The cursed towers 231
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down the road before following close on their heels. Behind him Anntoin and Parian ran, doubled over as
well with the big shaggy dog bounding close behind. No one had noticed them go, for the witches were
busy casting their spells and Johanna and the healers were busy stripping bark from the willows. The
battle in the forest had depleted their healing stores greatly and Johanna had been too well trained not to
take advantage of such an abundant source of pain relief.
Soon Dillon could hear the sound of swords clashing and men shouting. The air stank of gunpowder
smoke, making his eyes sting. Behind the acrid smell of smoke was the smell of blood, an odor he had
grown too used to.
The squire hesitated at the end of the hedge, watching the battle with dismay. Several companies of
Tirsoil-leirean knights had ridden out to engage with the broken remnants of the Righ's army, wielding
their swords and lances with contemptuous skill. Most of the Graycloaks were on foot, their horses either
shot dead or too spooked by the noise and smell of the cannons to be ridden. Row upori row of
harquebusiers were firing from the walls, aiming for the Eileanan leaders and flag-bearers so that the foot
soldiers were completely demoralized. The river was choked with dead men and horses, overturned
wagons and broken barrels. A pall of smoke hung over everything and several trees were aflame, their
blackened twigs looking like pain-tortured fingers.
Despair and rage flooded through Dillon and he drew his sword with a curse. It sprang free of the sheath
with a hissing noise. He waved it above his head and ran yelling into the heart of the conflict.
Swords sprang at him and, yelling still, Dillon knocked them away, a straight cut, a downward slash, a
high thrust, an extended lunge, a jab under his arm. A red mist rose through his brain. The sword danced
in his hand. He parried and thrust, feinted and riposted. Men screamed, falling before him. He heard their
shrieks and gurgles only dimly. The stench of burning was in his nostrils, the smell of blood. He was icy
cold. He shook with cold and fever. All he could see was Jorge's sad, sweet smile, the bloody gash at
Lachlan's temple, the sound of Tdmas's screams, and his flailing, desperate hands. As Dillon stabbed,
slashed, hacked and dismembered, he wept tears that turned to bloody icicles on his pale, freckled face.
Iseult stared at the thickly driving snow in stupefaction, then turned and looked at the other witches. They
were all staring at her.
"We call rain and she brings snow—in the middle o' a heatwave!" Gwilym said with a twist to his mouth.
"Indeed, I wish ye'd worked with us last summer w-w-when we were trying to break my m-m-mother's
hold on the w-w-weather," Iain said. "We could've done w-w-with a snowstorm or two then!"
Meghan smiled grimly. "Well, well, lassie, snow in the middle o' May!"
"Will it do the job?" Iseult said harshly.
They could not see through the whirling snowflakes but listened intently. Although the sound of arms
clashing continued, there was no cannon fire.
"I think so," Gwilym said, hastily rolling down his sleeves. "Brrrrr, but it has turned cold!"
"Then open the circle and let me join my men," Iseult said.
Gwilym complied and they all gladly stood up, stamping their feet and huddling into their plaids. So
swiftly did the snow fall that the ground was already covered and the river was icing over. The narrow
