The Tower of Ravens (32 page)

The lane from Ashelma’s house was hock-deep in muddy brown water, and one of the caravans was bogged almost immediately. By the time they had heaved it free, they were all wet and filthy and out of temper, and they were not even out of sight of the witch’s tower. They rode on, hunched in their cloaks, more than a little perturbed at the sight of the river, brown and foamy as gushing ale, and carrying along great broken branches at immense speed.

They came to the crossroads and paused for a moment, looking back along the road to Ardarchy. Warm golden light glowed in the windows, and wood-smoke rose from the chimneys, torn into fragrant rags by the wind. Some children were playing with hoops in the street, and a smell of fresh bread came from the bakery. A wagon was drawn up in front of the inn, with three men rolling big barrels down a ramp and manhandling them in through the huge door. Four old men sat on the bench in front, puffing on their pipes, while further down the street two women stood gossiping, laden baskets on their arms, as a little girl dressed in a red hooded coat jumped gleefully in the puddles, unnoticed.

They glanced the other way. Only a few feet away the stone humpbacked bridge crossed the Stormness River. A high, stout gate had been fastened across it, locked tight with heavy chains and an enormous padlock. The river flung itself against the bridge angrily, throwing up gouts of brown foam. Beyond was a desolate landscape, grim and drear and empty of all life. The mountains loomed over it, purple-hued and draped with thick cloud. The road wound down away from the river, narrow and rutted and stony, running with water like a stream-bed.

“Could we no‘ stay a few more days in Ardarchy?” Felice pleaded. “Indeed, it looks like rain again.”

Nina nodded. “Aye, I ken. But we’ve been delayed far too long already. Two more days on the road and we’ll be past the Tower o‘ Ravens and back in the lowlands, where the weather is fairer.”

“What about the ghosts?” Cameron said sullenly.

“Most ghosts are only memories,” Nina said gently. “When a place has seen great sorrow or great joy, often the emotion soaks down into the very stones and leaves a shadow of itself behind—and those that have the gift o‘ clear-seeing or clear-hearing can pick up fragments o’ those memories. Some people see ghosts everywhere, and must learn to close their mind’s eye to them. The Tower o‘ Ravens is built on a place o’ power, like all the witches’ towers, and it has seen much horror and bloodshed. Because o‘ where it is built, the memories o’ those killed are magnified and so even those with very little talent can sense or even see the ghosts that remain. It can be awful, I will admit that, particularly if ye are very sensitive to such things. Ye feel as if ye are there, watching the battle again, hearing the shrieks o‘ the dying. But it is only a memory.”

There was a short silence, everyone staring across the river at the barren windswept moors beyond.

“Ye said
most
ghosts are only memories,” Felice said waveringly. “What about the others?”

Nina hesitated. “It is true that sometimes a soul refuses to go on and be reborn, but clings to its life here, for whatever reason—hatred, grief, horror, even a thirst for life that canna be quenched. These ghosts are more than just memories o‘ a soul, they are the soul itself. They are trapped between worlds, unable to go on because they canna forget their lives here. That is tragic indeed, for then the circle o’ life and death is broken and all is unbalanced. A trapped soul can be dangerous, I canna deny it. Even those that are no‘ malevolent but only wracked with grief or horror can cause harm, for they press upon our nerves, they swamp our souls with their own negative energy, and can drive those already prone to melancholy to deep depression or madness.”

“What about the ones that
are
malevolent?” Edithe asked, her voice shrill.

Nina sighed. “Few ghosts have the strength to actually harm ye, Edithe. They have no hands to hold a sword, they have no feet to kick or teeth to bite. Sometimes, if their will is strong enough, they can cause objects to move, just as a witch can, but just clinging to this world saps their strength and their will and so it is rare, I promise ye. Their only weapons are fear and horror. If ye do no‘ fear them, they canna drive ye to madness or infect ye with their misery. Stay close, stay strong, and naught can happen to harm ye.”

The only sound was the wind rattling the branches, the angry roar of the river and the occasional clink of metal as one of the horses shook its mane or stamped its foot. Then Edithe sighed and said facetiously, “Very reassuring, thank ye, Nina.”

“My pleasure,” the witch answered, not smiling, and shook the reins so her patient horse leant into the weight of the caravan and began to draw it forwards once more.

The town reeve reluctantly unlocked the barricade for them, after shaking his head and telling them sternly it was his duty to warn them that the road that passed the ruined Tower of Ravens was not safe and he hereby abjured all responsibility for them. Nina thanked him with a strained smile. Then one by one they crossed the bridge, the horses baulking at first, then shying nervously at the flying spray and the thud of storm-wrack swept against the pylons. The reeve locked the gate behind them.

It began to rain again half an hour later. It came down in long slanting lines, beating at their backs. There was nowhere to shelter and so they rode on, enduring in silence. The clouds were so dark and heavy it was like dusk, and all they could see ahead of them was the long, empty, winding road and the closing ranks of steep, bare mountains. They passed a ruined croft, its windows gaping like blinded eyes, its roof fallen in. A little further on they passed a broken fence, the fallen slats covered in brambles. The road was treacherous with mud and rocks, and the horses had to pick their way carefully, sometimes splashing into puddles so deep the water was up to their withers.

The riders had all unconsciously drawn together close behind the caravans, the hoods of their cloaks drawn over their heads. Rain spat in their eyes, and trickled down their necks.

“I do no‘ like this place,” Landon said nervously.

“It doesna inspire ye to poetry?” Cameron jeered, though it was clear he was edgy too from the way he turned his face from side to side, scanning the misty horizon, his hands fidgeting with the reins.

“I do no‘ like it either,” Felice said. “I wish we had no’ come this way.”

Blackthorn pranced uneasily, tossing her head and refusing to go forwards. Rhiannon leant forward to pat her neck. “What is it?” she murmured.

All the horses had to be urged onwards, and Rafferty had to tug hard on the lead rein before Maisie’s fat little pony would submit to following him. Ahead was another abandoned croft, its garden and orchard choked with weeds, its gate hanging off one hinge.

Blackthorn shied sideways, banging into Edithe’s mare Donnagh, who reared and plunged sideways.

“Keep your horse under control!” Edithe snapped, bringing her mare round smartly with a vicious dig of her spurred boot, the reins drawn so tight the mare’s chin was forced in to her breast.

Rhiannon’s nostrils flared. “Bad smell,” she said.

“I beg your pardon?” Edithe demanded coldly.

“Bad smell.” Rhiannon nodded towards the abandoned croft, her brows drawn in over her nose, breathing in deeply through her nose. She dug her heels into Blackthorn’s side, so the mare leapt forward into a canter. “Us get away from here.”

“What is it?” Lewen asked, as she cantered past him, leaping over the ditch beside the road to the rough soil of the unfilled fields.

She looked back at him over her shoulder. “Bad smell. Bad feeling. Something hungry. Us better get away.”

The other apprentices were alarmed and began to try to urge their horses forward, but they all plunged and reared, fighting the rein.

Suddenly, a pack of snarling, yammering dogs came hurtling out of the gate, skeleton-thin, with hunger-crazed yellow eyes.

Maisie screamed, and kicked her wooden clogs into her pony’s sides. The pony bucked violently and Maisie fell off. The dogs leapt upon her, jaws gripping and tearing, and the shrill sound of her screams rang through the air.

A PALE HORSE

“And I looked and behold a pale

horse: and his name that sat on

him was Death.”
 

Revelations, chapter 6, verse 8

Forest of the Dead