The Forgotten War

by Howard Sargent

  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.

  ‘Not impossible, no, just unlikely. Do you really want to put yourself and the boy through this? It would be terribly hard, even for a fit soldier in his prime.’

  ‘Willem volunteered, just as I did, so the answer to your question is yes.’

  ‘Very well then,’ Morgan replied. ‘But be aware also that there are ... creatures in the mountains as well as groups of brigands forced up there by the war and by the Baron’s men. If we are encountered, I make no guarantees about what might happen.’

  Cedric sounded confident. ‘I have made a study of the dangerous creatures that lurk in the wild places of the world. No one knows more about what we might encounter than I.’

  Morgan was not expecting such bravado. ‘OK then, say Artorus and Mytha the war god see us through the mountains and we cross the plains and get to the forest, do we just walk in? How do we entice the Wych folk to speak with us without them killing us first?’

  ‘There is a ritual. The river Taethen which borders the forest is usually quite shallow. There is an island in the river on which the summoning ritual can be performed. They watch the river constantly; it will not be long before they will come to see us.’

  ‘And then they will kill us as they do with all unbidden visitors; their hospitality is legendary after all.’

  ‘Ah,’ Cedric nodded, ‘I will concede that point to you. I cannot guarantee that they won’t kill us, so we will be rather relying on my skills as a diplomat at that juncture.’

  ‘You have skills as a diplomat?’

  ‘Not really no, but what I have to tell and show them should be of great interest to them. It would be their loss if they kill us first.’

  ‘That is comforting.’ Morgan got the impression that nothing he said would make any difference to the old man. ‘What if I refuse to go?’

  ‘Then I will go alone. I am bound to try with or without the help of others.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Morgan. ‘I thought you would say something like that. But tell me, why? Why the Wych folk?’

  ‘Ah, now that is a tale in itself. Allow me to start with a history lesson.’

  Morgan sat back in his chair expecting to be there a while as Cedric continued.

  ‘Over eight hundred years ago in the east the empire of Chira was beginning to expand. Its old enemy, Anmir, had been subjugated and the people of the lakes paid it tribute. To the north and west lay great fertile plains on which it cast envious eyes but these lands were already occupied. The Wych folk, Aelva or elves had been there for thousands of years, their light cavalry and skills with the bow making them perfect inhabitants of the plains, hunters of elk and herders of cattle. They were clannish folk, though, divided into many tribes all of whom held ancient enmities for each other; it was an odd thing but many of the Aelven tribes coexisted on far better terms with the humans of Chira and Anmir than they did with their own people. It was partly because of this mistrust that, when one day the Aelven Lutelia tribe immediately north of Chira was attacked by fellow elves of the Baetal tribe, the Lutelians approached Chira for help. It was the worst thing they could have done. This started the first war of the Aelva. It lasted twenty-four long years but by the end of it Chira held the lands of the Lutelia and the Baetal, both tribes ceasing to exist as separate entities as they were absorbed into human society.

  ‘The retaliation wasn’t long in coming. Just a few years later the Wych general Gellethon launched a stunning attack on Chira. Two great battles on the lakes wrested these lands from Chiran control and then, at the Battle of Lebethra, two-thirds of a Chiran army was destroyed in a day. The Aelven tribes, united for once, encamped outside the capital itself – it was Chira’s darkest hour, one of humanity’s darkest hours. But they resisted, refused to surrender and the tide slowly turned. Gellethon’s great army started to dissipate and be riven by infighting. Then the Chiran general Kathan drew them into petty skirmishing which sapped their will and resolve even further. The Wych folk were not equipped for long sieges and so withdrew from Chira city itself back to the lakes where Kathan continued to harass them. And then...’ Cedric made a flamboyant gesture with his arms ‘...came the decisive stroke. A young Chiran general named Tolmareon – later Tolmareon Aelvhassen – had a brilliant idea. While the Wych folk were occupied fighting humans in the lake country he struck directly at their homelands. Tribe after tribe fell to him as he carved through the plains until he reached the sea. It was at this time that his commander, Tanar, moved here and formed our own country of Tanaren.

  ‘Gellethon reacted to this incursion, abandoning the lakes and moving north to meet the Chirans. They met at the plain of Shefom and, despite having a mobile army suited to fighting on open ground, Gellethon was worsted because Tolmareon had sowed the ground with stakes, ditches and other obstacles designed to hamper the Wych horsemen. It was a conclusive victory.

  ‘The Wych folk hung on in a greatly reduced territory but their time was counting down. Nearly fifty years later Chira declared war on them on a pretext. There was some resistance but it was all over in two years. The remaining Wych folk fled into the forests or over the sea and Chira held the plains at last. The Wych folk of the Aelthenwood have been there for nearly eight hundred years.’

  ‘And,’ said Morgan as Cedric finally seemed to have finished speaking, ‘because of all that they hate us and kill us on sight.’

  ‘Not always, no. They fought with us at Hawk Moor in the War of Succession; their hatred of Chira overcame their hatred of us.’

  ‘But Chira is not involved this time.’

  ‘No, but Arshuma is a client kingdom of the Chiran Empire. If pressed, they could ask the White Empire for military aid but they will not do that as they know it will mean an end to what little sovereignty they have. Despite that, the spectre of the looming empire should be a powerful one for the Wych folk.’

  Morgan still sounded sceptical. ‘Yes, but in that case they have had ten years to join us but haven’t. What by the Gods would suddenly convince them to do so now?’

  ‘Two things, one of which I am not interested in but another that does interest me greatly. The first of this is iron and steel. The Aelva do not mine – they are creatures of nature – but this means they have very little iron weaponry that isn’t antique. Their weapons are often tipped with flint or obsidian, though I have heard that they make use of metal from rocks that fall out of the sky. The Grand Duke feels that offering our ancient enemies iron weapons is more a symbolic gesture of trust than anything else. But he bade me make the offer to them. The second thing, however, is much more intriguing.’ He drew himself forward, lowering his voice confidentially.

  ‘In the far west of the country, in a bleak uninhabited place close to the sea and blasted by the wind, are some ancient ruins, possibly thousands of years old. In my capacity as a scholarly collector of antiquities and student of the ways of the Wych folk I have had occasion to visit there several times in my career and this spring I decided to go again, probably for the last time. I took Willem and a couple of other sturdy fellows ... and Alys, a student with a gift for drawing, my past sketches of the ruins not really being up to scratch. So when we got there we proceeded to slowly cover the place foot by foot, recording our findings in a scientifically acceptable manner. It is a most unusual place; I could recognise three different architectural styles and five phases of building...’ He looked at Morgan, who was obviously drifting.


  ‘Sorry, my boy, I shall get to the point. This place being on the coast, I think it was once a port, you know. Well, the land is unstable and prone to slipping and this is exactly what had happened since my last visit. A large portion of the cliff wall had collapsed into the sea. It was tragic to see the demise of something that had stood for many centuries but, as I walked through the rubble, where the land had fallen I saw something new. Stairs ... a stairway leading down a shaft cut under the hill. I cannot tell you the level of excitement that I felt; scholars such as I can go an entire lifetime without seeing such things. I was all for charging down there straight away until Willem pointed out the nauseous smell coming from the shaft and the dangerous broken nature of the stairs. We left it until the following day when the smell had disappeared. Torches lit, we slowly climbed down the shaft. I counted 198 steps, six times thirty-three, both significant in Wych folk mythology. The walls and ceilings of the shaft were all of vaulted stone, which had prevented its collapse, but the carvings on these walls! Some of the original colours remained – vivid blues, reds and greens with pictures of rearing stags, fierce bears and wolves. There were hawks flying on the ceiling as well as gentler animals, goats and oxen, all of which are spirits or deities in Wych mythology. But then, finally, I realised there was a beast whose long, thin body ran the entire length of the shaft, coiling over the ceiling, down to the walls and back to the ceiling again, until at last we were confronted by a frowning stone door on which the beast’s fierce head was displayed. The head of a dragon!’

  ‘Dragons are myths,’ said Morgan unconcernedly as he finished off the food.

  ‘Maybe, my boy, but what we were looking at was a depiction of the Wych creation myth and I quote, “The great black dragon opened its maw and out streamed all the animals of the Earth, but soon they sickened through cold and damp and so the dragon breathed again and thus gave the world fire.” That is part of the annals of the Aelven. Before our second war with them the priest chronicler Adalferth travelled to their lands recording their histories and mythologies. After setting these things down in writing, he returned with other priests and tried to convert them. They were all killed, one of the catalysts for the second war. Anyway, we had to get this door open.’