‘The last few weeks have been chastening for us all. Coming so soon after our own gains here, the news of the armies defeat in the north, the death of Baron Felmere and the emergence of the conspiracy against us, has been the bitterest elixir to swallow. And now it seems that these are not our only problems, as we are about to hear. Spalforth, do you wish to start?’
A young man with a thick dark moustache clad in an expensive green surcoat filigreed with gold leaned forward to speak.
‘Most of you would have been expecting my father. He, as I will tell you, is unable to attend, nor do I know when you will all see him next. I have ridden hard here from our lands in the east where we border the domain of the traitor Garal. After the events of Wolf Plain it took him no time at all to declare against us, raiding and burning some outlying villages. My father determined to act unilaterally and crush his rebellion before it could take root and establish itself. To that end we led our forces, some three hundred men, against his as soon as they could be fully mustered.
‘We met where our lands border one another east of the Broken River, on a marshy patch of land studded with small ponds and patches of quicksand. The river is like that, sluggish, almost ceasing to flow at some points, and it attracts fogs like a dung heap attracts flies. In such conditions the battle was little more than a series of skirmishes as small groups tried to goad their opponents into charging on treacherous ground, easy meat for the archers. Things were going nowhere and we were about to withdraw when Garal himself led a band of cavalry against our flank. We responded in kind and drove them off. Both forces then withdrew with minimal losses.’
He laughed bitterly. ‘Minimal I say! My father took such a blow to the head that he now recognises nobody and has to be fed by a nurse, who keeps having to dab his chin to mop up the drool.’
There was a brief silence as this news sank in.
‘Can he speak?’ asked Esric.
‘No,’ said his son. ‘He even needs wiping after using a chamber pot.’
‘Then I had better pronounce you the new Baron Protector of Spalforth. I am sorry it has been in such circumstances.’
‘Thank you, Esric. But that is not all. We have heard that Arshumans are on the way to reinforce Garal, maybe a thousand of them. It is a force we cannot stand against unaided.’
‘You will not have to,’ said Esric. ‘We march against them as soon as we possibly can. Who is commanding your forces at Spalforth now?’
‘My little brother. He has more than enough on his hands until I return and I don’t just mean with Garal.’ He looked at Cygan, a steely glint in his eyes. ‘This fellow is not the first Marsh Man I have seen of late. Scores of them have been pouring upriver and setting up camps on our southern borders. Ordinarily we would just drive them back into their own lands and be done with it, but it is not an attempt to seize territory off us. Something is terrifying them; the barrier in language has been a problem but it seems the Marshes are being overrun with ... monsters of some sort. They are superstitious folk, I know, but I have never heard them talk or behave like that before.’
‘You will hear more of this now. This Marsh Man is an ambassador for his people; he will now tell us of what he knows.’ Esric indicated for Cygan to speak.
This was his chance and he did not disappoint. Cygan told of his own encounters with the Malaac then of his journey to the jagged hill and his encounter with the great serpent dragon. He left nothing out; he even told them of Cerren’s sacrifice, although he knew they would be appalled by such a thing. He noticed the elderly elf, Terath, hung on his every word, his eyes not leaving him for a second.
‘And, has already been seen, these creatures will not stop with the scattering and destruction of my people; they will continue up the rivers until they are stopped or until all these lands finally fall to them. They are not creatures who recognise treaties or can be bought off with gold. Your wars up here will be rendered meaningless unless this menace can somehow be defeated.’ Cygan stopped and took a draught of water. He noted that few people here drank it unless it was turned into an ale of some sort. They said the water here could make people ill, but it was something his own people had never had a problem with.
Terath, who it appeared had been desperate to say his piece, then spoke. He introduced himself, explained his people’s reasons for allying themselves with Tanaren in this war and finally came down to the artefacts and the inscriptions on the tooth.
‘Here, I believe, lies the answer,’ he said, holding the object aloft so all could see it. ‘This is an ancient treatise on dragons, their summoning, control and destruction, written by those who were masters of the art. I have translated most of it, written as it is in a dialect lost for centuries. On this parchment I have the translation in my language and on this one’ – he lifted up a sheet of yellowed paper – ‘I have written it in your language, to be kept by Master Cedric, once this affair is ended.’
‘You believe they can be fought?’ Cygan asked hopefully.
‘I do not doubt it,’ Terath replied. ‘Whether they can be fought successfully is another matter. I can tell you what you have encountered so far, though. The creature you saw in the lake is not a god, though it is almost as powerful. We call it Sisteca, the Dragon of Water, and someone has raised it from its slumber and is controlling it, though to what extent I do not know. The smaller creatures you yourself have fought are its thralls, minions of simple intellect who even the dragon can control. There is a bond between them, a mental link of some sort. If a human or elf can control the dragon, then its thralls follow automatically.’
‘So a man is behind all the attacks on us? One man?’ Cygan sounded amazed, and not a little disbelieving.
‘A dragon sleeps for millennia. When it does awake it has no interest in our affairs; it would rather avoid us altogether. No. Someone has found a stone that summons the creature and is attempting to control it for his own destructive ends. That a full-blown attack has not yet occurred suggests to me that the dragon is resisting, that its human controller does not have the degree of empathy required. My people, I believe, are far better at this sort of thing than yours. So, to stop these attacks all you need do is kill this man.’
‘Kill a man?’ said Baron Josar with a smile. ‘Now that is something we can do.’
‘I doubt it will be that easy,’ said Terath. ‘The dragon and its minions will protect him. He can also barely be called a man anymore. By using the stone he takes on some of the dragon’s qualities. He is now a being of water; he may even be able to breathe under it, His skin may have changed, his eyes. Any number of things may have happened to him. And in that we may find the key to destroying him; once he is destroyed, the dragon should trouble you no more.’ Terath took a drink; he was beginning to sound croaky.
‘It says here that the secret to killing the dragon lord is to destroy it with its opposing element. The use of an opposite force, one that counters water, is where the salvation of your people lies.’
‘What in Artorus’s name counters water?’ said Esric. ‘Fire?’
‘No,’ said Terath. ‘Water douses fire. I have given the matter some thought and believe I have a solution.’
‘Good,’ said Esric, ‘let’s here what you have to say.’
‘Coming to this place we travelled over a belt of low hills.’
‘That is right, the Marassans; it is what divides the south of this country from the north.’
‘They are chalk hills, as I saw; we have cliffs of the same composition back in my forest. This means you have lime, or even quicklime.’
‘We do,’ said Esric.
‘I believe this is the substance you need. If you can burn the man with it, he will die. If I may be so bold, may I propose a response for you.’
Esric nodded. Terath looked at Cygan, who did the same.
‘To defeat the thralls, I propose using oil on the water’s surface; maybe it will drive them back. I would suggest putting the lime into small containers which can
be fired from a distance somehow. It will be very difficult to get close to the man as he will be either riding the dragon or be close to it, and no one here wants to stand toe to toe with a dragon, I presume.’
‘Are you happy with this?’ Esric looked at Cygan.
‘Any plan is better than no plan, which is what we have at the moment.’ Cygan replied hopefully. ‘If you are kind enough to donate some of these substances, then I shall return with them immediately. We have oil, but quantity might be a problem.’
‘You will need more than one man can take,’ said Esric. ‘This situation is not my first priority at the moment, although it may soon become one. I need most of my men to do battle in the east but I propose to give you about twenty men, and all the boats required to carry both lime and oil southwards. You may guide them, Cygan, and they will be bound not to return here until the dragon is defeated or you are all dead.’
‘I will go with you, too’ said Terath, ‘and Dirthen, my assistant. I am eager to see this creature, the first of my people to see such a thing for thousands of years.’
‘Very well,’ said Esric, ‘though I am sure the Marsh folk will regard you with as much curiosity as we do here. Unless there are any objections, then I declare that it is the conclusion of this council that twenty men along with the elven and Marsh delegates be sent south as soon as the supplies and equipment they require has been provided. I myself, along with the new Baron Spalforth, Sir Emeric of the Serpent knights and the Baron Josar will head east to crush the rebellion there. Our other new baron, Baron Carey Eburg, will steward these lands until my return. As to Mikel the mage, who has been quiet here thus far, I personally would like him to travel with me; he has been assigned to me by the Grand Duke, after all.’
‘His powers would be useful,’ said Terath, ‘but both I and Dirthen have some of these powers ourselves. We should have sufficient for this purpose.’
Mikel finally spoke. ‘I will go with you, Baron, although my heart would sooner go north if anywhere. My fellow mages are all dead bar one, who barely survived with her life. She is a good friend and I would like to see her sometime if at all possible.’
‘Help us defeat Garal and at the very next opportunity I will let you go north with the next band of elves or cavalry bound there. Maybe Sir Emeric can escort you at least part way.’
Emeric, a man of few words, merely nodded his assent. He seemed far more concerned with his bowl of milky oats than the conversation going on around him.
‘That is it then. A plan we have so let us act on it as soon as time allows. May the Gods watch over our enterprise and guide us in these difficult times.’
Esric stood and left everyone else there sitting and gossiping among themselves. All bar Cygan who also stood and quietly left; he had already heard all he wanted that day. Maybe he would see his wife and children again, after all.
Whitey stood alone in the armoury. He was surrounded by racks full of spears and barrels of arrowheads. On a table to his right was a row of swords, recently oiled, nestling neatly in their scabbards. The weapons, though, were not the reason he was here. He had not been in the guard long enough yet to get used to the heavy mail shirt that all guards had to wear under their blue-and-red surcoats. So the news he had just been given was good insofar as he was now required to don leather rather than chain; the reason for this change, though – that he was journeying into the Marshes where a mail shirt could mean death by drowning – was worse than terrible.
Whitey of the Sketta Guard. That phrase took some getting used to. Not that his colleagues had gone out of their way to welcome him. Apart from having orders brusquely yelled at him, no one had really tried speaking to him at all and all the guards viewed him with suspicion.
Well, nearly all. A man of the same company made a beeline for him as soon as he realised who he was. Sperrish, the man’s name was, a thin-faced man, the result of too few meals as a child, sporting a bushy black moustache of which he was inordinately proud. His eyes were dark and quick, and like Whitey he had run in the gangs since childhood where being able to have an owl’s scope of vision helped no end. They had been friends then and had looked out for each other and, though they had grown apart since, it had been a pleasure renewing their acquaintance.
He heard the armoury door open. It was Sperrish and he was sporting a smile as broad as his face.
‘Still glum, Whitey? Still thinking you will catch stench foot in the
Marshes? It has always been your problem son, no vision. This, if the dice fall properly, could be the making of both of us.’
‘It is not that,’ Whitey replied lugubriously. ‘The Marsh Man knows me; I am the reason he almost hanged. No doubt he is already thinking of a remote swamp to lose me in.’
‘Don’t think that way!’ The man’s chirpy demeanour was getting irritating. ‘You came back! Came back and saved him you did, the first noble thing you have done in your life.’
‘I was scared. I have seen these things we go to battle with. There are a thousand ways to die in the Marshes.’
‘And’ – Sperrish moved closer lowering his voice – ‘a thousand ways to get rich. You told me yourself of the goods this man carried, of their worth to the gangs or even the hospitals. Just think about it, salt away some blackroot here, some spirit grass there, we will have a fortune in our packs in no time. And no one need be any the wiser.’
‘I doubt the Marsh Men would take too kindly to that,’ Whitey growled. ‘And I have crossed them once already.’
‘Well, my friend.’ Sperrish was still smiling. ‘Think about it. You were never one to turn down the chance of easy coin.’
Whitey was about to reply, saying something along the lines of ‘And look where it has got me’, but the words never came. For into the room strode another figure, powerfully built, a man who did not suffer fools willingly. Whitey gasped involuntarily as the Marsh Man himself stopped, not five feet away from him.
Sperrish suddenly seemed eager to be elsewhere. ‘As I was saying, Whitey, think about it. I will leave you two er... people alone. You must have much to discuss.’ He was gone in a trice.
At first neither man spoke. Cygan was looking at Whitey appraisingly while the other man shifted nervously from foot to foot. Finally, Cygan broke the silence.
‘In my country, a country you will shortly visit, we have a punishment, a special punishment for those who commit the very worst of crimes. To murder a fellow tribesman without the sanction of the Elder is one of them; treachery, the betrayal of one’s own people is another. There is a third, that of lying before the Elder for petty personal gain. All of these are crimes so terrible in our eyes that they are hardly ever committed.’
Whitey’s eyes darted everywhere but the Marsh Man’s face.
‘And the punishment?’
‘I was coming to that. In the Marsh, growing at the edge of ponds or other bodies of still water, there is a plant which we call spearwood. It can grow very tall, a hollow wooden tube crowned with a head of pale green foliage. In late summer it flowers – pale-white blossoms that sway in the breeze. But, most importantly, it grows very quickly, especially when cut.
‘So what happens? The criminal is tied within a wooden frame, his hands and legs splayed. While this is being done somebody else cuts back the spearwood so that it barely protrudes above the water’s surface. He then cuts the exposed shoots into sharp points. The frame holding the man is then placed over the spearwood and secured with posts. Then we wait. It is a tradition also that the young boys of the village piss over the criminal when they get the urge, just to reinforce in his mind the magnitude of his crimes. Some of the villagers lay bets with each other. Will the sharpened stakes grow through the man’s eye socket? His mouth? His anus? That last one is very popular when it happens. Anyway, after a few days it is all over.
‘What is left of the man is lifted off the dozens of spikes growing through his body and, as no memory of him is to remain, it is cut into small pieces and thrown to the
fish, or left out for the birds. All except the head. To us, the head is sacred for it contains the man’s soul. It is usually buried close to the man’s home, or, if he is of great importance, his skull is preserved in the great house, to guide the wise in all things. With this criminal, though, the head is cut off and the skull cracked open to expose the brain. It is then taken to a wild place and abandoned to the marsh creatures. They eat of it and leave only the bone and hair. This way, the man’s soul never returns to his kin but wanders the Great River endlessly, abandoned, wanted neither by the living nor the dead. For us, this punishment is the worst of all.’
There was an awkward silence. Whitey shuffled and spoke quietly.
‘You know, I can always ask not to go, for someone else to take my place.’
‘Nonsense!’ said Cygan brightly. ‘I specifically requested that you come with us. You have seen the Malaac, and my fellow tribesmen will be delighted to hear of your exploits when I tell them. I am sure you will get a traditional marsh welcome. I look forward to seeing it.’ With that he clapped Whitey on the shoulders with both hands, turned and left the room, leaving Whitey alone with his thoughts. His terrible, terrible thoughts.
Some days later a group of some twenty to thirty men stood on the cold stone of the Sketta jetty peering warily through the early-morning fog. Everyone was huddled in their cloaks and rubbing their hands as the dock’s porters readied the boats for departure. Everyone except Cygan, that is; for he seemed not to feel the cold as the others did. His own small boat was gone for ever but his equipment, his bow, spear, fish hooks and the like, had been sent with him to Eburg and had been restored to him after his incarceration. Ten boats; two to three men per boat with plenty of room to store the equipment between them. The boats were wooden, built of planks with wooden slats to sit on – a world of difference from his little circular vessel of stretched hides and wicker – though he felt a pang of regret at never being able to sit in his familiar old craft one more time. One of the passages into manhood involved being able to construct your own boat. He remembered his first, built at the age of fourteen; the pride he felt when he saw it finally finished and his brother fishing him out of the lake after it had collapsed under him on its maiden voyage. He afforded himself a wry smile at the memory.
The Forgotten War Page 89