The Forgotten War (167 page)

‘Sometimes you sound more like a woman than my wife, my friend. It is not the way of the warrior to submit to such weak impulses. It has happened, Cygannan willed it so and it is something
that we both have to accept. And now I have to stand here and hurl clay balls at some lizard man. It is a child’s game, nothing more.’

Cygan could not suppress a smile. ‘Yet you will endure it; it is for our people after all.’

Fasneterax grunted. ‘And now we wait.’

‘Indeed, and only the Gods know exactly what for.’

Cygan left him, meaning to join the men at the edge of the island, but before he could get there he was brought up short. It had returned again, a sharp pain in his head and floating white
shapes in front of his eyes. He stopped and put his hand to his temple, breathing heavily. It was the second or third time it had happened since they had left the Black Lake. He stayed rooted to
one spot until at last the pain started to clear. He thought back to the beating he had been given in Baron Eburg’s dungeon; these headaches had started shortly after that. Thus far no one
had seen his debility, except for his wife from whom he had no secrets, and Whitey and his brother on the one occasion, outside his home. She was all for stopping him from leaving the village but
he had put his foot down. ‘It is not as bad as it used to be,’ he had lied to her. She hadn’t believed him but had let him go, knowing there was no way he would be staying behind
with the women and the old men.

Once his head had cleared sufficiently, he looked around to see if he had been noticed. Fortunately, everybody was engaged in looking out over the water or fussing over their weapons or
equipment. He had seemingly got away with it again. Or had he? As he scanned the island and its warriors nervously going about their business, he caught someone who was not moving, who was standing
stock still and staring right back at him. Inevitably, it was Whitey. He watched him for a while before turning his back and taking his place in the line. Cygan knew that, if both of them survived
the day, he would have to discuss the matter with Whitey again. Not now, though, surviving was the thing on his, and everybody else’s, mind at the moment.

Cygan joined the line, checking his bow was strung tightly and that his spearhead was sharp. Time passed with little change. They started to get used to the bitter smell of the column of black
fire behind them, which continued to burn as though still fresh. At its top it dissipated into a flat mushroom of white cloud which spread out over the lake in all directions, its extremities now
shrouded from them by the ever-present mist. Cygan wondered exactly how far it had spread and if it had yet to be noticed by the thing it was designed to attract.

Then, at last, a man four or five places to his left gave a cry and held out his spear, pointing at something in the lake. They all looked out to over the water. And the man was right –
there it was, something the mist could not fully conceal, a black head, roughly man-sized, just out of the water, staring quietly at them.

‘The Malaac have found us!’ the man called. No one risked a bow shot; it would be far too difficult to hit a moving target at this distance, but as the word spread among the
defenders spears were lowered and held out defensively. A man behind him gave a call next – evidently another one had been seen – then another man called and yet another. As Cygan
watched one head became two, and then three, until finally he lost count of the number of bobbing heads, calmly watching them. Cygan felt suddenly nervous. This time, unlike the other occasions he
had fought these creatures, it was they who were the intruders and the Malaac would not give up so easily he was sure of that, not now it was their home that had been invaded. Their numbers were
increasing, too, all the time until it was difficult to tell one from another such was their proximity. The men were completely surrounded.

And then the Malaac started to call.

It was a howl they were all used to hearing by now, but out here, in this strange, unfamiliar lake whose bounds could no longer be seen with the naked eye, it was far, far more unnerving. Men
glanced at their neighbours, hoping maybe that they were somehow exhibiting fewer nerves and greater stoicism than they, but nearly all were disappointed with what they saw. The howling grew in
both volume and power until it was chilling the soul of the doughtiest of them. They all knew what the Malaac were saying.

‘This is our home! You do not belong here.’

And they were right. There was a reason no man lived here, or near by. There was a demarcation between man and monster that had stood for centuries. First the Malaac had broken it and had been
punished; now was it the turn of the men to suffer?

Then there was another noise. Cygan heard it; they all heard it. A great rushing of water, like a dam had been burst, releasing everything pent up behind it in one great surge. Something beyond
their line of sight was ploughing through the water at great speed. Something large, as large as the great ships of the sea Cygan had seen on one or two occasions when he had journeyed all the way
to the coast to harvest seaweed and birds eggs. Something huge. Something colossal. Something gigantic.

Cygan’s lips and throat dried within seconds. What was making that noise? Then the Malaac stopped calling, leaving a silence that suddenly seemed even more terrifying. Fasneterax broke it,
calling for his slingers to be ready; it was a welcome sound.

And then came another call. It was like the cry they had heard the other night after Dirthen had finished his tale by the beacon. Then it had unsettled them – a high piercing wail that had
drifted over the damp ground setting ice in many hearts. But then it had been many, many miles away. Here, in this bleak forsaken place, it was a thousand times worse. It lanced through their
eardrums into their brains, impossibly loud, impossibly alien, the call of a creature out of legend, a great vengeful god, a call of despair to its enemies, bleak, desolate and terrible. It laid
waste the hearts of the men that heard it and spoke to them of only one thing. Death. The death that awaited all of them should they so remain. Men started to edge back from their positions,
glancing nervously at the boats.

‘Stand fast!’ he heard Captain Dennick call to the men of the north. ‘If you take to the boats now, you will all die. Here we have a chance!’

Cygan was impressed by these words and repeated them to the Marsh Men. Their resolve returned and spears were once again hefted in defence, a circle of sharp points, their only protection
against that which lay beyond them in the water.

The Malaac started to call again, the call that foretold of imminent attack. Behind them suddenly Cygan could see something at last, a great shadow, something truly vast moving slowly, circling
them. It was difficult to tell from the shroud of grey fog that enveloped it, but it was long and serpentine, ending in a great arrow-shaped head held above the water line at the height of maybe
twenty, maybe thirty, men. Then it vanished. There was the sound of a great, heavy weight plunging under the water’s surface and shortly afterwards a wave, knee-high washed over the island,
soaking the breeches of its defenders.

And then, finally, and almost as a relief to the human warriors, the Malaac attacked.

Cheris would not recommend riding a horse, however docile, to anyone. She was tired, saddle-sore and was starting to smell like the beast on which she was sitting. It had been
two to three hours since her departure from Felmere, a lonely journey through open deserted fields with the river Fel chattering over its stony, shallow bed a constant and voluble companion. She
had crossed it not that long ago; seeing it foam and bubble and its bank shallow, she had taken the chance, urging her steed into the water, where, as she had suspected, it barely reached the
animal’s haunches. Not for the first time that day she thanked Elissa and Camille and indeed Morgan for giving her such a patient, reliable and understanding mount. All she had to do was
point her in the right direction and give her a nudge. Granted on several occasions the old thing had stopped of her own volition to chew at a particularly sweet clump of grass, but Cheris did not
force the issue so glad was she not to have fallen or be taken in the entirely opposite direction to the one she had intended.

She looked back towards Felmere Town. There it stood, stubborn and obdurate, flags flying from the high tower of the keep. But all was not well there; barely minutes after she had started her
journey she had heard the drums and horns of Trask’s army. They were at the town now, not numerous enough to fully surround it but clustered in great numbers before the front gate, spread out
on either side in a crescent formation. She could see catapults and other machines of war being deployed. In a way, she was happy to see them, for at least she knew exactly where they were, where
Trask was, for surely he was at their heart, directing everything. And what she was doing, where she was going, was all about him after all. For as long as they were both alive it would always be
about him. She turned away from the city and back to her own journey.

A little further on and the grass was finally swallowed up by trees. Looking up, she saw them clothing the hills rising up to the mountains. The waterfall was close by and the shelf of rock next
to it, the place she had previously visited with Sir Dominic. There was still a fair bit of climbing to be done to get there and she wanted to arrive there sometime before nightfall. She needed
time to prepare and would rather use natural light than the candle she had brought with her and she did not want to divert her energies producing a magical light, not without good reason.

‘Come on, my girl; it’s into the woods for us.’ She nudged the horse gently and disappeared into the shadows under the trees where the scent of pine resin was still strong. And
still the river danced its merry way alongside her.

Morgan’s face was as grim and unmoving as the battlement on which he now stood. Sir Trask, as expected, was well prepared and organised. He watched as his army arrived and immediately
deployed their mantlets, great hide-covered wooden screens behind which Trask’s men could get to work safe from the threat of arrows and slingshot. Morgan knew what they were doing, digging
ditches behind which the catapults could be placed, now protected from cavalry. Morgan considered asking Dominic to lead a sortie against the new arrivals before the ditches could be completed but
on reflection decided against it. Trask had many men out there, including, he saw, crossbowmen who were capable of cutting down horses with one shot. It would be folly to lose his elite cavalry at
this early stage, especially when the elves and Reynard’s Eagle Claws had been instructed to keep well away from here. He could not risk the only cavalry he had. He supposed that he could try
to get a message to Reynard but he wondered how much the courage of the messengers would cost, both in terms of lives and coin. They would have to be smuggled out through side gates after dark and
then left to cross the open country, crawling as it was with hostile troops – not a job for those of a nervous disposition, especially as torturing the enemy’s envoys to death had
become routine over the past few years.

There had been some encouraging news, though. As Trask’s army slowly approached, three thousand pairs of studded and mailed boots stomping over the hard ground, the city gates were left
open to admit the last handful of stragglers and refugees seeking security within the walls of the city. Morgan watched them come in, bringing their carts and animals with them, hardy families with
wide-eyed children who still believed they could make a go of surviving in this war-torn landscape. Morgan guessed that, like him, they had lived here all their lives, as had their parents and
grandparents and generations before them. It was difficult to surrender that which felt so precious. He gave instructions for them to be housed and fed, But they were not the arrivals that had
heartened him so. Just before he gave the instructions to shut the gates and lower the portcullis, a group of priests riding upon some sturdy ponies trotted into the city, their hooves clopping on
the road. They were carrying their Books of Artorus around their necks and were obviously of the Frach Brotherhood – why on earth were they seeking sanctuary here? He gave orders to have them
detained, so that he could speak to them. Leaving Captain Mirik in charge, he hurried down the steps to speak to their leader, a lugubrious-looking man, bald with great bushy white eyebrows, a man
so tall he dwarfed the pony he was sat upon.

‘What has happened with the church?’ he asked. ‘Are you fleeing Trask’s men? If so, why?’

The man shook his head; he appeared mortified. ‘Trask and his thugs are an affront to the dignity of the holy church. He seeks to destroy the divine order of things and to put himself
above other men. His king and barons are mere poodles, puppets whose strings he is more than happy to pull. When a fellow brother spoke against him in his sermon, Trask sent his men to deal with
him, the church was burned, its artefacts looted and poor Father Inna was hung from the nearest tree, his body despoiled by birds. The man pays service to the Gods only insofar as he can use them
for his own ends. The Frach brethren have abandoned his new “country”; some of the Artoran churchmen remain but they are diminishing. Godless his domain will soon be and all souls
within it shall be forever accursed.’

‘You are leaving the people without their gods?’ This was a horrific concept even for Morgan, hardly the most pious of men.

‘They will be welcome in the country of the Grand Duke and of those loyal to him. The Gods never abandon those that do not abandon them.’

‘You will always be welcome here. Maybe soon you can return to the houses of the Gods you have been forced to leave.’ Morgan let them continue onwards into the city. This was an
interesting development, indeed. He knew of no one who could tolerate being without spiritual guidance for long, least of all a frightened and confused populace. Trask had miscalculated badly.
Without the support of the church, it would be impossible to rule any sort of country, never mind a fledgling one. He had lost the influential Frach Brotherhood and it sounded like the regular
church was vacillating, too. Lukas Felmere had had to show proper contrition and pursue to the death those that had violated a Frach monastery, but if Trask was doing the persecuting himself he
would never be forgiven. Added to that was the fact that there were no group of people more pious and superstitious than soldiers. Trask was well known for inspiring fierce loyalty in his most
valued troops, but a situation like this might give even his most steadfast warriors pause.