Morgan spoke. ‘I can go with the others if you wish – as long as you promise to look after Cedric and return him safely for us.’
‘No, I have told them that you look after him. I have ... vouched for you. If you behave badly in the forest, I will be punished for it.’
Morgan was stunned. ‘You really didn’t have to do that.’
She shrugged. ‘It is nothing. Just do as I say and do not insult or upset anyone. You are my responsibility now.’
‘As you wish.’
She brought his horse to him. ‘She is a strong girl but not wilful. She will carry you well.’
‘I have got to get on her first,’ Morgan grumbled. He was not the tallest man and hated riding anyway. To him, the mare, however stoical and patient, presented a challenge. It took several attempts before he could swing his leg over the damned thing; once he had finally managed he looked at his companions. Cedric was beaming from ear to ear. Itheya was trying to look as distant as ever, but he could see she was close to smirking at him. He looked at her directly.
‘Yes? Have you something to say?’
She covered her mouth with her slender fingers. ‘No, do all humans ride as you do?’
‘Most are considerably better,’ he said through gritted teeth.
‘Really? I hardly thought it possible ... anthropoid.’
He was about to unleash a cutting rejoinder but the horse was already carrying him over the river where Haelward was already standing on the bank.
‘You have to leave,’ he told him. ‘Only the two of us are going in and once that happens you will be fair game.’
‘We will make for Zerannon then,’ said Haelward, ‘and await you there.’
‘There is an inn there called the Spectral Goose. The keeper is called Ham; he knows me. Give him five crowns and ask to stay until I arrive. The beds don’t have too many fleas and the food is passable. We will see you all there. If we are not there in, say, six weeks, consider your part in this mission over. Return to the front or do whatever you see fit from then on.’
‘As you say. See you in a few weeks.’
‘Yes, and thanks – if I don’t see you again that is.’
‘You will. Artorus will see to it.’
Morgan nodded to him and swung his horse around, heading back to the island.
Upon his return, Itheya busied herself with strapping his sword inside its scabbard using a strip of leather. She had to stand close to him to do this, her head craned over to see what she was doing. Her ponytail was held high, exposing the alabaster skin on her neck.
‘Your friend tells me you are brave, that you saved his life in the pass fighting the Kergh, which you call ettins. Is that the right word – ettins?’
‘Yes, it is the right word, and Cedric was very much over-emphasing my role in crossing the pass; he saved me as much as the other way round.’
‘This war, you have fought in it a long time?’
‘Too long!’ he said. ‘And not through choice. I used to live in the area being fought over; I just got caught up in the fighting.’
‘And your scar?’
‘It happens in war. I have others on my body; getting wounded is part of the job.’
‘Sick man Cedric believes that you are not naturally a man of violence and I can see what he is trying to say. Our people ... well, we are in tribes, yes, and tribes cannot agree on anything. We fight often, usually over nothing; we are often violent without reason. It is a failure in us, I feel.’
‘Not just in your people, I am afraid, and you are wrong, I am a man of violence – my actions defined me long ago.’
‘Well, in that case I will ask you to control your urges to kill until you leave Seyavanion, with or without our help.’
‘As you wish, but how will I release my murderous frustrations, though?’
‘I will find you a prisoner or something; he might be difficult to kill without a weapon, though.’
‘I will use my bare hands; I am very good with them.’
‘I do not doubt it, though your horse might disagree. There, I have tied up your weapon.’ She stepped back from him. ‘Now for the knife.’
She busied herself with his knife. ‘This won’t take long.’
‘Your tattoos, the markings on your skin, what do they represent?’
‘The khazoeth? They are our spirits. We have one god whom we do not depict. The spirits, though, they carry out his instructions on this Earth and we are free to display them on our bodies, this one is Etheren. She is a bird with a beautiful song. And this is Gharaghanann the spider – she eats the male after mating, you know, and this one’ – she pointed to her shoulder – ‘is Lhuzhenna the willow, a sad tree and beautiful.’
‘They are very intricate, and delicately drawn, the work of an artist really; how many do you have?’
‘Many, I am the Mhezhen’s daughter, so am allowed a lot. They are on my arms, back and legs; most only have them on their arms or back. The more khazoeth, the higher you stand in the tribe. We have specialists in our tribe who draw them on our skin. It is painful – your skin swells and burns for a while, but the ability to endure it is the mark of a warrior. There, the knife is done, you are now a warrior without weapons. This is good. You are fit to enter Seyavanion.’
‘Thank you. Now where is Cedric?’
‘He is trying to get on his horse. Do not try and help him; he is proud.’
‘And braver than me; few men with his illness have attempted so much.’
‘I think he is proving something to himself – that his sickness will not hold him or stop him doing what he wants. I have seen it in others; it is important to them – to still be vital despite it all.’ There was a brief silence between them, then Morgan spoke again.
‘What did your father say about the carving Cedric gave you?’
‘He is intrigued. He wishes to know more, especially about the tooth.’
‘Why the tooth? It is not as beautiful as the other models?’
‘But it is the oldest. If it is what I think it might be, then, well, I had better say no more until Father sees it, but it could be very, very important.’ She looked at him. Morgan thought she could almost be smiling.
‘You ask many questions, do you not?’
‘I am curious, that is all. I shall be quiet if you wish.’
‘No, I am instructed to answer whatever you ask.’
‘Do you have any family other than your father? Who will lead the tribe after him?’
‘I have a brother, Dramalliel. You will find him less friendly than I; he was against your coming. Tiavon is a friend of his; they share similar views of you, hemenestra. They were difficult to win over. As for the tribe, I am the eldest, so I will succeed when Father dies. But with us things can get ... complicated in that regard. You will learn more in due course.’
‘Is Tiavon still trying to get us killed?’
She looked at him with her clear strange eyes. ‘Yes, he may even succeed; it will depend on you and your friend, on what my father and Terath our lore master think of you when you meet. They are both reasonable people; you would have to do much ill to bring them to violence against you.’
‘I see,’ said Morgan, clucking his tongue. ‘Cedric thought you and Tiavon were ... involved with each other, but if your views differ so strongly perhaps he was wrong.’
She did laugh then, a light musical sound. ‘You do speak plainly. I like that; it is rare to find in my brethren. There is no man with whom I am involved. I have lain with him, yes, on several occasions, but I have done this with many of our warriors. It is an honour for them to be with a Mhezhen’s daughter. If they have been brave, or have helped me or the tribe, I may choose to reward them. It is normal with our people; you humans are different I believe.’
‘Yes, as a rule anyway. What of pregnancy, don’t you risk having a child that you do not want?’
‘Of course not! A rare foolish question, warrior man.’
‘The name is Morga
n.’
‘I know, I may even call you it one day.’
At that point Cedric burst into the clearing. He was flushed and sweating but was astride the horse and looking triumphant.
‘See, my boy, you have nothing on me. Ten minutes that took and now I just want to get off and sleep.’
‘No, no sleep,’ said Itheya. ‘We travel now; we will go gently but will be at our village in just over a day. We have some daylight left and need to use it.’
‘What of the trunk?’ asked Cedric.
‘I have people waiting on the bank. When they see us leave they will come and collect it. It will not be stolen from you, you have my word. When you meet Father it will be there with you. Come, the air is freshening – there will be rain soon.’
She was right. Overhead the sky was darkening and the cloud was thickening. A swirling wind sent up showers of leaves that caught in their clothes and hair. Morgan remounted his horse, finding it a lot easier this time, while Itheya walked to the statue. She said some words that he could not make out, then cast some sand or dirt over the bowl. The blue flame diminished, turned a pale-yellow colour and finally went out. Cedric had been right about her – she did seem sadder or more troubled this time while also being friendlier and more open with them. Perhaps not having Tiavon hanging over her shoulder made a difference. She walked to her horse, mounted it lithely, then spoke to them both.
‘I will take you to Father then. My responsibility for you’ – she faced Cedric – ‘will end there. My responsibility for you, though’ – she glanced at Morgan – ‘continues till you leave the forest or are killed.’
She gave her horse the gentlest of kicks and moved off ahead of them. They struggled to follow her. Seeing this, she waited for them in the river.
‘You,’ she said to Cedric, ‘remain next to me so I may help you if need be; your friend can follow if he is able. If he falls off’ – she shot Morgan a backward glance –‘we leave him, though we are allowed to laugh at him first. Come.’
The three of them ploughed through the water. Morgan briefly looked behind him. Already, Haelward, Leon, Samson, Willem and Varen were distant figures, going in the opposite direction. He wondered when and if he would see them again. Ahead the forest loomed large. Great thick-trunked trees overhung the water, packing close together, their broad roots showing through the mud of the riverbank. Under the leaves all was darkness. Itheya led them to a stretch of bank where the land sloped relatively smoothly down to the water. Without stopping, she climbed on to it and under the trees, taking Cedric with her. Morgan heard the splash of water as the other Wych folk went to collect the trunk, then, after taking a deep breath, he followed Itheya into the darkness.
28
They were back at the sacred lake; its black waters a veritable fissure into the underworld. The sweet, smoky aroma from the incense burners shrouded the onlooking villagers. The women watching were singing softly, and many of them had garlands in their hair. The men; grimmer in aspect, had painted their faces with charcoal-black stripes. They gripped their spears in honour to the warrior emissary standing on the platform. Cerren stood there, his faced also painted, his expression euphoric. Some hours before he would have eaten the spirit meal, a mash of grains containing the same substances Dumnekavax had used to contact the spirit world some days before, and its effects would now be working on Cerren’s mind. He could probably see Ukka waiting to speak with him, tantalisingly close, but still too far apart. They needed to be brought together and that was Dumnekavax’s job.
He prowled around behind Cerren swathed in the smoke of the incense. In his left hand he brandished a stick over which was threaded many closely packed shells secured with twine that rattled as he shook them. In his right hand was a thicker wooden cudgel with a bulbous metal head formed roughly into the shape of a skull. Cerren himself was flanked by two burly villagers, one at each side, both of them staring across the lake.
Dumnekavax addressed the crowd:
‘People of the Black Lake, omens and portents have been seen that show us how the Gods have been displeased and now we have been told how Ventekuu has awoken and is free in our world. Although we have food aplenty and the harvest was good, it will be just a matter of time before this changes for the worst.
‘We have been told that none of this has been of our making, but even so we are threatened with destruction, for the night devils prowl. Therefore Ukka is to be sent an emissary to plead our case. Cerrenatukavenex is to be that man.’
‘Cerrenatukavenex!’ shouted the men, slamming the butts of their spears into the ground. Some of them were passing round jugs of mead, which the men and women seemed to be drinking in equal measure. This had been going on for some hours and many people there were definitely the worse for wear.
There was a pause as the musicians struck up their instruments; the air was filled with the trilling of pipes and the heavy beat of goatskin drums. The younger girls, who wore the garlands, started to dance on the earth before the wooden platform, skipping playfully around a man whose entire face was charcoaled and was shrouded in a dark-green robe – the representation of Ukka. They twirled about him, bowing their heads as they passed his face. They wore skirts only, their heads, breasts and torsos dusted with a blue paint that represented the waters of the underworld in which Ukka resided. As the dance continued, they formed a circle around their god, drawing closer and closer to him until they were totally surrounding him – a sea of flailing arms and swishing hair – then, as one, they raised their arms to the heavens before collapsing to the ground around the man, breathless.
The musicians continued playing as the dancers returned to the crowd and were given mead as a reward for their efforts. Shaking his shell rattle, Dumnekavax drew the crowd’s attention.
‘It is time, O brothers and sisters, to honour our emissary. His name will be carved on to the tablet of honour in the great house, joining that of former emissaries. The last was Manaketenak, who spoke to the Gods during the invasion of the Sand Warriors, granting us victory against a terrible foe. Let us honour the emissary.’
‘Honour the emissary!’ There was something of a party atmosphere in the crowd. All were fearing attacks from an enemy out of legend and this was the way they were to be stopped. For that they had to be grateful indeed. Cerren himself, although facing the lake, raised his arms to acknowledge them. The crowd roared its response, clashing spear to shield, chanting and whooping. Cerren’s parents were there, too, and they joined in with the raucous cacophony. It was a proud day for them.
Once the noise had died down, Dumnekavax raised his arms.
‘And now at last it is time. Ukka has commanded and it is our place to respond. I hereby commend Cerrenatukavenex to you, O Ukka. He is our emissary, and he will plead the case for our tribe. Hear him and be merciful in your response!’
He was now standing directly behind Cerren. After uttering his final exhortation to the god of the underworld he turned towards the lake, lifted the stout cudgel he still brandished in his right hand, and with all his strength brought it down squarely on the back of Cerren’s head.
It was such a fierce blow that many in the front rank of the crowd saw the man’s head partially cave in. The crowd roared in excitement, and the musicians played frantically as Cerren staggered drunkenly across the platform. The two men flanking him had him though; grabbing his shoulders, they forced him to his knees. More mead was passed around as the onlookers’ anticipation grew.
Dumnekavax stood before them, his arms raised. He had set down the cudgel and stick and held up to them a stretch of rope, knotted in three places with a wooden handle affixed to each side. Spears were raised as this was seen. The women were singing softly.
As the men held him, Dumnekavax passed the rope over Cerren’s neck, and locking the wooden handles together he proceeded to turn them, twisting the rope and so tightening its grip around Cerren’s throat. Not even the musicians, the singing or the other noises of the crowd could hide th
e strangulated gurgling coming from their emissary. This went on for some time; many of the audience were standing on their toes, leaning forward for a better view, when Dumnekavax signalled his two assistants. They then, with difficulty, stood Cerren up and turned him to the crowd.
His face was bright red, his wild eyes were popping out from their sockets, the whites prominent. The crowd dismissed any notion that there might be terror in them; spittle ran down his chin, along with blood from where he had bitten his swollen tongue, which was now partially lolling out of his mouth. All the time the music and singing continued.
With great ceremony Dumnekavax showed the crowd the final instrument he would use – a long thin knife. It was a metal one, a thing of wonder in itself in these parts, with a delicately carved bone handle. As the crowd watched open-mouthed, he skilfully and swiftly drew the blade across Cerren’s throat.
The results were spectacular. A fountain of arterial blood shot from the man’s neck, spattering the front row of the crowd. The cheering grew to near-hysterical proportions as the wooden platform became covered in the gore from the man for whom life was now a very tremulous flame indeed. Finally he slumped to his knees, at last on his way to the underworld. As the music played and the happy blood-soaked crowd laughed, drank and danced, Cerrenatukavenex was carried by the two men to the edge of the platform where his body was placed gently into the water. His woollen clothes, weighed down by stones sewn into the fabric, ensured that slowly and inexorably he was carried down into the murky unfathomable depths. For a moment he hung there, one white hand breaching the surface. Then his body drifted down into the underworld, to the sound of the party carrying on beside the shore.
On returning to the village, Cygan sought out the Elder. He, as expected, was at the great house speaking to the Circle of the Wise. On seeing Cygan, though, he excused himself to them and came towards him.
‘Cygan! I wanted to see you. What did you think? I thought it went very well. The young man is strong and brave; Ukka cannot fail to be impressed.’ His face, beard and clothes were still heavily spattered by the man’s blood. Washing it off was not the done thing as a little of Cerren’s power had been passed to him that way.
The Forgotten War Page 42
