by Kate Forsyth
‘The Greycloaks ride on Ardencaple to drive the Bright Soldiers out o’ Blèssem once and for all,’ he said. ‘Meghan asked me to try and reach ye to see if ye could bring the forest faeries and join us there. Indeed, we will need all the help we can get, for hordes more o’ the blaygird witch-haters have been pouring through Arran, seeking revenge for all their losses. How far away are ye?’
‘I do no’ ken where Ardencaple is,’ Lilanthe answered, ‘but we’re a couple o’ weeks’ march away from the edge o’ the forest at least, I’d say.’
Dide lowered his voice, saying, ‘We march on Ardencaple in the dark o’ the moons after Beltane. Can ye try and reach us by then? Indeed it would be good to see ye, Lilanthe.’
She blushed again and answered rather awkwardly, ‘And ye, Dide. It has been a long time.’
‘Aye,’ he answered. ‘Hard to believe it’s been two and a half years! I’ve missed ye though.’
Words tangled in her throat. Not knowing which ones to choose, she said nothing. He waited a moment expectantly then bid her farewell, his reflection slowly dissolving into the ripple of the water’s surface.
After that the army of forest faeries had turned and marched for Blèssem, pleased at the idea of seeing more fighting after their quiet winter. Lilanthe had not been so pleased, though she thought often of Dide in the ensuing two weeks, oscillating between pleasure and anxiety at the idea of seeing him again.
The pack of wolves howled the scent of blood and Lilanthe’s pace unconsciously quickened. Soon afterwards they heard the clash of arms and all the forest faeries raised their weapons and rushed forward. They came across a thin road winding through the forest. Bodies of horses and men lay all along its route, some still crying out in pain. Small groups of men were fighting desperately through the trees, those in grey jerkins greatly outnumbered by their armour-clad attackers.
The stench of blood was thick in the air and the satyricorns screeched in excitement. Lilanthe called to them to restrain their blood-lust. ‘Kill only those in white cloaks,’ she cried, but the horned women were already running, shrieking in frenzied anticipation.
Afraid of what they might do, Lilanthe called again in distress and suddenly the seelie lifted his golden head and called out a long ululation. The satyricorns turned their heads and howled in protest, but they did not spear the wounded men with their sharp horns or fight over the bodies of the dead, as Lilanthe had feared. Instead they ran on, surprising a group of Bright Soldiers who were walking along the road, killing any that lay injured. With cries of ecstasy, the satyricorns stabbed and thrust with their horns and laid about them with their clubs until all the Bright Soldiers were dead, then they ran on into the thick undergrowth in search of more.
The faeries of the forest surged after them, surprising the Tìrsoilleirean soldiers fighting all through the trees. Some were pulled down by wolves or clubbed to death by corrigans. A screech of gravenings swooped down, their filthy hair trailing, disease-carrying claws raking at their eyes. Slinky and silent as giant cats, the shadow-hounds poured through the trees, tearing out the throats of the enemy. Another band of Bright Soldiers were seized in the great arms of tree-changers and their backs broken.
Lilanthe and Niall hurried to offer what aid they could to the injured men, many of whom had not even had a chance to unsheathe their swords.
‘Where is the Rìgh?’ Niall asked anxiously.
One man pointed up the road, saying hoarsely, ‘His Highness rode at the front o’ the calvacade. I canna think he could still be alive. I canna see how any could be, so sudden and fierce was the attack.’ His head fell back on the cloak Niall had pillowed beneath him.
The big man rose, saying reassuringly, ‘Our attack is fiercer yet, I promise ye. Rest awhile and we’ll be back to succour ye when we can.’
Lilanthe bid the nisses to carry water to the wounded soldiers and the little faeries went flying off down to the stream, carrying tiny cups made of leaves back to the road. All brimming over with water, each cup was only a sip for the thirst-tortured wounded, but so swift were the nisses and so many that soon their parched throats were soothed.
Meanwhile Lilanthe and Niall ran on up the road, leaping over the bodies of the fallen. Amongst the trees they saw Dide and Gwilym fighting back to back, a wall of dead Tìrsoilleirean building up around them.
The jongleur’s knives were whirling through the air as if they had minds of their own, darting and flashing like hummingbirds. Dide was badly hurt, one leg hanging uselessly, one eye obscured with blood flowing from a wound to his head. He was only able to keep upright with the help of the one-legged warlock, who had his club propped under his armpit. Blue light flashed out from Gwilym’s fingers, disintegrating one soldier after another. Still the Bright Soldiers fought on, two replacing each one that fell. An archer fired arrow after arrow at them, but always Dide managed to deflect them, sending them spinning into the bodies of his attackers.
‘Do no’ kill the witches!’ an armour-clad sergeant standing in the middle of the road cried. ‘We will want them for the fire in Ardencaple. Subdue them now, though, and quickly!’
Dide staggered as the onslaught intensified, and Lilanthe cried aloud in alarm. With a loud roar the bear launched into action, charging up the road and killing the sergeant with one swipe of her massive paw. Lilanthe called for help and a grove of tree-changers came striding through the forest, branches swinging, stormy voices singing. Their great, gnarled roots tore up the earth, tripping up the terrified soldiers who tried in vain to run. One by one they were caught up and crushed in the tree-changers’ mighty embrace. Those who did escape were brought down by the shadow-hounds, their green eyes as bright as lanterns in the dim forest.
Dide wiped the blood from his brow with his hand. ‘It seems ye are to make a practice o’ rescuing me,’ he said hoarsely and hugged Lilanthe fiercely. ‘Thank ye again!’
Lilanthe hugged him back, as Gwilym said, ‘I do no’ think we could have held them off another minute. Thank Eà ye came when ye did!’
Lilanthe emerged from Dide’s embrace to see Niall the Bear watching. Unaccountably she flushed and stepped away from the jongleur’s arm. Dide sat down rather abruptly, his leg giving way beneath him. Ruefully he examined the gaping wound, then gazed up at the tree-changers swaying away through the woods.
‘So ye found your own kin,’ he said softly.
Lilanthe flushed, feeling suddenly angry. Why does he always think o’ me as more faery than human, she thought. I am both! She said nothing, nodding brusquely.
‘I’m glad,’ he said, and her anger left her.
‘So am I,’ she answered.
‘Can ye walk?’ Niall said to the jongleur rather abruptly. ‘The Bright Soldiers flee before us but I fear for His Highness. One o’ the wounded said he was at the head o’ the calvacade. We must hurry and see if we can help him.’
‘He’s alive,’ Lilanthe said, casting out her mind. ‘And so is Iseult. I can feel pain though …’
Dide tried to stand and fell again, too exhausted from the battle to bear weight on his uninjured leg. Niall gestured curtly to the bear and she swooped Dide up in her great paws and carried him as tenderly as a child. Gwilym swung along after them, using his crutch with great dexterity.
‘Ye limp?’ Dide said, seeing Lilanthe’s halting step. ‘Ye’ve been injured?’
‘Someone attacked me wi’ an axe in Lucescere,’ she replied shortly and, at his expression of horror, felt a certain grim satisfaction.
‘Who?’ he demanded.
Lilanthe shrugged. ‘It all happened so fast and I was sleeping. I only saw a glimpse o’ him …’ She put two fingers in her mouth and whistled and the shadow-hounds swarmed to her heels, their jaws dripping with bloody froth.
The Bright Soldiers were gradually retreating before the advance of the forest faeries, fighting obstinately every step of the way. However, with the shadow-hounds writhing at their back and the great woolly bear at their side, Lilanthe
and her companions were not challenged.
There were so many dead soldiers that it was difficult to make progress. They had to climb over the bodies as if they were logs swept downstream after a flood. There were many among them that Niall and Dide knew, and their faces were rigid with grief and horror. Lilanthe knew only a few, but she wept as she clambered and staggered through the corpses, seeing the contorted limbs and faces of violent death everywhere she looked.
Suddenly they heard the clatter of many horses travelling fast. Round the bend of the road came a company of Bright Soldiers, whipping their horses into a lather. They rode unheedingly over the bodies lying on the road, not caring if any they trampled were still alive. The satyricorns turned and charged them with shouts of glee. Without slackening pace, the soldiers laid all about them with their swords. Many of the horned women fell beneath their blades or were knocked down by the galloping horses. A few of the riders fell but none of their company even looked back, disappearing around the corner.
‘Did ye see!’ Lilanthe cried. ‘They carried someone wi’ them. I think … I’m afraid …’
‘Aye,’ Niall answered sombrely. ‘It was the old seer. Even above all their bonds I could see him. This is bad news indeed.’
Around the next bend, Niall and Lilanthe came upon great piles of dead and dying. Niall saw the mangled bodies of Bald Deaglan and Barnard the Eagle and could not help crying aloud in distress. ‘These are Blue Guards,’ he said. ‘His Highness must be near!’
Lilanthe said urgently, ‘I can sense Meghan. Quick! They are hard pressed, I can feel it.’
Meghan threw up her hand and caught an arrow only inches from her breast. With a curse she flung it from her, catching another with her other hand. As she ducked her wild grey head, three more zinged through the air and stuck quivering into the rock behind her.
Then a Bright Soldier charging them suddenly and inexplicably tripped, his pike falling from his fingers. With a rustle the pike slithered across the ground and into Meghan’s hand. The old sorceress used it to stab a soldier who had leapt over the pile of boulders. He fell back with a cry and Meghan threw the pike with unnatural strength, spitting the tripped Bright Soldier who had just managed to regain his feet.
They crouched down again, Iseult only just managing to ride out the waves of dizziness threatening to overcome her.
‘Look, there is Iain!’ Meghan cried. She sent a bolt of blue lightning from her hand, sizzling two soldiers about to split the prionnsa’s skull with their swords. They fell in a scatter of ashes and Iain looked round, bemused.
‘T-T-Thank Eà!’ he cried. ‘Or rather, thank M-M-Meghan o’ the Beasts.’
He ran to their side, ducking and weaving through the scatter of arrows still falling from the trees. He was wounded in the leg and side, but his sword was clotted with blood and flesh.
‘Where is Lachlan!’ he cried. ‘Is His Highness s-s-safe?’
Iseult pointed dumbly upwards. Iain gasped as he saw the Rìgh flying through the branches, his sword darting and flashing almost too fast to be followed. Behind him body after body fell.
‘Look!’ Iseult cried.
Meghan and Iain looked where she directed. Deep in the forest they saw a vine rear up out of the ground and throttle a Bright Soldier to death. Another vine whipped out of the trees like a giant snake and dragged a berhtilde down, strangling her in a few swift, agonising seconds.
‘Matthew!’ Meghan cried. ‘Look, it is Matthew the Lean!’
They saw the lanky witch crouched in the shelter of a dead horse, his fingers working frantically as he commanded the very weeds of the forest.
‘He always did have to use his hands,’ Meghan said censoriously. ‘A sorcerer should be able to command by thought alone, without all those finger-wavings and noisy grunts.’
‘We’re in the middle o’ a fight to the death and she still finds time to criticise,’ Iseult said, her face deathly pale, the plaid she clutched to her shoulder stained crimson.
‘Ye’re hurt, m-m-my lady!’ Iain cried.
She said sternly, ‘Only a wee. Have ye seen Gwilym or Dide? And I’m worried indeed about Duncan, he was on the cliff last time I saw him.’ She waved behind her at the mass of broken slabs and boulders and Iain’s face creased with concern. ‘Nay, my lady, it all happened so fast I do no’ ken what has happened to anyone!’
Suddenly they heard the clatter of horses’ hooves travelling fast. ‘M-M-More Bright Soldiers!’ Iain cried, growing even paler. He lifted his sword but Iseult drew him down behind the pile of rocks.
‘There are thirty or more there, Iain,’ she whispered. ‘Let them pass if we can.’
Meghan stared down the road. ‘Jorge!’ she cried. ‘No!’
The riders galloped round the curve of the road and straight for her. Although Iseult cried aloud in alarm, the old sorceress stepped right in their path, lifting her hand as if she thought to stop them by the gesture alone. The horses reared and plunged, trying to throw their riders, but cruelly the soldiers whipped them on. In horror Iseult realised one carried a tightly bound, unconscious form across his pommel. She saw briefly a flutter of a pale blue robe and the end of a long white beard, then the horses had galloped past, veering around Meghan like a stream of water around a rock.
One of the soldiers cracked his whip at her but she caught it in her thin old hand, pulling him from his saddle. He hit the ground with a thud and a crack and lay still. Iseult bent and caught up a bow, firing arrow after arrow. Although six of the riders fell with screams and one horse dropped in its tracks, the other riders raced on and disappeared from sight.
Tears were flowing down the old sorceress’s face. She fell to her knees, rocking. ‘No, no,’ she cried. ‘We must save him! Iseult! We must save him!’
Iseult drew her dagger as seven Tìrsoilleirean foot soldiers charged them from the bushes. ‘Let us save ourselves first if we can,’ she cried.
Meghan did not rise. She raised her grief-contorted face to the sky and cried, ‘Come to me, Caillec Aillen Airi Telloch Cas! It is time!’
Lachlan clung to the bole of a tree, trying to catch his breath. He swung behind the trunk as one of the archers hidden in the branches shot at him, and he had to use his wings to stop from falling. From this vantage point he had a clear view down the road and could see how many of his men lay dead or dying. A black misery and rage consumed him. With a shriek like a falcon, he spread his wings and soared above the canopy of leaves, dropping down behind the archer who had shot at him before and strangling him with his bare hands. The man’s death brought Lachlan no relief.
The Rìgh heard the thunder of horses’ hooves and looked down through the leaves to see the Bright Soldiers galloping over the bodies of his men. He saw Meghan try and stop them and recognised with a jolt of his heart the bound figure flung over one of the saddles. Lachlan had known and revered Jorge all his life. Horror pierced him like a knife. He gave an unearthly cry of despair and grief which rang through the forest like a clarion call. Without thinking, he spread his wings and swooped down through the trees in pursuit. An archer hidden in the branches took careful aim and fired. The arrow took the Rìgh full in the breast and, with a scream, he fell. Through twigs and branches he crashed, tumbling down and down until he slammed into the ground below, his wing snapped and bent beneath him, blood from a wound in his temple creeping out through the grass.
The shadows of the trees were growing long when Dillon led his little band out of the forest and onto the battlefield.
Ryley had died during the march, suddenly falling as he walked, his bandage bright with blood. The children were all shocked and distraught, for the soldier had made no complaint, no groan of pain. The Tìrsoilleirean had been so close on their heels they had had no chance to pause for Tòmas to lay his healing hands upon him. Numb with grief, the little boy had for once not noticed the pain emanating from the burly soldier and his sudden, unexpected collapse broke his tender heart. He sobbed uncontrollably and Anntoin had
to lift him and carry him, as Johanna picked up Ryley’s sword and buckled it around her waist, then hefted his heavy shield. In her grubby white bodice and pantaloons she could have looked a comic figure, but instead she looked stern and rather noble. ‘Let us go on,’ she had said simply, and they had left Ryley there in the shelter of a tree as if he was merely sleeping.
The healers were all drooping with exhaustion after their desperate flight, but as soon as Johanna saw the injured lying among the trees and bushes, she began to issue swift, clear orders and the healers obeyed her instantly, forgetting their own fear and weariness. Tòmas struggled to be put down, running from body to body, laying his hands on them all, not willing to wait for Johanna to see whether they were alive or not. So many of those he touched did not respond that the little boy grew even more distressed, and Johanna had to try and restrain him.
Then Parlan cried out in horror and they all came running. The boy had found Duncan Ironfist lying crushed beneath a great pile of broken boulders. Only his bruised and bloodied head and shoulders were free of the mass of stone. Miraculously the big captain was alive, although his every tortured breath bubbled with blood. All of the squires were distressed indeed, for they loved the huge, kindly man who had taken so much time to teach them their swordsmanship. Many small, willing hands cleared away the rocks and then at last they dragged him free, the unconscious man groaning in pain.
Every part of his body was crushed and broken and it seemed a miracle that he lived. Trembling and weeping still, Tòmas knelt and laid his thin little hands on the bloodied head, and slowly each cut and stab-wound healed over. The captain did not regain consciousness and Tòmas was visibly harrowed by the effort to heal him. The little boy shook and retched, trying to catch his breath. Johanna knelt behind him and supported his frail body, giving him some restorative potion to drink. At last some of his strength seemed to return to him.