The Forgotten War (169 page)

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 He realised that all the Malaac had withdrawn and that both the men of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 in 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. Soon 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.