Weatherwitch: Book Three of The Crowthistle Chronicles (52 page)

“It is merely a threat to entice them from the shelter of their burrow,” the king replied.

“O King,” said the druid, his face the color of sour milk, “I am no fool. Has it been your intention all along to slay the Councilors of Ellenhall, or do you really mean to imprison them? If slaughtering is your object, I will not help you. I do not love them, but neither am I out of my wits.”

“I mean only to take them prisoner, of course!” Uabhar retorted testily. “They will soon scamper forth like frightened rabbits. The Sanctorum must support me in this, or all will be lost!” When the druid radiated cold disapprobation, the king’s manner abruptly mellowed. “Once rendered impotent,” he said, “the water-worshippers will regret their belittling of the Fates. I will do them no harm, and the Sanctorum will be restored to its rightful status.”

“Have I your word, Ó Maoldúin?”

It was the king’s turn to pale with censoriousness. “I am Slievmordhu,” he said aloofly. “I am not required to give my word.” The two men eyed each other with mutual contempt, barely concealed. “But you have it in any case,” Uabhar said, “if it makes you happy.”

As Uabhar turned away, the primoris gave his liege-lord a look of intense dislike and distrust, but no further speech passed between them at that time.

The night flickered with lurid light, like fires guttering in a sooty lamp of red glass, as the soldiers of Slievmordhu and Ashqalêth hoisted scaling ladders against the log walls of the lodge, and hurled grappling hooks to the window ledges. They clambered up to the high narrow embrasures, but the bars held strong, and when the assailants leaned in, Sir Isleif’s knights smote them with heavy blows and threw them down. Again and again the assaults were repulsed, with no loss of life on the part of the defending Shield Champions but many casualties on the part of the attackers.

Uabhar had ordered a high platform to be hastily constructed amidst the
seethe of battle-hungry soldiers, on which he was standing alongside Chohrab to oversee the assault on the Red Lodge. The sumptuous garments of the two kings were beginning to flutter in a strengthening breeze. Around them clustered a conglomeration of personal bodyguards, courtiers, druids, advisors and officers; a melange of livery, gorgeous raiment, albescent robes and military uniforms. Mac Brádaigh was part of the concourse, and Chohrab’s personal butler. A dozen message-bearers waited at hand. One of Uabhar’s ran up to the foot of the platform and bowed on his knee before his sovereign. “Your Majesty, the Shield Champions and weathermasters have sealed the lodge. We cannot break in.”

Uabhar frowned. He had felt the rising wind swerve and change direction. It whipped at his cloak and hair, and made the torches spew sparks. He spoke to his druids and commanders. “We must move quickly, before they have time to exercise the forces of weather. Bring up the ram!” Armored men hastened to obey.

“Your fine lodge!” Chohrab bleated as he stood teetering by Uabhar’s side. “The door will be broken!”

“All in a good cause, brother!” shouted Uabhar. “All in a good cause! Do you suppose I would not be willing to sacrifice my good door in the cause of justice? It is the least I can do for you, considering how wisely you have helped me. I can only
try
to measure up! You showed
such
foresight by sending your troops to surround the weather-meddlers. Your wisdom
shone
when you advised me that they should be captured before they can do harm to our kingdoms!” Taking Chohrab by the elbow he pulled him close and hissed into his ear, “I was never so well advised as when I hearkened to your counsel, O desert hero. I myself will see this dangerous enterprise through, on your behalf. You will find me a loyal ally, oh yes indeed. Loyal and faithful, as ever!”

Within the Red Lodge the occupants heard a new sound. It was the deep-voiced boom of a battering ram crashing upon the thick oaken door.

“By the powers!” said Galiene in disbelief, “the tyrant means business.”

“Indeed he does,” said Baldulf, his face drained of color.

Several knights piled furniture in front of the portal as reinforcement, while the weathermasters retreated to the dining hall. Ryence and Engres armed themselves with short flagpoles from the courtyards and roasting-spits from the kitchens, where a couple of terrified young scullery-maids huddled together in the inglenook.

Most of the Shield Champions filed down the narrow corridor to the door, where they waited—standing well back—for it to collapse inwards, as
it must, eventually, under that onslaught. Without pausing in their storm-summoning labors, the weathermages listened while the ram roared again and again, until at last the thunder of splintering wood and collapsing furniture announced that the attackers had broken through.

A mage-summoned flash of flame greeted the first couple of fighters to burst in. They stumbled over broken woodwork and rolled in fire, bellowing, until the blows of the Shield Champions put an end to their agony. No sooner were they vanquished than a second pair of warriors barged in to take their place. Flowever, no more than two soldiers could pass through the doorway at a time, and each pair encountered the wrath of Sir Isleif and his second-in-command who were vigorously defending the stronghold. Behind their captains, more knights of Grïmnørsland waited with upraised weapons in case one of the defenders fell. From beyond the ruined door rumbled the tumultuous and throaty cries of armed men clamoring for entry, howling for blood.

“Ó Maoldúin will never get in here,” Ryence said to Baldulf, as they peered down the passageway and beheld Sir Isleif dispatching another warrior of the desert, “and our storm is on the way!”

In the dining hall, Galiene stood, statuesque in flowing grey raiment, her eyes closed, murmuring the words that steered and drove the elements. Her senses traced the dynamics of pressure systems and temperature inversions, of wind currents, of the interfaces between air masses of varying temperatures and densities. Feeling a tug at her sleeve, she interrupted her labor and looked down, to see a young servant-girl cowering before her. The child’s face was pinched and pallid, her eyes large, rimmed with dark smudges. “Let me help you,” she gasped.

“What can you mean?”

“It is wrong, it is a terrible wrong, that weatherlords should be persecuted. I can help you.” The scullery-maid was trembling.

“I thank you for the offer, child,” said Galiene gently. “Nonetheless, if we can hold off our foes for long enough we will not need your help. You are risking your own life by siding with us. What is your name?”

“Mairead.”

“Go back to your kitchen, Mairead. Stay out of harm’s way, and do not trouble yourself on our account.”

Child and weathermage held one another’s gaze in a compassionate clasp, and at that moment the voice of Uabhar could clearly be heard, raging above the hubbub. “The knights collude with our foes. Set the Red Lodge alight! If anyone flees out of the fire, run them through!”

A cheer erupted from the soldiery; an ocean breaker smashing against a cliff. Ryence barked out an oath of incredulity.

“Wheel of the Hag!” the young servant girl screamed in terror. “They mean to slay us all!”

Presently the roar of cheering merged with another sound; the thud of branches being piled against the outer walls, the slurp of drenching oil, the crackle of torches, the windy murmur and lick of flames against the timber walls. Soon, by the garish glare at the high window and outside the disintegrated door, and by the change in temperature, the weathermasters knew that vast sails of flame were climbing the building. The lodge was ablaze.

“Uabhar is incinerating his own stronghold in his own country!” Baldulf shouted in horrified disbelief, as a thick cloud of smoke billowed along the corridor and began to fill the interior.

“It burns quickly. The flames will reach us before our storm arrives,” cried Galiene.

Sir Isleif and seven knights came dashing into the dining hall, spattered with gore. “You speak truly, my lady,” said the captain of the Shield Champions, panting as he caught his breath. “There is no time left. We burn.”

Not one of the elderly servants or young scullery-maids was to be seen; they had rushed off somewhere in fright. The air was darkening with reeks, making breathing difficult. Many weathermasters were coughing as if they would surely choke. “Dip these cloths in water,” commanded Galiene, handing out swatches of linen she had scavenged from the kitchens. “Wrap them around your mouth and nose.”

Ryence scanned the smoky chamber with red-rimmed eyes, as if taking the measure of each person present. “Let us break out of here and die on the sword, or escape if there is any chance under cover of darkness,” he said at last.

“Aye,” said Baldulf. “Better to die by blade than fire.”

“Unbar one of the back doors,” said Ryence, “and pull those shields down from the walls. Let us arm ourselves with any weapon that comes to hand.”

Sir Isleif wiped grime and sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “We shall enclose ourselves in a tight fence of shields,” he said, “with the women in the center. Thus we shall make our exit, chopping a road through the briar-patch of halberds, to freedom.”

All understood the hopelessness of their position. With so few trained fighters against so many, they had no chance. Yet even a vain shred of hope was better than despair, and both Ryence and Sir Isleif inspired courage in everyone.

“Very well,” said Baldulf, lifting a shield from its hook, “let us make such a valorous assay as will long be remembered in song!”

While the Councilors of Ellenhall prepared for this desperate bid, Galiene once again felt a tugging at her sleeve. The pale, frail servant girl had reappeared. She whispered fearfully, “Mistress, follow me. I will show you the way. A hidden siege-tunnel leads from here. Our masters believe we have no knowledge of its existence, but we have always known. My fellow servants have already fled that way. Bring lights!”

“Gather, knights and kinsmen! Gather to me!” cried Galiene. Just at the point when all hope had taken flight, Galiene’s spirits began to rise. Her companions clustered around her, carrying lanterns, and their guide led them from the smoke-filled hall. With naked swords at the ready, twelve of the knights strode ahead of the group, while the other twelve brought up the rear. Along cramped passageways they sped, and through fungous trapdoors, and down wooden ladders and many a spiral staircase that plunged deeply into the gloom of the cellars. The noise of shouting and the crackle of flames grew fainter as they progressed. Eventually they arrived at a damp and slimy tunnel hewn from water-glistening rock. This underground passage dipped still further, and they swiftly descended the slope, their path lit by the lanterns they had brought with them. One of the older weathermages stumbled. Baldulf set his shoulder beneath his comrade’s arm, half-carrying him.

“Where does this lead?” Galiene quietly asked their rescuer.

“Right out of the city,” Mairead replied. “Past the eastern ramparts.”

The floor began to slant upwards, and presently the tunnel came to an end. In front of a small aperture amongst the stones, fringed with wild grasses and tendrils, the young girl halted. The opening looked out upon an ebony sky splashed with stars, and a fresh breeze blew against the faces of the escapers.

“Douse your lanterns,” the scullery-maid said.

Slim ringlets of smoke coiled from the extinguished wicks, while the eyes of the weathermasters adjusted to night’s dimness. Between the blowing silhouettes of the leaf-blades glittered the cold, silent stars, like phosphorescent fractures in black ice.

I had a comb of silver to decorate my hair,

They said ’twas made by goblins; I said I did not care.

But goblin work’s illusion, trickery and dreams;

And goblins can’t be trusted—nothing’s what it seems.

 

I had a comb of silver, I cast it on the ground.

A mighty forest sprouted and burgeoned all around!

For goblin work’s illusion, trickery and dreams;

And goblins can’t be trusted—nothing’s what it seems.

—“
THE GOBLIN COMB”

The escape party pushed past the foliage, and emerged quietly to find them-selves upon a draughty hillside. At their backs loomed the embankment and parapet of the city walls, behind which the hill of the Red Lodge towered, now crowned with fire and smoke. Before them rose a low hill covered with tall fronds of bracken-fern, soughing and bending in the wind. No observer was in sight. Even as the refugees began to hasten away from the burning hilltop, one of the Shield Champions fell, bleeding, to his knees. His comrades
raised him to his feet, but Galiene, abruptly noting that Sir Isleif had also sustained injuries and appeared dazed, declared, “We have eluded our attackers, but there are wounded and weary folk amongst us. We must soon rest. Make for the next hilltop. There we will lie hidden in the ferns for a short time, that we may at least bind some of our hurts.

“As for you, dear Mairead,” she addressed the young serving girl, “blessings upon your next nine generations. Take this.” She unpinned a brooch from her cloak and pressed it into the maid’s hand. “It is all I have to give you by way of thanks. Now go.”