The Forgotten War

by Howard Sargent

  Haelward and his companions, however, were staying in the outer city.

  The Spectral Goose was not a waterside inn where the straw on the packed earth floor stank of vomit and urine, and the only sober clientele were the cutpurses and the prostitutes who lured men into dark alleys, to be robbed at knifepoint; where the food was served in semi-darkness so the creatures crawling over the rotting vegetables could not be seen and the ale could not be distinguished from the storage vinegar. Rather, it was somewhere between that and the rarefied heights of the inner city. Halfway down the hill leading to the harbour, in the summer it would be full of merchants and tradesmen fresh from the market, but now in the late autumn it was winding down, the only traders present being ones who had had a poor season and were looking for one last transaction before the winter frosts settled in.

  They had arrived earlier than expected and found the inn almost immediately. Ham was a large genial man who looked useful in a fight and probably had to be, given his profession. Haelward mentioned Morgan and the man smiled, took the coin and gave them three rooms for two months without asking any further questions.

  They toured the town, which, apart from its nice views, was unremarkable (though they left the inner city alone, as most of the city watch seemed to be deployed there), after which they returned to the inn for a meal. It was simple fare – potage with a little meat, hard bread, cheese and apples washed down with ale only slightly watered down.

  ‘Thank you, my dear,’ said Samson, eyeing the comely serving girl.

  ‘No standing on ceremony, let’s tuck in,’ said Haelward.

  They ate in silence for a while, relishing the change from the iron rations they had lived on for the last two days. Then Leon spoke.

  ‘So we just wait here for them to return? It could take weeks. And Artorus not let it be the case but what if they don’t return at all?’

  ‘I see it this way,’ said Haelward, ‘winter is coming, the pass is blocked already – to rejoin the army we would need to go around the mountains, which could take weeks. At least one of us has to stay here until they return, and we have the rooms for two months with an option to extend our stay, so, yes, we wait. If anyone has a pressing reason why they have to leave, just let me know. If Morgan and Cedric do not return, I intend to see out the winter here and return to the army in the spring.’

  ‘From what I remember, though, Baron Felmere intended to fight through the winter; the army may need our help,’ said Leon.

  ‘The army assigned us to this task; we are already following their orders. In the spring the trade caravans start to go back through the pass; I was going to hire myself out as a guard and get back to the army that way, if Morgan no longer needed us.’

  Leon nodded in agreement and continued devouring his potage.

  The following day it rained, a fine driving rain blown in by the sea. It was the market day, though, so they went to take a look; the market, however, was barely a third full, with a dispiriting atmosphere in the wet, so they went to the theatre, which was performing Wharton’s latest play, Finovius, the Mad Duke. They paid a penny and stood in the pit, which was full of raucous drunks, women of questionable virtue and poor souls merely looking for a refuge from the rain. The performance was bawdy and enthusiastic, its gusto more than making up for its lack of finesse. They hissed when Finovius ordered his brother’s death, laughed at Finovius’s madness when he made his bear a seneschal, and cheered at the end when the Duke was finally cornered and executed by being crushed under a large bronze door, something which rather detracted from his moving final soliloquy. Thus heartened and with the light almost gone, they retired to The Spectral Goose for the evening meal.

  They were discussing the play and wondering if they had already seen all the town had to offer.

  ‘Boredom may become a problem here,’ said Leon.

  ‘Well, we could always try taking the waters,’ said Varen. ‘It may well be more expensive than the play, though – about a thousand times more expensive. Where is Samson?’

  ‘Out by the stables rogering the serving girl. I knew she was doomed the moment he first saw her.’

  ‘That might be a bad move. I heard she was one of Ham’s nieces,’ chipped in Haelward.

  Leon laughed. ‘Well, he needs teaching a lesson – as long as we have the coin to smooth things over with Ham if things get nasty.’

  ‘I would rather spend it on something other than paying off disgruntled guardians. The brothel is just down the hill – why can’t he go there?’

  ‘Because the women are already available; all you need is coin. Samson likes the challenge of women who aren’t so easy. That’s why he ends up with so many married ones.’

  Suddenly the door opened, causing a cold draught to billow around the common room. The lanterns flickered. A man covered in a weathered and sodden black cloak came in and strolled over to the bar to speak to the landlord.

  ‘Foul night to be on a journey,’ mumbled Varen into his ale.

  After a minute or two Willem noticed something.

  ‘Master Ham seems to be directing that man towards us.’

  It was true – he was pointing in their general direction. The man in the cloak spotted them and began ambling their way. He was of medium height, quite young with a ruddy red face still wet with the rain.

  ‘Who on earth knows us up here?’ muttered Haelward.

  ‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ said the man briskly. ‘I wonder if I might take up a minute of your time?’

  Varen pulled a chair out for the man and Willem passed him some bread and cheese. The man thanked them and spoke.

  ‘I have an ale coming in a minute and I certainly need it. I have ridden hard from Tanaren City looking for someone. The landlord says you may know of his whereabouts.’

  ‘From Tanaren City?’ said Haelward. ‘I doubt that we are the people you seek; most of us haven’t been there in years.’

  ‘Ah, let me explain. I have been sent by a Professor Dearden, a scholar at St Philig’s University. He is desperate to find a colleague of his, a Professor Cedric, who left for these parts on a business matter.’

  Willem’s eyes lit up. ‘Professor Dearden wants Master Cedric? What on earth for?’

  The man perked up at this. ‘So I am talking to the right people, Artorus knows, I have travelled around asking in more taverns than I ever knew existed. The Professor wants your Master Cedric to go and help out a baroness no less; the details are here in this letter.’

  He handed a letter to Willem who stared at it intently. As he did so, Samson returned with a big smile on his face.

  ‘Nice out?’ said Leon sardonically.

  ‘The fresh air always works for me; you should all try it. I see I am the only one here with a smile on his face.’ Behind him the serving girl came into the room, the lacing on her bodice sadly disarranged.

  ‘This gentleman is enquiring as to whether we know the whereabouts of Professor Cedric,’ said Haelward.

  ‘Does anyone want to see this letter?’ said Willem.

  ‘My reading isn’t so good,’ said Leon. Haelward took the letter from Willem and scanned it quickly. He whistled.

  ‘Cedric has been summoned by nobility,’ he said. ‘One of the Duke Hartfield’s daughters wants to see him.’ He read further down. ‘What in the name of Artorus’s holy boots is she doing in Osperitsan?’

  ‘Where?’ said Samson.

  ‘It is an island out in the west; it looks like she has married someone out there. Why would that be, I wonder?’

  Varen spoke to the messenger. ‘We have bad news, I am afraid. Cedric is engaged on business in a place that is inaccessible to most of us. He could be gone for weeks.’

  ‘Now that is a pity,’ said the messenger. ‘There is no way a message could be sent to him?’

  ‘Not unless you want to visit the Wych folk, my friend.’ Samson smiled at the girl as she set down fresh flagons of ale. She blushed before leaving them.

  ‘I shall h
ave to return to Tanaren then. Professor Ulian will be disappointed. Could I ask you to pass the letter on to Professor Cedric when he arrives?’

  ‘Why Professor Ulian? Why would he be disappointed? The letter is not from him.’ Willem frowned.

  ‘Because the poor man has gone all the way out to Osperitsan to see them. Professor Ulian was hoping that Professor Cedric could go there to help him out. Instead all he has there with him is Cedric’s young assistant.’

  ‘Alys? You mean Alys?’

  ‘Yes, the girl, the one who sketches for him.’

  Willem was all agitation. ‘I have to go out there. Tell Professor Dearden I will go and see them. I have Cedric’s books. I should be able to do something.’

  ‘Wait!’ said Varen. ‘Stop and think, how will you get out there? I know it is your lady and all that, but will you be able to help anyway?’

  ‘Even if I can’t, Professor Ulian can see Cedric’s books; it sounds as though, whatever help this lady needs, the answer will be in them. A lot of them are about Wych magic.’

  ‘He didn’t burn them in the pass?’ asked Samson.

  ‘He only burned the basic reference books – things he had copies of, not the books he considered important.’

  ‘But the journey will take weeks,’ said Varen. ‘A lot of it through bandit country and the Morrathnay Forest.’

  ‘We are in a port,’ said Haelward. ‘If a ship can be found going that way, he could be there in a few days.’

  ‘Then that settles it,’ said Willem. ‘I am going by sea. I will go down to the docks tomorrow, check to see if a ship is heading to ... to ... what is the place called?’

  ‘Osperitsan,’ said Haelward. ‘I stopped there a few times when I was in the marines chasing pirates. Its bleak, but I quite liked it; I can’t remember the Baron’s name, though.’

  ‘No disrespect, Willem,’ said Leon, ‘but you’re not the most savvy person I know. Travelling alone with all that baggage, you are practically asking every low life on the high seas to stick a knife in your belly.’

  ‘You are quite right, Leon,’ said Haelward. ‘And that is why I will be going with him.’ He turned to the messenger. ‘Tell your Professor that Cedric is indisposed at present; his assistant will be going in his stead and Cedric will be informed as soon as he becomes available. If I was you, I would eat up and get a room here; you look shattered.’

  ‘You read me well,’ said the man, ‘I will make my way back in the morning with your reply. Right now I will take my leave and get my head down for the night. I thank all of you for your help and the coin I will pocket on my return.’ He nodded, stood and left them.

  ‘And I was just getting settled here, and I have instantly gone back on my word that I would stay here until Morgan arrived,’ said Haelward with a smile. ‘Willem and I will be up at dawn, then, looking for a ship. I can only ask the three of you to let Cedric know where we are when he arrives here.’

  ‘I will stay,’ said Varen. ‘Samson and Leon, if you wish to leave or go elsewhere, you can do so. I have got my chair in the corner and am happily set for the next few weeks.

  ‘No chance,’ said Leon, ‘As you say Haelward, the army is asking us to do this job and we will do just that, until our orders change. Besides, Samson seems to have a ready-made supply of willing barmaids here and I would hate to make my cousin unhappy.’

  ‘Do you think just the two of you going is enough?’ said Samson.

  ‘Oh, I am sure it will be,’ said Haelward, smiling. ‘It is a cushy job for me, keeping Willem out of trouble for a few days. He is the one having to do all the work. He may not have thought about it, but he is going to have to provide answers for a member of one of the country’s foremost families. I would hate to get something wrong; it would probably mean six months in the Duke’s dungeons licking moisture off the walls.’

  ‘Lawks!’ muttered Willem.

  ‘Ignore him!’ said Varen with a grin. ‘He is teasing you. Come on, Willem, down your ale – who knows when you will get the chance of another?’

  Willem did so, letting the ale swim round his head. He was regretting his brave words already.

  33

  The black-clad assassin stepped forward so Aganosticlan could see her properly. Her armour fitted her closely; it was obvious there was not an ounce of fat on her. It looked strange – it was metallic, but dull in colour and made no noise as she moved. Her pauldrons, elbow guards, vambraces and gauntlets were single pieces, the latter two sporting small but cruel outward-facing spikes. She wore a small skirt of studded black leather strips over her mail leggings and he noticed her leg guards, like the pauldrons, carried similar spikes, a nasty surprise for anyone she kicked. She was covered in knives; he counted four at her belt including two thin, evil-looking stilettos as well as others strapped to her thighs and her boots. She bore no insignia, until he saw her face.

  In another existence he would have called her beautiful, ash blonde, pale-skinned with large sensitive deep-blue eyes; however, her hair was cropped short and gathered behind her head in a tight ponytail only a few inches long, her skin was as white as frost in a graveyard and any emotion in her eyes was hidden behind a veneer of sheer contempt and cruelty. He noticed a small tattoo, an ‘S’ shape, high on her right cheek.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ she said in a voice as cold and brittle as hoarfrost.

  The King gave her a slight nod. ‘Even here we have all heard of the reputation of the Strekha; I trust it is not a baseless one. ‘

  Her expression changed slightly. She raised her thin eyebrow; she almost looked amused. He noted her thin, blood-red lips and it was as if a thin black glaze covered each eye. It was most perplexing.

  ‘Your opinion of our reputation is immaterial,’ she said. ‘The Emperor has tasked me to perform two missions for you. You give me those missions. I perform them. Then I return to the Emperor’s side and leave your dull, muddy little country behind for ever. I am sure we will both be a lot happier when that happens.’

  Hem-Khozar broke in. ‘As you can see, Your Majesty, the Strekha are not well versed in the art of diplomacy. They are highly educated in history, geography, the arts and sciences, as well as many other things, but to do their job they are required to be feared, not loved.’

  Aganosticlan stood and faced her. She was taller than he; she could only have been a couple of inches short of six foot.

  ‘But I am not sure I do fear her, Hem-Khozar. All I see is a tall but pretty girl in fancy armour. I could put one of my serving girls in the same garb; she would look impressive but would still be the same little bed-warmer under it all.’

  Hem-Khozar stood, nervously watching the girl’s reaction. To his relief she did nothing.

  ‘Do you wish for me to be your little bed-warmer?’ The contempt she regarded him with when she first entered the throne room was replaced with something else. Amused contempt.

  ‘Why not?,’ said the King ‘Everyone knows the Strekha are the Emperor’s second harem, for when he requires a ... more challenging encounter.’

  ‘I do not deny it.’ she said, ‘If the Emperor had told me to perform that service for you, then I would do it.’ She grinned wickedly, looking down at this man who she obviously regarded as little more than something that might be found at the bottom of a pond. ‘But he hasn’t, so you are to remain forever disappointed. Let me do the other thing that I do best and content yourself with that.’

  The two of them locked each other in a gaze, brown eyes against hellish blue. The King broke away quickly enough. He walked slowly to his display of arms.

  ‘I thought all Kozeans were as dark-skinned as Hem-Khozar,’ he said. ‘Not as pale as marble, and your name, Syalin, is almost Chiran.’ With his back to his two visitors, he removed a bejewelled throwing knife from his display, by the by noting how beautifully balanced it was.

  ‘Ah you have forgotten,’ said Hem-Khozar unctuously, ‘when I introduced her I mentioned she hails from the foothills of the Gnekun Mountai
ns, from Mount Kzugun itself. The people there are naturally pale. You forget Koze is an empire incorporating a thousand different peoples – the Empire of a multitude of cultures, languages and skin colours. Syalin is a Norvakkor; her peoples are divided equally between ourselves and Chira, hence the confusion in names.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said the King. ‘I remember now, but aren’t the Norvakkor counted as one of your most rebellious peoples?’

  ‘I was recruited aged ten,’ said Syalin. ‘My life before this is forgotten to me; I have no memory of whether my people were loyal or not.’

  ‘And how old are you now?’ Aganosticlan ran the knife against his thumb. It drew blood.

  ‘My age is only counted from my recruitment. I am fifteen.’

  ‘And how many have you killed?’

  ‘I do not have the remotest idea. Everyone whom the Emperor has required me to kill has died.’

  ‘And has anyone ever got close to killing you?’

  ‘As a Strekha? Never.’

  ‘Perhaps that might change.’ With a swift movement, and he prided himself on his speed and dexterity, the King spun round and hurled the knife directly at Syalin’s head.

  With an action faster than the eye could see, faster than a cat pouncing on a mouse, faster than the wing beats of the iridescent blue marsh hummingbird, she brought both hands up in front of her. The knife was halted between her palms, its point not six inches from her face. She looked bored.

  ‘Do you want me to throw it back to you?’

  Aganosticlan breathed slowly, his eyes wide with astonishment. Slowly a wolfish grin spread over his face.

  ‘It is true about you; nothing could have stopped that blade, nothing. How are you that fast?’

  ‘A Strekha’s abilities are enhanced with ... substances,’ said Hem-Khozar. ‘Chief among them is blackroot, which we find in our deep jungles and which is also found in the marshes just to the south of here.’