The Forgotten War (23 page)

‘Not a chance. None of these boys strike me as the lily-livered type. And don’t worry about telling them. I will do it.’

Cedric seemed grateful. ‘Thank you. By the way, how poorly is your grandfather now?’

‘Poorly in the dead sort of way, I’m afraid. And it wasn’t the illness that did it – just the Arshumans, in the first year of the war, when they forced us back to the
river Kada.’

‘I am so sorry to hear that. Was he the only family member you lost?’

Morgan looked grim. ‘Let’s put it this way, if you look for the village of Glaivedon on any map drawn up in the last ten years, you will not find it.’

Cedric bowed his head. ‘You have lost much, I see.’

‘I am not the only one. Many villages have been destroyed in this war. Rozgon is another to lose those close to him. We were all farmers or craftsmen once; none of us here became warriors
for any reason other than necessity. It just so happened that some of us are rather good at it.’ He decided to change the subject. ‘Now, the creatures that live in the mountains, you
know of them?’

Cedric perked up at this. ‘Oh yes, now they are very rare, because food up there is so scarce. This makes them especially savage of course, especially to those caught on the mountains in
winter. You may find frost giants, though personally I believe that they are extinct in these parts. Ettins, trolls, snow wolves and others I can’t recall do exist here, however. The best
defence against them is fire. None of them is familiar with it and, as all these creatures have fur or thick hair, it may be an effective deterrent to anything that sees us as a meal.’

Morgan nodded. ‘Good point. I shall see what we can pick up in Shayer Ridge. Now get yourself comfortable and I will fetch you some food. Willem is not doing his job, I see.’

‘Oh, that is not the boy’s fault. It is a nice change for him to have some younger company. Food will be welcome, though, however unappetising’ Morgan laughed.
‘Unappetising? You can have Artorus’s own personal guarantee that it will be that.’

‘So,’ said Samson, lying in the ground with his back against a tree, ‘what is it that you really dislike about the Arshumans?’

‘Their silly little pointed beards, and the fact that they all seem to grow them,’ said Leon. ‘How can a hundred people all want to look the same?’

‘Those beards are catching on over here now though,’ said Haelward, while chewing some dried meat. ‘I have seen a few people with them. Morgan was wrong when he said that
man’s beard made him an Arshuman.’

‘The tattoo was pretty conclusive, though,’ Samson countered. ‘Mytha as a bull? Utter bollocks.’

‘Fair point,’ Haelward conceded. ‘Where is your tattoo? Mine is on my forearm’

‘Same here,’ said Leon. ‘Some of us have no imagination.’

‘Me,’ said Samson, ‘on my chest. Artorus’s flaming teeth, it hurt! Growler, where is yours?’

Rozgon was whetting his knife. He put it down and looked at them. ‘I have two. One’ he slapped his left shoulder, ‘here.’

‘And the other?’

The big man grinned. ‘For that, my friend, you will have to ask my wife, or a couple of the friendlier ladies back at the camp, or that girl who tended my wounds after Axmian
or...’

‘Mytha’s claw,’ exclaimed Haelward. ‘I hope for their sakes it was dark.’

They all laughed.

‘Cheeky dog,’ said Rozgon affectionately. ‘Anyway, back to the Arshumans. There is a lot to hate about them but what really gets me is their obsession with all things yellow.
They all wear it, the little snots. If it’s not in their armour, it’s in a silly little scarf, or in a feather in their cap. Facing them in battle is like squaring up to a flock of
canaries.’

‘It
is
their national colour, though,’ said Varen, who had just joined them.

‘And don’t we just know it. I mean, we are not like that. Our colours are blue and white, with some grey for the mountains if you are from this neck of the woods, but aside from our
main banner we don’t feel the need to display them
everywhere
.’

‘I do wonder, though,’ Varen replied, ‘if it helps with their discipline. Seeing everyone wearing the same colours maybe makes people pull towards the common goal.’

Leon looked up at him. ‘Nah.’

Samson cut in: ‘They have a king who rules by fear. I have heard not wearing yellow into battle is a flogging offence. Thanks, but I would rather stand foursquare with a bunch of friends
as determined to watch my back as I am theirs than be driven into battle under fear of the lash.’

Haelward nodded. ‘Well said that man; anyhow, how can a country that regards snails as a luxury dish be possibly called civilised.’

‘They eat snails?’ Willem had just joined them.

‘Yes, said Haelward, ‘pickled in vinegar and wild garlic. When we fight them they never use their swords; they just breathe on us. It’s very effective.’

‘Hey, Willem,’ said Leon with a glint in his eye, ‘why don’t you get a tattoo done when we get into the town tomorrow. Just a small one, on your arm maybe?’

Willem looked sheepish. ‘I am not sure the monastery would approve.’

‘Nonsense!’ barked Rozgon. ‘Ex-soldiers join the church all the time; besides, you are one of us now and we have all got one. We’ll sort one out for you in Shayer Ridge;
you will get some God-given courage then when we get to the pass.’

‘All right then. Why not?’

‘Good man!’ Rozgon slapped him on the shoulder and went off to see Sir Varen who was watering the horses.

Leon got up, too, stretched his back and pulled off his gloves – three-fingered leather ones, as worn by a lot of the archers – and stretched out his hands, bathing them in the cool
air. He had another tattoo, on the back of his left hand. Haelward asked him about it; it was a name, though he couldn’t make out whose from where he was sitting.

‘Miriam, my good lady. We have been together since we were fifteen.’

‘Any kids?’

‘Two – a boy and a girl, seven and five years old.’

Haelward laughed in surprise. ‘I had no idea. You have never mentioned them.’

Samson chipped in. ‘They do not fit in with the dark and moody persona he likes to portray. Fact is, they are the most devoted couple I have ever seen and he can’t wait to finish his
army service in two years so he can get back to them. He has only come on this little jaunt because I wanted to and we always fight together.’

‘That’s not true,’ his cousin replied. ‘I needed to get out of camp as much as you. Sitting there waiting for Artorus knows what was making my head explode, and yes
Haelward, I do miss my wife. Compare this to my cousin with his countless bastards, probably one in every town in the east. You have no idea how many times I have had to save him from irate,
axe-wielding cuckolded men.’

‘What can I say?’ replied his cousin. ‘Can I help it if women love me? Especially if they have dull, tedious farmer types for husbands whose conversation extends no further
than the price of pigs on market day?’

Leon looked at Haelward. ‘Samson was always the spoiled one in the family, the one they could afford to educate. Little did his parents know that the only use he would put it to would be
to talk gullible women out of their petticoats.’

‘Nonsense, I make them laugh, feel important. Show them there is more to life than being a brood mare for some rock-brained bumpkin...’

‘Then run off and leave them.’

‘Nonsense, I would marry them all if I could. And I often return to see them again ...
if
their husband is away.’

‘And if you didn’t know Miriam and me, would she be fair game?’

‘No,’ said Samson emphatically, ‘I only bother with women who are obviously unhappy, and Miriam is not one of those.’

They stopped as Morgan came to join them. He called Rozgon and Varen to him and when everyone was present, he spoke. ‘Right, lads, I have something to tell you about our esteemed
scholar...’

They camped that night on a hillock covered in trees and light shrubs. During the day Morgan had dropped back from the party on several occasions to listen for any signs of
pursuit; hearing nothing he allowed a small fire, which was doused once everyone had settled down for the night. He took the first watch, sitting motionless as he faced southward listening to the
soft breath of the wind in the trees and the calls of the owls looking for scurrying mice on the forest floor. Rozgon took over from him after three hours and Haelward after that. The night passed
peacefully; evidently the two barons were so discomfited as to consider pursuit not worthwhile.

The following day the path stopped hugging the river and instead plunged uphill into the pine forest. They trudged wearily through these gloomy woods for a while as the path twisted and turned
before them. Later, though, it rejoined the river, which was now a fast-flowing stream chattering and gurgling as it sped downhill over jagged rocks and pebbles worn smooth and covered in weed.
Some time after noon they arrived at Shayer Ridge.

Perched on a flat-topped, sharply sloping hill, it was easy to see why the town had never fallen to the enemy, despite undergoing a two-month siege at one stage of the war. Joining the rock face
to completely surround the town was a fifteen to twenty-foot-high stone wall, with the only access being through a great door of wood and iron. Over it hung a wooden machicolation, a crenellated
wooden platform attached to the main battlement, full of murder holes used to spring nasty surprises on any attacking enemy. Through a stone culvert in the wall protected by an iron grill spilled
the river, which passed down the hill and into the enclosing pine forest on their right. Shayer Ridge was a mining town; little agriculture was possible here, so it imported its grain, storing it
in large silos, and exported what it found deep under the earth. This included many precious gems that all too often were found adorning the wealthy and opulent of Tanaren society. This was Sir
Varen’s town; he was the son of the local magistrate and it was he who would take charge of their provisioning for the journey through the pass.

‘I know most of Baron Felmere’s lands are the other side of the river,’ he said, ‘but Shayer Ridge is his town as well. Both Baron Vinoyen and Baron Lasgaart have lands
around here but we declared for Felmere decades ago, as we were fed up of the Lasgaarts stripping the wealth from the town and giving nothing in return. He tried taking the town by force but that
ended badly for him. If you all wait at the gate, I will arrange things for us.’

He was as good as his word. Within the hour they found themselves housed in the magistrate’s hall, the finest building in the town. Baths were prepared and once they had cleaned up, a
large feast including chicken, pork, meat and fruit pies as well as bread and stew was prepared for them, all washed down with a strong ale.

‘Eat as much as you can,’ said Morgan. ‘Only the Gods know when we will have such a feast again.’

They spent the night in the private wing of the mansion, sleeping on feather mattresses close to a roaring fire. Then, as the cock crowed to herald a leaden dawn, every one of
them awoke to realise that the real journey was about to begin.

After a quick trip to the latrines, Morgan headed into the courtyard. It was a raw morning and his breath showed in white plumes. Everyone was assembled and looked ready to depart. Sir Varen was
standing at the head of the horses, talking to an older man finely dressed in a green velvet cloak. The family resemblance was immediately obvious to Morgan – both had the same strong jaw and
sandy hair, though the older man’s was flecked with grey. He went up to them.

‘I take it, my Lord, that it is to you we should convey our thanks for the more than generous hospitality we have received since our arrival.’

‘No thanks are required,’ said the older man. ‘I am Vanek the magistrate here and Varen is my boy, as I am sure you know already. I am sorry I was not here when you arrived
yesterday but rents have to be collected, and a lot of local villages often need to be visited and persuaded into fulfilling their obligations to myself and the Grand Duke.’

‘Times are hard for us all,’ said Morgan. ‘I must say though that the two of you look very much alike. Sir Varen is a credit to you by the way. Far too noble a gentleman to
keep his present company.’

Varen laughed. ‘On the contrary, sharing a journey with two of the heroes of Axmian, and another who fought at Galpa, is an honour well in excess of what I deserve.’

Vanek looked at Morgan. ‘Take care of my boy. He is brave but young, and so far has had little experience of warfare.’

Varen looked annoyed. ‘I can acquit myself as well as any man here,’ he said.

‘There will be little opportunity to nurture anyone along on this trip,’ said Morgan, ‘but I will keep an eye on him, as much as I can. Varen, have you stored some brushwood on
the wagon?’

‘I have indeed,’ said Varen, ‘lots of it. I think poor Cedric is making a bed out of the stuff.’

‘It is time I took my leave,’ said Vanek. ‘May Artorus protect all of you and see you back safely.’ With that he gave an abrupt bow and left them alone.

Morgan looked at Varen. ‘He means the best for you. In my experience an over-protective father is better than no father at all.’

‘He has high expectations yet does not wish me to take the risks involved to achieve them. He has had duties here which have kept him away from the battlefield, except for the siege when
he managed the logistics of the operation as opposed to manning the walls. I fear he rather wishes to live his thwarted ambitions through myself.’

‘Well, as far as I am concerned he has looked after us well and we could not be better provisioned for the journey ahead. By the time you return it is highly probable you will have
fulfilled all of his ambitions for you anyway. If you are not dead, that is. And do not worry. There is no possibility of me keeping you out of any trouble we might get into; there will be no
passengers on this trip.’

‘Yes, I quite realise that. I wouldn’t have volunteered otherwise. Have you seen Willem yet? Whatever you do, don’t slap him on the arm. Rozgon has had it tattooed!’