The cursed towers 227
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Meghan replied, looking off into the darkness, her face set like stone.
They spent the night working to save the few who still lived and dragging the dead into grim piles
between the trees. The tree-changers and other faeries helped, the horse-eel dragging litters through the
undergrowth, the corri-gans carrying the wounded on their broad backs. Tomas walked among the
injured, bringing miraculous strength and wellness back into their damaged bodies. Those he touched
were able to stand and help carry others, and by the time dawn came, all who still lived were as if they
had never been harmed.
In the morning light they made the terrible tally. Of the two thousand men who had followed Lachlan
through the forest, only a scant few hundred still lived. Barnard the Eagle, Murdoch of the Axe and Bald
Deag-lan were among the dead, and Finlay Fear-Naught was missing, bringing Lachlan's staff of officers
down to a mere four. They all feared Finlay had been taken prisoner, having been betrayed into some
foolhardy action by his impetuosity.
Matthew the Lean too had disappeared, one of the wounded reporting he had seen the witch being
dragged away after he had been struck down from behind.
"Please, Ea, let them no' be taken to the fire," Meghan prayed, rocking back and forth in despair. Some
time during the night her hair had turned as white as snow and it hung down around her body in
leaf-matted knots and straggles. "Please, let us reach them in time!"
Their only hope was that the other divisions of the Righ's army had won through to Ardencaple and had
prevented the Bright Soldiers from taking their captives back into the shelter of the town's walls. Duncan
Ironfist organized the remaining men into columns and made sure all were armed and provisioned. Then
they lost no time in marching on through the woods, Lachlan and Iseult huddled together on a litter drawn
by the horse-eel, swollen to his largest size. The great, white falcon perched near the Righ's head,
occasionally nudging him with his curved beak.
It was a glorious day, all green and gold and fresh and singing. Lilanthe found herself so oppressed by the
beauty of the forest that she could hardly see for her tears. Why should the sun shine or the birds carol
when there was so much evil in the world?
They had reached the forest's outskirts when Meghan suddenly screamed. She flung up her hands and fell
to her knees, the terrible, echoing cries going on and on. "Jorge!" she shouted. "Oh, no, Jorge!
Matthew!"
Tomas too was shrieking and writhing, beating at himself as if to stamp out invisible flames. For a moment
all was confusion, Johanna flinging herself on Tomas and trying to hold his hands still, Lilanthe trying
desperately to comfort the old sorceress, although she herself was almost overwhelmed by the emotions
that assaulted her.
Meghan would not be comforted. On and on she screamed, tears pouring down the furrows of her
wrinkled face. Lilanthe dashed the tears from her own cheeks and went to the litter where Iseult still lay,
her arm across her husband's back and under his wing. Her eyes were open but without any sign that she
saw or heard a thing.
"Your Highness," Lilanthe called, shaking her arm a little. "Please, the Keybearer needs ye. Please." She
shook her a little harder and Iseult turned and looked at her with a hard, flat, angry stare. "Meghan needs
you," the tree-shifter said.
