Immediately three more soldiers attacked her, but she nicked one behind the knee with her reil and punched the other in the side of the head. Hamstrung, the first fell, howling in agony, but the other merely shook his head, dazed, and came at her again.
Iseult dodged his short spear and got in a quick thrust with her reil, kicking backwards with one foot at the same time, knocking another back to the ground. The third caught her foot, but she punched him sharply under the chin then stabbed him with the reil, held in her hand like a knife.
Another staggered to his feet and swiped at her with his claymore, but Iseult jumped high in the air, bringing her knees up to her chin, then spun mid-air, kicking him in the face. She landed in a crouch behind his back and punched him viciously in the kidneys then, as he fell, dragged her small mace from her belt and smashed it into the nose of another as he scrambled round to face her. As he clutched at his face she grabbed his spear and ran him cleanly through, turning at the same time so the sword being swung at her back sliced off his arm instead. She pushed the dead soldier at her assailant, knocking him off his feet, but another caught her round the legs and dragged her down.
Meghan started forward, but Iseult was fighting so desperately there was no getting close to her. With a series of kicks and blows Iseult overcame the soldier, rolling away as another spear plunged into the space she had occupied just seconds before. Then Iseult was on her feet again. Lightly she bounded away, then unhooked the head of her mace so she could swing it on its leather thong. The soldiers hesitated, and she taunted them. ‘Scared, are ye? O’ a lassie?’
The dazed captain staggered to his feet and swung his claymore towards her. She kicked him in the stomach with both feet, then brought the mace down hard on the side of his head. Again she whirled it around her head, and smashed the skull of Bacaiche’s captor. Without waiting to see him fall, she kicked one of the wounded soldiers back to the ground as he tried to reach for his fallen sword, then danced again out of reach, his blade in her bloodied fist.
By now there were only three soldiers left standing and they were reeling with the injuries she had inflicted on them. Iseult was winded, though, and the blood dripping from the wounded made the ground beneath her feet precarious. For some minutes they feinted, but only one came close enough to tear the fabric of her shirt. She beat him back with quick, strong blows, stabbing him through the throat.
Leaning on the sword, she kicked out sideways and caught one in the stomach, but when he fell he took her down with him. Kicking and punching she struggled to be free of his weight, but it was too late, the one remaining soldier stood over her and, with a triumphant cry, brought down his sword.
Before the blade could pierce her, he stiffened and gurgled, and the stroke fell awry as he toppled forward, a spear protruding through his stomach. Iseult looked up in amazement to see a stern-faced Meghan release her grip on its handle. ‘Ye killed him!’ Iseult gasped, wiping the blood from her eyes.
‘Aye,’ Meghan replied grimly. ‘Come, we must get out o’ here.’ She helped Iseult to her feet, and called to her nephew who was crouched against the fence, holding his stomach and half crying with pain and anger. He staggered to his feet, his enormous black wings trailing behind him. The injured captain tried to rise, scrabbling for his claymore, but Iseult lunged forward and killed him with a single thrust of her sword. The crofters scuttled out of her way, as if they expected her to come after them with her dripping blade, but Iseult was exhausted, leaning on the sword and panting heavily.
‘Come, Iseult,’ Meghan said again. ‘We must flee.’
The girl pushed her blood-matted curls out of her eyes and dropped her sword. With slow deliberation she turned the dead soldier nearest to her down onto his face, his arms spread. As she arranged his limbs, she dipped her fingers in the blood of his wounds. Slowly, with great ceremony, she then touched her fingertips to her forehead, her eyelids, her ears and her mouth, deliberately tasting his blood.
‘Embrace now our mother death as she embraces ye, and ken the Gods o’ White have accepted your blood in sacrifice,’ she chanted, then struggled awkwardly to her feet and moved to the next corpse, removing her reil from his throat and hanging it again from her belt.
Meghan, who had stood silent and still while carnage and chaos ruled around her, drew herself up straight, raised her hand and began to intone the rites of the dead.
‘Meghan!’ Bacaiche was white, his yellow eyes blazing. Bruises were beginning to discolour his face and throat. ‘We do no’ have time.’
Meghan turned to him. ‘Iseult is right,’ she answered. ‘We must give due honour to the dead.’
So, in the misty morning light, she and Iseult performed the different rites of their countries and religions, Iseult tasting their blood and turning them to embrace the earth, Meghan chanting the ancient rites. When they had finished, Iseult’s face was liberally striped with blood, her lips and teeth black.
The ferry passengers still lay on the ground in positions of supplication, some gripped with fear and horror, others with wonder intermingled. Iseult picked up the captain’s sword, its hilt intricately cast, its blade black with blood. ‘I take this as my spoils o’ war!’ she announced in a ringing voice. ‘Take note: I leave the weapons o’ the others, for they fought bravely if unwisely.’
The old witch turned and confronted the crowd. ‘Ye have seen today the winged prionnsa,’ she said. ‘Know then that the stories and rumours are true. He does exist, and when Eileanan faces its darkest moment, he will come and save ye all.’
One of the crofters said, ‘Wha’ need have we o’ a winged man when our Rìgh protects us?’
An expression of deep sorrow crossed Meghan’s face. ‘The Rìgh may no’ always be here to protect ye,’ she answered. ‘The Red Wanderer has crossed our skies and brings with it omens o’ war and destruction. I fear the reports the Fairgean are rising are true, and they say the Rìgh is no’ the man he once was …’
‘Treason!’ hissed a fat farmer’s wife.
Meghan turned to look at her. ‘I speak the truth, my dear,’ she said and pulled back her plaid to show the white lock that twisted through her braid all the way to the ground. ‘I am Meghan NicCuinn, Sorceress o’ the Beasts, and I do no’ lie! A scarlet thread has been strung on the loom o’ our lives and we face danger such as we have no’ seen for many years.’
There was no doubt the highlanders recognised who Meghan was for there was a collective sigh and murmur, half fearful, half glad. Many of them looked from her to Bacaiche, and as they noticed the white streak in his black curls and his aquiline nose, so like Meghan’s, another, more excited murmur rose.
‘Evil times are ahead, have no doubt o’ that!’ the sorceress cried. ‘Know, however, that the Witches o’ Eileanan are no’ gone—they watch out for ye and protect ye still. Do no’ fear! We are no’ your enemies.’
With those words, Meghan turned and led the way into the swirling mist, Iseult limping close behind. Bacaiche wrapped himself in the nyx-hair cloak and became again a hunchback, lurching after. The mist swallowed their figures and they were gone.
The Veiled Forest was a dark and forbidding place. Between stands of tall pine were vast moss-oaks hung with great curtains of spidery grey, giving the forest an unearthly feel. Mist drifted everywhere, concealing the great tangle of roots so that Iseult had to pick her way warily. She kept her crossbow nocked and at the ready, for Meghan had said many strange creatures inhabited the enchanted forest and Iseult knew she should not have explored so far.
Noticing how long the shadows had grown, she turned and made her way back to the garden of the Celestines. There the setting sun still shone red, and the mist was a mere blue haze beneath the graceful trees. She continued on to the clearing where they had made their camp, and found Meghan pacing in impatience, her brow deeply furrowed.
‘About time ye got back!’ the wood witch said. ‘Wash yourself quickly! It’s the spring equinox at last, and we must make ready. Tonigh
t the Celestines come to Tulachna Celeste, and happen we shall hear some news o’ Isabeau at last.’
Iseult obeyed instantly, knowing better than to ignore that tone in Meghan’s voice. The sorceress had been sorely troubled ever since their arrival in the Celestines’ garden, for there had been no sign of Isabeau as hoped. The garden had been empty of all life but the woodland creatures and, despite scrying through her crystal ball every day, Meghan had been unable to discover any trace of her missing ward.
After the battle on the jetty, the three of them had hurried as fast as they could into the shadowy gloom of the Veiled Forest, hearing the alarm bells ringing out behind them. The old sorceress had been white with anger. ‘To think I wanted the Red Guards to believe we were still on the other side o’ the loch! Now the Awl will have every seeker in Rionnagan converging on the Veiled Forest! After all these years keeping Bacaiche’s real identity secret, and the elven cat’s let out o’ the bag by a wee snippet o’ a lass that should’ve known better!’
‘That’s no’ fair!’ Iseult had protested angrily. ‘It was no’ me who attracted the soldiers’ attention! It was no’ me who pulled his filthy cloak off!’
‘No, that is true.’ Meghan’s tone was only slightly softer. ‘Both ye and Bacaiche are prime fools! Why did ye no’ leave it to me, Iseult?’
Iseult had looked at her in amazement. What could Meghan have done? Bacaiche would have been beaten to a pulp if Iseult had not stepped forward, and the lot of them probably thrown into prison. There they would have been tortured by the Questioners of the Anti-Witchcraft League and condemned to die, just like her twin Isabeau had been. Isabeau had only barely managed to escape her fate, and she had been cruelly hurt by the Awl first. If Iseult had not fought and killed the soldiers, their fate would have been as bitter. Yet Bacaiche had said no word of thanks, just limped forward, his scowl heavier than ever, while Meghan had scolded her as if she was a child and had acted foolishly instead of saving all of their lives.
‘Well, what is done is done,’ the wood witch had said. ‘I shall just have to see what I can make o’ it all. At least the rumours about the winged prionnsa will be spreading fast after this.’
Sulkily Iseult had suffered Meghan’s cleansing and purification rites, which the sorceress insisted were necessary before attempting to penetrate the enchanted forest. It had taken them close on a week to make their way through the gaunt, looming trees, but at last they had stumbled out into the smooth lawns and sunlit avenues of the Celestines’ garden. In the very heart of the garden was a high hill, perfectly round and symmetrical, with a ring of tall stones crowning its green head.
‘Tulachna Celeste,’ Meghan had said, contentment and wonder in her voice. Iseult was a little surprised. From the way Meghan spoke, she had been expecting the ruins of a grand city, not this hill with its simple ring of rough-hewn stones.
They had climbed the hill in silence and soon had risen above the level of the great trees, almost as high as the hills and mountains behind them. The stones, each twice as tall as Iseult, were topped with other stones, forming archways. The menhirs were all scratched with symbols of suns and stars and moons and running water. Compared to the intricate stone carvings of the tower where Iseult had grown up, they seemed childlike and crude.
Inside there was merely a stretch of meadow, with more tall stones circling a pool of green water in the centre. Fringed with clumps of rushes, the water trailed a plume of lush grass and clover to the west where once a stream had bubbled from its depths and run down the slope and into the forest. The joy on Meghan’s face slowly faded as she found no trace of anyone on the hill or in the garden, and gruffly she had bid them make camp and wait. ‘Perhaps Isabeau will be here soon,’ she said. ‘She may no’ have been able to find her way easily through the forest.’
As they had laboured together gathering firewood and foodstuffs that first evening, Iseult had noticed Bacaiche moved more fluidly without the heavy cloak, even abandoning his club. She decided it must be because he was able to use his wings to balance himself, while they were merely a hindrance when pinned beneath the cloak. She began to wonder why Bacaiche had been unable to defend himself at the jetty. He was a tall, strong man with massive shoulders and arms, and a pair of lethally clawed feet. Why had he not used them?
When she had asked him that night, he had looked away, his jaw set. ‘I thought the People o’ the Spine o’ the World did no’ ask questions.’
‘I offer ye a question in return, o’ course,’ Iseult answered.
He snapped, ‘I was turned into a blackbird when I was twelve, if ye remember. I had barely begun to be taught to fight, and although I had to struggle to stay alive while a bird, that is o’ no use now.’
‘I do no’ see why no’.’
‘I was a blackbird for four years, ye fool. I hid among leaves when the shadow o’ hawks fell upon me, and flew away when elven cats were on the prowl. What use is that to me now?’
‘But have ye no’ been spreading rumours o’ the coming o’ a winged warrior? Are ye no’ expecting war? How can ye fight to win the throne if ye canna even defend yourself against a pack o’ half-trained soldiers? Ye had to be rescued by a lass and an auld woman …’
‘Have ye no eyes in your head, Iseult o’ the Snows? Life as a claw-footed cripple is no’ the path to being a warrior.’ Bacaiche scrambled to his feet, the flames casting sinister shadows on his face.
‘Why no’? Ye could shoot a bow with those shoulders, and ye are strong. Your talons look formidable. I would no’ like to fight ye hand-to-hand if ye used those the way a hawk does. And ye could attack from above, which gives ye an advantage.’
‘How can I attack from above when I canna fly?’ Bacaiche flapped his wings derisively so Iseult’s red curls were blown away from her face. ‘Ye think these wings are o’ any use to me except to make me a prisoner o’ my own body? I, the Prionnsa Lachlan Owein MacCuinn, son o’ Parteta the Brave and direct descendant o’ Aedan Whitelock, am called uile-bheist and monster. I am hunted down like a coney by my own brother’s soldiers, forced to live as a fugitive! Ye think I would no’ like to be able to strike back? Ye think I do no’ long to dance with a sword like ye do?’
‘I can teach ye,’ Iseult began.
With a snarl, Bacaiche had jerked away, wrapping the cloak around him again. ‘Teach a cripple, Iseult? I thought ye despised the weak and deformed. I thought ye believed helpless cripples should be left out for your blaygird Gods o’ White?’ Without waiting for an answer, he had lurched off into the darkness, Iseult flushing with anger and shame. It was true, weak or disfigured babies were exposed by the Prides, and those crippled by war or accident pitied and scorned. She was sorry Bacaiche knew it.
The next morning he had limped off into the forest as soon as they had finished their porridge. Frowning, Iseult had washed herself and the dishes in the burn that ran brown and sun-speckled through the trees. The stone-crowned head of the high green hill was framed between the branches of a massive moss-draped tree. At the sight of it, serenity swept through her. What does it matter if the bad-tempered, hunchbacked fool is angry and will no’ speak with me? He means nothing to me anyway …
Meghan was sitting cross-legged on the ground, pulling a myriad of strange objects out of the small black pouch she held in her lap. Her donbeag, Gitâ, scurried back and forth, carrying what he could to lay in various mounds on the turf.
‘Magic pouch,’ Meghan explained. ‘It was woven for a MacBrann by one o’ the oldest and cleverest o’ the nyx. It’s a bottomless bag—very useful for moving house or escaping unexpected attacks. Unfortunately, ye must take things out in the same order that ye put them in, and so retrieving anything can be a nuisance.’
As the wood witch spoke, Iseult helped the donbeag sort everything into piles, marvelling at some of the extraordinary things Meghan had decided to include. A smith’s hammer and chisel were followed by a broken arrow fletched with white feathers, and then by a wedding veil of lace so
old Iseult was afraid it might crumble in her hands. There were beautifully woven plaids in blues and greens, red running through like a line of fire, while a dark-brown globe perched unsteadily on top of the tall pile of books.
Iseult picked the sphere up by its ornate stand and spun it. ‘Where are we?’
Meghan, without pausing in her unpacking, gently floated the globe out of the girl’s hands and down onto the grass. ‘It is no’ a globe o’ our world,’ she said reprovingly. ‘That is one o’ only two globes from the Other World, and it is irreplaceable. I keep it in the pouch so that time will no’ touch it. Please take great care with my treasures, Iseult. Many o’ them I saved from fire and treachery and I would no’ like ye to damage them now.’
She indicated one of the heavy books, dark with age, with a heavily embossed cover. ‘That is one o’ the great treasures o’ the Coven, and I came near death saving it from the Banrìgh. It is The Book o’ Shadows, and it contains much lore and history, and many great and powerful spells. Now we are safe at Tulachna Celeste, I shall begin teaching ye and Lachlan again.’
‘More magic?’ Iseult asked eagerly.
Meghan nodded, but said, ‘Ye and Lachlan have much else ye must learn as well. Alchemy and geography and history, among other things. Ye’re both ignorant indeed!’ At the old witch’s words, Iseult sat back on her heels. Her jaw set in a way that Meghan was beginning to know well. ‘No stubbornness now, Iseult,’ Meghan warned. ‘Ye agreed to throw your lot in with me, and indeed I’m glad now that the Spinners brought your thread to cross mine. There is a design in this weaving, that I be sure o’. Ye must be made ready.’
Iseult stilled her hands, which had begun to fidget in her lap.
‘Besides, why no’ take the opportunity to learn what ye can? Knowledge is power, surely ye must ken that. If ye are one day to be Firemaker, as ye wish, ye should want to do the best ye can for your people. I am sure your grandmother does no’ wish ye to waste your time here.’