‘Go on.’
‘The siege engines are completed. I move on Felmere taking the Wych folk with me. The reinforcements then move into Tetha Vinoyen unmolested.’
‘But you will be attacked, won’t you?’
‘That is the idea. I take all our crossbows with me – the Wych folk are wary of them – and shelter behind the siege engines. We will move slowly but they will find it very difficult to inflict casualties on us, not without taking risks themselves. It will be an interesting duel and one I am confident of winning.’
Fenchard set his goblet back down on the table. ‘When these men arrive we will have close to eight thousand men, more than the Grand Duke, will we not?’
‘Indeed. So you see the plan now.’
‘Go over it for me.’
‘It is simple. We have not enough men to win a siege but enough for containment. We keep Felmere, and its satellite Shayer Ridge, locked down till spring. The Grand Duke moves on us. We choose the time and place of the battle and put him to flight, maybe even taking Athkaril in the process. Then, with Terze, their general, we turn our attention to Felmere itself. By doing this we are preventing attacks in our rear while we defeat one foe at a time.’
‘And the Wych folk?’
‘...Cannot cross the Vinoyen. We send Leontius packing, then we will have more than enough numbers to deal with them. With Felmere taken, they will disappear anyway.’
Fenchard looked directly at Trask, who coolly met his gaze. ‘You talk a good plan, Trask, but it seems to me that the execution often leaves something to be desired.’
‘Did it at Wolf Plain?’
‘Wolf Plain was a battle; I am talking more of administering my lands and dealing with the threats to it.’
‘Then I humbly will leave administrative matters to you. You seem to have a gift when it comes to writing letters.’
Fenchard stood and came to stand toe to toe to Trask. He was volatile at the best of times, and drink did little more than exacerbate his bad humour. He met Trask’s steady gaze with a menacing glare. ‘I am your king. Sarcasm ill behoves a courtier.’
Trask’s voice was deeper than ever. ‘I am no courtier. Your money I still keep unspent. If you wish, I shall return it to you and walk out of here. I am sure the new barons you have appointed can do the jobs you wish of them.’ They were place men, friends of Fenchard’s or relatives of nobility to whom he owed favours. Aside from bowing and fawning to their king, none of them even knew the right end of a horse to sit on.
‘You are not deserting me now. We have an arrangement.’
Trask said nothing but returned to his chair. A second or two later Fenchard did likewise.
‘Perhaps I need to broaden my circle of advisors, Trask. Tonight my new barons will all meet together formally for the first time. Here. I will seek their opinions on the matters we have discussed and, if I prefer their musings to yours, then I will order you to do their bidding instead. You are my general, Trask, no more than that, and in my kingdom no one is indispensable.’
Trask gave a low, affected bow. ‘As you are King, I will heed your undoubted words of wisdom.’
Fenchard glared at him. ‘Leave me.’
Trask obeyed with the thinnest smile imaginable. After years of dealings with nobility, this one was only remarkable in his outstanding mediocrity. Let him obsess about the Grand Duke. For Trask, the Protector Baron was a much more interesting proposition. Perhaps it was time to talk.
‘My noble lords,’ said Fenchard, raising his goblet to the dozen or so men sitting at the high table, gravy running down their chins and meat juices staining their expensive velvet surcoats. ‘I officially welcome you to Axmian. As you can see, its walls are as strong as its hearths are damnably freezing; still, it is as good a place as any to plan our strategies for the future and the establishment of our new kingdom of West Arshuma. It is good to see you all here, my twelve new barons, and now, since we have all eaten, I would like to hear any opinions you might have. We have six thousand men, including Arshumans and mercenaries at our disposal, with two thousand more waiting to join us at Grest. How best do you think they should be deployed?’
There was an awkward pause, the sound of eating knives being set down and the slurping of goblets being drained. Finally, the newly appointed Baron Mervon of Trevnir, a fair-haired man in his thirties with a straggling beard and scarlet misshapen nose, cleared his throat.
‘Well, my King, there is a matter that has been bothering a few of us...’
Fenchard was encouraged. ‘There is? Then speak of it; I want nothing kept from me here.’
‘As you wish, Your Majesty. It is just that there is a deal of concern about the name West Arshuma; it sounds as though we are merely a client kingdom of Aganosticlan’s, who is of course a client king himself. Perhaps we could come up with a new name, more in line with our natural predilections towards Tanaren.’
‘A new name?’ said Fenchard blankly.
‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ another Baron, Clem of Thurstik, joined in. ‘Maybe the kingdom of Vinoyen, or even Haslantia, after your own baronial seat. Both are names peasants may more readily accept.’
‘I have never been concerned with peasants accepting anything before,’ Fenchard replied. ‘Why should I now?’
‘You need a name that people will support. If your farmers are happy and believe in your country, then they will work harder,’ Clem continued.
‘I find a whip, or the threat of a sliced ear or nose, works well enough.’ Fenchard said.
‘No, Your Majesty, Clem is right,’ another Baron, Eldin of Mountain Reach, who happened also to be Fenchard’s second cousin, chimed in. ‘A new name would serve us far better. How about the Kingdom of the Rivers?’
‘No, no,’ one of the other barons interposed. ‘You could be talking about anywhere. We need something to give the kingdom an identity.’
Fenchard sat back in his chair and let the conversation play out. After fifteen minutes no one could agree on any of the suggested names, so he finally broke his silence.
‘I will discuss the names you have put forward when I next see Aganosticlan after the winter is over. Now let us move on. Any other issues to discuss?’
‘Yes, Your Majesty.’ Baron Merrin of Lesk spoke next. ‘I believe your new kingdom needs to set down some roots, so it can flourish both now and into the future. What I am suggesting is a marriage and the production of legitimate heirs. I am aware Your Majesty has a couple of bastards he could name as successors, but surely he must see the advantage of having heirs blessed by the Gods.’
‘And how is your sister?’ Fenchard asked. ‘Just the right age for a marriage, is she not?’
Merrin gave a modest laugh. ‘I was not going to mention her, but seeing as how Your Majesty remembers her so easily, we would of course be humbled if she could be considered as a possible future wife.’
‘She has a face like a horse!’ Fenchard said. ‘And the manners. But yes, she may still make a good match. I will consider her along with the other candidates and again I will give you an answer in the spring. A king should be married, should he not?’
There was much nodding and agreement in the room. Seeing everyone in such a good mood Fenchard called out, ‘Trask!’
From the shadows against the wall Trask came forth to stand at Fenchard’s shoulder.
‘Give the barons our proposed strategy for the war; see if they have any objections.’
Trask went over his plan again, cautiously, deliberately. Almost too deliberately, for he over-enunciated his words almost as if he were speaking to a group of simpletons unable to grasp the concept of war.
Finally he finished. Fenchard leaned forward in his chair, while Trask went and stood behind him. ‘Well, gentleman, are you happy with this plan?’
Baron Mervon pursed his lips. ‘I don’t quite understand this obsession with Felmere. They sit behind their walls doing nothing and their so-called baron is a peasant, one of Lukas’s decisions more insp
ired by the spirits’ – he mimed putting a goblet to his mouth –‘than by the Gods.’ This was well received – a hubbub of laughter and many nodding heads followed his comments.
‘We have to assume,’ said Trask wearily, ‘that the Grand Duke and Felmere are able to communicate. We cannot watch all of our lands constantly and must assume that, for every messenger we catch, another gets through. Therefore we have to be prepared for a pincer attack, maybe on Tetha Vinoyen, maybe even on here. My plan is to pre-empt that by marching on Felmere first. It is a risk. Once the men are in place and the siege engines deployed, we must be wary of both a sortie from the town and an attack from the Wych folk, so reinforcements will have to be sent up sharpish. But with Felmere contained it is only the Grand Duke we need to watch from then on, and so far we have always been a step ahead of him.’
He watched the barons both nod and shake their heads. Then Baron Clem spoke. ‘Do you really think a peasant is capable of leading an army?’
Trask nodded. ‘I do.’
‘I am not so sure,’ said Fenchard. ‘I met him once and he arrogantly insulted me, so he has little respect for his betters and even less sense as far as I can see. Besides, we have someone on the inside ready to take care of him, do we not?’
‘We do,’ nodded Trask, ‘but I have been hearing mixed rumours – some of them say this person on the inside failed in their task. That is another thing I hope to find out by marching on them.’
‘Failed?’ Fenchard growled.
‘It is but a rumour.’
Baron Merrin decided to speak. ‘We cannot determine our conduct in this war on baseless rumour! If this protector baron is due to be taken care of, then let us assume he will be – unless we get definite confirmation otherwise. It is also unwise to have our general traipsing through the snow when Leontius is within spitting distance! I say, leave Felmere hang! Keep our men here to fight off the Grand Duke. Defeat him and Felmere will come round eventually. What say you all to this!’
The barons started hammering their goblets on to the table and shouting their approval, a raucous, drink-fuelled approval. Fenchard finally spoke above the tumult. ‘All those that approve of Merrin’s plan say aye!’
‘Aye!’ the barons roared as one. ‘Aye! Aye!’
‘You see, Trask,’ Fenchard said smugly. ‘We have a new strategy! You are to stay here! Take it as a compliment, as you are too valuable to lose!’ He laughed at this, revelling in his tactical victory over his oh-so-sure military advisor.
‘There are other capable generals; we have one or two in this room helping to guard you all.’ Trask did not sound perturbed.
‘Really?’ Fenchard giggled. ‘This room is too dark. Get them to step forward so that I may see them.’
Trask snapped his fingers and three cloaked and mailed men stepped forward followed by their personal retinues, until some fifteen men surrounded the baronial meeting table. Fenchard scanned them, his eyes alighting on one in particular – a fair-haired fellow, vaguely familiar.
‘You man!’ Fenchard pointed at him. ‘Your name!’
The man replied calmly. ‘I am General Cannefar, my Lord.’
Fenchard looked thoughtful. ‘Cannefar, Cannefar ... the name is known to me.’ He was silent for a moment, trying to recall something to mind. Then it came. ‘Artorus’s balls! I sent you north! North to attack the mountain towns. Why are you here, you impertinent little rat? Did you ever hear of orders?’ His voice was like thunder.
‘I was recalled, my Lord.’ Cannefar said quietly. The other barons were silent now. Something was wrong here, maybe very wrong; none of them had been expecting such an altercation at this meeting, just a wild celebration of their new-founded kingdom.
‘Who recalled you?’ Fenchard hissed.
‘I did,’ said Trask. ‘I have sent another man north. Cannefar can command Axmian while I am away.’
‘But you are not going away!’ Fenchard’s voice was rising again. ‘You are staying here as I command! Trask, you provoke me daily but disobeying my orders, recalling this man without my authority is something I will not tolerate! I will brook your surly disrespect no longer! I am King, do you hear me? I am King! I am K...’
As Fenchard was ranting, Trask was standing directly behind him. As Fenchard’s voice became a shrill crescendo, Trask simply leaned forward, grasped the King’s lower jaw in his colossal left hand and the top of his head with his right, and twisted. Very hard and very fast. Fenchard’s head was turned almost a full one hundred and eighty degrees, a motion accompanied by a sickening crunching of his vertebrae. For a second Trask saw the shock in the man’s eyes as he briefly faced the same direction as his spine. Then Trask released him to slump forward on to the table, his face at a bizarre angle to the rest of his body. The thin silver crown Fenchard had taken to wearing rolled away from him, over the table, before clattering on to the stone floor. None of the barons dared move to pick it up. Fenchard’s body twitched and jerked at its sudden, violent demise, then it lay still.
From behind the barons came the sound of over a dozen slickly oiled swords being pulled from their scabbards. Trask surveyed the noblemen’s pale, stunned faces.
‘No doubt you are all as glad not to be hearing that whiny little voice as I am. So ends the reign of King Fenchard I. Long may the chroniclers struggle to remember it. Now that little matter is sorted perhaps we can get down to business.’
Merrin slammed his fist on to the table. ‘How dare you! You little shit, you will hang for this! I only have to snap my fingers and fifty men will be here to do my bidding!’
‘Go ahead!’ Trask said coolly. ‘Snap away!’
Merrin stood and stepped away from his chair, making for the doorway. ‘Captain Clavel!’ he called. ‘To me! To me!’
Trask nodded to Cannefar, who came towards Merrin and, without breaking stride, ran him through with his sword. As Merrin fell to his knees, coughing out blood, Cannefar swung a more violent blow, striking the man’s head clean from his body. The arterial spray soaked into the finest Tarindian silk rug on which the body lay.
‘He was wasting his breath,’ Trask continued. ‘Clavel is with us and has been for a long time. As are nearly all your men, as it so happens. Those that are not are being dealt with as we speak. And so, gentlemen, now that I have your attention, allow me to explain your options to you. I have the army; you have your names and reputations. I will allow you to keep them; you can even choose a new king from among your number if you so desire. I would recommend Mervon, if you were to ask me. The plan and the war, however, is now exclusively my province. I march for Felmere very soon and Cannefar takes charge here. Your jobs are to keep your people fed and happy and to raise the levies I tell you. You and your new king will answer to me and me alone. Have I made myself clear?’
Baron Clem swallowed hard. ‘And if we refuse?’
‘You will come to Felmere with me. When the first volley of the catapults strikes the walls of that city it will include you, for I shall use you in lieu of shot. If you do not fit the catapults properly, I shall cut off the extraneous pieces of your body until you do. Understand?’
The barons nodded, though their demeanour was in direct contrast to that they had been displaying not ten minutes before.
‘Good,’ said Trask. ‘Then perhaps we can establish a new country in a proper and fitting manner. Once the Grand Duke is dealt with, the title of Baron will cease to exist. I have dealt with too many useless ones over the years. As for other changes, I will keep you abreast of those at the right time. All those with me say aye!’
‘Aye!’ said the barons, their voices nervous and quiet.
‘Pathetic. Say it louder.’
‘Aye!’
‘Louder!’
‘Aye!’
Finally Trask had them saying it with so much gusto that their voices floated out of the high tower, over the dark waters of the river, and into the surrounding trees, where briefly, the crows thought they had a new rival. For what seeme
d to be the one hundredth day in a row Grand Duke Leontius was woken in his tent by the sound of chopping wood. His tent, a colossal pavilion flying a dozen proud pennants of blue and white, may have dominated those that clustered around it but was no warmer than the smallest of them. In this winter the braziers generated no heat unless one was standing almost upon them and, despite his bed being covered in thick furs, Leontius could not remember the last time he had felt his toes. What a miserable part of his country this was.
Dressed in his polished armour inlaid with his colours of blue and white in mother-of-pearl, and with his thick blue winter cloak fastened over his shoulders, he strode from his private quarters into the main part of the tent. There, at a long central table, sat his two barons, Duneck and Richney, as well as a couple of his generals. A servant pulled back a chair for him, while. as soon as had made himself comfortable, another brought him some food and wine.
Leontius’s spirits were low. Little had gone right since his arrival here. The hill of Athkaril was barely half a mile to the north and the open sore of the refugee village nestled just to the north of that, and it was this that seemed to be occupying his thoughts most of the time.
‘How many today?’ He asked the question as though he did not wish to hear the answer.
‘Nine so far, my Lord, including four children. We are guessing most of the others were too drunk to notice they had frozen to death.’ Cooper, a veteran general with a large, tangled beard now almost completely grey, had become a man Leontius had started to listen to more and more.
‘That must take it over fifty since we got here.’
‘Fifty-three, my Lord. They have little food, outside that which we can provide for them, and though most of those that have returned have rebuilt their hovels, they offer little protection against the weather, not when it has got as cold as it has these last few nights.’
The Grand Duke stared at his feet. Problems without solutions; it was time to be positive. ‘I am not hanging about here. I will go and see how Athkaril’s reconstruction is going and look at the lie of the land from the top of the hill. Ready my horse,’ Leontius said to a nearby servant. ‘You can all update me on the way there.’
The Forgotten War Page 118