About the author
Former guitarist and founder member of The Third Sex, the greatest band that no one has ever heard of and who never played live, Howard Sargent was a civil servant for 20 years before leaving to care full-time for his wife, who has Parkinson’s disease. Howard lives in Cardiff and The Forgotten War was originally written in serial form for his sister.
First published in Great Britain in 2014 by
The Book Guild Ltd
The Werks
45 Church Road
Brighton, BN3 2BE
Copyright © Howard Sargent 2014
The right of Howard Sargent to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real people, alive or dead, is purely coincidental.
Typesetting in Times by
YHT Ltd, London
Printed and bound in Great Britain by
CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY
A catalogue record for this book is available from The British Library.
ISBN 978 1 84624 979 2
eISBN 978 1 90998 460 8
Dedicated to both Helens, with much gratitude. Nug.
(Special mention for the old codgers, too.)
Contents
Book One: Autumn
Book Two: Winter
Book Three: Spring
Epilogue
Appendix I: A Brief Chronology
Appendix II: A Note on the Artoran Church
Appendix III: A Note on the Tanarese Nobility
Book One: Autumn
1
For three days solid the rain hadn’t stopped. That was a rather superficial analysis to tell the truth. Sometimes it had reduced to little more than a feathery drizzle coating hair and clothes in a spidery mist; sometimes it was the more dependable type of rain – consistent, never varying – you knew if you left your tent and walked to the cookhouse or midden exactly how wet you would get by the time you returned. At other times, however, the skies truly opened, drenching everything in an unrelenting tide of freezing cold clammy wetness, making clothes stiff and heavy and sending everyone scuttling off like beetles, heads bowed, for the nearest shelter. That was just how it was now.
He was sitting in his tent, hands stretched out towards a hissing brazier as the rain drummed its frenetic tattoo on the canvas over his head. He was not a tall man, but stocky and muscular, someone used to regular physical work. Little else of him could be divined as he shrouded himself in a large black or dark-green cloak, but his face was clear enough – the hot coals illuminating it in a harsh red glare. It could be seen that he was a man in his middle years, maybe thirty-five, clean shaven, with a strong jaw and an almost aquiline nose. His eyes glittered like the coal itself, keen and intelligent, but behind that there seemed to be a certain weariness about them, almost as if he was mentally much older than the body he inhabited. And then there was the scar, livid in the flames, running from the left cheek across the throat... Even now he played with it, idly stroking it with his forefinger, even though it looked like it had been there for many years.
He barely moved, staring into the void, as inscrutable as a monolith. He was the fixed point around which everything else revolved. To him the rain, the acrid smoke of the brazier, the damp packed earth under his feet, the wind tugging persistently at the tent flaps – all these registered as little more consequential than the buzzing of a cloud of midges, or the high-pitched whine of a marsh mosquito as he strained his ears to catch the sound he wanted to hear.
Finally, it came – heavy boots sploshing through liquid mud accompanied by the metallic clink of chain mail. Expensive leather boots, he had no doubt, and the mail would be patterned, maybe with the eagle-claw crest or even possibly the double serpent. He jerked his head leftwards as the tent flaps were opened.
‘The Baron will see you now.’ It was Sir Reynard, knight of the Eagle Order. He regarded the sitting man with a barely concealed look of distaste.
‘Thank you’ came the response. The other man got up and followed the knight out of the tent.
He looked at Sir Reynard in his polished silver mail walking over the sodden wooden planking as if daring the rain to bother him, blue cloak emblazoned with the yellow eagle claw hanging heavily from his shoulders. There was a time when this tall blond knight, his bearing the very quintessence of his noble birth, would have been off jousting at tourneys, downing goblets of the finest southern wine, and dazzling the spoiled, pampered ladies at the Grand Duke’s court.
Instead he was here.
He was probably in his mid-twenties, which would mean he would have been fifteen or so when this whole sorry affair started. He had spent his entire adult life at war, then. For a noble knight this was no bad thing – reputations and honour are of course forged on the battlefield. If only this war had been like the glorious campaigns against the Wych folk, or the three-year war of imperial succession that had culminated in the Battle of Hawks Moor when the independence of the Duchy had been secured. And not this sordid, half-remembered little war in which – after ten years of invasion and counter-invasion, massacres of men, women and children, the slaughter of priests, the burning of towns and villages, public executions of traitors, deserters and minor nobility, and the transformation of hundreds of square miles of fertile, arable land into a morass of mud and thick, tangled grassland – nothing more had been achieved than a minimal redrawing of borders and the swelling of towns outside the warzone, bloated by refugees made to feel as welcome as an un-lanceable boil. No glory to be had here then, only an endless cold attrition.
He looked up – they were nearly there. The Baron’s pavilion was much larger than the other tents around it. It had to be, for, as well as housing his personal quarters, it was where the military counsels were held, packed full of erstwhile commanders eager to have their say while the Baron looked impassively on. Above it flew the banner of the House of Felmere, the mace and shield, the mace being ironhand, wielded by Baron Rovik Felmere, founder of the house some three hundred years before.
He followed Reynard into the pavilion. The white fabric of the tent cast an eerie glow on to the great table at its heart, almost as if the moon was inside the tent shining its thin ghostly light on the proceedings. At the table’s head was a great oak chair, intricately carved, and behind the chair part of the tent was closed off to give the Baron some privacy. Reynard turned to him.
‘I will tell His Grace that you are here.’ He disappeared into the private quarters. No servants were visible; presumably all were busy on errands at the moment – there were always a thousand things that needed doing here.
A minute or so later Reynard returned, the Baron following close behind.
‘It has been a long time, Morgan, has it not?’
‘Indeed it has, my Lord.’
‘Leave us, Reynard, I have much to discuss with this gentleman.’
Reynard’s eyebrow lifted slightly at the last word, but he bowed slightly, turned and left, leaving the two men together.
As the Baron had said, it had been a long time since they had last met and that time had not been too kind on him. He had a slight paunch now and his eyes had the bloodshot appearance of a man too fond of his cups. He still had that presence though, that indefinable something that meant others wo
uld gladly follow him. Was it confidence? Assuredness? He did exude a self-belief that Morgan often saw in those born to privilege, a certainty in the order of things that placed them at the top with everybody else bound to follow. Barons here were not necessarily noble born – the Grand Duke, among others, could appoint a trusted commoner to a high office if his deeds impressed sufficiently. Baron Lukas Felmere, though, was born to rule.
But there was a price, though, and Morgan could see it in the drawn features, the inability to settle in any one place for a period of time. He wondered why they had bothered bringing the baronial chair all this way when he could never sit on it for more than a couple of seconds; and then there were his eyes, red rimmed and haunted. Most definitely haunted.
‘What do you think of Reynard then?’ His manner was as bluff as ever. ‘A whelp when all this started ... couldn’t even blow his own nose; now in the last year or so he has become my right hand. Without his knights last week we could have been pushed back towards the river again. I mentioned him in my last despatches to the Grand Duke.’
‘We did not exchange two words, Baron.’
‘What? Really? He does have a bit of the raging snob about him, like a lot of the younger nobility these days. Another six months in the field will beat it out of him. A good man though, promising. He is Roderick Lanthorpe’s boy, you know, a good family. Their lands border my cousin Hardwick’s – that’s how I know him.’ The Baron stood, walked a little around the table before returning to his chair. ‘Anyway, Morgan, how are things? When I sent you down south to help out that fool Esric I did not think you would be there so long. He had lost more land in six months than we had gained here in the north in years.’
‘There were spies in his camp and jealousy over his promotion to Chief Prosecutor of the southern war. There were several trusted retainers in the pay of his rivals and one lordling, a baron’s son, receiving money from Arshuma. We set a trap and caught them in the act of betrayal. The information they had been giving the Arshumans up to that point was proving to be particularly ruinous.’
‘I see,’ said the Baron thoughtfully. ‘And has the problem been resolved?’
‘It has,’ said Morgan succinctly. ‘For now.’
‘And this baron’s son?’
‘His head was returned to his mother. The heads of the other spies still decorate Esric’s camp.’
This heartened the Baron. ‘Excellent! We will win this cursed war yet, by all the Gods.’
‘Your optimism must be heartening for the men to see.’
The Baron narrowed his eyes. ‘Not an optimism you share, I see.’
‘You know me, my Lord. We go back a long way, so you know I have always taken a somewhat bleak view of things.’
The Baron opened his mouth to reply then checked himself before finally saying, ‘You know, Morgan, this was not how it was meant to be. One glorious summer campaign and the Arshumans driven back past the Seven Rivers, our banners flying over the city of Roshythe, all our ancient lands restored...’
‘And you and the other nobles basking in the adoration of the grateful peasantry.’ Morgan’s tone reeked of bitter experience.
Felmere growled threateningly. ‘You know, Morgan, not many of my men could get away with speaking like that to me.’
Morgan smiled. The two of them did go back a long way – it was easy to be honest in the Baron’s company. ‘I thought my lack of sycophancy always came as something of a relief to you.’
The Baron nodded. ‘Yes, I do tire of being surrounded by people convinced the sun shines out of my arse... Anyway, before I start telling you why you were recalled here, do you want a drink?’
‘Thank you, but no.’
‘Mind if I do?’
‘Of course not.’
He called out to the unseen servants, one eventually emerging from the Baron’s quarters to fill a goblet from a wine pitcher. The Baron drank deep and had his goblet filled again. He dismissed the squire.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘to business.’
‘First of all,’ the Baron continued in his gravelly voice, ‘I had better update you on the situation up here. Up until last week we had pushed forward further than we had for a long time, all the way up to the banks of the Whiterush River. However, the village of Grest – little more than a glorified hill fort but one that controls this section of the river – continued to hold out against us. We attempted to take it but, as you see, we got driven back. As we advanced, they had catapults up the hill in the village itself throwing rocks and bundles of burning furze at us. It spooked our light cavalry, making the whole line nervous. Worse than that. though,’ he added grimly, ‘they had a mage.’
‘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.’
The Forgotten War Page 1