‘How do they all make a living I wonder?’
‘Well, some of them have a trade which they can practise here, though they often get less than the going rate; others join the army to feed their families, and the rest, well, they just do what they can to avoid starving.’
The following morning she saw that some of them were barely avoiding that terrible fate. A sense of growing unease led her to stay in the wagon rather than sit with Roland and, as they skirted the hill Athkaril was built on and made for the bridge near its eastern gate, she was glad she had made that decision. Surrounding the dirt path to the bridge were these shacks she had been told about; they could barely be called dwellings, fashioned as they were from whatever material came to hand. Many did not even have doors just a pulled-down piece of dirty cloth concealing a dingy enclosed space containing whatever goods these people had managed to spirit out of their former homes. People sat outside the entrances in front of small fires heating their cooking pots. Many thin ribbons of blue smoke trailed upwards to the sky.
The refugee village must have contained hundreds, probably thousands, of these buildings. Channels had been dug from the river to divert water to people’s homes but these had been long clogged up with filth and rubbish. Cheris could smell the place even from her secure position; in high summer, she thought, it must be unbearable. Was there any city that did not have these terrible places? Worse was to come, though, for as soon as they passed the first two or three buildings they found themselves swamped by children, their pale thin bony arms outstretched as they begged for money. The filthy rags they wore, their large hollow eyes and thin pinched faces were just like those of the girl she had given money to in Tanaren. But she couldn’t give everyone here a coin – there were dozens of them, pleading with the knights in their high, reedy voices. Eventually Sir Norton threw a handful of pennies into the air which landed behind them. They immediately lost interest in the knights and dived on the money. There were fisticuffs and tears until finally the lucky few who had grabbed a coin or two ran off into the maze of buildings and were lost to view.
Shortly after, they crossed the broad stone bridge over the sluggish river and gradually left that unhappy place behind. They were now in the Land of the Seven Rivers and their destination, the camp of Baron Felmere, was only a few days away.
Cheris stayed in the wagon more frequently now. Roland had run out of questions for her and she could feel the tension inside her building up as their journey neared its end. Marcus helpfully reassured her that she was definitely the junior partner here and would be kept out of trouble as much as possible, but this didn’t help her sleep, which was often troubled. A couple of times she became aware that she was crying out loud in the midst of an uneasy dream; Marcus must have heard her but would never say anything the following day.
Three days out from Athkaril they reached the next river and the town of Tetha Vinoyen where the bridge was. While the horses were being watered, Marcus went for a stroll, accompanied by Sir Norton, while she stayed indoors. She noticed here that people were more blase´ about the presence of magic among them. Despite Marcus sticking out like the proverbial sore thumb in his bright-red robes, everyone else went about their business almost oblivious to him. When he returned to the wagon he seemed quite agitated.
‘The town here is buzzing! The city watch have spent most of the day fishing bodies out of the river. It appears there was a fight at the inn last night involving some bandits and a group of Baron Felmere’s men. The bandits definitely came off worse. Some people are saying the bandits were Baron Vinoyen’s men; there is a feud between him and Felmere, you see. You will pick up on all of this over the next few days.’
‘How close to the camp are we now?’ Cheris couldn’t even feign interest.
‘Felmere has two camps. His main camp is just over a day away. It is where Anaya, the healer, is stationed. We will stay there one night then move on to his forward camp where the Baron himself is quartered. So, to answer your question, we will be at the first camp on the morning of the day after tomorrow and the second camp the day after that. We are almost there – one more night in this wagon and the luxury of a tent after that.’
She looked pensive, then gave out a huge sigh. ‘I wonder what fate Artorus has in store for us?’
‘None that can be seen clearly. In Koze in the south they have the great Temple of the Auguries and thousands of priests and mages desperately try to fathom out their emperor’s dreams and predict the future. If they get it badly wrong, some are put to death. The truth is that no mortal can read the minds of the Gods; for us the future is unwritten. All we can do is to face it with courage and a true heart.’
She looked at him with clear eyes. ‘Your words are very noble, but inside I feel like jelly. I fear I am little more than a quivering mouse and hardly the great all-powerful mage you seem to think I am.’
He then did something unexpected. He put his arm around her shoulder and hugged her to him. ‘Fear not!’ he said boldly. ‘Sometimes the truth about ourselves is kept from us and only others are able to see in us what we ourselves cannot. I have every confidence in you, my girl. Now, let us eat. I have just purchased some rather delightful-smelling cheese. Let’s have some with some bread.’
And so their journey drew to a close. They crossed the river after eating and after passing some villages inhabited by the brave and hardy entered a country filled only by soldiers and camp followers. She noted the stillness of the place after the bustle of the towns and villages they had previously passed. Even the birds sounded mournful. She had never seen mountains before and when she first espied them on the approach to the river Kada she had dismissed them as something of a disappointment. Now, however, as they drew closer to them and she could get a better idea of their scale and grandeur, she had to revise her opinion. She had read many stories involving mountains and the beasts – the eagles, bears, giants and griffons – that supposedly lived in them and now that she was close to them, their white-capped peaks soaring above the pine-clad foothills, she found herself much more inclined to believe them. The ancients had even believed the Gods lived in them rather than the heavens, and she had to admit they did seem like a fitting home. She imagined standing high on one of the snow-capped peaks looking down at the world below, seeing people no bigger than ants scurry about on their business. How petty the dealings of men, their wars, their feuds, their empires would seem from somewhere so high. How insignificant she would look – little more than an insect to be stepped on and forgotten. She had often even wondered whether the Gods themselves were little more than a construction of the human mind, something put there to give importance to a life that was difficult, painful and all too brief. She had even voiced this opinion once, to Father Barris, one of the senior Artoran priests on the island. He had dismissed her argument and spoke to her instead of the importance of faith to the human soul, how its nature nourishes and enriches and enables us to see that which we cannot see, hear or touch but which was there all the same. Cheris wasn’t convinced – she apologised to the father but kept her true thoughts to herself. What would he think if he stood atop that mountain?
The following day it rained. Nothing heavy, just a fine misty drizzle, but it was enough to chill her bones and dampen the spirits. Oh for the soft cushions and open fire of the college’s common room! The heads of the mountains were covered in heavy grey cloud which seemed to drain the landscape of its colour, leaving it bland and anaemic. She sat with Roland for a while and watched as he swung gently northwards along an uneven side road where the wagon’s wheels and the horses kept throwing up liquid mud until everything within two feet of the ground was covered in its soft brown mess. To Cheris, the day both dragged and went too quickly. The countryside provided little of interest or that she had not seen before and yet she did not want to make camp – their last camp before joining the army the following day.
But, as no mage yet had invented a spell that could stop time itself, camp was made
, bunks were slept in and the dawn of the next day arose pink and fine. The rain had stopped but the seasonal chill in the air persisted. Roland had a spare weathered dark cloak which he gave to her and she hugged it close as he spurred the horses on one last time.
‘So you will be staying at this main camp while we move on to the forward one,’ she asked him, although she already knew the answer.
‘Yes, my Lady, we will part ways tonight. I would like to thank you, though. I have enjoyed our conversations and learned much. Please keep that cloak. I have another and with winter coming you may well need it.’
‘Thank you; I do tend to feel the cold. Maybe it’s because we are close to the mountains but I haven’t felt warm in days.’
‘Just wait till the winter! The other knights tell me you can get ferocious snowfalls around here with great drifts some ten feet high.’
‘Well, that just sounds terrific,’ she moaned. ‘On the island we rarely saw snow; apparently being close to the sea means a lot less snow for some reason. I will ask Anaya, the healer, if she has any spare petticoats. It would be ironic if I were to travel all this way to fight only to be killed by the chill.’
The journey continued. Now and then they would pass abandoned villages in various states of disrepair. One in particular looked like it had been deserted many years ago; the houses were blackened shells with walls barely a foot high, and trees and shrubs had recolonised the place. On the dirt road through it she saw some blackened bones that looked like they had been tossed into the air and left to fall randomly. She remarked on this to Roland.
‘They have probably been moved. The wolves around here are much bolder than they used to be and there are other carrion feeders that could have done this also.’
‘Like what?’ she said dully.
‘Oh just rumours! Some say ghouls, pale monsters that feed on the dead, still exist around here, or anywhere where death is commonplace. They hide in dark places during the day and only come out to feed at night. They have a special fondness for the drinking of human blood, or so you will hear if you frequent any tavern in wilder parts of the country.’
‘Hopefully they will remain just rumours,’ she said, shivering slightly. ‘What happened to the people that lived here, I wonder?’
‘We probably passed them in Athkaril living in the squalor there. Or maybe they went all the way to Tanaren and are doing well for themselves. Artorus knows – I hope the latter.’
At length the sun reached its noonday zenith and Cheris at last started to feel a little warmer; the air, fresh and clear, was beginning to make her feel drowsy. She could feel her head slipping on to her chest when Roland cut in.
‘Here we are, my Lady.’
Ahead of her was a broad field dotted with shrubs. A small silver ribbon of a stream cut across it, winding hither and thither on its journey westwards to the Vinoyen. Behind all this she could see the pine uplands sitting just below the jagged mountains, the sun turning their snowy heights a deep burnt orange. Where the stream became a barrier ahead of them was a broad wooden bridge with a small tower at each corner. Over the bridge the road widened and continued north-east for some half a mile. And there it was ahead of them – a fort constructed entirely of logs, square in shape, with the stream flowing just past it on the right forming a natural barrier. On its other three sides it was surrounded by a ditch laced with sharpened wooden stakes, blackened at their tips and pointing outwards. There were three towers on each wall, except for the wall that held the gateway directly ahead of them, which had four including one at each side of the gate. Each tower had a crude wooden crenellation at its top and was protected by a roof of brushwood covered in hides. From the gate towers flew many flags and pennants. One, which flew higher than the others, was a plain blue-and-white halved banner bordered by gold which even Cheris knew was the standard of Tanaren. Others she could make out had a mace, a bird’s claw and a great silver lance, and there was a plain green-and-white one similar to the Tanaren banner. Another had a waterfall, another a striking snake and another a snarling wolf. Last of all she noticed the banner of the thorn. She reflected on its history. It had reputedly come about because St Elysa, founder of the order of knights whose purpose was to protect practitioners of magic from others and from themselves, was challenged by the then emperor of Chira to prove she was not a heretic in thrall to demonic powers. To do this, she recited verses from the Book of Artorus while a rope made of thorns was passed through her tongue. She recited them all clearly without hesitation and so the emperor declared her pure in soul and elevated her to the ranks of the saints – those humans whose devotion to the Gods elevated them to quasi-divine status. Divine or not, the tale always made Cheris wince.
They arrived at the bridge. Sir Norton briefly spoke to one of the halberd-armed guards that approached him, who then waved them on. She could see men patrolling the wooden ramparts of the camp, the sunlight gleaming off their metal armour, and as they got closer she could hear voices – officers barking orders at the guards on the gate, she supposed. The gate then opened to accept them. Then they were in.
The camp itself was structured in a highly regimented manner with a road running north to south bisecting a similar one running east to west. Where they met at the centre of the camp was a square used for drills or for announcements that the commanders needed to give to the men. She expected the camp to be a mainly tented affair and, although tents indeed took up much of the room there, there were also a number of hastily constructed wooden buildings – grain stores and the commander’s quarters, according to Roland. The place was a bustle of men and animals; she could hear a blacksmith at his anvil and smell the large pots of stew that the cooks were preparing near by. Over many of the tents were hung flags or banners denoting the affiliation of its inhabitants. She guessed that Sir Norton was heading for the flag of the thorn, and after they had reached the central square and turned west she could see it, near the end of the road on the northern side. However, just before arriving there he stopped at a large pavilion bearing an all-red flag with a white heart shape at its centre. Sir Norton came to speak to her.
‘The hospital tent. You may wish to get Marcus, as I am sure he wishes to speak with the healer. If you go with him, head for our tent after you have finished. You will be quartered there.’
She thanked him and, after telling Roland she would see him later, hopped lightly off the wagon and went behind to speak to Marcus.
‘We’re at the hospital tent – do you wish to see Anaya?’
‘Indeed I do – it has been some years since I saw her last.’
‘How long has she been out here?’
‘Six years. It is something of a sore point; our secondments normally last for a year, two at most, but there have been no other healers wishing to attend here. It is a theatre of war, after all.’
‘Why ever not? What better place to practise their craft?’
Marcus sighed. ‘You would think so, but the truth is the healers have an easy life on the island pampering the wealthy and living in far nicer accommodation than the cells you are used to. Why risk life and limb when everything is so easy for you?’
‘Well, it seems very unfair on Anaya.’
‘Indeed it does and it worries me.’
He said no more but instead walked over to the tent, ducked under its flap and entered. Cheris followed hearing Roland spurring the horses onward behind her.
It was quite dark inside, although some light came from lanterns hanging from the tent’s supports. She could see a lot of low beds, mostly unoccupied, although a couple did contain prostrate forms lying motionless. At the back of the tent was a partition and sitting in front of it on one of several chairs positioned there was a woman whom Cheris recognised as Anaya. Marcus called to her and she got up and embraced him fondly.
She had changed: whereas Cheris could remember a tall green-eyed red-haired woman with a friendly if no-nonsense demeanour, the person she was looking at now was drawn, with pinc
hed features and weariness behind her eyes. Her fine red hair was now streaked with grey and held in a severe bun. For a woman in her mid-thirties she looked much more like a contemporary of Marcus than of herself.
‘Marcus, old friend, I heard you were on your way; how do you fare? How is life on the islands?’
‘As unchanging as ever,’ he replied genially. ‘You remember Cheris, don’t you? She will be assisting me this time around.’
‘Of course I remember. She has grown up a bit, I see.’ She turned to Cheris. ‘How are you coping with being Marcus’s great prote´ge´e these days?’
‘Well, it’s never easy but I get by. I think Marcus has all but given up on me, bless him.’
‘You are evidently being too hard on yourself. It is obvious Marcus thinks a great deal of you. Come, the nurses here can deal with the patients for now; let us retire and have something to eat.’
She led them behind the screened part of the tent. It was a cluttered area full of shelves, each of which was packed full of bottles and bowls – liquids of every conceivable colour, powders, dried leaves, even dead insects... There were open trunks full of fresh dressings and surgical instruments and a couple of stoves on which to heat them. There were also a couple of low beds and a table and chairs where they now sat down. A nurse in a simple white dress acknowledged them and, after putting some bread and cheese on the table, left the three of them alone.
‘May I speak frankly?’ Marcus said to Anaya.
‘You always do, and I have never heard you ask for permission before,’ Anaya said archly, with the thinnest of smiles.
‘Very well. Let me just say that you look tired, my dear. I really think you have been out here too long.’
Anaya sighed. ‘There was a time I would have argued vehemently with you over this. But you are right, I am tired. Last winter was very, very cold and I came down with a fever from which I don’t think I have fully recovered. Ironic, isn’t it, a healer laid low with illness? I felt so weak I was unable to use magic and I have found the fighting season here very taxing.’
The Forgotten War Page 20
