The Forgotten War (186 page)

And as Morgan watched, as Dominic watched, as Itheya watched along with thousands of knights and humble soldiers, they saw the dragon and its rider hurtle towards the middle of
the lake, flying faster and faster and faster. Morgan shut his eyes, not wanting to see the end.

‘Sister!’ Dominic shouted in fury and despair, for the dragon did not stop. And finally it broke the surface of the lake, vanishing under a colossal plume of water with a noise like
a thunderclap. The surface of the lake was placid no more, for a giant wave surged in all directions, drowning the shoreline and sweeping boats free of their moorings.

With a roar, Dominic spurred his horse towards the lake. He even went partway into the water, the horse’s fetlocks disappearing under it, calling out Ceriana’s name again and again,
calling until the waters had subsided and the lake was still once more, as though nothing had ever happened there.

There was still one thing, though – where the dragon, and its rider, disappeared a giant column of smoke now rose. Maybe it was the quenching of the fires of the dragon but it was thick
and black and it rose until it touched the very clouds above, a signal to the Gods that their wishes had been fulfilled.

For a while no one spoke, so astounded and moved were they by what they had seen. But finally Itheya gently touched Morgan’s shoulder.

‘Come, Morgan,’ she said quietly. ‘It is time to claim what your people have fought for for so long.’

And so it was that Morgan, Protector Baron of Felmere, son of a farmer raised above his station, marched into Roshythe at the head of his army, reclaiming the ancient city for
Tanaren and bringing to an end a ruinous eleven-year war that had strongly affected all of the thousands of people that had been involved in it. Alongside him was Itheya of the Morioka tribe,
original custodians of the city and the first elf to enter the city for nearly eight hundred years. And the yellow flags were taken down and replaced with the blue and white of Tanaren.

And this was the sight that finally greeted the Grand Duke when he arrived at the city some three days later, powerless to change what had already happened there. For, three days earlier, at the
final Battle of Roshythe, or the Battle of the Dragon Princess, Tanaren had reclaimed all of its ancient lands. And at last, the Forgotten War was finally over.

He was back at what he finally realised was his favourite place in the whole world. The chamberlain, Obadrian, had fussed over him like an old mother hen, propelling him
through the palace near his capital city, Kitev, and into his throne room, before telling him to wait there while he organised a boat to take him downriver. Downriver to the sea where a ship could
convey him to some foreign sinkhole where he could live as an exile. The King sat there for all of two minutes before walking out, into his garden and to his pond, where he could feed his fish,
maybe for the last time.

The palace was almost deserted. Where was everyone? He had known most of his staff had decamped to Roshythe with him but a skeleton staff should have remained here. But he had hardly seen a
soul. And, to his surprise, he was rather enjoying it. He had never been on his own in his life before; his life had been a succession of nurses, tutors, servants and sycophants. Solitude was a new
experience, and now, looking at the eager gaping fish as he threw them bread and listening to the sweet sounds of the birds in the trees above, he at last realised what he had been missing. It was
beautiful, serene – for the first time in years he smiled naturally and not purely to make a courtier feel better, or to convince a diplomat that he believed what the man was saying. He had
lost everything but for just one fleeting moment it didn’t seem to matter.

The moment vanished with the sound of footsteps on the stones behind him. It did not sound like Obadrian but the man had hardly been himself lately. He turned sharply.

‘You!’ he gasped in his surprise.

Syalin strolled towards him as though she did not have a care in the world. She stopped just short of him. The King noticed her eyes with not a little shock. They were warm, almost
sympathetic.

‘How did you get into the palace?’ he asked her.

‘Have you not seen? There is nobody here to stop me. Everyone knows of the storm that is coming and have fled to save themselves. It is just you and me, and your fish.’

‘The disloyal curs!’ the King stormed. ‘I will have them all flogged!’ He realised the emptiness of his words even as he said them. ‘Obadrian will not desert me; he
is organising transport to the sea even as we speak!’

‘He is organising nothing,’ Syalin said quietly.

The King’s eyes widened. ‘You! You bitch, you have killed him, haven’t you?’ He lashed out at her, fully expecting her to deflect his blow, but she didn’t. He
struck her full on the face and she took the blow, letting it redden her cheek. She returned to gaze at him with no anger in his eyes.

‘I am sorry,’ she said. ‘I had no choice.’

‘You lying Kozean whore; of course you had a choice.’

She replied in a bitter tone. ‘If I had a choice, I would never have killed a single person in my entire life. I lost my free will when I was a child. But I owe you an apology
regardless.’

‘What for?’ he spat the words out.

‘For misleading you. I told you I had killed their general. I had not. He was badly wounded but survived. And he spared my life. What could I do but obey his commands after
that?’

‘I guessed as much,’ the King said. ‘You knew of that ... beast, I imagine; your job was to get my men out of the gates where they could be chewed up and swallowed. Well,
congratulations – treachery has its own awards, I imagine.’

‘It was not treachery, just pragmatism. You were not made aware of my full instructions from the Emperor, just the part you needed to hear.’

The King raised an eyebrow. ‘And what exactly was kept from my unworthy ears?’

‘You knew that I was to kill two people on your behalf but there was more. I was to remain here to see in whose favour this war was swinging. If it was to turn against your kingdom, then
it was my duty to erase all trace of our little ... collaboration.’

The King snorted contemptuously. ‘Chira knows of it anyway.’

‘They know of a rumour, but without physical proof it cannot be substantiated and so they have no justification for moving against us.’

‘Then you had better get going,’ The King laughed. ‘They are on their way and if they needed living proof then you are it.’

Syalin smiled. ‘Yes, I will be going very shortly, but the people here that knew of my involvement, if they were captured and tortured ... well, you see where this is going.’

‘Is that why Obadrian had to die?’

‘It is. As I said, I am sorry.’

The King nodded slowly, understanding what was coming next. ‘So the only person remaining who knows of Koze backing our cause is...’

‘Is you, yes.’

‘You would kill a king?’

Syalin quickly felt the knife at her side. ‘What is a king without a kingdom? Just a man. And a man who dies as easily as any other. I am sorry; I rather liked you but the only way I can
return to the Emperor in triumph is through your death. I hope your Gods can forgive me for what I have to do.’

Their eyes locked for a second – the King’s hunted and wary, the assassin’s almost sorrowful. Then the King turned and ran.

Syalin waited for a second, watching him sprint towards the nearest doorway; it was almost as if she was considering whether or not she really had to do this, whether she could just turn and go
– what was this man to her anyway? For a second there were real signs of anguish on her face.

Then she threw her knife.

It was a perfect strike, hitting the hapless man between the shoulders. He called out in pain, tripped on the lip of the pond and fell in headfirst where his twitching body finally came to rest
among the lily pads and the unblinking fish.

Syalin walked over to where he quietly floated. Leaning over, obviously trying not to get wet, she twisted the knife and pulled it out of the King’s body. There was blood on her fingers.
She looked at it, sniffed it and put it to her lips where a spot remained until she licked it off. She then washed the knife and her hand in the water and turned to go. No, she stopped and turned
back to the body. On the dead man’s hand was a ring, pure gold with a colossal diamond at its centre whose housing was fashioned into a likeness of a blazing sun. It was the ring of a king.
She knelt and tugged at it but it held fast. Finally, with a sigh of mounting exasperation she pulled out the knife again; one surgical cut and the finger was free. She pulled the ring off the
severed digit and dropped it into the water where the fish, drawn by the blood, started to nibble at the ragged exposed flesh. Pocketing the ring, she stood again and blithely walked away.

What a torture this freedom was turning out to be – what should she do next? Return to the Emperor? Her mission was successful now, but he would know of her failure to kill Morgan, as
would the other Strekha; it was a weakness many would try to exploit. Or she could return to Morgan, but that would mark her as a traitor and other Strekha would be sent after her, putting more
lives in danger than just her own. Or she could do something else. Freelance work, Morgan had suggested, but of what sort and for whom? And where could she find the blackroot she needed? She had no
answers to any of these questions.

What she did need to do, though, was leave here, and fast. Through the empty palace she walked and out through its great unlocked doors into the warm sunshine. The world was hers at last. What
she would do with it though she could not even tell herself.

Knuckles red and raw, the fishermen pulled their empty nets aboard for the hundredth time that day.

‘Nothing, my Lord.’ One of them called out to the tall figure standing on the bank of the lake.

‘Keep trying,’ Dominic shouted back at them. ‘You still have an hour of daylight left.’

Grumbling, the men returned to their duties. For three days Dominic had had them casting their nets, searching for his sister’s body; three days of fruitless toil they had endured but they
could see Dominic was in no mood to give up the hunt just yet. A lone horsemen rode up to Dominic and dismounted. He was a slighter figure than the tall knight and Dominic knew who it was
immediately.

‘Hello, Richney,’ he said bluntly.

Richney came and stood alongside him. ‘Dominic, the Grand Duke is asking for you; he wants you alongside him for the celebration banquet.’

‘I am busy. And why send you and not some messenger?’

Richney snorted. ‘These days I am his messenger. The only menial task he has not given me to do so far is empty his chamber pot.’

‘Well,’ replied Dominic, not taking his eyes off the lake, ‘there is always tomorrow.’

The two men were silent for a minute as they watched the fishermen toil.

‘You should forget this, Dominic. Do you know how deep this lake is? You could hide the Derannen Mountains in them, let alone a dragon. I am sorry for your loss but she is gone, Dominic;
she is with the Gods now.’

‘If she is dead, then she should float, but no one has seen her, or the dragon for that matter. The priests may have held a service on the lake, but we need her to be turned to ashes for
things to be done correctly in the eyes of the Gods.’

Richney tried changing the subject. ‘The infant, she is well?’

‘Thriving, a small child but strong. Like her mother.’

‘Good. That is good. So will you come back with me now?’

Dominic pitched a stone across the lake’s surface, watching it skip across the water. ‘The war is won. Only Axmian holds out against him. What is the hurry?’

‘Because he is appointing new barons. So many here are dead and he wants quick, and loyal, replacements. The palace in Roshythe is full to bursting with Vinoyens and Lasgaarts jostling for
his favour. It is even rumoured that he is jealous of the man Morgan and will be replacing him, too.’

‘With you, I believe, if I was wont to listen to court gossip.’

‘Once maybe,’ said Richney derisively. ‘But I will be lucky to keep the lands I already own. Maybe Duneck will profit, I do not know. Leontius wants issues settled quickly
here, so that he can crush the rebellion near the capital.’

‘Three rebellions within a year!’ Dominic smiled at the thought. ‘Two crushed and a war won. Lasthena and his forces have no chance.’

Richney sidled closer to Dominic. ‘Of that I would not be so sure. They are numerous, I believe, and cannot be touched in the forest. They could hold out for years. But they need something
more to succeed.’

‘Such as?’

‘A figurehead.’ Richney seemed to be warming to his topic. ‘Lasthena is popular among his people but that is not enough. They need a far greater figure to rally around, a truly
powerful baron perhaps or a duke, or the son of a duke. One, say, with connections traversing the entire country. Say, for example, one whose father had pacified the north, crushing a rebellion and
giving the people stability and, more importantly, food over the winter. He would have many allies there should he so choose to ask for them. One, say, who had marital connections in the east,
where he was popular for his own role in ending the war there. Who was related to the Dragon Princess and who was on close terms with the Chief Prosecutor of the war here, two figures for whom the
bards have already started to compose songs. (No one is doing that for the Grand Duke!) Who, finally, has his chief estates close to the capital city where he is known to be brave and fair in both
war and peace. Why, such a man would have the Grand Duke trembling in a corner in no time, were he to so wish it. Especially if the rumours are true about the Grand Duke’s role in the death
of his brother-in-law. ‘

‘You are quite the weasel, aren’t you, Richney?’ Dominic turned to face the other man at last. ‘Yet there is something in your words. Go and tell the Grand Duke I will be
there shortly. I will let the fishermen try one more time and will return here at dawn.’