Fasneterax spoke: ‘We did not come here to tour your lake. We will leave with both of you and, if the Gods allow it, we shall all return to our village together.’
‘Very well, stranger, then let us depart.’
With all the haste they could muster the four men returned to the boat. As it gathered strength, the rain slapped mercilessly against their shoulders and the back of their heads. With little ceremony they clambered inside, the two new arrivals in the boat’s centre. The Elder took up an oar while his comrade readied a bowl to scoop out the water. As Cygan expected, the wind and tide were with them this time and the boat fairly shot out from the jetty. The difficulty now was in keeping the boat under control, to stop it being pushed past the mouth of the river. They drew their cloaks around them as much as they could as the elements assaulted them from all sides. The river mouth approached. Never had Cygan seen anything so welcoming. Denekavaxan, sitting just behind him, turned to take one last regretful look at his former home.
‘By Cygannan and all the Gods, do you see that?’
Cygan turned and almost dropped his oar.
He saw the rock, black and keen amid the roiling brown water, yet just ahead of it and to the right there was something else. In normal circumstances he would have called it a coiling water snake, but they never grew as long as this! Three coils he discerned – three arches standing out in the water, the central one standing higher than Jagged Hill itself. He reckoned four men standing one on another could fit comfortably under its great span. He could see its scales, green-black, almost iridescent, quite beautiful in their own way, but each of them large enough to make a warrior’s shield. As he watched, two of the coils disappeared under the waves, but emerging from the water came the neck and head of the great creature. He had expected a snake’s head but it seemed more reptilian, arrowhead-shaped with a fin at its centre. Even at this distance he could see its teeth, many teeth, all needle sharp and maybe up to a foot long. As they watched, its mouth opened and a great hiss came out, like a storm-force wind over jagged rocks, then the whole apparition plunged into the water once more and was gone.
Denekavaxan gasped, his voice suddenly hoarse: ‘Ventekuu, Ventekuu is among us. What can we do now? What can we do?’
Cygan wasn’t listening; he was too busy frantically rowing towards the river.
Three days later they limped back to their village. As Cygan expected, the great house was packed – nearly all the village was there. After leaving the still-sickly Tegavenek with the other elders, he sought out Dumnekavax.
‘You have heard the news, yes? Vengefarak is back.’
‘He is, Cygan, yes; he got here barely two hours before you.’
‘How have things been here? Has the village been attacked?’
‘Not as yet and, if the Gods are with us, it won’t be either. I have walked the spirit path and Ukka has instructed me. You, my friend, have a part to play in the resolution of this problem. Tell me your tale afterwards; right now I have an announcement to make.’
Cygan wondered what exactly ‘his part’ actually was but his pondering was cut short as the Elder called everyone to order. Cygan sat down with everybody else, feeling rather miserable if truth be told.
‘You have been waiting for me to talk to you all following my journey into the world of the spirits. There I had the honour of being addressed by Ukka herself and guided as to the course of action that we should take. It is not an easy course but it is one in which great honour can be achieved. If we do this correctly, then our village should be spared.’ He let the murmur of the crowd subside before continuing.
‘Before I tell you the task that has fallen to us, let me welcome the Jagged Hill tribe to our village. They have withstood nightly attacks from the Malaac for many days and their bravery can only be an asset to us here at the Black Lake.’ There was some applause at this, which Cygan participated in. ‘Now as to what we need to do. Firstly, these disturbances are not caused by any failure on our part; we here have done nothing to anger the Gods. Rather, the cause lies with the people outside the marsh who have meddled in things they do not understand and upset the balance of life here. We need to find out what they have done so I propose sending our ambassador Cyganexatavan to the dry lands of the north to find out the cause of the problem.’
Another roar of approval and Cygan saw the way things were going; there was no point in fighting the inevitable. Wearily, he stood up and addressed the crowd.
‘I accept the charge laid upon me and will leave when the Elder advises.’
Dumnekavax nodded to him. ‘And now for the second task: Ukka needs placating. She has requested an emissary. Someone young and strong, eager to serve both his village and the Gods.’
Instantly every young man present got to their feet shouting at the Elder, imploring him to choose them. Dumnekavax stared impassively at them.
‘Very well. I have chosen. Cerrenatukavenex will be the emissary. He has slain the Malaac and proven himself a warrior. There is none here more fitting.’
Cerren beamed at all and sundry. Honour indeed would be his for eternity.
24
If he was being honest with himself, he had never seen a river like it. Two days travel from the mountains through ancient oak woodlands and wide grasslands had brought them here, the river Taethan. They were just north of the point where the Taethan Falls crash on to the plain and spread outwards, to form the wide shallow river that flows down to the sea. They had journeyed along its course for a whole day and never at any point did the river seem to get any more than four feet deep; indeed, it rarely seemed to be any deeper than two along most of its length. The water itself was crystal clear as it ran over its stone bed, fronds of river grasses dancing gracefully as they swayed in the fast current. Morgan lost track of the fish he saw; most of them did not swim off either, but rather hung in the water regarding the unfamiliar interlopers with a bored curiosity. They river was dotted with many eyots rising out of the shallow depths; all were crowned with trees and had a thicket of shrubs and bushes at their base. Many birds perched in the high branches, calling defiantly to the humans passing below as if they perceived their very presence here as an affront. The river was very wide but everyone in the party could not help but glance frequently at the far bank. There sat the Aelvenwood. If ever a forest could glower, then this was the one. Impenetrable shadows gathered under the closely entangled branches of the densely packed trees. The whole place looked like light never pierced its inky depths, that it existed out of time itself, that it had looked like this a thousand years ago and would still do so a thousand years hence. As they walked alongside it with only the river separating them, they constantly expected something evil, an army of night horrors or a pack of slavering Agnathi beasts to emerge and bear down on them, all teeth and glowing red eyes. But nothing came aside from the wind in the trees, the calls of the birds and the chatter of water bouncing over sand and rock.
Cedric sat at the front of the wagon next to Varen, looking out for the island from whence the signal to the Wych folk would be sent. Morgan walked alongside them.
‘Do you have any idea where this island could be then?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Cedric. He seemed a lot better for being off the mountain and colour had returned to his cheeks. ‘Just keep your eyes out for a statue, probably covered in leaves or ivy. It has stood untended for many years after all.’
‘It would not do to walk straight past it. We are already some three days from the sea; I don’t want to get there and have to turn back and retrace our steps’
‘And miss it again?’ said Cedric.
Morgan groaned and looked back across the river.
As the river was so shallow, the banks were pretty marshy. They camped that night therefore a few hundred yards from the river, sheltered by a crescent of gnarled oak trees. They lit no fire as all of them had the uneasy feeling that they were being watched and the last thing they wanted was to draw unwelcome attention. None
of them slept well that night. They lay on their backs, weapons in hand, watching the clouds scud across the face of the waxing moon.
The following day after some two hours’ travel they found it.
Varen it was who gave the signal, pulling the reins up to stop the horses.
‘There!’ he said, pointing to an island nearly half a mile ahead of them. As they drew closer, they could see it. It looked like every other eyot they had passed, an island not fifty feet square that held some tall trees and shrubs. And a statue. Its natural stone colour had a greenish tinge and it was festooned with ivy, but it was unmistakeable. A statue of a man, some twenty feet high, holding aloft a spear with a shield in his left hand.
‘That is Culmenion, founder of the city of Zerannon and friend of the Wych folk – possibly their last human friend. When they were driven here after the wars with Chira, he acted as their protector and the two peoples swore to defend each other’s interests. This statue was put here so the Wych folk could be summoned in times of dire need; oaths were sworn and they were set to be allies in perpetuity. Then Culmenion died in suspicious circumstances, and the Wych folk blamed the humans and vice versa. After some bloody skirmishes they withdrew into the forest and have hardly been seen since.’ Cedric looked at his audience, a look of triumph in his eyes. ‘Hopefully that will change now.’
Morgan could see a low hill some distance from the bank.
‘We camp there. Cedric and I will travel to the island and stay there; the rest of you stay at the main camp. If you see a bunch of pointy-eared maniacs swarming and killing us make sure you escape, get to Zerannon and sit out the winter there.’
His instructions were carried out. Once the camp was set up, Haelward helped Morgan with the trunk of golden artefacts. Struggling manfully, they stepped into the river with it, Cedric following with his walking stick. The shock of the cold water made them all recoil. The water seemed shallow enough until it was stepped into and by the time they got to the island they were all shivering. The ground was completely overgrown but they managed to beat a large enough area flat to set both the trunk and themselves down. Haelward bade them farewell and made to step back into the river. Morgan caught his arm first.
‘Take charge of the others. I meant what I said. If something happens to us, don’t rush to our rescue. I don’t want anyone else lost on this trip.’
‘We all volunteered for this,’ Haelward replied. ‘Don’t blame yourself for what happened on the mountain. It was a miracle only one of us was lost. But I will do as you ask.’ And with that he plunged back into the river.
Morgan found enough dry wood to start a small fire; they dried their soaking feet, not caring if the fire drew attention – the cold drove away any fear of the Wych folk for the time being. Once this was done they moved towards the statue.
At the statue’s feet on the plinth the stone had been shaped into a bowl, cracked at the edges but still serviceable. Cedric ran his fingers over it. ‘The herbs go here, I presume.’ He opened a small pack he had slung around his shoulder and pulled out a soft leather pouch. He pulled open a flap and emptied its contents into the bowl. Morgan watched as a variety of leaves, some yellow, some waxy green, others black and crumbled, fell out. ‘Lamb’s foot, spitweed, yellow heartphlox and blackleaf, all rare and difficult to find. Wych magic is different to ours and closely tied to the earth. I just hope we have enough of these herbs here.’ There was still plenty of room in the bowl.
‘Now, the incantation. I just hope my ancient Aelvish is up to the mark.’
He opened up a book he had taken from his pack, turned to the right page, took a deep nervous breath and started to read.
‘Vyaza culeth, shenia azha tulevaa
Vheznia ule sylvazh azha nyava
Meon al eona sea vavanaa tesha
Ve nesteron ate.
Tune oro tune voto kele mushedron
Tutonos enae hashara thenestron
Azha eliath ezho con eonon
Ve nesteron ate.
Cucaniele kele zhuro beniath
Cantele oliath nesterenta azhuntath
Ze voto branate, strakate onherath
Ta luno conemeon
za fenosen azharath
Ve nesteron ate.’
A shower of autumn leaves twisted around them, carried by the swirling breeze. In the trees a bird was giving full voice to his song while all around them the river splashed, gurgled and foamed. But nothing else happened. Cedric looked disconcerted.
‘Ummmm...’
The leaves sat still in the bowl, protected from the wind. He reached in to pick them up, to start the ritual again. As he did so his trembling fingers brushed the cold stone of the bowl’s lip.
Suddenly the leaves ignited with a cold blue flame. Cedric barely had time to get his hands out of the way, but in doing so he slipped backwards on the wet ground and would have fallen but for Morgan catching him in time. They both watched the statue.
The flame moved rapidly upwards, covering the legs and torso and then swathing the head. The flame was a vivid blue, not the blue of a cold fire, but of a blue so intense that it could only be magical. It sprang from the head on to the arm holding aloft the spear, whence it climbed until only the spear itself was wrapped in its radiance. From the tip of the spear the flame shot upwards into the sky. There it remained, the spear covered in its flame, a flame seemingly sustained by the air. The two men stood watching the pyrotechnics.
‘Quite the sight,’ said Morgan, whistling softly. ‘No more than you deserve after reciting that verse. There can’t be many men who can speak that language these days.’
‘I would be foolhardy if I said I could speak it; it’s written here – I learned it by rote. The language of the Wych folk has changed since this was written, not greatly, but like all languages it evolves. Hopefully I have enough of their tongue that I can communicate with them when they arrive.’
‘I hope so, I would rather not conduct delicate negotiations through mime.’
‘Ha!’ laughed Cedric. ‘That would be something to see. Come, let’s eat; we can do nothing now but wait.’
And wait they did as day turned into night. As the light faded the flame grew ever brighter, its cerulean radiance seeming to bathe the island and making sleep difficult for its two human occupants. The flame gave no warmth, so they huddled in their blankets as the leaves fell around them.
‘I am sorry about your friend,’ said Cedric. ‘As Haelward said, though, you mustn’t blame yourself. If it is anyone’s fault, it is mine. None of us would be here without my instigation.’
‘No, it is no one’s fault. We all volunteered for this... Actually, no, we are all being paid, but it was I who selected him. When you serve in an army your colleagues become very close to you; the bonds you forge are very strong. You all depend on each other in a fight, you know; you watch each other’s backs. Rozgon was an experienced man when I joined up. He showed me the ropes, looked out for me until I knew which end of a sword to hold. I should have seen that ambush coming; I thought those creatures were too stupid even to do that, even though I thought it seemed too easy the first time we drove them off. They had obviously decided then to ambush us further down the road, when there was no fire to stop them. My carelessness did cost us, whether or not I am directly responsible for his death.’
‘You got the rest of us through. As an academic man planning this trip, I gave no consideration to the sweat and suffering required to get us here. I am in debt to all of you, including Rozgon.’
‘He was from the next village to me. I farmed; he was a soldier before the war. I knew his wife and kids before the Arshumans took them. He would send money back but for day-to-day things we all kept an eye on them, slipped them food, fixed their roof ... whatever was needed. It is what you do for a family in the army.’
‘So you knew them for a long time then.’
‘Yes,’ said Morgan, looking up at the flame. ‘Like so many, though, they were lost in the first year of the
war.’
‘Indeed, the dispute over Roshythe.’
‘Yes, I believe our baron claimed the city and the Arshumans were looking for a pretext to start a war anyway. The fool of a man attacked them without permission from the Grand Duke and they responded by swarming the Seven Rivers with thousands of troops. Within weeks Athkaril was our eastern outpost. The damage done in those weeks was colossal. So many died, including Rozgon’s family.’
‘And your grandfather.’
Morgan stared fixedly into the flame. ‘Yes, and my grandfather.’
Sleep did eventually claim him; it was not relaxed or comfortable but it was still sleep. When he awoke dawn had been and gone and the sunlight glinted through the branches of the trees.
The flame was still burning. Morgan eased himself up, stretched his legs and emptied his bladder. He saw Cedric standing at the northern tip of the isle, on bare ground, facing the forest.
‘Morning, Cedric. Those Keth-cursed Wych folk seem reluctant to show themselves, eh?’
‘Not that reluctant,’ said Cedric, pointing out across the water.
Morgan followed his finger. There, on the bank of the river directly opposite them, he saw three, no four, figures on horseback. He could make little else out; the sun reflecting on the water made it difficult to see, but he could see at least three of them carried spears.
‘Oh, by Artorus’s and Mytha’s bleached-white bones, are we in trouble now!’ He felt his sword in his scabbard, and his knife at his waist; it was the one he had last used on Rozgon. He shivered at the memory and released his grip.
‘They are coming; they are in the river.’ Cedric walked back up the bank towards the statue. ‘We will receive them here. The trunk is there ... that’s good. Right, Morgan, leave all the talking to me. Artorus only knows what will happen now.’
‘I am happy to oblige you.’ He stared fixedly at the approaching figures, their horses sending up plumes of water as they came across the river. He was starting to make out details. Three were cloaked and hooded in dark green. They all carried spears but the lead figure, riding a white horse, was different. Morgan saw at once why. It was a woman.
The Forgotten War Page 36
