The Forgotten War (127 page)

Without waiting for a reply, but with one last, slight look at her poor husband, she left the room, flanked by a guard at each shoulder.

She was alone at last. The door to her chambers was locked with the two guards standing outside. She felt utterly, utterly helpless. For all her defiance in front of Vorfgan, much of what he
said was uncomfortably true. She was at his mercy; he could do what he wished with her. She saw her husband’s face in her mind, lifeless on the bed, denied even a warrior’s death or any
chance to defend himself. All of her emotions, pent up since seeing Vorfgan and Einar talking glibly over her husband’s corpse, now started to empty out of her. Sitting on the edge of the
bed, she put her head in her hands and started to shake uncontrollably, with her tears following shortly afterwards.

She did not know how long she stayed like that, crying softly in the dark, but it was still the dead of night outside when she stopped. She stood and bathed her swollen face with icy-cold water
out of the jug on her bedside cabinet. That done, she lay back on the bed; she might as well stay there; according to Vorfgan, her private rooms would be her only surroundings for quite a while to
come.

She looked at the icon of Elissa on the corner table, the one she prayed to every night. Not this night, of course; she had been too tired when she retired earlier and had no opportunity to do
so since. Until now, of course. Strangely, though, she felt no inclination to – after what had happened to her husband was there any point? Were they really watching out for her, as Father
Sidden would say? She had always prayed when required, obeyed the many church rituals, honoured the days of the saints and so forth, and was this how she was to be rewarded? The designs of the Gods
may be obtuse and unreadable but how was killing her husband and having her imprisoned supposed to guide her on the path of spiritual purification? How much was she supposed to endure and why
exactly? Was her faith being tested? And what of her husband, not, it was true, an overly religious man, but did the Gods really put him on this earth just to kill him off in order to give her a
trial of faith? The very idea seemed absurd. Part of her wanted to quiz an Artoran priest over the question, but part of her too wanted to grab the small, beautifully painted icon and throw it
against the wall, smashing it to smithereens.

She turned on her side, bringing her knees up to her chin and started to drift. All her thoughts were meandering, miserable and pointless. Yet again, she was a nobody, her actions dictated by
others. What status did she truly have when her fate seemed so desperately predetermined?

Then, fast as quicksilver, she rolled over and sat bolt upright on the bed. There were voices in the corridor. Several male voices and they seemed to be at odds with each other. Then the voices
stopped and the sounds of a struggle of some sort began. The door slammed as a body appeared to be pushed forcibly against it. She heard the ring of steel against steel and a brief, agonised
strangulated cry followed by the sound of a heavy object falling on to the stone floor.

She pulled her knife out of her boot. What if Vorfgan had gone back on his word and decided to kill her, after all? She moved swiftly and crouched behind the bed, blowing out the candles as she
did so. If their eyes had to adjust to the dark, then it might just give her a second to do something, though what that something was she did not have the first idea.

There it was – the sound of a key being fitted into the lock. It was an awkward lock; the key needed to be fiddled with a little before it engaged the lock properly. While she waited she
smacked her lips. Her mouth was so dry.

The door creaked open. She crouched ready to spring at the first man and drive her knife into his throat. So what if the others killed her? At least she would get one of them.

A shadowy figure walked cautiously into the room. Ceriana readied herself, putting all her weight on the balls of her feet. Another figure followed, then another. This third figure, though, she
recognised; it was a woman for a start. And then she spoke, causing relief to pour through Ceriana’s veins like a flood.

‘My Lady, are you here?’

‘Ebba!’ Ceriana replied. ‘You are alive.’

Ebba opened the hood on the lantern she carried. Ceriana saw that the first man was Seneschal Bruan and the second was none other than Derkss, who had accompanied her to Oxhagen. Two other
sturdy fellows followed, both in Wulfthram’s colours. Behind them in the corridor lay the bodies of the guards, blood seeping out of them to soak the stony floor.

‘Yes, I am, my Lady, but many others are not. They even attacked a lot of the servants as they tried to flee. Vorfgan’s men are loose in the town, fighting from street to street. The
cobbles there and in the courtyard are sticky with blood.’

‘My husband is dead,’ Ceriana said bluntly.

‘I know, my Lady,’ said Bruan. ‘Word has spread like wildfire. We need to get you away from here, before Vorfgan’s men return.’

‘But whither shall I go? Am I to winter in the country?’

‘No, my Lady’ said Ebba. ‘My man Gereth – you may have forgotten but he is a fisherman and has a boat in the harbour – if we can get you to him, then maybe we can
leave the island. He will take you wherever you wish to go, even Tanaren City if that is your will.’

‘Father has his warship there; surely it would be a better idea to get word to him?’ Ceriana asked plaintively.

Bruan looked guarded. ‘We have tried, my Lady, but I fear he may be under attack; we have had no reply as yet anyway. Hopefully you are right and we can call on his aid, but if not, then
Ebba is the one to listen to here.’

‘I hope you are wrong,’ the girl replied. ‘But how shall we get to the harbour to begin with?’

Ebba nodded dismissively. ‘Tsk, you noble lords and ladies know nothing at all.’

Bruan cut in. ‘Ebba is right. Fortunately that applies to Vorfgan, too. There is a service exit in the servants’ quarters that leads to a covered side gate and to Cowper’s
Path, an old country lane leading to the harbour. Last time we looked there were no guards there but that could change in a trice. Ladies, with all due respect, this is not the time for talk. We
need to move fast.’

‘Let me get a couple of things first,’ Ceriana said.

‘Quickly, my Lady; we must not tarry here.’

It took her less than a minute to shove her jewellery, religious icons and other possessions she thought essential into a shoulder bag as everyone watched her expectantly. Once finished she
looked at Ebba’s eager face.

‘I am done. Let us go.’

With Bruan in the lead they half walked, half ran, down the corridor to the servants’ quarters, a place Ceriana had never been. They went through an open arched entrance and down a spiral
flight of stairs that clattered loudly as heavy studded boots trod on them. Fortunately, Vorfgan’s men seemed to be elsewhere and the servants themselves all seemed to have fled in terror.
The place was empty.

The servants’ quarters themselves were actually underneath the manor house in a dry cellar. There were alcoves concealed by sheets, hiding stone platforms covered with bedding; dark unlit
entrances leading to storerooms and the kitchens, whose smells of fresh herbs and hard cheeses made Ceriana feel hungry again; dried clean linen folded neatly on tables; pots and enormous storage
jars; cupboards and wardrobes with not an iota of space left in them, and not a speck of dust to be found anywhere, such was the attention to detail practised by those in charge down here. There
was very little light, just candles in strategic alcoves, and on more on one occasion a soldier had to stifle an uncouth word as they blundered into a table or stumbled over a bucket in their
haste.

Then Bruan stopped. ‘Up here!’ he said. He then vanished into an exit that was little more than a dark slit in the wall. It was a narrow stairway indeed; there was barely enough room
for Ceriana’s narrow shoulders, let alone the burlier men that accompanied her. Fortunately, though, it wasn’t long before they emerged on to a landing where there was space enough for
them all to fit comfortably. A gate and wooden doorway faced them.

‘I will chance a quick look outside,’ Bruan said. He was well past middle age but he carried his blade like a man twenty years younger and Ceriana had heard from other guards that he
knew exactly how to use it. He opened the gate – the lock had already been forced on it – then slowly poked his head outside the door.

‘It is clear for now,’ he said. ‘Ebba, my Lady, head straight for the exit way. Do not stop; do not wait for anyone. You both have to get away; that is all that matters here.
We will deal with any trouble; your job is to escape and deny Vorfgan – and, Keth curse him, Einar – their prize.’

Without waiting for a reply, he went through the doorway, beckoning everyone to follow him. The cold air chilled Ceriana’s brow, which was damp with perspiration and her feet flapped on
the broad flagstones.

‘Look,’ said Derkss, ‘the town is on fire.’

Ceriana looked over her shoulder. Beyond the wall enclosing the courtyard, by the entrance gates to her right, the night sky was backlit by a soft yellow glow, and ribbons of smoke could be seen
ascending to the stars, themselves partially covered by thin traceries of cloud moving swiftly in the night air. There was a crash, and a rumble of collapsing wood and stone, consumed by an unseen
fire whose hiss and roar was probably audible for miles.

‘The house of Artorus,’ said Bruan. ‘The demons have burned it. It would be where the women and children would go for sanctuary.’

Everyone watched, mouths open in silent horror. To burn a house of Artorus was a depth nobody expected Vorfgan to sink to. They stopped moving, looking at the flames, and that was their undoing,
for, as they watched, a group of men came through the opened gates, saw them and started to charge, roaring their battle cries, their weapons held high. There were at least a dozen of them.

‘Ebba, Ceriana, run!’ said Bruan. Ceriana noticed the informality of his address to her and, despite everything, felt quite touched by it. But she forgot to move, despite Ebba
tugging at her sleeve. Bruan turned to her, his face a mask of anger and despair. ‘Run!’

She started to move at last, but could not stop watching as Bruan roared his challenge and he and his four companions charged at the advancing mob, more than twice their number. ‘My
Lady,’ said Ebba imploringly – and at last she turned and ran, not wanting to see the outcome of Bruan’s heroism.

Not forty steps later Ebba darted behind a small circular wall that jutted out from the much higher enclosing wall. Following her she saw that it was hiding a small gate, a servants’
entrance for those travelling up from the harbour. Ebba pushed it open and darted down a small flight of steep steps, heedless of the danger. Ceriana called out to warn her, for at the base of the
steps was a tall man clad in black, but Ebba’s momentum was too strong and she could not stop herself. She ran straight into the man, sending both of them flying. Ceriana drew her knife, took
the stairs much more carefully than Ebba, and stood over the man, pointing the blade at his face.

He groaned and rolled on to his back, brushing dried grass out of his ginger hair. He looked directly at her, his face registering genuine surprise.

‘My Lady. The Gods themselves have led me to you!’

Her suspicions were not allayed. She heard the sounds of battle in the courtyard behind her and looked at Ebba, who was standing gingerly, brushing her dress clean. ‘Are you all right,
Ebba?’

‘Yes, my Lady,’ she said, a little breathlessly. ‘You know this man?’

‘No,’ said Ceriana, trying to sound as hostile as she could. ‘I have never seen him before.’

‘I know that, my Lady,’ said the man, slowly getting to his feet. ‘But I know you. My name is Henk and I have travelled here in your father’s ship from Tanaren City. I am
sorry to cut you short but here is not the place for explanations. Can we head towards the harbour where I can talk to you on the way?’

She nodded reluctantly. Vorfgan’s men could be through the side gate at any time. ‘Lead the way, Ebba.’

The bracken and undergrowth came up to the very steps and wall at this part of the manor house. Where the steps ended, though, there was a narrow dirt path running through a slight cleft; the
undergrowth grew so high on either side that only Henk could see over it, and even then barely. Obeying her lady, Ebba started to skip down the path, guided only by the moonlight, with Henk
following and Ceriana in the rear. She did not as yet trust this man enough to place him in a position where he could stab both of them in a trice.

The sounds of battle faded behind them. Ceriana strained her ears for the metallic clang of a gate impacting on stone but as yet there was nothing. Then the path, running forever downhill, took
a sharp right turn and the brush concealed the entire house from her view, although the glow from the fire hung brooding over everything like an open sore.

The path was uneven, with occasional steep drops, and was littered with loose stones, causing her to almost turn her ankle on a couple of occasions. Early in its descent it flanked a couple of
single-storey stone houses then shortly after crossed a riding track, the very same one on which she had been ambushed and had her fall. Einar had been her protector that day; perhaps even then he
had been unsure of his own loyalties.

They had travelled for a while and she had heard no sign of any pursuit. For a brief period the path had levelled out, too; thank goodness there had been no recent rain for then it would be near
impassable in the darkness. The other two continued to plunge onwards but she, maybe because of her extra weight, felt the need to rest for a minute.

‘Stop!’ she said, tugging at Henk’s sleeve. ‘I need some air.’

Ebba obeyed, looking along the path for Vorfgan’s men. Seeing no one, she went to Ceriana and offered her some water from her flask, an offering gratefully accepted. ‘Five minutes
only, my Lady, for Elissa’s sake.’