The Forgotten War

by Howard Sargent

  ‘Wulf, Wulf, get up! We are being attacked, we need to get away, now!’ was what she was going to say, in a voice as loud as she could dare.

  But the words never came; they stuck in her throat and remained there.

  On the sheet covering her husband was a broad, circular dark stain. She didn’t bother lowering the lantern to see exactly what it was. She already knew. A heartfelt sob escaped her lips. She set down the lantern, knelt on the bed and put her face next to his, cupping his head with her right hand. No breathing. His skin barely warm, her hot tears fell freely on to his face as any defiance, or even any sense of self-preservation, left her. He was her man and she wanted nothing more than to stay with him, whatever the cost.

  ‘I am so sorry, my darling, so sorry. Forgive me for not coming to you first. I would have given my life for yours, I swear it.’ She ran her fingers through his wiry hair, her crying continuing unabated.

  ‘He was like this when I found him. I don’t know who did this or why,’ said a deep voice from the room’s shadows.

  She turned her head quickly; such was her excitement at seeing her husband she had given no regard to the rest of the room. A dark figure loomed towards the foot of the bed, a big man – she recognised both his shape and his voice.

  ‘Einar!’ she gasped in a dry voice. ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘Not long,’ he said. ‘I went and hid when I heard you outside; I did not know if you were friend or foe.’

  ‘By the Gods, what has happened here? Who has done all of this? Who...’ Her voice trailed off into a husky sob.

  ‘There has been a rebellion, led by Baron Vorfgan. A lot of people felt your husband was getting too close to Tanaren, handing our part of the world over to the Grand Duke on a plate. You, your connections and now your child were seen as a blow against the old ways, the ways we have always done things here. Vorfgan has been secretly dropping men off here at the dead of night for a while; they have been living off the land waiting for his signal. He has been harbouring some of the Kudreyan pirate fleet, and they were among the attackers, too.’

  She stiffened a little. There was something in his tone, a lack of empathy perhaps, a lack of emotion that disturbed her a little.

  ‘Farnerun is dead,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Yes, and Thudig, and Tragsmann.’

  She had to ask – it was a question that had been scratching at her mind for a while – present circumstances though rendered it especially pertinent. ‘Where were you when this happened, and how did you know it was Vorfgan’s ship in the harbour the other day? It was only flying a yellow flag, not his banner of the osprey?’

  ‘Baron Einar may be too emotional to answer you,’ said a mellifluous voice behind her. ‘The truth is, he recently saw sense and realised that the future of our land must be as New Kibil and not as the Grand Duke’s puppet state, which was what, alas, your husband seemed to think.’ Vorfgan strolled into the room with several men-at-arms behind him, blood freely spattered their tunics.

  She climbed off the bed and faced up to him. Anger was strong in her now, replacing her grief. How dare this minor little nonentity get away with these terrible crimes. ‘So you killed my husband then.’

  ‘No,’ Vorfgan replied, ‘Einar would not permit it and I needed his help – lands and harbour to hide my men. You were both to be ransomed and exiled. Personally I would have killed him without thinking twice about it, but the big man there is the softest kind of traitor you could possibly find.’

  She swallowed hard and wiped her drying tears away. Turning from Vorfgan, she walked up to Einar and struck him hard on his face. She had not the strength to really hurt him but he flinched as though she had hit him with a flaming brand.

  ‘You were losing these lands, weren’t you? Wulf had changed his will, leaving me and my child in control of these lands including some originally promised to you. New Kibil indeed! What rubbish! You murdered your friend for a stretch of rock and bracken.’ She spat in his face. ‘Well, are you going to kill me now, big man? Are you brave enough to cut my throat?’ She tilted her head upwards, offering him her soft white neck.

  Einar seemed choked, haunted. ‘I did not want him dead’ was all he could say.

  She did not stop her attack. ‘I really wish I could be there to watch, when you burn on the furnace – for burn you surely will.’ She turned away from him and came towards Vorfgan. ‘As for you, you little princeling, you forget the fleet at Thakholm, and my father’s ship in the harbour.’

  ‘I forget nothing,’ he said disarmingly, for his manner was that of a man trying to charm a lady at a garden party. ‘Everything is taken care of. The Kudreyans will be moving against the fleet shortly. They are experienced seafarers and will be a match for the Tanaren fops. If they win, then your ransom will pay for them; if they lose, then they will buy us time to prepare our defences here – you will find no one gives a shit about dead Kudreyans in this part of the world. What’s more we can use your ransom for other things.’

  ‘And the Grand Duke? You would defy him?’

  Vorfgan continued to smile. ‘I think you will find the Grand Duke rather has his hands full. For us the timing couldn’t be better. The eastern rebellion emboldened us; we saw our chance and grasped it. His precious country is falling apart; he is running out of both money and men. I think you will find that, whatever the outcome in the east, he will be happy to cede land to us in return for peace. You are now living in the palace and heart of New Kibil, my dear. Einar can have the island and I will have Vihag and the other territories on the mainland that join us. Our hand, my girl, is a lot stronger than you have imagined.’

  For a second she did not answer, weighing his words carefully in her mind. What did he mean, that her father’s vessel was ‘taken care of’?

  ‘I cannot believe all the barons have joined you,’ she said, though conviction appeared to be leaving her.

  ‘The ones that mattered are all dead. A couple of the others that may be of use to us like Rosk and Fyrdag are locked in a storeroom, where Einar will shortly have a chat with them. Rosk can be intimidated and Fyrdag can be bought off with the promise of more land. Thudig died because, although he disliked you, he disliked me even more and Einar wanted the island for himself. Tragsmann died because he hated me and saw me as a threat and Farnerun died because he was a Wulfthram loyalist and would never be turned.’

  ‘And Skellar? What of Skellar and Thakholm?’

  ‘Oh what of him? You have a sweet spot for our Jon, haven’t you? Be comforted that he is not with us, but if we crush their fleet we will come for him. I have given him a good thrashing once and look forward to doing it again.’

  She shook her head. ‘Do you realise how much fighting you will have to do to secure your position? Wulf’s men will never give in to you, nor Farnerun’s, nor many other mainland barons. Do you really have enough allies for this?’

  For the first time Vorfgan looked serious. ‘Nothing of lasting importance can be achieved without struggle. We have the pirates with us for a change and promise of secret aid from Kibil itself. Your husband’s men are being driven into the hills. They can harass us from there, but this is winter and food and shelter will be difficult for them to find. Once people see that we are not going away, attitudes will change, especially if we control food and supplies.’

  She gave a short, sharp laugh. ‘So at last we have it. You are gambling. A colossal gamble, indeed. Once the Grand Duke has pacified the east, it will be your turn. I have met him; he does not brook disloyalty.’

  ‘And for exactly how long will he be Grand Duke? I have heard tales of dissension in Tanaren’s own heartlands. With rebellion in east and west how long before whispers in dark corners become deeds? I have even heard your family mentioned as a possible replacement.’

  ‘How little you know of us!’ she sneered. ‘Hartfields are not traitors; not everyone thinks as you do.’

  His smile had returned. ‘We shall see – power and the pro
mise of it can make even the most steadfast heart quail.’

  She kept up her appearance of defiance, although she suddenly felt spent and tired.

  ‘What will you do with me now?’

  Vorfgan’s smile took on a more lascivious turn. He reached out and cupped her chin firmly. ‘I know what I would like to do with you, child or no. You can thank Einar for the fact that that you are not bent over this bed receiving my attentions now. But Einar will not be here all the time. I may have many opportunities with you before you get too fat and repulsive to be interesting’

  Einar stepped forward, his voice regaining its usual firmness.

  ‘Cut that out, Vorfgan. Now. She is not to be touched; I will gut you myself if you lay a finger on her.’

  Vorfgan glanced at Einar for a second. And only for a second.

  ‘As I said, for now you are to be locked in your room, while we pacify the locals and drive off Wulfthram’s men. You may stay there even longer, once we send out the ransom demand.’ He turned to the men behind him. ‘Two of you, take her to her room down the corridor and lock her in. Do not open the door on any account; if you do, I will hang you with the prisoners. Einar, go and speak to Rosk and Fyrdag. I will be out front finishing off the resistance.’ He turned to leave.

  ‘You are a lizard,’ Ceriana said. ‘You know that, don’t you?’

  He smiled at her, a dazzling smile. ‘But one with teeth, my dear. See you later... Oh and’ – he touched her dress, at the top of her legs under her navel – ‘keep it warm for me.’

  With that he was gone, with all his men bar two.

  Einar came towards her, his mouth open to speak.

  ‘I want to hear nothing from you,’ she stormed. ‘If you have any decency left, I would ask you to ensure that my husband is sent to the Gods correctly. I would like to know that will happen even if I cannot witness it for myself.’

  Without waiting for a reply, but with one last, slight look at her poor husband, she left the room, flanked by a guard at each shoulder.

  She was alone at last. The door to her chambers was locked with the two guards standing outside. She felt utterly, utterly helpless. For all her defiance in front of Vorfgan, much of what he said was uncomfortably true. She was at his mercy; he could do what he wished with her. She saw her husband’s face in her mind, lifeless on the bed, denied even a warrior’s death or any chance to defend himself. All of her emotions, pent up since seeing Vorfgan and Einar talking glibly over her husband’s corpse, now started to empty out of her. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she put her head in her hands and started to shake uncontrollably, with her tears following shortly afterwards.

  She did not know how long she stayed like that, crying softly in the dark, but it was still the dead of night outside when she stopped. She stood and bathed her swollen face with icy-cold water out of the jug on her bedside cabinet. That done, she lay back on the bed; she might as well stay there; according to Vorfgan, her private rooms would be her only surroundings for quite a while to come.

  She looked at the icon of Elissa on the corner table, the one she prayed to every night. Not this night, of course; she had been too tired when she retired earlier and had no opportunity to do so since. Until now, of course. Strangely, though, she felt no inclination to – after what had happened to her husband was there any point? Were they really watching out for her, as Father Sidden would say? She had always prayed when required, obeyed the many church rituals, honoured the days of the saints and so forth, and was this how she was to be rewarded? The designs of the Gods may be obtuse and unreadable but how was killing her husband and having her imprisoned supposed to guide her on the path of spiritual purification? How much was she supposed to endure and why exactly? Was her faith being tested? And what of her husband, not, it was true, an overly religious man, but did the Gods really put him on this earth just to kill him off in order to give her a trial of faith? The very idea seemed absurd. Part of her wanted to quiz an Artoran priest over the question, but part of her too wanted to grab the small, beautifully painted icon and throw it against the wall, smashing it to smithereens.

  She turned on her side, bringing her knees up to her chin and started to drift. All her thoughts were meandering, miserable and pointless. Yet again, she was a nobody, her actions dictated by others. What status did she truly have when her fate seemed so desperately predetermined?

  Then, fast as quicksilver, she rolled over and sat bolt upright on the bed. There were voices in the corridor. Several male voices and they seemed to be at odds with each other. Then the voices stopped and the sounds of a struggle of some sort began. The door slammed as a body appeared to be pushed forcibly against it. She heard the ring of steel against steel and a brief, agonised strangulated cry followed by the sound of a heavy object falling on to the stone floor.

  She pulled her knife out of her boot. What if Vorfgan had gone back on his word and decided to kill her, after all? She moved swiftly and crouched behind the bed, blowing out the candles as she did so. If their eyes had to adjust to the dark, then it might just give her a second to do something, though what that something was she did not have the first idea.

  There it was – the sound of a key being fitted into the lock. It was an awkward lock; the key needed to be fiddled with a little before it engaged the lock properly. While she waited she smacked her lips. Her mouth was so dry.

  The door creaked open. She crouched ready to spring at the first man and drive her knife into his throat. So what if the others killed her? At least she would get one of them.

  A shadowy figure walked cautiously into the room. Ceriana readied herself, putting all her weight on the balls of her feet. Another figure followed, then another. This third figure, though, she recognised; it was a woman for a start. And then she spoke, causing relief to pour through Ceriana’s veins like a flood.

  ‘My Lady, are you here?’

  ‘Ebba!’ Ceriana replied. ‘You are alive.’

  Ebba opened the hood on the lantern she carried. Ceriana saw that the first man was Seneschal Bruan and the second was none other than Derkss, who had accompanied her to Oxhagen. Two other sturdy fellows followed, both in Wulfthram’s colours. Behind them in the corridor lay the bodies of the guards, blood seeping out of them to soak the stony floor.

  ‘Yes, I am, my Lady, but many others are not. They even attacked a lot of the servants as they tried to flee. Vorfgan’s men are loose in the town, fighting from street to street. The cobbles there and in the courtyard are sticky with blood.’

  ‘My husband is dead,’ Ceriana said bluntly.

  ‘I know, my Lady,’ said Bruan. ‘Word has spread like wildfire. We need to get you away from here, before Vorfgan’s men return.’

  ‘But whither shall I go? Am I to winter in the country?’

  ‘No, my Lady’ said Ebba. ‘My man Gereth – you may have forgotten but he is a fisherman and has a boat in the harbour – if we can get you to him, then maybe we can leave the island. He will take you wherever you wish to go, even Tanaren City if that is your will.’

  ‘Father has his warship there; surely it would be a better idea to get word to him?’ Ceriana asked plaintively.

  Bruan looked guarded. ‘We have tried, my Lady, but I fear he may be under attack; we have had no reply as yet anyway. Hopefully you are right and we can call on his aid, but if not, then Ebba is the one to listen to here.’

  ‘I hope you are wrong,’ the girl replied. ‘But how shall we get to the harbour to begin with?’

  Ebba nodded dismissively. ‘Tsk, you noble lords and ladies know nothing at all.’

  Bruan cut in. ‘Ebba is right. Fortunately that applies to Vorfgan, too. There is a service exit in the servants’ quarters that leads to a covered side gate and to Cowper’s Path, an old country lane leading to the harbour. Last time we looked there were no guards there but that could change in a trice. Ladies, with all due respect, this is not the time for talk. We need to move fast.’

  ‘Let me get a couple
of things first,’ Ceriana said.

  ‘Quickly, my Lady; we must not tarry here.’

  It took her less than a minute to shove her jewellery, religious icons and other possessions she thought essential into a shoulder bag as everyone watched her expectantly. Once finished she looked at Ebba’s eager face.

  ‘I am done. Let us go.’

  With Bruan in the lead they half walked, half ran, down the corridor to the servants’ quarters, a place Ceriana had never been. They went through an open arched entrance and down a spiral flight of stairs that clattered loudly as heavy studded boots trod on them. Fortunately, Vorfgan’s men seemed to be elsewhere and the servants themselves all seemed to have fled in terror. The place was empty.

  The servants’ quarters themselves were actually underneath the manor house in a dry cellar. There were alcoves concealed by sheets, hiding stone platforms covered with bedding; dark unlit entrances leading to storerooms and the kitchens, whose smells of fresh herbs and hard cheeses made Ceriana feel hungry again; dried clean linen folded neatly on tables; pots and enormous storage jars; cupboards and wardrobes with not an iota of space left in them, and not a speck of dust to be found anywhere, such was the attention to detail practised by those in charge down here. There was very little light, just candles in strategic alcoves, and on more on one occasion a soldier had to stifle an uncouth word as they blundered into a table or stumbled over a bucket in their haste.

  Then Bruan stopped. ‘Up here!’ he said. He then vanished into an exit that was little more than a dark slit in the wall. It was a narrow stairway indeed; there was barely enough room for Ceriana’s narrow shoulders, let alone the burlier men that accompanied her. Fortunately, though, it wasn’t long before they emerged on to a landing where there was space enough for them all to fit comfortably. A gate and wooden doorway faced them.

  ‘I will chance a quick look outside,’ Bruan said. He was well past middle age but he carried his blade like a man twenty years younger and Ceriana had heard from other guards that he knew exactly how to use it. He opened the gate – the lock had already been forced on it – then slowly poked his head outside the door.