The cursed towers 232
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green leaves and hanging catkins of the willows were tinkling with ice, and the sky to the north, so blue
and sunny only a scant ten minutes earlier, was leaden with snow clouds.
Johanna and Lilanthe were trying to cover Lachlan's sleeping body with their cloaks but the bitter wind
kept blowing them up into the air. Both girls had blue lips and nails, having been dressed for summer. The
horse-eel was stamping and shivering miserably, shrunken down to the size of a goat. Even the seelie
looked miserable, icicles forming at the end of his pointed ear lobes.
Gwilym snapped his fingers and the fire at the heart of the sacred circle sprung up into a roaring bonfire.
Gladly the healers huddled close to its warmth, holding out their hands to its blaze. The seelie crept
closer, his desire for warmth overcoming his instinctive fear of fire. For once even Lilanthe dared to come
close to the flames, feeling her sap slowing and thickening in her veins in response to the cold.
Iseult ignored the bitter wind, strapping on her weapons' belt and cradling her crossbow in one arm. She
bent and kissed her unconscious husband between the eyes, smoothing back his black curls, then set off
down the road without a word. Iain and Dide caught up their weapons and hurried to join her.
Suddenly Meghan cried out and pointed up at the sky. "The dragons come!"
Iseult whipped around, her eyes flying up to the turbulent sky. Flying out of the maelstrom were seven
great dragons, gleaming gold in the sun which shone on the clouds from the south. Their wings were
spread wide as they battled against the storm and they bugled aloud in defiance and joy.
"Dragons!" Gwilym cried in alarm. "Ea forbid, the dragons fly!"
The healers screamed in terror and fell to the ground. Even Iseult, who had flown the dragon's back, felt
dragon-fear quicken her pulses and loosen her bowels.
Meghan was exultant. "The queen-dragon has kept her promise!" she cried. "Come, Iseult! We must call
for our men to retreat, lest they be flamed to death as well."
The old sorceress did not wait for a response but began to run down the road as nimbly as if she were
nineteen like Iseult. The Banrigh ran after her, Iain, Dughall and Dide on her heels. Gwilym stared after
them longingly, leaning on his club, then looked up with fearful awe as the dragons wheeled around,
bugling still.
Dide reached the edge of the battlefield first. He lifted his hands to his mouth and gave the call for the
retreat as loudly and clearly as if he held a trumpet to his lips. Again and again he called, and all over the
field gray-clad soldiers heeded the call, disengaging and retreating back toward the river. As they ran, the
dragons wheeled one more time, then they folded their wings and plummeted toward Ardencaple, fire
streaming from their mouths.
Flames billowed up the turrets and walls, casting lurid shadows over the battle scene below. The dragons
dived and soared, shooting great screaming balls of flame into the center of the town. Barrels of
gunpowder exploded and a terrible shrieking rose as the townsfolk and soldiers trapped within the walls
began to panic. The Bright Soldiers out in the field were aghast, turning to watch, their swords dropping
from their fingers. Some wept and shook their fists. Others were too shocked to move.
Only one small figure fought on. Covered in blood from his thatch of sandy hair down to his boots, Dillon
battled on, disregarding the dreadful, magnificent sight of the flaming dragons. He was breathing in harsh,
gasping pants, his chest heaving, his wrist wavering in exhaustion. Even though the soldiers he attacked
had to wrench their attention away from the burning town to protect themselves, he did not falter. Jed
was at his heels as always, his white fur stained and rusty, his jaws red.
