by Kate Forsyth
Gwilym found a clear patch of earth near the water and carefully laid a fire, using a bough of each of the seven sacred woods, which the witches always made sure were included among the supplies. Then he drew a wide circle around the fire with his witch’s dagger, leaving a small gap to act as a doorway. Within he drew a hexagram for, with Iseult joining them, they had six witches, including Dide and Dughall. Neither Iseult nor Dide was fully trained but both had power and would be able to supplement the strength of the others. Working weather was always difficult unless you had a Talent for it and so Gwilym was doing everything he could to focus and augment their strength.
The one-legged witch then sprinkled the circle with water, earth, ashes and salt, chanting: ‘I consecrate and conjure thee, O circle o’ magic, ring o’ power, symbol o’ perfection and constant renewal. Keep us safe from harm, keep us safe from evil, guard us against treachery, keep us safe in your eyes, Eà o’ the moons.’
He did the same along the crisscrossing lines of the star. ‘I consecrate and conjure thee, O star o’ spirit, pentacle o’ power, symbol o’ fire and darkness, o’ light in the depths o’ space. Fill us with your dark fire, your fiery darkness, make o’ us your vessels, fill us with light.’
The army marching past watched solemnly as the witches prepared themselves to work their magic. They washed themselves in the river and performed calming and centring exercises, breathing deeply and slowly, focusing their minds. Meghan would have liked them to have undressed completely, but here on the edge of the battlefield they were vulnerable enough already and so they simply stripped off their plaids and jerkins and rolled up their sleeves.
ult joined the little group by the river and washed herself and unbound her red-gold curls. When she was ready she stepped within the gap in the circle and sat at one of the six points of the star.
Gwilym closed the circle behind her and they all held hands and closed their eyes. The sun beat down on their heads but they ignored it, chanting softly: ‘In the name o’ Eà, our mother and our father, thee who is Spinner and Weaver and Cutter o’ the Thread; thee who sows the seed, nurtures the crop, and reaps the harvest; by the virtue o’ the four elements, wind, stone, flame and rain; by virtue o’ clear skies and storm, rainbows and hailstones, flowers and falling leaves, flames and ashes; in the name o’ Eà, we call upon the winds o’ the world, in the name o’ Eà, we call upon the waters …’
Then at a counterpoint to the other witches’ voices, Gwilym began to chant:
‘Come hither, spirits o’ the west, bringing rain,
Come hither, spirits o’ the east, bringing wind,
Come hither, spirits o’ the west, bringing rain,
Come hither, spirits o’ the east, bringing wind.’
On and on they chanted and felt the first stirring of a breeze against the hairs on their arms. Their spirits lifted and the force of their chanting increased. Iseult gripped Meghan’s and Gwilym’s hands tightly, focusing every ounce of her strength of will and desire upon the words. A bitter wind lifted their unbound hair, blowing it about wildly. Icy wetness touched their cheeks. Their chanting slowed and then stopped. The witches opened their eyes to see snow whirling all about them.
Dillon hurried down the road, bent over from the waist so his body would be hidden behind the hedgerow. His freckled face was set in an expression of determination and his hand gripped the hilt of his sword tightly.
had been ordered to stay behind with the healers and the unconscious body of Lachlan in the little grove by the river, but Dillon had waited only long enough for the Greycloaks to march out of sight down the road before following close on their heels. Behind him Anntoin and Parlan ran, doubled over as well, with the big shaggy dog bounding close behind. No-one had noticed them go, for the witches were busy casting their spells and Johanna and the healers were busy stripping bark from the willows. The battle in the forest had depleted their healing stores greatly and Johanna had been too well trained not to take advantage of such an abundant source of pain relief.
Soon Dillon could hear the sound of swords clashing and men shouting. The air stank of gunpowder smoke, making his eyes sting. Behind the acrid smell of smoke was the smell of blood, an odour he had grown too used to.
The squire hesitated at the end of the hedge, watching the battle with dismay. Several companies of Tìrsoilleirean knights had ridden out to engage with the broken remnants of the Rìgh’s army, wielding their swords and lances with contemptuous skill. Most of the Greycloaks were on foot, their horses either shot dead or too spooked by the noise and smell of the cannons to be ridden. Row upon row of harquebusiers were firing from the walls, aiming for the Eileanan leaders and flag-bearers so that the foot soldiers were completely demoralised. The river was choked with dead men and horses, overturned wagons and broken barrels. A pall of smoke hung over everything and several trees were aflame, their blackened twigs looking like pain-tortured fingers.
Despair and rage flooded through Dillon and he drew his sword with a curse. It sprang free of the sheath with a hissing noise. He waved it above his head and ran yelling into the heart of the conflict.
Swords sprang at him and, yelling still, Dillon knocked them away, a straight cut, a downward slash, a high thrust, an extended lunge, a jab under his arm. A red mist rose through his brain. The sword danced in his hand. He parried and thrust, feinted and riposted. Men screamed, falling before him. He heard their shrieks and gurgles only dimly. The stench of burning was in his nostrils, the smell of blood. He was icy cold. He shook with cold and fever. All he could see was Jorge’s sad, sweet smile, the bloody gash at Lachlan’s temple, the sound of Tòmas’s screams, and his flailing, desperate hands. As Dillon stabbed, slashed, hacked and dismembered, he wept tears that turned to bloody icicles on his pale, freckled face.
Iseult stared at the thickly driving snow in stupefaction, then turned and looked at the other witches. They were all staring at her.
‘We call rain and she brings snow—in the middle o’ a heatwave!’ Gwilym said with a twist to his mouth.
‘Indeed, I wish ye’d worked with us last summer w-w-when we were trying to break my m-m-mother’s hold on the w-w-weather,’ Iain said. ‘We could’ve done w-w-with a snowstorm or two then!’
Meghan smiled grimly. ‘Well, well, lassie, snow in the middle o’ May!’
‘Will it do the job?’ Iseult said harshly.
They could not see through the whirling snowflakes but listened intently. Although the sound of arms clashing continued, there was no cannon fire.
‘I think so,’ Gwilym said, hastily rolling down his sleeves. ‘Brrrrr, but it has turned cold!’
‘Then open the circle and let me join my men,’ Iseult said.
Gwilym complied and they all gladly stood up, stamping their feet and huddling into their plaids. So swiftly did the snow fall that the ground was already covered and the river was icing over. The narrow green leaves and hanging catkins of the willows were tinkling with ice, and the sky to the north, so blue and sunny only a scant ten minutes earlier, was leaden with snow clouds.
Johanna and Lilanthe were trying to cover Lachlan’s sleeping body with their cloaks but the bitter wind kept blowing them up into the air. Both girls had blue lips and nails, having been dressed for summer. The horse-eel was stamping and shivering miserably, shrunken down to the size of a goat. Even the seelie looked miserable, icicles forming at the end of his pointed ear lobes.
Gwilym snapped his fingers and the fire at the heart of the sacred circle sprung up into a roaring bonfire. Gladly the healers huddled close to its warmth, holding out their hands to its blaze. The seelie crept closer, his desire for warmth overcoming his instinctive fear of fire. For once even Lilanthe dared to come close to the flames, feeling her sap slowing and thickening in her veins in response to the cold.
Iseult ignored the bitter wind, strapping on her weapons’ belt and cradling her crossbow in one arm. She bent and kissed her unconscious husband between the eyes, smoothing back
his black curls, then set off down the road without a word. Iain and Dide caught up their weapons and hurried to join her.
Suddenly Meghan cried out and pointed up at the sky. ‘The dragons come!’
Iseult whipped around, her eyes flying up to the turbulent sky. Flying out of the maelstrom were seven great dragons, gleaming gold in the sun which shone on the clouds from the south. Their wings were spread wide as they battled against the storm and they bugled aloud in defiance and joy.
‘Dragons!’ Gwilym cried in alarm. ‘Eà forbid, the dragons fly!’
The healers screamed in terror and fell to the ground. Even Iseult, who had flown the dragon’s back, felt dragon-fear quicken her pulses and loosen her bowels.
Meghan was exultant. ‘The queen-dragon has kept her promise!’ she cried. ‘Come, Iseult! We must call for our men to retreat, lest they be flamed to death as well.’
The old sorceress did not wait for a response but began to run down the road as nimbly as if she were nineteen like Iseult. The Banrìgh ran after her, Iain, Dughall and Dide on her heels. Gwilym stared after them longingly, leaning on his club, then looked up with fearful awe as the dragons wheeled around, bugling still.
Dide reached the edge of the battlefield first. He lifted his hands to his mouth and gave the call for the retreat as loudly and clearly as if he held a trumpet to his lips. Again and again he called, and all over the field grey-clad soldiers heeded the call, disengaging and retreating back towards the river. As they ran, the dragons wheeled one more time, then they folded their wings and plummeted towards Ardencaple, fire streaming from their mouths.
Flames billowed up the turrets and walls, casting lurid shadows over the battle scene below. The dragons dived and soared, shooting great screaming balls of flame into the centre of the town. Barrels of gunpowder exploded and a terrible shrieking rose as the townsfolk and soldiers trapped within the walls began to panic. The Bright Soldiers out in the field were aghast, turning to watch, their swords dropping from their fingers. Some wept and shook their fists. Others were too shocked to move.
Only one small figure fought on. Covered in blood from his thatch of sandy hair down to his boots, Dillon battled on, disregarding the dreadful, magnificent sight of the flaming dragons. He was breathing in harsh, gasping pants, his chest heaving, his wrist wavering in exhaustion. Even though the soldiers he attacked had to wrench their attention away from the burning town to protect themselves, he did not falter. Jed was at his heels as always, his white fur stained a rusty brown, his jaws dripping with red foam.
Meghan saw the boy and the dog and her gaze sharpened. ‘Och, the foolish lad! He’s taken Joyeuse.’
The old witch strode through the dead and wounded, her plaid wrapped close about her against the cold. Behind her were the remnants of the Rìgh’s army, standing on the frozen river, their faces upturned to the sky. All were watching in fascination the aerial manoeuvres of the dragons as they rode the storm winds with spreading wings as thin as beaten gold.
‘Dillon!’ Meghan called. ‘Dillon, sheathe your sword. The battle is won. Sheathe your sword.’ Again and again she repeated the words but he ignored her, killing one then another then another. ‘Dillon, sheathe your sword. The battle is won. Sheathe your sword!’
He killed the last and looked about him blindly.
‘The battle is won. Sheathe your sword.’
Slowly the boy looked at her and raised the sword. His eyes were blank. Iseult wound on her little crossbow and raised it to her shoulder. ‘Ye have won,’ Meghan said kindly. ‘Ye need kill no more. Sheathe your sword.’
Blindly Dillon looked around him. He was shaking with grief and exhaustion. Some sense returned to him. His dazed eyes took in the ruin of the meadow, the blazing town, the black smoke and whirling snow. Then he saw the fallen bodies of Anntoin and Parlan lying among the dead. He fell to his knees, looking at the bloodied sword and his arms, red to the elbows. He threw back his head and howled aloud in anguish. The shaggy dog howled with him.
‘Sheathe the sword,’ Meghan said gently when his cry had shuddered away into silence. ‘The battle is won. Ye need kill no more.’
Dillon looked at Meghan dumbly, his face contorted with grief and bewilderment. Slowly he obeyed, wiping his sword on his green livery and sliding it back into the sheath.
‘Ye should no’ have taken the sword,’ she said gruffly, bending to lay her hand on his shoulder. ‘Joyeuse is no ordinary sword. Once it is drawn it cannot be sheathed until it has drawn blood and it will continue fighting until the battle is won. Although it will never be defeated, like so many things o’ magic it is as much a curse as it is a blessing. Those that carry Joyeuse come to dread it and rarely draw it. Most die early, even though the sword makes them invincible, for it will never yield and never retreat. I am sorry indeed that ye chose it, Dillon, for ye canna be rid o’ it until ye are dead.’
He looked at her without comprehension. ‘It’s a magic sword?’
She nodded. ‘Some say it is cursed, though indeed it was forged with the best o’ intentions. Normally those that bear it die o’ exhaustion before its blood-lust is satisfied. When he dies, someone else will be compelled to pick it up and keep on fighting until the battle is won. It has been known to kill six owners in the one battle before it is satisfied. Joyeuse is a cruel sword indeed.’
Dillon looked down at the sheathed weapon, so tired and numb with grief that Meghan’s words made little sense. She beckoned to Dide. ‘Take the lad back to Johanna,’ she said in an undertone. ‘Tell her to give him some mulled wine with poppy syrup in it and make sure he is clean and warm. He will sleep. He is only a bairn still. Some o’ the horror will fade in time.’
Dide nodded. He bent, pulling Dillon to his feet, and put his arm around his shoulder to support him. Jed whined piteously, and limped after them.
Meghan looked back at Ardencaple. Despite the snow swirling all around them, the town was aflame still. Above the conflagration, the seven sons of the queen-dragon soared and swooped, bugling in triumph.
‘Let us hope they have no’ enjoyed wreaking their revenge on humankind too much,’ Meghan said bitterly.
Iseult looked rather surprised. ‘Are ye no’ glad?’ she asked. ‘We have won the day now, and the war too, if I am no’ mistaken. They will think twice about marching on us again.’
Meghan nodded and drew her plaid up to cover her white hair. ‘Aye, happen you are right. Nonetheless, they are fellow human beings burning alive in there, innocents among them. I am sick to the very depths o’ my soul with all this slaughter. Can ye no’ feel their terror, their agony?’
Iseult looked back at the town. She nodded slowly. ‘But I’m glad. Glad! My leannan lies as if dead and many I knew and cared for are gone. I hope the one who betrayed us was sheltering within that town and I hope he does no’ die too quickly!’
Meghan nodded her head brusquely and turned away from her into the snow.
Lilanthe stood within a grove of tree-changers, her roots deep in the delicious soil, her body swaying as she enjoyed the warmth of the breeze that blew down the valley. She could hear little rills of water trickling down into the river as the snow and ice melted, and the susurration of the tree-changers’ leaves. They were talking among themselves in their deep, thunderous voices and she listened with pleasure. It was time for them to return to the forest, they were saying. Green grow glad free flow ramble …
Free grow ramble, she replied and they bent their leafy heads towards her, murmuring in welcome and appreciation. Then a few strode away towards the forest, none looking back or making any gesture of farewell. Tree-changers were solitary creatures. They wandered at will through the woods and rarely felt any need for social interaction. Those that stayed did so only because the soil was tasty and the sun warm.
Lilanthe remained with them until the sun was close to setting. Then quietly she pulled up her roots and walked away towards the fires glimmering beside the river. She did not look back or wave or say a w
ord, though it wrenched her heart to be leaving the company of her kin. Lilanthe was half human though, and she longed for companionship.
Dide was sitting on a fallen log, playing his guitar and singing:
‘O Eà, let me die,
wi’ a wee dram at my lip,
an’ a bonny lass on my lap,
an’ a merry song and a jest,
biting my thumb at the sober an’ just,
as I live I wish to die!
So drink up, laddies, drink,
an’ see ye do no’ spill,
for if ye do, we’ll all drink two,
for that be the drunkard’s rule!’
The soldiers cheered and laughed, singing along with the chorus. Lilanthe sat with her chin on her knees, her bare feet tucked under the hem of her gown, watching him. All round her weary soldiers sat, singing and drinking their weak ale. Many were bandaged and bruised, for Tòmas’s strength had been reserved for those hundreds of soldiers maimed by the cannon fire. Those men were now unmarked and strong, for Tòmas’s healing powers were more potent than ever. The restored soldiers worked to bury the dead and sort through the ashes of the town, now a smouldering heap on its hill, while those with minor injuries sat and rested and recuperated their strength with ale and song.
Lilanthe sat in the midge-buzzing dusk and wondered what she was to do now the faeries of her army had returned to their forest home. Strangely she did not feel apprehensive of the future. What Eà wills will be, she thought. She accepted a mug of ale with a shy smile and watched as shadows flowed over the serene landscape.
She smelled the strong odour of bear and turned her head as Niall came up the curve of the river, his familiar lumbering along behind. The soldiers made room for him by the fire and he sat, his arm in a sling, his head bandaged. The bear lay down beside him, moaning to herself as she licked her wounded paw. Lilanthe smiled at them.