The Forgotten War (159 page)

She started down the stairs, her heart pounding fit to burst. She was never the nervous type but now she could feel her fingers trembling at her sides and her breath coming in short shallow
gasps. The absurdity of the situation, of her and her brother duelling; a fight that neither of them wanted but equally one that neither of them could back down from was becoming more and more
apparent as time passed, but despite her racking her brain for a sensible way of avoiding this situation none had come to her. And now here she was. Here they both were. As she reached the lower
steps, she was engulfed in shadow as the great buttresses of rock to her left and right closed in above her. At last the steps became slippery. She saw the ocean spray rise and fall ahead of her;
the gorge was barely a stone’s throw away.

She cleared the last step. Ahead of her was a plinth of stone on which rested a sword, a shield and two discs maybe a foot in diameter which looked to be fashioned out of shining gold. She
picked up the shield, which was circular and made out of some sort of tough hide, and slung it over her shoulder. The sword was curved with a thin blade that appeared to be fashioned out of
intertwined shapes of gold and steel. Its hilt, too, was of gold with bright gems clustered at the pommel. It was an antique weapon, unsuited for battle, but with enough durability to withstand a
duel such as this. Its scabbard was attached to a thin golden belt, which she fastened around her waist. Then she picked up the discs, the chakrams that could be hurled at the enemy. It was not her
intention to kill, though, so she would aim to miss. Just.

Behind her, the tribal dignitaries and musicians had climbed some halfway down the stairs. The rest of the tribe stood at the top of the gorge looking down, jostling for the best view. The
musicians started to play again. Itheya strode up to the very brink of the gorge and looked down at the broil and ferment of the sea below.

Her brother stood on the other side of the gorge, directly opposite her. The yawning chasm between them was around thirty feet in length, much too wide to jump across, even for an agile elf.
That problem had been mitigated, however, for the trunks of three great trees had been split into two and laid across the gap, flat side down, acting like six crude bridges. They had been spaced
carefully so that the gap between each trunk was around five or six feet, wide enough for any misstep to lead to a rapid death in the violent waters beneath.

She readied the first chakram and waited for the blast of the great goat horn that Tetrevenn was now carrying, the signal to start the whole sorry charade. Deep breaths, Itheya, and compose
yourself. She slipped off her boots, all the better to grip the bark on the makeshift bridges and waited, feeling a vein in her temple pulsing hard.

Then the horn sounded, and she heard her breath hiss through her clenched teeth as her brother hopped on to one of the logs. Before he could set himself fully she hurled the first chakram over
the gorge aiming a foot or so above Dramalliel’s head. The brightly coloured disc swerved through the air before arcing towards him. It cleared him comfortably before hitting the stone steps
behind him, striking sparks from the stone as it clattered noisily, before coming to rest at the junction of step and wall.

She sprang on to the second bridge from the right and waited for his riposte. It came quickly, the gold on the disc flaring briefly under the high sun above the gorge. She wondered by how far
his attempt would miss her and watched it intently as it curved in the air towards her. It would be close, she thought, as its trajectory started to dip. She could hear it slicing the air as it
sped closer and closer until finally she had to admit to a deeply unpalatable truth.

It wasn’t going to miss her at all.

She had less than a second to react before it sliced her head off. She sprang to her right on to the final log bridge on that side, trying to duck under the thing and retain her balance. She
barely managed to do both, tottering briefly before righting herself. Behind her she heard the thing hit the stone platform with a frightful metallic clatter. She put her hand behind her. The
chakram had sliced off nearly half of her pony tail.

It did not take too much to anger Itheya, especially where her brother was concerned, and that line had been crossed already. In temper, she hurled the other chakram aiming directly for his
head. As she had just done, he seemed uncertain for a second, not knowing whether she was aiming to miss deliberately. He realised the truth soon enough, though, and leapt from bridge to bridge,
leaving the chakram to pass him with a few feet to spare.

He moved forward closing the gap between them. He still had one chakram left and seemed determined not to waste his opportunity. She kept the distance between them, jumping from bridge to bridge
to do so, feeling the rough bark under her feet, uneven and sometimes painful. Salt stung her eyes, causing her to blink frequently; she consoled herself with the thought that it would be the same
for him. His final throw when it came she saw all the way, hopping clear from it as gracefully as a hunting cat.

All the chakrams had been used; both protagonists drew their swords and readied their shields. The shields had been painted with the green and gold of the tribe; the swords were a matched pair,
catching the sun and glinting in gold and silver. The two of them circled each other patiently, blinking hard when the sun caught their eyes or created flares in the rising salt mist that made
everything underfoot slippery and their leathers slick to the touch.

This was no human duel with its roaring crowd thirsty for blood and its fighters trying to overpower the other with a crudely swung blade. This was a ballet. The crowd here watched in respectful
silence as brother and sister circled each other blades raised high and pointed directly at their opponent. Using instinct to guide them, they did not even look down as they jumped from bridge to
bridge never taking their eyes off each other. Nearly an hour passed without a blow made in anger, their wet hair stuck to their heads, their feet red and sore, wet and cold, but neither of them
seemed to notice. They moved in silence as the sea roared its fury beneath them.

Finally Dramalliel made a move. He sprang towards her bounding over each log, lithe and agile. Then he leapt. Not towards her but over her, clearing her head by over a foot. As he did so he
swung his blade at her face taking a slice out of her raised shield. Then he landed several feet behind her, turning in an instant and raising his shield defensively. She turned to face him,
stepping back a little.

‘Trying to impress the crowd?’ she said sardonically. ‘You leave yourself wide open doing that.’

‘Then why did you not strike me down?’ He did not take his eye off her for a second. ‘You had better not be holding back, I am certainly not.’

‘So I had noticed,’ she hissed. ‘Defend yourself then; let me see what you are made of.’

She leapt forward, blade raised and made to slice directly at her brother’s head. He parried, striking sparks from each sword as the blades clashed. The previous hour’s slow-build
was replaced by a frenzy of swirling blades moving faster than the eye could follow. They parried, dodged, leapt from bridge to bridge in a breathless unrestrained assault. Both shields had been
slashed and cut; both blades were notched; the sparks still flew and still neither could gain the advantage. At one point Itheya aped her brother, leaping clean over him as he slashed vainly at her
feet. When she landed she reversed her blade, almost catching him as he advanced on her exposed back. Her sword even pierced his shield but stopped an inch from his chest. The duel continued.

The sun was beginning to slide into the west now; soon it would have dropped enough to plunge the gorge into semi-darkness where the churning sea would become black as night and the white spray
about them would change to azure. They had been fighting for hours and ancient folk though they were, even they were starting to tire. The combat frenzy of earlier had been replaced by a more
circumspect approach, each of them picking and choosing their time to strike. And still the tribe watched in silence.

Itheya could barely feel her fingers so wet and cold were they, but her aches and pains were incidental. Her focus was so intense that she did not hear the sea, did not notice the onlookers or
the great cliffs that enfolded them both. It was just her, her brother, the six bridges and their weapons. Nothing else. Nothing.

She came at him again, wielding her blade in a blur of steel and gold. He defended with both sword and shield but then, with her final blow, she clove his shield clean in two. He leapt
backwards, hurling the useless thing into the abyss and held the sword ahead of him breathing hard.

Casually she let her own shield drop into the sea and lifted her blade high to receive his next attack. ‘Getting tired? Ready to submit yet?’ She tried desperately not to show her
own weariness as she made her remarks.

‘I have barely begun,’ he said cuttingly. He jumped slightly up and down on his bridge, limbering up for what he was to do next. As they faced each other, he started to run at her.
She knew exactly what was coming.

He was going to leap over her again. She waited quietly, trying to anticipate when he was going to spring high above her. She timed it well and knelt down low as he did so. His blow sliced
nothing but air; he was obviously surprised as he looked down and behind him at her, forgetting for a second to look to where he was landing.

She heard him land, heavily by the sound of it, and quickly got to her feet and swung round, blade poised ready for him.

She lowered it immediately, though. He was in trouble. He lay slumped over one of the bridges, struggling feebly, his face looking down at the sea. She sheathed her sword and ran over to him,
turning him over and cradling his head in her arms, trying to see exactly what was wrong.

He still held his sword but the tip of the blade had snapped off and was stuck firmly in his chest close to his heart. His face was grey and pale and blood flecked his mouth and lips.

‘Spirits curse us both!’ she grimaced. ‘Hold on, brother, I will have to take the blade out before I can use my power on you.’

His head rolled a little as he looked at her. His words were halting. ‘No, sister, take the blade out and I will die; I can feel it.’

‘Then I will try to heal what I can now,’ she said, trying to remain calm. ‘If I can patch you up a little now, I can get you off the bridge where better healers can look at
you.’ She moved her hand over his chest ready to call her magic forth.

To her surprise he released his sword and stopped her hand, grabbing her wrist firmly. ‘Stop. Do not do that.’

She was perplexed. ‘Why ever not?’

His breath came in ragged gasps. ‘Because I do not want you to. Let me have my way just this once. Just this once.’

Her jaw hardened. ‘No. Do not be silly. I am not letting you die. Let me heal you. We can forget your exile; there must be a way around it.’

His grip on her wrist tightened. He leaned closer to her, spitting blood on to her armour. ‘No! It is not that, sister! It never has been; how little you understand.’

She suddenly started to tremble a little. ‘Then enlighten me, please.’

He gave the slightest of smiles. ‘Ah, my sweet, radiant big sister, always the cleverest, the most beautiful, fastest with a blade and always first in our father’s affections. Do you
have any idea what it is to always be second in everything? Of course, you do not. I have lived my life in your shadow, my girl – from the moment I killed mother as she brought me into this
world.’

She stroked his soaking hair, pulling it clear from his brow. ‘Do not say such a thing! Mother died because Zhun called her to him, nothing more than that. And I do not know how much it
means but you have never been second to me. I love you, brother; people that love each other argue and fight, but ultimately none of that matters purely because they love each other. Now let me
heal you!’

He would not release his grip on her, though it was weakening.

‘The human. Have the two of you...?’

She nodded slowly. ‘It is strange. I have ... feelings for him; I cannot explain fully.’

‘You know the two of you can never be together.’

‘Yes,’ she said quietly. ‘I know.’

He smiled again. ‘Who knows, though, if your vision comes to pass and relations improve between us and them, maybe in the future...?’

‘Maybe, brother, maybe.’

He choked loudly, coughing more blood on to her; she tried not to show her distress. For him.

‘I hope you can find a way. You deserve happiness away from your duties. You are haughty, and short-tempered but you are a good person. It may not seem like it but I have been proud to
call you sister, despite everything.’

‘And I you brother, truly. Now please stop talking and let me help you.’

Dramalliel looked behind him where other elves were climbing on to the bridges to assist him.

‘Live gloriously, sister. Win your war, make your people proud, and do not forget me.’ Then, with a strength she did not know he still had, he twisted from her grasp and rolled off
the edge of the bridge into the roiling seas beneath, where he was quickly lost to view under the churning spray.

She leaned over the precipice, half on, half off, her head frantically scanning the sea for a sign. All she got was a mouthful of wet salt.

‘Dram!’ she shrieked at the water, all self-control lost. ‘Dram!’

She had not called him that since childhood but it was futile – her only answer came from the soaring gulls and the echo of her own voice. She felt strong hands pulling her back from the
brink, back to safety, back from her brother. She went limp and let them lead her back to the steps. She vaguely heard them call her leader; they even saluted her but they might as well have been
talking to the stone. All of her close family were now dead.

She remembered little of the ceremony where she was declared Mhezhen. It took place as it always had done on the lawn close to the island, the place where she had taken Morgan
and Cedric before they had met her father. There amid the colourful pavilions she sat on her great white charger as Tetrevenn completed the litany in which all the tribes formally accepted her
accession. It was a tradition going back thousands of years that the tribes new leader was accepted while sitting on a horse. On the plains horses were transport, status and, if necessary, food
and, though their importance in the forest had diminished, they were still revered by the people that lived there. On her head was a wreath fashioned from the slenderest and longest twigs of the
silverwood tree; she wore vambraces of silver on her arms, and her long tunic, too, was of silver and white. All that and her pale skin made her appear almost translucent in the winter sunshine.
There was a thin carpet of snow on the ground and the bare trees covered in their silver streamers gave the whole scene an appearance of ethereal unworldliness – as though it was not
happening in this dull, grey world but rather on some heavenly firmament away from pain, suffering, disease and ugliness. Which was exactly where Itheya wished she was now.