‘Say it again,’ the man said to her, ‘And get it right this time.’
The small girl she once was held back her sobs, not daring to get it wrong again.
‘The Emperor is the father of Koze; the Emperor is therefore my true father. I have no family but the Strekha and the Strekha are the Emperor’s most beloved children. He is the light that fills me. His love is the only true love; any other is false and ephemeral, devoid of substance. My body is his to command and my will is his will, my desires are his desires, and my hope is his hope. I have been reborn as his greatest thrall, a golden butterfly from an ugly white grub crawling through the dirt. Without the Emperor I am nothing, for I was nothing until my choosing. My life will be lived through his glory and will end at his behest when my purpose has been fulfilled.’
‘Better,’ said the man. ‘Now, say it a hundred times over, with no mistakes and I can finally let you down.’
‘The Emperor is the father of Koze, the E...’
Something broke into her memories, a bright-yellow glow further up the river. It reflected off the tree-covered hill on which the city stood and caused the river to gleam darkly in the distance. She sighed slightly, a sigh that was little more than a murmur, then took another biscuit out of her pack and nibbled it like a mouse. The bridges were on fire.
55
The elves were at camp. They had gathered much dead wood and piled it into a large bonfire. Though most of it was damp and hard to light, the judicious application of several of the ubiquitous glowstones soon had it roaring heartily, if a little smokily.
It had been a day of hard riding in frequently terrible conditions. Cheris and Cedric were soaked through in no time and both had spent a good part of the day sweating at their exertion and shivering at the cold, especially after the storm had moved on to the north and west and the late-autumn chill had returned.
Still, progress had been good. They were now within half a mile of Baron Felmere’s forward camp just an hour or two away from the town of Grest. Morgan, eager for information, had left them earlier to go there in search of news. They were expecting him back at any time.
Cheris and Cedric were sitting together around the fire. Terath was next to them with Itheya a little further away, where she was issuing orders and talking with her people. Earlier that day, during an ever-so-brief pause to eat during a lull in the rain, Astania, a small, pert dark-haired elf with haunting sapphire-blue eyes, had approached Cheris.
‘I am to help you,’ she said haltingly. ‘Let me touch you; it will be good.’
Cheris assented and watched as Astania passed her hand over Cheris’s diaphragm, over her bruised torso and still-sore rib, and lower, over her womb and the top of her legs. Lastly she took Cheris’ hands in her own, grasping them firmly but gently. And all the time she slowly chanted, soft words that Cheris herself partly recognised as a litany of healing. It worked, too – everywhere her hands passed Cheris could feel the pain being drawn from her, the soreness and dull throbbing aches becoming more muted. She felt a new vigour inside her; even her sadness and the nagging sense of humiliation she had borne all day seemed to be allayed. She watched Dirthen, the male healer, do something similar with Cedric. Cedric was a man Cheris did not know, but they exchanged smiles at the shared experience. They had been talking comfortably together since camp had been made.
The elves started to sing. Cheris had heard the mages’ choir singing songs of devotion many times and thought it quite grand, if a little pompous and self-important. This was different though, men and women combining voices in a soft lament redolent with feeling and a yearning for times long lost. Though she could only make out some of the words, its melancholy beauty tugged at her heart in a way she could not describe.
Ay alune memero, ay alune memera
Gaterian azhuntath, ser froto res hetha
Ke brako smeshen, sea issa von brogo
Za brnathare sealve, coz omo terefogo
Ser res hetha, ser res hetha
Frot o eonona, frot o eonona
Ay alune memero, ay alune memera
Sezheia za sasha, seser froto res hetha
Danara lutelere, hassadesh zamon brako
Cot dane za hemenes, benremath strakafanto
Ser res hetha, ser res hetha
Frot o eonona, frot o eonona
Ay alune memero, ay alune memera
Ess azhuntath siono, forgor nestro siona
Cotholi omerme, cotholea stref tishi
Amanza trenexmrsha, coth hashara varverissi
Ser res hetha, ser res hetha
Frot o eonona, frot o eonona
There were many more verses and soon she was struggling to catch up with her translation. They spoke the language far more quickly and in a much more relaxed manner than anyone at college did, even her tutors. She gave up eventually and chose the lazy option, quietly asking Cedric what he knew.
‘Oh, I lost it a while back,’ he said. ‘I know they are singing about Roshythe, though.’
‘Res hetha, that is “cloud spire”. Is that Roshythe then?’
‘Yes, it is an important city and has a great emotional attachment for all bar those who occupy it at the present.’
‘It was an elven city,’ she said earnestly. ‘Taken over by Tanaren but not destroyed.’
Cedric laughed silently. ‘It is nice to speak to someone who knows their history. You are right. When Tanar, the first Grand Duke, came to the river, the first human to set eyes upon it, he saw Roshythe on the lake and thought it the fairest place on earth. He forbad siege towers or catapults to be used against it, lest the walls be damaged and instead surrounded the city, letting no one in or out. Eventually, after much privation and suffering, the elves sent a deputation to him. Many women and children were dying, so they offered him the city as long as they were allowed to leave in peace to seek their brethren on the isles. Tanar agreed to this and the humans watched as a column of elves miles long exited Roshythe along the path by Lake Winmead.
‘But some men saw the gold they were carrying on them and grew covetous. Greed overtook restraint and elves were attacked and killed, their possessions seized. Seeing this, the elven leader called a halt and commanded those of his people still inside the city to destroy it. One of the high towers they started to dismantle stone by stone. Tanar was furious and was going to slaughter every elf until he saw the attacking humans. At this point and for the only recorded time in the Elven Wars he begged forgiveness of the elves. The miscreants were crucified along the lake, and their possessions returned. The elves departed out of history, at least for many centuries. Then Tanar took the city, passed a decree that no stone was ever to be changed there, and named it his new capital.’
‘But it was not the capital for long, was it?’
‘No, within a century of Tanar’s death, there was a new city, a port, big and brash, chaotic and badly ordered, rather like humans themselves, I suppose. The eighth Grand Duke, Tamas, named Tanaren the new capital – they say, because he liked the vices that it offered –and it has been thus ever since. Then, just two hundred years ago, Grand Duke Eginvald, a greedy, vain man who had never been to Roshythe in his life sold it to Arshuma. Their king took control in a lavish ceremony and promised to uphold the decree never to change the place. Such was the outrage engendered by the transaction that both their king and Eginvald were assassinated within the year. The Arshuman king has never lived there since; rather they use it as a trinket to dangle before the men of Tanaren, to infuriate them.
So you see, for both us and the elves, Roshythe is a symbol of loss. The elves feel shame for not defending the city more strongly and we feel shame for handing the city over for a few cheap gold coins.’
‘The elven tribe that lived there – who were they?’
‘Two tribes shared the city, controlling it on alternate years. The tribe that surrendered it to the humans caused a deep-seated animosity with the other, one that persists to this day.’
‘But how do you
know this, if they went over the sea?’
‘Because they didn’t. They could not. They arrived at Atem Sezheia to see it in chaos, partly destroyed and boats leaving every hour. Rather than play the game of chance that they could find ships to take them, they turned back eastwards, to the Aelvenwood, where they live to this day.’
Cheris lowered her voice to a tiny whisper. ‘So they are here then?’
‘Yes, the princess of the one tribe you have shared a horse with today; the prince of the other is the red-headed fellow who keeps looking at you suspiciously. One tribe rides under the green and gold banner, the other under the banner of the hawk with open wings. Actually it is a kite, not a hawk, with feathers almost as red as their hair.’
‘So which tribe abandoned the city?’
‘That I do not know; the records name the tribes but say no more than that. I think the reason for them singing the song together is an attempt at both forgiveness and understanding between them. I hope that is the case anyway.’
Cheris looked deeply into the fire; its warmth had never been more welcome. ‘This friend of yours, Morgan. Can I trust him?’
Cedric looked surprised at the question. ‘Bear in mind I have known him for a fairly short period myself. Saying that, though, in that time we have been through a lot together and, yes, I think it would be fair to say that I trust him like I trust few other men. You need have no fear of him, really.’
‘I am sorry if my question seems impertinent; it is just that after what happened to me I think I will be wary of any man, at least for a while.’
‘You are not wary of me, are you?’
She laughed. ‘No, with all the respect in the world, you seem a little too old, even for me’
Cedric grunted. ‘So, I am safe then.’
‘Yes, Cedric, you are safe.’
There was a commotion behind them, causing both Cedric and Cheris to look round. Through the darkness striding up to the fire was Morgan. As he warmed his hands over the blaze, both Itheya and Cedric could see his face was drawn and anxious. Itheya walked up to him.
‘What news? Is it not good?’
‘No,’ said Morgan, ‘not good at all. The battle may have already been fought. I need to leave now to see what news of it I can find.’
‘Then we need to be quick. I will go with you.’
‘Very well. Bring a few of your brethren – not more than a dozen – just in case we run into trouble.’
Cheris stood, a little unwillingly. ‘Shall I come? You might need me.’
Morgan glanced at her. ‘No, you will need time, I feel. It may be a good idea for you to spend the winter at Felmere Castle. It is as safe as any place here and your body can heal at its own pace. When it gets warmer you can then decide if you want to return to your island or not. Thank you for the offer anyway.’
Within a few minutes he was mounted again alongside Itheya and eight other spear-and-bow armed warriors.
‘I go to find news,’ he said. ‘What we all do next depends on what we hear. Expect us back not long after dawn. If we do not return, then you must decide among yourselves what to do. Fare you well.’
They rode towards the east, soon striking a path leading from the human camp. Itheya had not seen him looking so tense.
‘Why do you think battle has been joined already?’
‘Felmere, the commander of the army, has moved his forward camp to the other side of the river. The place I have just left was practically deserted, but there were enough people there to say that Felmere has scented blood and is eager to engage the enemy quickly. And why wouldn’t he? He had the advantage in numbers and morale and was blithely unaware of the snake in his midst. I hope we can get there in time to warn him.’
Within the hour, though, they had their answer. Itheya, inevitably, heard it first.
‘Heavy traffic,’ she said, ‘– carts and wagons – on the road.’
They picked up speed and soon even Morgan could hear them. A vast convoy was coming towards them. Not quickly – there were too many of them for unbridled haste – but steadily and methodically.
‘It is not an army,’ said Morgan. ‘Civilians of some sort.’
The night black sky was changing to a deep blue. Dawn was not too far away and there was the faintest light now to ride by. It was still too early to douse the flaming torches they all carried though. But ahead the outline of carts and tumbrils could be seen. Morgan and Itheya rode ahead, eager to talk with their riders.
They were village folk, cloaked and booted against the cold; the women inside the wagons wore shawls.
‘Where are you folk all going on such a cold unfriendly night?’ Morgan asked them in a clear voice.
‘We were told to.’ Morgan could see no faces but the voice belonged to an old man. He realised wryly that they would not see Itheya was an elf. At least it will stop a panic, he thought to himself. The old man continued. ‘Late afternoon, early evening, a group of knights rode into the town telling everyone to pack up and leave. The Arshumans were coming, they said. Of course, not everyone fled; those whose loyalties were to the other side were more than happy to stay put. If the knights hadn’t have been there, there would be many among us murdered in their beds this past night.’
Morgan let them on their way.
He wore his sense of dread about him like a cloak. Itheya turned to him, appearing equally concerned.
‘This is bad for us, yes?’
‘Well, they would not evacuate the city without good reason. I am sorry, you appear to have joined our cause at a difficult time.’
‘We can return home any time we choose. But somehow I do not think we will.’
‘Why would you think that exactly? This is not your war; you have said it many times yourself.’ Morgan was frowning.
Itheya smiled softly in return. ‘Did you not see us passing your stone city? We have spent all our lives in the forest seeing nothing else, living in a self-inflicted prison, and now we have been released. We were discussing it this evening, the sense of freedom, the sating of our curiosity regarding the wider world. And there is something else also. You defeated us in a great war; we have always felt some chagrin, some sense of humiliation about that – whether you outnumbered us or not, whether you exploited our differences for your own ends. Well, this is a chance to redeem ourselves for our people. What care we about iron weapons when we can show how elves truly fight. There is no shame in dying, Morgan, but there is in living on your knees. We are the first siolesta – that is, war band – to fight this side of the mountains in generations and we will not return skulking and cowed.’
Morgan looked at her slyly. ‘I have yet to see you fight.’
‘I am afraid it sounds like you will get your wish granted very soon now.’
Morgan did not answer. He trotted past the evacuees, who were sweating and grumbling as they drove their carthorses slowly forward. Grinding his teeth, he stared ahead, trying to pierce the darkness, to get the answers he needed. In a matter of minutes, though, Itheya behind him hissed softly.
‘Horses ahead, armoured men on horses. Is this what you seek?’
‘Quite possibly!’ Morgan replied. ‘Let us find out shall we?’
Even he could see them now. Dawn was near and thin tendrils of early-morning mist were rising from the damp ground. They, too, saw him in return and rode towards him – knights clad in full plate bearing lances and shields of silver, riding under the banner of Tanaren. Their leader, riding bareheaded, had close-cropped dark hair and steely determined eyes. He hailed Morgan gruffly.
‘Who in the name of the Gods are you and why are you riding in the wrong cursed direction?’ He did not seem in the mood to brook any nonsense.
Morgan raised an appraising eyebrow. ‘My name is Morgan, once of Glaivedon and envoy to Baron Felmere. I come here with the siolesta, a war band of elves who have graciously decided to join our cause. It looks to me that you are the head of the Silver Lances, bodyguard to the Grand Duke, and I ho
pe you can give me some news as to what is happening here. I have been away for some weeks after all.’
The knight stopped. He looked shocked, though Morgan did not have the first idea why.
‘The ways of the Gods are mysterious indeed,’ he replied. ‘You are the person I am bound to seek, though I have never met you and have only descriptions of your appearance. Your scar confirms it to me.’
‘I am sorry,’ said Morgan, puzzled, ‘but you are speaking in riddles.’
The man pulled himself out of his distracted state. ‘Forgive me, I shall explain. I am Dominic Hartfield, commander of the Silver Lances here, as you said. Yesterday was a calamitous day for us all...’
‘You fought a battle and were betrayed.’
Dominic nodded gravely, showing no surprise at Morgan’s prescience. At that moment Itheya rode forward to be beside Morgan, causing Dominic to start slightly.
‘I am Itheya, commander of the elves here. Please tell your tale.’
Composing himself, Dominic recounted the events of the battle, the betrayal of Fenchard and the deaths of Ulgar and Baron Maynard. ‘I noticed when we charged them, they had prisoners, foreign sellswords, all kinds of detritus in their ranks. Now, of course, we know that Arshuman money was paying for his ever-growing army; it was just that none of us ever suspected that a baron would sell out his country for his own ends.’
The Forgotten War Page 79
