The Forgotten War (47 page)

The following day after some two hours’ travel they found it.

Varen it was who gave the signal, pulling the reins up to stop the horses.

‘There!’ he said, pointing to an island nearly half a mile ahead of them. As they drew closer, they could see it. It looked like every other eyot they had passed, an island not fifty
feet square that held some tall trees and shrubs. And a statue. Its natural stone colour had a greenish tinge and it was festooned with ivy, but it was unmistakeable. A statue of a man, some twenty
feet high, holding aloft a spear with a shield in his left hand.

‘That is Culmenion, founder of the city of Zerannon and friend of the Wych folk – possibly their last human friend. When they were driven here after the wars with Chira, he acted as
their protector and the two peoples swore to defend each other’s interests. This statue was put here so the Wych folk could be summoned in times of dire need; oaths were sworn and they were
set to be allies in perpetuity. Then Culmenion died in suspicious circumstances, and the Wych folk blamed the humans and vice versa. After some bloody skirmishes they withdrew into the forest and
have hardly been seen since.’ Cedric looked at his audience, a look of triumph in his eyes. ‘Hopefully that will change now.’

Morgan could see a low hill some distance from the bank.

‘We camp there. Cedric and I will travel to the island and stay there; the rest of you stay at the main camp. If you see a bunch of pointy-eared maniacs swarming and killing us make sure
you escape, get to Zerannon and sit out the winter there.’

His instructions were carried out. Once the camp was set up, Haelward helped Morgan with the trunk of golden artefacts. Struggling manfully, they stepped into the river with it, Cedric following
with his walking stick. The shock of the cold water made them all recoil. The water seemed shallow enough until it was stepped into and by the time they got to the island they were all shivering.
The ground was completely overgrown but they managed to beat a large enough area flat to set both the trunk and themselves down. Haelward bade them farewell and made to step back into the river.
Morgan caught his arm first.

‘Take charge of the others. I meant what I said. If something happens to us, don’t rush to our rescue. I don’t want anyone else lost on this trip.’

‘We all volunteered for this,’ Haelward replied. ‘Don’t blame yourself for what happened on the mountain. It was a miracle only one of us was lost. But I will do as you
ask.’ And with that he plunged back into the river.

Morgan found enough dry wood to start a small fire; they dried their soaking feet, not caring if the fire drew attention – the cold drove away any fear of the Wych folk for the time being.
Once this was done they moved towards the statue.

At the statue’s feet on the plinth the stone had been shaped into a bowl, cracked at the edges but still serviceable. Cedric ran his fingers over it. ‘The herbs go here, I
presume.’ He opened a small pack he had slung around his shoulder and pulled out a soft leather pouch. He pulled open a flap and emptied its contents into the bowl. Morgan watched as a
variety of leaves, some yellow, some waxy green, others black and crumbled, fell out. ‘Lamb’s foot, spitweed, yellow heartphlox and blackleaf, all rare and difficult to find. Wych magic
is different to ours and closely tied to the earth. I just hope we have enough of these herbs here.’ There was still plenty of room in the bowl.

‘Now, the incantation. I just hope my ancient Aelvish is up to the mark.’

He opened up a book he had taken from his pack, turned to the right page, took a deep nervous breath and started to read.

A shower of autumn leaves twisted around them, carried by the swirling breeze. In the trees a bird was giving full voice to his song while all around them the river splashed, gurgled and foamed.
But nothing else happened. Cedric looked disconcerted.

‘Ummmm...’

The leaves sat still in the bowl, protected from the wind. He reached in to pick them up, to start the ritual again. As he did so his trembling fingers brushed the cold stone of the bowl’s
lip.

Suddenly the leaves ignited with a cold blue flame. Cedric barely had time to get his hands out of the way, but in doing so he slipped backwards on the wet ground and would have fallen but for
Morgan catching him in time. They both watched the statue.

The flame moved rapidly upwards, covering the legs and torso and then swathing the head. The flame was a vivid blue, not the blue of a cold fire, but of a blue so intense that it could only be
magical. It sprang from the head on to the arm holding aloft the spear, whence it climbed until only the spear itself was wrapped in its radiance. From the tip of the spear the flame shot upwards
into the sky. There it remained, the spear covered in its flame, a flame seemingly sustained by the air. The two men stood watching the pyrotechnics.

‘Quite the sight,’ said Morgan, whistling softly. ‘No more than you deserve after reciting that verse. There can’t be many men who can speak that language these
days.’

‘I would be foolhardy if I said I could speak it; it’s written here – I learned it by rote. The language of the Wych folk has changed since this was written, not greatly, but
like all languages it evolves. Hopefully I have enough of their tongue that I can communicate with them when they arrive.’

‘I hope so, I would rather not conduct delicate negotiations through mime.’

‘Ha!’ laughed Cedric. ‘That would be something to see. Come, let’s eat; we can do nothing now but wait.’

And wait they did as day turned into night. As the light faded the flame grew ever brighter, its cerulean radiance seeming to bathe the island and making sleep difficult for its two human
occupants. The flame gave no warmth, so they huddled in their blankets as the leaves fell around them.

‘I am sorry about your friend,’ said Cedric. ‘As Haelward said, though, you mustn’t blame yourself. If it is anyone’s fault, it is mine. None of us would be here
without my instigation.’

‘No, it is no one’s fault. We all volunteered for this... Actually, no, we are all being paid, but it was I who selected him. When you serve in an army your colleagues become very
close to you; the bonds you forge are very strong. You all depend on each other in a fight, you know; you watch each other’s backs. Rozgon was an experienced man when I joined up. He showed
me the ropes, looked out for me until I knew which end of a sword to hold. I should have seen that ambush coming; I thought those creatures were too stupid even to do that, even though I thought it
seemed too easy the first time we drove them off. They had obviously decided then to ambush us further down the road, when there was no fire to stop them. My carelessness did cost us, whether or
not I am directly responsible for his death.’

‘You got the rest of us through. As an academic man planning this trip, I gave no consideration to the sweat and suffering required to get us here. I am in debt to all of you, including
Rozgon.’

‘He was from the next village to me. I farmed; he was a soldier before the war. I knew his wife and kids before the Arshumans took them. He would send money back but for day-to-day things
we all kept an eye on them, slipped them food, fixed their roof ... whatever was needed. It is what you do for a family in the army.’

‘So you knew them for a long time then.’

‘Yes,’ said Morgan, looking up at the flame. ‘Like so many, though, they were lost in the first year of the war.’

‘Indeed, the dispute over Roshythe.’

‘Yes, I believe our baron claimed the city and the Arshumans were looking for a pretext to start a war anyway. The fool of a man attacked them without permission from the Grand Duke and
they responded by swarming the Seven Rivers with thousands of troops. Within weeks Athkaril was our eastern outpost. The damage done in those weeks was colossal. So many died, including
Rozgon’s family.’

‘And your grandfather.’

Morgan stared fixedly into the flame. ‘Yes, and my grandfather.’

Sleep did eventually claim him; it was not relaxed or comfortable but it was still sleep. When he awoke dawn had been and gone and the sunlight glinted through the branches of
the trees.

The flame was still burning. Morgan eased himself up, stretched his legs and emptied his bladder. He saw Cedric standing at the northern tip of the isle, on bare ground, facing the forest.

‘Morning, Cedric. Those Keth-cursed Wych folk seem reluctant to show themselves, eh?’

‘Not that reluctant,’ said Cedric, pointing out across the water.

Morgan followed his finger. There, on the bank of the river directly opposite them, he saw three, no four, figures on horseback. He could make little else out; the sun reflecting on the water
made it difficult to see, but he could see at least three of them carried spears.

‘Oh, by Artorus’s and Mytha’s bleached-white bones, are we in trouble now!’ He felt his sword in his scabbard, and his knife at his waist; it was the one he had last used
on Rozgon. He shivered at the memory and released his grip.

‘They are coming; they are in the river.’ Cedric walked back up the bank towards the statue. ‘We will receive them here. The trunk is there ... that’s good. Right,
Morgan, leave all the talking to me. Artorus only knows what will happen now.’

‘I am happy to oblige you.’ He stared fixedly at the approaching figures, their horses sending up plumes of water as they came across the river. He was starting to make out details.
Three were cloaked and hooded in dark green. They all carried spears but the lead figure, riding a white horse, was different. Morgan saw at once why. It was a woman.

The other figures sought to conceal themselves but she was doing the exact opposite. She was tall, slim and carried a bow, and she was covered in dazzling gold. He could see a torque around her
neck and a belt buckle that seemed to be made of nothing else. Suddenly the gold objects in the trunk seemed a little less splendid or indeed important. It was not a comforting thought.

They were here now. Two figures remained by the bank, their horses ankle deep in the water, but the woman and her remaining companion continued on to the island, riding through the scrub with
seeming little thought for it. Then they, too, were by the statue and Morgan could see them properly at last.

The one with the spear had thrown back his hood; it was a man, pale-skinned with eyes as blue and cold as arctic snow. His hair was inky black with a bluish sheen; his ears, as Haelward said,
were nowhere near as dramatically pointed as he expected but were better described as ‘gracefully curved’. He wore armour of hardened leather and Morgan quickly noticed his spear was
tipped with obsidian glass. He regarded them icily. Morgan switched his attention to the girl.

Her hair was a similar glossy black colour to the man’s and was held in a ponytail behind her by some golden cord. It reached down far beyond her hips, maybe even down to her knees, and
periodically it was secured by further cords running down the length of her hair like bands. She had a single braid, too, that crossed her forehead where a small white gem was fixed to it at the
centre. Her ears, graceful and delicate, had at least half a dozen small golden rings through the lower lobe. She wore leather, too; at first Morgan thought it black but then realised it was the
darkest of greens. Both her jerkin and breeches fitted her like a second skin; he could not even see where her pointed boots joined the trousers, such was the closeness of the fit. And the belt
buckle, like the thin torque around her neck, was gold – not chunky but carved delicately into a shape not unlike a coiled rope or a twisting snake. Her arms were bare and, apart from her
head and neck, this was the only skin she displayed; unlike her head and neck, though, they were covered in tattoos. Not the clumsy efforts sported by soldiers; these were a fine, elegant tracery,
coming together to form shapes like leaves, spider webs or thin branches, running up her arms on to her shoulders where they disappeared beneath her clothes. He thought of the crude tattoos he
bore; it was like comparing the brush strokes of a great artist with the daubs of a five-year-old child. But it was her face that held him most. He had seen many fragile beauties in his time but
they were forgotten in a trice here. Her skin was the palest translucent white, clear of blemishes, contrasting sharply with her coal-black hair. Her nose, thin and retroussé; her cheekbones
high without being angular; her chin pointed without being sharp; her lips thin and of the deepest burnt red, and her eyes, soft and almond shaped and a pale violet. That threw him momentarily but,
yes, that was the colour they were; just as Haelward had mentioned. He then realised that for all her physical delicacy she was regarding the two of them with just as much icy hostility as the man.
He suddenly realised that he had been seduced by the legendary beauty of the elves and pulled himself together immediately; this was no time to lose concentration.

She rode a step or two ahead of her companion and with a liquid grace slid off her horse. There was no saddle. Morgan also noticed a curved metal knife at her belt and his heart sank further. So
they had iron, too. Her movements reminded him of a cat as she stepped towards Cedric who held his arms open in a welcoming gesture.

‘
Satala Aelvazharath ve tafalla ate co mhezhia sea Hemenestra.
’

Cedric spoke in the voice Morgan knew he used for public speaking. There was no change in either expression of the elves. Then the man spoke.