It was still out there, and Terath’s plume of black fire still burned, but, beyond the ominous sounds and occasional glimpses of something vast moving just beyond the line of sight, it had held back. Perhaps it could not make up its mind whether Terath’s flame signified another dragon or not, or maybe it was just waiting for the right time to strike.
Not that anyone in the battle cared overmuch right now; the Malaac were more than enough to deal with. As before, they attacked in concentrated waves, pushing the defenders to the limit before withdrawing back to the shelter of the deep water. They seemed to know that just two or three more assaults would be enough to break the humans this time, to get revenge for the losses they themselves had suffered.
Breathing heavily, Cygan left his place in the line for a second and went to speak to Terath who was standing right next to his magical flame seemingly unconcerned with their plight.
‘Why is Ventekuu not attacking? I thought this foul-smelling fire was supposed to draw her here?’
Terath smiled at Cygan. ‘She is nervous; a dragon is hardly an easy fight, even for another dragon. But she is circling, slowly drawing closer. When the Malaac withdraw you may see her then. Your people with the slings need to stay alert; I have told them as much. I do not know why I sound so pleased saying this, but it will not be long now.’
He had barely finished speaking when the Malaac attacked again. Cygan ran back to his place in the line in time to run his spear through one of the beasts. The spear stuck fast; he could not pull it free and so drew his knife in time to fend off another attacker, who ran at him, arms outstretched, trying to clutch his throat. Cygan went down, rolling in sand and water, stabbing and stabbing his opponent whose claws scratched his face and neck. Cygan tasted his own blood dripping into his mouth before his enemy finally lay still.
Elsewhere, Whitey was, as he had suspected he would be, having a terrible time. He, too, was fighting the Malaac off with a spear and was having some success at it, when suddenly two other Malaac sprang out of the water towards him. They grabbed him and slowly tried to pull him into the water where he could be drowned. Kicking and crying in fear, Whitey dropped his spear and with his hands tried scrabbling in the sand, trying to find purchase, to stop himself being hauled to his doom. He had little success. His fingernails dug thick grooves into the coarse sand, exposing thicker shells and ribbon-like worms, but he was fighting a losing battle, he feared. His head went under and the salt water filled his mouth and nose, causing him to cough and splutter. Still the Malaac continued to drag him. He kicked out, feeling his boot impact on a face. One Malaac loosened his grip a little. He kicked again. The creature released him, causing him to fall into water two or three feet in depth with a great splash. He continued to thrash around, trying to get the other one to let him go. It worked – he was free. He fell fully into the water, his head submerging completely. Panic-stricken and disoriented, he righted himself instantly, standing and looking round to see where land was.
Not that way. Blinking the water out of his stinging eyes, he realised he was looking out over the lake with the water coming well over his knees. He was about to turn and splash his way back to the island when he saw something odd. The two Malaac who attacked him were not ten feet away, water over their waists, standing and watching him. Nothing more than that. They made no aggressive move towards him; they just watched in silence.
Whitey backed away from them, deciding to go back to his spear before they changed their minds, when there came a noise not unlike a deep rumble of thunder. As he watched, the water itself started to shake, to vibrate rapidly as though it was about to boil. The two Malaac turned and dived into the deeper water, disappearing from view.
Back on land, Whitey picked up his spear. The great rumbling sound came again and again the water hissed and seethed. He realised that all the Malaac had withdrawn and that both the men of Tanaren and of the Marsh were looking uncertainly around them, the defensive circle contracting even further.
Cygan remembered Terath’s words: ‘Slingers, get ready.’ He called out, trying primarily to get Fasneterax’s attention. He needn’t have worried; Fasneterax was already armed, swinging the pole to which the sling was attached menacingly over his head. Cygan’s heart had never pounded faster, he thought, as he wiped blood off his face. He had reclaimed his spear and, like the other men, stood with it pointed out to the lake. What would be next for them he wondered?
Whitey’s keen ears heard it first. He had rarely travelled north of the Marassan Hills, but he remembered a time he had to visit a contact in Haslan Falls. He remembered as he waited for him to show up watching the falls themselves, the sound they made, the rushing of a great volume of water being suddenly displaced. That was just the sound he could hear now; the confusing thing was that there was nowhere for water to fall here. It got louder, far louder than the sound he was recalling; a great roaring cataract it was becoming, akin, he imagined, to the sounds the great falls of the Derannen Mountains made, a great roaring, whooshing crash of water, a sound resembling the mighty waves of the ocean as they crashed on to jagged rocks. And then, as he turned his head fully in the direction of the sound, he finally saw it.
Cygan’s jaw had already dropped. Before him was a great foam-tipped wave over twice his own height. If he and the men around him did not run soon they would all be swamped and washed away to certain death. But it was the thing both causing the wave and riding it that transfixed him so. Ventekuu. The great wyrm of legend, the progenitor of the Malaac, confined to the lake by Ukka for her defiance of the Gods. It was Ventekuu. And she was coming right for him.
A dragon Terath had called her. A great serpent whose long narrow jaw glistened with ebony scales, whose large green eyes were slitted like a swamp cat’s. Where, Cygan thought, her ears would have been were ribbed black fins that could be folded behind her. In build, she appeared to be almost like a snake, all the better to move through water. The dragons of legend all had great wings and could fly, but in Ventekuu the wings were residual and would never be able to get her off the ground. Cygan beheld her majesty and was struck with awe. If any creature on this earth could be deemed worthy of worship, it was her. And still she was coming right for him.
‘Cygan!’ A voice cut through his reverie. It was Whitey’s. ‘Run!’
He came to his senses. The cacophony of the oncoming wave deafened him; soon he would be lost under it, or crushed by the great beast if he did not move. ‘Move, Cygan!’ His brain was screaming at him. ‘Move!’
And move he did, tearing to his left towards Whitey, as the wave broke over the island, bringing the dragon with it. He barely escaped the deluge as the island was swamped; the boats at its centre would have been lost if they weren’t tightly secured. A great swathe of brown water washed over this great bar of sand, knocking Cygan over briefly before Whitey dragged him back to his feet. Men scattered to the island’s fringes, as far away from the crashing foam-rimed wash as they could get without drowning. They ran to escape the formidable surge, but more importantly they ran to escape its cause, the great beast that had beached itself at its centre. Cygan and Whitey watched in silence. They noticed its feet and forearms, both small for its body, though the claws they carried were the height of a man. The former were webbed, the latter less so, but it used neither, slithering like a snake, churning up sand as it manoeuvred itself towards the object of its ire.
Terath had held up the bowl as the waters washed over him so that the black flame continued to burn. He stood stock-still as the wave receded, leaving him soaked and covered in sand below his waist. And now he held the bowl and, as he looked up, he realised that the huge open maw of the dragon, with its long, thin black tongue flicking from side to side, was only feet away. The dragon regarded him for a second, the pupil in its emerald eye widening slightly. Then, with a speed such a colossal creature should not have been capable of, its head shot forward, grabbed Terath and threw him and his bowl a hundred feet into the air. Cygan watched i
n open-mouthed horror as Terath’s wailing figure became smaller and smaller, before finally descending at a terrible speed and landing with a crack on the sand where it lay unmoving. The bowl landed, too, upside down somewhere out on the lake, and the black fire, with its choking fumes, finally went out.
It was Fasneterax who brought them to their senses. He ran over to Cygan, sling whirring above his head.
‘Do you see him? The rider? Ukka curse it, the water has washed away so many flasks; I hope we have enough to do the job we came for.’
The rider. Cygan had almost forgotten. He looked at the great beast again. It had a long trailing fin running the length of its spine – it was translucent, a webbed structure through which ran gigantic blood vessels – but, just behind the head, at the place that Cygan would call the neck, something – someone – was sitting astride it, clinging on to it, facing towards the head of the dragon as it moved slowly from left to right, contemplating its next move. It was human, clad in a ragged black cloak, a tattered remnant that flapped behind it in the breeze engendered by the thing it rode. But there was something terribly amiss about it. From this distance Cygan could not see it clearly but there was a stiffness in its movements, an unnatural awkwardness that a human being would not have. This was the focus of their quest, the thing they had to kill.
With a great cry Fasneterax fired the projectile from his sling. Cygan watched it – it was a good shot, well aimed. It would be close. Then, however, the dragon turned to face the Marsh Man and the flask crashed high on to the flank of the beast. It shattered – a great spray of white powder flew in all directions but it was not a direct hit. The other sling-armed warriors started to fire their weapons and a dozen clay flasks flew at their target. None of them, though, found their mark, either whistling too high or doing as Fasneterax’s had done, exploding against the dragon’s side.
Then it was Ventekuu’s turn.
The dragon opened its mouth. It roared at them, a shriek of unbridled malice, high pitched and terrible to the ears. Most of the humans quailed in terror. They had nowhere to run, no cover to hide behind; a large number of them were already dead, but the worst was still to come. The dragon moved its head slowly from right to left and as it did so a pillar of black flame spouted forth, like the one Terath had created, but so much larger, broader, denser than anyone had imagined. It covered some of the more advanced slingers, along with other warriors who had not backed away far enough. It was choking, acrid, corrosive, burning the eyes and the back of the throat. Cygan covered his face, water streaming from his eyes, and sank to his knees. It took an age before he could open them again, when he did so he could see that the fumes had overcome many, men were rolling on the ground, coughing and spluttering and hawking their sputum on to the sand. Others were not moving at all.
Cygan got to his feet, spitting to get rid of the taste in his mouth. Fasneterax, too, had recovered and was attempting to use his sling again. This time though, eyes stinging and disoriented, his attempt was well astray. He howled in his anger.
‘Slingers,’ he called out, ‘we need to get closer. Get closer, everybody!’
He ran towards the dragon, priming his sling for another strike. He was not followed by the others, though. Concerned for his friend, Cygan tried to run after him but tripped and fell on to his knees. He looked around, trying to see what had caught him. It was a barrel, a small one brought from Sketta, and carrying the lime they required to kill this rider of Ventekuu. It had been washed away from the boats by the wave produced by the dragon’s arrival. Without having any clear idea of why he was doing it he set down his spear, picked up the barrel and ran after Fasneterax.
The slinger in chief was now perilously close to the dragon, which thus far hadn’t appeared to notice him. He was aiming a shot at the back of the dragon rider, feet planted firmly in the sand. Finally he let fly. The missile soared through the air, heading unerringly for its target. And this time it did find its mark, hitting the man on the shoulder, cracking open and covering him in a toxic white cloud.
It seemed to have an effect. The man threw up his arms and started twisting where he sat, trying to free himself of the burning cloud that settled on his exposed flesh. Then the dragon turned its head facing back towards his tail and at last it beheld Fasneterax.
It was like swatting a fly. With an impudent flick of its great tail, it caught the fierce Marsh Man in the ribs, sending him flying into the air, then rolling over and over the ground before coming to rest finally close to the dragon’s head.
‘Fasneterax!’ Cygan called, sprinting towards the fallen man. As he did so, he noticed that the dragon himself seemed to be losing interest in this fight. It had doused Terath’s black fire and so had accomplished its purpose. Cygan wondered whether the man wanted it to stay while the dragon wanted to return to the water, and whether the battle of wills between the two that Terath had spoken of was taking place right before him.
He reached Fasneterax and straight away could see that things were not good. His shoulder jutted out at an unnatural angle and as he turned him over and held him he had to choke back a wave of nausea as he saw the man’s splintered ribs poking through his woollen tunic. Fasneterax, his eyes glazed, spat out some blood before speaking with a thin, rasping voice.
‘Ah, the bastard has got me, Cygan. I will not be going home after all; the Gods can be evil sometimes, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, my friend. I agree.’ Cygan did not know what else to say.
‘Shettevellanda, my wife, look after her; do not let her starve. Tell her I am sorry for abandoning her and my children.’
‘If I survive this, I swear she will never want for anything for as long as both her and I live.’ Cygan’s tone was heartfelt.
‘Good man.’ Fasneterax gripped the other man’s arm. ‘This human is still alive, isn’t he?’
‘He is. I will deal with him now. I have a barrel of lime with me.’
Fasneterax choked, coughing out blood and spittle. Cygan realised he was laughing. ‘You? I told you before you were a woman, Cygan. Give me the barrel and get me to my feet.’
Cygan knew there was no stopping him so he helped the dying man to stand. Fasneterax pushed Cygan away and took the barrel from him pulling off its sealed lid.
‘Go Cygan, leave me be, tell the tribe I died gloriously.’
As Cygan watched on horrified, Fasneterax staggered towards the dragon’s mouth screaming abuse at it. ‘Come on, you bastard, take me. I am the one that hurt you and now I am here. Take me, if you have the courage!’
Ventekuu needed no second invitation. Its great jaws closed slowly around Fasneterax, lifting him off his feet into the air. Fasneterax continued screaming at it. Higher still the dragon lifted him and still he continued to taunt the thing and its rider. Finally the great wyrm held him aloft above the rest of its body, ready to swallow him whole. With one last defiant shout Fasneterax released his barrel. It plummeted downwards, scattering its contents left and right, until finally it crashed directly on to the head of the dragon rider, lime billowing around it like flour. It was the last thing Fasneterax saw, for the dragon finally tossed him skywards before letting him drop directly into its gullet where he finally disappeared for ever.
Something snapped in Cygan at seeing that. He was not going to let his friend die in vain. Despite being covered in the lime, the human still sat there, was still alive. He had lost his spear but still had his knife. He suddenly knew what he had to do.
‘Barris!’ he called. ‘Radu! Use arrows on it. Fire at its head! Keep it distracted!’ He said the same again, in a different language, so that they all understood. Then he drew his knife and advanced towards the dragon’s flank.
Whitey found a bow lying scattered on the floor and picked some arrows from the body of some unfortunate close to him. He had barely fired an arrow in his life and wondered whether he would hit the target, large as it was, or have his own eye out. Radu the Red was rallying the Marsh Men to do the same. Soo
n a cloud of arrows were being fired at the dragon’s head. Most did little damage, but they did irritate the creature; it hissed in annoyance and started to move away from them. They followed it and this time it faced them and breathed its black flame at them. The men were undeterred, though; their eyes might be wet and stinging but they kept firing relentlessly, never giving Ventekuu pause. For they could all see what Cygan was doing.
The dragon’s tail was thrashing in its agitation, Cygan dodged under it but it still caught him – a colossal block of muscle sent him yet again to his knees. He bounced straight back up, ignoring the impact and the inevitable bruising, for the great scaled flank of the beast was right before him. He took a deep breath and drove his knife into its side, needing all his strength to pierce its iron skin. Ventekuu did not even notice, for the wound was less than a pinprick to it but Cygan was not trying to damage her. Rather, using the knife as leverage he started to climb, gripping the sharp scales with his hands, ignoring the cuts they were receiving. Sweat poured from his face, his tunic was soaked and clung to him, but he was progressing. Finally he made it on to the creature’s back, rolling over until he lay next to the central fin. Using his knife to haul himself forward and keep him secure, he inched towards the dragon’s head, praying desperately that she wouldn’t turn and see him for it would be so easy for her to crane her great neck behind her and pluck him into the air and on into the caress of those great jaws.
‘Dig the knife in, pull yourself forward, grip the scales firmly,’ he said repeatedly to himself as he slid closer to his target. The other human perched on the creature’s back was not far away now. To Cygan’s surprise, he could smell him, an odour of fish and slime, not something he expected at all. The oddness of this man was accentuated the closer he got to him. His cloak was torn in many places and Cygan could now see the exposed flesh. It was grey, even black in places, and a steam was rising from it, the lime was obviously still doing its work. He was bald and the top of his head and neck was mottled, grey and a greenish-black colour. It had a dull scaly appearance as if it were no longer true skin. He remembered Terath’s words about the changes wrought on a human symbiote and blenched a little. He may no longer be fully human but a knife through the throat would surely still be effective. Closer he came and now the man was almost within striking distance. He no longer needed the knife to propel himself forward and lifted it, ready to strike the thing down. The archers stopped firing, not wanting to hit him in error.
The Forgotten War Page 131
