‘Ventekuu!’ whispered a hundred dry throats as the village was cowed to silence. Even the men of Sketta stopped and looked at each other. Was that the creature they had to defeat?
It called again, a long haunting wail fit to freeze the blood and turn bone to ice. The noise drifted about them and then, borne by the wind, it filtered away, over the reeds, the still ponds clogged with weed, the trees naked of leaves, their bark steeped in moss and yellow lichen. Into the breathless night it went, lost under the moon’s tepid light leaving behind a company of men and women pensive in their thoughts and apprehensive of their future. One by one, they retired for the evening, into the huts where many people crammed together for warmth or into their tents erected close to the beacon or near to many of the smaller fires lit as much for reassurance as warmth. The dead of night had finally arrived and few people were keen to stay awake and watch its passing.
But not everyone was abed, sentries were dotted around at strategic points carefully watching the water in case a dark shape moved suddenly in the depths or a trail of bubbles fractured the placid surface of the river. Although few people expected an attack, the nerves of the sentinels were still frayed; they would be the first in line after all should the worst occur. So they watched, intently, quietly, never letting their attention wane.
One sentry, however, was proving the exception. Sperrish made sure he was given the watch he wanted and even better for him an area to patrol close to the lake he wanted to raid. A little earlier, while Dirthen was telling his tale, he slipped away and stole one of the villager’s boats and brought it close by. No one would miss it; he had checked its ownership earlier and learned that the family concerned had fled north weeks ago. He had been secreting rations away for days now and they, along with a full flask of water, were now sitting in the boat next to a space reserved for the spirit grass he would be taking with him. His escape route would be a problem. Sentries watched most of the waterways, but he realised that, if he carried the boat overland part of the way, he could enter the river at a point far beyond the eyes of even the remotest sentry.
He waited until all was silent save for the inescapable ambient sound of the river. It was time. He would be lying to himself if he said he had no nerves, but the rewards far outweighed any risk he might be taking. Keeping low and creeping like a fieldmouse he left his post and, feet sinking into the soft earth, approached the lake from the south.
It was not large. Hidden behind great banks of reeds it lay, kidney-shaped in an area of scanty woodland and scattered moss-covered rocks. Sperrish followed the trickling brook that fed it, clogged as it was with trailing pond grass and surface weed. The smell of thick black mud was strong here and more than once he had to spit out small flying insects that he almost inadvertently swallowed. He wondered if the Marsh Men’s stories of things being ten times worse in summer were actually true.
At last the lake lay before him dark and still. It was split into two lobes; he was at the larger southern one but it was the northern tree-lined one that he wanted. He would have to skirt the lake to get there.
He speeded up now. The place appeared to be deserted and haste was essential if he was to be well away before people noticed his absence. Here the tree roots were tangled and exposed, tripping him on more than one occasion, causing him to stifle an expletive or two lest the sound carry.
At last he steered his way past one final spray of low overhanging branches and stopped, failing to suppress a smile. Not more than five feet away, half in, half out of the shallowest water, was a vast thicket of tall, thin-bladed grass swaying and sighing at the slightest of breezes.
He drew his knife and crouched among the pungent fronds. That part of the plant most craved by its adherents was either the root or the part of the plant closest to the root. He loosened the drawstring on a large hessian bag he had carried with him and started his work. It was tougher than he thought, prising the roots out required time and effort and before long his fingers were coated in slippery, grainy mud, making the task even more difficult. A job he thought would take ten minutes soon stretched to an hour, enough time for a waxing moon to stand directly over the lake and look at its powerful reflection in the waters beneath. So there was more light than he wanted, too. The sweat beaded on his brow and made his skin under his jerkin cold and clammy.
But he was nearly done. His bag was close to bulging. When dried out and processed the spirit grass would fetch as much as he would get in nearly twenty years’ patrolling the dangerous streets of Sketta. One more root and he would be done. His fingers were raw and numb, little more than clumsy sausages, but finally he prised the last bulbous root free of the muddy water lapping at his feet. Time to go.
Stretching his aching frame, he started back towards the trees and their obstructive roots. He had not gone three paces, though, when he froze in place, half crouched at the bole of the nearest tree, fear clutching at his throat.
Someone was coming.
They were following exactly the same route he had taken and were almost at the trees. He could hear them talking, three, maybe four voices both male and female, and they were coming closer.
He frantically raced through his options; the opposite side of the lake was backlit by the moon and contained few trees or high reeds, there was no hope of concealment going that way. Behind him, though, and off the main path to his left, was open marshland, an expanse of treacherous bogs and standing pools, quicksands and pits of liquid mud in which a man could vanish in seconds. It really was a choice of two evils. He decided to try the opposite side of the lake. They would only see his silhouette; perhaps they would think it was another Marsh Man. After all, the city guard were forbidden from coming here.
Just as he decided to break cover and stroll with fake nonchalance away from the approaching voices, his luck got even worse. Opposite the lake, just where he was going to go, he saw more people, three men, and they were holding spears. Had Whitey betrayed him? He would make him pay if he got out of this.
But just how to get out of this? Spearmen one side, more people on the other, and they were so close now he could hear their breathing, which left just the marsh behind him, a route only a desperate fool would take. Gritting his teeth, he made up his mind. Perhaps those people close to him were unarmed; maybe he could burst past them and make a break for it before the spearmen could see him through the trees. He drew his muddied knife and wiped it in the grass. His left hand clutched his precious cargo of spirit grass; he was not losing that now. Without thinking any further, and before he was discovered anyway, he sprang forward and ran.
Brushing past the low branches, he was among the trees immediately. Praying he would not trip over the tangled roots, he hurtled forward, lungs tearing, as fast as his legs could propel him. A shape loomed before him, man-sized. It said something in its strange language in a voice that spoke of surprise and alarm. He bolted past it, only to see another shape. This one shouted and grabbed at him, catching his jerkin. Without thinking, he stabbed at his assailant’s hand with a knife. There was a cry and he was released; he continued forwards, the sounds of pursuit close behind.
Then his foot did catch a root and he stumbled. Righting himself as fast as he could he saw another figure ahead of him. Angry, frustrated and frightened, he stabbed out in the darkness. He felt an impact, a soft cry and a warm, sticky liquid spill over his hand. The figure before him fell just as the moon cleared the trees. Sperrish caught his breath as he saw the delicate features and long black hair of the twitching prone figure before him. It was a woman. His knife fell from his nerveless fingers.
He was grabbed again and so dug his elbow into the stomach of his attacker, who, winded, released him. Ahead of him he saw two spearmen, ones he had not noticed before, running in his direction. Behind him he could hear the cries and tramping feet of other pursuers.
He had no choice.
Diving to his left through the trees, he rolled down a long bank of grass and mud before alighting with a squ
ish on the pungent ground below. He was in the bog. Even now hope still flared. If he could hide out here for a couple of days, maybe he could come back at night, steal another boat and be away. He would have no food for two days but such things had happened to him before and he was still here, still fighting.
He started forward, sinking up to his knees almost immediately. He didn’t care and kept going. Behind him he heard his pursuers calling from the top of the bank. Some were scrabbling down it after him. He tried quickening his pace as the mud sucked at his feet and ankles. He could not see a thing.
He took another step forward but instead of thick mud he plunged into some freezing dirty water. His head went under. He could not swim and panicked, thrashing around wildly, inhaling water not air. He kept sinking, a stream of bubbles running from his mouth as he drowned. At last he started to float upwards again.
Then he was grabbed again and this time he was grateful for it. Strong arms pulled him clear of the pond and threw him on to the soft mud. He choked violently then started to cough out water as he doubled over in pain. There were at least three Marsh Men around him.
At last his lungs were clear and he started to breath air again. Eyes watering, he looked up at his captors. Even in this darkness the anger in their faces was clear.
‘I can explain...’ He started to say but was cut off as the nearest man brought the butt of his spear down upon his forehead. A quick flash of light, an intense burst of pain and then for Sperrish it was nothing but darkness.
His head throbbed like someone was playing a bass drum inside it when Sperrish finally came to again. The first, fitful light of dawn was breaking over him. He was tied hand and foot and lay flat on the ground. There were voices, though. He tried to turn his head to see exactly who was speaking.
Blinking hard, his fogged mind cleared slowly. He saw his captain not ten feet away talking with other Marsh Men, with Whitey’s friend there translating. He could not make out what was being said as his pain seemed to be affecting his hearing. Then Captain Dennick walked away, shaking his head. The translator, too, seemed unhappy; he kept remonstrating with the other men until he, too, sighed, glanced quickly at Sperrish with a look of total sympathy and walked away, his shoulders hunched.
As he wondered what was going on, another man came towards him, walking quickly and purposefully. He looked dully at the man’s tightly stitched soft leather shoes. They must have taken a lot of work, he thought.
Finally this man got to him, crouched down, pulled his neck back and started pouring some dark liquid down his throat from a large earthenware vessel. He gagged and tried spitting it out but the man held his nose until he finally relented, feeling a bitter brew slide down his throat. Poison, he thought. He hoped it wouldn’t be too painful; he didn’t think it was hemlock so he was happy about that. It worked quickly. He felt groggy, went limp in the man’s arms and then lost consciousness, his eyes rolling upwards until only the whites could be seen.
Rain. Warm rain falling on his face like the balmy summers he used to spend with his family in the Marassans. His fevered mind drifted a little back to those days on his uncle’s estate, happy days, before the plague took most of his family and his father’s gambling debts saw the estate sold.
That was a long time ago. He couldn’t be there now, and the rain, he tasted some of it, it couldn’t be...
He spat and abruptly opened his eyes. He saw a vast grey sky above him, leaden clouds sitting low within it. He couldn’t move his arms or legs; he was still tied then. He turned his neck as far as he could.
He was inside some sort of structure. There were wooden posts to his left and right, tied together with twine; it was this he was tied to. To his left was a grassy bank studded with bushes and some bare trees. There were people there, too. A small huddle of men were near by, talking among themselves and pointing at him. And closer to him was someone else. A small boy. Sperrish felt a rush of anger flood his aching head. For the boy’s breeches were open and he was urinating over Sperrish’s face, a yellow stream plashing over his moustache and mouth until it weakened and started to dribble into water. Rain, indeed, how could he be so stupid?
Spitting the disgusting liquid out he swore at the child.
‘You little bastard, just wait till I get my hands on you!’
The child giggled, tied his trousers securely and ran off.
He was over water then. Tied within a structure and over water. He felt fear replace his anger. What was happening here? He tried wriggling and pulling at his bonds. No use. He went limp and saw a couple of marsh flies buzz over his head.
He saw someone else approach him, a man this time, dark and strongly built. It was the translator, he realised; perhaps he could help him.
The man knelt as close to Sperrish’s head as he could without getting into the water, cleared his throat and spoke.
‘I am sorry,’ he said, then fell silent.
Sperrish squirmed against his bonds, his voice was hoarse. ‘Get me out of this! I am not one of you, let Dennick punish me. Get me out!’
‘I cannot. Neither can your commander. We both tried but ultimately we are not of the tribe you have committed crimes against. It is their justice that applies here.’
Sperrish voice became shrill. ‘All I did was take some damned grass!’
The Marsh Man shook his head. ‘No. You stole a sacred plant from which the year’s full quota had already been taken. That is punishable by death. You also violated the sanctity of the lake, defiling it for this tribe. That is also punishable by death. Finally, and most grievously, you stabbed to death a woman who had come to the lake to pray for her recently deceased husband. When the moon shines on the lake it is the time to make offerings to it, offerings to the new dead. She was there to pray and you killed her. There are two children now that have no parents. Unsurprisingly, that, too, is punishable by death.’
Sperrish almost choked. ‘I am sorry for the woman,’ he said. ‘Why do they not just kill me then, rather than tie me here?’
The man shrugged. ‘They are.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There are woody plants underneath you. They have been sharpened and within a day or so they will start growing through your body. The men over there...’ – he gestured to the group behind him – ‘...are guessing when and where they will start to grow first.’
At first it did not dawn on him what exactly he was being told. ‘Whitey,’ he said. ‘Did Whitey betray me?’
‘No. We found out about your plot by other means. We did not know of the people praying at the lake until it was too late.’ He then stood in the water and leaned over Sperrish. ‘Open your mouth.’
Sperrish did so and started as the man pushed something inside, next to his cheek. ‘Citrid leaves, all I have. Five of them. When the pain starts chew on them. It will help. You may even see your gods before you die. As I said, I am sorry. I wish it had not come to this. Those men think it will grow through your heart first, that or your anus. I hope it is the former for, if it is, it will be over for you in two days.’ With that he stepped back on to the bank turned and walked away, not looking back.
‘Wait! Come back!’ Sperrish tried to call but the leaves in his mouth made it difficult. He tried moving again and for the first time felt something. Something pressing slightly into his back. He felt the same in his shoulder and leg. The man was right – whatever it was was sharp. There was one pressing against his neck, too. By Artorus what was going to happen to him?
Two more boys came over to him. He shut his mouth knowing what was coming next. They emptied their bladders over his body this time. He heard the gentle splashing as the urine struck the water underneath him. More flies flew over him and some landed on him; he had heard the flies here drank blood.
At last Sperrish screamed, leaves in his mouth or no. He emptied his lungs of air he screamed so loudly. He didn’t stop either. The sun went down and came back up again and still he screamed. He screamed to the lake and
to the deserted banks with their dead trees. For three days he did nothing but scream. After that, though, he didn’t scream again.
After seeing Sperrish for the last time, Cygan returned to the village where Whitey was sitting looking morbidly out over the lake.
‘It is done, your friend is as good as dead. I have done what I can for him. I am sorry.’
Whitey nodded and replied without turning his head. ‘The other party are all here now, including the old Wych man. People are saying we will be off to fight the dragon in the morning.’
‘Yes,’ said Cygan. ‘There is no point waiting. The sooner this is done, the sooner you can go home.’
Whitey did turn to him then. ‘And you can return to your wife and children.’
‘That is right.’
‘They are lovely kids. You are a lucky man.’
Cygan smiled slightly. ‘Thank you. I am sure Emterevuanu will be happy to see you, too.’
Whitey grimaced. ‘Don’t. I know you enjoy seeing my reactions, but just don’t. Not now.’
‘I am sorry, Barriss. I am not teasing, though. She is rather taken with you and, if you get back alive, you will be even more eligible in her eyes. But do not worry, I will tell her to look elsewhere.’
‘Do that. She is too young and too pretty anyway; even if I wasn’t going back to Sketta.’
Cygan patted Whitey’s back. ‘Surely she should be the judge of that. Anyway, come over to the fire with me and the others. We are all getting drunk while we can. We may never get another chance after tomorrow.’
Whitey got up and followed; he understood Sperrish’s desire not to fight this terrible battle. He still couldn’t understand why he was still here himself. Getting drunk seemed a fine idea to him – better to be flat out snoring one’s head off all night rather than sat up thinking. Thinking was not always to be encouraged, he thought, not with what lay ahead. A drink to Sperrish, too; terror and guilt, hardly an ideal state of mind for a warrior. Maybe he would get so drunk he might end up believing tomorrow would never come. Yes, a drink to limbo and perpetual ignorance – nothing would make him happier.
The Forgotten War Page 122
