‘You had better – it may help to thin the number of volunteers down considerably.’
Twenty minutes later Reynard returned to where Morgan was waiting outside his tent with some dozen or more well-built, surly-looking men. Morgan recognised one of them immediately.
‘Hey, Rozgon!’ he called. ‘Still avoiding your wife?’
A grizzled bear of a man, almost as broad as he was tall with a shock of white hair and a long, tangled beard stepped forward. He wore what looked like a wolf pelt over his studded leather jerkin and an ugly-looking axe swung at his side. He regarded Morgan fondly, only through one eye though, his left being white as milk.
‘By Keth, which one?’ He clasped Morgan in a grip as bearlike as his appearance. ‘Here’s me telling everyone you had died still owing me ten ducats.’ He was renowned for never forgetting a gambling debt.
‘Pah, the dice were loaded, and they were your dice, I seem to remember; either that or you had Culo’s luck.’
‘They were my dice, they weren’t loaded and I don’t need the God of Chance to beat you!’
‘Do you ever lose with them? I mean, seriously? And what’s with the stupid beard?’
‘The good lady Britta, who does for me most handsomely in this blighted camp, says it makes me look younger.’
‘I suppose at your age I would like to look sixty, too.’
Rozgon snorted and smiled. ‘Cheeky whelp! If anyone else had said that they would be decorating their armour with their own teeth. Anyhow, what is this all about? The good knight says you have a job to do, one that could drive us all into the arms of Xhenafa.’ Xhenafa was the god who carried the living to the world of the dead and their final judgement; soldiers would invoke him if they saw their chances of survival as dubious.
‘He might be right, but I think we could all get through it. It is just a jaunt through Claw Pass. Want to come?’
‘Claw Pass?’ said Rozgon thoughtfully. ‘At this time of year? Keth take me! If it gets me out of this shithole of a camp, count me in. The newer recruits have no respect here, you know. I was telling a few of them about our defence of Fort Axmian when one of them yawned. Yawned, I tell you! The little bastard, I had to dangle him upside down over the campfire before he apologised.’
‘You were always a persuasive man; we should have sent you to negotiate with the Arshumans years ago.’
‘Aye,’ nodded the big man enthusiastically. ‘They would have sued for peace immediately.’
‘Only if you bored them to death by droning on about our defence of Fort Axmian.’
Rozgon laughed at this, a sound that startled even the warhorses. Morgan grinned himself. ‘Now, who do you recommend out of this lot?’
‘Well, they are all good men. What are you after? Bruisers? Archers?’ Morgan nodded when he mentioned archers. ‘Well, in that case the two boys at the end. Samson, Leon, step forward.’
Two much younger men advanced. Both were tall, spare and more lightly armoured than Rozgon. One had jet-black hair and a thin smattering of chin stubble; the other was as bald as an egg with thin watery blue eyes.
‘Leon’s the one with the head like a baby’s arse,’ Rozgon said tactfully. Morgan spoke to them. ‘Growler here has recommended you. I need archers that can scout, hunt game, not waste arrows, and follow orders. It is a risky mission and we will be in the wild for much of it, so foragers are the sort of men we need.’
‘You have described us both perfectly,’ said Samson. ‘We are handy with knives and short swords, too.’
Leon turned to Samson and they both smiled, as if sharing some private joke.
‘Do the two of you know each other?’
‘We are cousins, sir. Always competing with each other; one day Leon may even catch up with me. Anyway, that is why we both want to go – camp life has not offered up enough challenges as of late.’
‘Very well, I will give you all the details shortly. First... Hold on, that’s Haelward.’ Morgan recognised another of the volunteers, although in truth he only barely knew him. He remembered noticing him in a skirmish with some Arshuman mercenaries where he had impressed with his blade. Though not as young as the two archers, Morgan would not say he was as veteran as himself; rather, somewhere between the two. He was quite a short and wiry man with no spare fat on him. He wore heavier armour than the other men – a lot more chain mail – and had metal leg guards, too. Slung over his shoulder was a plain circular wooden shield. His long sword was sheathed in a scabbard far more ornate than most of the men here carried.
‘Hello there, sir,’ the man said. ‘I am surprised that you recognised me.’ He, too, was dark haired, though it was curly and thinning on top.
‘Not at all – I remember your abilities with the sword.’
‘Abilities that get little enough practice here; I am more adept at putting up a tent and dice playing these days.’
‘Well, if you want a more hazardous challenge...’
‘Thank you, sir. I will be ready when you call.’
‘Good man.’ Morgan turned to Rozgon. ‘Now all I need is someone who can handle horses.’
‘I can help with that.’ Reynard who had been listening at a respectful distance came forward. ‘You should have one of the knights with you – to represent the Baron, if nothing else.’
Morgan readily acceded. ‘Very well, I will let you choose. Everyone should settle up their business here today; we will be leaving tomorrow at dawn.’
And so they departed. The camp was on a slight hill with a good view of the open plain around it and was fed by a small stream, and it was the course of this stream that they followed. They took four horses with them, not the glorious chargers that the knights favoured but rather smaller, sturdier beasts built for hardiness. The knight selected by Reynard was one Sir Varen of Shayer Ridge, a town nestling in the foothills not too far from the pass they needed to take through the mountains. He was the son of the magistrate there and it would be the final civilised place they would be stopping at to resupply and get fresh horses if required. The choice of Sir Varen was a good one therefore, because, apart from him, only Morgan and Rozgon knew the route they were taking, so even if two of them were to die the mission could still continue. Morgan’s only concern was the man’s youth; he really wanted more veterans in the party but the handsome young knight looked like he had only recently been promoted from squire. Varen had forgone the usual knight’s plate in favour of mail and studded leather, and appeared to favour the mace in the Felmere tradition, as one was strapped to his back, its blackened metal head giving it a particularly vicious look. Morgan himself favoured the long sword; it was his opinion that four feet of tempered steel had never let anybody down.
They were to follow this course westwards for two days until they came to the Vinoyen River. They would cross it at the bridge at the town of Tetha Vinoyen, turn northwards and two to three days further travel would see them at the pass. Of course, it also meant passing through Baron Ulgar’s lands, a man whose hostility to Felmere was well known. Morgan hoped that his own close association with the Felmeres would not be too problematic.
After half a day’s uneventful travel they came to a dirt road sheltered by a brake of trees on both sides. As they joined it, Morgan mused on the fact that they hadn’t seen a soul all day. There was a time when many of the abandoned farm buildings they had passed would have been hives of activity. It was getting close to harvest-time and the fields would soon have been filled with many sweating men and women, singing and breaking their backs as they scythed and bundled the crops, pausing just twice a day to fill their bellies with bread, cheese and sweet cider. The farm he had grown up in wasn’t too far from here. He remembered his father hoisting him on to his shoulders, carrying him to the fields where he could sit, play and be fussed over by the women as the line of labourers ahead grew ever smaller and more distant as more and more of the crop was felled.
It felt like a hundred years ago.
They paused briefly to
take on water and chew on the unappetising soldier’s rations they had brought with them. Rozgon got his dice out, eager to lighten the other men’s purses. Cedric had sat in the wagon all day, presumably poring over scrolls and books. He had been surprisingly quiet. For the most part young Willem had walked with the men, Morgan had him pinned down as a shy lad and was pleased to see him and Haelward apparently hit it off. Morgan went over and spoke to him.
‘Enjoying the journey so far? Haelward is looking after you, I see.’
‘Yes, sir. It turns out that Haelward and I are from villages just a few miles from each other.’
‘What villages exactly?’
‘Oh, you wouldn’t have heard of them. They were both farming villages on the lands of Baron Hartwig in Skonnetha, close to the Erskon.’
‘The heart of the country.’
‘Yes, sir, pretty much its geographic centre. Master Cedric has shown me many maps.’
Morgan’s brow creased a little. ‘So if you are not from Tanaren City, how did you meet Cedric?’
Willem spoke earnestly. ‘I was lucky enough to join the house of Artorus at Skonnetha when I was twelve. At first, I was a lay brother working in the kitchens, plucking chickens or turning the spits. Well, at service one day one of the senior brothers noticed how well I sang and, thinking it would boost his choir gave me the chance to join the order proper. It turned out I had a talent for writing and reading and I quickly picked up on my studies, so much so that it was decided that I should spend seven years at St Philig’s studying history and theology before returning to the monastery as a scribe. It was in a history study group that Master Cedric noticed me giving a short dissertation on the effects of the Black Plague two hundred years ago on the rights of rural labourers. He invited me to be his assistant and so now I am here.’
‘So the monastery funds your education. Would they approve of you being here?’
‘I doubt it, but even here Cedric insists on teaching me at least one hour a day.’
‘How do you find Tanaren City compared to the country?’ Morgan himself had only ever been there a couple of times as a younger man and remembered finding its sheer size intimidating.
‘It took me a while but I got used to it; it has so many temptations for a brother of Artorus.’
Morgan grinned. ‘Just stay away from the women on the harbour front and the Rose district and you will be OK.’
Willem looked a little downcast. ‘It is not the women on the harbour that bother me.’
‘Go on.’ said Morgan intrigued. ‘Is it the men?’
‘No sir, not like that, sir.’ He hesitated. ‘Master Cedric the other day mentioned Alys, a lady with a talent for drawing.’
‘Not just for drawing, I take it.’
‘Well no, sir; we have become very ... fond of each other since our trip to the ruins. She is a little older than me but her talent has taken her a long way and she is as clever as she is fair.’
‘And your religious instruction?’
‘Exactly, sir.’ He sighed.
‘Artoran monks can marry, though.’
‘Only at the behest of the Grand Lector and only then once a monk’s studies are completed or he turns thirty, whichever comes sooner.’
‘But your studies cannot be too far from completion.’
‘At St Philig’s, yes, but then I return to Skonnetha for ten years of religious instruction. I would have to wait many years before the Grand Lector could even be petitioned and I would not expect Alys to wait that long.’
‘A lot of priests I know,’ said Morgan slyly, ‘keep a lady or a man at their side for many years unofficially, and no bolts of fire strike them down.’
‘Not in Skonnetha,’ laughed Willem. ‘I had to leave it to realise how conservative it was.’
‘I see.’ said Morgan thoughtfully. ‘And the monastery funds your education, funds which would have to be repaid if you abandoned your life with them.’
‘Correct, sir. As you can see I am rather trapped by circumstances.’
Morgan searched his head for words of comfort. ‘Many years have to pass before you reach the age of thirty, for both good and ill. It is too early to despair over things just yet. For example, I rather feel that Cedric enjoys having you as his assistant and would be loath to let you go.’
Willem shrugged his shoulders. ‘Maybe you are right, though what Master Cedric could do about it I do not know. At the moment, though, there seems no way out.’
‘Be patient. As I say, things may change. Listen, I wanted to ask you, do you have a weapon?’
‘I have an eating knife.’
‘No, that won’t do. Here, take this.’ He handed him a short dirk in a leather scabbard. ‘Don’t use it unless you have to, just in case something gets past us fighters.’
The boy’s face lit up. ‘Thank you, sir!’
‘As I say, only use it if you have to. An untrained man with a weapon can be as much a danger to himself as to his enemies.’
Having eaten, they continued onwards. The road they were using was poorly maintained and they frequently had to avoid deep water-filled wheel ruts and loose stones. With the wagon finding things difficult it slowed their progress and in a few hours all of their boots were caked with liquid mud.
As the sun started to drop in front of them, they came to their first abandoned village. Most of the buildings had been burned; few had thatch remaining on their roofs. Nature had started to reclaim the place. Weeds and brambles poked through empty windows and shattered doorways. The tavern sign had fallen and lay unregarded on the ground ahead, and the stone surround of the well had crumbled. Just outside the village, though, as they left it behind them, they found something still in use. From the executioner’s tree hung three gibbets, all containing some grisly remains – one looked as if it had been used recently. The corpse within it was eyeless and the flesh had partially putrefied under a heavy cloak of droning black flies. Some of it had sloughed off the dead man’s body and lay in stinking, fetid gobbets at his feet, all of it crawling with maggots. Above the gibbet was posted a crude wooden sign with one word scrawled upon it: DESERTER.
As the territory here had changed hands two to three times over the preceding months, none of the observers could even tell which side he had deserted from. Rozgon made the sign of Xhenafa on his chest, though soldiers normally regarded deserters with little respect. The others followed suit, bar Willem, who was being sick on the side of the road.
A mile later the stream they had initially followed rejoined them at the side of the road and it was here that they made camp. Samson and Leon disappeared for a little while and when they returned they were clutching three rabbits. ‘I bagged two of them,’ said Leon with the tiniest hint of triumph. An hour or two later, after a hot rabbit stew and a jug of ale, they prepared to bed down for the night.
‘Where are we going tomorrow?’ asked Willem.
‘We follow the road,’ Morgan replied. ‘We will pass through more villages like the last one and in a few hours the road will broaden till we get to Tetha Vinoyen and the bridge.’
‘So back the way I came with Master Cedric some days ago.’
‘Yes, that will change once we are over the bridge, though. We will take the north road then.’
Rozgon had been listening. ‘We also need to make sure that we don’t fall foul of Ulgar’s lackeys. Anything he can do to get at Lukas Felmere he will do, especially after that business with the monastery. We are Felmere’s men, you see, and will need to keep an eye out.’
‘It’s a bit late for you, old one-eye; you weren’t supposed to take that instruction literally.’ Haelward showed admirable dexterity in ducking under the (empty) jug that was hurled at him.
Morgan and Haelward took the first watch. The fire was burning low, so Haelward prodded it casually, staring gloomily into its depths. Though they were now some miles behind the front lines, bands of horsemen from both sides often roamed this land with impunity. Morgan, though, had decided
to take a calculated risk in lighting a fire, reckoning that they would hear horsemen long before they arrived. It was autumn and the nights were starting to get a little colder, even on a bright day like today. It would also keep away the wolves who had been greatly emboldened in recent years by the prospect of easy carrion in these lands.
Haelward yawned, looking over at Morgan. ‘Have you ever seen one of the Wych folk?’
‘No, never.’
‘I have.’
‘Really?’ said Morgan curiously. ‘When was this?’
‘About seven or eight years ago. I used to serve in the Tanaren City garrison and, like I often do, fancied a change of scene. So for a year or two I joined the marines. It was at the time of the wars with the Kudreyan pirates who kept attacking our trade routes. I saw action at the Battle of Galpa where they were mostly destroyed.’
‘You were at Galpa?’ said Morgan; obviously, Haelward was more of a veteran than he thought.
‘I didn’t do much,’ Haelward replied. ‘My ship was held in reserve; we were merely involved in the final sweep picking off the last pockets of resistance. Anyway, before all that we used to escort trading vessels to the isle of Danathra. The Wych folk, or Aelves as they call themselves, are not allowed to trade in Tanaren due to ancient laws stemming from the wars against them. Instead, they have a port in Danathra and we go there to trade with them. It is some three to four days out of Tanaren, depending on conditions.’
‘From what I have heard it is supposed to be a beautiful city.’
‘It is quite small, not really a city at all, but yes. I have seen nothing else like it. Their buildings have high, needle-thin towers with walkways running between them that look as if they are suspended in the air, and the statues that they fashion, some out of the hardest granite ... well, it stunned me the first time I saw it.’
‘And the Wych folk themselves?’
‘Reserved and polite, no interest in mixing with us; we had a quarter of the city in which to stay but most of it was off limits to us. They were interested only in what we had to trade, not in what we were. I managed to pick up a couple of words of their language too.’
The Forgotten War Page 7