The sentry shuddered at the memory. That ghostly figure still haunted his dreams. He just hoped it was not an omen of coming death, for he greatly wished to see his home again and drink apple cider on his porch on a long summer evening. He shifted his shoulders, still raw from the whipping he had endured. Half their number had been executed for their cowardice. He was just grateful that he was one of the six who had survived, even though they had been severely beaten and given night duty around the tomb, much to their horror.
Again he peered out into the mist. For several hours he had heard soft sounds—hurried footsteps, leaves rustling, a horrible dragging sound. He shivered and huddled back against the hard bole of the tree. Although he hated and feared the berhtildes, he feared ghosts even more. He would stay quiet and still and hope the phantom sounds disappeared with the night.
Trumpets sounded with a flourish. A white-clad herald strode to the edge of the ravine, carrying a pennant marked with a scarlet fitché cross. He unrolled a scroll and began to read out the Tìrsoilleirean army’s demands. He had done this many times over the past two years and his voice was flat and rather hurried. Once he reached the end of the scroll, he turned to go back to the meagre shelter of his tent without waiting for any reply. The faint sound of a shout from the palace on the opposite side of the ravine stopped him in his tracks.
The captain of the garrison was leaning over the battlements of the gatehouse, his hands cupped over his mouth to try and make his words carry further. Even so, the dawn wind caught the sound and carried it away. The herald cupped his hand to his ear and the captain made a sweeping motion with his hands, as if inviting them in. Then his head disappeared from view. To the herald’s complete astonishment, he soon heard a loud grating as the drawbridge began to lower. He turned and ran ponderously back towards the pavilions, his heavy armour and the rough ground making his progress difficult.
By the time the drawbridge had crashed down, a company of cavaliers and infantry had hurriedly been ordered into place. Caught between suspicion and elation, the Tìrsoilleirean seanalair ordered them to cross the drawbridge and investigate.
‘We know there can only be a handful o’ defendants left and they must be weak indeed from hunger, but we had best make sure they have no tricks up their sleeves,’ he said to the captain of the berhtildes, a massive woman with one pendulous breast.
She nodded, saying, ‘Aye, they must be desperate by now, so many dead they’re thrown over the cliffs this past winter. They have sent no emissary out, though, which makes me doubt they mean to surrender.’
‘Then why open the drawbridge?’ the seanalair answered, waving the soldiers forward. ‘They must have seen the size o’ our encampment. They canna hope to withstand us.’
The foot soldiers marched across the slender stone bridge and then onto the wooden drawbridge, their boots sounding like the rattle of hailstones. As they passed under the sharp points of the portcullis they glanced up apprehensively as if expecting it to come crashing down upon their heads. It did not move, however, and they disappeared into the barbican.
On their signal the cavalry trotted forward, their horses as heavily armoured as the riders, who had their helmets lowered over their faces.
Beyond the portcullis was a long tunnel running through the thick enclosure wall and under the barbican. It led out into a courtyard surrounded by the solid, fortified walls of the gatehouse. The only windows were long, narrow slits and the ironbound oak doors leading into the watchtowers were all locked. All was quiet.
The horses shifted uneasily and the captain of the cavaliers dismounted, issuing terse orders to ram the doors open. Then one of the foot soldiers tried the inner gate and found it unlatched. With shouts of excitement, they flung it open and ran through to the outer bailey. Beyond was the palace, enclosed within the inner wall. Its tall spires and towers soared above the walls, which were of much older and cruder workmanship.
Confident now, the soldiers spread out, searching through the maze of stone walkways beyond. The original keep had been designed to withstand just such an attack as this, however, and a complicated arrangement of towers, protected gates and ramps forced the attackers to follow a route devised by the defenders. Before they knew what was happening, the soldiers were picked off by archers hidden behind the watchtowers’ battlements or by guards concealed within the walls.
Meanwhile, the soldiers milling around in the courtyard were suddenly deluged with boiling oil. There were screams of agony as they fell writhing to the ground. Flaming brands were tossed out the slit windows and those soldiers to the rear leapt back in alarm as the oil exploded into flame. The fallen soldiers were engulfed in fire, rolling in agony on the cobblestones in a vain attempt to extinguish the conflagration.
Holding their shields above their heads to protect them from the boulders now falling from the battlements, the soldiers again tried to batter down the doors. Again boiling oil poured down from the windows, but the soldiers below were protected by their shields and most of it splattered on the ground without causing harm. The Bright Soldiers ran back as flaming torches were again tossed down and waited until the flame had sputtered out before once more trying to batter down the thick oak doors. At last they were smashed in, but the first soldiers to venture through were speedily killed by the defenders hiding within.
Within the confines of the gatehouse, the Bright Soldiers’ advantage of numbers was lost. They had to fight their way in over the bodies of their fallen comrades, only to be met by soldiers far better nourished and rested than they. The Bright Soldiers had been camped outside Rhyssmadill for so long, hunger, disease and a depression of spirits had weakened them, and the unexpected ferocity of the defence took them by surprise.
More Bright Soldiers were pounding down the drawbridge, making the inner courtyard so crowded it was hard to move. The cavalry captain tried to wave the reinforcements back but they misunderstood his gesture and surged inside, almost knocking him off his feet. A few of the great destriers reared, excited by the smell of blood and the sound of swords clashing, and there were screams as foot soldiers were knocked down and trampled underfoot.
At last the sheer mass of soldiers forced the defenders inside the gatehouse back, and they ran out onto the battlements, locking the doors behind them. The Bright Soldiers down in the outer bailey saw them and ran with yells of rage and excitement to engage them. The doors into each watchtower were tightly locked, however, and as the soldiers tried to break them down, they too were deluged with boiling oil and ignited with flaming brands.
Lachlan and Iseult were watching from the battlements of the inner wall. Every now and again one would issue a crisp command, and soldiers would run to obey. A squad of Tìrsoilleirean soldiers fought their way through the chaos of the gatehouse, carrying the sharpened trunk of a felled tree with which to pound the gate into the inner bailey. With a ferocious snarl, Lachlan snapped at the archers hiding behind the merlons. They leapt to their feet and fired through the embrasures. The soldiers below fell beneath the rain of arrows, the heavy ram crushing many as it crashed to the ground.
More Bright Soldiers came running to pick up the ram again, but again and again the arrows rained down. Soon the ground beneath the inner wall was piled high with the bodies of the Tìrsoilleirean, but still they kept coming, climbing over the corpses of the slain to try and ram the gate down.
Great cauldrons of boiling oil were tipped over the battlements, drenching the thick tree trunk and splattering those who struggled to carry it while still holding their shields over their heads. Then the longbowmen dipped their arrows in barrels of burning pitch and shot them into the ram. The oil ignited and the ram began to smoulder. Soon the flame had crept up its length and it was burning merrily.
Meanwhile, the doors from the watchtowers onto the rampart had been broken down and fighting now surged all along the top of the outer wall. Although the Greycloaks were well rested and well prepared, they were vastly outnumbered and were slowly being forced
back, overwhelmed by the number of white-clad soldiers still pouring in over the drawbridge.
The Bright Soldiers carried tall ladders with them, which they tried to raise against the inner wall. At first the defenders were easily able to throw them down, but soon there were so many men climbing the rungs that those above had trouble pushing them off. The defenders poured burning oil down the rungs and many of the soldiers jumped off, willing to risk broken bones rather than being burnt to death.
Then sharp-eyed Iseult saw a wagon piled high with a hastily dismantled siege tower being whipped across the stone bridge. Behind it trundled another wagon armed with a massive trebuchet, capable of catapulting huge iron balls and boulders nearly three hundred yards. It would certainly do a great deal of damage to Rhyssmadill’s defences if the Bright Soldiers were able to get it through to the outer bailey.
Iseult gripped Lachlan’s arm and pointed. ‘Time, do ye think?’ she said. They looked about them and saw that the sheer force of numbers was slowly overwhelming their own defence.
Grimly Lachlan nodded. ‘Aye, I think so,’ he answered. Lachlan beckoned to Parlan, who ran to his side, his face white with fear. ‘Call the Keybearer,’ Lachlan snapped. ‘It is time for her and the witches to do their work.’
Meghan, Jorge and Gwilym hobbled out of the corner turret where they had been sheltering and Dughall came striding along the battlement, Iain on his heels. They had already prepared a circle of power and each of the five witches hastily took up positions at the points of the pentagram drawn within the circle.
They held hands and, as the wheels of the first wagon clattered onto the wooden drawbridge, shut their eyes and concentrated. Suddenly the drawbridge disintegrated beneath the weight. With screams of terror, the carthorses were flung down into the chasm, the wagon plunging after. The horses pulling the second wagon had already set foot on the drawbridge and they too fell, the weight of the great catapult propelling the wagon over the edge. Down, down, into the raging torrent the wagons fell, to be smashed to pieces on the rocks below.
‘Shame about the horses,’ Lachlan said tightly.
Iseult nodded, her face grim. She could see the rage and consternation of the troops left on the far shore, and the sudden panic of the soldiers trapped within the palace. Without hope of reinforcements or retreat, they could be slowly and comfortably slaughtered at the defendants’ leisure.
For the next hour there was close hand-to-hand fighting all through the outer bailey and along the rampart, but gradually the Bright Soldiers were overcome and those who were not killed were taken prisoner and herded down to the palace cellars where they were left under lock and guard.
Meanwhile, the Bright Soldiers on the far shore had not been idle. With renewed fury they had rearmed their cannons and trebuchets and begun firing at the palace perched on its finger of stone. Most of the boulders and cannonballs fell harmlessly into the ravine, but a few pounded into the outer walls; then the witches brought rain sweeping in from the sea to dampen their fuses and gunpowder and render the cannons useless once again.
The Bright Soldiers tried to make a ramp to cross the open space between the edge of the bridge and the yawning gateway, once closed off by the drawbridge. Once or twice they almost succeeded but the witches simply disintegrated the ramps with a thought and those soldiers manning them fell screaming into the ravine.
Iseult and Barnard the Eagle had climbed to the top of the highest tower and were watching anxiously for any sign of their own reinforcements. At last Iseult saw a great, dark mass sweeping in from the east. Inexorable as a flood, the Rìgh’s army marched through the rolling meadows until it finally reached the Rhyllster. She saw the columns and squares break up as the Bright Soldiers defending the bridges moved to engage. She sent Dillon running to Lachlan with the news, excitement thrilling through her. The MacThanach had seven thousand men under his command, three thousand of them Tìrsoilleirean prisoners-of-war or deserters who had sworn allegiance to the MacCuinn. It was their hope that many among the Bright Soldiers camped in the park would join their comrades, the ground well prepared by Jorge’s prophecies and the tales of miracles and marvels.
Iseult watched until it was clear the Greycloaks had seized the bridges over the Rhyllster and were advancing through the ruined city, then she turned her attention to the north and west, where Barnard was leaning out over the battlements, his hand shading his eyes. They were expecting fresh troops from Lucescere to attack the Bright Soldiers from the rear, having marched through the Ban-Bharrach hills and along the foot of the Whitelock Mountains. Murdoch of the Axe had been sent to guide them and had promised to bring Lachlan and Iseult nearly a thousand men and women, though most were untried and only half trained. The element of surprise would be their greatest weapon, and Iseult hoped that all the activity at the palace would distract attention from the back gate.
Lachlan had sent Stormwing to fly over the palace park and the gyrfalcon soon circled down to report Murdoch’s company had crept in through the back gate and were advancing stealthily through the woods.
With a brief but heartfelt prayer of thanks, Iseult and Barnard then hurried to the west wall and gazed out anxiously.
The great forests of Ravenshaw stretched away to the west and it was impossible to see anything through the tangled branches, but Iseult watched until her eyes ached, nonetheless. Dughall had promised them the MacAhern would come but they had had no word, and since they did not know him, they could not scry to him for news of his approach, nor could the falcon’s keen eyes pierce the forest’s thick canopy. Dughall was down with the other witches, bombarding the white tents on the far shore with fireballs and making sure all attempts to cross the chasm failed. Iseult had just decided that she would ask him to try and reach the MacAhern that evening at sunset when Barnard touched her arm respectfully.
‘Look, Your Highness,’ he said. ‘There is some disturbance at the forest’s edge.’
She glanced where he pointed and saw a small white figure running towards the western boundary of the Bright Soldiers’ camp. Then white-clad soldiers were frantically gathering together their weapons and scrambling into defensive formation, their faces turned to the forest. Her heart lifted, and then she saw a wide column of cavalry trot out from under the shelter of the trees, pennants flying.
For a moment they paused at the edge of the open parkland, surveying the vast tangle of tents and pavilions that stretched before them, large as a town. Then the horses broke into a gallop, streaming down the slope towards the Bright Soldiers’ camp.
‘Quick!’ Iseult called to Anntoin. ‘Run and tell Lachlan the MacAhern is here as promised! We shall surely win the day now!’
By sunset it was all over. Seven thousand Bright Soldiers lay dead on the field, their white surcoats torn and reddened. The churned-up soil was wet with blood, and smoke from the burning siege machines hung heavy as fog, half obscuring the trampled tents and tattered flags. The moans of the injured rent the dusk, and as Meghan and her healers moved through the tangle of overturned wagons and broken picket lines, hands reached out to them, pleading for succour.
All were tended, whether dressed in white surcoats, grey cloaks or the black cassocks of the Tìrsoilleirean clergymen. By the light of flickering torches, the healers washed and bound, stitched and splinted, administered healing potions and pain-numbing drugs. Soldiers, many of them bandaged themselves, helped carry the worst injured into the shelter of the palace.
Tòmas walked among them, laying his hands on all he passed, even though his fingers trembled and great, purple bruises hung beneath his eyes. He wept as he worked, the tear tracks running white down his grimy, blood-smeared face.
After a while Johanna came and led him away. ‘Ye will kill yourself if ye lay hands on them all,’ she scolded. ‘Come and eat and rest a while, and ye can touch them again when your strength has returned.’ He dragged against her hand, protesting, but her grip was firm and he was too worn out to fight her.
The li
ttle boy was too late to save the MacThanach, who had died at the crossing of the Rhyllster. The death of the bluff, hearty man weighed on them all, for the MacThanach had proved most staunch and loyal over the past two years. Also among the dead were Hamish the Hot and Hamish the Cool, who had died in the defence of Rhyssmadill’s gatehouse, and Cathmor the Nimble, who had been shot through the throat in the last furious minutes of fighting. Lachlan was distraught at the loss of three of his most faithful officers, and he wept with the other Blue Guards as they laid them out in state in the great hall, wrapped in their plaids with their claymores on their breasts.
‘More dead for the Tomb o’ Ravens,’ he said sombrely. ‘Indeed, Gearradh has eaten well this day.’
Although the army celebrated that night with what scanty supplies they had, the Rìgh sat sunk in a black melancholy, his face haggard with weariness and grief. Iseult sat with him silently, her blue eyes sombre. Every now and again she poured him some more whiskey, and once she said with unusual gentleness, ‘The purpose o’ battle is slaughter and the price o’ victory is blood. That is the nature o’ war.’
He cast his glass away from him, saying, ‘Ye think to comfort me thus? Eà damn ye and your Scarred Warrior proverbs!’
She shrugged. ‘Who said I tried to offer comfort? What comfort is there in lost friends and comrades? I do but tell ye what war is. Ye did always think it was like the songs o’ the jongleurs—a game o’ chivalry and tactics like that game o’ chess ye play with Finlay. Well, it is no’. The purpose o’ battle is slaughter and the price o’ victory is blood.’
When he said nothing, she rose and went to leave, but he caught her arm as she went by and pulled her to him, burying his face in her lap. He took a sobbing breath, like a child, and she smoothed his unruly black hair. ‘Come to bed, leannan,’ she said. ‘We have waded in death today; let us drown ourselves in love and forget. We at least are alive and there is something in that.’