The Forgotten War (56 page)

Several days to the south and east, where sand bars and spits of land held the marauding sea at bay, a jagged rock stood out defiantly in the midst of a brown turbulent lake.
Upon this rocky isle were the remnants of what had once been a village built mainly of wood. Stray logs and supports lay loosely over the stone, covered by ragged strips of sodden thatch and straw.
No building remained standing here. Chaos reigned supreme. As the sun traced its fiery path downwards into the west, figures started to emerge from the water – they were bipedal, green-scaled
and finned; some even had vestigial tails. Slowly they moved to the centre of the isle where something impossibly large lay slumbering on the stone. Its arrow-shaped head lay still and motionless,
its wormlike body coiled behind it, its clean scales glistened in the glow of the setting sun.

Slowly the Malaac surrounded the creature. They were quiet and almost seemed in awe of the creature in their midst. They stood around it, their heads bowed. The only sound was the wind on the
water as it lapped against the island’s shore. Then another figure came into view, walking up to the creature’s giant head from behind its powerful coils. It was a man, clad in a black
cloak which had become so ragged and tattered that it hung in loose strips about him. There was a growth of a couple of days’ hair on his head and chin and a ghastly pallor to his face. His
skin was sweaty, flour-white tinged with green around the lips and eyes. The eyes themselves were large and round and hardly ever blinked, and the lips appeared to be almost black in colour. He
ignored the Malaac as he strode past them, and they in turn ignored him. He stopped at the creature’s neck, just behind the head, and with one bound clambered upon it, standing on the
creature’s spine. He sat astride the great beast, one hand clutching at the small bony fin that ran the entire length of its body. Slowly, he unclasped his other hand. There, in the shining
wetness of the palm, he beheld it – the dragon stone. His mad, staring eyes gazed at its vermilion beauty, watched the liquid inside it, thick and viscous as it moved around almost
imperceptibly, and then finally he held it up to the light, directly against the sun, letting its colour wash over his face and hand. The Malaac around him hissed excitedly as they beheld it; they,
too, seemed transfixed by its power. The man gave out a strange guttural croak, his mouth wide open, his gums and tongue almost black, the colour of bruised and decaying seaweed. His eyes leaked at
the corners, not normal tears but streams of water that moistened his face and neck. Just for one second reason seemed to prevail in him; there was horror in his eyes as he brushed the water off
his face and tried to comprehend what had happened to his body. Then the madness returned. He looked at the stone again, bending all his thoughts towards it. Slowly it started to glow. As the light
got stronger, it pulsated in his hand, and the stronger it became the more water discharged from his body – from his ears, his nose, his mouth.

And at last the creature stirred. It flicked the tip of its great tail and slowly swung its head back and forth. With a great hiss, a cloud of green smoke was discharged from its nostrils. The
Malaac started their night cries and one by one they started to dive into the water, heads bobbing as they watched their master stir.

Its legs were small – it was as much serpent as dragon and its wings were barely man-sized, folded as they were against its back and never used. So it took some minutes before it could
gain leverage against the rocky surface and, using its legs, push its head into the water, its body slowly following with a powerful splash. The dragon disappeared under the water for a full minute
or so, before its head broke the waves again, the man still clinging to its back. His clothes were soaking, yet his waxy face and skin were no wetter than they had been on the land. He went under
again and rose once more, still none the worse for his submergence. All around him the Malaac whooped and cried, excited to be swimming with such a great beast. And follow it they did as the great
dragon swam, its powerful tail propelling it ever closer to the river ahead.

‘Hello, can you hear me?’

The words floated into her head, clear and tinged with concern. Was she dreaming? All she could feel were her bruises and a sharp but receding pain in her left side. She couldn’t focus.
When she tried to think, her thoughts seemed to float away from her, drifting in the formless space surrounding her. All she could get from them were faint echoes, fragments half remembered before
nausea drove them away again.

‘Hello, Cheris, are you awake?’

There was the voice again; it was sharper this time, more concerned. She forced herself to react to it. She had to open her eyes, make herself respond. The fog was starting to clear at last,
There was light and a dim, blurred image swam ahead of her.

‘What? Am I in the field?’ Was that her voice? It sounded so weak.

‘No, silly, it’s Anaya. You are in my tent.’

‘Tent?’ It
was
Anaya; she could see her now. Without thinking, she tried to lever herself on to her side, only to collapse backwards as her pain intensified; it felt as if she
was being stabbed with a pitchfork.

‘No no, you mustn’t move yet; you are much too weak. I will let you try again tomorrow but no sooner. You must rest; it has been an ordeal for you and you need time.’

She could see a bit more clearly now. She was on a bed in Anaya’s quarters, separate from the soldiers. She had blankets over her and a small feather pillow under her head. ‘What
happened to me?’ she croaked.

‘You collapsed after your last spell. I could see it in the sky all the way from the healing tent. You must have put everything into it. Shortly afterwards the knights carried you here.
You poor thing, you must have lost control of everything when you fainted; you had a bit of an accident down there, but don’t you worry. The knights didn’t notice and I have cleaned
your robes since. They are drying now.’

‘O ’Lissa’s blood, I am so sorry! And embarrassed. Very embarrassed.’ She realised that under the warmth of the blankets all she was wearing was a thin nightdress.

‘Don’t be! I deal with that sort of thing all the time. Men are far worse believe me. Marcus wants to see you, but I said I would check with you first to see if you were up to
it.’

‘I am,’ she said. ‘Weak and bruised but I can talk.’

‘Bear in mind, I have used magic on you to ease the pain, on the rib especially. It will hurt more later on, but really the best medicine you have now is time and rest.’

‘Thank you, Anaya. When did the battle end?’

‘Last night of course. We are well into the afternoon now and it is wet and miserable outside. The best place for you is right here. I have to go – I have other patients after all
– but I will send Marcus in to see you.’

She left and Cheris lay back on her pillow, eyes half closed. She remembered everything now – how the mage tried to kill her, the panic she felt and her murderous response, not just
against him but against the whole opposing army, whose soldiers, individually, had done nothing to her. She felt sick but fought the feeling. Even breathing normally caused discomfort; she dreaded
to think how it would feel if she became excited or anxious.

She listened to the rain on the canvas; she was glad she wasn’t outside in it, but here, under the blankets, it was a soothing sound. Suddenly there was a flash of a red robe and Marcus
fairly bounded in, relief writ large on his face.

‘Hello, Marcus,’ she said. ‘Whatever you do, please don’t hug me.’

‘No fear,’ he said, beaming. ‘Anaya has told me of your injuries, so tell me, how does the Heroine of Grest feel?’

‘Terrible!’ she said, honestly. ‘Weak, sick and tired, and please don’t call me such a silly name.’

‘It is the name the soldiers have given you,’ he said. ‘That and the Queen of Storms. Everyone has forgotten my name now; the soldiers have let a beautiful young warrior into
their hearts instead. Felmere wants to give you a title: Battle Mage of Tanaren. It means, once your tenure here is over, if he is ever able to re-engage another of our kind in the future, it is
you he can request.’

She groaned. ‘I have had enough already. Can I refuse to accept this “honour”?’

‘Refuse a title bestowed by one of the most powerful barons in the country? Unprecedented. Technically you can but you would never leave the island again.’

She tried to turn to face him, but was only partially successful.

‘Marcus, I found things out about myself last night ... dark things. When that man hurt me, and I would have died if Sir Norton hadn’t given me my staff, when I had recovered, I ...
I wanted to kill him. Even worse, I felt satisfaction when I did; I was just so angry. And even after that I wasn’t sated. I felt so detached when I cast the last spell. I gave no consequence
to the havoc I would wreak on those men; it was a technical exercise for me, one to see just how powerful I could make the lightning, and I know that, if I hadn’t have been so exhausted and
hurting, I could have done so much more with it. The lives that I took meant nothing to me ...
then
. It is not till now that what I have done is dawning on me. It is a worse feeling than the
pain in my ribs.’

Marcus looked sympathetic. ‘Let it go, girl, They would all have killed you without a second thought. You have to be detached anyway; it impacts on your effectiveness if you get involved
emotionally. I think what is upsetting you is how chillingly effective you were. You are beginning to realise just how powerful you can be, and possibly it is that that is bothering you.’

‘I don’t know; it was my desire for vengeance that frightened me. It was so strong. I hated the man for what he did. I have an evil streak when I am pushed. How is it that I have
always wanted to help where I can, be liked and friendly with everyone and yet here all I am good for is murder, mayhem and bloodshed. Does everyone end up turning into whatever it is they
despise?’

‘To some extent,’ said Marcus. ‘Life is a long road and sometimes you are forced to take a path contrary to your nature. You cannot travel its course without bruises; the Gods
have a reason for every pitfall on the path and sometimes it takes years before you understand the reasons as to why they are there. Sometimes they are never apparent. What you did last night does
not fundamentally change what you are; maybe it just informed you better as to the darker aspects of human nature, no more than that. Just bear in mind that a mere ten yards away outside this tent
you are a heroine to many people. Your actions
saved
many lives as well, you know. I was stuck up that hill and couldn’t see a thing. Without you the battle could have gone on for
hours more and the death toll would have been much, much higher.’

‘So you are saying that men died so that others could live?’

‘Precisely, it is one of nature’s more fundamental rules. Is it not sad when a falcon plucks a sparrow out of mid-flight? The sparrow dies but the falcon’s chicks feed on it
and grow strong. And there are many more sparrows out there.’

She tried to laugh, a feeble wheezy effort. ‘I am not sure I understand your analogy but thanks anyway; I do believe you are cheering me up.’

‘Good.’ He paced to and fro, stretching his legs. ‘Anaya is refusing to let you out of bed until tomorrow but I think Felmere wants you running about as soon as possible, so he
can show you off.’

‘Well,’ she said, ‘I don’t want to lie here for ever; I will see how far I can walk tomorrow, if Anaya allows it.’

‘Good. I will help support you, if necessary.’

‘Thank you.’ She was perking up by the second. ‘Marcus, what happened on the hill anyway?’

‘Never have someone my age hide flat out behind a tree for twenty-four hours. When the time came to sneak through the gate I could barely stand up, let alone walk. Anaya has given me a
liniment to rub on my joints. By the Gods, I needed something! Apart from my decaying body, though, everything went as Felmere hoped. The garrison was watching the events in the field, the gate was
opened for us, and the only thing that went wrong was the fire. I was a little overzealous when I ignited the catapults and a couple of them collapsed on the hill, setting the trees on fire. The
knights and I tried to join the battle down on the plain, but the flames and smoke meant we couldn’t get out of the gate. By the time it died down and we could leave the town, we were only
just in time to see your lightning show. As for the town itself, things were turning ugly when we left – the townsfolk were turning on the Arshumans. Retribution seemed to be the only thing
on some people’s minds; they were rounding people up and herding them to the town square. Hopefully the soldiers will be able to restrain any excesses from the locals.’

‘Well, I am hardly the one to lecture them on the evils of revenge,’ she said. ‘Has the army moved into the town yet?’

‘The barons are already there and they are rebuilding the bridges the Arshumans destroyed when they took the town. When you are fit and well you can move up there with them. The rumour is
that Felmere is not finished with pressing the enemy and may prosecute the war into the winter. But for now just think about getting better. Nothing will happen for a while yet.’

‘More fighting?’ she groaned.

‘Don’t complain about too much fighting,’ said Marcus. ‘Many people here have been slogging away for ten years and there is still no end in sight for them.’

‘I don’t know how they can bear it,’ she said. ‘It isn’t even the physical punishment that troubles me. You know how it is – the first time you cast a light
spell you spend weeks practising, exercising your mind for it; you are nothing but nerves when you have to perform under the eyes of your mentor. The hundredth time you cast it, it is of no more
import than scratching your nose. Seeing people, friends suffering in front of you all the time, death becomes just another mundane occurrence little different from slaughtering a pig for
Winterfeast. It just seems ... wrong somehow.’