‘Yes, it did; Cerren’s parents could not be happier for their son. First a Malaac slayer and now an emissary – the musicians should be composing a song in his honour as we speak.’ In truth, alone among his people, Cygan had his doubts. His contact with the outside world had coloured his perceptions of the supernatural. The Taneren he had spoken with had their own gods and who was to say who was right? He hoped that poor Cerren had not died in vain.
‘And now,’ said the Elder, ‘to your departure – when are you planning to leave?’
‘Within the hour, if at all possible, although I am unsure as to exactly what I should be doing.’
‘Let us talk about this. None of us here know much about the lands to the north or of what lies over the open sea. What you need to do is to find the nearest elder of their people and warn him about what is happening here and that if things are not stopped the trouble will spread into their lands. He must know someone who can point to the cause of the spread of the Malaac and the rise of Ventekuu.’
Cygan looked unconvinced. ‘The lands beyond the marsh are vast, far beyond anything you or I can imagine. The chances of me finding the people responsible for causing this chaos are too small for reckoning.’
Dumnekavax looked grave. ‘Nevertheless, it is something you have to attempt. The very survival of our people is at stake. Do you wish to take anybody with you?’
‘No,’ sighed Cygan, ‘everyone is needed here to defend the village. Give me a month or so; if you hear nothing, by all means send someone after me.’
‘Of course. One other thing, if leverage is required, we will give you some items that may be traded. The marsh plants that the northerners crave – spore fungus, blackroot, wet cap and spirit grass, slime moulds and white allium.’
‘If they take all of that, they will be in the spirit world for the rest of their lives – which wouldn’t be that long of course,’ said Cygan with a laugh.
‘You will take all our stock. Tell no one there about it until you have to, otherwise they will kill you and take it all for themselves. All of these ingredients have great worth in the lands of the north – for healing, killing or walking with the spirits. With that you should be able to access the important people of the north.’
‘Very well, Elder, I will do this for our people. Tell me, how is Tegavenek?’
‘He is still sick, the poison in the Malaac’s bite is still in his blood. It will take him a long time to heal, as he is very weak. We have tried everything we can think of, but the effect has been limited. We will continue to do what we can.’
‘Then keep at least some of the healing herbs. Do not give them all to me; I will need but a little.’
‘As you wish. May Cygannan go with you on your journey; all our prayers will be with you.’
Cygan left the great house under a lowering sky. He steered his boat between groups of geese and ducks, bobbing on the water as they fed on clumps of weed brought into the lake by the river. On the bank he could hear the villagers still drinking and celebrating. The mood of the people had lifted considerably since the events of earlier that day. Surely the Gods were with them now. People were even stripping off their clothes and diving into the water for a swim, something common in the summer months but which had stopped since the rumours of the night devils had arrived here. Arriving back at his island, he walked into his house, now outside the defensive circle of stakes and stripped of what few possessions it had; they had been taken into the heart of the island where the villagers now spent each night. The cooking pot was there, though, and his wife and children and his lame brother Uxevallak were all sitting on the floor eating a fish stew out of bowls. Cygan helped himself to a bowl. It was quite delicious. He spoke to his brother.
‘You will take care of everyone here while I am gone? I do not know how long I will be.’
‘Of course, brother. Not even the night devils will stop me inspecting the fish traps every day and keeping everyone fed.’
‘Just be careful. The waters may be treacherous; nowhere is safe here now.’
‘It is you who needs to be careful,’ his wife said. ‘Will I ever see you again?’
He kissed her. ‘Just pray for me. I do not know how things will go for me when I leave the marsh, but it will be my thoughts of you and the children that will sustain me at all times. The thought of never seeing the three of you again will be too much for me to bear. I will come back; I feel it is my destiny to return, no matter what.’
His meal finished he crouched down and called the children to him.
‘I will call you Deravellak, the strong heart,’ he said to the boy. ‘You will be as wise as the Elder and as strong as Fasneterax the warrior, and you’ – he held his daughter close – ‘will be Atanananda, the gentle reed, standing supple and proud and never breaking even in the heaviest of storms. I see your mother in you already and that is no bad thing; she is both the strongest and the gentlest person I will ever know. You all make me very proud.’
He kissed all three of them and embraced his brother heartily. Vaneshanda cried briefly but only briefly. After this she wiped her eyes and smiled at him.
‘You are the bravest and kindest of men. When you return we will increase the size of our family, for I know our tribe will be safe in your hands and the future is assured. Cygannan keep you, my husband; all our prayers go with you.’
Shortly afterwards the elders arrived, bringing with them a securely tied basket in which was held the various items that Dumnekavax had mentioned earlier. Cygan stored it safely in his round boat, along with his knife, bow, spear, fish hooks and strips of dried fish and berries, as well as his cloak and water skin. He looked back at his house where his wife stood watching him. Raising his arm in farewell, he pushed his boat into the water and clambered into it. The sun was beginning to descend into the western sky, casting his wife into silhouette. Both his children were at her feet. As he started to paddle, they waved to him. He swallowed and forced himself to turn away, steering the boat across the lake and on to the river. As he got to its mouth, the sun flared, turning the waters ahead scarlet. A flock of swift-flying swallows swooped low over the river, chirruping and arguing with each other as they helped themselves to the swarms of insects hanging over the water. As their black forms diminished over the riverbank, he saw a fish break the glassy surface to feed, leaving concentric rings spreading over the water. He took one last look behind him. Many boats were arriving at the island where they were to spend another night of vigilance, secure behind the newly built stockade. He saw his house, insignificant and small in the distance, and fancied he still saw a small figure standing next to it still watching him as he faded into the distance. One more sweep of his paddle and the riverbank hid the village from view. He looked ahead where the river seemed never to end, and with a sigh – maybe of regret, maybe in anticipation of what was to come – he spurred his boat onwards. He wanted to cover a good few miles indeed before night descended on the marsh.
Several days to the south and east, where sand bars and spits of land held the marauding sea at bay, a jagged rock stood out defiantly in the midst of a brown turbulent lake. Upon this rocky isle were the remnants of what had once been a village built mainly of wood. Stray logs and supports lay loosely over the stone, covered by ragged strips of sodden thatch and straw. No building remained standing here. Chaos reigned supreme. As the sun traced its fiery path downwards into the west, figures started to emerge from the water – they were bipedal, green-scaled and finned; some even had vestigial tails. Slowly they moved to the centre of the isle where something impossibly large lay slumbering on the stone. Its arrow-shaped head lay still and motionless, its wormlike body coiled behind it, its clean scales glistened in the glow of the setting sun.
Slowly the Malaac surrounded the creature. They were quiet and almost seemed in awe of the creature in their midst. They stood around it, their heads bowed. The only sound was the wind on the water as it lapped against the island’s shore. Then another fig
ure came into view, walking up to the creature’s giant head from behind its powerful coils. It was a man, clad in a black cloak which had become so ragged and tattered that it hung in loose strips about him. There was a growth of a couple of days’ hair on his head and chin and a ghastly pallor to his face. His skin was sweaty, flour-white tinged with green around the lips and eyes. The eyes themselves were large and round and hardly ever blinked, and the lips appeared to be almost black in colour. He ignored the Malaac as he strode past them, and they in turn ignored him. He stopped at the creature’s neck, just behind the head, and with one bound clambered upon it, standing on the creature’s spine. He sat astride the great beast, one hand clutching at the small bony fin that ran the entire length of its body. Slowly, he unclasped his other hand. There, in the shining wetness of the palm, he beheld it – the dragon stone. His mad, staring eyes gazed at its vermilion beauty, watched the liquid inside it, thick and viscous as it moved around almost imperceptibly, and then finally he held it up to the light, directly against the sun, letting its colour wash over his face and hand. The Malaac around him hissed excitedly as they beheld it; they, too, seemed transfixed by its power. The man gave out a strange guttural croak, his mouth wide open, his gums and tongue almost black, the colour of bruised and decaying seaweed. His eyes leaked at the corners, not normal tears but streams of water that moistened his face and neck. Just for one second reason seemed to prevail in him; there was horror in his eyes as he brushed the water off his face and tried to comprehend what had happened to his body. Then the madness returned. He looked at the stone again, bending all his thoughts towards it. Slowly it started to glow. As the light got stronger, it pulsated in his hand, and the stronger it became the more water discharged from his body – from his ears, his nose, his mouth.
And at last the creature stirred. It flicked the tip of its great tail and slowly swung its head back and forth. With a great hiss, a cloud of green smoke was discharged from its nostrils. The Malaac started their night cries and one by one they started to dive into the water, heads bobbing as they watched their master stir.
Its legs were small – it was as much serpent as dragon and its wings were barely man-sized, folded as they were against its back and never used. So it took some minutes before it could gain leverage against the rocky surface and, using its legs, push its head into the water, its body slowly following with a powerful splash. The dragon disappeared under the water for a full minute or so, before its head broke the waves again, the man still clinging to its back. His clothes were soaking, yet his waxy face and skin were no wetter than they had been on the land. He went under again and rose once more, still none the worse for his submergence. All around him the Malaac whooped and cried, excited to be swimming with such a great beast. And follow it they did as the great dragon swam, its powerful tail propelling it ever closer to the river ahead.
29
‘Hello, can you hear me?’
The words floated into her head, clear and tinged with concern. Was she dreaming? All she could feel were her bruises and a sharp but receding pain in her left side. She couldn’t focus. When she tried to think, her thoughts seemed to float away from her, drifting in the formless space surrounding her. All she could get from them were faint echoes, fragments half remembered before nausea drove them away again.
‘Hello, Cheris, are you awake?’
There was the voice again; it was sharper this time, more concerned. She forced herself to react to it. She had to open her eyes, make herself respond. The fog was starting to clear at last, There was light and a dim, blurred image swam ahead of her.
‘What? Am I in the field?’ Was that her voice? It sounded so weak.
‘No, silly, it’s Anaya. You are in my tent.’
‘Tent?’ It was Anaya; she could see her now. Without thinking, she tried to lever herself on to her side, only to collapse backwards as her pain intensified; it felt as if she was being stabbed with a pitchfork.
‘No no, you mustn’t move yet; you are much too weak. I will let you try again tomorrow but no sooner. You must rest; it has been an ordeal for you and you need time.’
She could see a bit more clearly now. She was on a bed in Anaya’s quarters, separate from the soldiers. She had blankets over her and a small feather pillow under her head. ‘What happened to me?’ she croaked.
‘You collapsed after your last spell. I could see it in the sky all the way from the healing tent. You must have put everything into it. Shortly afterwards the knights carried you here. You poor thing, you must have lost control of everything when you fainted; you had a bit of an accident down there, but don’t you worry. The knights didn’t notice and I have cleaned your robes since. They are drying now.’
‘O ’Lissa’s blood, I am so sorry! And embarrassed. Very embarrassed.’ She realised that under the warmth of the blankets all she was wearing was a thin nightdress.
‘Don’t be! I deal with that sort of thing all the time. Men are far worse believe me. Marcus wants to see you, but I said I would check with you first to see if you were up to it.’
‘I am,’ she said. ‘Weak and bruised but I can talk.’
‘Bear in mind, I have used magic on you to ease the pain, on the rib especially. It will hurt more later on, but really the best medicine you have now is time and rest.’
‘Thank you, Anaya. When did the battle end?’
‘Last night of course. We are well into the afternoon now and it is wet and miserable outside. The best place for you is right here. I have to go – I have other patients after all – but I will send Marcus in to see you.’
She left and Cheris lay back on her pillow, eyes half closed. She remembered everything now – how the mage tried to kill her, the panic she felt and her murderous response, not just against him but against the whole opposing army, whose soldiers, individually, had done nothing to her. She felt sick but fought the feeling. Even breathing normally caused discomfort; she dreaded to think how it would feel if she became excited or anxious.
She listened to the rain on the canvas; she was glad she wasn’t outside in it, but here, under the blankets, it was a soothing sound. Suddenly there was a flash of a red robe and Marcus fairly bounded in, relief writ large on his face.
‘Hello, Marcus,’ she said. ‘Whatever you do, please don’t hug me.’
‘No fear,’ he said, beaming. ‘Anaya has told me of your injuries, so tell me, how does the Heroine of Grest feel?’
‘Terrible!’ she said, honestly. ‘Weak, sick and tired, and please don’t call me such a silly name.’
‘It is the name the soldiers have given you,’ he said. ‘That and the Queen of Storms. Everyone has forgotten my name now; the soldiers have let a beautiful young warrior into their hearts instead. Felmere wants to give you a title: Battle Mage of Tanaren. It means, once your tenure here is over, if he is ever able to re-engage another of our kind in the future, it is you he can request.’
She groaned. ‘I have had enough already. Can I refuse to accept this “honour”?’
‘Refuse a title bestowed by one of the most powerful barons in the country? Unprecedented. Technically you can but you would never leave the island again.’
She tried to turn to face him, but was only partially successful.
‘Marcus, I found things out about myself last night ... dark things. When that man hurt me, and I would have died if Sir Norton hadn’t given me my staff, when I had recovered, I ... I wanted to kill him. Even worse, I felt satisfaction when I did; I was just so angry. And even after that I wasn’t sated. I felt so detached when I cast the last spell. I gave no consequence to the havoc I would wreak on those men; it was a technical exercise for me, one to see just how powerful I could make the lightning, and I know that, if I hadn’t have been so exhausted and hurting, I could have done so much more with it. The lives that I took meant nothing to me ... then. It is not till now that what I have done is dawning on me. It is a worse feeling than the pain in my ribs.’
Marcus
looked sympathetic. ‘Let it go, girl, They would all have killed you without a second thought. You have to be detached anyway; it impacts on your effectiveness if you get involved emotionally. I think what is upsetting you is how chillingly effective you were. You are beginning to realise just how powerful you can be, and possibly it is that that is bothering you.’
‘I don’t know; it was my desire for vengeance that frightened me. It was so strong. I hated the man for what he did. I have an evil streak when I am pushed. How is it that I have always wanted to help where I can, be liked and friendly with everyone and yet here all I am good for is murder, mayhem and bloodshed. Does everyone end up turning into whatever it is they despise?’
‘To some extent,’ said Marcus. ‘Life is a long road and sometimes you are forced to take a path contrary to your nature. You cannot travel its course without bruises; the Gods have a reason for every pitfall on the path and sometimes it takes years before you understand the reasons as to why they are there. Sometimes they are never apparent. What you did last night does not fundamentally change what you are; maybe it just informed you better as to the darker aspects of human nature, no more than that. Just bear in mind that a mere ten yards away outside this tent you are a heroine to many people. Your actions saved many lives as well, you know. I was stuck up that hill and couldn’t see a thing. Without you the battle could have gone on for hours more and the death toll would have been much, much higher.’
‘So you are saying that men died so that others could live?’
‘Precisely, it is one of nature’s more fundamental rules. Is it not sad when a falcon plucks a sparrow out of mid-flight? The sparrow dies but the falcon’s chicks feed on it and grow strong. And there are many more sparrows out there.’
The Forgotten War Page 43
