The Forgotten War
About the author
Former guitarist and founder member of The Third Sex, the greatest band that no one has ever heard of and who never played live, Howard Sargent was a civil servant for 20 years
before leaving to care full-time for his wife, who has Parkinson’s disease. Howard lives in Cardiff and
The Forgotten War
was originally written in serial form for his sister.
First published in Great Britain in 2014 by
The Book Guild Ltd
The Werks
45 Church Road
Brighton, BN3 2BE
Copyright © Howard Sargent 2014
The right of Howard Sargent to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing
from the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent
purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real people, alive or dead, is purely coincidental.
Typesetting in Times by
YHT Ltd, London
Printed and bound in Great Britain by
CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY
A catalogue record for this book is available from The British Library.
ISBN 978 1 84624 979 2
eISBN 978 1 90998 460 8
Dedicated to both Helens, with much gratitude. Nug.
(
Special mention for the old codgers, too
.)
Appendix I: A Brief Chronology
Appendix II: A Note on the Artoran Church
Appendix III: A Note on the Tanarese Nobility
1
For three days solid the rain hadn’t stopped. That was a rather superficial analysis to tell the truth. Sometimes it had reduced to little more than a feathery drizzle
coating hair and clothes in a spidery mist; sometimes it was the more dependable type of rain – consistent, never varying – you knew if you left your tent and walked to the cookhouse or
midden exactly how wet you would get by the time you returned. At other times, however, the skies truly opened, drenching everything in an unrelenting tide of freezing cold clammy wetness, making
clothes stiff and heavy and sending everyone scuttling off like beetles, heads bowed, for the nearest shelter. That was just how it was now.
He was sitting in his tent, hands stretched out towards a hissing brazier as the rain drummed its frenetic tattoo on the canvas over his head. He was not a tall man, but stocky and muscular,
someone used to regular physical work. Little else of him could be divined as he shrouded himself in a large black or dark-green cloak, but his face was clear enough – the hot coals
illuminating it in a harsh red glare. It could be seen that he was a man in his middle years, maybe thirty-five, clean shaven, with a strong jaw and an almost aquiline nose. His eyes glittered like
the coal itself, keen and intelligent, but behind that there seemed to be a certain weariness about them, almost as if he was mentally much older than the body he inhabited. And then there was the
scar, livid in the flames, running from the left cheek across the throat... Even now he played with it, idly stroking it with his forefinger, even though it looked like it had been there for many
years.
He barely moved, staring into the void, as inscrutable as a monolith. He was the fixed point around which everything else revolved. To him the rain, the acrid smoke of the brazier, the damp
packed earth under his feet, the wind tugging persistently at the tent flaps – all these registered as little more consequential than the buzzing of a cloud of midges, or the high-pitched
whine of a marsh mosquito as he strained his ears to catch the sound he wanted to hear.
Finally, it came – heavy boots sploshing through liquid mud accompanied by the metallic clink of chain mail. Expensive leather boots, he had no doubt, and the mail would be patterned,
maybe with the eagle-claw crest or even possibly the double serpent. He jerked his head leftwards as the tent flaps were opened.
‘The Baron will see you now.’ It was Sir Reynard, knight of the Eagle Order. He regarded the sitting man with a barely concealed look of distaste.
‘Thank you’ came the response. The other man got up and followed the knight out of the tent.
He looked at Sir Reynard in his polished silver mail walking over the sodden wooden planking as if daring the rain to bother him, blue cloak emblazoned with the yellow eagle claw hanging heavily
from his shoulders. There was a time when this tall blond knight, his bearing the very quintessence of his noble birth, would have been off jousting at tourneys, downing goblets of the finest
southern wine, and dazzling the spoiled, pampered ladies at the Grand Duke’s court.
Instead he was here.
He was probably in his mid-twenties, which would mean he would have been fifteen or so when this whole sorry affair started. He had spent his entire adult life at war, then. For a noble knight
this was no bad thing – reputations and honour are of course forged on the battlefield. If only this war had been like the glorious campaigns against the Wych folk, or the three-year war of
imperial succession that had culminated in the Battle of Hawks Moor when the independence of the Duchy had been secured. And not this sordid, half-remembered little war in which – after ten
years of invasion and counter-invasion, massacres of men, women and children, the slaughter of priests, the burning of towns and villages, public executions of traitors, deserters and minor
nobility, and the transformation of hundreds of square miles of fertile, arable land into a morass of mud and thick, tangled grassland – nothing more had been achieved than a minimal
redrawing of borders and the swelling of towns outside the warzone, bloated by refugees made to feel as welcome as an un-lanceable boil. No glory to be had here then, only an endless cold
attrition.
He looked up – they were nearly there. The Baron’s pavilion was much larger than the other tents around it. It had to be, for, as well as housing his personal quarters, it was where
the military counsels were held, packed full of erstwhile commanders eager to have their say while the Baron looked impassively on. Above it flew the banner of the House of Felmere, the mace and
shield, the mace being ironhand, wielded by Baron Rovik Felmere, founder of the house some three hundred years before.
He followed Reynard into the pavilion. The white fabric of the tent cast an eerie glow on to the great table at its heart, almost as if the moon was inside the tent shining its thin ghostly
light on the proceedings. At the table’s head was a great oak chair, intricately carved, and behind the chair part of the tent was closed off to give the Baron some privacy. Reynard turned to
him.
‘I will tell His Grace that you are here.’ He disappeared into the private quarters. No servants were visible; presumably all were busy on errands at the moment – there were
always a thousand things that needed doing here.
A minute or so later Reynard returned, the Baron following close behind.
‘It has been a long time, Morgan, has it not?’
‘Indeed it has, my Lord.’
‘Leave us, Reynard, I have much to discuss with this gentleman.’
Reynard’s eyebrow lifted slightly at the last word, but he bowed slightly, turned and left, leaving the two men together.
As the Baron had said, it had been a long time since they had last met and that time had not been too kind on him. He had a slight paunch now and his eyes had the bloodshot appearance of a man
too fond of his cups. He still had that presence though, that indefinable something that meant others would gladly follow him. Was it confidence? Assuredness? He did exude a self-belief that Morgan
often saw in those born to privilege, a certainty in the order of things that placed them at the top with everybody else bound to follow. Barons here were not necessarily noble born – the
Grand Duke, among others, could appoint a trusted commoner to a high office if his deeds impressed sufficiently. Baron Lukas Felmere, though, was born to rule.
But there was a price, though, and Morgan could see it in the drawn features, the inability to settle in any one place for a period of time. He wondered why they had bothered bringing the
baronial chair all this way when he could never sit on it for more than a couple of seconds; and then there were his eyes, red rimmed and haunted. Most definitely haunted.
‘What do you think of Reynard then?’ His manner was as bluff as ever. ‘A whelp when all this started ... couldn’t even blow his own nose; now in the last year or so he
has become my right hand. Without his knights last week we could have been pushed back towards the river again. I mentioned him in my last despatches to the Grand Duke.’
‘We did not exchange two words, Baron.’
‘What? Really? He does have a bit of the raging snob about him, like a lot of the younger nobility these days. Another six months in the field will beat it out of him. A good man though,
promising. He is Roderick Lanthorpe’s boy, you know, a good family. Their lands border my cousin Hardwick’s – that’s how I know him.’ The Baron stood, walked a little
around the table before returning to his chair. ‘Anyway, Morgan, how are things? When I sent you down south to help out that fool Esric I did not think you would be there so long. He had lost
more land in six months than we had gained here in the north in years.’
‘There were spies in his camp and jealousy over his promotion to Chief Prosecutor of the southern war. There were several trusted retainers in the pay of his rivals and one lordling, a
baron’s son, receiving money from Arshuma. We set a trap and caught them in the act of betrayal. The information they had been giving the Arshumans up to that point was proving to be
particularly ruinous.’
‘I see,’ said the Baron thoughtfully. ‘And has the problem been resolved?’
‘It has,’ said Morgan succinctly. ‘For now.’
‘And this baron’s son?’
‘His head was returned to his mother. The heads of the other spies still decorate Esric’s camp.’
This heartened the Baron. ‘Excellent! We will win this cursed war yet, by all the Gods.’
‘Your optimism must be heartening for the men to see.’
The Baron narrowed his eyes. ‘Not an optimism you share, I see.’
‘You know me, my Lord. We go back a long way, so you know I have always taken a somewhat bleak view of things.’
The Baron opened his mouth to reply then checked himself before finally saying, ‘You know, Morgan, this was not how it was meant to be. One glorious summer campaign and the Arshumans
driven back past the Seven Rivers, our banners flying over the city of Roshythe, all our ancient lands restored...’
‘And you and the other nobles basking in the adoration of the grateful peasantry.’ Morgan’s tone reeked of bitter experience.
Felmere growled threateningly. ‘You know, Morgan, not many of my men could get away with speaking like that to me.’
Morgan smiled. The two of them did go back a long way – it was easy to be honest in the Baron’s company. ‘I thought my lack of sycophancy always came as something of a relief
to you.’
The Baron nodded. ‘Yes, I do tire of being surrounded by people convinced the sun shines out of my arse... Anyway, before I start telling you why you were recalled here, do you want a
drink?’
‘Thank you, but no.’
‘Mind if I do?’
‘Of course not.’
He called out to the unseen servants, one eventually emerging from the Baron’s quarters to fill a goblet from a wine pitcher. The Baron drank deep and had his goblet filled again. He
dismissed the squire.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘to business.’
‘First of all,’ the Baron continued in his gravelly voice, ‘I had better update you on the situation up here. Up until last week we had pushed forward further than we had for a
long time, all the way up to the banks of the Whiterush River. However, the village of Grest – little more than a glorified hill fort but one that controls this section of the river –
continued to hold out against us. We attempted to take it but, as you see, we got driven back. As we advanced, they had catapults up the hill in the village itself throwing rocks and bundles of
burning furze at us. It spooked our light cavalry, making the whole line nervous. Worse than that. though,’ he added grimly, ‘they had a mage.’
