The Forgotten War (138 page)

She looked around to where Dominic and the other knight stood; they had not moved from their positions close to the path. Both horses were taking a well-deserved rest, nibbling patiently at the
long grass underfoot. She strolled back to them, her mind racing as the idea she had been quietly formulating for a good while coalesced even further into a practical plan of action. There were
only one or two things now missing. Resolve them and she would be able to practise, practise, practise, until she was as word perfect as she had to be to carry things off. As word perfect as she
had to be if she was to have any chance of surviving against the powers she was intending to release. She must be mad, she thought, but then the image of Trask floated in front of her and she
swallowed hard and summoned her resolve once more. Marcus would have to be right about her for this to work. She would have to be far more powerful than she had ever thought. The time was coming
when this would be finally put to the test.

‘Are you happy with what you have seen?’ Dominic asked her airily. ‘I truly hope the journey has been worth it.’

She smiled at him, the smile that always used to melt the heart of every teenage mage back on the island. ‘It has, thank you. This place is perfect. Far more perfect than I had any right
to imagine.’

‘And am I allowed to have an answer as to why we have come up here in the first place?’

She laughed. ‘I am sorry but no, I cannot tell you. I will tell Morgan shortly and he can divulge my plans to those he chooses. Don’t you like the peace and tranquillity up
here?’

‘I will have plenty of peace and tranquillity when I am dead. Right now I am more concerned with getting back down the hill before it gets dark.’

‘Of course, I have seen enough here. I am completely at your disposal, Sir Dominic.’

Very soon after, they were on their way back down the hill. Cheris was far more relaxed now, barely noticing her surroundings as she travelled. She knew now what she wanted to do; the only thing
she couldn’t control was the arrival of the key player in her little game, her terrible plan, a plan that could wreak death, destruction and chaos on people for many miles around.

All she needed was confirmation that he was on his way and things could be set in motion. That was all she needed. Confirmation. Confirmation that Sir Trask was coming for them.

He was home again. If the bleak, flinty windswept mountain town huddling behind its thick claustrophobic walls could be called a home. But then, to Sir Varen, that was exactly
what Shayer Ridge was to him. From his room in a tower on the magistrate’s estate he could see, to the north, the dark gaping maws of the mine entrances and the blocky stone buildings used to
house the winter grain. To the south was the patchwork of low slate roofs of the town’s residences, the thin wisps of smoke trailing skywards from their chimneys testament to the bone-numbing
cold, although Varen noticed wryly that the snow had yet to travel this far north.

Two days had passed since Leon had died. While Samson mourned, Varen had found the key to the slave chains on the dead body of their leader. They freed the villagers and, once it was apparent
that the slavers themselves had melted away into the woods, they had carried Leon’s body back to the village where the Artoran priest, one of those who had been destined to slavery, had
committed his body to the Gods through fire. After this they had all travelled to Shayer Ridge where Varen had found them accommodation in the town. Samson was housed on the estate but had said
little since his cousin’s death, and Varen, busy since his arrival here, had had little time to speak to him. His father, Vanek the magistrate, had taken to his bed with a severe cold and so
Varen had been thrust into the role of the town’s first citizen within less than an hour of his arrival.

He found himself leaning heavily on the shoulders of the local army commander, General Rordan, a grizzled bearded man in his late forties.

‘Fenchard’s men are roving in the woods close by; the scouts have seen them as close as two miles away. They are scattered in small groups, so total numbers are difficult to gather,
but I think we are talking hundreds rather than thousands. Here, as you know, we have about three hundred regular troops and can at least double that number by pressing civilians into the
ranks.’

‘And do we have enough food to withstand a siege?’

‘I am not sure that the assailants are numerous enough to maintain a lengthy siege, but if they do we have enough grain to withstand it. It would be late spring before we need worry about
going hungry.’

As he finished speaking, one of his officers came running up to them. He had been running hard; it took him a while to compose himself and gather his breath before he could give them his
message.

‘Sir, Baron Lasgaart, he is here with his men!’

‘Is he setting up to attack us?’ Rordan growled.

‘No, sir, he has come up to the gate and asked to speak with the magistrate. They look in no state to attack us; there are barely two hundred of them, if that.’

‘We will speak to them presently. Tell him to await our pleasure.’ Varen spoke firmly, realising he had to take command of the situation.

After the man had gone Rordan stroked his beard.

‘So our old enemy wants to speak with us. Be very careful, he has had his heart set on our town for a long time.’

‘But times have changed, Rordan. Fenchard’s treachery could even make us allies.’

Rordan was not convinced. ‘That depends if he has sided with us or them.’

‘I agree. It is time for us to find out.’

Shortly after, the two men were standing on the city walls looking at their traditional rivals as they clustered close to the gate. The officer was right. Varen counted about
one hundred and fifty of them; he assumed hunger and desertion had done for the rest. Their banner had gone and they looked underfed and demoralised.

‘Hardly the invading army!’ Varen said sardonically. ‘Invite the Baron in. Let’s have a chat with him.’

The gates were opened just wide enough to admit one man and the name of the Baron was called out. Many soldiers were stationed close by, in case Lasgaart’s men attempted to charge in.

But they didn’t. Instead, one man and one man alone walked through the gates before they were shut again. Baron Lasgaart was a sprightly grey-haired man with quick blue eyes and a thin
white stubble over his chin. He had lost weight, for his cheeks were thin and hollow and his shoulders were hunched under his furs. He held his sword outwards, hilt first, in a gesture of
supplication before placing it on the ground.

‘It is Vanek’s boy, is it not?’ He spoke airily, as if he had little to care about. ‘It has been some years since I have seen you. I knew you were a knight but it is
still a shock to see you have grown so much.’

‘Emile.’ Varen acknowledged the man.

‘And what exactly can we do for you, Baron?’ Rordan asked. ‘Is it gratifying finally being inside the town you have coveted for so many years?’

‘In other circumstances it indeed would be, General,’ Lasgaart continued, ‘but the last few weeks have not been good for me, my men or my baronetcy. Ever since Wolf Plain and
the battle there, things have gone ill for us. So, as you can see, I am here to humbly request your assistance in providing sanctuary for my men.’

‘Taking this town for Fenchard would improve your standing no end in certain quarters, would it not?’ Varen decided to counter by sounding as carefree as their visitor. It worked.
Lasgaart’s expression hardened and his eyes took on the properties of steel. The mention of the other baron seemed to particularly annoy him.

‘If it were not for Baron Fenchard,’ he hissed, ‘I would now be wintering on my estate in front of a blazing fire and surrounded by my family, rather than living like some
vagrant barbarian eating seed pods and freezing my bollocks off while all the time running from my own countrymen who have usurped my own lands!’ His voice rose as he answered until it was
little less than a bitter roar, full of anger and frustration.

‘Fair enough, Baron’ Varen answered. ‘So why are you here? Why come to us in particular?’

‘Because, boy, I have nowhere else to go. I would never willingly fight for you but my men are starving. One more month of this and many would be dead. There are slavers on the loose, too.
Their families could be among those taken, Give these boys a meal and they will kill any Haslan Falls man that they see.’

Varen took Rordan to one side. ‘If he is in league with Fenchard, he is hiding it brilliantly,’ he said.

Rordan nodded. ‘I would rather trust a viper than this man, but, in this case, I will concede the point to you – he does seem plausible.’

‘He is a man of faith, is he not?’

‘I believe so, when it suits him.’

‘Then get me a Book of Artorus and get a couple of his men in here as witnesses.’

Varen’s instructions were carried out. The two men of Lasgaart’s admitted into the town looked equally undernourished.

‘Right, Baron, place your hand on the Holy Book, please.’

With some reluctance, Lasgaart complied. That done, Varen spoke again.

‘I want you to swear that you formally renounce your claim on the land and territories of Shayer Ridge, that you will respect its decision to ally itself with Felmere, and that you will
never again bear arms against it. Swear this on the names of Artorus and Mytha and I will admit your men.’

‘You drive a cruel bargain, young Varen. My family’s claim on this town has lasted centuries.’

‘And it will end today. Swear on the Gods or leave and face Fenchard alone.’

Lasgaart looked like a wounded animal, but he knew his choices were minimal. His shoulders slumped even further as he swore, his palm pressed firmly on the book.

‘Right,’ said Varen. ‘Your men come in ten at a time and relinquish their arms. They will be escorted to the barracks and fed. They will then be allowed to rest and warm
themselves before starting their duties on the wall. These two men here will serve as witnesses to your oath. Break it and answer to the Gods for it.’

Everything proceeded as Varen had ordered; indeed, Lasgaart’s men seemed relieved as they were admitted, several expressing their gratitude and telling him that this would be their first
time under shelter since before Wolf Plain. Many of them had died crossing the Vinoyen as the enemy held the bridges; others had deserted to find their families; others still had joined
Fenchard’s men, seeing no future in their current occupation. Lasgaart’s power had dwindled to almost nothing.

It was a cold night, clear with a high canopy of stars unobstructed with cloud. Varen stood on the city wall looking at the same thing as every other man posted there. The ring
of campfires, visible even through the blanket of trees scarcely a mile away. It was unsaid but everyone knew that they were Fenchard’s men, and they were close. Varen heard someone climb the
steps close by and come towards him.

‘Hello, Samson,’ he said. ‘There is no need for you to be here, you know.’

‘I know,’ the other man answered. ‘But what else is there for me to do here? I have no desire just to sit in a tavern and think.’

Varen grunted, seeing the other man’s point. ‘What will you do now? I mean when this is over?’

‘I need to see Miriam, Leon’s wife ... widow. To offer what help I can. I don’t know how exactly; I am a professional soldier and a release for the winter seems ... unlikely
this year.’

Varen smiled. ‘You would need someone in authority to get a release from the army, but you have obviously forgotten who the new Protector Baron is. I can’t see it being a problem
somehow.’

Samson put his hand to his face. ‘Oh ... of course. Would I have to write to him?’

‘Yes, but I can do that for you. I will try and sort it for you tomorrow.’

‘I doubt it will be tomorrow; those fires are there for a reason.’

Varen clapped his hands together and held them over a nearby brazier. ‘Maybe not tomorrow then, but don’t forget, Shayer Ridge has never fallen in this war – not even Felmere
itself can say that. They will hold no terrors for us; we have been through all this before against Lasgaart and the Arshumans, and they were probably more numerous and better organised than our
current enemy.’

‘Fine words,’ said Samson. ‘The words of a knight no less. But as long as I get a clear shot at a couple of them I will be happy.’

‘May the Gods grant you your wish, Samson, and a keen eye to find your mark.’

‘It is keen enough, my friend. It is keen enough.’ Samson smiled. It was the first time Varen had seen him do so in some days. ‘Tell me, how do the people of Shayer Ridge while
away their winters? Do not tell me there is less to do here than in Zerannon.’

Varen looked at his companion. ‘Shayer Ridge is a lot smaller than Zerannon and it is a mining town. The people are hard-working and religious. If you are looking for female company, you
are likely to be disappointed. If you are looking for strong drink, though, your options are limitless. There is one tavern here for every twenty people; a lot of them brew a whisky using grain and
fresh river water. We have a few fatalities every winter from people poisoned by it; sometimes people just go blind, which is almost a death sentence in itself. Drink and cockfighting, these are
the entertainments in Shayer Ridge. There is also choral singing, but I doubt that would interest you.’

Samson shrugged his shoulders. ‘Strong drink it is then. To be honest, I am not really interested in the ladies here. Half the time the only reason I got involved with them was because it
used to annoy Leon so much. The fun has been rather taken out of that now he is gone. I think we have other concerns for the moment anyway. Dawn will bring its own problems.’

Dawn, which was but a few hours away, finally arrived to prove that Samson’s words were indeed prophetic. They heard the drums first; five short beats followed by two
long ones. Soldiers packed the wall, craning their necks for a better view. Varen noticed that some of Lasgaart’s men had joined them and they did indeed seem eager for a fight.