The Forgotten War (112 page)

‘Well?’ she said. ‘Any news?’

The man continued to eat. At last he set down his empty bowl and drank a draught of ale. Behind her she heard the sound of one of the semi-conscious patrons pissing against the wall.

‘He’s well gone!’ the man sniggered. ‘This really is no place for a lady’

‘Then it is well I am not one. Now I will ask you again: can you get me into the castle?’

Merritt rubbed his beard, putting his fingers in his mouth and licking them.

‘They are always looking for chambermaids there; emptying nobles’ chamber pots every day for a few pennies means no one wants to do that for long.’

‘So? What is that to me? I need to get into the castle; someone there owes me.’

‘Patience, pretty one. You have two options. A vintner I know who works there is happy to hire a girl, though I think he wants her to be more than grateful, if you know what I mean.’
He belched and leered at her; both his companions had similar lustful expressions.

‘And the second option?’ Syalin was doing her best not to get irritated by this buffoon.

‘A friend of a friend knows the mistress of chambermaids. I can get you an introduction. All you need to be is sensible and able to make a bed ... oh and not to scream if one of the men of
breeding there sticks his hand up your skirt.’

‘It would be the last thing he did. When can you get me this job?’

‘It is an introduction, not a job.’

‘Then that is bad for you – no job, no money.’

‘Do you have the money on you?’

‘I do.’

Merritt grinned evilly. ‘I don’t know how you do things in Grest but it is money upfront here. If I do not get it, word might get out to the guards at the castle that a blonde with a
strange accent, claiming to be Tanarese, has been asking questions, wants to know the castle layout, wants to get past security – you understand, don’t you?’

‘I will say it again: no job, no money. And if you tell a soul about me, I will have no choice but to kill you.’

Merritt looked at her with an amused look in his eye. Then he laughed, slowly at first but by degrees getting louder and louder, until eventually he was roaring helplessly. His two henchmen did
the same, and then, like an infection, everyone else in the tavern joined in, though they had no idea what they were laughing at. It continued until the smoke-stained beams shook with it, an
uproarious noise and one rarely heard in such a downtrodden place. Only one person did not join in. Syalin sat still as a stone, a coolly detached look in her eye. She waited patiently until
Merritt had finished, his eyes stained with tears.

‘Is there somewhere more private we can continue our discussion? I would rather not talk in such a noisome place.’

‘Is that so, my Lady? And you want to be a chambermaid? There is a yard out back; you only have horse shit to put up with there.’

‘Then shall we go? I would rather not hurt you here.’

‘Don’t start me off again, you silly tart. It’s this way.’

The delivery yard was walled, its doors locked and lit by a solitary lamp. As Merritt had said, piles of dung lay where they had been shovelled, in the yard’s corner. The three men stood
slightly spaced from each other, not ten feet away from Syalin.

‘Look, girl,’ said Merritt, ‘just give me my money and I will get you the introduction.’

She pulled her hood back, letting the lamp light fall on her fair hair.

‘No money till I get the job, and no crying to the guards.’

Merritt raised his eyes. ‘Have it your way. Boys, search her, get me my money.’

The two men moved forward. Syalin saw they were both holding knives; it was time for a routine training manoeuvre, practised so many times it was as easy as sleeping.

The first thrown knife caught one man in the throat. He choked in terror and surprise and went down. The second knife caught the other man just above the heart. He and Syalin both gasped, him
with shock and pain, her with annoyance at her poor aim. She was on him in a second, though, dagger in hand, thrusting it into his neck then pulling it out through the windpipe, severing it.
Letting him slump to his death while avoiding the gore spraying from his throat, she approached Merritt, who, although armed, was backing away from her, gaping like a fish. When his back was
against the wall, though, he had to stop. He dropped his knife. She had dispatched both men in seconds.

Syalin looked at him coldly, then slowly, deliberately, she drew her knife from the man’s temple, down his cheek, to his lip. Thin droplets of blood ran from the newly created scar. All
this time Merritt stood stock still, not daring to move.

‘For your insolence,’ she said. ‘You had better make up a story about how you got it. I somehow doubt you will wish to tell anyone a woman gave it to you.’ She raised the
blade to her mouth and licked the man’s blood off it.

‘I had better not have got blood on my dress; you will pay for its cleaning if I have.’

‘That’s ... fine; I will get it cleaned anyway.’ He plucked up courage to ask. ‘You are not a domestic servant, are you?’

With a half-smile she replied. ‘No, I kill people, especially those that say the wrong things at the wrong time. Now, get me the job, talk to no one, then you get your money.’

‘Of course, whatever you say, my Lady.’

‘As I said earlier, I am no lady. I will meet you tomorrow, same time, outside the church. You had better have good news.’

‘I will, I promise you.’

‘Good.’

She turned away from him and made to leave. Then she stopped. One of Merritt’s henchmen, the one with the knife in the throat, was still stirring slightly. He lay on his side, feebly
clutching at the blade protruding from him. She bent over him and drove her knife into his back, through his heart. While he was twitching in death she pulled her knife out of his body and then
took out the one sticking in his throat. She moved to the other man, retrieving her remaining knife from his corpse before wiping all three on his clothes. Then, not looking back, she left the yard
through a narrow side lane and walked back into the street. Merritt, open mouthed, gasped noiselessly after her.

Athkaril, the city on the frontier of war, sat, a smouldering ruin, upon its low hill. It had burned so fiercely that even its stones had cracked and split. Its houses were
shells without roofs; its grand buildings had fared little better – their floors had collapsed and no window remained with glass. Charred bones were scattered pell-mell, ample evidence that
many of its inhabitants had not been fortunate enough to escape the conflagration. Nothing remained in the square except piles of grey ash and the blackened husks of carts and wagons. On the partly
demolished city walls sat rows of black crows; the last ten years had been good to them, their feathers were glossy and shining, their bellies corpulent. This city was dead and only they had cause
to celebrate.

Baron Fenchard, or rather King Fenchard I of West Arshuma, stood in the midst of what once had been the square, barely able to comprehend the ruin all about him. His eyes, cold at the best of
times, now registered an arctic fury.

‘Look at it! It’s a fucking charnel house! We have nowhere to store food, no shelter, walls a five-year-old could kick down and now you say the Grand Duke is on his way. Our whole
plan hinged on us being able to defend the city! Where is that Uba-buggered halfwit Wyak? He promised us the city, promised us! Now he has disappeared and left me with one gigantic empty fireplace.
What by Artorus’s balls are we going to do now!’

‘I suppose in a way Wyak did as he promised. We do have the city.’ Trask kicked out at a pile of cinders, sending a cloud of grey ash flying among the soldiers surrounding him.

‘Is that supposed to be a joke? The Grand Duke is on his way with a thousand Silver Lances and a lot more infantry. He will be over the river in a day, bridge or no bridge.’

‘It was not a joke, more of an observation. And things are not as bad as you seem to think.’

‘Really, Trask? Please enlighten me as to how this is anything other than the Gods’ own disaster!’

Trask drank from his water skin, slaking his throat against the dry, dusty atmosphere. ‘We still have strongholds we can defend, just none this side of the river. I am sure Ulgar must have
told you the importance of a rational mind. Leontius will only be coming here to hold Athkaril. Well, as you can see, he is welcome to it. As Grand Duke, he will have to rebuild here and feed all
the refugees. We, in the meantime, stay warm, fat and fed in Axmian, Haslan Falls and Tetha Vinoyen, your new capital. His Silver Lances are formidable certainly, but most of his other men are
untested in battle and will not fancy a winter out here. In the spring he will have to advance with morale low and then we can crush him. In the meantime, we cross back over the river and destroy
the bridge. We also fire the refugees’ town; most may have left for now but are probably hoping to return. A few thousand homeless, starving people will concentrate the Grand Duke’s
mind wonderfully, especially the disease they bring.’

‘And what of Felmere? Could they not move on us? And those Keth cursed Wyches? And Esric in the south? And we have men deserting, cowardly scum that they are!’

‘I hung a few at first,’ said Trask prosaically. ‘When the desertions continued I had a couple quartered in full sight of the men. That has improved things for now. As for
everyone else, Garal will keep Esric busy this winter. The Wyches are a problem but they are few in number; they also just attack the Arshumans, so they can deal with them.’

‘And Morgan?’

‘Well,’ Trask sniggered, ‘he shouldn’t be a problem for long, not with that blond killer after him. By all accounts though he is staying put for now. He has never
controlled anything on that scale before; he has to learn the job as you did, so I cannot see trouble from him, or from whoever succeeds him, for a while. When the time is right, though, I will
take two thousand men and move on Felmere, even if only to stop a two-pronged attack on us from him and the Grand Duke.’

‘You will have a thousand. And some mercenaries. Our army is stretched enough as it is and the Arshumans have mostly pulled back to Grest, though there are some in Tetha
Vinoyen.’

‘That is fine. So the plan is to sit and wait. I have one suggestion, though: send some men up north to see if Lasgaart wishes to join us. If not, take his lands; if he does join us, then
assail Shayer Ridge and seize the pass close by. They are both strategically important.’

‘When Lasgaart fled Grest he had to cross the river unaided,’ Fenchard said with a laugh, his mood clearing now as Trask had spelled out a plan to him. ‘He must have fewer than
two hundred men now; the rest are drowned or have joined Felmere, or us.’

‘Do you wish to lead the men?’

‘Gods no! I will winter in Tetha Vinoyen, fashion it as my capital, start to administer my own laws. I will send a captain. Cannefar is a good man, and some four to five hundred men. They
can all be relieved regularly; it will keep everyone sharp. Let us leave this stinking ruin; I never wish to set eyes on it again.’

They returned to their camp over the river. As they did, horsemen with flaming torches set to burning the sprawling shanty town at the city’s feet. If any sick or elderly people remained
there, they were to be ignored, all the more mouths for Leontius to feed. Fenchard watched the yellow flames and smoke pluming into the sky for a while, then returned to his tent.

He was not there for long. He barely had time for a servant to unstrap his breastplate when a soot-streaked soldier entered his tent.

‘My Lord.’

‘Your Majesty,’ he corrected.

‘Sorry, my Lo ... I mean, Your Majesty. We have found Baron Wyak. Hiding he was in one of the hovels, a rat among rats, Your Majesty.’

‘Really.’ Fenchard’s eyes widened maliciously. ‘Get Trask here, then bring this baron before us.’

Trask joined him almost immediately. ‘What will you do with him? He could still be useful.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Fenchard. ‘Let’s see what he has to say for himself, shall we?’

Flanked by smiling guards, Wyak was brought before them. He looked absolutely wretched. He had hidden his green velvet jerkin under a ragged cloak but that had not protected it from getting
covered in dirt. A gold button was missing. His leather breeches were torn. He was a man of middle age with a rat-like face and a long avian nose. His hair had turned grey almost overnight and his
beady eyes darted in terror from Fenchard to Trask and back again.

‘Well, Wyak,’ said Fenchard nonchalantly, ‘thank you for delivering Athkaril to us.’

‘What can I say, Fenchard...’

‘King Fenchard.’

‘Of course, how foolish of me, King Fenchard. By the time I got here with my men those cursed peasants were already burning the city. I set my men to the lower town to punish them, but
many never returned.’

‘Did they desert?’ asked Trask.

‘That or they were killed, I know not.’

‘Either that or they came from the lower town and refused to attack their own people.’

‘No, I am sure I only brought people from the old city, at least I think so.’

‘Perhaps you should have thought better.’ Fenchard snorted with contempt.

Wyak remained silent; a more miserable sight could not be seen.

‘So you have no men and no city. Leontius will probably kill you on sight. Please tell me, Wyak, what possible use could you be to us anymore?’ Fenchard was enjoying toying with this
man, a cat with mouse in its paw.

‘I am a baron, Fenchard.’ Some pride was coming back to him at last. ‘I pledged myself to your cause when to do so was an act of basest treachery. It was you, me, Garal and
Eburg’s boy. Ulgar could not be turned and threatened you with death. You need all the allies you can get.’

‘All the
useful
allies he can get,’ Trask corrected him. Wyak stared back at him balefully.

Fenchard got out of his chair. ‘I have had a very bad day. My frontier town, the bastion against which the armies of Tanaren would founder, has been reduced to rubble entirely because of
your incompetence. Trask is having to redraw our entire strategy because of this disaster. And now you say you cannot even give me any extra men. Do you have gold?’