The Forgotten War

by Howard Sargent

There was a sudden commotion among the outlying soldiers. Morgan went towards it. Men were peeling back from something, retreating as oil flees from water; their faces were full of astonishment and fear.

  Moving through them, coming towards him was a figure on horseback, riding slowly and uncertainly. He knew immediately who it was and walked up to it, even as other men fled.

  Cheris’s skin was ashen, her face pale and drawn with fatigue. Her eyes, though, were wide with horror as she surveyed the scene, a scene of her own making.

  Morgan helped her dismount, which she did daintily; it was hard for all of them to think of her as just another woman at this moment.

  ‘I assume Trask is somewhere among them?’ Morgan tried to sound matter-of-fact.

  Cheris nodded, barely able to comprehend what she was seeing. ‘I had no idea,’ she said weakly. ‘I never knew all this...’ She trailed off.

  ‘I will have to give you to the knights. They want to arrest you. You understand.’

  ‘Yes. Oh ’Lissa’s blood, what have I done?’

  Morgan took her pack off her as she offered it to him. ‘What have you done? I have seen dozens of apparently decisive blows in this war that have all come to nothing. But this time, maybe you have struck a true blow to the enemy. Trask is dead. Fenchard is dead. West Arshuma is dead. Come spring, the balance of power may have changed irreversibly. All because of you.’

  Dry though they were, she still managed to wipe a tear from her eye.

  ‘My mentor Marcus used to tell me that I never understood the extent of my own power, that I could be as Xhenafa, harbinger of the dead. Now I am thinking that even he did not know what I could do. What am I, Morgan? What monster am I? See how your men fear me.’

  Morgan put a comforting arm on her shoulder, noting how physically frail she seemed. ‘You are as the Gods have made you, no more, no less. What you are is beyond your control, how you act in your time allotted is, however, and your deeds will live on long after you. The people of Felmere owe you a debt. Whatever the knights want to do with you, be sure that I will have my voice heard on your behalf.’

  They started to walk towards the city gates. Dominic started to give orders regarding the disposal of the dead. At the gates Cheris noticed two Knights of the Thorn, undoubtedly waiting for her.

  ‘I destroyed the city pass you had written for me. I will put my escape down to magic, bribery and my superior intelligence. You and Mikel will not be compromised. And do not fear about defending me. I have killed so many; death would be a just reward for my folly and vanity.’

  Morgan laughed, his voice dry and cracked. ‘I disagree. I will do everything I can to protect you, no matter how much you protest; anyhow, you haven’t told me how revenge feels. Trask is dead, you are free of him, are you not?’

  She stopped, looking back at the scene of devastation. ‘Since seeing this I have not thought about it. How does it feel? It has not really sunk in. He is dead but what he did will never go completely. I should not complain, though; not after all this. I really had no idea...’

  ‘Shush,’ said Morgan kindly. ‘Think on it, I will ask you again one day. Now, however, the knights want you and it is best not to keep them waiting.’

  ‘No,’ said Cheris. ‘It is not. In the pack is a book they will want. My possessing it alone might well mean death for me. Right now I really don’t care what they do.’

  ‘But you will, though; you will. Now go to them.’

  Cheris did so and let them escort her back towards the castle. Morgan watched her go for a while then turned back to the plain of bones, calling out instructions to his men. And from the plain the smoke continued to rise.

  Book Three: Spring

  1

  Lake Winmead is a mere of unsurpassing beauty and tranquillity, its waters cold and sapphire blue, deeper than the mountains are high. It is studded with islands of verdant forest, radiant emeralds on a bed of soft velvet. It is broad enough so that one bank cannot be espied from the other and across it moves a fleet of white-sailed fishing boats, for many fish lurk beneath the placid surface. Alongside the west bank of the lake trails an arm of the Derannen Mountains, spiky white teeth diminishing in size the further south they travel, until they are swallowed up by lush hills and woods of oak, birch and lime. At its southern point, fed by the lake, the river Ros starts its journey south, surrounded by broad meads carpeted by lily pads and bog asphodel. Here, the Virgin River is wide but slow, crossed by an elven bridge of several spans that run across a series of small islands, rather like stepping stones can cross a stream. To the north is a sight that has caused even the well-travelled among us to gasp in awe. For here are the Hythe Falls of legend. Miles broad they are, falls running into rivers running into falls; down several vast shelves of rock they tumble, falling, collecting themselves again, before falling once more. Rocky tree-dotted islands stand among their clear lakes and rivers, each body of water reflecting the overhanging snowy peaks from which they had been born.

  And finally protected behind a jutting spur of rock that runs far into the lake, blocking the great clouds of mist rising from the roaring falls, we come to the eastern side of the lake. In a way it is the least interesting part of the lands that hem in the lake, miles of water meadows and rolling meads of lush grass grazed by vast herds of shaggy longhorn cattle. Yet, if one were to follow the colonnaded and covered white flagged road from the Ros Bridge northwards, then it is to finally arrive at one of the world’s great cities, Roshythe. Not great in size, for many far more nondescript cities teem with more humanity than will ever be found in this ancient city of the elves. No, it is the architecture that provides the emotional attachment the people of Tanaren have for the city, though many of them have never seen it. Roshythe backs on to the Derannen Mountains and a pass leads from it to a quarry from which the city’s unique marble is obtained. And now, in my poor words, I will attempt a description of this beautiful place.

  Roshythe is surrounded by a high circular wall of gleaming white rock. Set around this wall are twenty elegant conical towers, each flying a thin yellow pennant, as it is Arshuma which controls the city now. The great silver gates, rarely shut, welcome visitors and merchants from far and wide. And inside the city? A hundred spires spring into the sky, all carved from the malachite green streaked marble taken from the quarry; each spire is needle thin and capped with a smooth conical roof. Only one tower, half demolished, spoils the spectacular vista. At ground level the entire city is floored with the same marble; its broad steps, wide tree-lined avenues and its great square with its statues of elven heroes, too, are made of this substance. Only the palace of the leaders is different. No green-veined marble here; instead the entire rock is the colour of pale mint, smooth gigantic slabs of it going to construct the elegant high walls and soaring towers of the city’s largest building. Its open forecourt lined with lawns and trees, its domed throne room pillared with gold and its myriad towers connected by walkways constantly patrolled by its vigilant defenders.

  There is another part of the city, too. Roshythe sits right next to Lake Winmead and close to several islands large and small lying within it. Each island has its own towers and houses, all joined by bridges and fringed with trees. Marbled jetties thrust into the vivid blue waters with their elegant fishing boats moored against them. This was the city fought over by three peoples for many centuries; thousands have died to possess it, thousands more probably will, and yet the city itself never changes – its rock barely weathers or cracks; no new buildings go up or get pulled down. If any city in the world warrants the epithet ‘Eternal’, then Roshythe is the one it should be applied to.

  Cyrus of Edgecliff, The Chronicles of Tanaren and Arshuma, volume VII: Diplomacy in the East: The Arrogance of the Foreign Kings.

  King Aganosticlan VII was sitting in the great throne room of Roshythe’s Palace of the Leaders and was feeling particularly pleased with himself. For a man given by reputation to ostentatious displays of smugness even he was embarrassed
by the scope of his self-satisfied smirk. He was in his green silk today; it fitted with the palace’s decor, after all, though not for the first time he wondered why the Wych folk were so obsessed with the colour; he much preferred blue himself. The throne room was oval in shape, with pillars covered in gold leaf supporting a vast vaulted ceiling which was painted with the usual Wych superstitions, animals and dragons, though even he had to admit it was magnificent. There was no throne, only a large oval slab of marble that served as a table, surrounded by chairs of the same material, though each was ornately carved with shapes of leaves and birds. He had marked out the chair at the top of the oval for himself.

  He had only been here two to three times in his life before. All Arshuman kings had avoided the place ever since the first king to take command of the city had been assassinated here. But now necessity compelled his attendance; he had moved his servants and many of his court here temporarily and, despite being determined to hate the place with a passion, he found that, instead, he was rather enjoying it here.

  It was possible, though, that recent events had coloured his impression of the city. And it was to discuss these that he had summoned his general and his chamberlain to speak with him. Once both Terze and Obadrian were seated and had been served with wine and fruit by serving girls who seemed to be wearing less than ever, he began.

  ‘I swear that this spring is the warmest I can recall for many years. I had a walk in the gardens before noon and swear I could feel my skin burning. Come on, both of you, the food and drink were not put there to be decorative. Enjoy it and give me your news as you do so.’

  Terze took a long drink from his silver goblet. ‘The weather appears to have given our troops wings; they are nearly all here now. I am just expecting another thousand or more from Belias, the southern part of your country, then all will be in readiness.’

  The King’s grin returned. ‘And at last all our hard work over these last months comes to fruition. West Arshuma may be a fleeting memory already, but it did one good thing for us; it bought us time, the time we needed to get the south on to our side. What does our army amount to now – fifteen thousand or more surely?’

  ‘About that,’ Obadrian replied, biting his lip a little; it was mostly his gargantuan diplomatic efforts that had finally secured the south’s support after all. ‘Including our three thousand heavy cavalry, for once we may even outmatch them.’

  It was the King’s turn to take a drink. ‘And to think that Leontius believes that we are on our knees.’ He laughed, Obadrian felt he had never seen him happier. ‘When he arrives to discuss a settlement he will find Mytha’s own surprise waiting for him – fifteen thousand men ready to crush him for once and for all. If he surrenders and agrees to my terms, then all is well and good; if he does not, then, Terze, it will be your job to make him reconsider. Where are their troops now?’

  ‘I have had fresh reports in this morning, Your Majesty,’ said Terze. ‘As you know, they have two armies. The Grand Duke has left Grest recently; he has some five thousand under his command. The advance army with the forces of Felmere and the south are just the other side of the lake waiting for him; they number another five thousand or so. I am not quite so sure as to who commands them.’

  ‘A good question, Your Majesty,’ said Obadrian. ‘We still do not know if the assassin completed her mission; she has yet to return to us.’

  ‘Which means nothing,’ said the King. ‘She is either dead or on her way here after being successful. For now, let us assume she is dead – it matters not – events have overtaken her missions anyway. All that matters now is that the Grand Duke has accepted my invitation to discuss terms and is on his way... Personally I cannot wait for his arrival.’

  Obadrian fidgeted uneasily in his chair; the King noticed and raised his eyebrow, waiting for the question.

  ‘There are a couple of matters of concern, Your Majesty – if I may be so bold as to speak of them here and now.’

  ‘Go on.’ The King was used to Obadrian’s evasiveness.

  ‘The first thing, Your Majesty, is the concessions we have made to the south to secure their support; we just do not have the gold for...’

  ‘Leontius will supply the gold; it will be part of the diplomatic settlement.’

  ‘But Your Maj...’

  ‘Leontius will supply the gold. The matter is closed. Your other concern?’

  ‘Chira, Your Majesty. I have heard that they have somehow found out about our turning to Koze for aid. Ambassador Hylas is said to be on his way here to demand an explanation. I just wondered...’

  ‘Hylas wintered in Kibil; it will take him a couple of weeks to get here. A couple of weeks for us to end this war and secure lands up to the Helkus or Broken River. There may have been a time when I wanted to possess all the lands up to Athkaril, but heads must rule hearts given our current constraints. Who knows, though, if we hammer the Grand Duke enough or even capture or kill him we may still end up with a lot more than we currently imagine possible.’

  ‘One way or another then, Your Majesty, this war has to end in the next couple of weeks.’ Terze voice was grim, in complete contrast to the King’s exultant mood.

  ‘Correct, General, prepare my golden armour; this war has to end before Hylas arrives. I need the Grand Duke’s signature on a treaty or it will probably be all of our heads on a Chiran pike. And, gentleman,’ – the King rested his face in his hands, his elbows resting on the table – ‘I have absolutely no intention of letting that happen.’

  2

  Mud and sediment churned up from the bed of the waterway turned the fair river Helkus into a viscous soup as, thus agitated, it continued to roll southwards through a country of light woods interspersed with plains of tall grass. The reason for the river’s disturbed state was primarily the large column of soldiers and cavalry fording it at its shallowest point. Sweating and footsore, with the river up over their knees, they trudged onwards, relieved by the thought that they would be making camp soon.

  Held aloft at the front of the column as it snaked far into the distance was the great blue banner of Tanaren and the living embodiment of that banner, the Grand Duke himself, sitting atop his great black charger on the river’s east bank watching the army pass. With him were the Barons Fillebrand and Richney, three men with plenty to think about as they brooded silently under the dappled sunlight.

  It was almost hypnotising, spear after spear after spear marching solemnly past their generals, saluting to the best of their ability when they saw who was watching them. Fillebrand wanted to broach a subject with his superior but of late Leontius had been remote and uncommunicative. Even a trusted advisor like Fillebrand had found it difficult to talk to him. He decided to try anyway.

  ‘My Lord, we are ahead of schedule; we will be at Roshythe in a week or so. Perhaps we could ease up on the forced march for a couple of days. Some of the men are looking leg weary and we need them fresh at the end of the journey.’

  ‘Do we?’ said Leontius, singularly unimpressed. ‘We are going to talk terms, not fight.’

  ‘But, my Lord, we cannot trust Arshumans; bitter experience has taught us that. The men need to be battle ready, no matter how decimated the enemy claims to be. There is nothing more dangerous than a wounded bear.’

  Leontius snapped at him. ‘Fillebrand, a rebellion has been crushed in the north, a rebellion has been almost crushed out here in the east, and a rebellion still festers in the very heart of my country, barely a hundred miles from my capital. Barons...’ – he glared at Richney – ‘...continue to disobey my instructions and now you wish to warn me of trouble that hasn’t even materialised yet! Let us deal with one problem at a time.’

  Fillebrand bowed his head. ‘As you wish, my Lord, but I would ask you not to be too hard on Baron Richney. It is not always the fault of the general if his army is caught in an ambush.’

  ‘Then perhaps you could explain to him the meaning of the phrase “no open engagements” the next time he decides to
lead three hundred men to their deaths in a suicidal charge. I have only kept him here because, let off his leash, he is the enemy’s best weapon!’ Richney reddened but did not speak. His stock had fallen so far in the last few months, he knew there would be nothing he could say in his defence that Leontius would accept.

  ‘I would have brought Cooper with me otherwise.’ The Grand Duke continued in a slightly more mollifying tone. ‘Rather than leave him to besiege Axmian; I hope he isn’t too successful there in a way. I would love to be there when the place finally falls so I can punish the ringleaders myself!’

  ‘Well,’ said Fillebrand quietly. ‘You have already punished some of them.’

  This indeed was true. After the breaking of the siege of Felmere, Tetha Vinoyen had surrendered almost immediately, leaving Axmian and Haslan Falls as the only parts of West Arshuma remaining. The Grand Duke had launched his own siege of the island fort as soon as he could. Within a week a couple of the ‘barons’ promoted by Fenchard had tried a daring night escape in a small boat, attempting to get to Haslan Falls. Not daring enough, though, for both were captured the following morning. And to them Leontius had shown no mercy. An hour on the rack had given them the names of the other traitor barons, before they were both hung within sight of the towers of Axmian. But they were not alone. All the family members of both barons were taken and hung, too. A curious display, indeed – some fifty people aged between three and seventy, both men and women, hung from a few lengthy scaffolds and left to rot. Haslan Falls had surrendered as soon as the news of the execution reached them; Axmian, though, would now hang on to the bitter end.

  Fillebrand, fighting the rebellion near Tanaren City when he heard the news, had been quite shocked. The Leontius of just a couple of months ago would never have countenanced such actions. But times had changed. And it was the rebellion at the heart of the country that had affected him most.