The Forgotten War

by Howard Sargent

  Nothing except the cold, that is. After an hour or so waiting and watching, Morgan realised his hands and feet were numb. Hurriedly, he exhorted everyone to get moving and stamp their feet, warning them all in graphic terms about frozen digits and amputations. That got them moving soon enough. He went to check on Cedric. Despite being in the wagon and smothered with blankets, his fingers were stiff and white. He forced some brandy down him and dragged him outside. After that, he gathered some of the remaining brushwood and the tiny quantity of lamp oil that remained and started a fire. They managed to keep it going till morning, at which point Cedric pronounced himself a lot better before retiring to the wagon to sleep.

  Morgan did not let the others rest. They were down to three horses now; one had bolted in fear during the night and he wanted to get out of this damned rock cleft as soon as possible. As soon as they had devoured a quick breakfast and salvaged the remaining wood they were on their way.

  Progress was slow. The snow had frozen overnight and much of it had to be moved before the wagon could be moved. Nevertheless, they noticed that the lip of rock to their right was getting lower and lower and was now little more than a couple of feet high, low enough for them to see over it into the ever-deepening gorge. They were all sweating hard. There was only one shovel between them, which Rozgon used while the rest just had their weapons or even their feet, kicking the snow out of the way in great sprays. Sometime after noon they finally left the Saddle behind them and they were standing again on a broad shelf of rock, with the sheer mountain side to their left and a steep drop to their right. Below them were snow-clad pine woods that sloped down into the gorge, where they could see a shallow meltwater lake like a thin silver mirror. Evidently it was a little warmer hundreds of feet below them.

  ‘Two days and we should be as good as out of here,’ said Morgan.

  ‘Right now, I will be happy never to see snow again for the rest of my life.’ said Rozgon, wielding his shovel with aplomb.

  ‘It’s the damned cold that gets me,’ said Haelward. ‘I hate the cold.’

  ‘Last summer you were moaning because it was too hot!’

  ‘What can I say? I am a heartlander; I like it mild. Mild does it for me.’

  ‘So there are only about two weeks in a year when you are happy.’

  ‘Not if it’s raining.’

  Rozgon hurled the snow in his shovel at him, hitting him with a white spray.

  ‘Were you like this in the marines?’

  ‘Of course, those blasted ships never stay still when you want them to.’

  ‘And no one was tempted to throw you overboard?’

  Haelward laughed. ‘Of course! They were lining up. It was a flogging offence though, so none of them were bold enough to try. They knew I was better with a sword than them as well – even with the short swords they use for close-quarter fighting.’

  ‘Well, just keep that sword handy now; I am sure we are not through this yet.’

  They could tell they were going downhill now. This heartened them even when it started snowing again. It was just a light flurry and when they looked back at the saddle they could see it was a lot heavier back from where they came.

  ‘It will be nigh on impassable back there now,’ said Morgan ‘We have got through with less than a day to spare.’

  ‘Then perhaps the Gods are with us,’ said Samson.

  ‘Say that when we have left Claw Pass behind.’

  They came to a spot where the mountain bulged out into the path, and traversing it they found that behind it the mountain folded back in on itself, forming a very shallow cave. Delighted with their luck they decided to set up camp. The wagon would not fit inside so they kept it as a barrier guarding the cave mouth. The horses and the rest of them had enough room to fit inside, where they lit a small fire. More iron rations followed and then they settled down for the night with two of them on watch at any one time.

  It was the dead of night and Varen and Leon were staring gloomily into the fire. The animals, sleeping men, and fire made the cave the warmest place they had been in days and they were finding it hard to stay awake. Suddenly, though, Varen snapped to.

  ‘Do you hear that?’

  Leon strained to listen. ‘Barking?’

  Varen nodded. ‘Ettins – a long way away, but they are still out there.’

  ‘Should we wake the others?’

  Varen thought for a second. ‘Not yet, let them come a little closer first.’

  They continued to hear the noises but if anything they got fainter until they finally stopped altogether. Samson and Rozgon relieved them and finally daylight found its way past the wagon and into the cave.

  One more day and they would be almost in the foothills and clear of the pass. This spurred them on and they made much faster progress than in previous days. The night before had not been as cold and the snow was much easier for even the wagon to move through. There had been a fairly strong wind, though, and occasionally on the path they would come across drifts of snow formed into small hillocks that they had to move around. Getting the wagon stuck in one of them would not be a good idea.

  Samson and Leon, close as ever, were singing the marching song of Saint Rheged, patron of travellers everywhere, quietly at first but gradually increasing in volume as they grew more confident. Haelward and Rozgon joined in, then shortly afterwards everyone was singing it. The volume was impressive, although the choir of St Kennelth’s Great Cathedral had little to fear from them:

  There is nothing better than a long road ahead

  There is nothing warmer than a traveller’s bed

  No music exceeds the stomp of my feet

  And there are no better fellows than the people I meet

  So let’s raise a glass

  To each tree that I pass

  For as the sun hails the new morn

  To the horizon I’m drawn

  And each day is a new start

  Something to capture my heart...

  Cedric explained to Willem how Rheged had been a common man who travelled thousands of miles to bring people the word of Artorus until he was finally eaten by the six-eyed monster Keyanocorax in the Red Mountains while preaching to the barbarian North Men. The trip over the mountains had been very difficult for the scholar – the cold had caused his joints to stiffen and his shaking had become a little more pronounced. Even climbing out of his bedroll in the morning had been a major undertaking. But he was not going to tell anyone of this; it was solely down to his folly that they were all here in the first place. So he would put up with the aches and pains without complaint. It would not be long now.

  Willem was sitting at the rear of the wagon, trying to put the books in order. Cedric spoke to him: ‘My boy, I would like to speak to you about a matter that concerns us both.’

  Willem moved towards him. ‘What is it, sir?’

  ‘I am getting older and this cursed illness is not helping matters one little bit.’

  ‘Not to worry, sir; there will always be someone to look after you.’

  ‘Will there, my boy? That is not the matter I wish to speak of anyway. What would you say if I took over the sponsorship of your education from the holy brothers? It would mean leaving the church, of course, and taking up the life of secular study. It’s as cloistered in its way as the life of a monk and demands as much devotion to study and diligence. So I would not consider it as an easier option. What it does mean is that you remain at the university, with me as my apprentice. There will be exams and lots of work, but I feel that you are clever and curious enough to succeed me one day. What do you say?’

  Willem tried not to sound excited. ‘Won’t it cost you a lot of money personally? The fees of a student are a considerable expense.’

  ‘Oh, I have saved enough over the years. I have been corresponding with the church over the matter and they are happy with the remuneration I am offering.’

  ‘But what about the Island of Healing? I always thought you would go there in your do
tage.’

  ‘To get there you need more money than a humble scholar earns in a lifetime. That or the recommendation of a senior mage, and seeing as I don’t know any of them, going there is hardly a viable option. Anyway, I expected you to be overjoyed at the news! Especially as your studies would bring you into contact with a certain lady artist that we know.’

  Willem looked sheepish. ‘Of course, sir, there is that. But I did not think my affairs mattered to you.’

  ‘Ha, it is not as if I would get nothing out of this. I would get a bright and promising young scholar at my beck and call!’

  ‘Thank you, sir. It will take a long time to repay you, but I definitely will.’

  ‘I do not doubt it,’ said Cedric. ‘Now back to your books.’

  Outside in the snow the men were still singing. They had moved on from Rheged’s walking song and were now on ‘The Lay of Sweet Rosie’ – something the St Kennelth’s choir would never attempt. The road ahead curved eastwards to their right and started to drop steeply. In the distance they could see the two mountains drawing close together, the path they were on diving between them.

  ‘And that,’ said Morgan, ‘marks the end of the pass.’

  Samson next to him smiled. ‘Artorus’s holy breath, will I be happy to get there! Are you ready, Leon – There is nothing better than a long road a...’ He started to sing in a full-throated voice, Leon joining in, but suddenly something unexpected happened. To their right were a couple of large drifts of snow. Rozgon was passing one when suddenly the snow exploded upwards and outwards. Everyone turned in horror as the ettin hiding behind it bore down on the big man. Before he could sweep out his axe, its giant claw raked across his chest. Blood sprayed on to the ettin’s fur as it hit him again with full force, sending him flying off the path and rolling down the steep mountain side until he impacted with a pine tree. There he lay still, a bloody trail stretching behind him in the snow.

  ‘Mytha, give me strength!’ yelled Haelward. He was behind the creature and putting everything into the blow. He slashed his sword at the creature’s stocky foot where he guessed the ankle would be. The blade bit deep and the creature’s dark blood spurted freely. Hamstrung, it roared its agony as it sank to one knee, trying to grab at its wound. Then Morgan was on him. With a two-handed thrust he forced his blade into the creature’s open mouth puncturing its brain case and killing it instantly. The giant beast toppled over, taking Morgan’s sword with it before he could twist the blade and pull it out. As they all stared at the creature, dumbfounded, there was more roaring and two other creatures bore down on them from the path ahead.

  ‘Shit, they’re fast!’ said Samson, loosing an arrow. The creature it hit stopped for a second, looking at the arrow sticking out of its chest dumbly, then continued its charge. Varen took the torch from the bracket on the wagon, then ran at the nearest creature holding it out in front of him. At that the creature did stop. Varen noticed its face had a fresh wound – evidently it was a survivor from the first encounter two nights before. He had his mace in his other hand and the two of them circled each other warily. The second ettin joined them, manoeuvring to get behind Varen. Haelward joined Varen; they stood back to back, an ettin glaring at each of them. Morgan was struggling to get his sword out of the dead creature’s mouth. Samson and Leon had their bows strung, ready to fire at whichever monster made the first move. Suddenly a new figure entered the fray – not Willem, who was frantically trying to calm the rearing and bucking horses, but Cedric. He was holding a sack in one hand and a rush light in his other. Morgan at last freed his sword and called to him.

  ‘Get back, Cedric – they will kill you!’

  Cedric ignored him. He put the light in the sack, which ignited instantly, then bracing his legs he hurled it at the nearest creature striking it square in the back. It merely bounced off the creature and fell burning to the floor, but it broke the ettin’s concentration, making it turn round. Seeing the fire, it growled and backed away slowly. Seeing that it was disturbed, both archers let fly at it simultaneously. It was enough for the creature. Varen’s torch, the burning sack, the keen-eyed men with swords and the bowmen out of its reach decided its course of action. It turned and started bounding back the way it came. Its companion, now isolated, barked ferociously at its onlooking foes, then turned tail and followed closely behind, going at great speed with its loping strides.

  Everyone stood stock still, staring at the curved white backs of the monsters as they disappeared into the distance. Haelward finally turned to Cedric.

  ‘Books!’ said Cedric ruefully. ‘Soaked in the last of the brandy.’

  As he spoke, the wind whipped at the fire in front of him, sending some blackened smoking pages into the air. ‘Where is Morgan?’

  Morgan had disappeared. Haelward sighed ‘I know where he is.’

  Wearily he walked off the path on to the steep pine-clad slopes of the gorge.

  Morgan had already scrambled a good way down, kicking up fountains of snow as he did so. There, lying flat against a tree and soaked in his own dark blood, was Rozgon. Morgan saw immediately that he was not dead – he was expelling ragged white plumes of air – but as he drew nearer he could see how badly wounded he was. The ettin had ripped open his chest, exposing the bone, and veins and arteries were visibly leaking blood on to the snow around him. Morgan knelt down beside him, gently cradling his head. The wounded man weakly opened his bloodshot eyes.

  ‘Come on,’ said Morgan gently. ‘Me and the boys will get you on to the wagon.’

  Rozgon gave out a weak, wheezy laugh. ‘Don’t be more stupid than you look; we are hardly first-year warriors. I am not leaving this spot and you know it.’

  Morgan didn’t know what to say. ‘What can we do for you?’

  Rozgon tried adjusting his position but quickly gave up. ‘Fuck, it hurts! Do me a favour, Morgan – I don’t know how long it will take me to die, but I don’t want the last thing I see to be one of those bastards starting to eat me. Finish it for me now – as a friend.’

  Morgan couldn’t look at him; he looked at the trees to his left and right and swallowed hard. ‘Don’t ask me to do this.’

  Rozgon smiled weakly. ‘It won’t be so bad; I will be with the Gods after all. And I will be with Greta and the girls again.’ He lifted himself on to his elbow, wincing at he did so. ‘Who knows, I may even see Lisbeth and little Erik.’

  Morgan met his gaze this time. ‘If you do, if they are there, say hello from me. Tell them I will be with them again, probably not before too long. Say I always think of them.’

  ‘I will, my friend. Now do it for me, please.’

  Morgan took out his knife; he had sharpened it that very morning.

  ‘Xhenafa bring you to Artorus’s side – there never was a truer warrior.’

  ‘One last thing, leave me here. My body will keep those monsters interested and away from you for a while. It is only flesh; I care not what happens to it.’

  Morgan nodded. All those who followed the Church of Artorus saw the body after death as unimportant; it was nearly always burned. Gripping his knife firmly, he leaned over the man he had fought countless battles with over the last ten years, whom he had always looked up to as he found his own feet as a soldier.

  And then he did what he had to do.

  Haelward joined him a minute later. Tapping Morgan on his shoulder, the two of them turned and made the steep climb back to the path. Behind them the crows were already descending.

  They continued their journey. Nobody spoke and the speed with which they had travelled earlier slowed. The one spare horse they had had fled, leaving them with just two. The worst of the journey was over, though. They didn’t make it out of the pass that night, but now that the path was flanked with trees it was easy enough to gather plenty of dead wood and make a large fire. The snow had fallen here, too, but much less copiously and only one to two inches of it covered the ground. That night they heard the wolves and the braying of flocks of mountain deer
but nothing else.

  The following morning, the mountain path petered out into an upland of pine and spruce. The sun shone fitfully upon the travellers and a bright mountain stream spilled joyfully over rocks as it bounded down the wooded hillside. They followed it until it crashed over a lip of rock, creating a waterfall some twenty feet high. After finding a gentler route down they came to the splash pool where they filled their flasks and stopped to refresh themselves. Ahead was a broad grassy plain, dotted with bushes, low hills and similar streams to the one they were following. To their left they could see a wide dirt track heading west and north – the road to the city of Zerannon; to their right in the far distance was a belt of mist shrouding a low green smudge that stretched out into the endless distance. Nobody needed to be told that that was the Aelvenwood. At least the mountains were behind them now.

  A large press of men stood facing two others. Between them was a large wooden fire. One of the two was standing on a low table which was so rickety that he had to keep moving his feet to keep his balance. His hands were bound behind him and a rope was round his neck, its other end being looped around a solid branch of a great oak tree next to him. The other man stood facing the crowd, the flames of the fire casting dark saturnine shadows over his bald scarred face. His black eyes could have belonged to Keth, god of the underworld, such was their implacable coldness, their lack of mercy. In turn, he held each of the gazes of the men facing him; none of them could stare back for long. Then he spoke, with a voice like gravel sliding into a bottomless cavern.

  ‘All of you know me by now. You know my name, you know I command you, but it appears a couple of things still need to be made clear...

  ‘I expect nothing less than complete loyalty from all of you. When I tell you to do something, you do it; you don’t ask my reasons, you do not question me. This man, Bakker,’ he gestured to the man on his left, ‘failed to understand the consequences of doing such a thing and now faces punishment. If you follow his path of disloyalty, then you will face the same degree of retribution. You fight for me now. Forget that fop Fenchard; all he does is supply the money. You fight for me and you follow my code of honour.’ He stroked his bearded chin. ‘Honour – you may have heard of this as having something to do with knights in polished armour or velvet-wearing daddy’s boys who take to the battlefield brandishing a perfumed handkerchief to banish the smell of guts, shit and fear. Then let me tell you, I have trod on more corpses of these snivelling little nobodies than you have squeezed spots on your baby-soft skin. I see what you all are – farm boys, chancers, craftsmen who make things that nobody wants anymore, and I imagine you all need ... clarification as to exactly what honour actually is.’