‘I can tell them that you are anyway.’
‘No. Do not lie to them.’
‘As you wish. You had better get used to the attention, though.’
‘I will.’
He continued to tie the logs of the house together. After a few minutes he spoke again. ‘Cygan.’
‘Yes?’
‘Your language. Can you teach me some of it? Just so I can say hello to them, that is all.’
‘All right. Let us finish this and I shall teach you a few simple words.’
He then went over to the girls and started to speak with them. Whitey could not hear what they were saying and continued to work. When he finished he stepped back, pleased with himself, turned around and started in surprise.
The girls were standing right next to him.
One of them, a little bolder than the others, smiled sweetly at him and with a deal of concentration opened her mouth to speak.
‘Hello-oo, Baarrisss.’ She pointed to herself. ‘Emterevuanu.’
Everyone was blushing, Whitey felt it incumbent on him to reply.
‘Hello, Emterevuanu. How are you?’
She looked over to Cygan, who seemed beside himself with amusement. He mouthed a reply to her.’
‘I am we-ll.’ The three girls blushed and giggled simultaneously. Cygan spoke to the three of them and they all spoke together:
‘Goo-d-bye, Barrisss.’
‘Goodbye, ladies.’
They headed back to their boats, waving and shouting out, ‘Goodbye! Goodbye!’ as they did so. Whitey watched them row away to the houses over the lake, their clear chatter carrying far over the water.
He had never been so popular in his life.
As the light started to fade and the torches were lit, the great house on the lake started to fill with people. The feast held to celebrate the defeat of the Malaac had been a joyous occasion with no sober heads left in the village the following morning. This, however, was a much more sombre occasion; further refugees had arrived in the village in the ensuing days after the victory on the Black Lake. The Malaac had been driven back, but not entirely defeated. There was still much to be done.
In the front row were the Circle of the Wise, together with Terath and Dirthen, who had been busy in recent days healing the wounded; rather effectively, as it had turned out, for no one had succumbed to the Malaac poison as Tegavenek had done. The Elder, as he had done on so many occasions, caused the brazier to smoke and started to address the assembly. It was an unusual meeting as some of the women were there, a recognition for their role in the defence of the village. Vaneshanda was sitting beside her husband, her eyes shining and proud.
‘We have won a great victory here. The Black Lake stands alone among our people free and undefeated, testament to our bravery and the sacrifice of the warrior Cerrenatukavenex. But the war against the Malaac has barely started. Many warriors from other tribes are here and their villages remain to be taken back. Talk is not what is needed now. This is a time for deeds. So how shall we do it? How shall we drive the Malaac back to the Lake of the Eye? This is what we need to decide now. I invite our worthy visitor, the elf Terath to speak, for he has ideas on this particular subject.’
As Cygan translated for the men of Sketta, Terath stood to address everybody. It was a thing of wonder here, but barely after a few days of intensive learning his grasp of the new language was fairly comprehensive.
‘There are lizards here that, if you grasp their tails, they can run off uninjured, leaving the tail itself behind in your hand. This is what we have done to the Malaac; they have lost a limb but they can regrow it in time. To kill it fully, the head has to be severed from the body and the Great Dragon, the one you call Ventekuu, is the head. The Malaac will defend it but it is the dragon, or more particularly, its controller that has to die. Some people here from other villages say they have seen it, but, from the sounds of it, it has not strayed far from its home lake.’
‘I have seen it at the lake of the Jagged Rock, when we evacuated the people there,’ said Cygan.
‘Yes, but it is my guess that, if we keep forcing the Malaac back all the time, they will eventually retreat to their home.’
‘The Lake of the Eye,’ said Dumnekavax. There was a murmur among the Marsh Men, a fearful one. Of all the places they did not want to hear about this seemed to be the chief among them. One of Whitey’s associates piped up with a question that Cygan translated.
‘What is the Lake of the Eye, they wish to know. Do you want to tell them, Elder, or shall I?’
The Elder spoke up. ‘The Lake of the Eye is a name of dread among our people. It was the spawning grounds of the darker of our gods and spirits, the place where the Malaac were created along with the mosquitos, the leeches and the other creatures that plague us so. Ventekuu, the jealous spirit, is their leader. The lake itself is circular with many rocky islands and it is surrounded by pits of fire, full of tar and boiling mud. None of our people would go there willingly, for it is a place of death and evil omens.’ Dumnekavax spoke with his head bowed.
‘Nevertheless,’ said Terath, ‘if we defeat the Malaac elsewhere, it is to the lake that they will retreat; it is there that they will make their stand to defend Ventekuu. It is to there that we must go to end this curse on your people.’
‘And how do we defeat this man who rides on Ventekuu, when we finally corner him?’ Fasneterax asked in a hushed tone.
‘We have to cover him with lime,’ said Terath. ‘He is no longer fully human and the lime should shrivel him as salt shrivels a slug.’
‘But he rides Ventekuu, a great serpent,’ Fasneterax persisted. ‘How can we possibly attack him up there?’
‘We have slings,’ said the Elder. ‘I suggest making some sort of vessel of thin clay which will shatter when it impacts on their target. If we fill them with caustic lime, then we should be able to attack this man with them.’
‘But we would still have to get close to the creature to use them. Fasneterax was not giving up. ‘Cygan, you have seen this creature as have I. It is huge.’
Cygan nodded and an uncomfortable silence followed. Dumnekavax spoke again. ‘No one ever said that the risks were not terrible, but if this man is not killed, every tribe on the Great Marsh will ultimately cease to exist and then so will the villages of the Taneren. It is that much we have at stake.’
Terath continued. ‘I have been told that there are rivers going south and west from here. I suggest that we move in two groups along each river, seeding the waters with oil at every village and driving the Malaac back slowly, freeing one tribe at a time until it is only this terrible lake that stands against us.’
Sergeant Dennick spoke. ‘Give us a guide and I can return to Sketta and bring more oil. I could be back within the week and then we could embark on this project.’
‘I cannot spare Cygan,’ said Dumnekavax. ‘He is needed here to translate for us. Radu can go with you; he has journeyed to your trading post before and you know the way from there. You do not need to speak each other’s language to be able to complete this task. It is settled then. The Taneren will obtain more oil and in that time we will prepare for our two-pronged assault that will take us to the Lake of the Eye. I will lead prayers to Cygannan tomorrow so that he may bless our enterprise. Are there any objections to what we are attempting to do?’
No one said anything, though the sombre mood had not lifted from the listeners.
‘It is decided then. Return to your homes and sleep, for your strength will be needed for the days to come. Our way of life is at stake, our people threatened; this crisis is truly as grave as that. Pray for our people tonight.’
Whitey started to head for his little boat. All of the outsiders had been given one as a gift, a thank you for their help. The tented camp for them was located amid the bulk of the village on the lakeside and, with a cold mist rising on the placid waters, he was looking forward to sitting at the campfire and warming his chill hands.
‘B
arris.’ He heard a familiar voice. Cygan and his wife had come over to him.
‘What is it?’
‘Vaneshanda wishes to thank you for saving the lives of our children.’
‘I didn’t. I really didn’t.’
‘She would disagree with you. She wishes to cook you a meal tonight to express her gratitude.’
‘Will it be fish?’
‘I believe so, covered in herbs and garlic. There will also be cheese and flatbread. And spirit, of course, strong spirit. It will be just us four – my brother and yourself. What shall I tell her?’
Whitey smacked his lips with distaste. He didn’t really like fish. ‘Fish,’ he said without enthusiasm. ‘Do I have to come?’
‘Of course not. I can tell her you are feeling unwell.’
‘She will be disappointed, won’t she.’ He looked at the expectant face of the dark pretty woman next to Cygan.
‘Yes. But it won’t kill her.’
He sighed, trying to mask his disappointment. Why couldn’t people leave him alone? ‘Of course, I will come. What time do you want me there?’
‘The whole thing should take about an hour to prepare, an hour and a half if the children help her, but if you come back with us now you can join Uxevallak and myself for a drink on the island, among the goats. Drink quickly enough and your tongue will be too numb to taste the food.’
‘Very well, I guess it will keep the cold away.’
‘That it will. Then we can go indoors to eat by the fire. You can sit in the very house you helped rebuild.’
‘I hadn’t thought of that.’ As they headed for their boats Whitey had a mental picture of himself with a fish tail protruding from his mouth covered in pieces of collapsed roof. It had been a long day.
It turned out to be quite an enjoyable hour. The three men sat on the platform outside the house, passing a jug of some clear liquid that tasted of grass and nettles and which, after half an hour’s imbibing, made his head feel decidedly odd. It was not like the leaden kick of a heavy ale; rather it was light and airy, giving an almost euphoric feel. Whitey, though, knew he would be feeling it the following morning.
‘Cygan,’ Whitey said, as he looked over the lake watching bubbles caused by feeding fish float to the surface, ‘your children – what are their names?’ He could hear their excited yelps coming from inside the house along with a cooking aroma that was beginning to make his stomach growl.
Cygan spoke to his brother, who was already well into his drink. Uxevallak barked a short sharp laugh before raising the jug to Whitey.
‘They have no names,’ Cygan finally replied. ‘Not until their fifth summer. Giving a child a name gives him power in our eyes; if the child dies in infancy, then that power is lost to the tribe. If a child survives to five, then he has an even chance of getting to adulthood. So we name him or her then. The Elder performs a ceremony and we spend the rest of the day drinking this stuff. My boy will be named this summer; my girl in two years. It is a pity you won’t be here for it. If the village still stands, that is.’
‘Have you lost any children?’
‘No. But my brother has. None of his children reached their naming ceremony and he lost his wife some years ago too. He is my children’s second father and they dote on one other. What of you? Do you have family?’
‘No, I am a bastard and my mother rejected me as soon as she could.’
‘But why?’
‘My appearance. I resemble a demon in our holy book.’
Cygan’s eyes widened. Then he spoke to his brother. They both looked at him and started to laugh. Whitey felt a little unsettled at first, but, with the alcohol dancing merrily in his brain, he found himself joining in. Soon the three men were laughing helplessly, at what exactly Whitey did not have the faintest idea.
‘It is one of those cases where,’ Cygan said finally, his eyes wet with mirth, ‘your people see us as uncivilised savages and where we also see you as uncivilised savages. Your holy book makes you a demon? That is one of the most foolish things I have ever heard.’
‘But everyone believes it...’ He didn’t finish his sentence for the two men were off laughing again. Cygan was the first to stop, putting his hand to his temple. ‘Ow! My head!’ He grimaced.
‘You have not drunk that much,’ Whitey said. He was surprised at Cygan’s grave expression when he turned his head to look at him.
‘It is another matter, Barris,’ he said. ‘I took a beating when I was captured in your city and since then I have had these headaches. They come and go but they can be very sharp at times, very painful.’
Whitey felt sheepish, and guilty. ‘Sorry,’ was all he said.
‘Do not be. It was all part of a series of events that led you here, to save my children. I would change nothing in my past for that reason. Now let us pass the drink around one more time.’
Soon after, Vaneshanda came out to tell them that the food would be ready shortly. Still laughing, the three men trooped indoors, Whitey following their lead in sitting on blankets around the fire pit over which a pot hung. Something bubbled away inside it and it smelled very tempting. The screen on the landward side of the house had been securely fixed, enclosing the small space and making it incredibly warm and cosy.
The two children went and sat next to Uxevallak, their eyes wild and excited as Vaneshanda started to lay out plates and bowls in front of the men. Whitey, so used to field rations, was surprised at the number and variety of things on offer – hard cheeses, flatbreads, fish soup and other side dishes of plants and other things he had never seen before. There was a delicious sort of small wild onion which tasted fantastic with the soup. Whitey found himself devouring far more than what was probably his fair share and was aware of gravy dribbling down his chin.
When it was finished, the bowls were taken away and Whitey was preparing to thank his hosts and say goodbye when Vaneshanda left the house for a while. When she returned she was carrying something in a wide basket.
‘Some of the other ladies have been cooking this for us,’ said Cygan as Vaneshanda began handing out fresh earthenware plates. Whitey looked inside the basket; it was full of charred and dripping steaks.
They had killed a goat.
This threw him a little. He knew how important and valuable these animals were to them, a source of milk and cheese and very precious to their owners. To kill one was an honour only reserved for exceptionally important occasions. Or guests. It was time for him to experience another rare feeling – he felt humbled.
It did not stop him from chewing his steak until only a sliver of white bone remained. Vaneshanda watched him with a beaming smile on her face; he was obviously honouring her by acting like a glutton and he saw no reason to disappoint her.
When finally the meal was done, Vaneshanda and the children collected the bowls and went outside to wash them. Uxevallak took some dried brown leaves out from a pouch and put one of them into his mouth to chew. He offered one to Cygan, who did the same and then Whitey. The albino looked enquiringly at the Marsh Men.
‘It is citrid leaf,’ said Cygan. ‘Very refreshing after a heavy meal. If you take three or four, you can see visions from the gods and spirits, not something I would recommend tonight.’
Whitey took one; it was indeed a refreshing palate cleanser. He was then offered some honeyed milk which was also welcome. The bees were kept close to the Sketta guards’ camp across the lake, so he was glad to see they had some positive uses. A couple of the men had already been stung by the damned things.
When the children returned, Vaneshanda busied herself with putting them to bed in the corner. While she was doing that Cygan started to teach Whitey some simple words of the Marsh tongue. In turn, Cygan tried the opposite with his brother, who seemed to find the whole thing hilarious. In fairness, in his alcoholic haze, Whitey imagined that he was murdering their language on a grand scale, but after half an hour or so he could manage ‘Hello’, ‘How are you?’ and ‘My name is...’ pretty well.
Vaneshanda asked something of Cygan, who smiled back at her.
‘Rain,’ he said.
‘Rain,’ she replied, pointing at the roof.
It was true; a light scattering of rain could be heard pattering on the dried rushes above them. As they listened, it became denser and heavier until the fire started to hiss as heavy droplets of the stuff dripped through the chimney.
Cygan looked at Whitey. ‘Stay here tonight; you will get soaked travelling back on the lake.’
‘Here?’ Whitey thought aloud. It was something he was not expecting to do but Cygan threw him a blanket, as if the issue was already decided. Uxevallak was already picking his spot on the floor. Vaneshanda came over to him.
‘The children. They speak.’
She signalled to the two tired little mites as they lay swaddled in their low beds. They spoke in unison, in his own language, something they had obviously rehearsed earlier. ‘Goodnight, Barris. And thank you.’
‘Good night, kids,’ said Whitey. ‘Sleep well.’
The rain was beating down steadily now; it was obviously settling in for the night. He watched Cygan and his wife climb into their hammock before wrapping the blanket around himself and curling up close to the fire. He smelled wood smoke, damp rushes, leather and the remnants of the fish they had eaten earlier. It was warm, far warmer than the tent in his camp, and that, and the pleasant alcoholic haze, conspired to send him off to sleep in minutes.
Over the next few days the two men saw little of each other. A contingent of men had returned to Sketta to pick up some more supplies and Cygan was involved in liaising between the two groups and organising and preparing for the daunting enterprise to come.
Whitey was roped in with the other city guardsmen, cleaning and oiling equipment, sharpening swords, preparing arrows and repairing torn and split armour. The Marsh folk fashioned many small, thin clay pots, which were filled with lime then sealed up. Many of the men spent their time practising with their slings, firing them as far as they could into the lake.
Some five days after his meal with Cygan, he was sitting around the campfire whetstone in hand when Sperrish came over to him.
The Forgotten War Page 111