The Forgotten War (13 page)

‘I would never do that.’

‘Quite right, sister. Now let’s see – I have imparted what little information I have on your husband, so the next thing to do is call on Mother. Actually, as I am soon to be
her nearest daughter in the geographical sense, that may be something I should do more often in the future.’

The two women hugged and Leonie took her leave. Doren and her mistress sat in silence for a while before Ceriana spoke.

‘You do not have to come with me, you know; I am sure this Wulfthram has staff he could spare me.’

‘I have a duty to the Hartfields,’ Doren said firmly. ‘I will not abandon you.’

‘Your family is here; your husband cannot leave his business and your children...’

‘I will return for a few days here and there.’

Ceriana swallowed and set her chin firmly; she had already made her decision but hated the words as they came out. ‘No. I cannot permit it. I am a selfish girl, I know, but in this case I
must do the right thing. This time, Doren, I really am dismissing you from my service. Lady Catherine is to remain here as a companion to my mother and you will become her maidservant.’

Doren looked at her, her eyes moist. ‘But what of you, my Lady? It will be so lonely for you.’

‘If this is what the Gods have decided for me then I am ready. Besides, Father will be travelling up there quite frequently and Keth’s furnace will freeze before I stop returning
here whenever I can. This will always be my home.’

‘Thank you, my Lady.’ Doren sounded both grateful and upset. ‘You are truly growing up before my very eyes; you have always been the daughter I never had.’

At that, Ceriana’s poise and assurance broke, and the two women embraced each other, accompanied only by the sound of their own soft tears.

Ceriana stood in the centre of the Grand Cathedral. Behind her in the nave stood her parents, siblings and other family members. In front of her, stroking his saintly white
beard, was Grand Lector Josephus XVII himself, the head of the Divine Pantheon, first disciple of Artorus, chief supplicant to the Holy Trinity and head of the church in Tanaren. Light bled through
the stained-glass windows on to the central dais on which Josephus stood. In front of him, covered in a simple white cloth, was the great altar on which the rings of marriage would be placed,
between the figures of the golden lion and silver dove, the symbols of Artorus and Camille. These represented the very ideal of marriage; strength tempered with mercy, impetuosity with reason,
ambition with gentility. It was to these two gods that she would make her pledge tomorrow. Then the Grand Lector would bring forth the symbol of the hare, which was the attribute of Elissa, and ask
the goddess to bless the marriage with children. Then the ceremony would be over.

Her groom, who had arrived in the city yesterday, was late. Apparently, he had arrived with an entourage of lesser barons and gone straight to his rooms – to drink as the palace gossips
would have it. Josephus cleared his throat in mild irritation.

She drifted and tried to remember the depictions on the stained-glass windows without looking at them; she had been here many times after all, though never as the centre of attention. First,
appropriately enough, there was Artorus, father of the gods, here depicted as the mighty veteran warrior, smiting his great enemy, the god Keth, into the underworld. There Keth, consumed by his
desire for vengeance, created the furnace of the damned, upon which was forged an army of demons. It was here that those condemned by the gods, damned by lives of dissolution, were sent to labour
for eternity, their spirits tormented by fire and a thousand other exquisite agonies. Then there was Camille, a lesser goddess in Tanaren but revered almost as much as Artorus elsewhere. The window
depicted the tale of Camille and the prostitute Tamira. Camille had entered this woman’s house disguised as a cat but then revealed her true form to teach Tamira – and the world –
about temperance and modesty. The prostitute thereafter became her chief disciple, setting up the all-female Order of Camille whose stronghold was in the empire of Chira. Shortly after these events
Camille became Artorus’s consort.

The next window depicted both Artorus and Camille holding Elissa, their first-born, in their arms, and after this was a window showing, appropriately enough for a city built on the sea, Hytha
with his great axe, riding the waves as he continued his perpetual battle with Uttu, god of storms. Then there was Sarasta, goddess of the harvest. holding a basket of fruit and bushels of wheat.
And then Xhenafa the withered, in his cloak of shadow, standing on a pile of bones; Mytha, god of warriors, who was shown as a great bear tearing apart the fiery demons created by Keth; Meriel, the
Lady in White, bathing a crippled soldier in radiance and making him walk again, Elissa, standing before Keth the Deceiver, who had cloaked himself in a fair form in order to seduce the goddess but
who unintentionally revealed himself when she asked him for his opinion on the greatest virtue and he stated it to be ambition rather than love. After this was Artorus again, tearing the Earth away
from the underworld and creating the void between them, the home of the restless soul, and this was followed by Lucan, god of magic in his many forms – a being of fire, water, lightning, ice,
earth and air. And so then to the final window, depicting the entire pantheon: Artorus at the head; Camille, slightly smaller next to him; Elissa at their feet, and beneath her the brothers Hytha
and Mytha; Meriel, bathed in light, next to Sarasta, and under even them, hammering away in his furnace, Keth the ever watchful. Xhenafa, conveyor of the dead, never appeared in these
depictions.

She looked up at the windows and was pleased to see she had got them all right. She shuffled restlessly. She was standing in the cathedral’s transept, both sides of which ended in an apse
whose semi-domes were covered in gold leaf. Ahead of her, to the left and right, were the balconies that would house the choir which had finished rehearsing earlier, and directly ahead was the
great apse itself, colossal in size, covered in gold and lapis lazuli and housing marble statues of Artorus and Camille. Its semi-dome depicted the dove and the lion and, most importantly, the
staff of justice, its wood blackened by cleansing fire, the overweening symbol of both Artorus and the Grand Duke. An archway and tunnel at the back of the apse led to the famous bell tower.

Josephus cleared his throat again. ‘Perhaps, my Lords and Ladies, given the time constraints upon us we can proceed with...’

At that, however, the great bronze doors of the cathedral ground open, admitting the bright sunlight that was bathing the city outside. Silhouetted against it were several figures all of whom
were hurrying towards them. Ceriana turned her head back to Josephus and waited.

She felt someone stand alongside her but did not look as her cheeks had started to flush. She concentrated on the golden lion ahead of her, breathing deeply and hoping that would calm her down.
Josephus had already started to open his mouth in admonishment when the man next to her spoke.

‘Apologies for the late arrival, Grand Lector; we are unfamiliar with your city and badly underestimated the time required to get here. Have no fear: we will be on time tomorrow.’
The apology sounded forced to her, made through gritted teeth. The voice itself though was deep and powerful and she couldn’t dislike it as much as she wanted to.

The rehearsal began. It was Josephus, mostly, who spoke, telling all present of the wonderful and joyous event unfolding before the eyes of the Gods; occasionally the bride and groom would have
a line, generally relating to their piety and humility. Bizarrely neither of the bride and groom looked at each other, Ceriana concentrating rigidly on the book of service that she held in front of
her.

‘Now both of you approach the altar.’ Josephus had that voice that all priests, great or small, seemed to have within them, rich, well enunciated, perfect for making the audience
hang on to every syllable. They both complied.

‘The rings will be present on the altar before you. Wulfthram. When I prompt you to take the ring, turn to Ceriana and place it upon her finger.’

The couple turned to face each other and for the first time Ceriana looked directly at the man she was to wed.

The northern barons were descended from the men of Kibil and she could see their characteristics in him immediately. His hair was black and his jaw firm-set, almost blocky in appearance. His
moustache trailed over his top lip and hung down in plaits from either side of his mouth; she realised then that his hair also had a couple of plaits extending well past his neck. His eyes were a
clear deep blue, darker than a summer sky but lighter than a sapphire, and they contrasted sharply with his weathered brown skin. As to his age, if anything, those who had said he was twice as old
as she had underestimated it, for his eyes were finely lined as were the top of his cheeks; he seemed to be a man worn down with care to her, but apart from that his expression was unreadable. He
spoke then, almost as if involuntarily:

‘By the Gods, she is so young.’

Of all the things she could have heard him say, that was probably the worst. She turned beetroot in colour and glanced away. She mumbled her way through the rest of the ceremony, and when it was
finished her husband-to-be went straight to her father, apologised for his lateness again with an equal lack of sincerity, and was gone, his cronies following close behind him.

The night passed, clear and cold, and morning brought with it a light frost whitening the tips of the grass as though they had been lightly dusted with sugar. After a quick
breakfast of hard bread, Morgan and his companions were on their way again.

They passed villages more frequently now and, although the first couple they saw were deserted, they were at last starting to see people, hardy souls willing to take the chance that their former
homes would not fall under enemy control again. At one point they stopped to let some knights ride past heading eastwards; their pennants and cloaks bore the eagle claw so they were obviously going
to join up with Reynard. Further evidence that the front line was being reinforced came as another body of troops marched past them. They were well equipped, too, some hundred men marching under
the banner of a great white charger rearing above a waterfall.

‘Baron Fenchard’s men,’ growled Rozgon. ‘He controls the lands around Haslan Falls, south of Ulgar’s estates; the two of them are supposed to be as thick as
thieves. It is strange, though: Fenchard has been telling everyone he hasn’t the men to spare.’

Sir Varen shrugged his shoulders. ‘Perhaps he has been ordered to muster some at last; they are well equipped, so he certainly has the money.’

‘Fenchard is one of the Aarlen family; rich and powerful, they control many baronetcies here and in the lands near Tanaren City. Money is not an issue but until now he has been very
reluctant to commit men to the front line. I wonder what has changed his mind?’ Rozgon spat on the ground as the last of the soldiers marched past.

‘Is Felmere planning a final push before winter?’ asked Morgan. ‘He has said nothing to me.’

‘Rumour among us foot soldiers is that he definitely is.’ said Rozgon. ‘He wants to take Grest, to push the Arshumans back over the Whiterush. He has obviously put out the
call.’

‘It will be a fiendishly difficult town to take.’ said Leon grimly. ‘When we last attacked it we had a mage to contend with and it wasn’t just him – they had
artillery and ballistae on the hill raining down death from the skies. We would need to outnumber them three to one and to expect damaging losses.’

‘If he takes it, though, then what with winter coming will the Arshumans bother to respond?’ Morgan wondered. ‘He may well get the time to both build up the defences and call
for reinforcements for a spring offensive.’

‘From what I hear, though,’ said Varen, ‘the Baron is not one for reckless gambles. He never forces a conflict unless he is certain of winning it, a lesson Esric Calvannen in
the south is slowly learning.’

‘Which means that there will be more men to follow.’ said Rozgon.

‘Probably,’ Morgan replied. ‘There is definitely a mage or two on their way as well; something is definitely up.’

‘So we are leaving just as things here are getting exciting.’ Leon sounded disappointed.

‘Do not worry on that score!’ Morgan grinned at him. ‘Ours is by far the more dangerous road; once we are in the mountains everything we encounter will want to kill
us.’

Rozgon was right about further reinforcements following – they passed two further units before making camp; they both numbered just over fifty and were less well armed and equipped that
the men of Haslan Falls, in leather and brigandine, with short swords, bows and slings. They carried no banners. On enquiring, they were told that they came from the Athkaril area. This was a key
town on the west bank of the Kada, the first of the Seven Rivers going from west to east. Once a small hill town overlooking a bridge over the river, the war had seen its population swell to many
times its original size with refugees fleeing the conflict. Many of them lived in squalor, in tents or tiny wooden hovels that had sprung up like a fungal growth around the old hill town. It
followed, then, that many of these men had so little to lose that they were willing to risk their lives to recapture the lands where their homes had once stood. They claimed to owe their allegiance
to Baron Wyak of Athkaril, but really that loyalty was tenuous at best. Baron Wyak had hardly welcomed them with open arms and seemed keen to furnish them with enough basic equipment to make them
battle ready so that he could get rid of them. He had promised to look after the families they were leaving behind, although some of the men were concerned. ‘If he goes back on his word, he
will have a riot on his hands,’ one of the men told them.

As they set up camp that evening under a knot of birch trees, Morgan sought out Cedric. The old man had been pretty quiet since the trip started, staying in the wagon most of the time –
presumably studying his books. Morgan, like most soldiers, thought that scholars did little else with their day.