‘Too much fuss, my boy – a candle and my reading glasses are perfectly adequate for the task.’
‘Are you looking for anything in particular, or does travel bore you?’
Cedric looked up and peered at Morgan over the top of his glasses. Morgan noticed that where they sat on the bridge of his nose they had marked the skin red.
‘Not at all, no; I am just reading and rereading everything I have here relating to the Wych folk. I have, after all, to conduct a tricky and delicate negotiation with them and make sure none of us are killed in the process. Knowledge is everything, so they say, but unfortunately for us our knowledge on this subject is patchy at best.’
‘Speak to Haelward; he met some on Danathra.’
‘Their trading post? Well, that could be useful. Unfortunately, though, all the evidence I have here shows that since the folk of the sea and the forests sundered from each other they have diverged in many ways – culturally and linguistically to name but two. The folk of the Aelvenwood, I am afraid to say, seem much more savage, tribal and suspicious. Maybe I should just flatter them; perhaps that might be the best option.’
‘If they are suspicious, they will see through that immediately. Better to stand up to them, show we are not afraid. Tell them we have come through great peril to see them and deserve an audience, if nothing else.’
Cedric looked thoughtful. ‘Maybe, my boy, it is you who should talk to them.’
Morgan laughed. ‘We have to get there first! It might be more worth your while looking up the perils of Claw Pass – if the snows don’t get us, the bandits might; if the bandits don’t get us, then, well, it might be something else. Worry about the Wych folk when we clear the pass, not before.’
‘And worry about Tetha Vinoyen before we get to the pass.’ Sir Varen, who had just finished tethering and feeding the horses had obviously heard their conversation and poked his head into the wagon to make his own contribution. ‘There is little doubt that Ulgar knows we are coming; we may be on the same side against a greater enemy but the ambitions of the barons are never far from the surface. The land we are on now is disputed between Felmere and Vinoyen; their rivalry goes back decades. He will not openly oppose us but keep your eye out for a knife in the dark.’
‘But he doesn’t even know about our mission,’ Cedric said.
‘He knows Morgan, and he knows Rozgon, and he knows I am an Eagle Claw. To him we are all Felmere men and that is enough. If he can hamper us, he will; just putting one over on Lukas Felmere will satisfy him greatly. If you want my advice, get out of Tetha as quickly as possible and make for Shayer Ridge. It is my town, a Felmere town, and we will be protected there.’
‘I agree in part,’ Morgan replied. ‘But I fear we may need to spend the night in the town – better surrounded by people than be caught alone in the country at night. That way we need only have one night out in the open in Vinoyen’s lands.’
They left the wagon and settled around the campfire, a far heartier affair than the one they had had the night before. Cedric was shaking his head, obviously chewing something over in his mind; Morgan asked what was ailing him.
‘What the young knight was saying earlier, about the petty conflicts between these barons. I will never understand people who put their own personal ambitions above all other things.’
‘Ah.’ said Morgan, ‘but to such men their ambitions are never petty.’
‘Which brings me to the other thing troubling me, Morgan – how does this baron associate you with Felmere?’
‘That is a long story,’ Morgan replied. ‘It would have started about seven years ago at Fort Axmian, the great river defence to the west and south, which these days is in Vinoyen’s lands. Now, back then, Arshuma held Tetha Vinoyen and Ulgar was a baron in exile. If Axmian fell to Arshuma, his entire baronetcy would have been lost. At the time Felmere held only a rump of his original lands outside of his own city so both barons were fighting for their own territories, to preserve their own existence as nobility. Both Felmere and Vinoyen attacked Axmian together, to try and relieve the siege, but were forced back. Inside the fort, amongst the defenders, were me and Rozgon. We had water – the fort is on a river after all – but the food supplies were thinning and if the siege was not broken then the outcome would be inevitable. So we in the fort took the big risk of sallying out to try to catch the Arshumans in a pincer movement – us on one side, Felmere and Vinoyen on the other. Fortunately for us all, it worked – we broke the Arshumans and the knights harried them all the way back to Tetha Vinoyen, their base, which was now the most westerly point of their advance.
‘Ulgar was all for attacking them there immediately, so keen was he to reclaim his baronial seat, but Felmere argued against it. The men were exhausted; we had been under siege for eight weeks and in no condition to try and storm a defended position. The chances were that we would have been cut to pieces, losing all the gains we had made. Ulgar was furious; he saw Felmere as holding out because it was not his lands that we would be restoring. He immediately earmarked Felmere, and the commanders at Axmian of which I was one, as traitors and enemies. I had only been promoted during the siege as so many ranking men had been killed and within weeks I had a baron as a mortal enemy.’ Morgan laughed softly. ‘Anyway, we wintered at Axmian, reinforcements arrived and, as soon as the first shoots of spring were showing, we attacked Tetha Vinoyen by surprise, storming it immediately and forcing the Arshumans back for so many miles it meant Felmere was able to reclaim nearly all of his lost lands as well as Vinoyen. Ulgar has never forgiven us.’
Cedric looked puzzled. ‘Perhaps you weren’t the best choice for this mission then?’
‘I agree!’ Morgan was perfunctory. ‘I would rather have stayed in the south hanging traitors, but Felmere offered me a large bag of money and told me he trusted me. What else could I do?’
‘Don’t listen to Morgan, scholar.’ Rozgon gave a wicked smile. ‘The reason Felmere asked him to guide you here is because he is the best man for the job. He also underplays his hand at Axmian; the battle could well have been lost without him. We had charged into the unguarded rear of the enemy but they outnumbered us and rallied quickly. Our standard-bearer was cut down before us and we were wavering. Then Morgan picked up the banner and carried it to a small hill, calling us to join him. He stood there alone for a while, killing any Arshuman who dared challenge him, despite his wounds, until we all got to him and counter-charged. The Arshumans saw him with the banner and fled. Morgan is known to every veteran soldier around here thanks to that – he is the hero of Axmian and I will bet there are a few in Tetha Vinoyen who would as soon side with him as with his baron.’
‘Bold words, my friend,’ Morgan replied. ‘Tomorrow will see if there is any truth in them.’
In the first four years of the war, Tetha Vinoyen had been lost and recaptured six times. A large part of it had been burned and nearly all of it looted and ransacked. Since then, although at times the enemy had got within ten miles of it, people had returned and, displaying the extraordinary resilience of tough frontier folk, had slowly rebuilt the town. Its most prominent new feature was a fifteen-foot stone wall guarding that part of the town on the eastern side of the river. Its two gate towers were dotted with archer slits and were always fully garrisoned by Ulgar Vinoyen’s men in their green and white surcoats. The town itself was unremarkable; on its western side, after the low stone bridge had been crossed, it had a large square which held a weekly market for the farmers who had returned to tend to their lands again. Leading on to the square on its northern side was the Ferry inn (it had stood there since before the bridge was built). It was a tavern with extensive stables and a large front yard which held on one side the gallows and the stocks and on the other a cockpit. This was a popular place on weekends and was always packed out, as the professional gamblers made themselves a tidy profit at the expense of the well-oiled patrons. The inn itself was looking a little shabby, as though there were neither enough staff nor guests s
taying in its rooms to warrant its full maintenance.
On the southern side of the square were the large wattle-and-daub buildings of the town’s more well-to-do inhabitants, and on its western side, facing the bridge and the river was the baronial hall. Baron Ulgar had a country residence but spent most of his time in this building. It was a large, white; timber-framed building with northern and southern wings and was entirely surrounded by a five-foot wall. Although its wide gate was always open, it was constantly policed by many of the Baron’s handpicked men who were loyal, well paid and always vigilant.
After five or six hours’ travel, as the weak and pale sun started to dip a little ahead of them, Morgan and his companions arrived at the eastern gate. The gate was open but the way was barred by two stout fellows carrying halberds and wearing the green-and-white quarters of Vinoyen.
‘State your names and the business that you have in the city,’ stated one of the men brusquely and not without a modicum of relish.
‘Certainly,’ said Morgan courteously. ‘I am Morgan of Glaivedon and need to pass through your, um ... city to complete some business that has been made incumbent on me by none other than Grand Duke Leontius VII. With me are Cedric of Rossenwood, an eminent scholar, his assistant Willem, and several soldiers fresh from the front line of battle.’
‘I see.’ said the man suspiciously. ‘Wait here for a minute.’
The man ducked behind the gate and into its northern tower. He emerged some minutes later, but not before a small boy had come running out of the same door heading for the bridge.
‘Message for the Baron,’ Rozgon murmured to Morgan.
‘You may pass,’ said the guard when he eventually re-emerged. ‘But I warn you, this is an orderly city and we brook no trouble from anybody, Grand Duke’s business or no.’
‘Worry not.’ said Morgan. ‘I have no intention of causing any.’
They headed towards the bridge. The eastern side of the town was barely a quarter of a mile across and seemed to be reserved solely for the military. It had stables, blacksmiths, armourers and weapon smiths aplenty, all working like Keth’s demons. Horses churned up the muddy ground and ostlers and stableboys cursed loudly as they tried to control them. The air smelled of leather and metal. They attracted little attention as they walked through, armed men being the most common sight on the road here after all. The bridge when they got there was broad enough to take three horsemen abreast. It was a sturdy affair, its three arches spanning the Vinoyen River, fast and deep, a real defensive barrier which served only to highlight the strategic importance of this place, the only sure crossing for horses, carts and wagons that the river had this far north. They were halfway across the bridge when Sir Varen nudged Morgan.
‘Look, we have a welcome party.’
Morgan had already noticed that a group of horsemen had assembled ahead of them in the square. They were still too far away to be recognised, but two of the horsemen held banners, one displaying the green-and-white quarters, the other the white horse and cataract. There was no avoiding them, so Morgan led his men straight up to them. As he did so, he invited Cedric to join him and it was these two that approached the horsemen, with the others following a few steps behind.
Baron Ulgar Vinoyen was at the head of his men. He was a dark-skinned, dark-haired man of about forty years and a living testament that high status or privilege was no protection against the ravages of smallpox. His face was covered with the deep-pitted scars that the disease left on its victims and, despite his attempts to mitigate them by growing a large beard and moustache, they could never be fully disguised. Next to him and slightly behind was a much younger man. He had long sandy hair and pale-blue eyes and wore a suit of dazzlingly polished plate armour that obviously had never been within a country mile of a battlefield. He was clean-shaven and Morgan suspected that his eyebrows were plucked regularly; this was a man more at home with a full-length mirror than a sword.
Morgan inclined his head slightly. ‘Baron Vinoyen.’
‘And to what do I owe the pleasure?’ The Baron’s voice was higher in pitch than might have been expected in a man of his appearance. ‘Morgan of Glaivedon returning to the city that he so abjectly abandoned seven years ago!’
‘And helped to reclaim six years ago.’ said Morgan. ‘I am here at the request of the Grand Duke and am escorting the learned scholar Cedric of Rossenwood who has business that takes him through your city and beyond.’
‘And here I have the Duke’s letter of authorisation bearing his seal.’ said Cedric, holding a sheaf of paper aloft. ‘It compels all those loyal to Tanaren to assist me in my endeavours, as this man of Glaivedon is currently doing. I am engaged on a matter that is directly related to this war and hopefully may expedite it in our favour.’
Don’t say any more, thought Morgan. The last thing we need to do is pique his curiosity.
‘We intend to remain in your city for one night only,’ Morgan continued. ‘If the inn has any rooms, that is, and we shall be long gone ere tomorrow ends. I assure you that my presence here will be a fleeting one only.’
‘Make sure that this is the case,’ the Baron replied firmly. ‘You are not a friend to me or the city. I shall not hinder you, if the Grand Duke has given you his blessing, but you will receive no aid from me either.’
‘You are too generous, Baron!’ The man at his side finally spoke.
‘If I had been so slighted in the past, then this churl would have been whipped and dragged out of the city tied to my saddle.’
Ulgar smiled. ‘Allow me to introduce Baron Fenchard Aarlen of Haslan Falls. His father passed away last winter and I am instructing him as to his baronial duties. As you can see, he has not yet acquired my temperance and moderation.’
‘They are skills that are acquired only through time and experience,’ Morgan replied. He turned to face Fenchard. ‘I remember your father well and was sorry to hear of his passing. He was a fine warrior and a generous man. I hope he has taught you well.’
‘My father was all that you say he was.’ Fenchard’s tone was sneering. ‘But he was prone to being over-indulgent towards his subjects. They must always know where their loyalties lie. Where do your loyalties lie, Glaivedon? With the Grand Duke? Lukas Felmere? Or just your own purse.’
‘Loyalty is not a simplistic issue, not a question of black or white, and yet ultimately my loyalty is to Tanaren, and always will be.’
‘Many a traitor has used such words in the past and still they never escape the disembowelling knife of the executioner. Be wary, Glaivedon! I am watching you – one slip and a silver tongue will be no defence against me.’
‘Then I am forewarned and will be wary. I have no desire to be held down and subjected to the ministration of your eyebrow tweezers.’
The men behind Morgan sniggered as Fenchard started in his saddle. His eyes blazed with fury and he made to ride towards Morgan, but Ulgar put out his hand stopping him.
‘Patience, Fenchard! The man’s tongue will be his own undoing one day and on that day you have my permission to nail it to the nearest privy door.’
He looked at Morgan. ‘It is the scholar and his letter that has saved you here. This time tomorrow I will make for the inn. If you have not left by then, I will set my men on you; they can have the pleasure of slapping you in those stocks.’ With that he spurred his horse and turned back to his manor, his troops following. Fenchard lingered a second more, glaring at Morgan, before he, too, turned to follow the Baron.
‘Keth’s flaming balls! Who was that jumped-up snotty little turd?’ Rozgon had come forward and was now standing next to Morgan.
‘A jumped-up snotty little turd who dares speak only because he has soldiers beside him and the patronage of the most powerful Baron this side of the river. We saw his men on the road yesterday; undoubtedly he has many more. He’s not really the sort of enemy I was looking to make.’ Morgan did not take his eyes off the Baron’s party until they were behind the walls of the manor house.<
br />
‘You had no choice. The boy was spoiling for a fight; he obviously wanted to impress Vinoyen.’
‘Maybe. Couldn’t you just smell his ambition? Oh and Cedric, thanks for producing that letter; you had hardly any time to retrieve it from the wagon.’
‘You are right,’ Cedric replied. ‘I had hardly any time at all. This letter is actually...’ he unfolded the scroll ‘...a letter from Professor Hartwinge asking me to attend his lecture concerning physical depictions of the divine.’
‘Did you go?’ Morgan asked.
‘By Artorus, no! If you think I can talk, then you should sit and listen to one of Hartwinge’s three-hour lectures. I saw Claw Pass as a preferable alternative.’
‘I think I would prefer a three-hour session at the inn.’ said Rozgon hopefully.
‘I am afraid we will have neither.’ said Morgan. ‘We get a room, we get some food and we hide out until tomorrow. That is the plan.’
‘Maybe you, the Professor, and the boy should, but it might be a good idea for a couple of us to look around town; there might be something worth hearing.’
‘Fair enough.’ Morgan nodded his agreement. ‘We should pick up some supplies as well if at all possible, I imagine the inn has plenty of space; I cannot see there being too many commercial travellers in this part of the world.’
8
Their rooms were of a good size on the ground floor, their small windows looking directly out on to the city. The bed was large and a lot more comfortable than what Cheris was used to back in her little cell on the island. She went to Marcus’s room, which was at the other end of a narrow, semicircular corridor, and told him.
‘I am feeling rather tired. All the excitement has rather worn me out – I think I will get some sleep.’
‘I understand completely; the sea air doesn’t help either. We will be eating in our rooms. so call me when you are ready and I will organise some food.’
She returned to her room. Leaving the door slightly ajar, she lay on the bed and shut her eyes. After a few minutes came the sound of barely perceptible footsteps on the stone outside. She felt the door open, then close again soft as a whisper. Without opening her eyes she said quietly: ‘Well, Sir Dylan, did you get it?’
The Forgotten War Page 11
