Shortly afterwards, he emerged from a tent several Arshuman kopits poorer. He loved to gamble and had spent the last half-hour doing so; it was just a shame he was so damnably poor at it. A young sergeant came up to him; Nazaren noticed the man’s armour was a little too large for him, making for an ill fit.
‘Sir, the fresh sentries are deployed; there is nothing to report at present.’
‘Good, the Gods have been with us so far. Carry on. If the wind changes slightly, a bird sings at the wrong time, or one of the horses belches out of turn, I will want to know about it. I will be in my tent should you so need me.’
In charge of others and not yet grown into his armour! So many had been lost at Grest that mere boys had been drafted in to replace them. Had the traitor baron not disrupted the enemy at Wolf Plain, he dreaded to think what the outcome might have been.
Grest! – his mind went back to it again and again. That terrible witch and her bolts of lightning. He had seen men reduced to cinders before his very eyes screaming in their agony as their skin smoked, their eyeballs popped and their flesh shrivelled away from blackening bone. She was dead now, he had been told, so for that at least he would offer up a prayer to the Gods tonight.
And that is what he did. Back in his tent he prayed, then lay on his bunk where he was soon asleep dreaming of the beach and his home town, hearing the cries of the gulls and the booming sea and gazing on the ruddy freckled face of his beautiful wife whom he had not seen for so long. Seven years was the term of service for a campaigning soldier, aping the Chiran tradition, and so, in less than twelve months, by the grace of the Gods, he would be home again.
Abruptly his eyes opened. What had he heard? He listened and heard it again, a sound he was more than familiar with. The hissing of arrows. He threw himself off his bunk just as the sergeant he had seen earlier tore into his tent, his eyes wide.
‘Sir, we are under attack!’
‘From who, man? From who?’
‘We cannot see them; it must be the Wych demons.’
‘Then get the cavalry out; see if they can be chased off.’
He strapped on his armour and pulled his sword out of its scabbard. Outside there was full-scale panic. Men were doing their best to hide behind the wagons as arrows flew into the defensive circle from all directions. He peered into the blackness, trying to see their tormentors. An arrow whistled barely an inch from his ear but, with some effort, he could make them out – galloping horses, darker shadows in a vista of shadow circling the camp raining death upon them.
Nazaren reached the captain of horse, mounted and ready with his fellows.
‘They are riding around us firing at their leisure! Try and break their circle, confuse them; if you disrupt their movement, they may just ride off.’ Neither of them really believed this but what else could he say?
The captain and his men rode off, through the gaps between the wagons. When they had gone Nazaren stationed archers and spearmen to plug these gaps, the archers being told to fire only if they had a clear mark. Inevitably, given their inexperience, most fired blindly and he had to run around shouting at them not to waste arrows or, worse, hit their own men. Lying on the ground around him, or huddling under the wagons were the civilians – the ostlers, wainwrights and coachmen with their families – realising at last that the small fortune they had been paid to do this job was nowhere near enough.
Nazaren heard the clash of arms and the cry of men and elves outside the circle. Evidently battle had been joined. The elven battle cries were shrill and disturbingly alien. He could even hear women among their voices.
Then suddenly came the sound of receding hooves. The shouting stopped. And then there was silence. Nobody moved. He could hear his men breathing; short, anxious breathing frosting in the night air. Everyone was hoping against hope that the cavalry had done its job. Its record against the elves had been poor thus far but perhaps they had learned. Perhaps the tide was turning. Nazaren did not move, ears trying to cut through the darkness. Then the noise came. A solitary set of hoof beats soon joined by another and then another. Everyone tensed up, muscles rigid as bone, waiting. Waiting and watching.
And then at last there was something to see, something that caused Nazaren’s heart to plummet like a stone. To his right, emerging from its covering of shadow as it drew closer to the wagons, was a horseman. Not an Arshuman horseman. This rider needed no saddle. He was shrouded in a cloak that billowed behind him, wore dark leathers and rode without using his hands, brandishing as he was a short-hafted spear. His hair was red and his eyes green, his face was contorted into a mask of concentration and feral hatred. Approaching a gap between the wagons, he called out ferociously ‘Thenessaveyuzhe!’, then thrust the spear into an archer poised to shoot him down. Then, controlling his beast with his legs and his free hand, both elf and horse sprang over the heads of the defenders, past the wagons and into the clearing behind them scattering screaming civilians hither and thither. Without stopping he swept out his bow, knocked an arrow, and fired it into the back of another defender. Then, still at full gallop, the horse leapt over the heads of men defending another gap in the wagons and was lost to the darkness before anyone could get a meaningful shot at him.
It was a situation that could not be controlled, although Nazaren tried. That first horseman was followed by another, then another, all crashing into the clearing, shooting an arrow or two, then racing back into the night. Once or twice a defender’s arrow hit home – one horse was struck, one elf had a thigh pierced – but they were all gone before they could be brought down.
‘Civilians, under the wagons!’ Nazaren called. He had noticed that the Wyches were not targeting them deliberately but a couple had been run down in error and the rest had been disrupting any attempt at a meaningful defence. But the elves kept coming. Only now it wasn’t a single attacker but two, three or four, all breasting the defences at the same time and felling Arshuman soldiers with a calculated precision. Some of the gaps between the wagons now had no men to defend them. The elves could ride in as they wished.
‘To me! To me!’ Nazaren called, moving away from the fire with his back to a wagon. Those that could, that were not too wounded, or those that hadn’t bolted into the night and certain death joined him. Nazaren grinned sourly; there were barely twenty of them.
‘The Wyches have really gone for us tonight, boys. Let us make them pay for it in pagan blood. I hear they torture their prisoners, so if we are to die, let us die like men with our swords in our hands.’ He sounded proud and bitter both.
As he spoke, opposite them the elves finally came. Not galloping this time but riding slowly, casually past the wagons, obviously expecting little resistance. In this manner they passed the dying fire until they all stopped, not twenty feet from the defenders. At their head was someone Nazaren recognised by reputation. The Wych Queen – dark-haired with outlandish eyes, aloof and beautiful. Brandishing a bow she rode forward until she was just feet away from Nazaren, who stood at the head of his men.
‘Lay down your arms!’ She spoke with an accent, her words slightly clipped.
‘Pagan whore!’ snapped Nazaren. ‘You would kill us in a trice!’
She made to reply but before she could one of the men behind his captain pulled his bowstring ready to fell the Wych Queen. He never got close. Before his arrow was fully knocked elf bowstrings twanged left and right and he fell with half a dozen feathered shafts piercing his body.
‘Arshuma!’ screamed Nazaren, lofting his blade, the frenzy of battle upon him. He would cut the Wych in half and die gloriously. His sword had begun its down stroke when her arrow hit him. He fell backwards, as dead as a stone, an arrow piercing the socket where his right eye had once been.
With Nazaren’s battle cry, the Arshumans had surged forward, eager for blood. Seconds later half their number were dead, felled by a remorseless rain of arrows. The ten or so survivors then cast their weapons to the ground and raised their hands to the skies.
&nb
sp; The Wych Queen seemed rather irritated by the show of defiance.
‘What is it with you people? Are you all so desperate to die? It is impossible to reason with you. Anyway, you must now listen to me. Your weapons will be taken as will your wagons and horses. You will be left one wagon to carry your wounded. You will all be allowed to live, but your soldiers will have their right wrist tendons severed so they cannot fight us again. We will leave you enough food to get to your destination; you will be allowed to leave shortly.’
She rode out of the circle of wagons as her warriors proceeded to carry out her instructions. Another horseman galloped hastily to join her. It was Culleneron.
‘A successful outcome, don’t you think?’ He seemed pleased with himself, the joy of battle gleaming in his eyes. ‘We have actually taken their supplies rather than drive them back to their city. A good manoeuvre to ride though their camp, I thought. They were not expecting that.’
‘A risky manoeuvre, you mean,’ she snapped back. ‘We could have lost many warriors; it was only the surprise of our tactics that won it for us.’
‘Are you ever happy?’ he barked in reply. ‘It was a triumphant attack, glory for all of us. I would, of course, have killed all the survivors but it is your command today.’
‘Yes it is, but I beg you to think why I am letting them live. The survivors go to the western town on the river spreading tales of our ferocity in battle. They also all have to be fed and these wagons now go to Morgan’s city in the north so he can feed his people.’
‘After we have taken all we need. And their weapons of iron, too.’
They rode on a little further, Culleneron spoke again, a little tentatively.
‘This human, this Morgan.’
She half turned her head. ‘What of him?’
‘I have heard it said that you and he...’
She stopped her horse and gave him an arch look.
‘Choose your next words very carefully, Culleneron. Very carefully.’
He seemed placated. ‘It was just a rumour, as I thought.’
‘And a foolish one! Our people should be above such idle gossip; we should leave such idiotic fancies to the humans.’
‘Such a thing will never happen; an inactive mind will always cast around for amusement.’
She smiled. ‘That almost sounds like a statement of wisdom. I thought you barely capable of such a thing.’
Now it was his vexation that was obvious. ‘You have a very supercilious attitude, Itheya. I know you look down on me, I wonder whether your contempt is borne out of a genuine disdain of my abilities or because it has long been mooted that we are to wed at some time in the future.’
She narrowed her eyes at him. From behind her came the cries of wounded men, the enemy soldiers were being crippled as she had requested.
‘I will be honest with you. I am not desirous of marriage to anyone and I fear that will always be the case. If we are to ever wed, it will be because a closer union is needed between our tribes and for no other reason. I admit I have had a low opinion of you in the past but, since we journeyed through the pass, your bravery and leadership have impressed me, if sometimes your planning and tactical thinking have been a little wanting. My supercilious attitude is borne of my breeding, nothing more, and if you have taken it as aloofness on my part then I can only apologise. I am as Zhun made me, as are you.’
‘Thank you for your candour,’ Culleneron said stiffly. ‘Maybe we should search for alternative spouses, after all. Father will be disappointed; he has long hoped for such a match.’
‘Come what may, it is not a matter for discussion now. We need to see the knight Reynard. He is close by and needs to take these wagons north. It is not for us to do such a thing; our job is to harass the enemy at every turn, not to cart around sacks of meal.’
‘So you say. Our job is for us to define, no one else. If we wish to spend the winter in the woods hunting boar, then we shall do so. You must not let your loyalty to this Morgan cloud your judgement as to our part in this affair. We will fight only as long as we get the weapons and artefacts we were promised. If we see nothing of either by the spring, then questions will need to be asked.’
‘They will,’ she said haughtily. ‘Yet again, you are calling my loyalties into question. I will ask you not to do it again; it is getting tiresome. I could equally fulminate endlessly about the questionable commitment of the Ometahan to this enterprise but have chosen not to do so.’
‘That is because our commitment has been as full as yours.’
‘Maybe,’ she said with a smile. ‘You have me there.’
‘A rare victory indeed against such an august intellect.’
‘Now who is being supercilious?’ She purposely stuck her nose in the air.
‘I am sorry. Let us speak of other things.’
‘Such as?’
‘Why your loremaster and his assistant had to leave us and travel to the south. Why we are now without a skilled healer. We have five people wounded after tonight...’
‘There is enough power in us to deal with that. Terath’s purpose here is not ours. He goes to deal with another danger, one written of in our history, one only he has full knowledge of. I am sure you never question the motives and purposes of your own loremaster.’
‘I would not dare.’ Culleneron smiled for the first time. ‘She is testy beyond belief; not even my father would willingly cross her.’
‘I spoke to her once,’ said Itheya playfully. ‘I think her skin exudes acid, like a lemon, only a little sourer.’
‘I will be sure to tell her when I see her.’
‘In that case there will never be a marriage between us.’ She kicked her white charger and galloped off into the night, leaving him stranded, though smiling stupidly at her remarks.
By the morning there was a light fog clinging to the dells and copses of the country around them. Nearly five hundred elves sat impassively atop their steeds, watching the defeated humans trudge wearily towards Tetha Vinoyen. The wagon they had been allotted was full to bursting with the wounded and the civilian children, so much so that the elves had allowed them an extra couple of horses to pull it safely. Reynard had arrived an hour before and had just departed with the supplies and horses bound for Felmere in the north. Itheya continued to watch as the humans became smaller and smaller in the distance. Then, along with all the other elves, she turned her horse away from the cart track and rode slowly away northwards until she was completely enveloped in the fog. Only the dead remained there now and, in the near distance, the wolves started to howl.
8
Quite how these strange, brutal people could sleep so easily shut away from the sky, the stars and the night air was completely beyond Cygan’s comprehension.
They had travelled to an even larger city, smelling of dung, sweat and desperation; again, it was the grandest building there that was to house him. He had been given a room, doubtlessly luxurious to these people, but hopelessly claustrophobic to him. He ended up rigging a makeshift hammock using a beam, a bedpost and a sheet; it was a long way short of perfect or even comfortable, but it felt a little like home and that was a good thing.
In the town they had left, the death of its baron had caused a brief riot amongst the local soldiers. It was put down quickly with only a handful of lives lost but the uprising had masked the death of the jailor and the escape of the prisoners, who had been blamed for his murder. Esric declared the matter closed whilst all the time giving Cygan a sideways look. He knew, and Cygan knew that he knew, but this Esric was a pragmatic man it seemed, and was more than happy to let the situation drop. He was not going to hang the Marsh Man after just effecting his rescue. He needed him; they needed each other.
Esric had also permitted him to wander freely through the city if he wished, but so far he had not taken up the invitation. His manner, his dress, his ritual scars all marked him as an outsider and he had no wish to be gawped at and gossiped about by the locals. Having said that, though, he
was no longer the strangest creature residing under this particular roof.
Just yesterday they had arrived. Creatures out of the most ancient of tales just like the Malaac. The locals called them Wyches, or elves, close enough to his own word for them, the Elevaa. Once this land was theirs, so it was said, but that was long ago. These were the first people of their type to arrive here in hundreds of years and their manner, their strange eyes and ears had disconcerted everyone at first, but the elder of the two had proven open and disarming enough to allay any initial reservations. They had arrived late and had spoken briefly to everyone, though they were most interested in Cygan and the news from the Endless Marshes. Esric had called for a full council to be held on the morrow to discuss further action.
On the day of the council Cygan awoke on hearing the birds of the dawn. Sliding out of the hammock, he underwent a brief inventory of his aches and pains. Since his beating at the hands of the jailor and his lackeys there were things about him that weren’t quite right. His left leg always felt a little stiff and he had detected the slightest of limps when he walked. The other thing had been the headaches; they came infrequently and had never lasted long but had always been powerful and quite debilitating. He had taken a few blows to the head that day and guessed it would take some time before he recovered fully. If he did not recover, well, he didn’t want to think about that, not right now, maybe never.
With no lake to bathe in, he used the bowl provided to wash himself, then he dressed and headed for the main hall. Hopefully he could at last do something to help his own people and change whatever fate the darkest Gods wished upon them.
At first, it was just himself and Esric in the hall; he had forgotten the earliness of the hour. Gradually, though, people started to drift into the room. The servants busied themselves ferrying plates of food to those assembled. (The concept of one man’s subservience to another, the fact that their worth was deemed to be less than that of their overlords, was something Cygan found distasteful, a waste of the potential of so many.) Once this light breakfast had been taken Esric started to speak.
The Forgotten War Page 88
