The Forgotten War (175 page)
For a second nothing happened, except that the demon realised its mistake. Cheris sensed it readying to strike her, but before it could it started to move.
It started to move away from her; the spell did work after all.
And Cheris watched it all the way. Watched as it was lifted into the air, watched as it moved over the plateau and watched as it was propelled, resisting, directly into the waterfall, contacting
untold tons of crashing water as it did so.
And then the entire mountain side exploded.
Cheris dived back under the sheltering boulder, lying flat on her belly and stopping up her ears against the incredible noise. The narrow gorge that funnelled the river over the mountain side
was instantly and irrevocably opened, as great chunks of rock slid down into the forest, flattening trees and sending a thousand startled birds high into the air. The waters, hemmed in for so long,
were suddenly released as the falls instantly trebled in width. Down they plunged, into the splash pool, and now the land surrounding the falls, too, carrying everything – rocks, trees, earth
and the demon itself – before it. All that was left of the demon was a frail blue light, glowing in the midst of the great deluge, firing weaker and weaker bolts of lightning skywards. These
fires, feeble though they were, were the last defiant act of a dying creature. By the time the river emptied out into the plains past the woods spilling over the banks and flooding the surrounding
fields, it showed as little more than a pale wisp of light, weakly illuminating the bed of the river. By the time the river regained its integrity and the flood that carried over either verge had
subsided into little more than a few broad standing pools, the demon was dead, its light replaced by that of the pallid moon.
And then the silence returned.
Cheris moved stiffly, brushing the dust of pulverised stone and earth out of her hair. Slowly she eased herself into a standing position and at last noticed the painful scratches on her arms.
She started to shake at the thought of what she had just done, how close to death she had just come. And now she had to return, maybe to death at the hands of those knights sworn to protect
her.
It was a dawn of smoke and ashes. All night the people of Felmere, including its soldiers, had cringed and hidden and prayed behind walls that had seemed less and less secure. And now, with the
feeble light of the early morn showing a sickly yellow over the plain, Morgan, Dominic and a hundred soldiers had the city gates opened so they could see at first hand exactly what had
happened.
Some of the catapults were still burning and all were charred and smashed, lying at all kinds of angles half in, half out of the ditches designed to protect them. The grass over the entirety of
the enemy camp was blackened and burned; one tent alone remained untouched, scorched but still standing, a solitary sentinel in a land of ruin. But it was the bodies that stunned everyone into
silence. Most had had their flesh burned away, skeletons in armour that had part fused to the bones; these smoking remnants of what had once been men lay scattered over the plain as far as the eye
could see. Never in this war had the destruction of an army been so complete, so terribly and clinically comprehensive.
‘How many do you think?’ Morgan asked Dominic trying to keep his voice under control.
‘Many hundreds. Maybe over a thousand. At least. I don’t really know.’
Morgan strolled towards the banner poles, the banners themselves long since incinerated, kicking up dust as he went. As he did so, he realised uncomfortably that the dust could easily have been
up till recently the flesh and blood of men. Their own countrymen. He looked up at the sky and closed his eyes.
There was a sudden commotion among the outlying soldiers. Morgan went towards it. Men were peeling back from something, retreating as oil flees from water; their faces were full of astonishment
and fear.
Moving through them, coming towards him was a figure on horseback, riding slowly and uncertainly. He knew immediately who it was and walked up to it, even as other men fled.
Cheris’s skin was ashen, her face pale and drawn with fatigue. Her eyes, though, were wide with horror as she surveyed the scene, a scene of her own making.
Morgan helped her dismount, which she did daintily; it was hard for all of them to think of her as just another woman at this moment.
‘I assume Trask is somewhere among them?’ Morgan tried to sound matter-of-fact.
Cheris nodded, barely able to comprehend what she was seeing. ‘I had no idea,’ she said weakly. ‘I never knew all this...’ She trailed off.
‘I will have to give you to the knights. They want to arrest you. You understand.’
‘Yes. Oh ’Lissa’s blood, what have I done?’
Morgan took her pack off her as she offered it to him. ‘What have you done? I have seen dozens of apparently decisive blows in this war that have all come to nothing. But this time, maybe
you have struck a true blow to the enemy. Trask is dead. Fenchard is dead. West Arshuma is dead. Come spring, the balance of power may have changed irreversibly. All because of you.’
Dry though they were, she still managed to wipe a tear from her eye.
‘My mentor Marcus used to tell me that I never understood the extent of my own power, that I could be as Xhenafa, harbinger of the dead. Now I am thinking that even he did not know what I
could do. What am I, Morgan? What monster am I? See how your men fear me.’
Morgan put a comforting arm on her shoulder, noting how physically frail she seemed. ‘You are as the Gods have made you, no more, no less. What you are is beyond your control, how you act
in your time allotted is, however, and your deeds will live on long after you. The people of Felmere owe you a debt. Whatever the knights want to do with you, be sure that I will have my voice
heard on your behalf.’
They started to walk towards the city gates. Dominic started to give orders regarding the disposal of the dead. At the gates Cheris noticed two Knights of the Thorn, undoubtedly waiting for
her.
‘I destroyed the city pass you had written for me. I will put my escape down to magic, bribery and my superior intelligence. You and Mikel will not be compromised. And do not fear about
defending me. I have killed so many; death would be a just reward for my folly and vanity.’
Morgan laughed, his voice dry and cracked. ‘I disagree. I will do everything I can to protect you, no matter how much you protest; anyhow, you haven’t told me how revenge feels.
Trask is dead, you are free of him, are you not?’
She stopped, looking back at the scene of devastation. ‘Since seeing this I have not thought about it. How does it feel? It has not really sunk in. He is dead but what he did will never go
completely. I should not complain, though; not after all this. I really had no idea...’
‘Shush,’ said Morgan kindly. ‘Think on it, I will ask you again one day. Now, however, the knights want you and it is best not to keep them waiting.’
‘No,’ said Cheris. ‘It is not. In the pack is a book they will want. My possessing it alone might well mean death for me. Right now I really don’t care what they
do.’
‘But you will, though; you will. Now go to them.’
Cheris did so and let them escort her back towards the castle. Morgan watched her go for a while then turned back to the plain of bones, calling out instructions to his men. And from the plain
the smoke continued to rise.
1
Lake Winmead is a mere of unsurpassing beauty and tranquillity, its waters cold and sapphire blue, deeper than the mountains are high. It is studded with islands of
verdant forest, radiant emeralds on a bed of soft velvet. It is broad enough so that one bank cannot be espied from the other and across it moves a fleet of white-sailed fishing boats, for many
fish lurk beneath the placid surface. Alongside the west bank of the lake trails an arm of the Derannen Mountains, spiky white teeth diminishing in size the further south they travel, until
they are swallowed up by lush hills and woods of oak, birch and lime. At its southern point, fed by the lake, the river Ros starts its journey south, surrounded by broad meads carpeted by lily
pads and bog asphodel. Here, the Virgin River is wide but slow, crossed by an elven bridge of several spans that run across a series of small islands, rather like stepping stones can cross a
stream. To the north is a sight that has caused even the well-travelled among us to gasp in awe. For here are the Hythe Falls of legend. Miles broad they are, falls running into rivers running
into falls; down several vast shelves of rock they tumble, falling, collecting themselves again, before falling once more. Rocky tree-dotted islands stand among their clear lakes and rivers,
each body of water reflecting the overhanging snowy peaks from which they had been born.
And finally protected behind a jutting spur of rock that runs far into the lake, blocking the great clouds of mist rising from the roaring falls, we come to the eastern side of the lake.
In a way it is the least interesting part of the lands that hem in the lake, miles of water meadows and rolling meads of lush grass grazed by vast herds of shaggy longhorn cattle. Yet, if one
were to follow the colonnaded and covered white flagged road from the Ros Bridge northwards, then it is to finally arrive at one of the world’s great cities, Roshythe. Not great in size,
for many far more nondescript cities teem with more humanity than will ever be found in this ancient city of the elves. No, it is the architecture that provides the emotional attachment the
people of Tanaren have for the city, though many of them have never seen it. Roshythe backs on to the Derannen Mountains and a pass leads from it to a quarry from which the city’s unique
marble is obtained. And now, in my poor words, I will attempt a description of this beautiful place.
Roshythe is surrounded by a high circular wall of gleaming white rock. Set around this wall are twenty elegant conical towers, each flying a thin yellow pennant, as it is Arshuma which
controls the city now. The great silver gates, rarely shut, welcome visitors and merchants from far and wide. And inside the city? A hundred spires spring into the sky, all carved from the
malachite green streaked marble taken from the quarry; each spire is needle thin and capped with a smooth conical roof. Only one tower, half demolished, spoils the spectacular vista. At ground
level the entire city is floored with the same marble; its broad steps, wide tree-lined avenues and its great square with its statues of elven heroes, too, are made of this substance. Only the
palace of the leaders is different. No green-veined marble here; instead the entire rock is the colour of pale mint, smooth gigantic slabs of it going to construct the elegant high walls and
soaring towers of the city’s largest building. Its open forecourt lined with lawns and trees, its domed throne room pillared with gold and its myriad towers connected by walkways
constantly patrolled by its vigilant defenders.
There is another part of the city, too. Roshythe sits right next to Lake Winmead and close to several islands large and small lying within it. Each island has its own towers and houses,
all joined by bridges and fringed with trees. Marbled jetties thrust into the vivid blue waters with their elegant fishing boats moored against them. This was the city fought over by three
peoples for many centuries; thousands have died to possess it, thousands more probably will, and yet the city itself never changes – its rock barely weathers or cracks; no new buildings
go up or get pulled down. If any city in the world warrants the epithet ‘Eternal’, then Roshythe is the one it should be applied to.
Cyrus of Edgecliff, The Chronicles of Tanaren and Arshuma, volume VII: Diplomacy in the East: The Arrogance of the Foreign Kings.
King Aganosticlan VII was sitting in the great throne room of Roshythe’s Palace of the Leaders and was feeling particularly pleased with himself. For a man given by
reputation to ostentatious displays of smugness even he was embarrassed by the scope of his self-satisfied smirk. He was in his green silk today; it fitted with the palace’s decor, after all,
though not for the first time he wondered why the Wych folk were so obsessed with the colour; he much preferred blue himself. The throne room was oval in shape, with pillars covered in gold leaf
supporting a vast vaulted ceiling which was painted with the usual Wych superstitions, animals and dragons, though even he had to admit it was magnificent. There was no throne, only a large oval
slab of marble that served as a table, surrounded by chairs of the same material, though each was ornately carved with shapes of leaves and birds. He had marked out the chair at the top of the oval
for himself.
He had only been here two to three times in his life before. All Arshuman kings had avoided the place ever since the first king to take command of the city had been assassinated here. But now
necessity compelled his attendance; he had moved his servants and many of his court here temporarily and, despite being determined to hate the place with a passion, he found that, instead, he was
rather enjoying it here.
It was possible, though, that recent events had coloured his impression of the city. And it was to discuss these that he had summoned his general and his chamberlain to speak with him. Once both
Terze and Obadrian were seated and had been served with wine and fruit by serving girls who seemed to be wearing less than ever, he began.
‘I swear that this spring is the warmest I can recall for many years. I had a walk in the gardens before noon and swear I could feel my skin burning. Come on, both of you, the food and
drink were not put there to be decorative. Enjoy it and give me your news as you do so.’
Terze took a long drink from his silver goblet. ‘The weather appears to have given our troops wings; they are nearly all here now. I am just expecting another thousand or more from Belias,
the southern part of your country, then all will be in readiness.’
The King’s grin returned. ‘And at last all our hard work over these last months comes to fruition. West Arshuma may be a fleeting memory already, but it did one good thing for us; it
bought us time, the time we needed to get the south on to our side. What does our army amount to now – fifteen thousand or more surely?’
