The Forgotten War (19 page)

‘I will miss you, Father. I fear I might get quite lonely.’

‘I will miss you, too, little one. It seems like only a few years ago you were a babe in arms and I was presenting you to the staff at Edgecliff. You were the only child that never cried;
you loved being held and shown the outside world, the sea and the cliffs and the ships bobbing in the harbour. Wulfthram is a good man, if a little dour; we have talked much over the last few days
and I know he will do well for you. Settle in over the winter and hopefully I will be up to see you in the spring.’

She wanted to ask him if he knew of the Grand Duke’s plans but her head felt too heavy. Instead, she kissed her father goodbye and retired to her room, completely failing to notice the
lecherous roaring of the crowd of drunken men behind her as they saw her go.

Doren was waiting for her, sitting in a chair by the dark wooden bed.

‘Right, my Lady, allow me to prepare you for your new husband. If you need the chamber pot, use it now so that I can wash you down there; men can be quite particular about such
things...’ Her words floated over Ceriana’s head.

So that was how Wulfthram found her some time later, laying on the bed in a thin shift, hair beautifully combed spread out on the sheet underneath her, a light citrus perfume dabbed behind each
ear, between her breasts and legs, make-up on her eyes and cheeks and ... snoring like a drain. He laughed silently to himself; perhaps she was going to be more interesting than he had
thought...

‘Father!’

No reply.

‘Father!’

Still nothing.

‘Father, A heron is eating all the fish!’

It was true, on the bank of the river a stake had been driven into the ground; a rope of thick twine connected it to a large wicker fish trap, weighted at the bottom, whose open end protruded
above the water. Hovering intently over this trap was an old silver-grey heron that was eating his fill from its contents. The bird was not so engrossed, however, as not to notice the stone
hurtling towards it. However, he was an experienced hand at this game – before the stone had found its mark he was away, propelling himself upwards with slow powerful wing beats, his belly
sated till the next morning.

The hurler of the stone ran towards the trap, passing two small urchins, neither of them more than four years old, sitting on the bank pointing their fingers at the heron. Stepping into the
water, he lifted the trap. There were still fish in there but in a greatly reduced number, though enough for a meal for three or four. He groaned, dropped the trap and walked towards the
children.

He was quite a young man but in that short lifetime exposure to sun and wind had left his skin brown and ruddy; his hair was jet black, short and plastered to his head. He wore breeches but no
shirt, and on both pectorals there appeared to be deliberate scarring in a pattern of a coiled rope reaching up to the base of his neck. His eyes, of a gentle brown, regarded the children
fondly.

‘We still have enough to eat tonight and there are other traps for tomorrow. Come, it is time to return home.’

He gently picked up the smallest child, a little girl, and strode off; the boy, a year or so older, scampered after him. There was another stake and rope here, but this time it was attached to a
small circular flat-bottomed boat. The man deposited the girl inside then held it steady so the boy could clamber in. He then returned to the trap, emptied out the fish, swiftly dispatched them,
impaled them on a sturdy-looking skewer and returned to his boat, leaving the trap in the river. He climbed in, freed the rope from its mooring and pushed off from the bank using a broad-bladed
paddle. He began to propel the boat forward using broad sweeps of his muscular forearms. The round boat started to glide forward, the paddles’ blade breaking the glassy, peat-black surface of
the water.

If a great seabird had the mind to fly northward, starting at the infinite broad sweep of the great Mothravian Delta and ending at the southern part of the Land of the Seven Rivers where Baron
Esric Calvannen was fighting nobly for the cause of the Grand Duke of Tanaren he would have traversed a vast, broken land of water and marsh scattered with occasional eyots of land, known simply as
the Endless Marshes. This is where the Seven Rivers, getting ever more sluggish, stumbled into each other like drunks in a crowded room. They ceased to have either direction or definition in this
land, diverting themselves into ponds or lakes or rolling incoherently between patches of land dotted with trees. Sometimes, they would come to their senses again and resemble a river once more,
their purpose regained, heading determinedly towards the sea, but this impetus never lasted long. Sooner or later the momentum would dissipate, the river would split into dozens of streams, which
in turn would sputter into deep lakes, or broaden into shallow treacherous marsh choked with weed and lily pads. Men of more civilised lands rarely, if ever, ventured here, a land of mosquitoes and
quagmires and other beasts the nature of which would only be discussed by hushed tavern gossips well into their drink.

Yet people did exist there. In tiny numbers, certainly, but the Marsh Men were there practising their own culture and traditions, only venturing up the Seven Rivers to trading posts where some
of the more exotic plants and animals could be bartered for iron or leather or even livestock. All the marsh villages kept a small herd of goats on the little scrap of dry land they were built on
– goats, after all, could eat anything – and their milk supplemented a diet that consisted mainly of fish, birds and their eggs, and the edible marsh plants, when they could be found.
To live in the marsh was to experience warm-to-hot summers punctuated by frequent thunderstorms, and winters that varied from mild to freezing, when whole lakes would ice over and snow would cover
this broad flat land in a blanket of silence. Silence defined this country in any season, though; often little could be heard above the sounds of gentle winds sighing through the reed beds, or the
slow metronomic wing beats of skeins of geese flying overhead, or the gentle ‘plunk’ of predatory fish breaking the water’s surface in pursuit of low-flying insects. It was a
timeless land, savage yet beautiful.

At length, they returned to their village. Here, the black river broadened into a small lake and at its centre was a green island bordered by reeds. Surrounding the island were half a dozen
one-room thatched shacks built on stilts, straddling the land and water. On the edge of the lake, where the bank was fringed with trees, were a few dozen more, also mainly built over the water.
Standing slightly apart from these and completely over the lake itself was a much larger structure. It had no walls and was thatched with rushes; and from each of the roof’s support posts
hung a grisly display of skulls – gleaming white and fleshless and grinning impassively over the brooding stillness. This was the great house that could hold upwards of fifty people, where
the elders and other inhabitants of the village would meet to discuss matters of import.

The man stopped his little boat at the island, hauled it ashore and helped the children get out. They followed him up the bank and on to a narrow wooden walkway leading to one of the houses. The
side of the house facing the island had no wall; a rush screen partly covering the roof could be lowered in bad weather and a wicker screen, normally used as a fence for the goat pen, could be
leaned against it in freezing weather and insulated with squares of turf cut from the bank. Now, however, neither was needed. The island itself was low and flat, with its grass cropped close by the
small herd of goats that wandered round untethered by day, though they would be penned in at night. Thin columns of smoke drifted up from some of the houses and the smell of cooking fish was
all-pervading.

He stepped into his shack. A large hammock was strung in the corner next to a couple of rush-covered cots. A pot was suspended from a roof beam above a raised fire pit which sat under a central
chimney that was nothing more than a small hole in the thatch above. A couple of wooden spears and a simple bow leaned against another wall and from the ceiling hung some thin lines of gut from
which were threaded various bone implements, hooks, needles, arrowheads and the like. Some wooden bowls and small bone knives lay by the fireplace. Apart from all that, the shack was bare. Well,
not completely, a woman was there. She was short and slim with long jet-black hair and skin that was paler than the man’s, though it, too, was weathered. She wore nothing except a woven skirt
dyed in blue and slippers made out of some soft leather. Like the man she was bare-chested. On seeing her, the children yelped excitedly.

‘Mama, we saw a heron; it started eating all the fish until Papa chased it away!’

‘We still have enough.’ he said, handing her the skewer.

‘You will need to go out again tomorrow,’ she said, taking it from him. ‘Winter is coming; we need to prepare. And Dumnekavax has called a council for this evening. Hunters
have returned with news; I don’t know what exactly but it didn’t sound good. It was even suggested that he may call on the spirit world to guide him.’

‘Truly?’ the man replied. ‘I wonder if I will be called upon? If the elder needs me, I will ask my brother to check the fish traps tomorrow.’

She frowned and admonished him. ‘Cyganexatavan, my husband, why would you be called upon? You are no longer a callow boy eager to prove himself. You have children now. Do not rush
foolishly into danger when there are younger, eager warriors with no responsibilities who would happily do so in your stead.’

He nodded. ‘Of course, you are right, Vaneshanda; my blood no longer has the heat of youth anyway. I will be content to listen and defend our home if necessary.’

She looked at him as if she didn’t quite believe him. ‘Honour that promise. Come, help me with this fish; then you can eat it with the stew before you have to go.’

‘As you wish. The children enjoyed themselves with me today. The boy was eager and quick to learn. It will not be long before his naming ceremony.’

‘By the spirits, you do not know!’ She looked distraught. ‘Poor Shettevellanda’s youngest boy, he was found dead today!’

Cyganexatavan looked up. ‘He has died? When did this happen?’

‘Shortly after you left, he was found still in his cot; his spirit must have left quietly in the night. She has three other boys but is obviously grieving. All of the women have taken
turns to sit with her, including myself, but it is still a sad time for her.’

‘I will go see Fasneterax, her husband. If I am able to check my fish traps tomorrow, then I shall do his also; he should remain with her for a while.’

‘I believe he has had many offers of this kind already,’ she said. ‘But it is right that you speak with him.’

‘Perhaps this is a part of the bad news of which you speak. Anyway let us eat and by the morrow we should all know a lot more.’

When Cyganexatavan took to the water again the sun was sitting close to the western horizon, its dying rays casting a violent-orange flare across the lake. Over at the great house the rush
torches had been lit, the summoning horn being sounded not five minutes earlier. Shadowy figures could be seen moving around on its floor and more and more people could be seen arriving. Round
boats, scuttling like giant water beetles, dotted the lake’s surface as they all converged at the same destination. There was a long, narrow jetty outside the house where the boats were
secured. Once they were tied up, their passengers could either haul themselves up on to the floor of the house directly or use one of the several short ladders provided for the same purpose.
Obviously, the younger element in the gathering made a point of never using the ladders.

Cyganexatavan was one of the last to arrive. The fish stew had been delicious and he had made sure he had as much of it as his stomach could handle. After securing his boat he climbed up to the
great house, making sure that he took the ladder. It was a male-only affair; people were circulating, talking to each other, before the Elder formally called the council together. As Cyganexatavan
got his bearings, a man, similar in size and appearance to himself but with a withered leg, hailed him, ‘Cygan, my little brother, I wasn’t sure you made it back in time.’ He came
towards him, hobbling and supporting himself on a sturdy walking stick. They embraced each other.

‘I had the children with me; I wanted them to see the fishing grounds for the first time, so I couldn’t stay out this evening.’ As he spoke, the wind seemed to pick up and the
torches sputtered. Cygan’s brother spoke again ‘The weather is changing; it will rain tonight for sure.’

‘The spirits are good to us, Uxevallak; a little rain keeps the midges away.’

‘But when it stops, they come back tenfold,’ replied his brother who was seemingly the less sanguine of the two. ‘Listen, have you seen Fasneterax yet?’

‘No, but I have been told what has happened. I was hoping to see him tonight, to ask if he needed assistance with anything.’

‘He won’t be coming,’ his brother replied in hushed tones ‘The Elder went and spoke to him earlier and told him all the news the rest of us will be hearing tonight;
apparently the Elder might be wanting volunteers for something, for a few people heard Fasneterax declare “Whatever it is that needs to be done, you must include me.” I myself am unsure
if sending a grieving man on some errand is a wise decision – it can cloud their judgement – but it sounds as if there will be no stopping him.’

‘Intriguing – it seems as if the Elder has already determined on a course of action. I wonder what has made him...’

He was interrupted by a sharp hissing sound. At the back of the room was a large brazier, one of the few metallic objects in the village. As Cygan was speaking, a man dropped a mixture of leaves
and powders into it, causing it to flare up into a riot of pinks and purples. It hissed loudly and a pungent white smoke filled the room before being caught by the stiffening breeze. This was the
signal for the meeting to commence. Everyone present proceeded to sit cross-legged on the floor, bar the man at the brazier, who now turned to face them.