The Forgotten War (128 page)

Ceriana looked at Henk. ‘Well? Maybe you can tell us why you were at the house now.’

He nodded. ‘I actually work for the Grand Duke. But your father assigned me and two others to stay in the village when he returned to the
Lucellia
. It is a common convention. We
were to make sure your husband had made the necessary preparations for his official arrival with the fleet and report back if there was to be any sign of trouble – restive locals or the like.
We had a room at the inn, but as you know the village was attacked and we had to defend ourselves from the mob. We got into the manor house to try to find you but were set upon again. My men were
killed and I had to flee. I had decided to try and circle the walls looking for another way in when you appeared, so at least some good has come out of this whole sorry shambles.’

Ceriana took another drink from Ebba’s flask before handing it back to her.

‘How did you know my husband was dead? I had not told you.’

‘Word spread through the village like a plague; no doubt his killers wanted everyone to know as soon as possible so that they would be cowed.’

‘I would imagine it had the opposite effect,’ Ceriana said quietly.

‘Come on, my Lady,’ Ebba sounded frightened. ‘The man has said his piece and we need to get going. We should be at the harbour in ten to fifteen minutes.’

‘Does Gereth know to expect you?’ Ceriana asked.

‘I sent a boy with a message as soon as I could. I just hope and pray he reached the harbour untroubled.’

‘Then let’s get moving. I will go with my father if I can, but I do not expect you to come with me. You stay with your man, no matter what happens. I just wish I had stayed with
mine.’

The path started to drop again but this time the incline was a lot shallower. It started to veer towards the east, too, towards the harbour. The bracken, browned and subdued by winter’s
spectral grip. was flecked with the residue of a recent snowfall and now and then, if one of the trio lost coordination and brushed against a trailing arm of one of the tall plants, some snow would
be disturbed sending up a fine white spray that would shower their faces and hair.

Finally, they came towards the crest of the hill overlooking the harbour. Ceriana did not know how long they had been travelling, hours probably; her legs certainly felt heavy enough. From there
the path would get steeper again as it began its final stretch towards the handful of gaily coloured fishermen’s cottages that abutted the harbour on its western side. Ceriana knew that
Gereth lived in one of them; ‘a yellow cottage’ as Ebba had told her some time ago. Before that, though, they would breast the hill and for the first time get a full view of the
harbour’s broad sweep. The main road had a similar view where everything was laid out before one – Ceriana thought it one of the most picturesque sights on the whole island.

Eager to see how the
Lucellia
was faring she dashed towards the hill’s brow, squeezing past Henk and Ebba in her haste. She looked at the harbour in anticipation and realised that,
although Osperitsan village, was burning, it was not the glow from its fire she had been looking at recently.

For the
Lucellia
was burning, too.

In its pomp it must have been a magnificent sight, one of Duke Leontius’s flagships flying his blue-and-white colours over a deck chock-full with ballistae and catapults, sailors
clambering up its rigging to unfurl its resplendent white sails as it prepared to put to sea to carry the message of the Duke’s power to whatever destination needed a reminder of it. She
could imagine the gigantic grappling hooks being fired on to the decks of its next victim, then the ropes grabbed and pulled until the enemy ship was near to adjacent as could be managed and then a
dozen broad gangplanks being laid over the water as scores, maybe hundreds, of the Grand Duke’s marines swarmed over to claim their prize. If anything was a symbol of the Duke’s
imposing grip over his people, then this was it.

Only now it was burning.

With her heart half stuck in her throat, Ceriana part ran, part stumbled, down the remainder of the path until she finally landed on her grazed knees close to a small, box-shaped whitewashed
cottage, its windows shuttered against the night, although she thought it unlikely that anyone inside was actually sleeping.

They were finally at the harbour.

Covering her face with her cloak, she ran past the cottages up to the water’s edge, noticing Ebba stopping off at one and knocking the door frantically. Up close the
Lucellia
was a
heart-breaking sight, its timbers groaning as the flames licked at them relentlessly. Smoke plumed from its decks out on to the shore, covering a crowd of static onlookers as they witnessed events
from behind a line of Vorfgan’s spearmen who faced towards them with their weapons pointed outwards.

Ceriana looked at the ship’s quarter and main decks, trying to see if anyone was running around on them, but saw no one. And then suddenly the main mast – flames running up its
length even unto the crow’s nest – finally gave out and, grinding and groaning in its death throes, crashed heavily on to the deck, sending up a spray of thousands of blazing rubicund
sparks, like a swarm of angry fireflies escaping into the night sky. The impact caused the ship to list dangerously; soon it would slide into the glittering black waters, taking all those on board
with it.

At the harbour wall’s closest point to the ship she could see more men. They were archers, she guessed; Vorfgan’s men obviously. She then saw a couple of overturned rowing boats
between them and the
Lucellia
, looking like the backs of some great sea beast the bulk of whose body was feeding under the surface. Then, however, she saw the tiny, pale heads of men bobbing
up and down in the water, trying to swim, trying to get ashore somehow. Finally, and sickeningly, she understood what was happening here.

Vorfgan’s men were firing at them.

She saw then that for every living man there were two or three floating lifelessly in the water. She realised that the crowd of onlookers actually wanted to help, but the spearmen were holding
them back preventing them.

But what had happened to her father?

She decided to take a chance, for she had to know for certain. As silently and unobtrusively as she could, with her hood drawn tightly around her, she approached the crowd and touched the
shoulder of one of the male onlookers, obviously a fisherman from his garb and grizzled beard.

‘Excuse me, sir, have you been watching all this for long?’

He looked at her curiously and with no little suspicion ‘Not from the beginning, madam; I was abed but I have been out here long enough.’

‘Then could you tell me, have you seen any boats or people make it to the shore?’

He slowly shook his head. ‘As Artorus is my witness not a one, not a one!’ His voice was thick with emotion and a little suppressed anger. He then lowered his voice to a whisper and
bent close to her ear. ‘No one I have spoken to has seen your father, my Lady. I would suggest you leave now before these bastards notice you. A couple of fellows will be here with bill hooks
and clubs in a minute; we are going to rush them and try to save who we can. Please leave now and, if it is worth anything to you, we are all sorry for your father and your husband, if what we have
heard is true.’

‘It is true.’ She could barely get the words out; her voice was choked with sobs. ‘Thank you – it does mean something, much more than something.’

She turned and saw Ebba waving at her frantically, keeping her arm low, trying not to attract the attention of the spearmen. Henk was with her and another man, of medium height, muscular and
bearded, clad in oilskins and long boots. She ran over to them.

‘Father is dead,’ she blurted it out, almost involuntarily. ‘You must be Master Gereth. I am Ceriana; you are lucky to have such a lady as Ebba.’

‘I know, my Lady,’ he said quietly, as though admitting having a capable woman as his partner was an admission of weakness on his part. ‘But come with me now; things are going
to get really nasty down here soon.’

She followed him along the harbour wall up to where it curved against the western promontory of rock that sheltered this place against the vicious winter wind. There was a flight of steps here,
leading down to the water and one of several stone jetties, all individually owned by one of the fishing families that lived here. As she stood on the first step, she looked back to see a gang of
armed men emerge from the selfsame white cottage that stood next to the hill path they had traversed earlier. The man she had spoken to came to meet them with a couple of his fellows. She saw
hooks, hafted blades and clubs being handed over as these men walked intently towards Vorfgan’s spear. They had noticed this development and were calling out to them to stand down, something
Ceriana knew they had no intention of doing. As Gereth had said, things were about to get ugly. She turned away and ran down the steps as fast as her feet could carry her.

Gereth’s boat stood ready for them, a single-sailed cog that also accommodated four rowlocks. Nets, neatly folded, were stacked upon its deck along with barrels – tied down, of
course – poles and gaff hooks. Four other men awaited them on board, crew men or family members, or probably both; fishing was a family concern after all.

Gereth took her hand as she crossed the small gangplank. He then led her to the tiny cabin, which had room for a bench-cum-bed and a storage chest for charts and the like. ‘I imagine you
will need your rest, my Lady, especially after tonight. Do you wish me to take you to Tanaren City? It is a long trip, but one this vessel has done before.’

‘Thank you, Gereth, but no. Take me to Thakholm. If it is safe, of course.’

He bowed stiffly and awkwardly, obviously unused to having refined company, and closed the door for her, leaving her with only a small smoky lantern and her thoughts for company. She felt the
boat list a little as it took to sea and heard the coordinated grunts of the rowers, as they took the boat out to where the sail could be raised safely.

She soon realised that being alone with her thoughts was the last thing she wanted. She opened the door and went and stood next to Ebba, who was staring rigidly back at her island home.

The
Lucellia
was on its side now and sinking fast, the naked majesty of its burning now replaced by forlorn sparks and blue-yellow embers as the water finally started to quench the raging
flames that had claimed this carcass for its own. On the shore she heard the screams of battle; it seemed the club and hook armed defenders of Osperitsan harbour were in the ascendancy. The
defending spearmen had scattered and the locals were now among the archers. She saw one of them being grabbed and hurled over the harbour wall. The water was shallow there and he fairly bounced as
he landed almost fully on to the sharp rocks beneath.

On Gereth’s ship, unsurprisingly named the
Ebba
, the sail was raised. A stiff easterly breeze caught it almost immediately and sent it fairly hurtling clear of the harbour. Ceriana
watched the fading fires of the
Lucellia
, looked at the rows of pretty cottages fronting up to the sea and, on the hill above, saw that the fire in the village had died at last. She shielded
her eyes the more to see better with and, as the ship cleared the harbour, at last she saw the black shape of the manor house and its surrounding wall, getting smaller and smaller as the good ship
Ebba
finally hit the open sea and turned slightly on its course towards Thakholm. Her husband lay there; she hoped he was at peace and hoped still more that Einar would honour his body
properly and send him to Xhenafa in the traditional way. As to her father, she knew not what had become of him – only that it was almost certain that Vorfgan had accounted for him, too. Her
eyes were too raw to cry. It was with one last pitiful, heart-breaking sigh that she turned back to the cabin, shutting the door firmly behind her.

She was never to see Osperitsan again.

The long-dead thirty-seventh Grand Duke Hangarath the Dubious had hated Tanaren City. With good reason in all fairness, for his favourite uncle had been poisoned there and, in
an attempted coup against his father, the eight-year-old Hangarath had seen members of his own family hurled to their deaths from one of the towers of the Ducal Palace, a tower that ever since had
been known as the Kinslaying Tower. And so, upon his accession, he resolved to move the ducal seat, the fleet and his army elsewhere.

The place he selected was a small, sleepy but attractive little town called Perego, a few days’ journey west of the bustling, smelly, soon to be excapital. It had a broad, if shallow,
harbour, almost comparable in size to the great city, but a population of only a hundred or so. Thus began one of the most concerted, grand and misguided construction projects in Tanaren’s
history. The original buildings were demolished and its inhabitants expelled from the new city; they did not fit Hangarath’s designs for the place at all. A stone harbour was built, fronted
by colossal warehouses created to store the trade goods that would come flooding into the place from far and wide. Hangarath built a new palace, too. Its stone shell was to be clad in the finest
rose-tinged marble imported from the quarries of Nebosea, the same stone that had been used to create the famed Lilac Palace of Koze.

Hangarath himself had waited on the harbour front for the first marble shipment to arrive, lounging on his sedan fanned by two serving girls. At last the great vessel was sighted, and excitement
rose as it entered the great harbour. Hundreds of sweating, sinewy men manned the cranes, winches and pulleys required to get this precious cargo on to the shore. Hundreds of noble families
watched, too, for the Grand Duke had ordered that they all relocate here from Tanaren. Many had started to build their own estates here, and the foundations of at least a dozen stood out on the
nearby surrounding hills. Just the day before, Hangarath had formally declared that this new city, his city, the city of New Perego, would be the new seat and capital of the Duchy of Tanaren, only
the third such place, after Roshythe and Tanaren City itself, to bear such an honorific.