The Forbidden Land (21 page)

The guard looked up rather blearily. Unable to see anything, he rubbed the back of his neck with his hand and said to his sleeping companion, ‘The least ye could do, Dom, is stay awake and keep me company!’

Finn’s fingers closed upon a little packet of folded paper. Carefully she drew it out and unfolded it. The paper crackled and again the guard looked up, this time more sharply. Finn kept very still, as still as the elven cat crouched at her feet. He stood up and peered down the corridor, paced a little, then at last sat down again. His hand reached down, groped for his tankard of ale, brought it up to his mouth for a long swig. He sighed, wiped his mouth, and went to set the tankard back down on the ground. As his eyes rolled back in his head, the tankard fell from his nerveless fingers and broke on the ground, ale splashing out.

‘Well, that sleeping powder certainly works well,’ Finn whispered to Goblin as she bent, unhooked the keys from the guard’s belt and unlocked the door.

Finn recoiled as soon as she stepped inside. A thick miasma closed about her, so thick as to be almost palpable. Composed of mould and sweat and urine and human excrement and something darker, like terror, it caused her to choke and retch with revulsion. She muffled her nose and mouth with the cloak, and peered about.

It was black inside, black as a chimneysweep’s arse. Finn wished she had thought to bring in one of the lanterns hanging outside the door. She groped her way out again, took great breaths of air that tasted sweet in comparison, then seized the lantern and stepped back inside.

Within was a small cell. Lying on a filthy pallet of straw and rags was an old man. He woke as soon as the light penetrated the cell, cowering back with a cry. Upon his papery skin were the ugly marks of torture: angry red burns, deep cuts and lacerations all weeping with pus, old bruises in yellow and green and new ones, black as ink.

Finn tried to reassure him but it was clear he could not understand her. She knelt by his side and pressed the wooden cross into his hands. His wildly dilated eyes stared at the cross, then back at her. Suddenly his face came alive with hope and joy and he kissed the cross passionately.

Finn helped him to his feet. He was dressed in only a few damp and filthy rags, and was shivering with cold. She had come prepared for this. Finn dragged a long black robe out of her pack and indicated that he should dress in it. For some reason she did not understand he recoiled at the sight but she pressed her hands together pleadingly and reluctantly he nodded. She turned away as he stripped away the rags and dressed himself in the robe. She passed him a pair of soft shoes and he crammed his long bony feet into them. She saw that the soles of his feet were suppurating with sores where he had been whipped again and again.

When he was ready, she slowly eased open the door and checked outside. All was quiet, the two sentries snoring away. Finn chewed her thumbnail thoughtfully. The plan had been for her to steal one of the soldier’s uniforms and to pretend to be a guard escorting a pastor through the prison. Such a sight was not uncommon in the prison, apparently, since the pastors spoke rites over those close to death, and many in the prison died every day. The prophet’s filthy, emaciated state would not occasion much surprise, since many of the Tìrsoilleirean pastors starved themselves wilfully and refused to wash the filth and lice from their bodies, considering such peculiar behaviour holy. Finn was hesitant to strip the guard, however, in case the one whose sleep was natural should wake.

After a moment she decided to take the risk, however. Indicating the prophet should wait inside the cell, she stripped the drugged guard of his armour as quietly as she could. It was impossible to avoid some clinks and clanks, however, and once or twice the other guard stirred and once half-opened his eyes, only to mutter something incomprehensible and close them again. Finn dragged the half-naked guard within the cell, dressed herself rapidly in his unpleasantly smelling chain-mail armour, then put his helmet on her head and his gauntlets on her hands. It was all very heavy and very smelly, and Finn wrinkled her nose in distaste. At last she was ready and able to lock the cell again, hanging the keys on her belt.

The prophet was very unsteady on his feet and Finn was beside herself with impatience as he shuffled along the corridor. She took his arm and tried to urge him along faster. There was no hurrying him, though, and so she stamped down her anxiety and helped him as best she could.

It was in the wee small hours of the night and all was quiet. Finn managed to avoid most of the guards and those they did pass did not pay them much attention, even though the prophet was so clearly barely able to totter. Once they reached the stairs it was easier for he was able to lean heavily on the balustrade, and she was able to push him from behind.

They were on the top floor when Finn heard again the sound of singing. She stopped in her tracks, once again entranced by the power and beauty of the voice. It sang of running along the sea-strand, the wind in her hair, the birds calling in her ears, finding shells that sang of the ocean. Some sound must have penetrated the old man’s maimed ears as well, for he lifted his grime-caked face to hers and said softly, ‘Be that the sea-witch I hear?’

It was the first time he had spoken and Finn gaped at him in surprise. He frowned a little and said, ‘They may have cut off my ears but I can still hear, lad. I hear sounds, though indistinctly, and I hear with the ears o’ the spirit. That is something they could never take away from me, no’ till they took my life. And then I’d be with God and should hear the singing o’ angels, which indeed I long to do.’

He sighed. ‘I remember the sea-witch, though. I used to be in the cell next to hers. I’d press my ruined ear against the wall and hear her as she sang. How sweetly and how sadly she would sing! Indeed, I do no’ think the singing o’ the angels could be as sweet, for she sang o’ things I love, spring and apple trees and children playing …’

Finn nodded and smiled. She listened to the pure, angelic voice a little longer, her mind racing. She had been present at many of the early war conferences, when the Bright Soldiers of Tìrsoilleir had first attacked the free lands of Eileanan. There had been much puzzlement as to how the Bright Soldiers had managed to sail the Skeleton Coast, with the seas thick with Fairgean and the coast unknown to any living sailor, since it had been three hundred years since any merchant ships had sailed from Bride. Once Meghan had said, ‘If it was anyone else, I would think they must have had a Yedda to sing them to safety, but I ken the Bright Soldiers abhor all witchcraft and would never have a trained sea-witch to help them.’

Lachlan had replied, ‘Unless they captured that ship I sent to Bride five years ago. It had on board the last remaining Yedda that I had been able to find. They may have forced her to sail with them and sing the Fairgean to death. If that was so, it would also explain how the Bright Soldiers kent the way through the Bay o’ Deception, for there were many canny sailors on board that ship that kent that coast like the backs o’ their hands.’

No Yedda had ever been found on board any of the Tìrsoilleirean ships captured during the war and Finn had never heard her mentioned again. Now she remembered, however. She stood and listened, and wondered, and somewhere inside her a germ of an idea took root.

Hearing the sound of marching feet behind her she hustled the old man along the corridor and into the safety of the side hall. The patrol marched past. Once they were safely gone, Finn harried the old prophet up the narrow flight of stairs to the battlements. They stepped out into the fresh air, both taking deep gasping breaths, relief buoying their blood.

Finn was a little dismayed to find the darkness was already fading. A few sea birds wheeled overhead, screaming plaintively. It was light enough for her to see the shape of the battlements dark against the sky. She led the old prophet across to her tightrope, still stretched between the two buildings. On the other side she could see the dark shape of Dide and Dillon as they rose from their hiding place behind the crenellations. Although she could not see their faces, their hunched stance and urgent movements told her how tense and anxious they were.

‘Shut your eyes,’ Finn told the old man, rifling through her bulging satchel for the leather harness and then fastening it securely round his skinny body. She led him to the wall and made him climb on top of it, clipping the strap of the harness to the tightrope. The old man opened his eyes and gave a shriek of dismay as he realised he was standing on the very edge of the battlement.

‘Sssssh!’ Finn hissed urgently and Goblin hissed as well, lashing her tail. ‘Shut your eyes and keep your mouth shut too, unless ye wish to betray us all!’

Trembling, the old man obeyed. Finn gestured to the two men on the other side and then gave the old man a vigorous push. He fell, whimpering. The rope jerked and held. Hanging from the tightrope by his harness, he sailed across the distance, his bare legs kicking wildly. Dide caught him at the far end and hauled him up and over the wall.

‘Go! Go!’ Finn made wild gesturing motions with her hands and Dide nodded and half-dragged, half-carried the old man across the battlements to where the rope hung all the way down to the sea, past seven hundred feet of sheer rock.

Finn waited till they were busy strapping the old man to Dillon in preparation for the long descent back to the boat, then ran back to the door and down the stairs, her mind scurrying with excitement and fear. As she ran she dragged out the magical cloak and flung it around her once more. It was almost dawn and soon the prison would be stirring. If Finn was to rescue the Yedda, she would have to be quick.

The sea-witch was singing no longer but Finn knew where she was incarcerated and wasted no time getting there, clanking in her borrowed armour as she ran. Goblin bounded before her, ears pricked forward. Finn reached the door, which was unguarded, knelt outside it and picked the lock with her tools. Within seconds the lock had flown open and she was able to swing open the door.

A very thin, pale, haggard woman sat on a low trestle bed, her blonde-grey hair hanging free all around her, a comb in her hand. She looked up in surprise and stared, puzzled and frightened, her hand to her sunken cheek. Finn realised she still had the hood of the cloak over her head and pushed it back. The Yedda gasped.

‘Witchcraft!’ she cried. ‘It must be. One minute there was no-one there and now, here ye are! Who are ye?’

‘My name is Finn. There’s no time for chitchat. I have come to rescue ye. Quickly! Ye must come with me now.’

‘But I …’

Finn seized her hand and dragged her to her feet. ‘Quickly! The guards will patrol past soon. We must be gone. Come on!’

‘But I be in my nightgown … just let me …’

‘For Eà’s sake, will ye no’ come?’

The Yedda was dragging on her stockings but at Finn’s words she looked up, her eyes glowing. ‘Eà! It has been long since I heard her blessed name. Aye, for Eà’s sake I shall come and gladly.’

She thrust her feet into shoes and caught up a plaid from where it hung over a chair. As she flung it round her, she seized a few belongings from the low table and tried to shove them into a reticule. Finn dragged her away. ‘Come away!’ she cried in a frenzy. ‘Do ye no’ realise it is dawn?’

‘What about the others?’ the Yedda cried, suddenly dragging back against Finn’s hand. ‘Do ye no’ save them too?’

‘What others?’ Finn asked as she pulled the door closed behind them.

‘John and Peter and Captain Banning, and auld Ballard, and Ferris …’

‘I do no’ ken who they are,’ Finn said indifferently. ‘Come, let us no’ tarry.’

The Yedda stood firm. ‘They are the crew o’ the
Sea-Eagle
. We have suffered much together and I canna be leaving them. Come, they are in the next rooms, it will no’ take but a minute!’

‘We do no’ have a minute!’ Finn cried in a frenzy of impatience. The Yedda pleaded with her though and so Finn flung herself to her knees before the next door down and manipulated the lock with hands shaking with fear and haste. ‘Goblin, keep watch!’ she hissed through her teeth and the elven cat slunk away down the corridor, her aquamarine eyes narrowed.

At last the door swung open. Within was a long room, all crowded with trestle beds upon which men lay sleeping, or sat up, yawning and questioning. At one end was a barred window and through the grime Finn could see the wall opposite, just fingered with light. ‘The sun is up!’ she cried. ‘Come on, come on, all o’ ye!’

As the men woke, exclaiming in surprise, Finn motioned them all forward. The men quickly began to scramble into their breeches and shoes, and she waved her arms furiously. ‘Hurry!’

Without waiting to see if they obeyed her, Finn bent over to pick the lock of the next door along. She roused the men within with a hiss and a shake, then hurried along to the next door, her heart hammering. At last the final door was unlocked and the man within, a tall man with a weather-beaten face and an air of command, was woken by Finn’s urgent hand.

The Yedda leant past her. ‘Captain Banning, come on; we must flee. They have come to rescue us at long last!’

The captain did not ask for an explanation, nodding and pulling on his breeches. ‘We do no’ have time!’ Finn cried, hurrying back out into the corridor. ‘Please, please, hurry!’

‘They bring us some food in the early hours,’ the Yedda whispered, her hands shaking. ‘They will find that we have gone then. How are we to escape?’

‘Follow me,’ Finn said as they all hurried along the corridor, boots clattering against the stone. ‘Canna ye walk more lightly?’ Finn hissed and they tried to tiptoe, making even more noise in the process. Finn rolled her eyes.

From behind her came a squalling mew, as loud and high as the little elven cat could manage. Finn dragged one slow man out of his room with a determined heave.

‘The guards come!’ she cried. ‘Be quick! Be quiet!’

She heard the sound of marching feet and looked about her in despair. There were over twenty men milling about in various states of undress, some wearing nothing but their shirts. The marching grew closer. Everyone froze, panic on their faces.