The other figures sought to conceal themselves but she was doing the exact opposite. She was tall, slim and carried a bow, and she was covered in dazzling gold. He could see a torque around her neck and a belt buckle that seemed to be made of nothing else. Suddenly the gold objects in the trunk seemed a little less splendid or indeed important. It was not a comforting thought.
They were here now. Two figures remained by the bank, their horses ankle deep in the water, but the woman and her remaining companion continued on to the island, riding through the scrub with seeming little thought for it. Then they, too, were by the statue and Morgan could see them properly at last.
The one with the spear had thrown back his hood; it was a man, pale-skinned with eyes as blue and cold as arctic snow. His hair was inky black with a bluish sheen; his ears, as Haelward said, were nowhere near as dramatically pointed as he expected but were better described as ‘gracefully curved’. He wore armour of hardened leather and Morgan quickly noticed his spear was tipped with obsidian glass. He regarded them icily. Morgan switched his attention to the girl.
Her hair was a similar glossy black colour to the man’s and was held in a ponytail behind her by some golden cord. It reached down far beyond her hips, maybe even down to her knees, and periodically it was secured by further cords running down the length of her hair like bands. She had a single braid, too, that crossed her forehead where a small white gem was fixed to it at the centre. Her ears, graceful and delicate, had at least half a dozen small golden rings through the lower lobe. She wore leather, too; at first Morgan thought it black but then realised it was the darkest of greens. Both her jerkin and breeches fitted her like a second skin; he could not even see where her pointed boots joined the trousers, such was the closeness of the fit. And the belt buckle, like the thin torque around her neck, was gold – not chunky but carved delicately into a shape not unlike a coiled rope or a twisting snake. Her arms were bare and, apart from her head and neck, this was the only skin she displayed; unlike her head and neck, though, they were covered in tattoos. Not the clumsy efforts sported by soldiers; these were a fine, elegant tracery, coming together to form shapes like leaves, spider webs or thin branches, running up her arms on to her shoulders where they disappeared beneath her clothes. He thought of the crude tattoos he bore; it was like comparing the brush strokes of a great artist with the daubs of a five-year-old child. But it was her face that held him most. He had seen many fragile beauties in his time but they were forgotten in a trice here. Her skin was the palest translucent white, clear of blemishes, contrasting sharply with her coal-black hair. Her nose, thin and retroussé; her cheekbones high without being angular; her chin pointed without being sharp; her lips thin and of the deepest burnt red, and her eyes, soft and almond shaped and a pale violet. That threw him momentarily but, yes, that was the colour they were; just as Haelward had mentioned. He then realised that for all her physical delicacy she was regarding the two of them with just as much icy hostility as the man. He suddenly realised that he had been seduced by the legendary beauty of the elves and pulled himself together immediately; this was no time to lose concentration.
She rode a step or two ahead of her companion and with a liquid grace slid off her horse. There was no saddle. Morgan also noticed a curved metal knife at her belt and his heart sank further. So they had iron, too. Her movements reminded him of a cat as she stepped towards Cedric who held his arms open in a welcoming gesture.
‘Satala Aelvazharath ve tafalla ate co mhezhia sea Hemenestra.’
Cedric spoke in the voice Morgan knew he used for public speaking. There was no change in either expression of the elves. Then the man spoke.
‘Zuke te nesteratse Aelveth nestezho vuto zheke voto iozho thenessate.’
Cedric looked at Morgan. ‘I believe he is asking for reasons why they shouldn’t kill us; I had better make my reply a worthy one.’
The girl who was standing directly in front of Cedric raised her hand.
‘Fesna! Tiavon. Al brachian olea uva tafal drezhemekh.’ Her voice was clear, pure and commanding, reinforcing Morgan’s belief that she was the one in charge here. She slowly circled the silent Cedric. She appeared to be smelling him as well as looking intently at every detail of his clothes and hair, even of his reading glasses. Then, when she was face to face with him, she spoke again.
‘How did you know this ritual?’ She indicated the statue.
‘You speak our language, my Lady! That is good to know.’ Cedric sounded flustered. ‘Let me introduce myself. I am Cedric of Rossenwood, a scholar who has attempted a study of your people, albeit a poor one. This book has details of the ritual in question; I had no idea that it would work.’
If the girl understood him, she gave no indication. Rather she walked up to Morgan and stood face to face with him, not two feet away. She was his height, if not a little taller. She stared directly into his eyes, Morgan refused to blanch or change expression; rather he stared right back into those deep pale amethysts. He heard her sniff, quietly. She circled him now; she could easily pull out her knife and drive it into his back but he didn’t move. She faced him again, her expression had changed slightly, and he could almost discern a certain wry amusement in her.
‘You are a warrior, yes?’ Her accent was soft, almost slurred, her voice like honey pouring over warm bread.
‘Yes,’ he replied stiffly.
‘So here we have a sick man and a warrior who know a ritual forgotten in time. What could they possibly want with us, I wonder?’
Cedric turned to her. ‘You know of my illness?’
‘It is obvious, is it not? You come here seeking death? You may find it anyway.’
‘No,’ said Cedric. ‘Aid, not death.’
‘That, sick man, is not for you to decide.’
She was still looking at Morgan, her nose wrinkling. He decided to sniff her back, as loudly as possible. To his surprise, she did have a scent; it was like water. Not like the shallow river that surrounded them but rather a deep watercourse flowing swiftly, heavy with black sediment and autumn leaves; a clear fresh smell of clean air redolent of wood bark and pine resin. When he sniffed, she regarded him anew.
‘Your name?’ she asked.
‘It is Morgan, Morgan of Glaivedon. And yours?’
‘I am called Itheya. Itheya Morioka of the clan Morioka. The man who wishes to kill you is called Tiavon. He, too, is a warrior.’
‘And you? Are you a warrior?’
‘Of a kind,’ she said. She was still barely two feet from him, her breath was on him and her gaze never moved. Cedric decided to break the impasse; he turned and walked towards her.
‘My Lady, shall we get down to the business of why we requested your presence. I...’
She raised her hand again. ‘Not so fast... I do not speak your language every day. Slowly, if you wish to be understood.’
Morgan asked her. ‘How did you learn our language?’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘You hemenestas, humans, come to our forest sometimes, to steal our gold, or preach the word of your gods. We kill most of them but one of your god men stayed with us a while. He taught me.’
‘And where is he now?’
‘Dead.’
‘Did you kill him?’
‘Do you wish I had?’
‘Perhaps.’
Her long eyelashes fluttered slightly. ‘No, I did not kill him.’
She reached out with her fingers towards his chin where there was a two-day growth of stubble. ‘Vheyuzhe, Vheyuzhene Hemenest!’ she called out to her companion. She seemed amused.
‘She is calling you hairy, a hairy human,’ said Cedric.
‘We have other names for humans.’ said Itheya. ‘Vheyuzheke, ‘‘the hairy ones’’, is one of them. It likens you to the mindless creatures of the mountains or the distant anthropoids of the southern jungles. It is not complimentary. She stroked his chin again, a light gossamer touch, almost tender.
‘Fezhaye camma na Vheyuzheko, Itheya! Em o
lea brusha thitroska!’ Tiavon shouted angrily at her.
She turned to him, her retort equally abrasive: ‘Hashara coth ve ne, Tiavon! Teo pabran atan zhelen! Kileta ton ve crizhona te fesnath eonona tafall hlem ata eme!’ She stalked away from Morgan towards Tiavon and the two of them carried on a hushed conversation in angry tones. Cedric sidled towards Morgan.
‘I think he came close to calling her a slut for touching you. She told him to know his place, so she obviously has some status among them. The two of them also seem to be more than just acquaintances; I think she forgot for a second that I can understand some of what they say.’
‘Are you saying that I made the Wych man jealous?’ Morgan couldn’t suppress a smile.
‘I believe that is exactly what you did, my friend; just keep smiling at her.’
The two elves separated. Tiavon remained seated on his horse but looked a little less hostile and a little more humble if that was possible. Itheya came back to the two of them; she stopped for a second as if collecting herself.
‘What do you wish to discuss with us?’
‘How someone who has barely met anyone that speaks our language knows the word ‘‘anthropoid’’.’ Morgan couldn’t help himself; he gave her the slightest of smiles.
She returned it, but it was laced with sarcasm.
‘This man who taught me had travelled to these places; he used the word a lot. If that is all you have to say, we are leaving. If you have not gone by tomorrow at dawn, we will come back and kill you.’ She turned to mount her horse.
‘Wait!’ said Cedric. ‘We require your aid. There is a war and we need your help.’
She stopped, her back stiffening. Slowly she turned and approached Cedric. Morgan was again reminded of a prowling cat; her expression now was one of cold anger.
‘We know of your war. There are passes in the mountains you know nothing of and we watch you. If you think we are going to risk the lives of our people in your petty little arguments, you are madder and stupider than I thought. You people are nothing to us. I have changed my mind; you have two hours to leave. Then I will return with fifty others and your heads will decorate the ends of our spears. Goodbye!’ Her voice rose as she spoke, her fury barely contained. As she turned again, though, Morgan spoke to her – what was there to lose?
‘Our heads would stick a lot firmer on iron spearheads rather than stone, don’t you think?’
She stopped again, the sunlight dappling her white neck either side of the ponytail. Ignoring Tiavon, she pushed her face inches away from his, their noses almost touching. ‘What are you saying?’
Cedric spoke: ‘Our Grand Duke, the Mhezhen of our people, wishes to offer you iron weapons in return for your assistance in this war. Would this not give you an advantage over the other tribes in the forest?’
Itheya craned her neck slightly in his direction. ‘If you really knew our people, then you would realise that such weapons would be distributed equally among us in order to retain the balance between tribes that has stood for aeons. You need to go back to your studies, sick man.’
‘My resources for learning about you are limited,’ he said; his voice was calm, measured and reasonable. ‘There are little written records about you; as you said yourself, humans who come into contact with you often end up dead. Personally, I would love to learn more of your ways. Maybe it would foster a better understanding between our peoples.’
Cedric’s earnestness was disarming. Even Itheya stopped and thought for a second.
‘Your intentions seem good, even if you are happy for our people to die for nothing in your wars. Your Mhezhen has offered us iron before, in the distant past; it did not convince us then and so it is not enough now. You have men that fight for gold. Pay them instead.’
‘I did not think it would be enough, and so I have other things to show you.’ He went towards the trunk, and Itheya and Morgan followed. Slowly he opened the trunk, letting Itheya look inside. She was silent. One by one she picked up the smaller objects – the snake, the beaver – lifting them to the sunlight, looking at the way the light played on the gemstones. Tiavon leaned forward, trying to get a better look.
‘Where did you get these?’ she whispered.
‘There are ruins, old buildings of your people, close to the sea. I discovered them there, not a few months ago, and thought you had better see them.’
‘Atem Sezheia,’ she said quietly.
‘City of light – yes, I believe that is what you called it. These things were all there, in a tunnel, secured behind a stone door.’
She delicately lifted the dragon. ‘What is this, I wonder?’
Morgan was surprised. ‘You don’t know?’
‘These come from a time before our wars with your empire; only a few of us would know all of the details. We thought our people over the sea had taken everything with them and that Atem Sezheia had little of value in its remains. And what is this?’
She replaced the dragon and pulled out the tooth. After scrutinising it for a second her expression turned to one of astonishment. ‘Tiavon Dragan, Moliea Dragan!’ Tiavon did not reply; he appeared to be equally shocked by what he saw.
‘Even I cannot read much of what is written here,’ she said to them. ‘But this find,’ she lifted the tooth, ‘could be more precious than all of the others put together and multiplied by a hundred. Were there any more finds there?’
‘Yes,’ said Cedric. ‘Including another of those teeth and another five of those dragons; each dragon appears to be different from the others.’
Tiavon spoke again: ‘Thenessek azha tiehe co darahenezharon.’
Cedric smiled. ‘He really wants to kill us, doesn’t he?’
She looked at him. ‘You are human; it is reason enough.’ She then turned back to Tiavon.
‘In han meru deveken. Za spetu olea ial em dea tonu cantelevened per z’ezhed mustoen. Za meruzha olea ial em codosh neto celza desena. Ve teshele tafalla nesteretsava uven Foron. Voe, Wyatha onatazh polek.’
At this, Tiavon bowed, turned his horse and joined the two elves in the river. Itheya turned back to the men.
‘My father is Mhezhen of my tribe. I will need to speak to him of this. The fire here will remain burning. While it does so, none of our people will kill you and take the objects for themselves, as it would not be honourable. Stay here until I return. I will put out the fire then.’
‘And what then?’ asked Morgan.
‘I know not,’ she said, springing on to her horse. ‘Maybe we kill you; maybe not.’
‘Wait,’ said Cedric. He handed her the serpent. ‘Take this as proof of our trust and goodwill.’
She looked surprised. ‘It is not necessary. But if you wish, I will take it. I will return in a day or two with my father’s reply.’
Without a second glance at them she skilfully turned her horse and was gone with the others. They heard the splashing of the river as the four of them rode, finally disappearing under the eaves of the dark forest.
25
She stood on the low hill looking at the dusk. To her right, by a knot of trees, a group of rabbits were feeding and playing, chasing each other into the underbrush. Above her, small birds darted and flitted against the darkening sky. No, not birds, bats feeding on the night insects which she already could feel brushing her face and hair. The air was warm, sweet and heavy; she drank it in like wine. She was surrounded by a ring of knights, and when she took her position they saluted her: ‘Hail Cheris, mage of battle.’ She didn’t know how to reply so bowed to them, glad they couldn’t see her blushing.
She was facing eastwards, the hill being at the southern point of the field. To her left, the army of Baron Felmere was deploying. She had expected much more noise but what they did was done with a quiet efficiency that impressed her. Ahead of her, a mile away, possibly less, was a copse; she could see men lining up there. As she moved her head to the left, she could see torches and the banners of the Arshumans as they lined up in response. To the far north an
d east, the field was bounded by the hill on which stood the town of Grest. The hill was covered in trees; she hoped Marcus was safely ensconced in them somewhere. The high ground provided a good defence for the city, but it still had sturdy stone walls. Squinting, she could see the catapults and war machines perched on them. She guessed that there was maybe an hour of light left; something had to start soon.
At the other end of the field, in the position of honour on the left, Lukas Felmere sat with Dominic Hartfield and the Silver Guard. Their banners flapped above them, though their heraldic insignia were difficult to see in the murk. Normally, the signalmen with their flags would sit with them, ready to display the orders visually to the soldiers, but they had been dispensed with that night. All orders would be transmitted via the cornets and drums of the musicians. Things could go wrong that way – if something was misheard for example – but there was obviously no choice here.
‘There was no way the town gates could have been opened in daylight?’ Dominic asked. ‘So many things can go wrong in a night attack.’
‘No,’ said Felmere, ‘our agents are risking much as it is; they were too frightened to betray the garrison by day.’
As he spoke, a clear horn sounded from the dark block of Felmere’s men. ‘Ah, my men have deployed. Once the rest of the infantry have lined up – and it won’t take long – we will get the archers to fire off a few volleys while they can. Then they can withdraw.’
‘The light horse will protect them and if they get charged Reynard’s knights will see the Arshumans off.’ Dominic nodded at the Eagle Claw, positioned just ahead of them.
Felmere looked at the younger man. ‘I have seen so many battles; every time I hope it is the last one, the key one to finish this damned broil. May
Artorus let this be it. I am getting too old to sit in the saddle anymore. In five years my son will be of age; it would be good to bequeath him a stable, peaceful land.’
The Forgotten War Page 37
