Out on the grassy plain where the clear night turned the grass brittle, the elves were keeping cold at bay by having a party. It had a serious intent, though; they were
celebrating the gift of Frzetena, the deer spirit. She had provided them with a good hunt and the venison they had garnered had been cooked until tender and seasoned with spice and was now going
down a treat with the
zhath
.
The northern plain between the Vinoyen and the Whiterush was now almost devoid of enemies. The much-vaunted Arshuman cavalry that Morgan had warned them about was terrified of open
confrontation, having been thoroughly bested at every turn. Infantry did not march for fear of being so peppered with arrows their lifeless bodies could not lay flat on the ground, and no supply
train had left either enemy city for over a week.
Standing close enough to the fire to be sweating a little, Itheya had drunk a little more than she had originally intended. She was full of venison and was aware that she was swaying slightly as
she regarded her battle brothers and sisters around her. They were not foolish enough to dispense with guards; a random draw earlier had selected the unlucky fellows who were to spend an evening
circling the camp watching everyone else partake of the revelry.
And there had been some revelry, too. She had seen many couples pair up before heading to the camp fringes. They could still be seen, of course; there was no privacy in camp, but most of them
were drunk enough not to care.
Culleneron, laughing and as far gone as almost everybody else, came towards the fire to join her.
‘Are you drunk enough yet, he asked in a voice several decibels higher than the one he usually employed.
‘I was just thinking that I am at that stage where I feel pleasant and happy without the groggy feeling that often accompanies it. One more sip, though, and I fear I will be tipping
towards nausea. So, to answer your question – yes, I am quite drunk enough.’
‘You know I didn’t follow a word of that.’ Culleneron was obviously nearer to nausea than she.
‘Not to worry, I was talking nonsense as usual,’ she replied airily.
‘You never talk nonsense. Never!’ he said emphatically. He looked around the camp. ‘Lots of people pairing up tonight, no?’
She stiffened slightly as she began to guess the intent of this conversation. ‘They are risking their lives, and have been both brave and fierce, a credit to their tribes. They deserve one
night of abandon.’
‘And what of their leaders? Do they deserve a night of abandon, too?’
Itheya turned to face him, a resigned look in her eyes.
‘There are plenty of single women without partners still. Why don’t you ask one of them? It would be an honour for them, for sure.’
‘And what of you, Itheya? It is known you reward the men of your tribe in the traditional way. Have I not been brave? Do I not deserve some reward?’
She sighed. ‘You do, Culleneron, but not tonight. Not from me anyway. I am not of a mood to dispense favour tonight. Do not be offended – we have plenty of time.’
‘Are you saying the Ometahan are not brave enough for reward? That we are not as deserving as the spirit-blessed Morioka? Do you wish to put such an assertion to the test? In combat? Hand
to hand with me?’
Itheya raised her voice for the first time. ‘First of all, I made no assertions with regard to the bravery of your tribe. You have all proven yourselves many times over, as have we all.
Secondly, do you really want to fight me now, just because I told you to exercise your member elsewhere? You are too drunk, Culleneron; you could no more pleasure me than fight me at the moment. I
am not saying no in the future, just that right now any kind of encounter between the two of us – amorous or martial – would be short, forgettable and dissatisfying for us both. Now
let’s not draw any further attention to ourselves shall we?’
Culleneron stormed off in a huff and started accosting two other girls near by. Itheya watched him, shaking her head slowly; eventually she headed for her bedroll. She felt dead tired.
But sleep was not for her, not yet. As she was about to lie on the ground and look at the stars two men approached her: one was a guard whom she recognised instantly; the other though was more
of a shock.
‘Senterion! What are you doing here? Since when did you join this war band?’
‘I have not,’ the man replied. ‘I have been searching for you for nearly a week. Your fire and noise eventually brought me here.’
Itheya felt dread clutch at her heart. ‘You have news, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, my Lady; it pains me to tell you but your father is dead.’
Itheya turned away from them both, fighting to contain her feelings.
‘Was it ... painful?’
‘No, my Lady, it was in his sleep. His nurse went to wake him and ... couldn’t. A great spirit left us that day.’
‘Then I had better return, to grieve for him and for my acceptance as leader. Either my brother or myself can return to the war band when the matter is resolved.’
Senterion looked uneasy. ‘About your brother...’
‘The spirits spare us,’ she said in exasperation ‘What has he done now?’
‘My Lady, he has claimed leadership of the tribe. He says over half the first families back him. He has even started to make noises about exiling you, stating you are too close to the
humans. This was over a week ago; I do not know how things stand at the present.’
Itheya’s jaw line hardened. ‘What? Could he really be so stupid?’
Senterion looked sheepish. ‘I am sorry, my Lady; I am just telling you what I know.’
‘Then I must return without delay. I must speak to Morgan then return, though no doubt that is exactly what he will be expecting.’
‘He will be, my Lady. If you return now, your life could be threatened.’
‘No,’ she said, her eyes were all steel. ‘It is not me; it is my brother’s life that will be threatened. It is my wrath that he will have to face, and for once I may not
be forgiving.’
She stalked back to the fire and poured the rest of her
zhath
into the flames.
The Endless Marshes were nothing like Whitey had imagined them. He had expected a vast bog full of black sticky mud waiting to catch the unwary and suck them under the surface
to their doom. He had seen bog, yes; at times the river broadened, lost momentum, and he could see that they were surrounded by standing pools of dark water fringed by tussocks of livid grass.
However, as often as not, the river seemed a fairly regular watercourse bordered by tall reeds and banks of slippery mud. He relaxed a little on seeing this; perhaps this place would not be as
strange and alien as he feared. As far as wildlife was concerned, he saw little – an occasional pair of swans, a cluster of angry ducks or a lone hawk, its broad tail feathers splayed,
hovering high above them searching ceaselessly for rabbits or mice, or whatever other denizens of this silent land it might consider a tasty snack.
For three days they had journeyed south, seeing neither friend nor foe, rowing hard by day and fighting off biting insects at night. The Marsh Man told them that such creatures amounted to
barely a tenth of the number you would get in summer or autumn, but this was little consolation to the soldiers as they scratched the red lumps on their face and arms till they were raw and
bleeding. It was something that seemed to amuse their laconic, stern guide – if anything amused him, that was.
It was around noon of the fourth day. The boats had been pulled up on to a low shelf of mud and a lunch of iron rations supplemented by caught fish was being taken. Whitey was eating on his own
as usual but stopped chewing on his dried fruit when a shadow fell over him. It was Sperrish.
‘Strange place, don’t you think?’ he said, chewing on a piece of hard bread. ‘There is something not natural about this silence. I need noise, city noise, to function
properly. This place is full of ghosts and bad omens. I want to get back home already.’
‘Forget the city,’ Whitey replied. ‘We won’t be seeing it again for a while. At least the air is cleaner here. No miasma spreading plague in these places.’
‘I don’t know,’ Sperrish continued to moan. ‘Some of these bogs stink fit to disgust the Gods.’
‘Agreed, but the Marshie has kept us well away from them till now.’
Sperrish spat some bread on to the earth. ‘And that is not all. I have seen nothing of value since we left Sketta. Blackroot is supposed to be abundant down here, and spirit grass, but I
haven’t seen a ducat’s worth in four days.’
‘You need to know where to look. I was always told that such things grew in lakes and we have not stopped at one yet.’
Sperrish looked slyly at his companion; he was about to ask the question he had wanted to ever since he started this conversation.
‘Whitey, you know the Marshie, don’t you? Perhaps you could ask him where to look. I mean, don’t be obvious about it; just drop it into the conversation when you next see him
– just to get an inkling of what to look for.’
Whitey sighed in exasperation. ‘Sperrish, I said it before, the Marshie hates me; he would no more tell me where to find the stuff than he would tell you.’
Sperrish shook his head. ‘Not from what I have seen. The Marshie has taken you under his wing. That is why you are in his boat; he trusts you, Whitey, I am telling you.’
‘I am in his boat because he
doesn’t
trust me; he wants to keep an eye on me in case I try to run off or something. You would be far better off asking the Marshie
yourself.’
‘Asking the Marshie what exactly?’ Cygan was just feet away; his silent approach had surprised them both.
Both men looked like naughty children caught doing something they shouldn’t have. ‘We were just wondering how much further we had to travel,’ Whitey mumbled. ‘My arms are
fair sore with all this rowing.’
‘Then you will be pleased to know we are a bare two hours away from my village. We should be there long before the sun sets. I am slightly surprised we have not seen one of my tribe yet;
this is a good area for fish and we set many traps around here.’
‘Then perhaps things aren’t faring so well in your village. Perhaps its people are too scared to range far from home.’ Whitey couldn’t shake off the feeling of impending
doom.
‘I fear your words may be wise ones for a change. It appears different tribes are moving north in other rivers. That my people have not yet done such a thing does give me cause for hope,
though.’
Cygan looked at the river, where a fish rose and briefly broke the surface, its lustrous scales catching the sun in a fleeting flash of dazzling emerald and silver before vanishing back under
the dark silted surface with an almost apologetic little splash.
‘I wonder what disturbed it?’ he mused aloud.
Sperrish looked nervous, drawing his knife. ‘You don’t think it was one of ... them, do you?’ All the men had been long briefed on what to expect out here.
‘No,’ said Cygan. ‘I think it unlikely and, even if it were, these creatures rarely attack by day, especially a numerous well-armed party such as ours. Come, it is time to
move; your officer is calling for you to finish eating.’
They pushed on. By this time Cygan was desperately hoping to see a familiar face coming towards them, hailing him, but as yet he had been disappointed. The reeds and occasional sad tree lining
the bank were well-worn familiar landmarks to him now; he knew exactly where they were and how far they had to go.
Then, at last, he saw something, a long boat carved from a single log, obviously on patrol. It was still some distance away but was definitely coming towards them. He raised his arm, both to
salute the stranger and to slow down his own little flotilla. The men rowing behind him were happy to oblige.
The boat was close now and at last he could recognise the lead rower behind the boat’s skull figurehead. It was Raduketeveryan the Red. Cygan was shocked at the emotion that started to
well through him on seeing a fellow tribesman for the first time on his return.
Radu hailed him first. ‘Cygan! Cygan the Brave! You have returned. Are these men all Taneren? I have never seen anything so strange.’
The two boats met, prow to prow, Cygan and Radu holding them together so they could talk briefly.
‘I have much to tell Radu, and am fortunate to be alive. We have men and
Elevaa coming to fight our cause. All is not yet lost!’
‘Not yet,’ said Radu. ‘But we are hard pressed, nonetheless. Cerren’s sacrifice was successful for a while – we were left alone. But one emissary of Ukka was not
enough, it seems, for we have finally been discovered. At first the Malaac attacked us sporadically, brief night skirmishes. We were well defended, so they seemed little interested in us. But that
has all changed. The last five nights they have come and for all the ferocity of our response they have not gone away. They have destroyed much and killed over twenty of us defenders, including
Tegavenek, who never recovered from the wounds he received when he travelled with you, Come, follow me and see for yourself.’
‘One question,’ said Cygan. ‘Vaneshanda?’
‘She is well, as are your brother and children. We have no meaner marksman with a sling in the tribe.’
With a palpable sense of relief, Cygan signalled the others to follow Radu downriver. It was not far. The reeds on either riverbank broadened their sweep, narrowing the navigable channel, a sure
sign that Black Lake was close by. From overhead came the heavy downdraught of beating swan wings, nearly a dozen of them swooping low over the heads of the rowers, over the reeds and, for a moment
out of sight, as they landed on the place Cygan had thought on more than one occasion he would never see again –
The Black Lake.
The river bent a little, his boat straightened up and at last he was there, paddling his oar on to the broad swathe of inky water dotted with coots and moorhen. And at its centre the island on
which stood his home.
Except that his home stood there no longer.
All of the houses on the island had either been demolished or systematically dismantled so their materials could be used elsewhere. For on the island now stood a high stockade surrounded by a
shallow ditch. Inside it, Cygan could see some hastily constructed buildings with roofs of wicker or dried reeds. The great house was still there and the houses on the lake side itself, though some
of them looked in need of repair.