerant of ignorant swains who returned vague directions in answer to his question.
“I cannot tell you,” said the swineherd, “but go on a little farther and you will come to a henwife, and she perhaps might help you.”
Turlough’s irascibility caused him to deliver a smart thwack across the swineherd’s shoulders with the flat of his sword. “Take that for your impertinence!” he shouted. “Now, as you are doubtless in the employ of the Lord of Strang, tell me where this castle lies!”
The swineherd backed away sullenly and would say no more. The acrid smoke of his cook-fire stung the throat of his assailant with every indrawn breath.
Furiously, Turlough spurred his flagging mare. Are these servants all daft in the head? he wondered as he rode on. Have they no wit but to parrot each other’s words?
He did not see the black pig that hastened into the oak woods as he departed.
The light of the dying day stained his left side like watered blood as he trotted up to the henwife, who was strewing grain for a flock of clucking fowls.
“Why do you feed them so late?” demanded Turlough. “At this hour, any worthy servant would be shepherding them into their coop.”
Toothlessly, the henwife gaped at him. A pile of green twigs hissed and crackled as it burned, sending up a dark spire of fumes.
“Are you deaf, woman?”
When this remark failed to elicit a response, he held his temper in check, saying merely, “Tell me where Castle Strang is!”
“Go ye on a little farther,” gummily said the henwife, “until ye come to the top of that ridge. Then you will see the castle.”
The young man leaned from the saddle and was about to smite her across the head with his fist when he stopped short. “Cry mercy!” he exclaimed. “This one has given me a proper answer!”
Exulting, he dug his heels into his mare’s flanks and raced up the slope of the ridge. At the top, he reined in and looked down. There below him, on the other side of the valley, stood an extraordinary edifice.
A single massive dome rose out of the center like the humped back of a giant tortoise. Greenish bronze in color, it was crowned with a matching bell-roofed cupola. Arched windows pierced the white walls beneath. Topped with similar mamelons, innumerable turrets, towers, and lesser halls crowded closely around the main hemisphere. The overall impression was of a clutter of round pillars and rectangular stacks upon which an assortment of upturned bowls had been arranged, all wrought from the same glaucous alloy.
A pale, bluish fume was creeping across the ground. The castle seemed to float, rootless, upon a low cloud. The lime-washed walls and metallic roofs burned, half-pink in the face of the sunset, half-purple in the shadow, like some fantastic confection. As Turlough A’Connacht sat his mount, astonished at the sight before him, the fume rose higher, creeping up the ridge toward him. He could no longer see the ground in front of his feet, so he dismounted, drew his sword, and began to lead his steed down the slope. Then, within the blur of the thistledown haze ahead of him, he thought he perceived the emergence of several diffuse figures.
Abruptly he felt cold and sick to the stomach.
It seemed to him that among the translucent streamers of smoke, the ink-dark shapes of a horse, a bull, a sheep, a goat, a pig, and a cockerel were coalescing. Out of the center of this motley throng condensed a human figure. In the miasmic airs, Turlough could not discern the man’s face, but a voice carried clearly:
“Who are you? Why do you trespass in my domain?”
Relinquishing his horse’s reins and brandishing his sword, the young man replied, “I am Turlough A’Connacht, and I come to take back Álainna Machnamh.”
“Go hence or die,” said the voice in the mist.
“I will not go hence,” said Turlough A’Connacht.
“Then, die.”
The atmosphere chimed like ice as the sorcerer drew his blade.
Turlough’s sword flew up to parry the thrust. The weapon of the sorcerer smashed the blade in his hand and stabbed the young man to the heart. Lifeless he fell, still gripping the hilt of Marfóir in his fist.
Behind the western ranges, the sun liquefied in the heat of its own furnace. Its last crimson conflagration radiated gloriously up from the silhouettes of the mountains as if lava gushed from their maws.
Seven days later, Teague A’Connacht had passed through the fence of brooding pines. He was riding across the domains of Strang when he came to a yard overhung by chestnut trees. Their leaves had transmuted to burnished copper, and the ripe chestnuts hung in spiky clusters. A woodfire burned brightly within a circle of stones, giving off a black feather of smoke. Beneath the gently nodding boughs, a horseherd was pouring oats into the feed troughs of the magnificent herd of horses milling about in the yard.
“Good morrow, my man,” said Teague cordially. “Can you tell me where Castle Strang is?”
The horseherd stared dully at his questioner. “I cannot tell you,” he said, “but go on a little farther and you will come to a cowherd, and he perhaps might tell you.”
Teague looked at the horseherd, so patiently tending his beasts. He took in the yokel’s much-mended jerkin, his stained breeches, the wisps of straw stuck through his hair and beard. He noted these elements, then sliced off the horseherd’s head, for the words of the Storm Lord still echoed within his skull: He who wishes to succeed must kill every person he meets after entering the domains of Strang.
As the head of the horseherd rolled from his shoulders, the trunk and legs turned into a column of umbraceous vapor while the skull disintegrated to a spherical haze. These dim fogs dissolved and dissipated altogether.
“Ha!” laughed Teague, sheathing his sword Búistéir. “There’s one less tattletale to go running to the master!”
Within the circle of stones, the fire went out.
On rode Teague until he encountered the cowherd, whom he treated in the same fashion after receiving an answer to his question. After decapitation, the cowherd’s remains vanished in the same way as the horseherd’s. Teague cleaned the weapon and flourished Búistéir high in the air, the polished blade flashing silver in the sunlight. “Steel has bite and backbone, for certain!” he crowed triumphantly, abandoning the cattle and a fizzling heap of charcoal that had recently been a fire of green juniper wood.
He served the next three farmhands in the same manner and had much joy of the slayings. Then he came to the henwife.
“Goodwife,” said Teague to the crone warming herself at her modest wisp of sooty flame while the hens pecked around her feet, “can you tell me where Castle Strang is?” But even as he spoke, his aspect soured, for he had never struck a woman. He hesitated, even though he knew she was no true woman but a simulacrum, an appearance of something that was never there, shaped from delusions or mist by the sorcerer’s gramarye
.
“Go ye on a little farther,” mumbled the wrinkled henwife, “until ye come to the top of that ridge. Then you will see the castle.”
Sensing his indecision, Teague’s horse fretted and pranced nervously.
“Goodwife,” said Teague, deferring the moment, “When I reach the castle, how shall I get in?”
“Go around it three times widdershins,” quavered the frail crone, “and every time say ‘Open gate! Open gate! and let me come in!’ and the third time the gate will open and you may go in.”
In one sweep, he decapitated her with Búistéir’s razor edge. Her corpse, like the others, transmuted into smoke and blew away. Her fire, like the rest, quenched itself.
Urging on his steed, Teague raced up to the top of the ridge. There before him on the opposite wall of the valley rose the vaulted towers and halls of Castle Strang.
Sweating after his long ride and from the effort of hewing off six shape-shifters’ heads, Teague hauled out his water flask so that he might refresh himself with a swig from it. Alas, even though he had filled it from a brook just before he passed through the row of pines, he had plundered it heavily as he rode and it was now empty—dry as a miser’s stirrup cup.
Muttering a curse, he thrust away the vessel and went charging down the hillside. Three times around Castle Strang he galloped, and each time he passed the gate he called out as the henwife had instructed, ‘Open gate! Open gate! and let me come in!’ and the third time the gate opened and he entered, passing through into a spacious courtyard. Instantly he understood why no guard or watchman had yet challenged him.
There was no vestige of life.
No grooms, stableboys, or equerries busied themselves about the stables. No pages, drudges, or footmen crossed the courtyard on their errands. No scullery-maids filled their wooden buckets at the well. A strange clock stared silently from atop a squat belltower. Only the air was softened with a pale blue gauze and some mounds of scorched applewood lay scattered about, smoking slightly, as if great bonfires had burned there a few days since.
The Iron Tree: Book One of The Crowthistle Chronicles Page 25