The Forgotten War (171 page)

Shayer Ridge was not a large place. It had its square, its residential houses clustered close around it, and a main road that ran in a straight line from the gates, through the square, up to the
mines. It was close to these where the grain stores were located, between the mines and the enclosing western wall. So it was down this road that they now ran, picking up more guardsmen en route.
At last, they crossed villagers running in the opposite direction. Varen managed to stop one of them, a young man with only one leg, the legacy no doubt of a mining accident. He used a stick with
surprising efficiency, but Varen did manage to halt him long enough to ask what he had seen.

‘Fighting. I think they must have come in through the west gate. I heard they had broken into the store and are burning the roof timbers and supports. What will we do without
food?’

Varen did not answer but left the man behind as he continued towards the fire. The store sat on a low rocky hill, reached by a cobbled side road that ran a winding route along the points of
least resistance up the hill. In front of the store’s great double doors were a small paved square and a couple of wagons, used to transport the grain as required. Lungs tearing, Varen
started along the path up the incline; Rordan, an older man, was just behind him with guardsmen both in front and behind, their mailed boots clattering on the cobbles. Varen looked ahead; he could
not see the stores from here but an ominous red glow filled the sky obscuring the stars that elsewhere in the town were just beginning to wink into view. Choking smoke drifted down the hill,
carrying great smuts of black soot. Varen ran into it regardless. And stumbled. The cobbles were uneven here and easy to trip over in the smoke. As he started to right himself, though, he felt a
draught – something passed close to his right ear. There was the sound of wood skipping over stone and the cries of battle and the clash of steel against steel up ahead.

Rordan caught up with him, helping him to his feet. ‘Archers!’ Varen told him. ‘Be careful.’

A sudden breeze travelling from the mountains swirled around them, striking sparks up ahead and scattering the smoke around them. They could see figures ahead, silhouettes against the flames,
brawling in the darkness.

More arrows flew past but they were poorly aimed this time. Varen could see one of the archers, though, and headed straight for him, sword raised.

His target dropped his bow and made to pull out his knife, but Varen’s momentum made him much the faster. He slashed downwards with his blade across the man’s face and chest. The man
screamed and went down grievously injured. Varen ignored him and ran onwards, finally getting to the top of the hill.

It was a confusing scene. Men were fighting everywhere; it was near impossible to tell friend from foe. As for the grain store, it was a lost cause. Its roof had collapsed and both doors had
fallen away from their hinges. The doorway was engulfed in flame, which billowed into the small square as and when the wind caught it. The good news was that the second store behind it was as yet
untouched. Varen chanced a quick glance over the hill towards the western wall below. Fires were burning in the streets leading from the west gate; it did look like that was how these infiltrators
had got in. He wondered how many of the enemy were inside the town.

A man ran at him sword swinging at Varen’s face. Varen blocked it before returning a blow, which was in turn blocked just as easily. Both men circled each other; Varen recognised the
green-and-white livery of Vinoyen. They traded further blows, testing each other, but Varen’s training as a knight slowly gave him the edge, his speed and skill wearing his opponent down. He
waited patiently; waited for his foe to make a mistake so he could take his chance. Finally it came – the man in green made an ill-aimed thrust at Varen’s chest, which Varen ducked and
countered accurately, his own blade running through the man’s heart. He died instantly, falling against Varen, who twisted and pulled his blade out before letting the man crash to the
floor.

He made a lightning assessment of the situation. It looked like this was some sort of advance party, sent to destroy the food supply, and it also looked like his men had been smart enough to
catch them before they could rejoin the rest of their colleagues. It seemed as though his men were winning the fight here; more guards were surging up the hill and seemed to outnumber the enemy by
at least two to one.

‘Rordan!’ he called out. ‘Can you handle this? I need to go and seal the west gate, stop more of them getting in.’

‘Yes, sir. Have you seen West Street? It is full of Fenchard’s men. Leave it to me here. You go and get our boys to push them back. Push them back, at all costs!’

Varen left him and started hurtling back down the hill. Once at the bottom, he took a sharp right turn and started down the gloomy lightless side streets, heading towards West Street, where the
fires were burning. He saw no one; obviously, the enemy seemed more interested in securing the square than spreading outwards around the town.

He was to be proved right. He ran into West Street and straight into a group of Lasgaart’s men; the Baron himself was there shouting out orders at their head. He had entered the street at
just the right place. Carts and wagons were strewn around and about the street’s length; many were on fire. Some of the doorways had been smashed open; he saw the body of a woman lying in
one. Other bodies lay scattered in the street; he could see women and children among them. Lasgaart finally noticed him and called for him to come over.

‘They have pulled back for a minute. I think some of your men have run across the wall and are trying to win the gate.’

‘Then,’ said Varen, wiping his sticky hair from his eyes, ‘we attack them! For Tanaren! Tanaren and Artorus!’ It was a call taken up by all the men and then, with weapons
unsheathed, they charged down the street, dodging the obstacles in their path.

Varen led the way. His blood was up and his anger was given further focus as he passed burning houses and the smoking bodies of the dead. The invaders had spared no one that had been unfortunate
enough to cross their path. Many of the dead had been hacked and hewn by sword and axe; some limbs had been severed and splashes and pools of blood covered the uneven road. He would make these
demons pay for this, he thought.

He was so preoccupied with the sights of death and destruction that he stopped looking at where he was going. He was only bought back to his senses when the men around him started roaring their
battle cries and cursing their enemies. They were nearly at the gate and it was here that the enemy was congregated, maybe fifty of them engaged in a bloody struggle in the square in front of the
gate. The gate itself was of wrought iron and narrow, so as only to admit one person at a time and housed in an archway within one of the thickest parts of the city wall. Outside, a narrow
treacherous path led down the hill to the woods. It was rarely used, even in times of peace. For so many men to get through unopposed there must have been some sort of collusion from somebody
inside the town. That, however, was a problem for the morrow. Right now, it was his own men he was concerned for. They had obviously run across the wall and down the narrow steps next to the gate
in an attempt to seize back the initiative and prevent any further enemy breaking into the town. But they were in danger of being overwhelmed.

‘Shayer Ridge!’ he shouted. ‘Shayer Ridge and Tanaren!’ he cried before plunging headlong into the fray, slashing at anything that moved in his fury. Lasgaart and his men
followed suit, starting an almighty ruckus. Bodies were slashed, limbs sliced, blood spurted from stumps and opened flesh. Men screamed as they fell, clutching at their opened stomachs or maimed
faces. If Keth returned to this earth bringing his demons with him, he could not have engendered a bloodier scene.

Soon, though, the slaughter was over. The invaders were caught in a bear trap and, unable to regain the gate, they threw down their weapons and begged for mercy. Varen gave it to them; he needed
to know how they got into the city and dead men could not answer him. He was about to question the men, who had been ordered to their knees with their heads facing the ground, when another of his
men-at-arms ran into the square.

‘Sir, the culvert! They are trying to get in through the culvert!’

The culvert, a great iron grid allowing the fledgling river Vinoyen to exit the town, was in the east of the city, the furthest point from where he was at the moment. Leaving Lasgaart to deal
with the prisoners, he was soon running again, back along West Street to the square, and thence eastward then southward, following the course of the river to the city wall and the culvert.

By the time he got there he was relieved to see the fighting was over. Bodies lay piled on each other in the water. The iron grid was twisted and bent and a man-sized hole had been fashioned
within it. Those that had managed to create it, though, had not benefited from their ingenuity. His own men surrounded it; some were standing knee high in the water, including one familiar
face.

‘Late as ever,’ Samson said cheerfully. ‘I think these fellows were trying to sneak in and unlock the main gate, but we were wise to them. They kept coming, too, even though
they had no chance here. It always astounds me you know, man’s inability to learn, or to admit when he is wrong. How is your father?’

They kept vigil until dawn. When it finally arrived, it found Varen back in his spot on the wall, watching thin tendrils of mist clinging to the pines far below him. Blood and streaks of soot
despoiled the shine on his breastplate, covering the eagle claw emblem at its centre. Samson was with him perusing the horizon and watching the crows call out over the treetops. Behind them the
fires in the grain store and the town had long since died.

‘They have gone, haven’t they?’ he mused softly. ‘I can see no sign of them at any rate.’

‘Well, your eyes are better than mine,’ said Varen. ‘I certainly cannot see them. I wonder if it was last night that did for them or whether they have received orders to
abandon this place.’

‘Does it matter?’ Samson sounded pleased, as pleased as Varen had heard him since his cousin’s death. ‘They are gone. There has been loss certainly – a great deal
of it – but we are triumphant and the town is saved, and praise Artorus for that.’

‘Praise him, indeed’ Varen mumbled, expecting a band of soldiers to run out of the forest and charge the gates at any second. He watched and watched, but nothing of the sort
happened.

‘If they have gone,’ Samson asked, ‘may I petition you to be allowed to return to Leon’s widow? I feel I owe it to her, after all.’

‘Of course, my friend. You may go now if you wish. I will clear it with Baron Felmere. You know what his answer will be anyway.’

Samson bowed slightly. ‘I will return, as soon as I am able.’

‘Sir Varen!’ came a voice from the road below. ‘Sir Varen!’

It was Rordan, sprinting as fast as he could. He bounded up the cracked steps, two at a time in his haste, almost stumbling on more than one occasion.

‘What is it, Rordan?’ Varen attempted a mollifying tone. ‘I am sure there is no need for such alacrity.’

‘But there is, sir, there is.’ Rordan was flushed; he looked exhausted. He stopped and tried to calm himself. ‘I am sorry, sir, but I have come to tell you that your father is
dead.’

Varen bit down hard on his lower lip, so hard it caused a small tear of blood to drip on to his chin. ‘When?’

‘Just minutes ago. I was there, sir; the last thing he heard was me telling him of our victory, of
your
victory. His lasts words were “Artorus bless my son, for I am so proud
of him.” He smiled then, and passed to Xhenafa’s side peacefully. He still smiles now.’

Varen shut his eyes, fighting to control his emotions. There was much still for him to do before he could grieve properly. Much indeed.

Rordan continued to speak. ‘It is incumbent on me as one of the town fathers to formerly offer you the position of chief magistrate. The town is yours to command, Sir Varen. If you accept,
your time as a knight will be over.’

Varen did not answer. Instead, he looked back over the forest once more. Nothing stirred; the enemy had definitely gone. Then he looked over the town, at the smoke rising from the grain store
and around the west gate. So many problems: how to ensure that people were fed, how to find out who the traitor was who had opened the gate, what to do with the prisoners, how to deal with
Lasgaart, a man he could never fully trust, despite his oath ... so many problems. Who would want such a burden? Then he thought of his father, a magistrate for thirty years, a man with a
reputation for fairness and probity making his family the most important and respected in the town. And he knew what his father would want him to do.

‘Of course I will accept,’ he told Rordan. ‘For this town I could do no less.’

He walked down the steps next to the gate, where the city guard, his city guard, tired but exultant, hailed him with all the enthusiasm in the world.

At last Cheris climbed on to the plateau. Her knees were muddy, as were her light boots, and sweat made her dress cling to her back but she had got there, and there was still
some light left to work by. She had left her horse loosely tethered among the pines before the final, steepest part of her climb. It patiently stood among the trees, nibbling quietly at the wet
grass; she might still need the creature after all. If she got out of this alive.

The plateau was just as she remembered it, its western point covered in mist from the falls, its eastern part, where she now stood, littered with fallen boulders and sharp rocks, screening the
lower part of the mountain from view.

‘Lucan give me power,’ she whispered softly to herself.

She carried her heavy pack just past the rocks to a point where a single boulder stood. It was small, and relatively flat, ideal to serve as an impromptu table. Just what she was looking
for.