Above, a shadow moved past another, higher opening, the floor of the chamber overhead also gone. She caught a hint of red. Her breath caught in her throat. But she could not tell if the cloth came from coat or cap.
Rain began to spit against the castle, the few drops becoming a sheet that pounded the stone. She gripped her cane tighter. The chill stillness that came with the downpour unsettled her. It felt as if the storm gathered a momentum she would never withstand, one that would drown her and sweep her away.
The feeble sunlight streaming through the arrow-loops faded. The corridor darkened behind her. In the dimness, the warden appeared. He kept his sword pointed forward as he marched toward her. He wore a scowl that deepened as he approached.
“He is fled,” Gaelyph snarled.
Effie’s heart thumped hard at her breast, but irritation won out. She planted herself in the warden’s path. Gripping her cane in both hands, she asked, “Where is Caledon?”
The warden did not slow his pace, yet his face lost some of its glower. “Look with your eyes, Grundbairn,” he said. He stopped a mere breath away. The tip of his sword slipped past her ear, with a casual flick of his wrist. It clanged off the stone just behind her.
She flinched but held her ground. Was the move a trick, she wondered? No, she doubted the warden would employ any tricks if he desired to harm her. He’d have no need. Pulling her gaze away from Gaelyph, she eyed where he indicated.
Streaks of black crisscrossed the wall, radiating from a large splotch almost oval in shape. Crisscrossed, and yet perfectly aligned across several blocks of stone. It meant the coloring was not natural. She squinted and felt the rough texture. No soot or dirt or residue came away on her fingers. Scorch marks then, and not from a natural fire.
Her body stiffened. The marks had to be from stardust. “Tallia,” she breathed.
“Aye,” said Gaelyph, “working in league with the redcap and the wights, as the human called them.”
Effie stood dumbstruck. “You allowed the Unseily to take him,” she said without thinking. Of course, he hadn’t, not willingly. A picture painted in her mind of the warden and Caledon ambushed. Gaelyph was trapped below and the steward made captive. The redcap had stayed to try and burn the warden out, until she arrived.
The warden pulled back. His eyes dropped for the flicker of a moment before growing stern once more. She reached a hand up to take the words back when a cry of pain rang out. Shouting followed, and a thunder of boots. The warden hurried for the spiraling stairs. She stayed at his heels.
Sergeant McGrady spun to meet them as they emerged into the courtyard. Rain dribbled from his hair and dripped from his coat. “A deadfall was set inside the gatehouse,” he said. “The trigger set loose a tumble of stones that split Mayhew’s skull.”
Behind him, several of the soldiers tended to a slumped form. They all spoke at once. Blood soaked the rags they held. The rain had lessened to a mist, but it was enough to make them slip and slide as they scurried about.
“Oi, stay back! Stay back! Sergeant!” The hollering came from outside the castle. The last word was thick with fear. Rifle shots cracked in quick succession.
Those in the courtyard froze and glanced at one another before all save the wounded charged for the gatehouse. Effie’s legs churned. She danced through the muck. Gaelyph stole a step on her, but they tore through the gatehouse before any of the others.
The soldier who’d hollered struggled to reload his rifle. Scratches etched his cheek in puffy red lines. Three bodies sprawled near his feet. A dozen paces beyond, a woman in a simple woolen shift stumbled toward them. She looked pale and tired, as if she hadn’t eaten in days.
Effie gasped. Her hand found her mouth. Across the open field, a mass of bodies shambled like a mob from Edinburgh toward the castle. She had not sensed any of them approach.
“They are masked,” she said.
“The redcap,” Gaelyph replied. “He has sprung his final trap.”
22
Effie cast out her senses. The decay she felt within the woman in the woolen shift made her hiss and flinch back. She had never felt the banshee’s touch corrupt its host so severely. It was as if dark masses of fetid weeds had sprouted within the woman’s aura, their roots slithering everywhere, leeching and draining life.
She used Fey Craft to yank at the weeds. The masses came free in oozing, moldering clumps. A few of the roots snaked toward her. She batted at them. Envisioning a wall of force, like a crushing wave, she smashed away the remaining corruption.
The woman shrieked. She clutched her head and dropped to her knees, wailing in torment. Gibbering, she clawed at herself.
“The banshee’s touch is stronger in them!” The words struck Effie as she yelled them aloud. An understanding came to her. She had witnessed this madness before—with Cyrus Reed and again with Jean-Nicolas Durand. Of humans, they had served the Barrow Witch more devoutly than any other. She had assumed this came from an existing corruption of morals, but now she realized it came rather from a more focused enslavement.
Like the Piper of Ceann Rois, the Barrow Witch could not control all of her minions directly. Not all at once. It required too much focus whispering in ears and nudging with Fey Craft. But she could control a small amount of them forcefully.
Those with a purpose she desperately needed, such as Reed and Durand.
Those tainted fey of the Unseily Court.
Effie’s lips parted in a broad grin.
And those nearby she needed for protection. It meant the Barrow Witch was near, in the Borders, at least, as they’d suspected.
Effie scanned the gibbering woman and the dozens beyond who shambled toward her at a meandering pace. Not even in Edinburgh did the banshee’s touch corrupt so strongly. They had not eaten in days, had not bathed, nor tended to torn clothes. The Barrow Witch kept them firmly under her iron will. The human part of them had wilted away.
Sergeant McGrady clomped through the muddy grass and came to stand beside Effie. His breath wheezed in huffs from the dash from the courtyard. He eyed her grinning face and took in the approaching mob. Blanching, he swallowed hard.
“Halt!” he cried. But his voice held no conviction. He recognized the deadened gazes facing them. He knew those of the mob wouldn’t heed to reason. They would attack in a fury as they had in the cities.
The rest of the soldiers fell into a line. They levelled their rifles, peering into the dim light that painted the grassy field a pale amber. None spoke a word. Their eyes remained fixed on those approaching.
The sergeant raised his arm.
“No!” shouted Effie. She spun to Gaelyph. “We must do something. We cannot just kill them. They are innocent.”
The warden’s jaw was locked. He held his sword before him, the blade angled toward the ground. “The redcap seeks to trick your suitors with glamours,” he said. His eyes twitched. “I thwart him. Those approaching are already dead.”
A lump came to Effie’s throat. She stared at the gibbering woman and thought of Jean-Nicolas Durand. The truth of the warden’s words crushed her, but she refused to let it take hold. She grabbed the sergeant’s sleeve.
“Please, you cannot do this,” she begged.
“Hold fire!” the sergeant boomed. Dropping his arm, he studied Effie’s face with regained composure. His soldier’s training had taken over. The protection of his men overrode any other concern. “Until ten paces!”