The Forgotten War

by Howard Sargent

  Too late, she realised. From behind the caravan one of the men came, his tread sure and steady. He was the one she thought to be the leader of the men that remained – balding with a moustache, a slight beard and several missing teeth. He obviously interpreted her movements as another feeble attempt to escape.

  ‘Less of that!’ he growled at her before back-handing her face with a stinging blow. She tasted blood on her lip – how much blood did she have left in her?

  He pulled a dagger on her, a long cruel blade, razor-sharp. He held its point against her eye before moving it down slightly and pricking the orbit under her eyeball. The tiniest drop of blood ran down her cheek almost like a tear.

  ‘Any attempt at being clever and I stab your eyeball until it bursts.’ He pulled her gag down and free of her mouth. ‘Open it!’ he ordered her. ‘Let’s see if you can take it like a tavern slut, five pennies a go.’

  With the knife less than an inch from her eye Cheris opened her mouth. She could smell him, a soldier that hadn’t washed in weeks. She fought hard to keep the disgust from rising in her, to stop her from gagging. He was exposed now and forced himself into that place he wanted to go.

  He grunted as she choked, his blade started to wander. Looking up she saw he was not really looking at her, that his eyes were half closed. He was thrusting so violently he did not notice as her hands dug into the soil behind her. There was earth, leaves and more earth, filling her fingernails. And then there was something else, cold icy cold. She remembered the cold metal of her staff and knew it was the blade she was touching. She felt its edge, it cut her hand but she didn’t care. Desperately hoping he would not finish too quickly, she worked the blade until she held it in her right hand. She had been cut several times and felt the warm blood oozing over her palms and fingers, but it was a minor pain compared to what had gone before, easy to ignore. She had little room to move her wrists, but little was enough, just enough. She felt the rope start to give as she sawed the blade across it.

  The man gave out a load groan as his release came. Cheris, her eyes watering at his aggression already, fought against every instinct to stop herself spitting and retching as she tasted him. He pulled out, his eyes once again fully focused on her. ‘Swallow it all.’

  Meekly, she complied and did not struggle as he pulled the gag back over her mouth. Then he looked away from her as he endeavoured to push his flaccid member back into his breeches. He did not notice at first as Cheris slowly got to her feet. He swore, his laces were all tangled, he still swung free in front of her.

  Then he looked up.

  Cheris stood before him in her tattered robes and, as he watched she put her bloodied hands, now free of cords, to her mouth and pulled down her gag. She hawked and spat the residue of the man’s semen on to the ground.

  ‘You really are a very stupid man,’ she croaked hoarsely.

  Dagger in hand he went to thrust at her vitals but the fear in his eyes was easy to see.

  She read him all the way. Before he could get near her she held out her hand, palm outward, and said the softest of words under her breath. The same words she had used against the horse beater in Tanaren, but this time meant with much more force and power.

  The man was lifted into the air and propelled backwards at a ferocious velocity. He flew some twenty, maybe thirty feet, crying in terror until he impacted against the gnarled trunk of a giant oak tree. She heard his back snap, and the dull crack of his skull against wood, then he slid like a ragdoll down the length of the tree before slumping lifeless at its roots, his trousers loose around his ankles.

  Cheris walked slowly around the caravan, every step an agony. The two men stood looking at her, their faces pale with fear. The boy had left the horses and was standing just behind them.

  ‘The Gods help us!’ whispered the young one.

  There was a second of pure crystalline silence, as the four protagonists beheld each other. Then as one the three men bolted towards the southern road as though the demons of Keth were at their heels.

  Cheris watched them run as though weighing in her mind whether she should show them mercy. Then she spoke, her voice regaining some strength, words the men would not recognise but the ones that spelt their certain doom. Once that was done, she spoke again.

  ‘There are no gods,’ she said.

  As soon as the fireball was released she turned her back on them. She knew its aim was true and there was no escape for her erstwhile murderers. She heard the crash of flame and the nigh-on feminine screams of the men as they were engulfed. She heard the horses cry in terror, pull up their pickets and bolt into the woods. It didn’t matter; she could not ride anyway. She tried walking to the caravan’s rear entrance but stopped after a few strides. The pain was too great – walking had never felt so difficult. She slumped against the caravan’s wheel, sliding down its length before curling up at its base in a foetal position. The birds were singing. She heard several deer breaking through the underbrush; it was as though nothing untoward had ever happened here. Numb and exhausted, with the smells of earth and blood in her nostrils, she drifted, her mind, normally so active, frozen and incapable of putting anything coherent together. Cheris Menthur, eyes glazed and lifeless, passed out, her senses in shutdown, all in denial of what had been done to her.

  She did not know how long she had lain upon the ground – an hour, maybe less than that, maybe a lot less? Something had made her come to, though – a noise? Yes, it was a noise.

  There it was again. It sounded like a mewling infant, a feeble barely discernible whimper. She forced herself to stand, finding her staff she leant on it, using it for the first time like an old man’s prop. There was the noise again. She hurriedly scanned the clearing but there was nothing, just the caravan, the abandoned tents of the knights and the dead man next to the tree.

  The noise was coming from the southern path, from where she had directed the fireball.

  Slowly and with an indefinable sense of dread she hobbled in the direction of the noise. It was as if a fire had been set in every private place below her waist. Her hands were numb and throbbing, still coated with her own blood; her mouth stung from where the man had struck her, and the bruises on her torso where she had been kicked roared their protest as she moved. Gritting her teeth, she reached the path and made her way towards some blackened shapes where the crows were clustering.

  There were two bodies in close proximity to each other. Both were smoking and charred from head to toe and were barely recognisable as human. The crows scattered and flew as she approached them. They had been busy. In several places on both bodies the blackened skin had been opened, revealing the pulpy red flesh underneath; strings of it had been pulled out and decorated the corpses like some ghastly spring festival rosette.

  The noise had definitely not come from these two.

  She scanned the road ahead. It was all water and mud; she felt it squelch underfoot. Then the noise came again and this time she homed in on it.

  There was a prone figure less than a hundred yards ahead sheltering against the verge on the eastern edge of the road. With her feet and staff sinking into the morass she made as good progress as she could until she was just a few feet from the figure. Then she caught her breath.

  She realised dully that of the dozens of men she must have killed at Grest she had seen none of them close to hand. She had heard screams and cries of pain but they could have been caused by anything. She had had an almost antiseptic detachment from the misery and suffering she must have caused. Not this time, though. This time the evidence was there before her.

  It was the boy, of course. It had to be. The fireball could not have caught him properly. His back was to her and he seemed unaware of her presence as he whimpered again. His legs, and even his trousers, were barely scored by flame and he was using these to push himself slowly along the muddy ground. His back, though, was scorched black; she could see where his shirt had melted and fused with his flesh along his shoulders. His hair had part
ially burned away and the exposed skin on his scalp was viscous, almost liquid. The one ear she could see had all but gone, leaving a gaping hole in the side of his head. The acrid smell of his partially cooked body stuck at the back of her throat. He must have heard her for slowly he rolled on to his back screaming hoarsely at his torture.

  His hands were little more than fused stumps of flesh and bone; his face, however, was almost intact, although one eye was white and blind. His torso, though ... just the sight brought a croaking gasp to her throat.

  The fire had burned through his clothes and crackled and shrivelled the skin on his right-hand side. She counted four mud-covered ribs, all blackened and exposed by the hole where his diaphragm had once been. Under the ribs were the pinkish tinge of his organs; they seemed intact and healthy, though, if truth be told, she looked away from them as soon as she possibly could.

  ‘How is it you are not dead?’ she said aloud, as much to herself as to him.

  His mouth opened. His face was covered in mud and soot, but the expression in his one good eye spoke more eloquently than a thousand words could.

  ‘Please,’ he said, his voice cracked and thin. ‘Please.’

  Cheris fought to regain control. ‘I, I cannot do anything for you. I am not a healer and, even if I were, I doubt, I doubt you could be saved. All I can do is ease your passing, end it quickly. Is this what you wish?’

  The boy gave the tiniest of nods; he whimpered one more time.

  Cheris’s eyes were stinging. This boy had raped her – why was she feeling so ashamed?

  ‘Very well. May Xhenafa bring you to the Gods for judgement. What you did ... what you did... I know you were forced... Maybe they will show you mercy, I do not know.’

  Her magic was draining her already exhausted body, but she forced herself, just one more time. She had to. Pointing at the boy she spoke again, a thin bolt of cerulean leapt from her finger straight at him. There it became as dozens of small charged snakes covering and encasing his spasming, writhing form, crackling as the smell of ozone filled the air. In a few seconds it was over. The boy lay still, his scarred face revealing a semblance of peace. Turning slowly away from him, Cheris doubled over and emptied the scant contents of her stomach into the mud.

  It took an eternity for her to get back to the caravan; her pain had become omnipresent. She could barely remember a time before she had had it. It controlled her. It was who she was. The blood coating her thighs, buttocks and hands had congealed; she could still taste it in her mouth where she had bitten herself in her torment.

  With her remaining strength she pulled open the rear door, clambered inside and slammed the bolt home. She staggered to her couch. Sitting on it hurt her so she attempted to lie full length on it. Eventually she found a tolerable position. Quietly she tried to let sleep take her.

  It couldn’t. The second her eyes closed there he was, pressing on her, crushing her, hurting her, his eyes burning through into her soul. He smelled clean, cleaner than the other men; he even sweated less but his breath was toxic. At one point he dribbled, his spittle dropping on to her forehead. She lay stock still, not daring to blanch. And then he licked her face, just to see her be repulsed. She sat upright on the couch and screamed her hurt and frustration.

  For a second she wondered what she looked like. Her mirror was in her trunk; she was always using it. Perhaps she should get it out and see. See what, though? An ugly violated creature? A dirty cheapened thing? She remembered the way he had described her, ridden more times than Felmere’s charger. There it was again, Cheris the slut. That was how they saw her here; perhaps that was what she was. Perhaps they thought they weren’t even hurting her. Perhaps they thought it was the way she liked it, the way she wanted it. Maybe they thought they were doing her a favour. She was obviously asking for it, a woman alone in an army of men with her eye make-up and her hair just so; she was practically leaving the bedroom door open for them.

  No, she did not want her mirror. She eased herself off the couch and dug around the storage compartments for food. She found a small flask of water, which she drank greedily – anything to take away the taste of that last man, and some small hard flatbreads which she bit into, risking her teeth. She seated herself on the other couch to finish her meal and remembered the last time she had sat there, whom she had been talking to.

  Marcus. She had almost forgotten. Her face reddened with grief and tears finally came. For five minutes or so she sat there silently weeping for her mentor ... her friend. The man who had saved her life. Again she thought of Gilda and how she would speak to her and what exactly she would say.

  The light was beginning to fade in the windows. She shuttered them both up; she wanted no reminders of the world outside. And at last she confronted it. The thought that had been floating around her head from the moment she first saw Trask gazing balefully at her next to the body of Sir Norton.

  The men that had done this to her, that wanted her, the other mages and the knights all dead were her allies. She may well even have fought with them at Grest. What had turned them so? What did they want to achieve? It all begged many serious questions.

  It also meant she could not stay here. Something was afoot and people needed to know. And only she, barely able to walk herself, could tell them. She did not know how far she had to go or whom to speak to; all she knew was that she had to follow the broad southern road until she got to ... somewhere. Then again were these men her only enemies? She could not tell just anyone. She had to be careful; treachery could be widespread here after all. She sighed. She still knew so little of the situation, the politics in this country.

  Outside in the far distance a lone wolf howled. Cheris shivered. She felt her shock start to return and she just sat there, knees drawn up to her chin, trembling and shaking, small and very much alone. She had always seen herself as a strong woman, opinionated and as well capable of reason and well-constructed arguments as any man. She had always felt a little sorry for the gentler girls at the college. Girls like Elsa, all sweet smiles and artlessness. Yet here she now was herself, all tears and helplessness, hating her own vulnerability. She was all front, all façade. Underneath it all, when it all really mattered she was as quivering, spineless and terrified as the meekest, mildest wallflower.

  And so it continued as night drew on – her mind did not stop. It circled and circled endlessly around itself, loathing and disgust still going hand in hand with the throbbing pains in her body. Eventually, she exhausted herself beyond any further emotion. She returned to her own couch, lay full length on it, threw a blanket over herself and slept instantly, in a place too dark even for dreams.

  She woke only once. A noise outside the normal night sounds of the forest caused her to snap out of her sleep immediately. It sounded like hands or claws scrabbling or digging into the earth and was accompanied by another sound, a low growling noise made by two or three voices. Was it wolves? She raised her aching body on to her knees on the couch and as quietly as possible slid back the shutter on the window. Little could be seen by the light of the pale moon; it was a still cold night with nary a cloud under the expanse of shimmering stars. Her breath was starting to frost the window and she was about to pull the shutter to when she saw movement. It was over by the tree where she had flung that man, near to where his body lay. She couldn’t quite make it out. It didn’t look like they were wolves; the shapes seemed too small and almost humanoid. Then she remembered Roland and his tale of ghouls feasting on the flesh of the dead. She had given it little credence at the time but at that time she had not been alone, and afraid, and in the middle of a forest. She closed the shutter, checked the bolt on the door, resolved to blast anything that tried to get through it, and was asleep again in seconds. She never found out exactly what it was she saw but in the morning, when she stepped outside, all of the bodies were gone.

  It was a chill morning. Frost lay heavy on the ground, coating the dead leaves and freezing the tiny puddles of standing water. She emerged wea
ring Marcus’s cloak, which she pulled tightly over her rags and shivered. The intensity of the pain had receded to be replaced with a persistent throbbing ache. Her torso was sore with many tender spots where her bruises had come into their own overnight. She had her staff with her but no longer needed it to help her walk. She still shuffled slowly, though, lest the pain started to flare inside her again.

  She cast around the knights’ tents looking for food that hadn’t been nibbled by rats, voles and other small furry forest creatures. Eventually she found some bread and fruit that had been wrapped securely enough to foil any would-be raider and three flasks of water, one of which was stained with dark blood. Two of the flasks were half full and, without knowing why exactly, she emptied both of these over her head. It gave her a couple of seconds of feeling cleansed and refreshed, followed by many minutes of feeling absolutely bitterly cold. Idiot, she thought to herself.

  Back in the caravan she had an idea. She opened the trunk and pulled out the simple serving girl’s dress she had purchased through Sir Dylan. Tossing away her rapidly disintegrating robes, she changed into it. She had taken an empty pack from the knights’ camp and proceeded to fill it with the food, her personal knick-knacks including her mirror (though she did not look into it) and her book. Then she had another thought. Stepping outside the caravan, she scanned the frozen leaf litter till she saw it. Gingerly bending over, she picked up Anaya’s book. She did not really want to keep it but it was too dangerous to leave lying around. After deliberating for a few seconds, she hastily stuffed it into her ever-heavier pack.

  She kept getting flashbacks, mainly of Trask, but at some point or other all of the ordeals of the previous two days popped into her mind. She kept thinking that for quite a while it had driven her into a sort of tacit acceptance of her fate, almost as though she was happy to die. This had never been her way before; nothing had ever crushed her spirit like that – ever. She was angry. Angry at herself and angry at those who had defiled her, and of them only one remained. It also occurred to her that, if Anaya had not lost her sanity that night, then she would be lying in the cottage with her throat cut and Trask and his cronies would be drinking to a successful enterprise, Anaya’s crazed delusions had indirectly saved her life.