The Forgotten War

by Howard Sargent

  Cygan took no part in these activities. Rather, as soon as he could, he headed towards the island’s centre, past the makeshift shacks holding the wounded or elderly, past the weapon and food and water stores, past the tethered goats bleating meekly at their unfamiliar restraints, all the way to the middle where the children were being herded. The children and their mothers.

  ‘Vaneshanda!’ he called. ‘Children!’

  And he was heard. From the far side of the milling throng of toddlers, infants and harassed mothers, a dark-haired woman beckoned to him. He was at her side immediately, embracing her, smelling the soft murmur of the winter’s breeze in her hair. The children were with her, too; he did not have enough arms to embrace them all.

  ‘I knew you would come back,’ she said gratefully. ‘Ukka would not dare take you from me; even she would fear my wrath.’

  ‘You don’t know how close it was,’ he said to her softly. ‘I was seconds from death, seconds.’

  ‘And yet you were spared,’ she replied. ‘You have a purpose, Cygan; you have a destiny to fulfil, that much has always been obvious to me. It will be dark soon, my love, and they will come again. The children will stay here with Tenevutuu.’ She indicated a white-haired lady, her arms brown and wrinkled, who was sitting close by. ‘Then I will take my sling and stand behind the line of men, where you will be.’

  He smiled at her and held her again. It was one of those times where words were entirely superfluous; they both just shut their eyes and enjoyed a moment of serenity, while all about them was bustle and organised chaos. They seemed to enfold each other for hours rather than the seconds it actually took. Then a voice called out and Vaneshanda looked at her husband with watery eyes.

  ‘Dumnekavax calls; you are needed. Go, I will see you later after we drive them off again.’

  With legs feeling like they were shaped in clay Cygan tore himself away, walking through the children and supplies to Dumnekavax, who stood by the stockade close to where Cygan’s house used to be, the only thing remaining being the wooden piles poking out of the water.

  The Elder was holding a skull. It was fresh, for it had a new white gleam and its hair was still attached to it.

  ‘Tegavenek,’ said the man proudly. ‘The bite of the Malaac poisoned him and took his life, but it does not stop his spirit from watching us tonight.’ He affixed the object to a pole, its orbits facing out on to the lake. Cygan saw that there were many other skulls positioned in the same way, formed into a circle behind the line of warriors, fronting up to the sharpened wooden posts of the stockade.

  Cygan took his spear and picked his spot. By pure chance, Whitey was next to him on his left; Radu was to his right. He checked his bowstring was taut and his arrows were ready and prepared. Behind him he saw the younger men and some of the women preparing their slings to force back any enemy that got through. The slings themselves were attached to poles that, in the hands of an expert, would be swung round to pick up momentum and distance before their release. They would be of little use in darkness, but would aid in the early stages of the battle and could always be used as a final defence if things got desperate. Whitey looked at him as he stared out over the water, its surface limpid and reflective as the sky slowly darkened.

  ‘Starlings,’ said Whitey absently.

  It was true. Far out over the marsh was a stand of trees close to the sacred lake where Cerren met his end. Over them the starlings flocked, a black ever-changing smoke calling and chattering over the brooding landscape. With the rush of thousands of wings their shape would change – now a hand, now a cloud. They would disperse; spread apart, their definition fading only to clump together again just seconds later, a thick ball of speckled shimmering feathers and tiny hollow-boned bodies. Yet there was nary a collision between them, so precise their coordination, so rhythmic and fluid their movements. As Cygan watched them closely, he saw a hawk hovering above them, eager for a kill no doubt. It must be a young bird, he thought. It must be being driven mad by the proximity of so much food, yet somehow unable to get a claw on to any of it. He saw it dive through the scattering swarm, plummeting to earth, its talons out ready to grab a helpless victim, only to emerge from the bottom of the flock, fruitlessly clutching at thin air and obviously sadder and wiser for the experience.

  We all have to learn, thought Cygan, as the birds rattled their quills together making a noise not unlike water pouring on to a flat rock baked by the sun. Their excited chatter conveyed a certain nervous energy to all those watching them. The starlings were a common sight in this part of the Marshes, yet whenever a display of this sort happened, every child in every home would insist on their parents coming out to watch, such was the hypnotic quality of their dance, especially at the magical time of dusk.

  Then, though, there was something else. He had heard it before – a high-pitched howling that wavered and ululated. Familiar with it he may have been but his blood still froze in his veins when he heard the sound. Setting his spear down, he gripped his bow, a reassuring feeling for his cold hands. He breathed on them, getting the circulation going, though he knew soon enough there would be plenty of work to warm them through.

  For, out on the lake, the Malaac were calling each other.

  14

  There are many different types of pain but right now Morgan felt as if he was experiencing all of them. He lay on a soft mattress, steadfastly refusing to open his eyes and aware of every twinge in his body. His chest on his right side had burned fiercely ever since the knife metal had melted on to it. He seemed to remember it had given him a fever; he was sure he must have been delirious for a while but as to how long he had no idea at all. He could feel a cooling poultice had been placed there and the pain had receded from its ferocious height, but it was still there grumbling away like an unwelcome guest at a dinner party.

  His hand and his shoulder were bandaged and needed to be. The assassin’s knife had pierced both, as well as his back, and, although his flesh had closed around the holes driven into his body and was slowly knitting back together, his wounds still hurt enough to make his eyes water. He had been breathing slowly since wakefulness had returned, aware of the damage to his lung, but things had gradually seemed to ease a little and now he seemed to be breathing quite freely. Magical healing perhaps? Above all, though, he knew he was very very lucky still to be alive.

  An involuntary sigh escaped from his lips and for the first time he was aware of other people sitting closely around him. Curiosity overcame his desire to sleep a little longer and slowly his eyes fluttered open. It was difficult to see anything at first, for his eyes were sticky and the light seemed extremely strong, causing them to water further. Slowly, though, they adjusted to his surroundings and he gradually saw who was with him in his room.

  For it was his room, He was in his bed looking up at the canopy supported by the bed’s corner posts. Around him were many concerned faces. Closest to him was Astania, with her pointed features and vivid blue eyes. Cheris was next to her then Cedric. On the other side of the bed was Lady Mathilde with Kraven sitting close by. He saw Dominic pacing the room, wearing out the carpet, and saw a couple of sisters of Meriel standing close by the door.

  ‘He wakes!’ Mathilde sounded very relieved. ‘Morgan, can you hear me? Do not speak if it pains you.’

  His breath rattled through his teeth. His throat was dry and his tongue swollen. Despite that, he managed to force out the words.

  ‘Hello, Mathilde, there is no getting rid of me, is there?’

  ‘Ha!’ Dominic barked brusquely, though it was obvious he was delighted. ‘I knew you wouldn’t be killed by a woman. Now stop malingering and get back to defending this town. The Gods only know, you are needed here badly.’

  ‘No!’ Astania admonished, unable to gauge whether Dominic was jesting or not. ‘He needs rest, lots of it; I do not have the skill to control the pain sufficiently. Only time will heal him fully.’

  ‘I agree. I was not being wholly serious, madam,’ sai
d Dominic, still unsure exactly how to address an elf. ‘Do not fear, Morgan, Mathilde and the seneschal run the castle far better than you anyway. I and General Mirik are overseeing the defences and Reynard will be here in a day or two to help. Listen to the Wych lady, for she speaks the truth and has rarely left you alone. Lucky to survive and lucky in healing indeed! It seems the Gods are looking out for you specifically.’

  ‘Then you must be very tired, my dear,’ Morgan croaked. ‘Thank you, you have saved my life. Feel free to go and rest whenever you feel the need.’

  ‘Your religious sisters have helped greatly,’ said Astania. ‘I could not have done this alone; your injuries were too severe. We thought on many occasions that your spirit would be called from you but you are a strong man, just as the Lady Itheya thought. Your fever was worrying but it has subsided now. However, I doubt if your hand will ever be quite as it was.’

  Cheris broke in at that point. ‘Your burn, I am sorry. I had to do something and had barely a second to decide. It was a powerful spell and one I had never really used before. You will be scarred, I am afraid.’

  ‘Better scarred than dead,’ said Morgan. ‘And I have plenty of them already; it is just another for my collection. You all seem to have played a part in saving me. When I have more strength I will thank you all properly.’

  ‘I still do not understand’ said Mathilde, her brow wrinkling, ‘why that girl assassin’s head is not on a pike at the city gates. I still do not know why you have spared her.’

  ‘She hasn’t piqued your curiosity? The fact that she is a woman, for a start.’

  ‘There are more women assassins than you may think,’ said Mathilde. ‘Nobody notices them so they can infiltrate anywhere.’

  ‘But they tend to be subtle, using poison or such like. This girl was a warrior; I saw her fight. She took on four men without flinching. And her accent when she spoke to me; she is a long way from home. So why is she here? She has questions to answer for certain. Where is she now?’

  ‘In the oubliette, manacled to the wall. No one has touched her, as per your instructions.’ Mathilde’s disapproval was obvious.

  Cedric, who had obviously been itching to speak, interjected at this point.

  ‘There is a book in the library upstairs. I suspected I knew who or what she is and reading it confirmed it for me.’ He held up a tome that had obviously been resting in his lap. ‘She is...’

  ‘A Kozean assassin,’ said Morgan, his voice strengthening with use. ‘You hear of such things in the army. Leave me the book, my friend. I can read it while I recover. And before anyone says anything, I aim to be up and about before the week is up. Dominic may have been partly joking, but I need to be seen to be alive by as many people as possible as soon as possible.’

  Mathilde was about to object, but a look from Morgan stopped the words on her tongue. ‘As you wish’ was all she could manage. Astania, too, looked less than happy but kept her own counsel.

  Morgan kept to his schedule, too. He read Cedric’s book to alleviate his boredom and slowly began doing some exercise. Two days after he first woke he eased himself out of his bed and slowly started to pace up and down the room. The following day he was faster and stronger and even more so the day after that. His torso protested at his every move and Astania and the sisters of Meriel fretted every time he told them he wanted to start walking, but they let him do as he wished; they knew how important this was to him.

  After five days, and with the aid of a stick, he felt he could go anywhere. Accompanied by Astania and Mathilde he left his room, walked through the long draughty hallways, down the stairs and out of the gate of the keep into the courtyard. In truth, it was too much for him. Every step hurt him far more than he let on and his left shoulder felt sticky; he guessed it was bleeding again.

  Word spread fast and his promenade garnered a lot of attention from servants, soldiers and the minor nobles that lived in the castle. He ended up surrounded by well-intentioned well-wishers who ended up impeding his progress. In the end he stopped, gave them a speech thanking them for their concern, and said he was getting better every day, something that wasn’t exactly true at that moment in time. After sending them all on their way, he made his slow progress to the back of the courtyard, a place in constant shadow as it adjoined the dark rock of the north wall. It was a neglected part of the castle, its uneven cobbles covered in moss with fragments of rotten wood and loose chippings of stone strewn here and there. It was obviously a place that needed to be swept clean, but no one in the castle had the time or inclination to do such a thing. It had only one feature of note, and the only things that gave its presence away were a trapdoor of dark partially rotten wood and the tiniest metal grille that had replaced one of the floor cobbles. The trapdoor opened on to a series of broad cracked steps that led down into a dark dank hole, a haunt for rats, seeping water and oppressive darkness.

  The oubliette.

  A couple of guards stood close by, their boredom reflected by their hunched shoulders and glazed expressions. They perked up instantly when they saw their baron inching towards them, attempting to curtail his grimace with a not too convincing smile.

  ‘My Lord, you are well. It is heartening to see you.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He nodded at the trapdoor. ‘She’s down there?’

  ‘Yes, my Lord, manacled to the wall.’

  ‘I thought you never used this place.’

  ‘We rarely do, my Lord; we keep it for the worst scum and criminals. We couldn’t kill her as you told us not to, but we thought it best to keep her down there. She gets some bread and water fed to her daily but she has been chained down there since she attacked you.’

  ‘Over a week?’

  ‘Yes, my Lord, nearer two.’

  He nodded slowly. ‘Nearer two.’ he said to himself.

  He turned back to the guards. ‘One of you get a torch and come with me; I wish to speak with her,’

  One of the guards left to do his bidding, Morgan turned to the ladies with him.

  ‘I will not be long. Wait here, if you wish.’

  ‘I will carry the torch,’ said Mathilde. ‘This is my castle and I can go where I wish within it. I wish to see this she-demon for myself.’

  ‘It will not be pleasant.’

  ‘I care not.’ She folded her arms.

  ‘And you are bleeding again,’ said Astania. ‘I need to look at that shoulder.’

  ‘When I return to my rooms you can minister to me to your heart’s content.’

  One guard returned with the burning torch as requested; the other pulled the chain free of the door and lifted it with a loud creak. A noisome smell rose from the dark pit now exposed. Mathilde wrinkled her nose.

  But she was not deterred. Holding the torch high, she started down the steps, Morgan alongside her. They were high and uneven so they descended with great care. The door was kept open so they had light in the initial stages, but as they gained the bottom it was only the yellow flame of the torch that gave any illumination.

  No more steps – they were at the bottom. Mathilde swished the torch around, giving them both a brief vision of moss-encrusted walls and a floor lined with black straw and standing puddles of water. Around them they heard a chittering sound and the scurrying of many tiny bodies and feet.

  ‘Ugh, rats!’ said Mathilde. ‘And what is that smell?’ She moved away from the wall where a large cobweb threatened to snag her hair.

  ‘It is probably me,’ came a clear voice out of the darkness. ‘I am rather restricted as to where I can empty my bladder among other things. Of course, if you killed me, the problem would be solved for us all.’

  Morgan and Mathilde exchanged glances and took a few steps forward until the torchlight fell on to the source of the voice.

  Both of them had expected to see a bedraggled sunken-eyed waif chained to the wall. Granted, her clothes were torn and filthy and dirt streaked her face and bare arms. She was standing on a stone plinth, raising her a foot or so above t
he floor and her arms stretched above her, her wrists secured by metal bands. But her eyes were proud and defiant and she still managed to have a certain bearing about her, one not diminished by being forced to stand around her own excrement for all this time.

  Morgan met her gaze, though; a thousand thoughts and questions entering his head all at once. The girl spoke again.

  ‘So, you have seen me. Can you kindly cease your gloating and finish me off now? You are one lucky man by the way – mages and cats. You chose your friends wisely.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Morgan. ‘Or maybe you are just a bad assassin.’

  ‘Tell that to your predecessor.’

  Her head was over a foot above his but he still struck her hard with his good hand. She turned her head back to look at him; she seemed to enjoy the experience, for she was smiling. ‘Now will you kill me?’

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ said Mathilde. ‘Tell me, you disgusting creature – for I cannot believe you really are a woman – do you enjoy what you do? Killing people, destroying their families, leaving their children without parents? Enjoy being a disgrace to your sex? Morgan, just kill this creature and be done with it; she is little more than a monster.’

  ‘An interesting word,’ the girl replied. ‘I think you are letting your feelings for my target cloud your judgement. Say, rather, that we all have duties to fulfil in our lives and this is mine. I am given a name, a description and details of guards or whatever else might hinder my efforts. Nothing else is known to me – children, parents, or lovers in the case of you two – none of this is relevant for my task.’