The Forgotten War

by Howard Sargent

  A servant, all wariness and deference, sidled up to the man. ‘Baron Fenchard, the man you wished to see has arrived.’

  ‘Show him in, and fill up two goblets.’

  He went and sat down at the head of the table in a high-backed chair whose carvings were hidden by cushions. The servant poured the wine, which he drank immediately; it was too early really but Keth himself wasn’t going to tell him what to do.

  The door opened and in strode a man who looked like he was born on a battlefield. Six feet of hulking muscle, almost as broad as he was tall, clad in tarnished plate mail bearing no insignia. He was bald with dark merciless eyes that glared at Fenchard over a broad grey-black beard. His right ear looked like it had been partly chewed and a long-healed white scar lined his right cheek. He smiled at Fenchard, showing some missing teeth – the ones remaining were blackened and irregular. He spoke, with a voice so deep it seemed to emanate from somewhere underneath the nearby cemetery:

  ‘Of what do you wish to speak?’ The man’s presence was unsettling.

  Unnerved as he was, Fenchard was determined not to show it. ‘Sit down. The wine is poured; drink your fill.’

  The man sat but did not reach for his goblet. ‘I do not.’

  ‘Very well. I asked you here, Sir Trask, after Baron Ulgar mentioned you.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Many things. That you were a knight expelled from the order as your methods were unpalatable to them. That you have since become a freebooter, fighting for both sides and for whoever pays the most. That you are utterly ruthless and determined and that nothing gets in your way.’

  ‘Ulgar is well informed. I deny nothing.’

  ‘Good. How would you like to work for me?’

  ‘You had better be persuasive; I have had my fill of fops in this war.’

  ‘I guarantee I will pay more than anyone else you have worked for.’

  ‘A good start, what else?’

  Fenchard took another draught from his goblet. ‘I have powerful friends. I cannot tell you who they are yet but I guarantee that in under a year I will be the most powerful baron in the east – Keth’s furnace, maybe in the whole country. Even the Grand Duke will fear me.’

  Trask’s face looked as if it were carved in granite. ‘Your ambitions mean nothing to me. If I am to work for you, I will need something more concrete than that.’

  Fenchard leaned forward, warming to his subject. ‘Think about it – if all goes to plan, I will have access to the gem trade here, the income and taxation from nearly all the lands east of the Kada will be mine, and you, my fine fellow, will be the first beneficiary after myself.’

  ‘Fine words, but words when spoken are just air. They mean nothing. How do I know you are not just some rich pretty boy with his head where his arse should be? Thank you for your time but I will be going now.’ He stood up and made to leave.

  ‘How will a hundred crowns as an advance do?’

  Trask stopped, fixing the younger man with a cruel stare. ‘Show me.’

  Fenchard got up and went to a lockbox on the floor by the windows. Opening it, he drew out a large leather bag which was obviously quite heavy. It clinked as Fenchard lifted it up, causing Trask’s eyes to glitter hungrily. Fenchard then upended it on the table, allowing its contents to spill out – gold coin after gold coin clattered on to the table. Trask ran his hand through the pile and whistled softly.

  ‘You may have just talked yourself into a deal, boy. What is it you want?’

  Fenchard smiled to himself – gold, such an easy way to procure the service of lesser, simpler men. ‘I have men out at the front to fight Felmere’s war for him. I have a further six hundred here waiting to march out tomorrow. You will lead them and whip them into a fighting force. Tell their current leader, Bakker, that he is demoted and answers to you from now on.’

  ‘I will do that now.’

  ‘One other thing, do you know a Morgan of Glaivedon?’

  Trask grinned – his expression was that of a wolf who has just sighted a lame deer, alone and helpless. ‘Our paths have crossed, yes.’

  ‘He killed some of my men the other day; their bodies ended up in the river. They were only prisoners and lousy sellswords but that is not the point. If you see or hear from him, I want to know – understand?’

  ‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure.’ He turned to leave.

  ‘Before you go.’

  ‘Yes.’ Trask grimaced.

  ‘Is it true what I’ve heard ... your nickname?’

  ‘The Finger Man. Yes, it is true.’

  ‘Why exactly...’

  ‘Is it not obvious? I cut the fingers off those I kill and wear some of them attached to a thin rope around my neck. When they blacken and rot I replace them. It scares the shit out of those who have no right to be on a battlefield. Will you be riding out to join us at the war front?’

  Of course, in a week or so.’

  ‘Good, I will see you then.’

  Fenchard watched him leave, musing over whether a hundred gold crowns had ever been better spent.

  Morgan held out his hands and put them close to the fire. Their first day of travel along the pass had gone well. The road they had been travelling along was an ancient one. Carved into the mountain side; it was broad and flat, and the climb, though noticeable, had been gentle. Even Cedric had walked with them for part of the journey, using a stick as a prop, one that Samson had carved for him on their last night in the forest. They were walking on the shoulders of Mount Deraska at the western end of Claw Pass. Mount Baerannan, the higher of the two peaks, was in the east and between them was a deep gorge that once held a flowing river, but now just knifed between the two mountains and was full of loose treacherous rocks pockmarked with the occasional tarn as it broadened out further up the pass. To slip off the edge of the road here was to invite certain death; anybody so unfortunate to suffer such a fate would provide nourishment for wolves, bears and the other denizens of the mountains.

  Occasionally, along the road, the mountain side would fold in on itself, creating little sheltered nooks and crannies where a camp could be made out of the ever-present wind. Such a place was where they were now, as a bitter night pinched at the ears and the tip of the nose. Inside the wagon were Cedric and Willem; there was also room for one other. Everyone had agreed that each of them would take turns so that all could, at some point, get a night out of the wind. It was Haelward’s turn tonight. Morgan was on first watch.

  There was a creaking noise and, as Morgan looked up, he saw Cedric climb out of the wagon, stretch himself and come over to join him by the fire.

  ‘It is strange to be here, isn’t it? Sitting at my desk at St Philig’s planning this journey is one thing but sitting here in the darkness hearing the wolves howl in the gorge is something I never thought possible, if truth be told.’

  ‘You mean you never thought this journey would ever take place?’

  ‘Well, there have been so many obstacles – getting the Grand Duke’s approval, my own health and so forth – I never really believed all this would actually happen.’

  ‘We can always go back, if you want.’

  ‘And disappoint the Grand Duke? The man who wants responsibility for the first human–Elven alliance for generations? Hardly an option, I fear.’

  ‘I was not being serious. I am almost as curious about seeing the Wych folk as you. Almost as curious.’

  ‘There is a long way to go first – the pass and the summoning ritual.’

  ‘What is this ritual exactly?’

  ‘It has to be performed; otherwise they are at complete liberty to ignore you or just kill you. An island in the centre of the river Taethan has a magical statue; you speak an incantation, burn some herbs and leaves at its feet, and it should shoot forth a column of blue flame which stays permanently until one of the Wych folk nullifies it. It is an ancient agreement dating from the time when they first moved into the forest and the people here were sympathetic to
their cause. If you ignite the blue flame. then they have to come speak to you, though they are not obliged to help.’

  ‘And I take it you have the herbs and know the incantation?’

  ‘Well, I have a book that gives me the incantation. I hope my pronunciation of ancient Aelvish is up to scratch. As for the herbs and leaves; I have some dried ones in the wagon. The same book is old and partially damaged, so it is not clear on the amount required, but I think I have enough.’

  ‘It had better be! Imagine travelling all that way and failing because we don’t have enough leaves.’ Morgan was grinning.

  ‘Exactly, my boy; the Wych folk should kill us if we are that stupid, or kill me at any rate.’

  ‘We will defend you to the death, my friend – stupid or not.’

  ‘That is comforting to know,’ smiled Cedric. ‘How long is your watch?’

  ‘Oh, there is a couple of hours to go yet, it’ll be Leon’s turn after that.’

  ‘Then I shall leave you to your reverie, if things go well how much longer should we be in this pass?’

  ‘Given the terrain and our rate of progress, some four to five days. I have only been through it a couple of times myself, so I am not exactly certain.’

  ‘And this Jeremiah’s Saddle? When will we get there?’

  ‘Two days or so; it is the high point in the pass – a narrow cleft in a great outcropping of rock, barely wide enough for the wagon. A prime ambush spot, and one you don’t want to be halfway across when the snows start.’

  ‘So the real dangers are yet to come?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  The next day brought some consternation to the party.

  ‘Look at the sky,’ said Samson. ‘It is white.’

  ‘It is certainly carrying snow ,’ said Rozgon, who was swathed in furs, making him look even bigger. ‘Hopefully it will just drop it over the mountain top.’

  ‘May I ask something?’ piped up Willem.

  ‘Of course, boy, what is it?’

  ‘Who in the name of Artorus uses this pass? It seems so remote.’

  Samson answered him. ‘It is, but it is used a lot in the summer and early autumn. As you saw, Shayer Ridge and the other towns near it do not make enough food for their people. On the other side of the mountains is Zerannon, the nearest city to the Aelvenwood. It is a port and has many fertile fields. So they trade grain for gems and coal; both do very well out of it. In population and wealth Zerannon is probably only second to Tanaren City.’

  ‘A distant second,’ said Rozgon.

  ‘Of course, but it is an important place all the same. Hence the significance of this pass.’

  ‘And the fact it is crawling with bandits.’

  ‘Not likely at this time of year. Only complete idiots would try to cross it now.’ Samson bit into a piece of dried meat he was holding, so it was impossible to tell how serious he was being.

  They continued to climb; it was a steeper walk today and the road was narrowing. Now and then Willem would look over the edge – the gorge had widened. Clumps of tough, spiky grass grew on its sides, and now and then small groups of mountain goats or sheep could be seen, picking out the precipitous pathways to their next meal. The drop had increased considerably and he could only look down for a short period before feeling nauseous. Sometime after noon he drew their attention to the top of Mount Baerannan.

  ‘Is that snow over there?’

  It was true enough. Although its white head was shrouded in cloud there was definitely more snow on the peak than earlier in the day. The group regarded it stoically. ‘We move on,’ said Morgan.

  They camped in a similar sort of shelter to that of the previous night; the wind had picked up and it was colder, too. The air was also thinner. Little conversation was made. The next morning the air was raw and their breath was expelled in smoking white plumes. The sun shone bright and clear above them, tingeing the snow on the mountain tops rose pink, but it gave off no warmth. They lit a fire and had some hot stew for breakfast, but soon afterwards they were off. They wanted to be at Jeremiah’s Saddle as soon as they possibly could. After less than two hours’ walk, though, Haelward, who was walking ahead of the rest called a halt. Morgan went up to see him.

  ‘Up ahead,’ said Haelward, ‘Is that blood?’

  The road climbed steeply at this point; at its crest, turned black by the sunlight, was some kind of smear, or stain standing out against the rock.

  ‘Let’s go and look.’ said Morgan.

  The two of them slowly climbed the slope, and at its top the road straightened. Ahead of them, barely discernible in the distance, they could see the mountain side extend further into the gorge, which now became little more than a narrow slit as the two great peaks almost touched. Where the road hugged the mountain side, it was riven by a smooth, if narrow, cleft. It was difficult to tell how long the cleft ran through the road from where they were. That was not what concerned then now, however. Where they stood was a large dried pool of what was unmistakeably blood. Further along the road scattered here and there were other bits and pieces of gore, discernible as dark patches in the sunlight.

  The two men exchanged a telling look. ‘Human?’ said Haelward.

  They had their answer soon enough. Further down the path they came across more substantial remains – the upper part of a man’s body, a head, part of a torso and the left arm. The clothing had been torn off it and the face had been partially chewed. There was also impact damage as if it had fallen a considerable distance.

  ‘Well, I never,’ said Morgan. ‘So this is what happened to the vipers.’ The tattoo was clearly visible on the arm.

  ‘Vipers?’ Haelward asked.

  ‘The mercenaries, forced up here by the baron’s men after the massacre at the monastery.’

  ‘Oh them, bad soldiers and troublemakers all, no loss to anybody.’ Haelward scanned the remains further. ‘It has been dropped from further up the mountain. Maybe whatever did this fought with another of its kind and they lost it by mistake?’

  Cedric was alerted as to the find and came over to peruse it; he stiffly crouched for a better look. ‘Poor man,’ he muttered.

  ‘Don’t waste your sympathy,’ said Morgan. ‘All this man was known for was slaughtering monks and despoiling churches. Artorus’s bones, just look at that!’

  ‘Elissa’s great milky tits,’ hissed Rozgon.

  From somewhere inside the denuded ribcage Cedric pulled a yellow incisor tooth. It was cruel, sharp and some four inches long. Almost as one, they all looked up the mountain side as if expecting to see its owner charge down towards them.

  ‘What we are looking at here,’ said Cedric, ‘is either an ettin or a troll.’

  ‘What exactly is the difference?’ Willem was white as milk.

  ‘Oh, by the Gods, there are many, boy. The first difference is size. Trolls are larger but thinner. Their fur may also be of any colour while an ettin’s is always white. Trolls have long arms and claws that grip the mountain side enabling them to climb it; however, they are not social animals and would not casually toss a meal off a cliff. What I believe we have here is an ettin pack. They are about eight to ten feet tall and have large eyes and black faces with a broad nose, which gives them an acute sense of smell. Their claws can be a foot long or more. Their feet have large splayed toes to make it easier for them to climb and retain a grip on precarious surfaces.’

  ‘And how many make a pack?’ asked Morgan.

  ‘Oh, for hunting the males band together and take kills back to the females. I believe the average hunting pack has around ten individuals.’

  ‘And with their sense of smell they probably know that we are here.’

  ‘Their hearing is very good, too. I have no doubt they know about us’

  ‘Well, this gets better and better,’ said Leon. ‘We have four more days in the mountains with ten of these things after us?’

  ‘Well ... yes,’ said Cedric, ‘but it isn’t nearly as bad as it sounds.’


  ‘Would you care to ... elaborate?’ said Morgan sardonically.

  ‘Well, they are incredibly stupid and cowardly. They attack in a mob, but if one is killed or something frightens them you will not see them again. And don’t forget fire – it really will unnerve them.’

  ‘OK – Varen, can we keep a torch burning for the next four days and have fuel for more if we are attacked?’

  ‘It will be touch and go, but we should be able to.’

  ‘Right, light a torch now and keep it on the wagon. If they are watching us, it should make them think.’

  ‘Right away,’ said Varen, scuttling off.

  ‘Leon, those double-pronged arrowheads the archers use to bring down horses and large animals – do you have any?’

  ‘About a dozen; I shall fix them to the shafts now.’

  ‘Good, six each for you and Samson then. Cedric...’

  ‘Yes, Morgan?’

  ‘Into the wagon with you. Willem, do you have your knife?’

  ‘I do, sir.’

  ‘Then guard your mentor with it; in the wagon with you, too. Rozgon, stay behind the wagon; Haelward and I will march ahead. Let’s get moving. I want us past the Saddle by this time tomorrow.’