The Forgotten War

by Howard Sargent

  ‘The ale was still there, though.’ Haelward was holding a bottle. The men passed it round, each taking a swig. Wulfthram passed it finally to Ceriana.

  ‘Go on,’ he said, ‘show me how northern you have become.’

  Without hesitating, she took a draught. By Elissa, it was horrible, but she was determined not to show it. She wiped her lips, gave the slightest feminine burp and handed it back to her husband.

  ‘Have you nothing stronger than this pond water?’

  There were laughs all round, and the laughter seemed as incongruous as it was possible to be, given their surroundings. ‘Let us check the town square,’ said Wulfthram. ‘Then we can return to the boat and leave further investigations till the morning.’

  There was a narrow side street next to the tavern that led uphill towards the square. Its buildings were squeezed so closely to the roadside that it felt like they were deliberately hemming them in. The men drew their blades as the fog thickened the further they progressed. Finally, the street ended, the climb finished and they were on the level ground of the town’s square.

  It was a fairly nondescript square, cobbled and with a house of Artorus at its far end. The buildings here were taller, two-storey townhouses and warehouses with dark leaded windows; it was a place for the better-off people of the town, or at least it had been.

  At the centre of the square was a fountain. In the height of summer it would have been a lovely place to sit, maybe to run one’s fingers through the waters or feel the light spray caress one’s cheek. None of the six people looking at it felt anything like that now, though.

  For the fountain was frozen.

  The air around them was cold but not freezing, certainly not cold enough to freeze moving water, but there the fountain was, its jets paralysed, twisting like frosted white chains, entwining but never reaching the unmoving pool underneath.

  Wulfthram and Haelward moved towards the fountain; they started to walk around it but both stopped simultaneously when they saw what lay behind it.

  ‘Mytha’s claw!’ breathed Haelward.

  Lying on the ground behind the fountain were close to a dozen people. They were all dead; they were all frozen. All of them were holding their hands to their faces as if to ward off some unseen terror. Fear was writ large on all of them, their eyes wide, their mouths open as though their paralysis had started long before the frost overtook them.

  ‘They are all men,’ said Haelward as the others joined them. ‘I wonder if they had sent the women and children away somewhere and decided to stay and fight for their homes.’

  ‘But to fight what?,’ said Derkss. ‘What in this world can do this to a man?’

  Nobody answered him. Wulfthram continued to walk the square and when he got to the house of Artorus he called the others to him. Ceriana walked up to him, expecting the worst.

  She was not disappointed.

  Pews and benches had been put behind the doorway in order to reinforce it, but both doors had been torn off their hinges and lay where they had been thrown, in the square about ten feet from the holy house. Some benches had been smashed into matchwood; others had been ripped in half as though they were made of paper. They slowly eased their way past this destruction and stood on the tiled floor at the centre of the church.

  Against the far wall, all huddled together, were at least two dozen more people, all frozen in their death throes, many of them holding each other as though seeking comfort. It was as if the certainty of their fate was already apparent to them. And these were not young men. They were mainly women and children; some of the children were little more than babes in arms. They could not run, so they came here, hoping the Gods would protect them; but it was as Derkss said – the Gods had already forsaken this town. Ceriana choked back a sob. These poor people – none of them deserved this!

  She turned and left the building. From this side of the square it was easy to see the hill and cliff top where the ruins stood. And now it was her turn to notice something. She waited for the others to join her and pointed up the hill.

  Despite the fog and the darkness, the dark outlines of some of the nearer ruined towers could be seen, but it was not at these that Ceriana was pointing. Somewhere up the hill, amid the smoky white blanket shrouding the land, was a light. It was a sickly green in colour and it pulsated slowly, in a similar way to the stone at her breast sometimes did. She could not tell how far away it was, but every instinct told her that it was in that direction they should be heading.

  Wulfthram evidently felt the same. He stood next to her, looked at it for a moment and said:

  ‘Well, my dear, I don’t think we need bother hiring a guide after all.’

  And with that he starting walking, heading straight towards the hill. After a deep breath Ceriana touched the amulet of dull iron and followed. Behind her, she heard Haelward mutter: ‘I hope the Gods are watching tonight. Artorus help us, have I ever done anything braver?’

  No, she thought, none of us have.

  45

  There was a grille in the roof of his cell. Cygan knew he was underground and that the grille opened out on to the stone floor of the courtyard of this baron’s enormous house, but for Cygan it was the only source of light in this cramped miserable little chamber. Moisture dripped through it – where it slid down the walls the stones were streaked with moss and where it pooled on the floor it stained the already-filthy straw black.

  He wasn’t quite sure how many days he had been here. He thought back to when he was bundled into the wagon, his hands and feet shackled, and the short journey along the river’s edge to the town where he was now being held. The trading post had been the only settlement of the Taneren he had ever seen and his shock at seeing this much larger city, with its smells of leather, horse, and dung and the press of unwashed citizens, had been great. He was, of course, something of a curiosity to them and it was almost a relief when they passed through the great gates of this mansion and he had left the wide-eyed and pointing populace behind. There he was handed over to a large slack-jawed hulk of a man named Cornock, who had thrown him into this tiny cell, though not until after he had spat on him, called him a murderer and remarked on how much he was looking forward to see him dance at the end of a rope. And here he had remained. The cell stank, the door had only been opened once a day for feeding purposes, and he had seen and spoken to no one in all this time.

  Which brought him back to the grille and the small square of light that it cast on to the stone wall in front of him. He would watch it move as the day progressed, from dawn – when it would appear on the cell door – to nightfall – when, if there was no moon, it would disappear on the wall against which he now sat. He tried to keep focusing on it, thinking of the freedom that it represented, a freedom he was not likely to experience again. He deliberately did not think of his wife and children, not while hope still remained. To dwell on his wife’s dark, intelligent face and his children, laughing and shouting as they played outside their home, would be to weaken him, to make him think of what he had to lose – and right now he was still alive and charged with a mission from the Elder. However remote the possibility of him discharging his duty, while the possibility remained, then his duty was all that mattered and he had to be strong for that.

  How or what he could do to accomplish it, though, was another matter. He knew a little of the society of these people from snippets of conversation picked up at the trading posts and with conversations held with the more amenable merchants there. He believed the Baron would look at the details of his case and pronounce judgement, and that he had the right to speak before him before sentence was pronounced. It was likely to be his only chance to warn these people of their folly; if they ignored him, the Malaac would be here soon enough. What would happen to his village and his people, though, he did not want to think. He had no real inner conviction that Cerren’s brave sacrifice would grant the protection the Gods had promised.

  Suddenly the silence was broken. He heard the sound
of a bolt being drawn back and the key being turned in the lock. He went and stood with his back to the far wall as the door was slowly opened, its hinges groaning in protest. In the doorway stood Cornock, his forearms bare, his mouth open in a sneer that showed his blackened teeth. He came into the cell followed by two other men Cygan had not seen before. He noticed, though, that they were both almost as muscular as the jailor.

  Cornock folded his arms. One of the men behind him was holding a flaming torch. It gave off little light but made the jailor’s black eyes glitter like two pits of obsidian. Cygan noticed the man dribbled slightly; maybe his teeth were giving him problems.

  ‘Well, Marsh Man,’ he said, ‘we have just had some good news, good for us that is. A herald has just arrived to say the Baron will be here tomorrow. Apparently, he has business to attend to.’

  ‘Yes,’ laughed one of the men behind him, ‘the business of hanging you.’

  Cornock said nothing. Instead, he started pulling the fingers of his left hand, clicking each knuckle in turn.

  ‘It is true – holding the local justice hearings is one of his chief duties. Magistrate Onkean has written the deputation in your case; I am sure he will hear it in the next few days.’

  ‘Then I will be brought before your baron?’ asked Cygan. ‘I will be able to speak with him?’

  Cornock sniggered, then without warning he back-handed Cygan across the face. Cygan did not fall but stood to face the man almost immediately, a thin line of blood trickling from the corner of his lip.

  ‘And what exactly do you think our baron’ – he emphasised the last word – ‘would want with a barbaric little sewer rat like you. You think you have rights here? You are not even a citizen of the country; an Arshuman dog is more important than you to us. Just because you have managed to stop scratching the fleas on your arse long enough to speak a civilised language does not make you a human being and that’ – he stopped to clean some wax out of his ear – ‘is exactly how Baron Eburg will see you.’

  ‘He would be a fool not to listen to me.’ Cygan stood tall and unflinching, matching Cornock’s stare. ‘His people are in as much danger as mine. That includes you. You would be a very tasty meal for the creatures that are attacking us, and...’ – he paused to let the words sink home – ‘if they were to feast on your corpulence, it would be the first thing I could give them credit for.’

  Cornock glowered menacingly. ‘See, boys; what we have here is an uppity Marshie, one as thinks he is as good as us.’ He moved closer to Cygan, close enough for his fetid breath to be smelled. ‘Just be grateful that we need no information from you, boy; otherwise there would be nothing to stop me from applying hot brands to your scaly marsh flesh. One thing though’ – he moved backwards a couple of feet so the men behind could hear him clearly – ‘you really should not have tried to escape; using force to restrain you should never have been necessary.’

  Cygan quietly flexed his arms; he could see where this was going. He could see the man with the torch fixing it to the wall bracket so that he was now unencumbered. He had to say it. ‘But I have not tried to escape.’

  ‘Is that right, Marshie? Even with the door open and just me between you and freedom?’

  As soon as he said the last word he swung a powerful fist straight at Cygan’s face. The Marsh Man was too quick for him, though, ducking under the blow and landing one of his own straight into Cornock’s stomach, winding him. The two other men piled in and Cygan bloodied them both before numbers took their toll and he was overpowered. Cornock kicking him viciously to the ground.

  The three men stood over Cygan for a second, breathing heavily and feeling their bruises. Then, all together they started, kicking and punching the prone man again and again and again. When they had finished, they stopped for breath, their knuckles bruised and bloody. And then they started all over again. And over them, through the grille, the moon rose, its pallid light the only witness to the three men, who all laughed as they continued the work they relished.

  46

  Cheris had never felt so completely and utterly terrified. She was lying back in her chair, able to move nothing except her eyes. The drug she had been slipped was still having a powerful effect on her; she should really be feeling woozy and tired but the presence of a madwoman just a few feet away, calmly preparing to commit an act of pure horror, meant that, if nothing else about her was working, her mind was racing like one of the Grand Duke’s thoroughbred racehorses.

  She saw Marcus sitting opposite her. Unlike Cheris, he had some limited movement of his hands and mouth. If anything, he looked even more frightened than she did.

  ‘Anaya,’ he croaked. ‘Do not do this. Only a handful of people have ever succeeded at doing what you are trying to do. Think hard and see; you have neither the strength nor the ability.’

  Anaya stopped what she was doing for a second and looked up, annoyed at the break in her concentration.

  ‘That remains to be seen. Nevertheless, I have to try.’

  Marcus sounded desperate. ‘You are exhausted; you will never control the powers you want to unleash.’

  ‘I should have given you a stronger dose, kept you as quiet as the girl. I am not stupid. I will be summoning a minor demon only; it should be sufficient for my plans. As soon as it is here, I chant the words of binding and he is mine. Now, let’s take some blood from you both.’

  She went up to Marcus with a small but sharp knife and a metal bowl. Lifting up his sleeve she cut him across the arm, holding the bowl under the wound and catching his blood, almost black in colour as it dripped freely. This done, she put her hand over the cut saying a few soft words. When she took her hand away the bleeding had stopped. She then turned towards Cheris who stared at her imploringly.

  ‘Now, my dear, it is your turn; your blood is very important for the ritual.’

  She lifted Cheris’ sleeve up and repeated the procedure. Cheris could hear her blood dripping into the bowl but felt no pain; the drug had numbed her too much.

  Anaya returned to her table and stood behind the bowl at its centre. She poured the blood into it then ran the knife over her hand, adding her own blood to the mix.

  ‘The blood of three mages, Marcus; what demon could possibly resist that?’

  She then turned the pages of her book until she found the required passage, somewhere near its end. After scanning its words briefly, she started to chant – not the formal arcane language they learned at the college but something older. It had its similarities, though, and Cheris could recognise parts of it. She could certainly feel its power – the air around them started to crackle like wood in a fireplace.

  Marcus was getting more feeling back in his hands; he could almost move them freely now, though his arms still resisted him. Cheris saw that Anaya had not noticed this and started to hope that Marcus would be able to use his magic again very shortly. She tried moving her toes but it was like trying to push back a mountain. The air at the room’s centre between Anaya and herself was shimmering now and the temperature was rising. This and her own fear were making her sweat; she could feel it on her face and under her robes, trickling down her legs and between her breasts. A droplet then fell off her nose. Elissa help her, but it was getting hot as a furnace.

  Anaya continued to chant but Cheris noticed a high-pitched edge of excitement to her voice, obviously what she wanted to happen was not too far away. Marcus tried pleading with her one last time.

  ‘Desist, Anaya! This is madness. Please, before it is too late!’

  Anaya ignored him and continued chanting; she was speaking faster and faster now and from the bowl in front of her blue flame was now licking at its edges.

  Cheris continued to watch her but then realised something else was happening. A shape, a very dark and as yet amorphous shape, was beginning to materialise at the centre of the room, between Cheris and Anaya. As yet it had no form, a whirling mist of midnight black, but Cheris could feel its power, its malevolence, its anger.

 
; And it was growing. As Marcus and Cheris watched, as helpless as children, the shadow grew taller; it was a darkness reaching past the beams to the very roof and they both knew it could get taller still. Anaya stopped chanting for a second and laughed.

  ‘Do you see? Do you see? It is a demon of fire, and it is coming!’

  Fire, thought Cheris dully. She then realised her body allowed her to do one thing. She felt the wetness on her face and realised she was crying.

  The black shape continued to gather form. Cheris suddenly understood that it was not the demon itself; rather it was the void between the two planes that Anaya had created. The demon was still being pulled from its home and when it arrived here it would inhabit the space she had prepared for it, a space not six feet away from her. Ten foot tall, she reckoned, maybe six broad – it would be a pillar of living flame. Cheris had dreamt fancifully before of her final hours, in which she lay abed surrounded by friends praying for her. What would she be thinking? she had wondered. Would she be ruminating on the nature of the Gods? Would she have any regretful feelings? And now here she was, never closer to her doom, and she saw that her terror had driven any real thought processes away. She was frightened and helpless and right now didn’t give a fig for the Gods. And what was Marcus doing? He must have regained some feeling in his legs and feet for he appeared to be trying to upset the chair on which he sat. Was he trying to escape? Was he going to leave her? The thought made her choke.

  And then she saw what he was doing. Behind him, against the wall, leant their staffs. If he could just get his hands on one, maybe, just maybe, he could do something to save them. She started willing him on desperately, but then she afforded a look to her left, at the void of blackness.

  Except it was a void no longer. As she watched, she saw red and white flame start to appear inside it, barely a flicker at first but getting ever larger. Marcus saw it, too, and his scrabbling with the chair became ever more frantic. It started getting warmer again, her robes feeling ever more uncomfortable against her skin. As Anaya had promised, the demon was coming.