The Forgotten War

by Howard Sargent

  ‘We will move down shortly,’ said Felmere ‘We need to see what their cavalry does first.’

  ‘They have no heavy cavalry to speak of, which is good; at least there will be no lances riding into the backs of our men.’

  ‘Nor into theirs unfortunately; their cavalry protect them too well. Our job is to wait for a break in their ranks and to try and push a wedge through them.’

  ‘It may take a while,’ said Dominic. ‘Their discipline is as strong as ours.’

  ‘Not to mention, their general watches out for the weak links in his men so that he can execute them afterwards. Felmere indicated with his arm: between the copse holding their mage and the furthest south of the Arshuman infantry blocks was a small, rocky hill. Perched on it under a yellow-and black-banner was the Arshuman general, mounted, surrounded by some thirty heavy cavalry, the only unit of its type that they possessed.

  ‘That’s King Aganosticlan for you, a man who thinks nothing of his subjects aside from what they can do for him.’ Dominic’s tone was deeply disapproving.

  ‘Yet a formidable foe nevertheless; he must have drained his treasury many times over to keep this war going, and he refuses to negotiate a peace of any kind.’

  ‘Nor should there be one, while Roshythe and Lake Winmead are in his hands.’

  Felmere sighed. ‘I have to admit, I no longer care. We have not held either of them for ten years and they are still a long way away from here. Sound the withdrawal.’

  The horn signal came and the tired ranks, burnt out after a few minutes of desperate pushing and spear thrusting, withdrew from the fray, retreating until there was a gap between the armies of some twenty to thirty feet. The wounded were left in the no-man’s-land writhing and crying pitifully. Ranks were redressed and everyone waited for the next signal.

  Cheris watched the on-going conflict; she was feeling a little stronger now and her eyes were set on the Arshuman cavalry, which was effectively cocooning the flanks of the army, keeping them protected while also being poised to try and outflank the Tanaren soldiers should the opportunity arise. Her mind was racing with the things she could possibly do when she heard a swish and felt a draught as something flew inches past her nose.

  ‘Get down!’ shouted Sir Norton. He ran and stood in front of her as she crouched down to her knees. Some of the other knights ran off into the trees where shadowy figures could be seen starting to run from them.

  ‘Assassins!’ he said as she got up again. ‘An arrow can kill you just as easily as it can kill me. My men will get them, don’t you worry. Are you all right?’

  ‘A little shaken,’ she said, and she was too – her hands were trembling slightly. ‘It never occurred to me that I would be targeted like that.’

  ‘You have rattled them.’ He smiled at her, itself a rare occurrence. ‘They never expected you to be here.’

  ‘Then I had better start doing something,’ she said. She stopped the flame running up and down her staff. ‘A silly vanity. I will not be doing that again.’

  She saw the other knights return. None of them had been lost and blood smeared some of their surcoats.

  ‘Dealt with?’ Sir Norton asked.

  ‘Yes, sir. They will not be coming back.’

  Silently, they resumed their positions surrounding her. She breathed heavily, sensing the responsibility on her shoulders, took one look at the stars and made her next move. Pacing in a small circle she raised her staff and, facing inwards, recited over and over again:

  ‘Emiteverian luda tamrotos melian, emiteverian luda tamrotos melian.’ At the centre of the circle, out of the air a ball of crackling blue light started to form. She continued to circle and recite the words as the ball grew larger, first the size of her fist, then the size of her head. The power inside her made her senses tingle; small strands of her hair started to stand upwards and wave about on their own account.

  She knew it was going to happen, but suddenly she felt him inside her head. He was trying to do what she had done earlier – to take the power she was drawing from the other world away from her to send back into the void. She hardened her will and resisted. He then started drawing on his staff’s power and it grew harder and harder for her to fight him. The ball was half the size of her now and she judged it to be enough, any more and he would nullify her spell. Before he could drag the power from her she raised both her arms high into the air. The ball – which had morphed a little and was now cylindrical in shape, sizzling and popping with bolts of blue and white effervescence – followed her arms in an upward trajectory. She held it there as her opponent made a final attempt to stop her short. He used so much power it almost knocked her off her feet and drew the breath from her body, but still she resisted. Planting her feet into the ground she fought hard to ignore the alien presence in her mind trying to siphon off her power, twisting all ways in its attempt to wrench the spell from her grasp. But he was failing. Pointing her staff at the horses, she had just enough inside her to utter a final croak – ‘Ptaresass!’ – before slumping to her knees.

  The cylinder changed again into a bolt of darkest cerulean, then in a shower of sparks and electricity it crashed into the cavalry on the Arshuman left flank.

  ‘The girl learns fast,’ said Felmere, impressed despite himself. The two men watched as the spell slammed into the light horse throwing riders from the saddle and terrifying the horses that started to run in all directions. In vain, the commanders tried to get them reorganised but many of them were as much at the whim of their panicked steeds as the rank and file.

  ‘The flank is exposed,’ said Dominic. ‘She didn’t kill that many but they are running all over the place.’

  ‘Now is our chance! Signal Reynard and the light cavalry to keep the enemy’s right flank busy and you and I shall try the left.’

  ‘Let’s hurry then,’ said Dominic, pulling down his visor, ‘before they regroup.’

  From the perspective of a man in the front lines, little of these developments could be seen. Three times they had closed with the enemy, thrusting their spears at ankles, heads and arms and three times they had withdrawn with no clear advantage gained. A few men had thrown down their spears, either because they had shivered or because they weren’t comfortable fighting with them, and had drawn swords, axes or maces to deal closer damage. This threatened the integrity of the shield wall as such men needed to swing their weapons rather than stand or push, but so far the wall had held. Most of them had grown up with derring-do tales of brave courtly knights and upright soldiers who dispatched their black-hearted enemies with a contemptuous swish of their blade. Nowhere in these tales did it say how hard it was to kill a man. He could be slashed, stabbed, hacked at; his bones could be crushed by a spiked mace; his blood vessels opened by sword or axe, but his breath would not stop – he just became more desperate and dangerous. One man who had lost his weapon and whose shield arm was crushed and limp fended off sword thrusts with his bare hands, eventually grabbing his assailant and turning his own blade against him. They continued to fight, wrestling on the ground, blood soaking their surcoats even when the lines withdrew. No quarter was asked between enemies who knew each other so well and none was given in return. The front ranks, many carrying wounds ranging from scratches to deep cuts and gashes that were leaking blood, had been mostly relieved by the rear ranks. The fresh ranks were preparing for their first engagement when the word started to spread:

  ‘The Arshuman cavalry is routed – they have quit the field!’

  The rumour flew around the troops like the fire on Grest Hill and at once the men started to roar. The men of Haslan Falls and Maynard’s who had been hard pressed and were beginning to quail gained fresh heart. They beat their weapons against their shields, a deafening noise made worse for the Arshumans because the hill threw back an echo of it making it sound as if they were surrounded. The sense of the battle starting to turn was compounded further as they heard the trumpets of Baron Felmere and the Silver Guard, not from behind the T
anarese lines but to their right. Being few in number the shock cavalry only deployed when a decisive blow was in the offing. The shields were beaten even harder, and the men invoked the names of Tanaren, Felmere, Mytha and Artorus. Then the charge sounded perhaps for the final time.

  Cheris was feeling smug. It had taken only a few minutes for the queasy feeling to subside and the jelly in her legs to firm up again. She felt tired but strong, and watched with satisfaction as the Arshuman cavalry was scattered to the four winds and was probably beyond regrouping. She was worried some of them might head her way but saw that a line of crossbowmen had come across to protect them – they appeared to be having a great time peppering the confused horse with well-placed quarrels. She watched as the lines came together again for another bloody push and shove, and saw the shock cavalry of the Silver Guard and Baron Felmere himself plough into the unguarded Arshuman flank.

  If they thought the unit would crumble, though, they were to be disappointed. This was the first unit, based on the left flank, the Arshuman elite. They buckled heavily as the horse and the infantry of Maynard and Fenchard engaged them, but they did not give ground and flee. She felt a little helpless – one of her destructive spells could not be targeted while the troops were in combat for fear of injuring her own men. She had to wait and sit it out.

  She realised the whole battle was in the balance here. If the Arshuman first unit held, then the Tanaren reserves had been spent in vain. The Arshuman General had joined the conflict with his bodyguard; if the infantry of Fenchard could be pushed back, the whole Tanaren line could fold in on itself, collapsing like a pack of cards. What could she do to help? She sensed a strange prickling in her head. What was that exactly?

  Suddenly she pitched to her knees, dropping her staff. She felt as if she was lying flat, a heavy door being pressed on her chest, and desperately she gasped for air. A crushing spell. A mage killer! A spell used to directly target an enemy spell-caster, it was tantamount to an assassination attempt. She had only a cursory knowledge of such spells, never thinking that she would need or encounter one of them. Such an omission could be the death of her, she realised. She desperately tried to inhale but no air reached her lungs. She clawed at the earth, a line of dribble fell from her opened mouth, tears slid down her cheeks. In a flash she thought of her family whom she would never see again, of Marcus, of Sir Dylan, of Mikel and the friends she had made at the college. Her head pounded and blood started dripping from her nose. She rolled on her back in a foetal position clutching at her chest. Her ribs were pushing inwards – soon they would stab her lungs and it would all be over.

  A figure loomed over her. It was Sir Norton, concern writ large on his face. For all that, he could do nothing to help her, for she was totally in the grip of her opponent. He had bested her, he was bending all his power on her, including all of that in his staff. If she could but survive, hold off the deadly assault, then he would be vulnerable.

  She stared glassily at Sir Norton, small droplets of blood forming in the corners of her eyes, a thin line of blood-flecked drool running from the corner of her mouth. Using every ounce of strength, every sinew, every muscle available to her, she managed to barely gasp the following two words;

  ‘My ...... staff.’

  He understood immediately – picking it up and clasping it into her right hand. Her head felt it was about to explode, like one of those melons the jousting knights would practise their skills on in the Summer Festival. But then she felt the staff. It was damp from the wet grass and she was unsure if she had ever touched metal as cold as this, but she forced herself to open her mind, to let its power flow through her and so counteract the vice that was squeezing her into oblivion. It rushed through her like a blood supply. Soon she could use it to ease the pressure on her. There was a sharp crack as a rib snapped, and she screamed with the pain; it should have been an agonised, piercing shriek but instead only a hoarse gasp came out.

  ‘Focus, Cheris, focus, use its power, ease the grip upon you.’ And slowly this happened. Almost imperceptibly, the tiniest wisp of air slipped through her bloodied nose and into her damaged lung. The wisp grew into a trickle, and then a stream, and then a strong river, as strong as the Vinoyen. She felt him try and reassert his authority over her but this time she held firm. She used her staff against him until he stopped; there was still much power in it, enough to return warmth and feeling to her fingertips. She knew he was spent, his staff drained. She rolled on to her knees and drank the air as a man in the desert drinks when he finds an oasis. Her shattered rib pushed into her like a dagger thrust and she screamed again, this time a shrill full-throated scream, as her colour returned and she regained control over her wracked body. She spat a gobbet of blood and spittle on to the ground and indicated to Sir Norton to lift her to her feet. As he assisted her, he looked directly into her face and took a step back, surprised by what he saw there. There was pure devilry in her blue-grey eyes.

  ‘That bastard!’ she whispered in cold fury. ‘He won’t get the chance to do that to me again.’

  She was on her own two feet, a little wobbly, but her anger overrode any exhaustion she was feeling.

  ‘Fireballs, my friend, so you like fireballs.’

  She opened her arms in front of her.

  ‘Tera lakassa etu vidomatis.’

  Before her a small white flame appeared – how it danced between her palms as it slowly grew in size! She did not need the staff anymore, she sensed, and so had dug it into the ground behind her. Her revenge on this man would come from her own inner powers and not from any other devices. The flame had grown to be the size of her head; she could grow it further but she didn’t really need to. She had to catch him before he ran. She placed her right arm behind her and gently assayed a throwing action while whispering the word –

  ‘Atulatesta.’

  Sir Norton looked up as the fireball sped high into the air before dropping, arcing downwards, as it sought out its target. The copse.

  It illuminated all before it and he saw the terrified desperate figures under the trees turn and flee for their lives, but they were way too late.

  The fireball crashed under the trees, igniting their branches until they were a crackling crown of flame. Under the trees there was an inferno. Cheris sought out her opponent’s mind, trying to pin him down, seeing if he had anything left to face her with. All she felt was a brief second of terror and agony. Then nothing.

  ‘He is dead,’ she said to Sir Norton.

  ‘Good, do you wish to retire from the field? You have done enough. The fire is nearly out on the hill and Marcus will be here soon.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘There is one more thing left to do.’

  It was desperate on the field. The men of Tanaren had the advantage, so it seemed, but the Arshumans refused to give way. They had reformed their lines and repulsed the cavalry assault, a colossal achievement in itself. Their units had dropped from five to four after reorganisation, their general was at their side, and their right flank, where Lanthorpe was having Keth’s own time trying to pin the opposing cavalry down, was still protected. Both lines had withdrawn again, and thousands of exhausted, sweating men stared at each other, summoning the strength for yet another push. The euphoria among the Tanarese troops had gone, their wounds were hurting and their arms felt limp at their sides. It was the dead of night and the Arshumans still held the town and were not budging. For all Baron Felmere’s promises, it was beginning to look as though they would be driven back and would spend the winter on the same patch of ground they had moved up from three days ago.

  Some of the men looked up, as if searching for divine inspiration. The nearly full moon was strong now and the carpet of stars shimmered under its light. Then one of the men pointed. ‘Look! Look there!’

  As the men looked, they could see it was not a celestial object. It was spherical, a pale icy blue and it was growing in size. It was also directly over the centre of the Arshuman troops. It was plain that they had seen it,
too. Men were pointing, looking nervously above them. The object continued to grow.

  Back on the hill Cheris was chanting softly to herself. This was her favourite destructive spell. She had practised it many, many times, but the ball of lightning she conjured was never allowed to get larger than the size of her head, a standard measurement for the supervised initiate. This time there were no restrictions and no one to stop her and she wondered, just using her own powers, just how big the ball could get. It kept growing, now it was the size of her, and then of the horses standing by her caravan. The Arshumans underneath it were beginning to back away, forgetful of the discipline that had previously held their ranks so tightly together.

  Now it was tree-sized, now it was house-sized, a colossal ball of fizzing blue energy. She lowered it a little, so it stayed not fifty feet above the heads of the enemy, the people who had left her crushed and bruised. Many of them were ignoring their commanders and were turning to flee. She saw this and decided it was time.

  ‘Meliotoris!’ she said, making a small downward gesture with her forefinger.

  The ball dropped like a stone on to the upturned heads of the Arshumans.

  Felmere sat on his charger, mouth agape. He almost felt sorry for them. As the ball crashed into the Arshuman line, it disintegrated, releasing a thousand forks of lightning. Some were azure, some turquoise, some green and some white. All of them shot through the bodies of the soldiers, leaping from one to another, hissing, sizzling and popping as they fried their screaming victims. In unison, the entire army broke and fled as the lightning died sputtering, its embers glowing green as they slowly disappeared leaving dozens of burnt corpses smouldering on the ground.

  The Tanaren knights put the gagging aroma of roasted flesh to the back of their minds as Felmere signalled the charge. Against hundreds of fleeing men with their backs turned it was a massacre, Arshumans fell like rain, as lances, spears and swords struck home again and again. They were pursued to the river where without a second thought many of them jumped in to be swept away by the current. The Arshuman general, having lost control of his steed, could only watch in horror as his horse plunged over the bank, dragging him in his full armour down into the foamy depths.