The Forgotten War (152 page)

‘Tell me again why coming here is a good idea. If you keep doing so, you may yet convince me that listening to you does not make me the biggest Uba-touched fool north of the
Marassans!’

Trask seemed unperturbed by the other man’s tirade. ‘It is the safest place for you – far more defendable than Tetha Vinoyen ever could be. Until reinforcements come, you are
far less vulnerable here. It is but a temporary affair. When the men arrive from Grest you can move back to your comfy bed in the manor house if you wish.’

Fenchard swigged from his goblet again; he had hardly been parted from it these last few weeks and Trask swore his skin was already taking on the blotchy red hue of the seasoned drinker.
‘You told me I could stay in Tetha Vinoyen all winter. You told me!’

‘Tetha Vinoyen is a sprawl. The defensive wall we have built on its western approach needs many men to defend it effectively, more than we currently have. If the Grand Duke did wake up and
attack it, it would not hold, not till we get more men.’

Fenchard raised his eyes to the heavens. ‘Oh yes, these “reinforcements”you have been going on about for ever now – in Keth’s name, where are they? Are they
spirits? Or is eating too much cheese giving you hallucinations?’

Trask retained his temper; Fenchard was not a man who could provoke him.

‘We have two thousand men sitting in Grest. They are not coming here because they fear the Wych folk. I have a plan for that, though.’

‘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 inspired 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.