The Forgotten War (51 page)

She realised the whole battle was in the balance here. If the Arshuman first unit held, then the Tanaren reserves had been spent in vain. The Arshuman General had joined the conflict with his
bodyguard; if the infantry of Fenchard could be pushed back, the whole Tanaren line could fold in on itself, collapsing like a pack of cards. What could she do to help? She sensed a strange
prickling in her head. What was that exactly?

Suddenly she pitched to her knees, dropping her staff. She felt as if she was lying flat, a heavy door being pressed on her chest, and desperately she gasped for air. A crushing spell. A mage
killer! A spell used to directly target an enemy spell-caster, it was tantamount to an assassination attempt. She had only a cursory knowledge of such spells, never thinking that she would need or
encounter one of them. Such an omission could be the death of her, she realised. She desperately tried to inhale but no air reached her lungs. She clawed at the earth, a line of dribble fell from
her opened mouth, tears slid down her cheeks. In a flash she thought of her family whom she would never see again, of Marcus, of Sir Dylan, of Mikel and the friends she had made at the college. Her
head pounded and blood started dripping from her nose. She rolled on her back in a foetal position clutching at her chest. Her ribs were pushing inwards – soon they would stab her lungs and
it would all be over.

A figure loomed over her. It was Sir Norton, concern writ large on his face. For all that, he could do nothing to help her, for she was totally in the grip of her opponent. He had bested her, he
was bending all his power on her, including all of that in his staff. If she could but survive, hold off the deadly assault, then he would be vulnerable.

She stared glassily at Sir Norton, small droplets of blood forming in the corners of her eyes, a thin line of blood-flecked drool running from the corner of her mouth. Using every ounce of
strength, every sinew, every muscle available to her, she managed to barely gasp the following two words;

‘My ...... staff.’

He understood immediately – picking it up and clasping it into her right hand. Her head felt it was about to explode, like one of those melons the jousting knights would practise their
skills on in the Summer Festival. But then she felt the staff. It was damp from the wet grass and she was unsure if she had ever touched metal as cold as this, but she forced herself to open her
mind, to let its power flow through her and so counteract the vice that was squeezing her into oblivion. It rushed through her like a blood supply. Soon she could use it to ease the pressure on
her. There was a sharp crack as a rib snapped, and she screamed with the pain; it should have been an agonised, piercing shriek but instead only a hoarse gasp came out.

‘Focus, Cheris, focus, use its power, ease the grip upon you.’ And slowly this happened. Almost imperceptibly, the tiniest wisp of air slipped through her bloodied nose and into her
damaged lung. The wisp grew into a trickle, and then a stream, and then a strong river, as strong as the Vinoyen. She felt him try and reassert his authority over her but this time she held firm.
She used her staff against him until he stopped; there was still much power in it, enough to return warmth and feeling to her fingertips. She knew he was spent, his staff drained. She rolled on to
her knees and drank the air as a man in the desert drinks when he finds an oasis. Her shattered rib pushed into her like a dagger thrust and she screamed again, this time a shrill full-throated
scream, as her colour returned and she regained control over her wracked body. She spat a gobbet of blood and spittle on to the ground and indicated to Sir Norton to lift her to her feet. As he
assisted her, he looked directly into her face and took a step back, surprised by what he saw there. There was pure devilry in her blue-grey eyes.

‘That bastard!’ she whispered in cold fury. ‘He won’t get the chance to do that to me again.’

She was on her own two feet, a little wobbly, but her anger overrode any exhaustion she was feeling.

‘Fireballs, my friend, so you like fireballs.’

She opened her arms in front of her.

‘
Tera lakassa etu vidomatis
.’

Before her a small white flame appeared – how it danced between her palms as it slowly grew in size! She did not need the staff anymore, she sensed, and so had dug it into the ground
behind her. Her revenge on this man would come from her own inner powers and not from any other devices. The flame had grown to be the size of her head; she could grow it further but she
didn’t really need to. She had to catch him before he ran. She placed her right arm behind her and gently assayed a throwing action while whispering the word –

‘
Atulatesta
.’

Sir Norton looked up as the fireball sped high into the air before dropping, arcing downwards, as it sought out its target. The copse.

It illuminated all before it and he saw the terrified desperate figures under the trees turn and flee for their lives, but they were way too late.

The fireball crashed under the trees, igniting their branches until they were a crackling crown of flame. Under the trees there was an inferno. Cheris sought out her opponent’s mind,
trying to pin him down, seeing if he had anything left to face her with. All she felt was a brief second of terror and agony. Then nothing.

‘He is dead,’ she said to Sir Norton.

‘Good, do you wish to retire from the field? You have done enough. The fire is nearly out on the hill and Marcus will be here soon.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘There is one more thing left to do.’

It was desperate on the field. The men of Tanaren had the advantage, so it seemed, but the Arshumans refused to give way. They had reformed their lines and repulsed the cavalry
assault, a colossal achievement in itself. Their units had dropped from five to four after reorganisation, their general was at their side, and their right flank, where Lanthorpe was having
Keth’s own time trying to pin the opposing cavalry down, was still protected. Both lines had withdrawn again, and thousands of exhausted, sweating men stared at each other, summoning the
strength for yet another push. The euphoria among the Tanarese troops had gone, their wounds were hurting and their arms felt limp at their sides. It was the dead of night and the Arshumans still
held the town and were not budging. For all Baron Felmere’s promises, it was beginning to look as though they would be driven back and would spend the winter on the same patch of ground they
had moved up from three days ago.

Some of the men looked up, as if searching for divine inspiration. The nearly full moon was strong now and the carpet of stars shimmered under its light. Then one of the men pointed.
‘Look! Look there!’

As the men looked, they could see it was not a celestial object. It was spherical, a pale icy blue and it was growing in size. It was also directly over the centre of the Arshuman troops. It was
plain that they had seen it, too. Men were pointing, looking nervously above them. The object continued to grow.

Back on the hill Cheris was chanting softly to herself. This was her favourite destructive spell. She had practised it many, many times, but the ball of lightning she conjured
was never allowed to get larger than the size of her head, a standard measurement for the supervised initiate. This time there were no restrictions and no one to stop her and she wondered, just
using her own powers, just how big the ball could get. It kept growing, now it was the size of her, and then of the horses standing by her caravan. The Arshumans underneath it were beginning to
back away, forgetful of the discipline that had previously held their ranks so tightly together.

Now it was tree-sized, now it was house-sized, a colossal ball of fizzing blue energy. She lowered it a little, so it stayed not fifty feet above the heads of the enemy, the people who had left
her crushed and bruised. Many of them were ignoring their commanders and were turning to flee. She saw this and decided it was time.

‘
Meliotoris!
’ she said, making a small downward gesture with her forefinger.

The ball dropped like a stone on to the upturned heads of the Arshumans.

Felmere sat on his charger, mouth agape. He almost felt sorry for them. As the ball crashed into the Arshuman line, it disintegrated, releasing a thousand forks of lightning.
Some were azure, some turquoise, some green and some white. All of them shot through the bodies of the soldiers, leaping from one to another, hissing, sizzling and popping as they fried their
screaming victims. In unison, the entire army broke and fled as the lightning died sputtering, its embers glowing green as they slowly disappeared leaving dozens of burnt corpses smouldering on the
ground.

The Tanaren knights put the gagging aroma of roasted flesh to the back of their minds as Felmere signalled the charge. Against hundreds of fleeing men with their backs turned it was a massacre,
Arshumans fell like rain, as lances, spears and swords struck home again and again. They were pursued to the river where without a second thought many of them jumped in to be swept away by the
current. The Arshuman general, having lost control of his steed, could only watch in horror as his horse plunged over the bank, dragging him in his full armour down into the foamy depths.

In less than half an hour it was all over. Those who weren’t dead or wounded, or who weren’t lucky enough to cross the river (barely a hundred in number), were being rounded up as
prisoners by the victorious troops. Baron Felmere, with Reynard Lanthorpe and a hundred knights, entered Grest shortly afterwards, encountering no resistance.

And Cheris? As the lightning ball crashed to the floor exhaustion overtook her. Feeling as weak as a new-born and losing all control in her muscles, she crashed face down on to the ground. The
last thing she remembered was the smell of wet earth and the moisture from the grass against her face.

It was market day in Osperitsan village. Ceriana, Ebba and Alys were out shopping for a new dress. The range available was not spectacular but they were well-made sturdy
dresses, good for ladies working in the fields or the wives of fishermen. There were one or two more expensive ones for the ladies of the court and Ceriana purchased one of these, a fetching green
velvet affair with silver buttons on the sleeves. After handing over the money to Gudrun, the dressmaker, she turned to Alys.

‘For you,’ she said, ‘your clothes are far too severe.’

Alys spluttered and went crimson. She was always getting embarrassed, that girl, thought Ceriana.

‘I am sorry, my Lady; I cannot possibly accept this – it is too much.’

‘Nonsense, it is a present, a thank you for coming all this way to help me.’ Alys assented, knowing she wouldn’t win an argument with the proud, thin, upright woman next to her
and they continued their trip around the market, until an outburst of squally rain drove them back to the carriage and then finally back to the baronial hall.

The three ladies had bonded somewhat in the two weeks since Alys had arrived. Ebba had been ordered to look after both of them and Alys had been moved into rooms next to Ceriana’s. As the
days passed, they had formed something of a trinity, spending a lot of time in each other’s company.

As far as her husband was concerned, it was inevitable that nothing strange had happened since he had agreed to spend the nights with her. She found herself actually wanting to wake up in the
dead of night covered in glowing red veins and dreaming of dragons, but of course nothing like that happened. All she got was her husband grumbling about her snoring and digging her in the ribs
when she took too many of the blankets. She didn’t care that relations had cooled between them; she had been forced into this arrangement as much as he had and had her own life to lead. She
had settled here a lot more now and often went out riding over the bare hills and narrow walled paths of the island until she arrived at the sea. There she would uncover her head and let the biting
wind make her ears go numb and pinch her nose red. Her nose would run, too, and she loved that – Lady Ceriana Osperitsan-Hartfield, Snot Queen of the Islands – how the ladies of the
court would bow to her then! Einar popped along to visit for a couple of days; he had some news – Vorfgan was up at his hall continuing his tour of the islands, and he and Wulfthram would be
returning to visit him, Einar’s hall being only a couple of hours away.

‘What do you think of him?’ she asked.

‘He’s like every baron I have ever met; he has his own agenda which is never out in the open. He has some charm as well, which is lost on me but never goes amiss with
others.’

‘Why is he visiting everybody like this? I never found out when I saw him in Thakholm.’

‘It is not uncommon for a new baron to do such a thing, especially if he is in need of friends. I’ve known him for a while but he is a mystery to a lot of people, especially to those
on the islands. Wulfthram will work him out pretty quickly; he has a gift like that.’

‘With men maybe,’ she said archly.

‘Still frosty between you? Do you want me to knock some sense into him?’

‘As long as you don’t hold back,’ she said with a smile.

‘Are all southern girls so vicious?’

‘Only when slighted – an apology though and I am quick to forgive.’

‘I will tell him then, though I can never remember him apologising to anyone. He did to me once after upsetting my ale, but I am not counting that.

In my opinion, he listens too much to his womenfolk. My wife has never argued with me in twenty years of marriage and six surviving children.’

‘And what is the secret then?’

‘Never to talk, of course. No conversation, no arguments. She has her handmaidens for company and me when she needs a bull in the bedroom. A happy arrangement all round.’

‘Bull, is it? Does that mean you sweat a lot, smell terrible and can be led by the nose?’

He thought about it a second. ‘That’s one way of looking at it, I guess; not quite the way I meant but she would probably agree with you. Your husband will be back with you tomorrow
night suitably chastised.’