‘Oh, that is not the boy’s fault. It is a nice change for him to have some younger company. Food will be welcome, though, however unappetising’ Morgan laughed. ‘Unappetising? You can have Artorus’s own personal guarantee that it will be that.’
‘So,’ said Samson, lying in the ground with his back against a tree, ‘what is it that you really dislike about the Arshumans?’
‘Their silly little pointed beards, and the fact that they all seem to grow them,’ said Leon. ‘How can a hundred people all want to look the same?’
‘Those beards are catching on over here now though,’ said Haelward, while chewing some dried meat. ‘I have seen a few people with them. Morgan was wrong when he said that man’s beard made him an Arshuman.’
‘The tattoo was pretty conclusive, though,’ Samson countered. ‘Mytha as a bull? Utter bollocks.’
‘Fair point,’ Haelward conceded. ‘Where is your tattoo? Mine is on my forearm’
‘Same here,’ said Leon. ‘Some of us have no imagination.’
‘Me,’ said Samson, ‘on my chest. Artorus’s flaming teeth, it hurt! Growler, where is yours?’
Rozgon was whetting his knife. He put it down and looked at them. ‘I have two. One’ he slapped his left shoulder, ‘here.’
‘And the other?’
The big man grinned. ‘For that, my friend, you will have to ask my wife, or a couple of the friendlier ladies back at the camp, or that girl who tended my wounds after Axmian or...’
‘Mytha’s claw,’ exclaimed Haelward. ‘I hope for their sakes it was dark.’
They all laughed.
‘Cheeky dog,’ said Rozgon affectionately. ‘Anyway, back to the Arshumans. There is a lot to hate about them but what really gets me is their obsession with all things yellow. They all wear it, the little snots. If it’s not in their armour, it’s in a silly little scarf, or in a feather in their cap. Facing them in battle is like squaring up to a flock of canaries.’
‘It is their national colour, though,’ said Varen, who had just joined them.
‘And don’t we just know it. I mean, we are not like that. Our colours are blue and white, with some grey for the mountains if you are from this neck of the woods, but aside from our main banner we don’t feel the need to display them everywhere.’
‘I do wonder, though,’ Varen replied, ‘if it helps with their discipline. Seeing everyone wearing the same colours maybe makes people pull towards the common goal.’
Leon looked up at him. ‘Nah.’
Samson cut in: ‘They have a king who rules by fear. I have heard not wearing yellow into battle is a flogging offence. Thanks, but I would rather stand foursquare with a bunch of friends as determined to watch my back as I am theirs than be driven into battle under fear of the lash.’
Haelward nodded. ‘Well said that man; anyhow, how can a country that regards snails as a luxury dish be possibly called civilised.’
‘They eat snails?’ Willem had just joined them.
‘Yes, said Haelward, ‘pickled in vinegar and wild garlic. When we fight them they never use their swords; they just breathe on us. It’s very effective.’
‘Hey, Willem,’ said Leon with a glint in his eye, ‘why don’t you get a tattoo done when we get into the town tomorrow. Just a small one, on your arm maybe?’
Willem looked sheepish. ‘I am not sure the monastery would approve.’
‘Nonsense!’ barked Rozgon. ‘Ex-soldiers join the church all the time; besides, you are one of us now and we have all got one. We’ll sort one out for you in Shayer Ridge; you will get some God-given courage then when we get to the pass.’
‘All right then. Why not?’
‘Good man!’ Rozgon slapped him on the shoulder and went off to see Sir Varen who was watering the horses.
Leon got up, too, stretched his back and pulled off his gloves – three-fingered leather ones, as worn by a lot of the archers – and stretched out his hands, bathing them in the cool air. He had another tattoo, on the back of his left hand. Haelward asked him about it; it was a name, though he couldn’t make out whose from where he was sitting.
‘Miriam, my good lady. We have been together since we were fifteen.’
‘Any kids?’
‘Two – a boy and a girl, seven and five years old.’
Haelward laughed in surprise. ‘I had no idea. You have never mentioned them.’
Samson chipped in. ‘They do not fit in with the dark and moody persona he likes to portray. Fact is, they are the most devoted couple I have ever seen and he can’t wait to finish his army service in two years so he can get back to them. He has only come on this little jaunt because I wanted to and we always fight together.’
‘That’s not true,’ his cousin replied. ‘I needed to get out of camp as much as you. Sitting there waiting for Artorus knows what was making my head explode, and yes Haelward, I do miss my wife. Compare this to my cousin with his countless bastards, probably one in every town in the east. You have no idea how many times I have had to save him from irate, axe-wielding cuckolded men.’
‘What can I say?’ replied his cousin. ‘Can I help it if women love me? Especially if they have dull, tedious farmer types for husbands whose conversation extends no further than the price of pigs on market day?’
Leon looked at Haelward. ‘Samson was always the spoiled one in the family, the one they could afford to educate. Little did his parents know that the only use he would put it to would be to talk gullible women out of their petticoats.’
‘Nonsense, I make them laugh, feel important. Show them there is more to life than being a brood mare for some rock-brained bumpkin...’
‘Then run off and leave them.’
‘Nonsense, I would marry them all if I could. And I often return to see them again ... if their husband is away.’
‘And if you didn’t know Miriam and me, would she be fair game?’
‘No,’ said Samson emphatically, ‘I only bother with women who are obviously unhappy, and Miriam is not one of those.’
They stopped as Morgan came to join them. He called Rozgon and Varen to him and when everyone was present, he spoke. ‘Right, lads, I have something to tell you about our esteemed scholar...’
They camped that night on a hillock covered in trees and light shrubs. During the day Morgan had dropped back from the party on several occasions to listen for any signs of pursuit; hearing nothing he allowed a small fire, which was doused once everyone had settled down for the night. He took the first watch, sitting motionless as he faced southward listening to the soft breath of the wind in the trees and the calls of the owls looking for scurrying mice on the forest floor. Rozgon took over from him after three hours and Haelward after that. The night passed peacefully; evidently the two barons were so discomfited as to consider pursuit not worthwhile.
The following day the path stopped hugging the river and instead plunged uphill into the pine forest. They trudged wearily through these gloomy woods for a while as the path twisted and turned before them. Later, though, it rejoined the river, which was now a fast-flowing stream chattering and gurgling as it sped downhill over jagged rocks and pebbles worn smooth and covered in weed. Some time after noon they arrived at Shayer Ridge.
Perched on a flat-topped, sharply sloping hill, it was easy to see why the town had never fallen to the enemy, despite undergoing a two-month siege at one stage of the war. Joining the rock face to completely surround the town was a fifteen to twenty-foot-high stone wall, with the only access being through a great door of wood and iron. Over it hung a wooden machicolation, a crenellated wooden platform attached to the main battlement, full of murder holes used to spring nasty surprises on any attacking enemy. Through a stone culvert in the wall protected by an iron grill spilled the river, which passed down the hill and into the enclosing pine forest on their right. Shayer Ridge was a mining town; little agriculture was possible here, so it imported its grain, storing it in large silos, and exported what it found deep under the ear
th. This included many precious gems that all too often were found adorning the wealthy and opulent of Tanaren society. This was Sir Varen’s town; he was the son of the local magistrate and it was he who would take charge of their provisioning for the journey through the pass.
‘I know most of Baron Felmere’s lands are the other side of the river,’ he said, ‘but Shayer Ridge is his town as well. Both Baron Vinoyen and Baron Lasgaart have lands around here but we declared for Felmere decades ago, as we were fed up of the Lasgaarts stripping the wealth from the town and giving nothing in return. He tried taking the town by force but that ended badly for him. If you all wait at the gate, I will arrange things for us.’
He was as good as his word. Within the hour they found themselves housed in the magistrate’s hall, the finest building in the town. Baths were prepared and once they had cleaned up, a large feast including chicken, pork, meat and fruit pies as well as bread and stew was prepared for them, all washed down with a strong ale.
‘Eat as much as you can,’ said Morgan. ‘Only the Gods know when we will have such a feast again.’
They spent the night in the private wing of the mansion, sleeping on feather mattresses close to a roaring fire. Then, as the cock crowed to herald a leaden dawn, every one of them awoke to realise that the real journey was about to begin.
After a quick trip to the latrines, Morgan headed into the courtyard. It was a raw morning and his breath showed in white plumes. Everyone was assembled and looked ready to depart. Sir Varen was standing at the head of the horses, talking to an older man finely dressed in a green velvet cloak. The family resemblance was immediately obvious to Morgan – both had the same strong jaw and sandy hair, though the older man’s was flecked with grey. He went up to them.
‘I take it, my Lord, that it is to you we should convey our thanks for the more than generous hospitality we have received since our arrival.’
‘No thanks are required,’ said the older man. ‘I am Vanek the magistrate here and Varen is my boy, as I am sure you know already. I am sorry I was not here when you arrived yesterday but rents have to be collected, and a lot of local villages often need to be visited and persuaded into fulfilling their obligations to myself and the Grand Duke.’
‘Times are hard for us all,’ said Morgan. ‘I must say though that the two of you look very much alike. Sir Varen is a credit to you by the way. Far too noble a gentleman to keep his present company.’
Varen laughed. ‘On the contrary, sharing a journey with two of the heroes of Axmian, and another who fought at Galpa, is an honour well in excess of what I deserve.’
Vanek looked at Morgan. ‘Take care of my boy. He is brave but young, and so far has had little experience of warfare.’
Varen looked annoyed. ‘I can acquit myself as well as any man here,’ he said.
‘There will be little opportunity to nurture anyone along on this trip,’ said Morgan, ‘but I will keep an eye on him, as much as I can. Varen, have you stored some brushwood on the wagon?’
‘I have indeed,’ said Varen, ‘lots of it. I think poor Cedric is making a bed out of the stuff.’
‘It is time I took my leave,’ said Vanek. ‘May Artorus protect all of you and see you back safely.’ With that he gave an abrupt bow and left them alone.
Morgan looked at Varen. ‘He means the best for you. In my experience an over-protective father is better than no father at all.’
‘He has high expectations yet does not wish me to take the risks involved to achieve them. He has had duties here which have kept him away from the battlefield, except for the siege when he managed the logistics of the operation as opposed to manning the walls. I fear he rather wishes to live his thwarted ambitions through myself.’
‘Well, as far as I am concerned he has looked after us well and we could not be better provisioned for the journey ahead. By the time you return it is highly probable you will have fulfilled all of his ambitions for you anyway. If you are not dead, that is. And do not worry. There is no possibility of me keeping you out of any trouble we might get into; there will be no passengers on this trip.’
‘Yes, I quite realise that. I wouldn’t have volunteered otherwise. Have you seen Willem yet? Whatever you do, don’t slap him on the arm. Rozgon has had it tattooed!’
Shortly afterwards they moved off. The western road to Claw Pass hugged the mountain side, with a sheer drop into the pine forest on its left of some twenty feet or more. This meant that they were rather exposed to the biting wind, causing them to pull their cloaks tightly around their ears and their noses to run uncontrollably. Morgan laughed at their discomfiture.
‘This is just a taste of what is to come.’
After travelling for some hours the road dipped under the tree line, providing some relief from the wind. They took advantage of this, stopping to eat a brief lunch and waiting for their ears to thaw. With the horses, progress was disappointingly slow and Morgan realised that they wouldn’t get to the pass until the morning. Having resigned himself to that, he decided not to force the pace too much and camp for the evening quite early, all the better to conserve their strength for what was to come. Eventually the road dropped so that it was now level with the floor of the forest. Little light filtered down through the high branches of the trees, and the ground, carpeted with needles, was light and spongy underfoot. Not a bird sang in the trees and no animal was seen excepting the occasional squirrel scampering into the high branches, eager to build up its store of winter food. This was a rarely used road at this time of year and they met no one on it all day. The silence cast a pallor over everyone, making them reluctant to speak or stray from their own thoughts.
They made camp, lit a fire and Samson regaled everyone with tunes on his flute; he was quite the virtuoso and before too long they were all singing around the fire, even Cedric and Willem, who had a thousand requests to bare his forearm and show off his new tattoo. The frivolities were cut short, however, as the wind picked up and they were pelted with bursts of short squally rain. Those that could not fit into the wagon slept directly under it. In this fashion they passed an uneasy night.
In the morning they started off early. Within half an hour they passed a fast-flowing mountain stream, small enough for the wagon to cross it without difficulty but enabling them to fill all their water skins. The road veered north shortly after and started climbing again, leaving the forest behind, and less than an hour into their journey they reached the Tower of Hayader, which marked the starting point Claw Pass. It was an unassuming grey stone tower that did not serve as a barrier to the pass, as the west road they were on and the south road which joined it here both gave it a wide berth before climbing upward into a U-shape cleft in the rock. It was inhabited though; a couple of men in the red livery of Baron Lasgaart come out to speak with them.
‘Hail there, friends,’ said one. ‘Are you seriously going to attempt the pass before springtime?’
‘We have no choice,’ said Morgan. ‘We are on urgent business on behalf of the Grand Duke and Baron Felmere.’
‘Then it is not for me to stop you, but I warn you: if the snow starts before you get to Jeremiah’s Saddle, turn back. The pass will be impossible to clear if that happens. There are tales of people resorting to eating each other after they had got themselves trapped up there.’
‘Don’t worry!’ Morgan indicated Rozgon. ‘If it comes to that, he will see us through winter, spring and summer.’
The man laughed and passed a wooden box up to Varen, who was leading the horses. ‘Iron rations, meat and fat. You may need it on the journey ahead.’
‘Thank you,’ said Morgan. ‘I will mention you to Baron Felmere if we return.’
And with that they passed the tower and started to climb the wide road that led into the gaping maw of the pass.
12
It was a different type of dawn chorus for Cheris. The raucous cries of seagulls had been replaced by the chatter of a great variety of smaller birds, some musical, some less so.
Add to that, the early rumbling of wheeled traffic on the road outside her room and she had no problem getting up and being ready for the next part of her journey. Marcus had got what he wanted – the new knight in charge of their escort was both older and uglier. He had a large red birthmark that covered his right cheek and went by the name of Sir Norton. As she waited in the frosty dawn air for the horses to be fixed to the wagon that she and Marcus would be sharing, she cast her eyes about hoping for a glimpse of Sir Dylan but with no success. Her heart sank a little.
There were four knights going with them in total; apparently there would be a further twenty or so at the army camp, all of whom were employed to look after the healer mage, a lady called Anaya. Cheris remembered her well, a striking lady some ten to fifteen years older than her with bright-red hair held in a bun. She was quite a serious woman, not prone to outbursts of laughter. Cheris made a mental note to act accordingly when she met her.
One of the knights was a very young lad, probably not even in his twenties, who went by the name of Roland. It turned out the reason he was on this trip was that he was very good with horses, having grown up on a farm. He would be the one driving the wagon for them and made a beeline for Cheris when he saw her. He explained what he would be doing on this trip. which prompted her to ask:
‘Have you finished all your knightly training? Please don’t think I am being rude or anything, but you look as if you have barely started shaving.’
‘No, my Lady, I am but a squire who has barely embarked on his studies. It will be several years before I can call myself a knight. Rather, I am here to tend the horses and clean the knights’ armour, weapons and so forth.’ He looked at her as if unsure of what to say next.
‘Pardon me, my Lady, but I have never met a mage before, I am ... curious as to the nature of your powers. I know I will be trained in as to how you use your abilities, but this will be only from a knight’s perspective. I wonder if, as we travel, you could try and explain magic from the position of one who wields it.’
The Forgotten War Page 18
