The cursed towers 233
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Meghan saw the boy and the dog and her gaze sharpened. "Och, the foolish lad! He's taken Joyeuse."
The old witch strode through the dead and wounded, her plaid wrapped close about her against the cold.
Behind her were the remnants of the Righ's army, standing on the frozen river, their faces upturned to the
sky. All were watching in fascination the aerial maneuvers of the dragons as they rode the storm winds
with spreading wings as thin as beaten gold.
"Dillon!" Meghan called. "Dillon, sheathe your sword. The battle is won. Sheathe your sword." Again and
again she repeated the words but he ignored her, killing one then another then another. "Dillon, sheathe
your sword. The battle is won. Sheathe your sword!"
He killed the last and looked about him blindly.
"The battle is won. Sheathe your sword."
Slowly the boy looked at her and raised the sword. His eyes were blank. Iseult wound on her little
crossbow and raised it to her shoulder. "Ye have won," Meghan said kindly. "Ye need kill no more.
Sheathe your sword."
Blindly Dillon looked around him. He was shaking with grief and exhaustion. Some sense returned to him.
His dazed eyes took in the ruin of the meadow, the blazing town, the black smoke and whirling snow.
Then he saw the fallen bodies of Anntoin and Parian lying among the dead. He fell to his knees, looking
at the bloodied sword and his arms, red to the elbows. He threw back his head and howled aloud in
anguish. The shaggy dog howled with him.
"Sheathe the sword," Meghan said gently when his cry had shuddered away into silence. "The battle is
won. Ye need kill no more."
Dillon looked at Meghan dumbly, his face contorted with grief and bewilderment. Slowly he obeyed,
wiping his sword on his green livery and sliding it back into the sheath.
"Ye should no' have taken the sword," she said gruffly, bending to lay her hand on his shoulder. "Joyeuse
is no ordinary sword. Once it is drawn it cannot be sheathed until it has drawn blood and it will continue
fighting until the battle is won. Although it will never be defeated, like so many things o' magic it is as
much a curse as it is a blessing. Those that carry Joyeuse come to dread it and rarely draw it. Most die
early, even though the sword makes them invincible, for it will never yield and never retreat. I am sorry
indeed that ye chose it, Dillon, for ye canna be rid o' it until ye are dead."
He looked at her without comprehension. "It's a magic sword?"
She nodded. "Some say it is cursed, though indeed it was forged with the best o' intentions. Normally
those that bear it die o' exhaustion before its blood-lust is satisfied. When he dies, someone else will be
compelled to pick it up and keep on fighting until the battle is won. It has been known to kill six owners in
the one battle before it is satisfied. Joyeuse is a cruel sword indeed."
Dillon looked down at the sheathed weapon, so tired and numb with grief that Meghan's words made
little sense. She beckoned to Dide. "Take the lad back to Johanna," she said in an undertone. "Tell her to
give him some mulled wine with poppy syrup in it and make sure he is clean and warm. He will sleep. He
is only a bairn still. Some o' the horror will fade in time."
Dide nodded. He bent, pulling Dillon to his feet, and put his arm around his shoulder to support him. Jed
whined piteously and limped after.
Meghan looked back at Ardencaple. Despite the snow swirling all around them, the town was aflame
