The Forgotten War (2 page)

‘Really?’ said Morgan, obviously surprised. ‘How did they pay for one of those?’

‘Who knows, until recently neither our duke nor their king wanted to spend money on this war. I remember nine years ago lining up to face them with seven thousand men and four mages and
they had about the same. Today, without a muster and assistance from the other barons, I would struggle to put up half that number and the only mage we have is our healer in the main camp a
day’s travel away. That,’ he said, grinning wolfishly, ‘may be about to change.’

Morgan realised that the Baron was imparting a confidence and so let him continue on at his own pace.

‘I have connections these days. Three years ago my little sister, Eda, married into the Hartfields of Edgecliff. They have two kids already so she wasted no time. Anyway, after having my
whiskers singed by wizard’s fire last week, I decided it was time to call in favours. I may not have the ear of the Grand Duke but the Hartfields definitely have. And finally, today’
– he held up a crumpled letter – ‘at last the dandies out west are doing something about it. Two mages they are paying for: one of them senior, with a make-weight thrown in.
Hopefully they will be here by the end of the month. We need something, Morgan. I know you think this whole situation dipped into the furnace a long time ago but I
know
...’ He
emphasised the last word. ‘I know it can be retrieved.’ There was conviction in his voice, whether forced or genuine Morgan could not tell.

‘I hope you are right,’ he replied. ‘Perhaps you are too closely involved to see things clearly, but a lot of people are saying that what we have is two exhausted armies, who,
having fought each other to a standstill, are too proud to sue for peace but not committed enough to risk all in a full engagement, and so they hole up and glare at each other, daring their enemy
to make the first move. And all the while they leave almost one-tenth of the country abandoned, full of ghost villages and ruined or burnt crops, haunted by bands of brigands or rogue mercenaries
fighting over what little spoil remains. Some are even linking you to that priest massacre some months back.’

‘It is a slander,’ said the Baron wearily. ‘I have enemies at court that would happily see me dead so they could fight over my lands when the war ends. What happened was this.
Some mercenaries we hired – they called themselves “The vipers” and were all tattooed as such – well, we decided that we did not need them anymore, they cost too much and
spent most of it on drink. I paid them up and told them to go. They weren’t happy but left anyway. Some days later I hear the monastery at Frach Menthon, well behind our lines, had been burnt
down and robbed with the priests hung on gibbets. One poor old sod survived and told a story about a bunch of drunken men with snake tattoos. I sent Reynard with some knights; he caught them,
killed a number and drove the rest into the mountains where they will hopefully starve. Frach Menthon is on Baron Ulgar’s land. You know the animosity between Felmere and Vinoyen so I imagine
these rumours started with him.’

‘You have some of Ulgar’s troops with you.’

‘Yes, but never enough that they could cause me trouble. I still watch them closely though, especially now.’ He took a drink. ‘Anyway, I am digressing. I have a job for you
– I didn’t summon you all this way for a chat.’

Morgan smiled. ‘I rarely get hired for my conversational skills.’

‘Neither do I, my friend, but if it is conversation that you want, the fellow I will be introducing you to will happily supply you with more than enough. Much more than enough! I had an
hour with him last night and almost chewed through a tent pole in my desperation to escape.’

Morgan looked disconcerted. ‘And what does this man have to do with me?’

‘He is your mission,’ said Felmere, smiling so broadly he showed his yellow teeth. ‘His name is Cedric of Rossenwood, professor of something or other at the great university of
St Philig’s in Tanaren City. When you meet the honour will be all his, I assure you.’

‘You want me to baby some academic? What on earth for? Surely someone else could do this?’

‘Point one,’ said Felmere, raising a solitary finger and obviously enjoying his companion’s discomfiture. ‘This man has quite a long and difficult journey to undertake
and, without you and a few men I will furnish you with, he will have no chance of completing it. Point two: well, he arrived with a letter from the Grand Duke himself, expressing the urgency of his
mission and that I should give it my highest priority, and so I sent for the best. You, Morgan, shall be his bodyguard.’

Morgan looked coldly at the Baron. ‘So what you are saying is: I escort this man to Artorus-knows-where and in return you get your mages.’

‘Purely coincidental. I summoned you here before I knew the mages were coming.’

‘But not before you requested them,’ Morgan said pointedly.

Felmere smiled disarmingly. ‘You have me there. As I say, though, this mission is sanctioned by the Grand Duke himself. Completing it successfully will hardly lower your standing. I will
make sure I mention your name next time I write to him.’

‘That is of less than no interest to me,’ Morgan grumbled. ‘Is there any pay?

‘Fifteen crowns.’

‘I am sure the Grand Duke could afford twenty.’

‘Well fifteen is a fortune for a foot soldier, but you are right – I am quite sure he could manage twenty. I will let him know.’

Morgan nodded. He was not naturally a man covetous of gold but his lack of enthusiasm for the task he had been given had put him in a bad humour, though only temporarily so.

‘Right,’ said the Baron, ‘it is time you got acquainted with the learned Cedric. Before we go though, there is one more thing.’

‘Yes, Baron?’

The Baron looked grave. ‘I trust you, Morgan, I really wish you had been noble-born so I could have you lead an army. I trust you more than any other man here and one day you may find out
exactly how much. What I am trying to say is, don’t bugger this up! It is important to me.’

Morgan was both surprised and mollified by the Baron’s candour. ‘I will do my best. You have my word on that.’

‘Good. Now come with me. It wouldn’t surprise me to see Cedric throttle himself with his own tongue if he goes without conversation for an hour.’

The Baron led him out of the tent – Morgan noticed the rain had slowed considerably – past rows of smaller bivouacs for the more humble troopers until he reached a covered wagon
beside which two carthorses, free of their reins, were stoically munching the wet grass. Just behind the wagon was a larger tent with its flap pegged open. Here the Baron finally stopped. He turned
to Morgan. ‘In there.’

Ducking under a guy rope, he strolled inside. ‘Ah, Cedric!’ he barked. ‘This man will be your escort.’

This tent, though comparatively small compared to the Baron’s own, seemed to be packed full of chests, books and chairs. There was a folding table at its centre which seemed to be
completely covered in scrolls and at it was sitting a man in the middle of perusing one such scroll when the Baron addressed him. He got up and approached them, hitting his head against a hanging
lamp.

Morgan had not met too many scholars or professors in his time but this one seemed to be a perfect amalgam of all that he thought they should look like. He had thin, wispy grey hair and a
medium-length beard of a similar hue which Morgan noticed had been waxed. His complexion was pale, as befits an indoor type, though there was a faint red flush to it, indicating yet another man who
enjoyed his wine, though whether it was a past or present love Morgan could not be sure. He wore the expression of a man who appeared to spend much of his life in the act of concentration; his
forehead seemed to be permanently furrowed over his wild, untamed eyebrows. His clothes, pale-beige shirt and black trousers, had seen better days, though they were obviously of a good make. Most
curious about him, though, were his reading glasses of which Morgan had never seen the like before: two circles of glass in a frame of thick wire that balanced on his nose. As he stood up, he
removed them, tucking them into a pocket in his trousers.

‘So, you must be Morgan of Glaivedon – the Baron here has told me much about you, one of the most respected and feared men on this frontier of war. The honour is all mine, I tell you
... all mine.’ He proffered his hand, which Morgan took. ‘Ah, such a firm handshake, powerful, decisive. A man of action indeed. The enemy must surely tremble when confronted by such
indomitable spirit.’

‘If only that were true,’ Morgan replied. ‘Alas, the enemy have their own share of indomitable warriors. Ten years on the front line will temper even the puniest milksop, if he
lives that long.’

‘May I ask, have you been fighting here all that time?’

Morgan nodded. ‘Pretty much.’

Cedric seemed a little awed. ‘Then I see you are the ideal man to aid us in our little ... undertaking.’

Morgan raised an eyebrow. ‘Us?’

‘Oh, myself and my assistant, Willem. The boy is running messages for the Baron but will be back shortly.’

The Baron piped in. ‘Sorry, gentlemen, but I must be away. I need to see Reynard – the first of a multitude of sundry tasks to complete before night falls.’ He nodded to each
man in turn before hastily exiting the tent.

‘Now then, my boy, take a seat and let us talk.’ He offered him another chair at the table. Morgan noticed his voice had a rich, mellifluous quality, something. he realised, that
would be required for a man who had to do a lot of public speaking. A professor taught students mostly, did he not?

‘How much has the Baron told you of our little jaunt?’ Cedric asked as Morgan seated himself.

“Next to nothing, I am afraid. He said that you would explain everything.’

‘Right,’ said Cedric thoughtfully. ‘Right, now where to start?’

‘Well, at least tell me where we are going.’

Cedric seemed surprised. ‘He hasn’t even said that? Well, you really are in the dark, my boy. Allow me to shine a little light on proceedings. What the Grand Duke has empowered us to
do involves opening negotiations with potential allies to get them to fight in the war. Certain events have happened recently which leads me to believe that we have a fair to reasonable chance of
success.’

Morgan seemed unimpressed. ‘There are no “allies”. If there were, they would have been hired by now. Every mercenary band between here and Anmir has been involved at some point
and they cause as much harm as good if booty is not easily forthcoming. Anyway, I thought the war chest was empty these days.’ His patience was wearing thin again. He had travelled a long way
through dangerous country to get here – being sent off on some wild-goose chase was the last thing he had in mind. Cedric’s leisurely obfuscation was not helping matters either.

‘Oh, these people won’t be fighting for money – money means nothing to them anyway.’

‘Then for the love of Artorus tell me who these people are! Who would tread into this furnace on earth if not for coin?’

‘I will tell you, my boy – we are heading north. We will be parlaying with the Wych folk.’

There was a stunned silence. Cedric leaned back and folded his arms; he seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself. Morgan suspected that he had a great love of theatre and tailored his statements
so as to be as dramatic as possible.

‘Someone important has really lost it this time,’ he muttered. ‘Who on earth came up with this crackbrained lunacy?’

‘I did, of course,’ Cedric said blithely. ‘And I have persuaded the Grand Duke as to the worthiness of the enterprise.’

‘Then perhaps,’ said Morgan, his teeth gritted, ‘you can persuade
me
.’

‘I shall endeavour to do so, but it will take some time. First of all, do you wish to give me some of your objections?’

Before Morgan could reply the sound of footsteps could be heard approaching outside and a young boy, probably in his late teens, entered the tent. He had a crop of unruly fair hair, striking
pale-blue eyes, wore a simple peasant tunic and trousers, and was flushed from running. He carried with him some provender – bread, cheese and a pitcher of wine – something Morgan was
relieved to see as he had been ignoring his complaining stomach for a while.

‘Excellent, my boy, excellent. Please set the food down here, then you can sit in the corner and be quiet. This, Morgan, is Willem, a smart boy who I am sure will be a professor himself
someday. His main failing is, well, is that you hardly get a word out of him, but then he does spend a lot of his time around seniors who love the sound of their own voice.’ Cedric gave a
little embarrassed cough at this point. ‘In such surroundings the young can often be intimidated.’

Morgan nodded at the boy who grinned back at him before going to sit on a stool in an all-too-rare cleared corner of the tent. Cedric then got up and pulled the tent flap shut. ‘Just to
avoid prying ears.’ Sitting back down again, he looked at Morgan. ‘Now, man of Glaivedon, your objections.’

Morgan cut some cheese, before pulling off a chunk of bread and stuffing it in his face. A quick draught of wine from the goblet Cedric had provided and he was ready.

‘Objection one: just getting to the Aelthenwood, going around the Derannen Mountains, could take many weeks, if not months, and it will be winter when we get there.’

‘
Around
, my boy? Cannot we go
over
them? The Baron assured me you knew all the passes.’

‘Mmmm, we could do but...’ Cedric leaned forward, all eager anticipation. ‘But we must be quick; we would need to get through before the snows come and, with all due respect,
neither you or the boy look as if you are up to several forced marches.’

‘Could we not take the wagon? Could not people rest on it in shifts?’

‘We could but the horses would need rest, too. We could take two teams but then we would need more feed... The whole thing is fraught with risk. If the snows trap us up there, then we
might as well leap from the highest peak to stop ourselves starving.’

‘Risky but not impossible then,’ said Cedric.