The cursed towers 222
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Iseult pointed dumbly upward. Iain gasped as he saw the Righ flying through the branches, his sword
darting and flashing almost too fast to be followed. Behind him body after body fell.
"Look!" Iseult cried.
Meghan and Iain looked where she directed. Deep in the forest they saw a vine rear up out of the ground
and throttle a Bright Soldier to death. Another vine whipped out of the trees like a giant snake and
dragged a berh-tilde down, strangling her in a few swift, agonizing seconds.
"Matthew!" Meghan cried. "Look, it is Matthew the Lean!"
They saw the lanky witch crouched in the shelter of a dead horse, his fingers working frantically as he
commanded the very weeds of the forest.
"He always did have to use his hands," Meghan said censoriously. "A sorcerer should be able to
command by thought alone, without all those finger-wavings and noisy grunts."
"We're in the middle o' a fight to the death and she still finds time to criticize," Iseult said, her face deathly
pale, the plaid she clutched to her shoulder stained crimson.
"Ye're hurt, m-m-my lady!" Iain cried.
She said sternly, "Only a wee. Have ye seen Gwilym or Dide? And I'm worried indeed about Duncan, he
was on the cliff last time I saw him." She waved behind her at the mass of broken slabs and boulders and
Iain's face creased with concern. "Nay, my lady, it all happened so fast I do no' ken what has happened
to anyone!"
Suddenly they heard the clatter of horses' hooves traveling fast. "M-M-More Bright Soldiers!" Iain cried,
growing even paler. He lifted his sword but Iseult drew him down behind the pile of rocks.
"There are thirty or more there, Iain," she whispered. "Let them pass if we can."
Meghan stared down the road. "Jorge!" she cried. "No!"
The riders galloped around the curve of the road and straight for her. Although Iseult cried aloud in
alarm, the old sorceress stepped right in their path, lifting her hand as if she thought to stop them by the
gesture alone. The horses reared and plunged, trying to throw their riders, but cruelly the soldiers
whipped them on. In horror Iseult realized one carried a tightly bound, unconscious form across his
pommel. She saw briefly a flutter of a pale blue robe and the end of a long white beard, then the horses
had galloped past, veering around Meghan like a stream of water around a rock.
One of the soldiers cracked his whip at her but she caught it in her thin old hand, pulling him from his
saddle. He hit the ground with a thud and a crack and lay still. Iseult bent and caught up a bow, firing
arrow after arrow. Although six of the riders fell with screams and one horse dropped in its tracks, the
other riders raced on and disappeared from sight.
Tears were flowing down the old sorceress's face. She fell to her knees, rocking. "No, no," she cried.
"We must save him! Iseult! We must save him!"
Iseult drew her dagger as seven Tirsoilleirean foot soldiers charged them from the bushes. "Let us save
ourselves first if we can," she cried.
Meghan did not rise. She raised her grief-contorted face to the sky and cried, "Come to me, Caillec
Aillen Airi Telloch Cas! It is time!"
