The Forgotten War (97 page)

‘I see,’ said Eburg quietly. ‘And my other choice?’

‘You keep your seat here. I am satisfied as to your innocence in this affair and am prepared to let you stay. However, for this to happen you have to denounce your mother for the crimes
she has committed. She will spend the rest of her days in prison in Tanaren City. She will be given a dry room and kept in such comfort that circumstances will allow. But she will never see the sun
again and the two of you will not be allowed to correspond nor will visits be allowed. You will be informed when she dies, but that is all.’ Esric stood and produced a letter from his
belt.

‘I will give you some minutes to decide. In the meantime one of your men can take this to your wife. It contains my apologies for the manner in which she was informed of her son’s
death and my willingness, when she is ready, for us to meet face to face to discuss whatever matters she deems appropriate. Josar, let us walk in the courtyard for a few minutes while the Baron
talks matters over with his mother.’

The two men left the room, leaving behind the cadaverous ghostly figure of Baron Eburg, a man appearing to have the weight of several worlds on his shoulders and his mother, who for the first
time that her son could remember wept openly before him.

Jailor Cornock turned the key on the cell door and swore quietly under his breath. The day had not gone well for him at all. He had had to return two prisoners to the cells,
prisoners who should have already choked on the end of the rope by now, and as for the third, well unbelievably he had been given his freedom. He had done what he could to prepare the prisoners.
The crowds love a crier so he had applied a flaming brand to the boy’s chest earlier that day, but all of it was for naught. His baron, too, he could see was under pressure; the men that
Calvannen had brought weren’t just there for show. All in all, a disappointing day.

Once the prisoners were back in their cells, he returned to his own small room next to them. It was little more than a cell itself, dark and dank with little light. The only thing different
about it was the lack of a door and the presence of some simple furniture including a low table lit by a single candle and a rickety wooden chair. Into this he now slumped. He reached for a dirty
sack-cloth bag on the floor and pulled out a substantial lump of dried bread, which he started to devour with some relish.

Lost in his thoughts, he suddenly snapped to. What was that noise? It was coming from one of the cells, a scraping sound like a stone being dragged over the floor. He gave an exasperated bellow,
put his food on to the table and picked up a brutal-looking wooden cudgel. Stepping out of his room, he started to follow his ears.

He heard some low sobbing coming from the boy’s cell to his left. The noise wasn’t coming from there. He stopped and listened again. It was coming from the end cell where the door
stood open, the cell that had once held the Marsh Man. Gripping his cudgel as tightly as he could, he inched towards the door. It stood half open; he would need to push it to get into the cell.
Slowly, he forced the door open, causing it to creak noisily on its hinges.

The grille in the roof shone a patch of light on to the floor of the cell. And on to a man’s foot. Smiling, his cudgel giving him a boost to his confidence he stepped fully into the cell
part pushing the door to behind him. ‘Come back for more, have you, Marsh Man?’

Cygan stepped forward to face him directly, dropping the stone he had held in his right hand.

‘I wanted to see if that was fat or muscle. I think it is fat.’

Without warning, Cornock hefted his cudgel, aiming to bring it down sharply on to the man’s temple. Before he could, though, Cygan grabbed the man’s arm firmly and slammed his fist
into Cornock’s stomach. Winded, the man doubled over, giving Cygan enough time to twist the man’s arm behind his back, forcing him to drop his weapon. Cornock pushed back on his heels,
using all of his bull-like strength to try and topple his assailant. He did not succeed, though. A brawl developed as Cornock tried to turn and face his man while Cygan attempted to get his forearm
around Cornock’s throat. They crashed into the cell walls several times as they wrestled, but Cygan inexorably gained the upper hand, finally locking the man’s neck in a deadly embrace.
Cornock fell to the ground, kicking out behind him as he tried desperately to dislodge his enemy – the man proving to be far stronger than he had imagined. He started to choke and a line of
spittle ran from the corner of his mouth. Panic-stricken, he flapped his arms, clawing at Cygan’s face, but the Marsh Man was remorseless. His arm lock was as strong as iron and his
determination like granite. He held on as Cornock’s struggles became weaker and weaker. Eventually, after an eternity they ceased altogether.

Cygan kept gripping him for a further minute or so, just to make sure, then, satisfied, he stood, letting the body of the dead man flop to the ground. ‘It was fat then,’ he said
grimly.

Leaving the body where it fell, he strode to the jailor’s room. Scanning it briefly he located the keys left on the table. Up until recently, he had never seen such a thing as a key, now
though he knew exactly how they worked. He went from cell to cell, unlocking them all except for his old cell, which he locked firmly. That job done he threw the keys back into the small room and
scaled the stairs into the outside world.

He was not a man used to confinement and fancied a sight of the land. Locating the nearest flight of stairs, he climbed the wall of the manor house and looked about him. There was no view of the
countryside, just the town. He could just make out the square and the scaffold, their redundant nooses swinging forlornly in the breeze. For now there was a breeze. It had become warmer and closer,
too, and as he looked at the sky he could see the heavy black clouds moving north from his homeland. A storm was brewing.

Esric and Josar stepped into the courtyard and smelled the change in the air. Silently they strolled around the side of the house, quietly amused as the servants went to great lengths to get out
of their way. Finally Josar broke the silence.

‘Are you satisfied with what happened in there?’

‘Yes,’ Esric replied, ‘I had not expected the old hag’s confession, but obviously her hatred for me drove her into indiscretion. I suppose she played right into my hands
so, yes, I am satisfied. There is no pleasure to take in this outcome, though. There is still a network of people who wish to bring me down, just as Morgan warned. I am unsure of their captain for
a start. That was why I sent him away; the last thing we need is fighting in the streets between our own men and Eburg’s.’

‘Poor old Eburg!’ Josar said wistfully. ‘I almost feel sorry for him. What do you think he will do?’

‘Oh, I think we will be installing Carey as the new Baron Eburg soon enough. The current incumbent will never abandon his mother. Carey is a loyal man and has been angling for this for a
while. His son will become a noble and can join the knights, too, so there are several good things to come out of this.’

They turned and made their way back to the entrance of the house. A lone figure stood out against the sky on the low battlement of the encircling wall. He appeared to notice them and climbed
down the steps to join them.

My business is complete,’ said Cygan. ‘I do not understand your peoples disdain for the open sky; you seem to enjoy creating places to shut it off. It will be good to return to my
people, though we have much to discuss first.’

‘Yes, we can talk on the way to this trading post. I will then have to prevail upon you to return to Sketta, my town, with me while I decide upon a course of action with the other barons.
After that you are free to go your own way.’

Cygan followed them through the door of the manor house. They had not yet reached the dining hall when they heard a piercing scream from somewhere ahead of them. Running, they burst into the
hall, where a serving girl was crying hysterically.

‘By all the Gods!’ Josar said quietly.

Lady Eburg sat back in her chair, her arms hanging limply at her side. Across her throat was a thin red line from which ran several narrow streaks of blood. The front of her dress was soaked in
crimson and her small black eyes stared glassily ahead of her. Her son was slumped over the table, one twitching hand dangling over its edge. The white tablecloth was soaked in blood which was
pooling above the stone steps that raised the table above the rest of the room. Under Eburg’s hand on the floor, in the midst of the sticky mess, lay a knife, one that had obviously fallen
from the man’s fingers as the feeling drained from them.

‘I didn’t think they had enough time to do such a thing!’ Josar muttered.

‘They chose the third option then.’ Esric sounded resigned. ‘I suppose this is what you get when you try to be merciful.’

Outside through the windows came a dull and distant rumble of thunder as a smattering of rain struck the glass.

Baron Felmere gazed at his full goblet of wine. It was nowhere near noon yet and he still felt like he needed it. Knights Dominic and Reynard stood before him and their news
was not good.

‘So the mages have not returned and the enemy is on the march.’ He sounded almost matter of fact.

‘Yes, the Arshumans have surprised us. The scouts say they are but a few hours away.’ Reynard had a bit of a cold and snuffled his words.

‘And the mages? Mytha’s bloody wounds, they were supposed to be back this morning. I knew I shouldn’t have let them go.’

‘No sign, Lukas. I have sent a knight along the road to look for them, but if you remember their instructions were to be back today and it is still but morning. We expected to attack the
enemy at our leisure; no one expected them to move on us.’

Dominic was already fully armoured, his helm pushed back to reveal his sharp grey eyes.

‘Well, no matter what, we need to mobilise pretty sharpish. What of their numbers?’

‘That is what makes it such a bold move. They have fewer men than us – maybe not even five thousand including mercenaries and fresh troops unproven in battle. Their king rides at
their head in his golden armour; you know how the Arshumans love their pointless displays of ostentation.’ Reynard looked tense.

‘Well, as Dominic says, we need to go out and face them. You don’t know the country round here, do you, Hartfield?’

‘No, Lukas, but once you’ve seen one muddy field...’

‘Perfectly true. Now, if you leave the tent and look out from the camp you will see a high ridge lined with trees on the eastern horizon. Beyond that is a low plain that extends for some
miles. It used to be prime farming country, lots of hamlets and villages, it also used to be very pretty in the early autumn – golden fields and sheep and cattle grazing in the sunset. Now,
of course, no one lives there. The buildings are empty or destroyed and it has a new name, after the only creature that wanders there now.’

‘Wolf Plain,’ said Reynard.

‘Yes,’ said Felmere. ‘It is their country now, especially in winter when the land is covered in snow. It is but a couple of hours’ march away. That is where we shall meet
them. The generals and signalmen can stay on the ridge and try and direct things from there. We need to move fast; I want us up there ready and deployed before they get here.’

‘And the order of deployment?’ asked Reynard.

‘Yes, send the light cavalry and archers on ahead to keep their skirmishers busy, then the infantry can march unmolested. We will deploy with Lasgaart on the left, then my men, then
Vinoyen; after all the trouble between those two contingents I want my men to keep them apart. Then we can have the Haslan Falls and Maynard’s men on the right. You have heard about Wyak and
the Athkaril men, I take it.’

‘Some sort of trouble back home, I understand.’ Dominic knew far less of the local political situation than the other two.

‘Athkaril has been ready to ignite for some time now. Too many refugees short of food and too many supercilious townsfolk seeing themselves as better than them. And now there are riots
there and reports of the town going up in flames. Wyak has taken the men he can trust back with him and left the rest here. They will fight with my men. Despite that, we should still have nearly a
thousand more men than the enemy.’ Felmere stood and drained his goblet. ‘Despite these setbacks, we can break them here, scatter them to the four winds and win this war by the spring.
Keep that at the front of your minds as we march. They are being bold but they are there for the taking.’

From outside the tent the trumpets sounded the call to mobilisation. The three men strode into the open air. Conditions were changing. A bitterly cold dawn was giving way to a close, warmer
middle day as heavy black clouds started to come nearer and nearer. Felmere looked to the heavens. ‘Not more damned rain – just as I thought things were getting drier!’

The camp they were in was a hastily constructed tent city on the eastern bank of the Whiterush. Over the other side of the river they were overlooked by the hill with the town of Grest perched
at its crown. Two wooden bridges had been constructed over the river; one of the reasons the army had moved was to protect both of them. Felmere’s tent stood close to the riverbank, bordered
as it was with high reeds and the occasional stunted tree. The camp itself was surrounded with a hastily constructed ditch lined with sharpened stakes.