The Forgotten War (48 page)

‘
Zuke te nesteratse Aelveth nestezho vuto zheke voto iozho thenessate
.’

Cedric looked at Morgan. ‘I believe he is asking for reasons why they shouldn’t kill us; I had better make my reply a worthy one.’

The girl who was standing directly in front of Cedric raised her hand.

‘
Fesna! Tiavon. Al brachian olea uva tafal drezhemekh
.’ Her voice was clear, pure and commanding, reinforcing Morgan’s belief that she was the one in charge here. She
slowly circled the silent Cedric. She appeared to be smelling him as well as looking intently at every detail of his clothes and hair, even of his reading glasses. Then, when she was face to face
with him, she spoke again.

‘How did you know this ritual?’ She indicated the statue.

‘You speak our language, my Lady! That is good to know.’ Cedric sounded flustered. ‘Let me introduce myself. I am Cedric of Rossenwood, a scholar who has attempted a study of
your people, albeit a poor one. This book has details of the ritual in question; I had no idea that it would work.’

If the girl understood him, she gave no indication. Rather she walked up to Morgan and stood face to face with him, not two feet away. She was his height, if not a little taller. She stared
directly into his eyes, Morgan refused to blanch or change expression; rather he stared right back into those deep pale amethysts. He heard her sniff, quietly. She circled him now; she could easily
pull out her knife and drive it into his back but he didn’t move. She faced him again, her expression had changed slightly, and he could almost discern a certain wry amusement in her.

‘You are a warrior, yes?’ Her accent was soft, almost slurred, her voice like honey pouring over warm bread.

‘Yes,’ he replied stiffly.

‘So here we have a sick man and a warrior who know a ritual forgotten in time. What could they possibly want with us, I wonder?’

Cedric turned to her. ‘You know of my illness?’

‘It is obvious, is it not? You come here seeking death? You may find it anyway.’

‘No,’ said Cedric. ‘Aid, not death.’

‘That, sick man, is not for you to decide.’

She was still looking at Morgan, her nose wrinkling. He decided to sniff her back, as loudly as possible. To his surprise, she did have a scent; it was like water. Not like the shallow river
that surrounded them but rather a deep watercourse flowing swiftly, heavy with black sediment and autumn leaves; a clear fresh smell of clean air redolent of wood bark and pine resin. When he
sniffed, she regarded him anew.

‘Your name?’ she asked.

‘It is Morgan, Morgan of Glaivedon. And yours?’

‘I am called Itheya. Itheya Morioka of the clan Morioka. The man who wishes to kill you is called Tiavon. He, too, is a warrior.’

‘And you? Are you a warrior?’

‘Of a kind,’ she said. She was still barely two feet from him, her breath was on him and her gaze never moved. Cedric decided to break the impasse; he turned and walked towards
her.

‘My Lady, shall we get down to the business of why we requested your presence. I...’

She raised her hand again. ‘Not so fast... I do not speak your language every day. Slowly, if you wish to be understood.’

Morgan asked her. ‘How did you learn our language?’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘You
hemenestas
, humans, come to our forest sometimes, to steal our gold, or preach the word of your gods. We kill most of them but one of your god men stayed
with us a while. He taught me.’

‘And where is he now?’

‘Dead.’

‘Did you kill him?’

‘Do you wish I had?’

‘Perhaps.’

Her long eyelashes fluttered slightly. ‘No, I did not kill him.’

She reached out with her fingers towards his chin where there was a two-day growth of stubble. ‘
Vheyuzhe, Vheyuzhene Hemenest!
’ she called out to her companion. She seemed
amused.

‘She is calling you hairy, a hairy human,’ said Cedric.

‘We have other names for humans.’ said Itheya. ‘
Vheyuzheke
, ‘‘the hairy ones’’, is one of them. It likens you to the mindless creatures of the
mountains or the distant anthropoids of the southern jungles. It is not complimentary. She stroked his chin again, a light gossamer touch, almost tender.

‘
Fezhaye camma na Vheyuzheko, Itheya! Em olea brusha thitroska!
’ Tiavon shouted angrily at her.

She turned to him, her retort equally abrasive: ‘
Hashara coth ve ne, Tiavon! Teo pabran atan zhelen! Kileta ton ve crizhona te fesnath eonona tafall hlem ata eme!
’ She stalked
away from Morgan towards Tiavon and the two of them carried on a hushed conversation in angry tones. Cedric sidled towards Morgan.

‘I think he came close to calling her a slut for touching you. She told him to know his place, so she obviously has some status among them. The two of them also seem to be more than just
acquaintances; I think she forgot for a second that I can understand some of what they say.’

‘Are you saying that I made the Wych man jealous?’ Morgan couldn’t suppress a smile.

‘I believe that is exactly what you did, my friend; just keep smiling at her.’

The two elves separated. Tiavon remained seated on his horse but looked a little less hostile and a little more humble if that was possible. Itheya came back to the two of them; she stopped for
a second as if collecting herself.

‘What do you wish to discuss with us?’

‘How someone who has barely met anyone that speaks our language knows the word ‘‘anthropoid’’.’ Morgan couldn’t help himself; he gave her the slightest
of smiles.

She returned it, but it was laced with sarcasm.

‘This man who taught me had travelled to these places; he used the word a lot. If that is all you have to say, we are leaving. If you have not gone by tomorrow at dawn, we will come back
and kill you.’ She turned to mount her horse.

‘Wait!’ said Cedric. ‘We require your aid. There is a war and we need your help.’

She stopped, her back stiffening. Slowly she turned and approached Cedric. Morgan was again reminded of a prowling cat; her expression now was one of cold anger.

‘We know of your war. There are passes in the mountains you know nothing of and we watch you. If you think we are going to risk the lives of our people in your petty little arguments, you
are madder and stupider than I thought. You people are nothing to us. I have changed my mind; you have two hours to leave. Then I will return with fifty others and your heads will decorate the ends
of our spears. Goodbye!’ Her voice rose as she spoke, her fury barely contained. As she turned again, though, Morgan spoke to her – what was there to lose?

‘Our heads would stick a lot firmer on iron spearheads rather than stone, don’t you think?’

She stopped again, the sunlight dappling her white neck either side of the ponytail. Ignoring Tiavon, she pushed her face inches away from his, their noses almost touching. ‘What are you
saying?’

Cedric spoke: ‘Our Grand Duke, the Mhezhen of our people, wishes to offer you iron weapons in return for your assistance in this war. Would this not give you an advantage over the other
tribes in the forest?’

Itheya craned her neck slightly in his direction. ‘If you really knew our people, then you would realise that such weapons would be distributed equally among us in order to retain the
balance between tribes that has stood for aeons. You need to go back to your studies, sick man.’

‘My resources for learning about you are limited,’ he said; his voice was calm, measured and reasonable. ‘There are little written records about you; as you said yourself,
humans who come into contact with you often end up dead. Personally, I would love to learn more of your ways. Maybe it would foster a better understanding between our peoples.’

Cedric’s earnestness was disarming. Even Itheya stopped and thought for a second.

‘Your intentions seem good, even if you are happy for our people to die for nothing in your wars. Your Mhezhen has offered us iron before, in the distant past; it did not convince us then
and so it is not enough now. You have men that fight for gold. Pay them instead.’

‘I did not think it would be enough, and so I have other things to show you.’ He went towards the trunk, and Itheya and Morgan followed. Slowly he opened the trunk, letting Itheya
look inside. She was silent. One by one she picked up the smaller objects – the snake, the beaver – lifting them to the sunlight, looking at the way the light played on the gemstones.
Tiavon leaned forward, trying to get a better look.

‘Where did you get these?’ she whispered.

‘There are ruins, old buildings of your people, close to the sea. I discovered them there, not a few months ago, and thought you had better see them.’

‘
Atem Sezheia
,’ she said quietly.

‘City of light – yes, I believe that is what you called it. These things were all there, in a tunnel, secured behind a stone door.’

She delicately lifted the dragon. ‘What is this, I wonder?’

Morgan was surprised. ‘You don’t know?’

‘These come from a time before our wars with your empire; only a few of us would know all of the details. We thought our people over the sea had taken everything with them and that Atem
Sezheia had little of value in its remains. And what is this?’

She replaced the dragon and pulled out the tooth. After scrutinising it for a second her expression turned to one of astonishment. ‘
Tiavon Dragan
,
Moliea Dragan!
’
Tiavon did not reply; he appeared to be equally shocked by what he saw.

‘Even I cannot read much of what is written here,’ she said to them. ‘But this find,’ she lifted the tooth, ‘could be more precious than all of the others put
together and multiplied by a hundred. Were there any more finds there?’

‘Yes,’ said Cedric. ‘Including another of those teeth and another five of those dragons; each dragon appears to be different from the others.’

Tiavon spoke again: ‘
Thenessek azha tiehe co darahenezharon
.’

Cedric smiled. ‘He really wants to kill us, doesn’t he?’

She looked at him. ‘You are human; it is reason enough.’ She then turned back to Tiavon.

‘
In han meru deveken. Za spetu olea ial em dea tonu cantelevened per z’ezhed mustoen. Za meruzha olea ial em codosh neto celza desena. Ve teshele tafalla nesteretsava uven Foron.
Voe, Wyatha onatazh polek
.’

At this, Tiavon bowed, turned his horse and joined the two elves in the river. Itheya turned back to the men.

‘My father is Mhezhen of my tribe. I will need to speak to him of this. The fire here will remain burning. While it does so, none of our people will kill you and take the objects for
themselves, as it would not be honourable. Stay here until I return. I will put out the fire then.’

‘And what then?’ asked Morgan.

‘I know not,’ she said, springing on to her horse. ‘Maybe we kill you; maybe not.’

‘Wait,’ said Cedric. He handed her the serpent. ‘Take this as proof of our trust and goodwill.’

She looked surprised. ‘It is not necessary. But if you wish, I will take it. I will return in a day or two with my father’s reply.’

Without a second glance at them she skilfully turned her horse and was gone with the others. They heard the splashing of the river as the four of them rode, finally disappearing under the eaves
of the dark forest.

She stood on the low hill looking at the dusk. To her right, by a knot of trees, a group of rabbits were feeding and playing, chasing each other into the underbrush. Above her,
small birds darted and flitted against the darkening sky. No, not birds, bats feeding on the night insects which she already could feel brushing her face and hair. The air was warm, sweet and
heavy; she drank it in like wine. She was surrounded by a ring of knights, and when she took her position they saluted her: ‘Hail Cheris, mage of battle.’ She didn’t know how to
reply so bowed to them, glad they couldn’t see her blushing.

She was facing eastwards, the hill being at the southern point of the field. To her left, the army of Baron Felmere was deploying. She had expected much more noise but what they did was done
with a quiet efficiency that impressed her. Ahead of her, a mile away, possibly less, was a copse; she could see men lining up there. As she moved her head to the left, she could see torches and
the banners of the Arshumans as they lined up in response. To the far north and east, the field was bounded by the hill on which stood the town of Grest. The hill was covered in trees; she hoped
Marcus was safely ensconced in them somewhere. The high ground provided a good defence for the city, but it still had sturdy stone walls. Squinting, she could see the catapults and war machines
perched on them. She guessed that there was maybe an hour of light left; something had to start soon.

At the other end of the field, in the position of honour on the left, Lukas Felmere sat with Dominic Hartfield and the Silver Guard. Their banners flapped above them, though their heraldic
insignia were difficult to see in the murk. Normally, the signalmen with their flags would sit with them, ready to display the orders visually to the soldiers, but they had been dispensed with that
night. All orders would be transmitted via the cornets and drums of the musicians. Things could go wrong that way – if something was misheard for example – but there was obviously no
choice here.

‘There was no way the town gates could have been opened in daylight?’ Dominic asked. ‘So many things can go wrong in a night attack.’

‘No,’ said Felmere, ‘our agents are risking much as it is; they were too frightened to betray the garrison by day.’

As he spoke, a clear horn sounded from the dark block of Felmere’s men. ‘Ah, my men have deployed. Once the rest of the infantry have lined up – and it won’t take long
– we will get the archers to fire off a few volleys while they can. Then they can withdraw.’

‘The light horse will protect them and if they get charged Reynard’s knights will see the Arshumans off.’ Dominic nodded at the Eagle Claw, positioned just ahead of them.