Kate Forsyth - Eileanan 06 by Forsyth Kate

Author:Forsyth, Kate
Language: eng
Format: epub

Castle Forlorn

War is an unpredictable beast. Once unleashed, it runs like a rabid dog, ravening friend or foe alike. It can drag on for years, a slow attrition of nerve and fortitude, or be over in one brilliant flash, an extravagant conflagration of flame and blood and waste.

At first it seemed as if the war against the Fairgean would be won in just such a blaze, a holocaust of burning ocean in which flaming sea-serpents writhed and shrieked, and a hundred Fairgean warriors were incinerated in an instant. Black, oily smoke rolled up, choking those that watched in stunned horror from the royal fleet. The waves themselves burnt with a strange green fire. No matter how frantically the sea-serpents thrashed, no matter how deep the warriors dived, still they burned and burned until all that was left was a crust of ash and cinders that clogged the roll of the waves. The sides of all the ships were smeared with it, black and oily.

"Ea's green blood!" Lachlan coughed, wiping his streaming eyes.

"That seafire o' my uncle works as well as he promised!"

"It does no' seem honorable, to spray them with that stuff and then simply watch them burn," Duncan Ironfist said, his bearded face very grim.

"Was it honorable for them to attack us in the midst o' our Beltane feast?" the Duke of Killiegarrie retorted. He was holding his plaid over his mouth, his eyes red-rimmed from the acridity of the smoke. "We are at war, and any strategy that brings us victory must be honorable."

Duncan Ironfist shook his head. "Ea save us from such a war," he answered. His golden eyes troubled, Lachlan watched him walk away down the forecastle.

"They shall no' attack our fleet so quickly next time," Admiral Tobias said with satisfaction. "And the wind blows unusually fair, thanks to the wind-whistling o' your witches. We shall round Cape Providence in just four days if we have no more trouble."

"There'll be no more trouble," the Duke of Killiegarrie said confidently. "With this seafire o' the MacBrann's we shall simply incinerate any Fairge that pops his head out o' the water."

"Pride goeth before destruction and a haughty spirit before a fall,"

Arvin the Just, the first mate of the Royal Stag, intoned solemnly. Like many Tirsoilleirean, he had a proverb for every occasion, most of them very depressing. In this case, though, he was proved right. As the royal fleet rounded Cape Providence three days later, they were taken by surprise by a storm of such ferocity that seven of the royal fleet were sunk, and the remaining ships much damaged. Nearly every boat had one or two broken masts, their sails torn into shreds and holes ripped in the hulls. Supplies were ruined by saltwater, men were swept overboard, and many of their goats and sheep were drowned.

Isabeau and the other witches wrought a circle of power and sought to calm the storm, but they were hampered by the pitching and rolling of the ship, the drag of the gale-force winds and the lashing of the icy sleet.

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