The Forgotten War (38 page)

Then the Malaac broke and ran. He saw four, five, maybe six, shadowy figures abandon their attack and run from the shack. He heard their heavy feet in the mud of the bank and the breaking sound
of the water as they plunged back into their native habitat.

Cerren went to run after them.

‘No!’ said Fasneterax. ‘We stay here.’

And that is what they did. They retook their positions in the shack, spears in their hands, waiting for the next attack. The moon sank behind the trees; they still waited in abject silence. The
light started to break, the crows started to call, then thousands of other birds joined with them in a cacophony painful to the ears. The four men still stayed where they were, waiting for the
noise of claws against wood or bare feet slapping against mud. But the Malaac did not attack again.

Eventually, in the wan light of the morning with a light drizzle gently fogging the river, they emerged. Cerren had a nasty bite on his shoulder and Tegavenek had claw marks scoring his chest
and left arm. There were ingredients in the boat that could be made into a poultice for these wounds but it would take time. In the shack and on the earth just outside it lay the bodies of four
Malaac. In the light of day Cygan could see they were dark green rather than black; their scales were actually quite lustrous and had an almost metallic sheen. They had a couple of small
near-transparent fins on their back and one behind their head, as well as some feathery gills either side of their wide mouth. Apart from that they were exactly as others had described them.

Cygan pulled the healing herbs out of the boat, together with a wooden mortar and pestle. They would need a binding agent; he wondered if the mud here was suitable. Behind him, Cerren was
kneeling over a fallen Malaac; he appeared to be doing something to its corpse. As the other three watched him, he turned around to face them, triumphantly holding the creature’s head high in
his right hand, its black blood dripping and pooling on to the floor.

‘Behold,’ he said, ‘the head of the Malaac. I, Cerrenatukavenex, have taken its power for my own. Am I not worthy to be called a warrior?’

Fasneterax went over to him, putting his arm around the boy’s shoulder.

‘Your bravery is not in question, you have more than proven yourself, but I have a feeling you will get many more opportunities for this over the next few weeks.’ Tegavenek slumped
down, leaning against the boat. Cygan saw him. He decided to bark some orders.

‘First we patch the two of you up. Fasneterax, check the water; see if the Malaac are still out there. Unless the Elder wishes to return home, I want us at the Jagged Hill within the next
three days.’

‘Good afternoon, my Lady, allow me to welcome you to Thakholm.’ Baron Skellar was courteousness itself as he gave her a low bow.

The location of his welcome was hardly auspicious, standing as they were on the great harbour wall, its implacable grey stone sweeping outwards into the bay, The harbour was sheltered on both
sides by great promontories of rock that curved into the sea until they almost met each other, the gap between them being just large enough to admit one great ship at a time. The wind here,
however, could still be treacherous, and it was like this now, whipping past their heads as it seemingly blew in all directions at once.

Ceriana had been advised by Ebba to leave her hair loose, saying that no power on earth or in the heavens could keep it in shape in these conditions, and now, as the Baron stood before her,
great strands of it were flicking into her face, making it difficult even to see him.

‘Thank you, Baron.’ She raised her voice so he could hear her. ‘The harbour is impressive indeed.’

‘Yes, it is it. There has been an army working on it all year, mostly from the mainland. Now they have gone, the island feels deserted. Did you have a pleasant journey?’

‘I must admit I am not overfond of sea travel, but, yes, the journey was passable enough.’ In fact, as travelling by ship goes, it was almost luxurious. It was one of her
husband’s ships and her cabin was quite large, with a long velvet seat that doubled as a bed, a window to watch the ocean go by, and even her own privy. There was room for Ebba, too; she
slept on cushions on the floor.

‘What do you think of the warships? I suppose you have seen them many times before.’

‘Not that many.’

They had moored quite close to them, two of the Grand Duke’s great war galleons, their blue-and-white gold-edged pennants flapping noisily from their high forecastles. A contingent of
marines was drilling on the quarterdeck of the nearest ship and sailors could be seen on both of them, scrubbing decks and coiling ropes. A piece of Tanaren City a long way from home.

‘We have been invited to officially inspect them tomorrow; a Baron Richney has travelled with them as the Grand Duke’s representative. He is currently enjoying the hospitality of the
manor house, as, my Lady, should you be. Come, your carriage will take you.’

He took the hand she presented to him and led her towards land. There were a couple of gaudily painted wagons waiting for them. The wind subsided once they climbed off the harbour wall and Baron
Skellar spoke to her again in a confidential tone.

‘I do not know if you saw his carrack in the harbour but we have another guest, too, and not one I had expressly invited. Do you remember at the council them discussing Baron Vorfgan of
Clutha? Well, he is here; getting to know his neighbours, so he says. I am sure it is no coincidence that he arrived the day after the warships.’

‘Do you not mean the Baron Protector? He was administering those lands while the former Baron’s son recovered from illness, I believe.’

‘I am sure he will tell you himself, but young Dekkan, alas, did not recover. Xhenafa claimed him over a week ago. Vorfgan is now officially the baron of that land.’

‘I see. I wonder if he knew I was coming.’

‘Undoubtedly, it was discussed openly at the council. In any event, all barons have their spies in other camps, so I am sure the news reached him pretty quickly, by whatever
means.’

With his assistance, she and Ebba climbed into the carriage. Baron Jon took the one behind. Thakholm was a busy little harbour town, all cobbles and small brightly painted stone
fisherman’s cottages. The road they took wound through the centre of the town along a road that broadened into a wide square with its houses of Artorus, Hytha and Meriel all standing side by
side.

‘At least it’s not market day,’ said Ebba, ‘or we would never get through.’

Once clear of the square, the cobbled road narrowed and started to climb uphill. Ceriana’s impression of the northern towns being somewhat grim and colourless was put to the test here. She
could now look over the bay and saw it filled with ships and boats, most of them small cogs or other fishing vessels and most spectacularly painted in reds, blues, yellows and greens. In keeping
with an old seamen’s tradition, the eye of Hytha was painted on many of them. Many of them, however modest their size, bore bright flags and pennants. She remembered from her book that
Thakholm was called the ‘Rainbow Isle’. Fishing was at its heart because the land here was poor, most suited for sheep, goats and smaller, wilder strains of cattle. As they cleared the
town and continued to climb, she looked back and could see the island was fairly treeless and dotted with smallholdings all the way up to the outskirts of the town. The land was also fairly uneven
and hilly – hills that seemed to increase in height as they got to the island’s heart. They crossed, via a low stone bridge, a small silver river, one of several watercourses that
discharged into the harbour; she followed its path as it danced playfully over greasy rocks before skirting the nearest houses of the town and entering the sea through a culvert in the harbour
wall.

Ahead, the road ceased to be cobbled, changing into a dirt track. It wound upwards still and turned towards the sea. She realised then that they were going towards the northern promontory, one
of the two great arms that swung into the sea protecting the harbour. Craning her neck, she saw that atop this finger of rock was the mansion house. Its outer wall was a low one, following as it
did the great cliff edges that bounded the house. Through necessity, the house itself was long and narrow, built of stone and roofed in slate, which she believed was quarried here somewhere. It was
single-storied, though as it followed the contours of the rising ground, the rear of the house was somewhat higher than its front. She imagined what it was like living there in a fierce winter
storm. They passed some cottages before accessing the mansion, dwellings of the staff, she imagined, also noticing that they were far less colourful than the houses in the main town. The iron gates
were opened and two guards clad in green and blue saluted as the carriages halted before the building’s main door. It was a large door of dark wood hinged in black metal, flanked either side
by a rectangular window – reminding Ceriana somewhat of the face of one of those lugubrious hunting hounds some nobles kept that always seemed to live under a pallor of sadness.

Baron Skellar led them through the doors into a narrow reception room and great hall. Passing the kitchens and storerooms, they climbed a flight of stairs and headed towards the guest rooms.
Eventually they came to a door which, Ceriana assumed, could not be far from the very rear of the mansion house.

‘For you, my Lady, the master guest bedroom.’

She was right – this was the last room of the house. In each of its three walls was a large picture window: through the left window she could see the harbour; through the right, the rugged
green headlands of the island; while straight ahead was the sea, and nothing but the sea, grey and violent and shrouded in cloud.

‘I thought you might like it here, as you come from a castle on the coast. On a good day you can see Osperitsan, though this is not one of them unfortunately. The windows have curtains,
lest the light keep you awake.’

‘Thank you, Baron, the room is lovely; you have been very considerate.’

‘I am glad you like it; we take an early dinner here, probably in two to three hours. A servant will notify you nearer the time. I am sure the other barons will be eager to meet you. A
servant is on her way to show your handmaiden her quarters. Until dinner then. I shall take my leave.’ He bowed and closed the door.

Aside from the windows the room was comfortably furnished – she was especially pleased to see a full-length mirror in the corner. With horror, she regarded the straggling bird’s nest
that once was her hair and she also detected a pink tinge to the skin on her face, a legacy of the strong winds that blew so frequently up here. Among nobility even a hint of ruddiness to the skin,
with its implication that its possessor worked outdoors in a manual occupation, could not be borne. It also seemed to make her freckles even more prominent. I look like a farmer’s wife, she
moaned to herself.

Within the hour she was transformed. Ebba returned to her and combed her hair thoroughly until it was silky soft and looked like liquid honey. She washed and freshened up before donning the rich
red velvet dress she had brought specifically to make an impression. It had long wide sleeves and was embroidered in gold thread. In her hair Ebba placed an emerald-studded comb and she also wore a
simple emerald necklace her father had given to her. She idly noticed her hair had grown and now reached down to the small of her back, so she decided to leave it loose. She perfumed herself with
rose-water and applied some make-up to her face, dusting her lids and around her eyes, hopefully making them look bigger. Thus prepared and backed by Ebba’s assertion that she looked
‘every inch the Grand Duchess’, she strolled to the main hall for her dinner.

She was the last to arrive (something she had counted on). The tables were laid, one, it seemed, for the lesser members of the household and one for the barons. Baron Skellar noticed her and
beckoned her over.

It was only the three barons at the table. Richney she knew – one of the Grand Duke’s closest confidants, a young man with extensively waxed moustaches, he always dressed
ostentatiously, even by Ceriana’s standards. Today was no exception – he wore a rich golden, extensively embroidered surcoat over a black shirt and leather trousers. He wore a rapier at
his side; she knew this was only for show, as he had probably never used such a weapon in his life. Ceriana had heard the derogatory phrase ‘perfumed warriors’ applied to such men;
those born to a nobility they had never earned and who eschewed the responsibilities inherent in such an office, preferring to pay others to do the work in their stead. Her brother had followed the
family tradition, joining the Grand Duke’s knights and so earning the respect of the people he would one day rule over. Richney obviously felt respect was his by right.

She had already drawn up a mental picture of Vorfgan – tall, bearded and grim, like so many of the men up here. The last thing she expected was the smiling, blue-eyed flaxen-haired man
standing before her. He was clean-shaven and relatively simply dressed in a pale-blue shirt and brown leather breeches. He was also quite tall; she was taller than the average woman herself but was
aware that she was having to tilt her head quite pronouncedly to get a good look at him. Baron Skellar introduced them both.

‘Hello, my dear,’ said Richney. ‘I see the healthy northern air is working wonders on you. Your father sends his fondest regards.’

‘Thank you, Baron. Any news you have of my father would be greatly appreciated. We do correspond but letters can take a long time to travel between us, as you can imagine.’

‘He has actually given me a letter to deliver to you. I was going to find a ship going to Osperitsan and deliver it that way, but I see that that will no longer be necessary. I am actually
returning to Tanaren City on a fast caravel the day after tomorrow, so if you wish to pen a reply I will happily give it to him.’

‘Thank you. I do not know if I have the time to pen a reply, but if I do manage it, I would be happy for you to take it to him.’ She didn’t entirely trust Richney, he had been
one of her suitors and, in line with her discussion with the Grand Duke, might still have designs on her. She could see him quite happily reading any letter trusted to him.