The Forgotten War (157 page)

‘As the two armies beheld each other, waiting for the other to make the first move, it started to rain. Not a mere shower or even downpour but a great inundation, one that swept away
tents, caused wagons and chariots to stick in the liquefying ground, ruined bowstrings and caused armour to rust almost overnight. With the sky turning to ink, both armies retired to their camps
until the storm finally broke.

‘Finally, just after dawn, the rain stopped and the sky began to clear. Tanar had already started to deploy his men. Cuyethu was about to do the same when a cry of consternation came from
the men of the Marsh. Cuyethu looked to the river.

‘The rains had turned this stretch of water into a massive lake that had expanded fully into the plain below them. It had swollen to such an extent that it had fully swallowed the Isles of
Metu; they had sunk below the waters and could no longer be seen with the naked eye. They had truly disappeared from this earth.

‘Cuyethu and Tuneveferak met and talked. With a heavy heart Cuyethu accepted that the Marsh Men should leave. The gods of both peoples may have been different but the understanding
fostered by months of battle had led to both sets of beliefs being respected equally. And so it was Cuyethu deployed for battle as the Marsh Men began their long journey home.

‘As I am sure you have guessed, it was Tanar who was triumphant that day. Cuyethu was killed and his head put on a spear and his tribe, the Denussi, were decimated to such an extent that
they were forced to flee under the gloomy eaves of Seyavanion where they fell under the wing of the Morioka tribe, a shadow of their former selves.

‘The army of Tanar swiftly reconquered all of their old territories and went further, making punitive attacks into the Marsh as a reprisal for what they saw as treachery against their own
kind. But they could not fully defeat the Marsh folk as they could not defeat the elves. Both peoples endured and, especially in the Marsh, flourished.

‘And now, for the first time in all history, all three peoples are united, here to fight a greater, more alien and ancient foe than they have encountered before. Maybe it is a new
beginning for us, the start of an era of friendship and cooperation never before seen among us. We all have different Gods, different beliefs, but maybe for the first time we will allow our
similarities to unite us, rather than let our differences foment hatred and suspicion as it has been in the past.’

Dirthen (and Cygan, his throat raw after so much translating) finished his tale, expecting to sit down in silence. He reckoned without the enthusiasm of the Marsh folk though. First one stood
then another and then several more. Swiftly, they started to cry, a bizarre high-pitched noise created by rolling the tongue over the top of the mouth. In no time at all, the entire audience of
Marsh Men were doing the same, a noise that drowned out the crackle of the fire, the calls of the night birds and the gentle running of the river. Cygan turned to Dirthen and said drily.
‘They liked it.’

Then, however, came another noise, almost as if in response to the calls of the Marsh Men. This, however, did not emanate from a human throat. They could tell it was distant, very distant, yet
its keening pitch and piercing nature ensured that it travelled many miles over the flat lonely expanses surrounding it. It was the shriek of a savage beast, one of a size too vast to envisage. But
all knew what it was, a serpent to dwarf all others and send them slithering to their holes in terror; not a beast but a god, something fashioned not of flesh and blood but of fire and sulphur, of
magma and mercury, something that had existed since primeval times, since before the first man planted his toes in the cloying mud of this earth.

‘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 squish 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.