The Forgotten War (172 page)

She walked over and stood behind it with the mountains behind her and the forest ahead and below. She started emptying her pack: a shallow-sided bowl, a candle, a small but sharp knife and
finally a book. The book. The book of demonology stolen by Anaya and appropriated in all innocence by herself. A book that could be a death sentence for any mage caught reading it, such was the
power it contained. She set the items down neatly on the rock with the book at its centre, ignited the candle with a single word of power and then, opening the book to the correct page, began to
chant in a quiet but well-modulated voice, speaking such words that had not been heard in this world for hundreds of years.

Evening was beginning to set around the town of Felmere where its baron stood on the walls gazing out at the campfires of the enemy. A great fiery crescent they made, enclosing
the southern part of the wall where the main road led to the great gates and portcullis. Without being aware of what he was doing, Morgan looked over to the east again where the cataract that
thereafter became the river Fel could still be seen through the woods and surrounding hills.

‘What is so special about the eastern woods? You have not been able to stop looking at them today.’ It was Syalin, her quiet approach startling Morgan into a mumbled reply.

‘Nothing. You are mistaken, I have just been surveying the land, that is all.’

‘As you wish, have it your way.’ Morgan hoped she would now let the matter rest but Syalin continued to talk.

‘They still have not found Cheris the mage, you know. Incredible really, such a pretty girl disappearing like that, despite the attentions of those knights and the entire guard not on duty
on the walls being turned out to look for her. I wonder how she did it; it was almost as though she had assistance from elsewhere.’

Morgan coughed into his hand. ‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘Oh nothing.’ Syalin sounded nonchalant. ‘How did she ever get out of the castle and past all your oh-so-alert guards without a pass I wonder?’

‘Perhaps she made herself invisible,’ said Morgan gruffly.

‘Oh!’ Syalin’s eyes widened in mock surprise. ‘So she did get out of the castle!’

‘I don’t know; I was just responding to your musings. I don’t even know if mages can make themselves invisible.’

‘They cannot.’ Syalin wore a thin smile. ‘Leastways, I have never heard of one that could. We have a saying in Koze: “The answer lies to the east”, referring to the
Temple of the Sages and its location in relation to the Lilac Palace; it is used whenever a great imponderable question comes up for which no one has an answer. I wonder if it applies
now?’

‘Spare me your questions, woman! And your insinuations! You know I cannot answer them.’ Morgan tried to sound angry, but failed miserably. ‘I could always send you back to your
Emperor; he likes blondes such as you, so I hear.’

‘The Emperor’s tastes are extremely varied – women, men, old, young, blond or otherwise; he does not differentiate. I always thought it was because of the absolute power he
wields. He could say to anyone: undress, turn around and bend over ... and no matter who they were – soldier, wife, merchant, advisor – they would have to do it.’

Morgan took out his knife and ran it along a seam in the stone battlement, digging out a small amount of earth and moss. ‘You know,’ he said finally, ‘you could still do your
initial job, kill me and return to the Emperor, I am sure you would be well rewarded.’

‘I swore an oath to you,’ Syalin said tersely.

‘But as you said before, your oath to the Emperor endures for ever. If you killed me now, all you would have to worry about was getting out of the castle. I imagine that would be easy for
someone like you.’

‘Possibly.’ Syalin sounded dismissive. ‘But you did spare my life and that is something I will not forget. Besides, I have not told you, but the parameters of my mission are
somewhat broader than you may realise. I have more than one way to complete the task given to me by the Emperor and I can do this without killing you. My attempt on you did not succeed, but my
mission may still yet do so.’ She raised her hand. ‘Do not ask me to tell you, for I cannot. Many things may still come to pass before we see the path before us.’

Morgan smiled. ‘Could you possibly be a little more cryptic?’

‘Easily.’ Syalin replied with feigned indignation.

Morgan cleaned his knife and sheathed it again. ‘I am going into the tower to have something to eat. Once I have done that I may tell you to undress, turn around and bend over if you
continue to be so elusive.’

‘Ha!’ Syalin replied haughtily. ‘You are so short you would have to be endowed like a horse to reach me.’

‘Then perhaps I will let you off for tonight.’

He reached the door to the tower and started to clamber up the spiral stairs, Syalin following closely behind.

‘Well?’ she said when they reached the door to his chamber. ‘Are you going to tell me?’

‘Tell you what?’

‘Whether or not you are endowed like a horse. The Emperor is, so it is what I am used to – anything less would be a real disappointment to me.’

Morgan turned to face her, his tone sardonic. ‘I might have known that your damned Emperor would be overly proportioned. Mind you, he is a god, isn’t he?’

‘Of course. I have to confess, though, that I did make that bit up. He is very modest in that department, even deficient; the only thing that is overly proportioned on him really is his
stomach.’

Morgan grinned. ‘See, not even the Gods can have everything.’

They both went into his room, where some food was being prepared.

She had been chanting for almost an hour now. Her throat was dry but she could not yet break from her task to drink from her water skin. To do so would be to break the spell
and she had no desire to start it again. Her bag of components had been emptied into the bowl where a few drops of added water had created a sludgy brown paste that smelled a little of the river.
The light was fading fast and her candle was proving inadequate; she would have to cast a light spell soon, once she had finished the initial stages of her chant.

As she finished speaking, the contents of the bowl started to steam slightly. Cheris grunted with satisfaction and at last took a much needed drink. So repetitive these things were, she thought,
but then again that was the nature of incantation. She looked up at the first tiny stars appearing above her; it was a fine night for winter with little cloud. From behind the rocks to her left a
mountain goat timidly poked his head out to see if the coast was clear. One glimpse of Cheris, though, and he was gone; she heard the fall of loose stones as he clambered back up the mountain side.
The noise of the waterfall soothed her a little; it was a relaxing sound, one she could almost sleep to. She listened for a little while trying to ignore the knots in her stomach from telling her
an unpalatable truth.

She was beginning to get frightened. Soon she would be at the point of no return; she would be so far advanced with her spell it would be impossible for her to turn back, to do so with a spell
of this magnitude could well mean death to the caster. But now, at this moment, she could still stop if she wanted. Felmere would remain besieged and there would be nowhere for her to go, but she
would still be alive, an outcome that was far from guaranteed if she pursued her present course. Could she live with Trask still out there? Could she live with the shame and the guilt? The
humiliation? Could she ever not feel dirty even after washing? Ever be touched by a man without squirming in horror? Even here alone on this remote mountain side she trembled as she dwelled yet
again on past events. Why could she not move on? Would she ever be able to even with her tormentor dead? As ever, she had no answers.

Cheris said a couple of words and a tiny orb of pure white light materialised at her shoulder. Then she returned to the book and after taking the deepest of breaths resumed her chant, her hands
clenched tightly beside her.

For Sir Trask today had been one of the better ones of the last few months. He had learned that the assassin had switched sides, something he understood and respected, and that
the little dark-haired mage was alive but fortunately still utterly terrified of him. He had not expected Morgan to take up his offer, so things had gone as expected there. Cannefar was handling
Axmian and Vinoyen; he had recently put another raid by the Grand Duke to flight, and reinforcements had arrived to bolster the garrisons on the river. Granted, like the force he commanded here,
there were many young boys drafted into the ranks, but he had started at fifteen; there was no reason they could not do the same. If they were not good enough, they would die, but that applied to
men of any age.

In his full armour, with a bear pelt over his shoulder and his infamous necklace of fingers, he strode out of his tent to check things in his camp. Fenchard’s finger was the latest
addition, easily recognisable as it had yet to blacken, as well as for the baby-like smoothness of the skin.

He touched it, almost tenderly; the man’s position and influence had served to his advantage after all.

The camp was a model of calmness and efficiency; no one that he could see was idling. Everyone was doing one job or another and seemed to start working all the faster once they saw him. Men
acknowledged him with a deferential bow or ‘sir’ as he passed them. He was pleased; good men as most of them were they had to be kept on their toes and he was just the man for that. He
saw two of his captains animatedly talking to each other close to one of the catapults; they were actually the people he had come out to see, so, taking his time as always, he strode over to them.
They stopped talking and pulled themselves up stiffly as soon as they saw him.

‘News?’ One word was enough from him.

‘Yes, sir, everything is going as planned. The men working in the western woods have returned with enough material for a ram and a siege tower. The carpenters will be starting to work on
them in the morning.’

‘And why aren’t they working on them now?’

The captain he was speaking to swallowed nervously. ‘Well, sir, it is almost dark...’

‘They cannot work by torchlight? They are building war machines, not a noble’s dresser. Time is important here. Put them to work for an hour; they can have an extra grog ration at
the end of it. And we need more timber. One siege tower is nowhere near enough. Send the same detail back to the woods tomorrow, and the day after, until I am satisfied.’

‘I will see to it immediately, sir!’ The captain ran off, seemingly relieved to get away. The one man that remained waited nervously for Trask to speak again.

‘The attack detail is prepared?’

‘Standing by, sir, as requested.’

‘Good. They are unlikely to be needed; I cannot see the infiltrator unit getting over the walls and opening the gate tonight, but they need to be ready just in case.’

‘They are, sir. Just waiting for your order, sir.’

‘Just waiting for my order,’ Trask repeated quietly. He pulled out his knife and held it up to the pale moon, which was just beginning to make its presence known. ‘Now,’
he said – his voice was quiet but its deep bass tone carried a perpetual threat – ‘Are you going to tell me?’

‘Tell you what, sir?’ The man shifted his feet.

‘What the two of you were arguing about.’

The man almost choked. ‘It was nothing, sir, just a minor disagreement between friends, that is all.’

‘Pleased to hear it.’ Trask smiled and looked the man straight in the eye. ‘As it is so minor, there should not be a problem telling me about it should there?’

‘No, sir.’ The man spoke slowly, trying to choose his words as carefully as he could. ‘It is just that a few of the men ... well, they subscribe to the Frach Brotherhood and
are part of that church. Some of them are a little ... upset that there is no priest of that calling available to perform services for them. At evening prayer about an hour ago...’

‘Yes?’

‘A couple of them shouted down the Artoran priest, calling him soft and complacent. There was a bit of a brawl to be honest, sir, no serious damage.’

‘And this is the first I have heard of it.’

‘It did not seem important enough to bother you, sir.’

Trask put his knife away and put his arm around the man’s shoulder; he led him alongside the catapult, which stood quietly next to its defensive ditch.

‘Let me explain something to you,’ he said softly. ‘In my camp if a mouse breaks into the stores and eats the cheese, it is important to me, let alone the first rumblings of a
seditious mutiny, which is just what you have outlined. I need to be informed the second...’ He tightened the grip on the man’s shoulder. ‘I mean the
very
second that this
sort of thing happens. You know the men who shouted the priest down?’

‘Yes, sir.’ The man’s voice was a whisper.

‘In the morning they are to be flogged; just lightly, ten lashes will do. All men to witness it after which I will explain that the Frach Brotherhood and I have had – what was it you
called it? – a minor disagreement and one that will be resolved once the town is taken and I can speak to them. And now...’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘You will tell me which of the two of you is the Frach devotee; as you were arguing I can only assume that one of you agreed with tonight’s incident while the other
didn’t.’

The man breathed a little easier. ‘It is not I, sir.’

‘Very well,’ said Trask briskly. ‘Then tell him he is in charge of the floggings tomorrow. That is...’ Trask suddenly gave the man’s shoulder a mighty heave,
propelling him into the ditch where he landed heavily on the soft earth. ‘...Once you have climbed out of the ditch. I do not appreciate having things kept from me. You need to learn this if
you wish to progress further in your career.’