The Forgotten War (103 page)

The knight stopped. He looked shocked, though Morgan did not have the first idea why.

‘The ways of the Gods are mysterious indeed,’ he replied. ‘You are the person I am bound to seek, though I have never met you and have only descriptions of your appearance.
Your scar confirms it to me.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Morgan, puzzled, ‘but you are speaking in riddles.’

The man pulled himself out of his distracted state. ‘Forgive me, I shall explain. I am Dominic Hartfield, commander of the Silver Lances here, as you said. Yesterday was a calamitous day
for us all...’

‘You fought a battle and were betrayed.’

Dominic nodded gravely, showing no surprise at Morgan’s prescience. At that moment Itheya rode forward to be beside Morgan, causing Dominic to start slightly.

‘I am Itheya, commander of the elves here. Please tell your tale.’

Composing himself, Dominic recounted the events of the battle, the betrayal of Fenchard and the deaths of Ulgar and Baron Maynard. ‘I noticed when we charged them, they had prisoners,
foreign sellswords, all kinds of detritus in their ranks. Now, of course, we know that Arshuman money was paying for his ever-growing army; it was just that none of us ever suspected that a baron
would sell out his country for his own ends.’

‘Fenchard has surprised me, too,’ said Morgan. ‘I thought he had neither the wit nor ability to commit an act of such audacity. What is the situation now?’

‘The Arshumans are on the other side of the river. We have burned the bridges but that will not hold them for long. By this time tomorrow their cavalry could be within spitting distance of
Tetha Vinoyen; we have precious few men to stop them.’

‘Perhaps it is not men that we need. Itheya, the Arshuman light horse have been a curse to us for many years. Do you think they are a match for you?’

Itheya gave a musical laugh. ‘Is that a challenge?’

He returned the smile, ‘Time to prove yourself, my girl. Seriously, though, the people we passed earlier and others like them need time to find what refuge they can. You can give them that
time. You cannot stop the yellow advance – there are not enough of you – but you can harass them all the way, make them pay in blood for every yard gained, and save many of my
countrymen’s lives. I just hope I don’t slow you down.’

Dominic coughed politely. ‘You may have other things to consider.’

‘Such as?’

‘You were close to Baron Felmere, I believe. I am sorry to tell you that he is dead.’

It was Morgan’s turn to look stunned. ‘In battle?’ he said quietly.

‘No, in his tent, at the end of an assassin’s knife.’

‘Xhenafa carry his soul safely.’ Morgan’s voice sounded thick. ‘Was this assassin caught?’

‘No, we think he escaped downriver; probably one of Haslan Falls men and certainly a professional job. If it is any consolation, it was a knife in the heart, instant and
painless.’

Morgan turned to Itheya. ‘I am sorry but I will have to leave you here. I will need to get to Felmere Castle to speak to his wife and boy. Dominic, is there anyone who can guide these folk
here; they do not know the country.’

Dominic nodded. ‘Reynard has completed the evacuation of Grest. He will be here shortly and will be happy to help the lady.’ He swallowed. ‘Morgan, there is one more thing
– one that implies that Felmere Castle is just the place you should be headed.’

Morgan spoke wryly. ‘What can that be. I am going to see his boy Kraven, unless someone else wishes to do so in my stead.’

‘No, Morgan, it is a job for you. You see, once we knew of his death, we had to read his will. The north is without a Prosecutor of War and his son is not yet of age. Fortunately his will
was clear. It names the man to be both guardian of his son until he does come of age and, by default, ruler of his lands and the new Prosecutor – that is, until the Grand Duke names
another.’

Morgan looked askance. Surely he could not mean...

‘Yes, Morgan, it is you he names. Reynard was too young and would have to give up his position with the knights. He wanted a man who has raised a son, a shrewd man and a good judge of
character. These are all his words by the way. He named you to rule his lands and to recover the mess we are now all in. May Artorus help you.’

Morgan was dumbstruck. Finally he turned to Itheya, who wordlessly handed him her flask of
zhath
. He took a mouthful, wishing it was something even more poisonous. What in this world of
horror and wonder had the Gods done to him now?

The heart and soul of the country of Tanaren lay in the capital. The soul lay in the spires and the monolithic façade of the Cathedral of Artorus on St Kennelth’s
Hill, home of Grand Lector Josephus XVII and the building from where every church, religious house and Frach monastery was administered. All priests were consecrated here, no matter which God they
represented, before being sent to spread their faith throughout the land.

The heart lay, appropriately enough, close to the soul on the Loubian Hill. There stood, overlooking the mighty river Erskon, the whitewashed walls and terracotta tiles of the palace of the
Grand Duke. The sun had set in favour of a brilliant full moon, one that bathed the frost-rimed cobbles in its spectral radiance. The lack of people on the streets was testament enough to the cold;
only those who had to be outside of necessity could be seen. Sellers of flowers and candles, often children, hung around outside taverns and inns, hoping to make enough for their family to eat that
night; guards patrolled the wider streets, cursing the Gods for being given the night watch, and in the darker parts of the city street gangs huddled together, plotting raids on lightly guarded
warehouses or on each other. In the red-light districts, just back from the docks, prostitutes strolled nonchalantly from street corner to street corner, often in pairs and for once wrapped up
against the chill. Here things were busier – carriages clattered over the broken roads, disgorging groups of drunken well-heeled young men who headed straight to the large well-kept brothels
that were all clustered closely together and were constantly engaged in cut-throat competition for business. The Rose District it was called, where Voyagers’ Hill joins People’s Hill to
the west, a sink of villainy and sporadic violence and the focus of moral outrage in the city.

The Rose District, however, was not on the minds of anybody circulating around the Grand Duke’s palace this frosty evening, at least not at the present time. For it was the occasion of the
Winter Feast ball, one of the highlights of the social year. For the last hour or so, the great doors of the palace had stood open to receive the specially invited guests among whom were many
people of importance from over a hundred-mile radius. It was an invitation refused by no one, such was the prestige of the occasion.

For the first-time attendee, such as Lady Delphine Marsphala, wife of Baron Sydmon, it was a case of alighting from her carriage, bones jarred from rattling over the uneven roads, and being
deftly shown the way into the palace by a liveried servant – through the giant doors, carved with a likeness of Tanar, the first Grand Duke, sitting at the hand of Artorus; into the
high-vaulted reception room, its carpet muddied by countless damp shoes, and onwards into the throne room, which for this evening was used as a place for guests to mingle and chat free of the noise
of musicians and kitchen servants. The throne room had many gilded windows under which were hung broad tapestries depicting the so-called ‘Nine Great Battles of Tanaren’, all of which
had some part in shaping the country and its people. Before them, stood busts of each and every Grand Duke, over fifty in total, each casting a baleful eye over the proceedings. A couple of busts,
including the infamous Eginvald, had black cloth draped over them. The throne itself, positioned high on a many-stepped dais, was perhaps not as impressive as the room it inhabited. It was little
more than a high seat carved in oiled dark wood. It would take someone with some knowledge of Tanaren’s history to realise that the wood from which it was carved was taken from the very first
ship, the
Hammer of Mytha
, to sail into Tanaren’s harbour, a ship carrying Tanar himself, fresh from his triumph at Roshythe.

From there, down a wide, soft-carpeted hallway and up a small flight of stairs, our sample guest, Lady Delphine, passed into the grand ballroom. It was not as cavernous as the throne room but
that was partly the idea. With its two low galleries packed with singers and musicians and the bare floor bursting with elegantly swirling bodies clad in rustling silks and swishing velvets, it had
an air of hot intimacy far removed from the rarefied coolness of the throne room. Servants stood near the walls holding trays of wine and spiced mead, guaranteeing that the latter stages of the
evening would be undertaken under an alcoholic fume leading potentially to many scandalous indiscretions.

Finally, sandwiched between the ball room and the guest rooms, was (discounting the privies) the sumptuous dining room. This room was circular, with a raised dais for the Grand Duke at its
centre upon which stood a circular table. What gave the room a special place in the Grand Duke’s heart, though, was the skylight window – a vast, leaded, glassed dome positioned
directly over the Grand Duke’s table. Through it, the night sky looked down on the revellers below; it was if the very Gods were watching and judging their servants, the greatest citizens in
Tanaren, as they took their meal. Surrounding the banqueting hall were various storerooms and, to the west, the kitchens, the biggest in Tanaren, home to at least a dozen spits, several ovens for
baking bread, and many large cooking fires. Despite each having a flue, it could get unbearably hot, especially in summer, and had earned the nickname ‘Keth’s Furnace’ from the
hard-pressed kitchen staff, many of whom sported livid red scars caused by their hazardous environment.

Winter Feast itself was a day of church-sanctioned gluttony that preceded the seven-day festival of Saint Benethelia, a saint beloved of Meriel – a period of fasting in which no meat could
be eaten (fish was an exception, a term that over the years had come to mean any water-dwelling creature including water fowl and beaver) and only one meal could be eaten during the hours of
daylight. For many of Tanaren’s less fortunate citizens, this was only a slight departure from their normal routine. A larger difference, though, was the requirement to pray three times a
day, in addition to the customary morning and evening devotions. These prayers were to Meriel only and in them consideration had to be made to the elderly, infirm or those less fortunate. Words,
however, were not sufficient, for the true devotee must spend an hour helping the sisters in the houses of healing. For the wealthy, a financial disbursement to the sisters was deemed sufficient,
service to the Gods rendered by the mere loosening of a purse.

Now, however, was the feast before the fast and the nobility went about pursuing the call to hedonism with reckless abandon. The grand ball was an addition to the feast instituted by the 33rd
Grand Duke, Travanor II, who wished to flaunt both his wealth and his pride and joy, the selfsame kitchens being used that evening.

So the stage was set for a memorable night. Hours of formal dancing, a meal inspired to induce gourmandising from even the most parsimonious, and finally, for those with the strength to lift
themselves out of their dining chairs, more uninhibited dancing, as the musicians were encouraged to cut loose with some of the more frenzied reels in their repertoire.

There was only one slight disappointment for the assembled throng – the absence of the Grand Duke himself. He had been there earlier, in the throne room, greeting people as they arrived,
and he was seen after that, as the first timorous dance steps were taken, watching and smiling in approval. However, barely had the first dance – a courtly two-step, in which the hands of
male and female partners barely touched – finished, when he excused himself and disappeared. At the time the guests expected a prompt return from him but this had not happened. Only the dukes
and barons of his inner circle, his most trusted advisors, knew where he was.

Adjoining the long corridor from where the banqueting hall led to the guest rooms was one of the palace’s many high towers. These towers, thin and tall and clad in white,
held the rooms of many of the Grand Duke’s security staff – the city watch and the Silver Lances, his bodyguard – as well as his religious staff. In this particular tower, home to
the city guard and their armoury, was – up a spiral flight of steps – an anteroom, one which the Grand Duke used frequently. He stood there now, peering through the glazed, slitted
window at the shadowy hulk of the Grand Cathedral, close by on the neighbouring hill.

He was not alone here; six other men were with him, sitting on low chairs that almost filled the tiny room. Three were Baron Richney, the young man who had visited Thakholm not that long ago;
Baron Duneck, another man not out of his twenties, blue-eyed and straw-haired, and Baron Fillebrand, older than the other two and with a white eye and scar running above and below it, a legacy of a
badly trained hawk getting overzealous during a hunt. His promotion to Duke had been the briefest affair; the furious backlash from other barons had forced the Grand Duke to rescind his move within
a week, Fillebrand’s own reluctance in accepting the title being a key part in the withdrawal of the honorific. The other three were dukes, holders of the highest title in the land and one,
unlike Baron, which the Grand Duke could not strip them of. The silver-haired Duke Edrington, beard trimmed to a fine point, sat next to the room’s lamp, its only source of light and one that
reflected shinily off his balding head. His close friend, Duke Marschall, a thin man with dark hair and a yellowish pallor to his skin, sat next to him. Finally, the only other man not to take his
seat, standing behind the others with his back to the wall, was Duke Nicholas Hartfield. He calmly watched the other men while sipping quietly from his goblet, the others present having downed
theirs some time before.