The Forgotten War (160 page)

‘And so I hereby proclaim Itheya, daughter of Cenarazh and Ayete, as the new guardian and protector of the Morioka and its affiliated tribes. May she serve her people with the wisdom and
dignity exhibited by her father. May Zhun guide her in all things. I, Tetrevenn, leader of the first family, Brga, pledge my allegiance to you.’

One by one the other family leaders stepped forward to swear their loyalty to her. It took quite a while. In all that time Itheya stared unseeingly in front of her, barely acknowledging
proceedings. She only seemed to come to her senses once the ceremony was over and Tetrevenn and the other families gathered in a semicircle around her and bowed. It was time for her to speak.

‘I thank you, Tetrevenn, for discharging the duties that would normally be performed by Terath. I hereby swear to do my utmost to serve all of you in a manner befitting my status as your
leader. As you know, I have committed us to war beyond the mountains. It is my intention to return there and leave Tetrevenn to command you until I return. However, I will not do this until
everything here is in order. My second duty is to arrange the distribution of the weapons donated by the humans. My first duty I will undertake now. Step forward, Tiavon.’

She waited for him to come and stand in front of her. She waited a brief moment, meeting his uncertain eyes with a look of cold unremitting hatred.

‘If my brother had lived, he would now be facing an indefinite exile from our tribe. You, Tiavon, as his closest ally and one who admits to counselling his sedition will serve it in his
stead. On the morrow you will be taken to a high place in the mountains, under permanent guard. A place with a cave and plateau not forty paces square where you will live until I recall you. I
would advise you to prepare yourself for a lengthy stay. Take him away.’

It was done. The worm in the apple had been removed. She was undisputed leader of one of the most powerful tribes in the forest. And she had never felt so desolate.

‘Two days. Just two days and they will be here. And Trask is with them.’

Reynard was flushed, a legacy of days’ hard riding; his fair hair was tousled and stiff with sweat. He had arrived with some of his knights not ten minutes earlier.

Morgan was sitting calmly at the head of the table in the great hall. It was nothing less than he had expected. ‘How many?’

‘About a thousand in an advance guard with the siege engines. But as I say it was just the advance guard. They are being followed by two to three thousand more men who are catching them up
and should be here a day or so behind them.’

Morgan stood and stretched his arms, feeling his hand and chest pulling against him. ‘Obviously keen to get here or why split his forces?’

‘I thought that,’ said Reynard thoughtfully. ‘When he gets here we could sally forth, rout him and destroy his catapults. It seems a curious folly yet Trask is no fool. And
there is other news, a contingent of Arshumans have left Grest recently, seemingly headed for Tetha Vinoyen.’

‘Would they be there by now?’ Morgan asked quizzically.

‘Possibly, they would be close at least.’

‘Then he is no fool, indeed. He would rather use his experienced troops to besiege us. The Arshumans are an unknown quantity to him, so they garrison Tetha Vinoyen while the former
garrison comes here. The two units will probably rendezvous somewhere before coming here. It may give us an extra day or so at any rate. Where are the elves in all this?’

‘Following Trask closely, but they are using the catapults as a defensive barrier when they march and camp. The Wych folk are doing little damage, I am afraid.’

Morgan gave a short exclamation. ‘Ha! Hence the advance guard – small enough to hide behind the catapults, large enough to intimidate attackers. Any sign of Fenchard?’

‘None. None whatsoever.’

‘No matter. Can you get a message to the elves?’

Reynard nodded. He was less flushed now as he slowly got his breath back. He drank deeply from a flask of heavily watered wine handed to him by a servant.

‘Good,’ said Morgan. ‘Tell them, sorry,
ask
them to withdraw. I don’t want them risking themselves in a futile struggle. I will contact them again when I
can.’

Reynard looked perplexed. ‘But why? A little good is better than none at all.’

Morgan was not to be dissuaded. ‘Just ask them, the reasons will become clear in time.’

Of course, he could not explain his fears for them at present, that Cheris had asked him to keep men and horses either behind the wall or far away until ... until she had finished what she
wanted to do.

In truth, he had only reluctantly agreed to her plan because, unlike the castle itself, the outer walls of the city were a large area to defend. It was almost inevitable that a breach would be
made at some point and the thought of Trask and his men pouring into the city was not an encouraging one. Also, and he chided himself for his weakness, he liked the girl; she was impossibly clever
with an innocent charm borne of living outside of society for so long. She reminded him a little of Lisbeth. He caught himself at that – he had thought little of her of late and, after what
had happened with Itheya, his guilt over her had grown significantly. Wanting to be alone with his thoughts he called the meeting to an end and headed towards his room.

The next forty-eight hours saw the city in the throes of frenetic activity. Many of its inhabitants moved into the castle where a field hospital was set up with the sisters of Meriel and their
adopted colleague, Astania. On the walls the guards were put on to a war footing. There were ten high towers in the city walls, each housing a catapult and ballistae, all of which were put through
their paces. Swords were sharpened, bows strung tightly; armourers repaired links in mail and beat out dints in plate; winter crops were brought in; the grain stores were locked and put under guard
– if the siege were prolonged there would be no more important place in the city. Prayers were held and the city held its breath waiting for the storm.

And then, just after dawn on the third day, it arrived.

Morgan had left the castle and taken residence in a room in one of the gate towers. Its tiny window overlooked the city so he was unaware of developments in the fields outside until one of his
men called on him as he was washing his face to clear away the cobwebs of sleep.

‘My Lord, horsemen! On the horizon!’

He left his room and climbed down a small flight of stairs where a door opened on to the battlements. Dominic was waiting for him and extended a long finger, pointing to something over the
wall.

It was not clear at first; they were still some way away. Gradually, though, he got used to the low mist that cloaked the green earth, coalescing in its dells and hollows until he finally saw
them, five armoured horsemen clad in polished silver plate, one holding the new blue-and-yellow banner and another carrying aloft a hastily improvised white flag.

‘They wish to talk?’ said Dominic. ‘Surrender terms, no doubt.’

‘Is Trask there?’ Morgan queried, a question he could soon answer himself for the horsemen stopped, on the earth road leading to the gates, at a difficult range for bowshot. Even at
that distance, though, their leader was obvious to see, a man bigger than the others wearing no helmet. Morgan had no difficulty picturing his beard and his face.

‘Want to come with me?’ Morgan asked.

‘Of course,’ said Dominic. ‘I will bring some knights with me to match their numbers.’

Morgan turned to Syalin, who was stood just behind him. ‘And you? Do you wish him to see how your allegiance has switched?’

‘I have no feelings either way,’ she said, not wholly truthfully. ‘But there is hazard if you leave the city and I should be there to protect you.’

‘Good,’ said Morgan. ‘Let us make them wait a little though, at least until I have my armour on.’

As he readied himself, word spread through the city like fire. The enemy delegation waited patiently enough, so Morgan decided to have a little breakfast. Once that was done, he headed down the
tower out into the city where a horse was waiting for him. And not just a horse. Cheris was there. She looked tired from running and was nearly totally concealed by a large dark cloak. It opened
for a second, though, and Morgan realised she was still in her nightclothes.

‘I am sorry, my Lord,’ said one of the Knights of the Thorn who had followed closely behind her. ‘She wanted to see you and we had no good reason to stop her.’

‘I heard them talking in the courtyard,’ she gasped. ‘Is it true? Is he here? Does he wish to speak with you?’

Morgan nodded, both slowly and reluctantly.

‘You are not going to say you would see him without me?’ She was pale, her hair uncombed, her skin free of make-up, but her eyes burned with a fierce intensity – fierce enough
to disconcert him a little. For the first time he could see something different about her, an inner power of some sort. Maybe it was her gift revealing itself, maybe it was something else;
disagreeing with her would not be easy.

‘You really want to see him? I was not going to ask you; it never occurred to me that you would ever want to see him again.’

She raised her eyes. ‘Don’t you see? As far as he knows I am dead. You do not think that it would unsettle him to see me alive? Alive and bent on vengeance. Do you not wish just to
prick his confidence just a little?’

‘She has a point,’ said Dominic. ‘From what I hear Trask and self-doubt are virtual strangers to each other. Perhaps they should be introduced.’

‘Very well,’ said Morgan slowly. ‘But, Cheris, no spells, no attempts to kill him. In this mist his men might be close by and I have no wish to be on the receiving end of a
sniper’s arrow. Can you ride properly yet? I know you have been practising daily.’

‘Passably I suppose,’ she said, ‘Passably, if slowly. I swear I will try nothing untoward.’

‘Come on then. Dominic, dismiss your knights. It will be us two, Syalin and the mage and her knights, six against five. And, Cheris, you have ten minutes to put some clothes on, otherwise
we are leaving without you. Mathilde has some things in the tower you can wear.’

Ten minutes later the gates were opened, the portcullis raised and Morgan and his companions rode out to meet their enemy. One of the Knights of the Thorn carried the banner of Felmere, the
other the white flag and Book of Artorus, the sign that no harmful intent was in the offing.

The road was rutted and churned by many wheels, its mud hardened by overnight frost. Cheris, for all her words, felt very unsteady on her horse. Despite her non-stop practising the last few days
she knew it was something she would never get used to or comfortable with. She kept her eyes on the ground, concentrating, and did not look up until her companions suddenly stopped. She pulled up,
too, looking up at the last minute only to see Sir Trask, surrounded by his knights, just yards away from her.

Trask was speaking to Morgan, whom he faced directly.

‘My my. We are tardy in the mornings, aren’t we? I should have tried a surprise attack. I would be breakfasting in your throne room before you had put your slippers on.’

‘The early caller is never the most welcome,’ Morgan replied. ‘And, unless he has something to say – that is not some tedious form of banter – I suggest he ups and
leaves and goes home, wherever that may be these days.’

Trask seemed to be enjoying himself. ‘Please bear in mind that this is no longer your country; it is mine and home is wherever I choose to make it. You are the interloper here, not
I.’

‘Your country?’ said Morgan disdainfully. ‘I thought it was Fenchard’s with you as his lapdog.’

‘Alas,’ said Trask. ‘King Fenchard I is with the Gods now, or rather hammering away at the furnace with his skin crisping from his body. It is King Mervon I who now commands
here, though he follows my advice in all things.’

‘I bet he does,’ said Morgan, failing to keep the sarcasm out if his voice. ‘So, Trask, you have finally carved yourself your own little kingdom. I am not surprised; it was
something I feel you always wanted. Just tell me, how long do you think you will keep it? You have challengers to the north, west and south. Do you really think this little enclave of yours will
last? If Arshuma withdraws its support, you are doomed.’

Trask looked thoughtful. He glanced over the people Morgan had brought with him, his eyes settling on Syalin for a long time, a glance she more than matched. Finally he looked at Cheris, who
found herself unable to look back, despite her desire to do so. Instead, she reddened and looked at the road directly under her.

‘Well, now,’ he said, a wicked edge to his subterranean voice, ‘it is the longevity of this “kingdom” that I am here to discuss. You have a great many qualities,
man of Glaivedon, not least the ability to turn assassins into allies. Would it not be better if confrontation between us could be avoided?’

‘It could be,’ Morgan said with a smirk. ‘Your allies have been begging coin and personnel from Koze. I have notified the Grand Duke, who I am sure has sent missives to Tanaren
to inform Chiras’s ambassador. Arshuma as a country is doomed; it is only a matter of time before the Western Army rolls over its fields and annexes it for the empire. I am happy to negotiate
terms of your surrender, if you wish.’

Trask gave a short terse laugh. ‘Attempting to intimidate me? You should know such attempts are futile. Nevertheless, I will admit the need to act quickly, and to secure new allies.
Therefore I have a proposal for you, should you wish to hear it.’

‘Go on,’ said Morgan, not liking the tone in Trask’s voice.

‘Morgan,’ said Trask. (Was he referring to him by name on purpose?) ‘You may be pleased to hear that I have finally found a use for hereditary barons. They may do little on the
field of battle other than get in the way, but keep them penned and docile and they are rather good at raising money and supplies for new men. Once they have raised enough for me, though, they
become superfluous. If this country lasts out the winter, the title of Baron will be abolished. There will be only generals and the only people to fill such a position will be those that have the
capability to do the job. Think of your position. One of the best men in the army of Tanaren who will likely soon be dismissed from his office and replaced by some servile lickspittle who cannot
wipe his arse without a servant being at hand. If you join with me, if Felmere joins with me, then the Grand Duke has nowhere to go but home. Calvannen respects you, listens to you. Imagine if we
all joined forces, took the Seven Rivers for ourselves. If Chira does do as you say, it would be a good thing. You know how they respect might and ability; they would be happy to see us as a
friendly buffer between two larger powers – Chira to the east, Tanaren to the west and the Seven Rivers between them, playing them off against each other and getting rich in the process. No
more barons, Morgan; even the lowest muck-grubbing beggar could rise to the very top if he is good enough. A country where status is determined by merit not wealth, where peasants stand shoulder to
shoulder with their former masters. Ally with me, Morgan, and make it so.’