The Forgotten War (133 page)

‘Are you attracted to her?’

Morgan stopped his horse dead. ‘What?’

She looked a little sheepish. ‘I am sure you heard me.’

‘What is it to you, if I were?’

‘Nothing. Forget I asked.’

He spurred the patient Mona on again, as gently as he could.

‘As I said, I felt a little sorry for her, that is all.’

Itheya rode on ahead of him, putting a little distance between the two of them. After a couple of minutes’ riding she stopped and dismounted, Morgan joined her and did the same.

They were in a clearing where no pines grew; here light did penetrate the forest floor, revealing a soft grassy bed lined with stones part covered in moss. The grass was long and springy. Itheya
pulled a handful of it and brought it to her nose, inhaling its scent. ‘Your city is stifling to me – it is full of strong smells, most of them nasty. It is nice to smell the grass
again.’

Morgan looked at her, a little perplexed. ‘Why have we come here? What do you want to discuss? Not the assassin, surely?’

‘Partly. But there are other reasons.’

Morgan laughed and it was an almost jarring sound in this tranquil place. ‘You’re not jealous, are you?’

She looked him straight in the eye, her expression both wounded and embarrassed. ‘I told you before how I felt about you.’

‘By the Gods!’ Morgan breathed. ‘But I am human, I thought the very idea...’

She cut him off. ‘Life does not stand still and any being of intelligence does not stop learning. When I first met you the idea of being with someone not of my own kind seemed something
worthy of ridicule. It still does when applied to most humans. Most, but not all.’

‘Your people would not approve.’

‘Why do you think I brought you here? No one can see or hear us. We can do whatever we wish.’

Morgan swallowed a little. ‘Are you suggesting...?’

‘We may never see each other again. There is a good chance of this and I can think of no better way of saying goodbye. I know you still have feelings for your wife and I respect that,
though it is my belief that you cannot live in the past for ever. I am offering myself to you, Morgan – not as a reward for your help or steadfastness, not as a payment for allowing me to
confide in you, but simply because I want to as ... as someone who loves you and cares for you.’

Morgan was struck dumb. Their faces both coloured as they stood looking at each other, just feet apart. He felt as transfixed as one of those stones that had stood in this glade for eons. Itheya
finally turned away, redder than ever.

‘I am sorry,’ she said. ‘Forgive me for foolish words.’ She walked towards her horse when he finally spoke.

‘My wounds! ... I am not sure if I am up to much rigorous exercise. It might be nice to try and find out, though.’

She stopped and turned to look at him, her eyes shining.

‘Do not worry – I will do all the work.’

And she did, too. He lay back on the grass as he watched her undress. He finally saw her tattoo in all its glory. It covered most of her left side and he saw at last it was actually the
depiction of one mighty tree and the creatures living among it. He saw thin traceries of branches, whorls, boles and leaves among which were cunningly drawn figures of birds of all varieties
– deer, snakes, spiders, wolves and bears. He was so entranced by the whole thing for a second he forgot why he was seeing it in the first place. She removed everything bar her thin torque
and the delicate golden rings in her ears. Then she came over to him.

He knew her scent – it was that of a clear river – but there was something else today, like the incense they burned in the house of Artorus, but woodier, fresher, more natural, a
faint musk of sweet resins and honey. She sat astride him, moving slowly, rhythmically, taking great care not to hurt him. Occasionally, she would lean forward, put her face against his and softly
kiss his forehead, lips or neck, her raven-black hair falling over them both, for it had almost grown back to its former length. She was strong, too; he could see the taut muscles of her diaphragm
and stomach contracting and expanding, fully controlling everything she did. She was full of contradictions, sharp and brittle as shattered glass, and soft and yielding as goose down. Her breathing
got a little shorter and shallower as she quickened on him, and she made small slight gasps as he clutched at her hips, feeling the smallest hint of gentle perspiration under his fingers. Finally,
just as the burn on his chest and his wounds were beginning to gnaw at his mind, spoiling the moment, she threw her head back, shut her eyes and gave a soft, shivering cry, plaintive, almost
wistful in its tone but loud enough to disturb the horses, who stopped their grazing for a second to look dumbly at them both. Moments later he did the same and then, with the tiniest musical
laugh, she lay on top of him, keeping him inside her still as she pushed her fingers through his close-cropped hair and rested her head on the uninjured part of his chest. There, still at last, she
could hear his breathing slow down again through her long delicate ears. Both shut their eyes and did not move for a good while.

‘I am cold,’ she said finally. ‘There are disadvantages to nakedness, are there not?’

They both dressed in silence, a silence that continued as they mounted and rode out of the glade. Finally they reached the path again.

‘This is where we part then,’ she said finally. She put her hand to her ear and pulled out one of the fine gold rings; it snagged her a little and, as she held it out to Morgan, he
could see some blood sticking to it.

‘I have nothing to give you,’ she said. ‘I hope this will suffice. Please keep it. If we do not meet again, I hope it will help remind you of our time together.’

He took it wordlessly; he had not expected such an emotional parting.

‘If I can, I will return to continue your war. Expect me in the spring if our Gods both will it.
Moton at ate sheren, Morgan, canteleva zhasessa seatano uvena dromea
.’ She
started to turn, not expecting him to speak.

‘Wait!’ he said finally. ‘Is there anything I can give you in return?’

She smiled mischievously. ‘You gave me something very pleasant earlier. But, if you are insisting, perhaps your knife?’

‘Isn’t it a bit clumsy and large for you?’

‘Oh, I would not use it in battle; I would keep it as a personal thing. It is like you in some ways – it has a strength, a power and reassurance to it, all of which I see in
you.’

He unclasped it from its belt and handed it to her. ‘I have had this weapon for over twenty years. I sharpen it every day. I have used it to do many things, not all of which I want to
recall right now. If you wish to do me the honour of remembering me, it is a fitting object to take.’

He handed it over to her and watched her clasp the belt around her waist, where it looked large and clumsy. He smiled. ‘It is not your size.’

They faced each other in silence for a second, knowing what was to come next. Finally Morgan spoke.

‘This is it then. I wish you luck with what you have to do. Make sure you live; it has taken me ten years to get over the loss of the last woman I loved. I have no wish to do all that
again.
Moton at ate sheren, Itheya
. If you never see me again, let me wish you happiness in your life to come.’

‘I have a new phrase for you –
ve dromea teo
.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘I am sure you already know.
Ve dromea teo, Morgan
– and may honour and peace be yours.’

This time she did turn, kicking her horse’s flanks with her heels, and did not stop to look back. Morgan watched her as she vanished into the trees. He then looked at her delicate earring
that he still had in his palm and put in carefully in a pouch at his waist. He rode back towards Reynard in a haze, turning what had happened over and over again in his head. Then he stopped his
horse and laughed. ‘I am much too old to be bothered with this,’ he said to Mona. ‘Just as you are. Do you know what, though? I have finally realised what to do with the assassin.
I just hope that the Gods are with me, just like they have been today.’

He then gave her a gentle nudge and steered her downhill towards Reynard, and then on to Felmere with all its concomitant responsibilities and headaches.

Whitey spat on to the bruised grass, tasting the blood in his mouth. This was not him, not him at all. Behind him the great campfires roared and spat sparks into the air. He
could hear the incessant beat of the war drums as played by the elders of these people, keeping up the encouragement to fight.

If he had been able to, he would have found a hole to scurry into by now. Acts of selfless heroism did not sit easily upon his shoulders, but when these creatures made their first charge of the
defences shortly after the sun went down, he saw he had no choice but to try and defend his little patch of fence from them. There was nowhere to run; this was what being a soldier meant, he
supposed. How he had prayed that they would attack somewhere else, that they would leave him alone, but, as ever, the Gods paid him no heed at all. As he stood there gripping his sword so tightly
his knuckles hurt, one of the beasts came straight for him. He saw its sharp white fangs, its glistening scales, which he realised were probably covered in a film of oil, and he smelt the stench of
peat and methane as it bore down on him. It grabbed one of the stockade posts, aiming to pull it out or disturb it sufficiently to make a large enough gap to attack him properly and then, once he
was felled, to burst through the defences and into their camp. Panicking, he swung his sword at the thing, missing it entirely as it grabbed his leather tunic and pulled his face against the post,
smacking his upper lip and making his gums bleed. He dropped his sword and grabbed at his knife as he felt his enemy’s claws dig into his shoulder. Then he found it, a quick thrust and he
heard it hiss as he caught it a blow on its side under the arm, causing black ichor to ooze from its wound. It would have been enough to deter a human, get him to run off howling in pain.

But this was no human.

It pulled the stockade posts further apart and grabbed for him again. This time, though, Whitey was quicker. He dodged the attempt and stabbed with the knife again, cursing as the
creature’s scales turned his blade. The he heard a bow sing behind him. Cygan the Marsh Man had loosed an arrow, striking it in the shoulder. The creature growled in anger, letting Whitey go.
Then he saw the slings being loosed at it. A small hail of stones hit it in the face and chest. Hissing at them, it dropped back into the darkness. It did not attack him again.

And that was just the first charge. What had happened to him was repeated in at least a dozen places around the circular stockade. They seemed to have a degree of coordination, giving the lie to
the idea that they were just mindless savage beasts, for, as suddenly as they had charged the humans, they all stopped. The noise of them dropping back into the water could be heard all around
their fortification.

Since then there had been two other charges, each one fiercer than the first. After each withdrawal the defenders rushed frantically to repair the damaged stockade, but as time went on it was
looking more and more bedraggled. The night was still young; there could still be a dozen more charges to come off them.

Cygan stared into the night, an arrow already knocked, waiting to fire. He had assumed they would try to ignite the oil as soon as the Malaac came for them but Dumnekavax had other ideas.

‘They begin their attacks slowly,’ he had said. ‘Testing our defences in different places. As the night goes on their numbers increase, with the hour before dawn being the
hardest. We have repelled them each time but there just seem to be more and more of them, maybe as many as two hundred. What I wish to do, then, is hold out until their attack is at its strongest
then release the fire arrows upon them.’

‘And if they break through earlier than expected?’

‘Then everything will change. They cannot run loose around the camp among the young and elderly. We attack them sooner if that does happen. Please, tell the men from the north of the
plan.’

Cygan had done so, finding everyone agreeable to the Elder’s suggestions. There was always an exception, though, someone with a strong sense of self-preservation wont to have little faith
in authority.

‘You want us to wait?’ Whitey also known as Barris had said. ‘Wait until just before dawn? That is a terrible idea, have you seen their claws, for Artorus’s
sake?’

‘We wait until their numbers are at the highest; our attack will be more effective that way.’ Cygan had his own reservations about the plan, but the Elder had spoken and he now had
more experience fighting the Malaac than Cygan had.

Whitey had grumbled under his breath for a good ten minutes afterwards. Cygan had noticed that he seemed happiest when he was grumbling. He left him to his griping and busied himself with tying
strips of cloth around a handful of his arrows and soaking them in oil. He then put them with the other arrows that remained unused, stuck head down in the earth, where he had initially placed them
before the first attack. He was stood close to one of the three great fires in the camp, fuelled by wood and peat that formed a smoking fiery triangle inside which huddled the children, the elderly
– including the elders and their drums – and some of the women. The remainder of them stood in a circle around the fire, slings in hand, a last line of defence if one was required.

Cygan looked up at the moon. It was nearly full; pale and clear with little cloud to conceal it. Across its face the bats flitted, tiny silhouettes rising and dipping almost faster than the eye
could follow in their constant search for food, and completely oblivious to the drama unfolding beneath them. And then the Malaac started to call again.

‘They don’t give up, do they?’ Whitey was close by grimacing at the howling these creatures were making. ‘Why doesn’t the dawn come? How much longer can we keep
them from breaking through?’