The camp they were in was a hastily constructed tent city on the eastern bank of the Whiterush. Over the other side of the river they were overlooked by the hill with the town of Grest perched at its crown. Two wooden bridges had been constructed over the river; one of the reasons the army had moved was to protect both of them. Felmere’s tent stood close to the riverbank, bordered as it was with high reeds and the occasional stunted tree. The camp itself was surrounded with a hastily constructed ditch lined with sharpened stakes.
As Felmere wished, mobilisation was rapid. After just over an hour the army was marching eastwards, banners unfurled with many of the men gloriously singing the ‘Battle Song of Mytha’ and clashing weapons on shields. Overhead a couple of harrier hawks hovered over the proceedings and the trees on the ridge they were approaching were black with crows, collecting there in anticipation of a feast to come. Felmere was at the head of his men, riding up and down the line exhorting them, telling them that this was the battle, the decisive one, the one to end the entire war. He offered fifty crowns to the man who brought down the fop in the golden armour and seemed inspired by the enthusiasm he engendered. And on they marched, as the clouds gathered and the first heavy drops of rain fell on metal helms and unprotected heads. Everyone there knew that within the next few hours battle would finally be joined and there seemed to be none among them who did not relish the prospect.
It had been quite a morning for the inhabitants of the town of Felmere. Shortly after dawn, as a cold sun started to pick out the flecks of frost on the grass that flowed up to the city walls, a rumour spread like wildfire among the market traders, the good wives, the men-at-arms, the customers at the taverns, the merchants and their caravans, even the whores and cutpurses that clung to the dark alleys. An army was assembling on the plain.
People fought for vantage points on the walls; the gates were closed against attack even though this mystery force was definitely not from Arshuma. From the high towers of the house of Artorus, priests and choir-boys squinted for a better view and from the keep of Felmere’s grand castle the lords, ladies and servants chattered in breathless excitement. Just who in the name of the Gods were these people?
It was an army consisting entirely of horse. At dawn it emerged from the woods to the east, trotting at a steady pace. Gaudy, unfamiliar pennants raised high in the air. It drew closer and closer to Felmere. The town guard were getting nervous; crossbowmen jostled locals out of the way on the city walls and readied themselves; halberdiers congregated at the gates, packing closely together. Then the new rumour started. ‘The Wych folk, the Wych folk are coming!’
Reactions were electrifying. Many on the walls fled to their homes terrified, the places they vacated being taken up almost immediately by other braver souls. None present had ever seen one of the Wych folk and for many curiosity overrode the deep-seated fear that all the good people of Tanaren held for such savage, alien creatures.
Morgan, of course, guessed the reaction of the townsfolk perfectly. ‘Gallop past with horns blaring and banners raised. They will be terrified and excited at one and the same time.’
Culleneron had charge of his people for the day. Itheya rode with him, though, and once they judged they were within hearing distance of the town they gave the word. Long thin silver horns, all antiques from an older time, sounded in unison. Their high fluting sound flooded the plain and caused many a townsman to stop his ears in trepidation. Then they started to gallop. No man could ride at that speed for so long. Morgan and Cedric soon found themselves adrift of the last man, but, at the same time, they could not but help admire the artistry of the horse folk ahead of them. Spears lowered, they sped past the walled city, the hooves of their steeds thunder on the plain. Clods of earth flew hither and thither as they sped past the city gates, leaving the human onlookers slack-jawed with awe. Raising their banners and spears to salute the people of Felmere, they rushed passed the town leaving behind memories that would never fade. The people watched as they crashed into the trees to the west and were lost from view, and within seconds every tavern was heaving with astonished and thirsty people eager to recount the time they saw the Wych folk ride to war.
Cheris, sore and tired, had at least got into some sort of rhythm with her walking. She did not know how far she had gone though she suspected it was less than she hoped; she wasn’t even certain she was heading in the right direction but she continued to walk, plod, plod, plod, pumping her legs as solidly as she could, ignoring the internal pains and discomfort it was causing her. Meriel’s benison but she would feel it tomorrow! But she could not stop; Trask’s treachery had to be told to someone. The most upsetting thing was the flashbacks. Coming completely unbidden into her mind, a sharp memory would stab her behind the eyes – the flaming demon about to fry the flesh from her bones; Trask’s breath, his weight, the things he did to degrade her further; what she had done to that boy. It was the rape that kept coming to her most frequently; a brief picture would appear in her mind of her being squeezed, pawed, licked; she felt again the violence of the way he had parted her legs and had a good look, calling the others over for the same purpose. When this happened she would stop dead and cry out ‘No!’ or just emit a choked sob and cover her face with her hand. She felt a burning shame, even if she kept telling herself she had no reason to.
She had met no one on the road. A small flock of deer had run front of her, spooked by some phantom threat. And she had seen through the trees not long ago some wild boar grubbing among the tree roots. But people? There was no one. War had cleared these lands years ago.
The weather was changing, too. Her bathe in that pond had felt good at the time but during the first half-hour of her walk afterwards she could not stop shivering. For some time, though, she had felt warm and clammy. At first she had thought the change was due to exercise but now she knew otherwise. Her head was throbbing and she could taste the air. It was close, almost humid. A storm was on its way. Would she see lightning? She did not know but the tingling in her fingertips told her it was a distinct possibility. Of course this meant rain and a wet and uncomfortable night in the woods. She had already been fretting about sleeping among wolves and ghouls, and had even contemplated climbing a tree for safety, and now the thought of a torrential rainstorm dampened her spirits further.
What would her friends at the college think to see her walk like this? Exercise was difficult to find on such a small island. Many there had joined societies dedicated to keeping fit and healthy. There were dedicated walkers and runners who would do several circuits of the island, along the narrow coastal path, every day. There were sports teams, too – stone ball, high mark and tag teams played each other regularly and with a high degree of competitiveness. Cheris, of course, belonged to none of these teams. She loathed exercise with a passion and had said this to many people on many occasions. And now here she was clumping along a dirt road like a farmer’s wife. How they would laugh!
At least she was going downhill. She knew eventually the path would level out, the trees would reduce greatly and become a broad expanse of tussock-heavy grass. She would have to be careful not to turn her ankle or catch herself in some hidden rabbit hole. She was sore and wounded in enough places already.
From behind her came the noise of dozens of birds taking flight. Not just crows but many other types. She turned and saw them rising, like some shadowy cloud floating into the darkening sky, calling out their indignation.
Had something disturbed them? Feeling suddenly wary, she climbed off the path and secreted herself behind the largest tree she could find. She could hear something. Was it thunder? No. It felt as though it was the very ground that was reverberating under her feet sending dull throbbing waves of sound up her legs into her cranium, making her head pound. It was getting louder, too, and she realised that it was not one noise but many. Horses, dozens and dozens of them. She had passed several side roads in her walk and they could have joined the path she was walking at any of these points. What should sh
e do, she wondered? Trask was not a cavalry man, but she had to be sure before she could show herself. There was something else, too. She realised that she did not want to face anyone at this juncture. It just felt too soon. How could she talk with any degree of eloquence after what had happened to her? Her walk had helped keep her upset and emotional state in some degree of abeyance, but hearing the horses getting nearer by the second she felt her face redden and her nose start to run. She sniffed loudly and ran further into the trees. By Elissa there were hundreds of horses, hundreds! She couldn’t face so many, she just couldn’t. Not now, maybe never. She saw a high bank of earth flanking a ditch covered in bracken. She made herself small and hid behind it waiting for this mysterious cavalry to pass. Strangely she felt no urge, no curiosity to even try and look at them. She just wanted them to go so her walk could continue in peace.
The elves were in good spirits. Their ride past the city of stone and the cowed awestruck nature of their reception had them laughing and singing for some miles now. Itheya had dropped back through the ranks, waiting for Morgan and Cedric to join her.
‘You are so slow, hemenestra!’ she laughed. ‘You are riding visloyi not strykera!’
‘Is that so? If I had any idea of what you were talking about, maybe I could even answer you.’ Morgan smiled back at her.
‘We are riding horses not oxen,’ explained Cedric. ‘Visloyi is one of the many words they have for horses; it refers to the special swift and brave war horses peculiar to their people. I assume they were bred to be exactly that centuries ago.’
‘You are as wise as the warrior is ignorant, Cedric.’ Itheya leaned over and gave Morgan’s ear a playful tug. ‘It is a sad circumstance that we did not meet years earlier; with Morgan, of course, it is a sad circumstance that we ever met at all.’
‘Bear in mind that I am supposed to be guiding you here; it would be a shame would it not if this road led to a sudden quicksand or the bottom of a deep dark lake?’
‘Ha! It is a road. We follow it southward. What more do we need to know? Besides, what sort of guide rides at the rear of a column?’
‘One that cannot ride a horse?’ Cedric chipped in.
‘I see,’ said Morgan. ‘You are both turning on me. I had kept some rations back, intending to share them with you this evening, but alas, I suddenly feel an extra hunger come upon me. Still, you can enjoy nibbling grass stalks like a rabbit while I tuck into the delights of soft bread and berries.’
‘Now if you had said roast boar with cherries,’ said Cedric, licking his lips, ‘I could not have apologised fast enough.’
‘Maybe we will catch some later,’ said Itheya. ‘We will send hunters out when we camp. I think we are too late for cherries, though.’
They continued along the road, the horses churning up mud as some parts of it resembled a quagmire. The initial impetus of the gallop past Felmere lost, the horses slowed to a more sedate pace, allowing Itheya and the humans to pass through the column and join Culleneron at its head. No one mentioned the weather. The low scudding thunderheads inching closer towards them were obvious to all.
‘Are we far from this camp?’ Itheya asked as noon passed them by.
‘No,’ said Morgan. ‘Maybe we will get there late this afternoon. I had underestimated the speed at which you travel.’
‘You are not Aelthen.’ Culleneron spoke haltingly, wrestling with the alien tongue. ‘How could you know of the speed of our people.’
Suddenly, with no warning Itheya, raised a hand and called a halt. Within seconds the entire column obeyed, almost like a single sentient creature. She looked to her right at the trees and said quietly to Culleneron.
‘Danete crthelema? Spashiyi mandaran zafle. Spashiye grna.’
‘Kerfel vsehur?’ Culleneron replied, a little louder.
‘In, em olea tef grnosh azhasclova, vexevoe azhesse.’
Culleneron seemed slightly put out by her response. ‘Ve mezhino! Vexhesse!’
Itheya cocked an ear to him; there was a playful disdain in her voice when she answered: ‘Zuke teo sast altafal bebrnoze kemhezho orfea ketrxa meon o victrex, dane zeate satsal.’
Culleneron looked slightly sheepish. He just nodded in her direction, as though passing some responsibility to her.
‘Carac! Mhevhillo! Tafalonat vonsa!’ She barked an order then came up to Morgan.
‘Something disturbs the undergrowth, something large and clumsy. From what I hear it can only be human. Come with me; you may be of use. When we get near to it, hang back until my signal. You are too noisy and ride a horse as a cow would.’
She headed off the path, two other elves followed her closely, arrows nocked. As soon as he had a chance, Morgan whispered to her.
‘Isn’t Culleneron in charge today? Should he not be doing this?’
She looked at him with a degree of exasperation. In a barely audible whisper she replied.
‘I just had this conversation with him. I told him he would look a fine leader emerging from the trees in front of his men holding aloft a rabbit in triumph. He backed down then. Men do so hate to look foolish.’
She put a finger to her lips and bade him stay behind them. Like ghosts, the three elves dismounted and melted into the trees; their leathers, coloured in dull greens, brown and grey helped them disappear instantly. Morgan stayed with the horses, feeling exactly like the cow she had described him as.
Itheya was hunting. Crouching low, she listened intently, her head almost on the ground. She did not have to wait long. A loud crack of a broken twig pinpointed her quarry. Silently she moved towards the source of the noise, her two companions moving out wide to flank her. There was a low shelf of earth ahead of her coated in ferns, bracken and dead wood; it was definitely in there. She inched herself forward, pushing her head ever so slightly through the covering undergrowth, and she saw what had drawn her to this spot.
A human woman crouched behind the ditch, obviously thinking herself hidden. She wore a simple grey-brown dress whose hem was stained with mud and grass. Her hair was raven black, not unlike Itheya’s, but it was cut short, to the neck. What drew Itheya’s attention though were her wounds – her hands were ribboned with nasty red cuts only just beginning to heal. Her face was bruised and red from crying. There was more, too; she could sense that she had been hurt in other ways, but until Itheya could get closer she could not be more specific. And then Itheya saw the staff and sensed the power within her. It was like a bloom around her – there was far more power than Itheya had sensed in anyone before, even Terath. This girl was dangerous.
But not threatening. Itheya sensed the girl’s fear; as long as she did not exacerbate those feelings then she felt conversation was possible.
Both her companions were close by, ready to fire. Waving them to stand down, Itheya stood up slowly, lowered her bow and stepped carefully towards the troubled girl.
‘May I ask politely what exactly a human woman is doing here, alone in these dangerous woods.’ She spoke slowly, clearly, doing everything she could to calm the fear she sensed in this strange girl.
It did not work. She shot up in alarm, blue-grey eyes flecked with terror.
‘Stay back!’ she called. ‘I know not what you are but you can die as easily as all the others!’ She held her hand out, palm thrust towards the elf.
Itheya dropped her bow and raised both arms above her head.
‘You see – I mean you no harm. Notice I have two companions with me; we could have killed you before you noticed us. But I would much sooner we talked. May I come towards you a little?’
The girl hesitated, unsure of herself. ‘Very well, but beware, I have enough magic to kill you.’
‘I can see that, but I want neither of us to die today.’
She approached Cheris, who slowly lowered her hand and looked with not a little wonder at the taller woman facing her. The distance between them was only a few feet. Despite herself, she had to ask.
‘Are you ... an elf?’
It
heya laughed ‘Of course! My name is Itheya. These lands are new to me, though not so different to my home.’
‘Cheris,’ the girl replied. ‘My ... name is ... Cheris.’
Itheya came close to her, sniffing her slightly – much to the girl’s alarm. She raised a hand and put it close to her face then lowered it down to her belly then lower again. Her expression changed to one of sad pity.
‘You poor child, what by the spirits has happened to you?’
Cheris looked into the elf’s strange eyes. She did not expect to see pain and compassion in them, so when that was exactly what she did see she had no prepared defence. As she feared she would do, she broke down, her face a livid scarlet, tears flooding down her cheeks, her shoulders shaking.
‘There is nothing to fear, child. You are safe now.’ Without thinking Itheya embraced the poor tortured girl, letting her work out her tears, as they stained the leather of her jerkin.
And that was how Morgan found them. He had received no signal from Itheya but sufficient time had elapsed for him to decide to investigate. The two other elves had returned to the horses so he saw no reason to stay with them. He strode into the ditch, crunching wood and bracken beneath his feet.
Cheris started and pulled clear of Itheya.
‘Who are you?’ she rasped. ‘Do you work with Trask?’
‘Trask?’ Morgan questioned. ‘What about him?’
Cheris backed away ‘You do know him!’ she shouted, hysteria in her voice. ‘You bastard, you are not going to get what he took from me. I will kill you first!’
Morgan spoke again, as softly as he could. ‘Whoa, please, not so hasty. I do know Trask, yes, but I do not work with him. Rather, we dislike each other intensely. What do you know of him?’
‘Morgan,’ Itheya said softly, ‘this lady is called Cheris. She has haraska, magic – a lot of it in fact. And she has been badly used, as only a man can use a woman. Recently. And more than once.’ She looked at Cheris. ‘Come with us. We have people who can help with the pain.’
The Forgotten War Page 76
