The Forgotten War

by Howard Sargent

  ‘Good,’ said Morgan. ‘Now if I can only get through the next hour unscathed, it will make for a perfect day.’

  ‘Don’t worry; Terath and I will keep an eye on him. The young elf is quite the hothead, or so I’ve been told.’

  Dramalliel was joined by Tiavon and a couple of other elves, all carrying spears. He looked at Morgan, excitement in his violet eyes.

  ‘It is this way. Follow, please.’

  He led them along a narrow but well-defined track leading in a southerly direction away from the tented lawn. Morgan could hear the waters of the lake lapping at the shore to his left, barely fifty yards away; apart from that he was surrounded by the ancient woodland – trees sporting beards of lichen, overhanging banks of lime-coloured grass, and clumps of bracken. After a few short minutes the trees opened out on to a broad green sward that was actually sunken into the earth; it was bowl shaped and surrounded on all sides by high banks of trees. As Morgan looked around, he could see it was some sort of a training area; he saw some archery targets made of wicker, racks of spears, some hurdles, dummies and other unknown contraptions partially hidden under thick cloth covers.

  ‘This is where the foot warriors train,’ Dramalliel explained. ‘With Armentele happening tomorrow no one is training today. However, I thought maybe I could show you how an elven warrior fights. Do you wish to test yourself here?’

  ‘And what if I said no?’

  ‘It is your decision, of course. Though rumours of the cowardice of humans might start to spread through our village.’

  ‘And no one wants that, do they?’

  Dramalliel smiled back at him. He called to Tiavon, the two of them spoke briefly, then Tiavon walked towards one of the racks of spears.

  ‘I take it you have something in mind for us?’

  ‘I do. Come with me.’

  He walked towards one of the covers and with a flamboyant gesture pulled it back. Underneath it were two raised wooden rails running parallel to each other, some two to three feet apart. The rails themselves were narrow, barely an inch wide, and stood over what seemed to be a bed of smooth pebbles. No, they weren’t pebbles, thought Morgan, they were glowstones. Tiavon then returned to the group carrying two spears, both of which had their heads covered with some soft cloth.

  ‘Allow us to demonstrate what we do here,’ Dramalliel said to Morgan, and with that he leapt cat-like on to the rails, balancing himself on them with ease. He was barefoot, Morgan noticed. Tiavon then hopped on to the rails to face Dramalliel, the two of them some four feet apart. Another of Dramalliel’s cronies passed a spear to each of them.

  ‘The first to fall off the rail loses the round. We either compete for an hour or until somebody wins a set number of rounds. Observe.’

  Both elves adopted a crouching position, spears held in both hands as they shuffled forwards and backwards along the rails in their bare feet. Morgan could see that the object of the contest was to use the haft of the spear to unbalance the opponent and cause them to fall on to the stones beneath. He saw Tiavon try to hook his spear behind Dramalliel’s right leg, only to see his effort blocked as the princeling executed a lightning-fast riposte – causing Tiavon to spring backwards, gazelle-like, and reposition himself on the rails.

  ‘Little physical contact, blunted spears... I am wondering what all the fuss was about,’ said Morgan wryly.

  ‘Perhaps having Terath and myself here has calmed things somewhat,’ Cedric replied.

  ‘It’s just as well, I haven’t got a fool’s hope against those two; I can’t even balance myself on a horse.’

  Suddenly, after many feints and bluffs, Dramalliel launched a full-scale assault on Tiavon, aiming his spear low as he tried to hook Tiavon’s legs from under him. Tiavon blocked the first attack, then the second – on the third he actually jumped clear of the rails and the low spear blow, but the fourth caught his right ankle as he landed. With the dexterity of a mountain goat he managed to stay on his feet, but he was in no position to defend himself as Dramalliel leapt high, spun a full one hundred and eighty degrees and upended Tiavon’s left leg, causing him to topple over and crash painfully on to his back on the stones.

  Terath, Cedric and Morgan applauded the two men as Dramalliel helped his defeated opponent on to his feet. They both bowed to each other and Tiavon went to join his two other companions some distance away. Dramalliel came towards Morgan, holding one of the spears out to him.

  ‘Fancy a trial? I promise I will go easy on you.’

  Saying nothing, Morgan kicked off his boots, feeling the cold damp carpet of grass beneath his feet. He took the spear and gingerly stepped up on to the rails. They were smooth, but hard on his soles; he saw Dramalliel’s feet were angled inward slightly and so copied him. He soon realised that finding a secure balance that he felt comfortable with was an art in itself.

  ‘Vitremon!’ Dramalliel called to him, holding his spear across his body in both hands at a forty-five-degree angle. Morgan nodded at him and did the same,

  ‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘Are there any rules regarding the parts of the body I cannot hit?’

  ‘Convention dictates that we target the legs to unbalance the opponent, but it is only the head that you are not allowed to hit. Allow me to demonstrate.’

  With that, he attempted to hook Morgan’s left leg away. Morgan saw it late – the elf certainly was quick – but he managed to block the attempt with the spear shaft. It was little more than a feint, however, for Dramalliel thrust again, fast as quicksilver, catching Morgan’s right leg just above the ankle and hooking him off balance so that he stumbled to his knees on to the unforgiving stones.

  ‘Nice block,’ said Dramalliel. ‘You get the idea now?’

  Without speaking, Morgan got to his feet and repositioned himself on the rail, adopting the attack stance the elf was using.

  Five more times they duelled and five more times with the exact same result. Dramalliel was plainly enjoying sending the human on to the stones, giving him bruises and grazes, but Morgan did not give up – every defeat was teaching him something. Dramalliel was flamboyant for one thing; he would never go for a conventional blow when he could leap into the air and assay a full turn before driving his spear at Morgan’s toes. He was overconfident, and so his concentration was suspect. Morgan still couldn’t land a telling blow on him, however. Dramalliel was as fast as a hummingbird around a flower.

  ‘You have the basics now, human?’ said Dramalliel with a malevolent smile.

  ‘I suppose I do, after a fashion.’

  ‘Good! And so it is now that the real contest begins.’

  The elf passed his hand over the stones, whispering quietly under his breath. With a slight twinge of alarm, Morgan saw the stones begin to glow, first a deep red, then turning whiter; even at a distance he could feel the warmth on his face.

  ‘Dramalliel! Fezhaye al ukellusha!’ Terath shouted at him.

  ‘No, young man,’ Cedric joined in, ‘this is not an acceptable development.’

  Dramalliel, still smiling, bowed slightly at the older men.

  ‘I apologise profoundly for offending both of you. I will nullify the haraska of the stones immediately, as I obviously had too elevated a view of human courage. All Morgan the warrior has to do is agree with the two of you and the matter will be closed.’

  Morgan looked at the young elf with a little admiration. If he agreed with Cedric and Terath, he would look a coward in the eyes of the elf warriors present – something that no doubt would sweep through the village in no time – but if he didn’t agree he risked having his feet turned into the sort of burnt offering the priests of Mytha still specialised in.

  ‘Cedric, Terath,’ he said. ‘Thank you both for your concern – it is appreciated – but I will play the elven prince at his game; not to do so, after all, would be discourteous of me.’ Offering a quick and silent prayer to Artorus and St Berris, patron of the true-hearted and those who insist on doing the right thing no matter at what cost to t
hemselves, he hopped back on to the rails and held his spear in readiness.

  Dramalliel faced him. Morgan could feel the heat from the hundreds of stones under him making his feet slippery; obviously glowstones could get a lot hotter than the ones in his room. He concentrated, not on Dramalliel himself, but on his spear and his feet splayed on to the rails. He blocked the first blow, then the second; he even managed a quick counterthrust causing Dramalliel to jump clear of the rails, though the elf landed sure-footed as ever.

  Morgan was getting to be able to read Dramalliel’s attack patterns and his blocking tactics, so far, were excellent. He was being forced backwards, though.

  Then it happened. A quick thrust from the elf that he didn’t fully block, and the butt of the spear caught him full on the shin, forcing him backwards as he winced with the pain. Dramalliel’s next thrust he barely blocked but stepped backwards again, trying to right his balance on the rail.

  But there was no rail there...

  ...His right foot landed on to the stones. There was a soft hiss and an unpleasant smell of burning, then the pain hit him, forcing him to call out and fall backwards, clear of the stones and on to the grass. His spear rolled away from him, stopping at Dramalliel’s feet.

  ‘Well fought, human.’ Dramalliel helped him up; he sounded conciliatory. ‘For someone who had not even seen the zezheflenta an hour ago you performed admirably. Our warriors will respect you, now that your bravery has been proven.’

  Morgan gingerly put his full weight on to his right foot, brushed some grass off his leather tunic, and looked the elf in the eye,

  ‘Best of three.’

  The elf looked firstly astonished – this was something he certainly wasn’t expecting – then, however, a thin smile spread over his handsome features. He nodded slowly at Morgan, handed him his spear and leapt over the stones on to the rail.

  ‘Morgan,’ called Cedric, ‘desist from this; it is achieving nothing.’

  ‘No, my friend,’ Morgan said slowly, ‘it is achieving a lot more than you realise.’ And with that he climbed back into his position on the rail.

  ‘Vitremon!’ called Dramalliel and launched a ferocious attack on Morgan’s legs. There was no holding back now; it was a fight he wanted finished and quickly. Morgan, however, was holding his own – he blocked all of the elf’s initial blows and then, as Dramalliel swept his spear around in a wide arc, he too leapt clear of the rail, landing sure-footedly, as the elf paused for breath. Then he countered – three successive low blows designed to hook his opponent’s legs from under him. Dramalliel defended all three but for the first time Morgan saw the uncertainty in his face. Back and forth the two of them went, thrusting and blocking, the elf faster and more experienced, the human more powerful, his defensive blows sapping his opponent’s energy. The small audience watched open-mouthed. This duel was far more finely poised than any were expecting.

  Then, however, as with every time before, Dramalliel caught him, on the instep this time, causing him to sway unevenly. Smiling, Dramalliel aimed for the same spot again, aiming to topple him on to the stones and finish what he had started. This was supposed to have been a spectacle to put the humans in their place – to show them as fumbling, clumsy and inferior – but Morgan’s stoicism and determination had all but put pay to that ambition. Seeing this, Dramalliel just wanted to finish things as quickly and expediently as possible. He swung his spear, waiting for the impact on Morgan’s leg that would give him his triumph.

  But no contact was made. As Dramalliel was aiming his final stroke at the man’s legs, Morgan thrust the butt of the spear, full length, into the elf’s solar plexus.

  ‘You said no head contact. You said nothing about the chest.’

  Dramalliel toppled backwards, landing full on his back on both rails. He dropped his spear, which rolled clear of the stones, smoking as it did so, and his long hair started to hiss and burn underneath him.

  ‘Concede?’ Morgan offered him his hand, noting the barely suppressed surprise, shock and anger in the prince’s eyes.

  ‘Cothoza prushu olea pritutazho!’

  He recognised the voice. Coming into the glade, flanked by two warriors and with a face that was all cold fury, was Itheya.

  ‘Am I surrounded by fools? Is every man here a savage? How is it I leave all of you for less than two hours and you end up at each other’s throats?’

  Morgan helped Dramalliel up.

  ‘Really, Itheya, it is nothing like as bad as it might seem. Your brother was showing me how your warriors train. I have to say I am impressed.’

  She appeared to be partly mollified, but only partly. ‘It was still not a good idea, especially the decision to fire the stones. Were either of you hurt?’

  ‘Not too badly.’ Morgan tried to pay no heed to his sore foot. ‘We actually still have to fight the decider.’

  ‘The human is clever, and unorthodox,’ said Dramalliel, rubbing his chest. ‘Ask the others – no one lost honour in this fight.’

  ‘Well, there will be no decider,’ she said. ‘I have finished preparing for the festival, so Morgan is returning with me. Come.’

  She was wearing a long white cloak that covered her completely and dragged on the ground behind her, its hem stained with grass. Morgan followed, feeling a little like a trained poodle. Terath and Cedric came behind. Dramalliel remained with his followers; they appeared to be continuing with their training.

  Back in his room, Morgan sat on his bed and wetted the sole of his foot with some water from the pitcher. He hadn’t been on his own long when Itheya came into the room unannounced.

  ‘Did you have to fight him? Couldn’t you have declined?’

  ‘No. Your brother has been desperate to try something since he first saw me. I figured better to let him get it out of his system rather than let things fester. I think the two of us understand each other a little better now.’

  She appeared to accept what he said, nodding slowly. ‘Very well, I will not admonish him; perhaps the matter is best left buried. Father needn’t know of it.’ She noticed his bare foot. ‘Did you fall on to the stones?’

  ‘Yes, it is not too bad. I will be fine in a little while.’

  ‘Let me look. Burns from the stones can be nasty. I should know; I have had enough of them over the years.’

  ‘No really, I’m fi...’

  ‘Shut up and hold your foot out. You do not refuse a princess of the Morioka in her own home.’

  Feeling like a naughty child, he complied; she got on to her knees and took his foot in her hands.

  ‘It is blistering already; if you are to attend Armentele tomorrow you will need a poultice and a bandage, or’ – she sighed heavily – ‘I could use haraska.’

  She placed her palm gently against the sole of his foot and spoke softly under her breath. Suddenly he felt something akin to a cool blush pass into his leg; it felt like being washed by a gentle wave on a beach of soft, cool sand. She seemed to be drawing the heat out of his body into her own. When she stopped after a few minutes, the pain had all but stopped. She, however, looked a little grey and tired.

  ‘It wearies me, doing that. Rest your foot for the afternoon; you should be able to walk on it without pain by this evening.’

  ‘Thank you. Your magic is of a healing nature?’

  ‘As I said before, it is not strong. I can help with minor wounds, warm the stones and such things. I rarely use it. Tell me, you were going to fight my brother one more time, weren’t you? The decider, you called it.’

  ‘Yes, we had won a duel each; I burnt my foot when I lost to him.’

  ‘Then I will fight it for you, when I have the time.’

  ‘Really? I have seen you with a bow and knife but I have no idea of your abilities in combat. I wondered if they were just ceremonial.’

  She laughed; there was a note of incredulity in it. ‘I have led my tribe in battle,’ she said. ‘It is true I cannot stand toe to toe with the likes of you for long – you are too strong,
after all – but there is no better archer in the tribe than I and no one faster with a spear. I have fought my brother many times over the firestones and lead him by quite a margin. He will be annoyed when he finds out I have become your champion.’

  ‘I will leave it in your hands then. The important thing for me was that I wasn’t humiliated and that I did not embarrass you. Hopefully I managed to achieve that.’

  ‘I think you did. When I leave you I will hear from others about your performance, but I am not worried about it. Most people are too excited about Armentele to think about anything else.’

  ‘When does it start tomorrow?’

  ‘Early. Terath will fetch you and Cedric. There is a ceremony to herald the end of the harvest and greet the onset of winter, but after that it is a case of feasting and drinking jenessa, the spiced berry drink you had the other day. It ends as the sun goes down; there is a procession with torches back here to the island. There is a lot of singing and dancing. I am sure a warrior like yourself will find it all beyond tedious, guest of honour or no.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Morgan with a smile, ‘I am looking forward to it, especially to the dance of the princess of the Morioka.’

  She smiled, almost shyly. ‘You will be underwhelmed, I am sure. I will leave you now. Rest your foot, otherwise you will see nothing tomorrow apart from these four walls.’

  She left him and he fell flat on the bed, still feeling the soothing waves of energy pulse through his foot. It felt so soothing he was asleep in minutes.

  The following morning he found himself sitting on the grass with Terath and Cedric. The Mhezhen was there, too, though he had to be carried there on a litter. He was the only one seated, for his throne had been brought here, too – the grass had to do for everybody else.

  They were some two miles from the island, between the lake and the sea. It was another place where the land dropped sharply; there was a sheer rock face on the south side covered in moss, creeping vines and lichen. Through a cleft at its centre was another waterfall, this one falling in a sheer drop of some fifty feet, throwing up a cloud of fine spray from the dark pool under it. The water continued as a narrow river, dancing and babbling over copper-coloured stones as it wound through the glade and into the woods to the north. The other main feature of the glade was sitting right beside the pool. In times past, a large section of the cliff face must have split off and crashed to the ground. There it lay, a vast slab of grey, nearly ten feet high and around a hundred feet across. It was perfectly flat, and ideal, as Terath had explained to them, for a stage. And it was facing this monolith, on both sides of the river, that everyone was sitting.