The Forgotten War (151 page)

At last she stood at the edge, barely a couple of feet away from the precipice ahead of her and to her right and left. She looked at the great drop. From here the waves looked tiny, hardly the
great foaming rollers dashing themselves asunder on the jagged black rocks that they actually were. She pulled her cloak tight about her to stop it pulling her in directions she did not want to
go.

And now at last she did think about what she was about to do. She patted her stomach feeling a great pang of anguish, sorrow and regret shake her.

‘I am sorry,’ she said to her child. ‘I am sorry but we have been abandoned. We are alone. You will never be born alive; I am too thin and weak to sustain you. In four or five
months we will both meet our doom for sure, maybe even earlier; I know not for certain. So we need to do something now, for the sake of your father, for your grandfather, to ensure that wicked men
do not triumph in this world. I do not know if I am thinking clearly; whether or not one of my black moods has gripped me so securely I cannot see beyond it. Doren would know, but Doren isn’t
here, and Ebba, bless her good and kind soul, does not understand the demons I have always carried inside me. Forgive me if I am doing wrong, for I believe I am doing what is right, doing what is
necessary to redress the balance that has been skewed by others. If our lives are the price we have to pay to achieve this, then so be it. By doing what I am about to do maybe the Gods will look
upon us again, remember our devotion and piety, and maybe they will recognise that I have never deserted them as they have deserted us. What I am about to do is done out of love; love of my
husband, father, family and country. Compared to that, you and I are insignificant indeed, expendable, however terrifying that thought is to my weak little mind. I am sorry, but happiness and
self-fulfilment are the provenance of others. Duty is the only thing that matters to me and you, and it is my duty that I am accomplishing now.’

She stopped and shut her eyes, feeling her ears grow numb in the wind. The calling gulls and the violent sea filled her senses; the heady air, redolent with grass and ozone, filled her lungs.
Her xhikon amulet still felt cold against her flesh; now she knew it would never feel warm.

With one last barely whispered ‘Forgive me!’ she grasped the amulet, pulled it over her head and threw it over the precipice and into the sea. She shuddered at the recognition of
what she had just done and then, pulling her hood over her head, she turned back towards the wall, climbing over it with a far greater speed than she had managed initially.

Near the open gates the chief ostler was holding the head of a beautiful, placid chestnut mare. He saw the slight black-clad shape come scurrying towards him from what appeared to be the side of
the manor house. Though curious, he decided not to ask what she was doing there, as she was evidently in a hurry.

‘Your horse, my Lady. Fifteen minutes, as you requested.’

‘Thank you,’ came the clear reply. The hood covered her face and her hands wore thin riding gloves, so none of her features could actually be seen. She mounted the horse unassisted
and without further ado started to ride it through the gates.

Disappointed, the ostler watched her go, but she had not trotted three steps when she stopped, removed a glove and reached under her cloak for something.

‘Sorry,’ she said and tossed something in his direction. He failed to catch it and it landed on the ground near his feet. She then replaced the glove and was gone. Though she said
speed was not important, she kicked the mare’s sides and sped down the path at an impressive lick. He was surprised to see her turn left, towards the country, rather than right to the
harbour, but she was a lady, and could do what she wanted.

And she had left him something. Despite his protesting back, he bent over towards the shiny coin on the floor. It was a ducat, as she had promised. Pleased with himself, he picked up the coin,
only to drop it in surprise less than a second later.

For the coin itself felt red hot.

Some hours later Jon Skellar was sitting at his table in the great hall, drumming his fingers on the ridged and stained wood. In front of him, unopened sat Ceriana’s
letter, something he had been staring at for a while. He was not to open it until tomorrow she had said, in case she did not return from her ride. The more he thought about her mood yesterday and
the ways she spoke to him, the more he realised that she seemed to have little intention of coming back. Feeling guilty at betraying his word to her, he pulled open the seal and started to
read.

In it, in her delicate but scruffy hand she told him everything – her discovery of the dragonstone, what it was doing to her, and why she had left so suddenly.

‘More wine!’ he called out at the top of his voice, though the servant employed for the task was standing barely ten feet away. His goblet refreshed he shut his eyes and closed the
letter. His shirt was stained with the drink he had spilled in his prolonged session with the bottle and he wanted nothing more at this moment than to be left alone. It was a futile hope. Within
minutes his seneschal was standing before him, looking a little sheepish at bothering him at this time.

‘My Lord?’

‘Yes!’ His head hurt – what did this man want?

‘That man Henk has returned. He is asking after her Ladyship.’

‘Stick his head on a spear in front of the manor gates.’

‘My Lord?’

Skellar snorted in exasperation. ‘Do not admit this man. Tell him her Ladyship has left and I do not know where she has gone, and finally’ – he spat out his final words –
‘tell him that he is no longer welcome here and, if he or one of his lackeys returns, I shall return him to his ship by the shortest possible route!’

The seneschal smiled. ‘Over the cliff, my Lord?’

‘Over the Keth-cursed cliff!’

The seneschal bowed and left him. Skellar was not to see Henk again.

He returned to his goblet. The wine had numbed his mouth; he might as well have been drinking vinegar. He drank it anyway.

Shortly after, the seneschal was back again.

‘What now, man? Haven’t you seen him off yet?’

‘Most decisively, my Lord, but another gentleman has arrived. He says he is a messenger travelled all the way from Felmere with a message from Dominic Hartfield. Shall I tell him to jump
off the cliff, too?’

Ceriana was right. He was too soft; he knew of many barons who would backhand their servants for such cheek. ‘No, send him in,’ was all he said.

This man looked like he had travelled hundreds of miles; his face was beaten hard by the weather and his dark-green cloak was stained by a thousand different shades of mud and dirt. ‘Take
a seat,’ Skellar said.

‘My Lord, I have a message for Lady Ceriana from her brother. She is here, I hope, for it is to here that I have been directed.’

‘She is not here now, but may return.’ The Baron did not know how to tell the man the truth. ‘You have a letter for her?’

‘Yes, and also a verbal message to relate to her face to face.’

‘Tell it to me.’

The man hesitated a second. ‘Very well, it has no secrets. It was just to tell her not to despair for there is hope her condition can be resolved successfully. There are learned people who
can help her and they will come to her when they can. All she has to do is wait and pray. That was all. The rest is in the letter.’

Skellar started to laugh. A laugh full of rancour and utterly devoid of humour. ‘Do not despair indeed! I am sorry, my friend, but you will learn the import of your remarks in good time.
Tell me one thing, though, how did you find out she was here?’

‘By chance, my Lord. I was on a ship bound for Osperitsan Island. We almost moored there only to see it in utter chaos. There had been burnings, a galleon’s blackened hulk lay close
to the shore and it was teeming with armed men. The captain turned back to come here, saying it was the only safe harbour left, and on the way we picked up people from a couple of stray craft
fleeing the slaughter. And wouldn’t you know, one of them held her father! His bodyguard had smuggled him off his vessel just before it sank. He is in the harbour now, organising a ship so he
can rejoin his fleet. It was in the harbour that we heard that her Ladyship was here. He is hoping to come up here if he can, but it may have to wait if the tide is favourable for him to leave
now.’

Skellar looked sympathetically at the man. ‘You stay here for now; you have come such a long way. I will go down to the harbour to see Duke Hartfield. Leave the letter with me and I will
see it delivered. The seneschal will provide a room and meal for you and maybe I can pay you to take a letter back with you.’

‘As you wish, my Lord.’ He watched the seneschal shepherd the man out of the room. Once that was done he set down his goblet and dismissed the servant. He was alone at last. Alone.
Peace and quiet with just the great fire roaring away behind him. He stood and picked up the letter the man had left behind. He briefly thought of mounting his charger and galloping off to search
for her. If he could somehow find her and tell her the latest news, maybe she could step back from the edge – return with him, see her father again. He shook his head, what was he thinking?
It was already far too late.

He walked over to the fire and threw the letter into it. It caught immediately, blackening and curling, the wax seal melting. Once it had been destroyed, he strode towards the main door, calling
for his horse to be made ready. He had an assignation after all, though what he was going to tell Duke Nicholas Hartfield about his daughter, Artorus only knew.

The river Vinoyen, arguably the greatest of the Seven Rivers (though those living on the banks of the Ros might disagree), travels a diverse path to the Endless Marshes and
then to the sea. After passing through the town bearing its name, it is swollen by several small, but fast, mountain tributaries, becoming a churning dangerous behemoth that eventually burns out a
lot of its energy over the series of wide but fairly shallow cascades known as the Haslan Falls. Thereafter it is becalmed somewhat; it becomes more sluggish and broken. Forests encroach upon it
and its course becomes more winding as it feeds a series of small lakes beloved of waterfowl and fish eagles. At one point the river divides into two, enclosing a hilly island, the top of which
commands imposing views of the local country; to the east of the island the river continues pretty much as normal – broad, sluggish and brown with mud and sediment. To the west, though, the
river is far more of a channel than a river, at its narrowest point little more than fifteen feet across, and is filled with rushes and oftentimes choked with weeds, for here the current is
minimal, even non-existent. It does however lend the hilly island an additional line of defence and was one of the reasons some three hundred years before the local baron decided to build a fort
there. A fort that was added to by his descendants until just ten years ago it became a focal point of Tanaren’s defence against the seemingly unstoppable Arshuman horde. For the name of both
island and fort was Axmian, a name now that resonated strongly with all of those who had fought for Tanaren since the beginning of the current conflict.

The present-day fort was approached by a low stone bridge, broad enough for wagons and lacking any side rail. Its central section, though, was of wood with two stone towers flanking the bridge
housing the mechanism by which it could be raised or lowered. Unsurprisingly, given the situation in this war-torn land, it was raised at this moment. Over the water, on the island itself, the
first line of defence was a ditch and palisade that encircled the entire island proper. After this, and further up the hill, a wall of impassive grey stone did the same. Beyond its two black iron
gates, between which were incorporated the murder holes and sluices for boiling oil, lay the main body of the fort. It had a large barracks and grain store for the soldiers, a stables, armoury,
several smithies and kitchen nestling close to its houses of Artorus and Meriel. Craftsmen were here, of course, cooks, apothecaries, priests and smiths, but they were kept to a minimum and there
were hardly any women at all. The women that were here, though, would have resided on the top of the hill. Here, behind its own wall, stood the tower and lodgings of the Baron. Four corner turrets
enclosed the square central tower from which flew the banner and flag of Haslan Falls, along with a new flag, a blue-and-yellow one, the colours of the new kingdom of West Arshuma. Standing higher
than any human construction for miles around, it was a tower exposed to the biting winds and raw frosts of winter. It had few glass windows – only arrow slits to admit the light – and
consequently it was a place of draughts and cold. Only by sitting close to the great fire in the Baron’s audience chamber could one hope to keep warm.

Which was what King Fenchard I was doing now. Wrapped in a rich red cloak embroidered in gold stitching he stared murderously at his ever-full goblet of wine and held his feet out so close to
the fire that it was a wonder his supple boots of black leather did not start to smoke.