The Forgotten War

by Howard Sargent

  She broached another tiny clearing and stopped dead in her tracks, her eyes like saucers. The white flash through the trees had been a cloak, one of the knight’s cloaks. Not ten feet away from her, in a neat row, lay all the knights, all of them dead and spattered with blood. A quick perusal showed that they had had their throats cut, and from the way the blood had run it appeared that this had been done when they were lying down, in their sleep maybe. Sir Norton was there, his eyes wide and glassy and the fear, which she had held in abeyance for a few hours, returned to her tenfold.

  And then it was that sound again, the breaking twig, immediately behind her. She whirled around, ready to raise her hand and use the force spell on any assailant, but she was far too late. Three men had crept up behind her almost noiselessly. Two of them grabbed an arm each and one placed a hand firmly over her mouth. She tried kicking out, but a moment later was lifted clean off the ground. They were all so much stronger than she was, though it didn’t stop her wriggling and struggling, however fruitless the end result.

  There were a couple more figures in the trees coming towards her. One was slight and looked no more than a boy. The other was the exact opposite, a hulking man, broad-shouldered and powerful. The sun shone in their faces, meaning she couldn’t see them clearly, but there was something familiar about the big man. Then he spoke and her worst fears were realised.

  ‘I told you, boys, she was a feisty one. I am glad she survived; she will entertain us all for the next hour or two.’ Sir Trask stepped forward into the clearing and stood not five feet from her, stroking his bald head. He had forsaken his mail and wore riding leathers like the other men. Behind him was a boy, maybe fifteen or sixteen years old. He looked like he didn’t even shave. Trask turned to him.

  ‘Bring the horses up to the clearing, and don’t look so frightened. Today is the day you lose your virginity after all. You three, gag her and tie her hands; without them she is just another woman.’ Then at last he spoke directly to her.

  ‘We followed you last night,’ he said with a smile. ‘We were going to cut your throats as you slept, just like we did with these knights, but then you went and started your little bonfire. So we had to wait and watch for survivors, to ambush you before you could fry us. I would like to thank you for doing two-thirds of the job for us; it means we can take more time with the remaining third. And, believe me, we will take our time – weeks in the field have made the boys ... hungry, if you know what I mean, and a delicate little specimen like you is just the perfect answer.’

  He turned and started to walk away. ‘Bring her to the clearing and keep her angry; it’s all the better when they wriggle.’

  They started to carry her, like a sack or piece of baggage, laughing as they went. Cheris felt empty, a hollow vessel. Nothing more could be done to her surely. She just hoped they killed her quickly; she realised dully that there was nothing else she wanted, nothing she wanted at all anymore. Just death and eternal sleep.

  47

  ‘Right. So what do we do know?’ Ceriana hunched her shoulders and stared straight ahead into the gloom.

  The climb up the hill had taken about half an hour. There was a path cut through a narrow defile in the hillside with room for two people to walk abreast. This they had followed until it had opened out on to the grassy hilltop. At last, she saw they were among the ruins. And, despite the fog shrouding everything, she could tell immediately that these ruins were not of human origin. Architecture in Tanaren was square or rectangular – large functional blocks of stone put together to make buildings in which practicality was all. There were exceptions, the Grand Cathedral, the Ducal Palace, but in most cases aesthetics were a secondary consideration. Obviously, the Wych folk had seen things differently. The towers that had not collapsed were tall and elegant, reminding her rather of delicate ladies’ fingers. They were circular in design and she noticed, at least in one tower where the wall had partially collapsed, a narrow but elegant spiral staircase. Fragments of marble still covered some of the steps, though most had long been stripped off by looters. There were graceful colonnades holding up long-vanished ceilings, floor mosaics all broken up and obscured by grass, and fragments of high walls and parapets with fluted walkways. At its peak, the city must have been a joy to behold. But its peak was long ago and, of course, its destruction had been partly due to her ancestors carving out their own territory on the backs of this now long-departed people.

  Her companions were not in such a reflective mood, except perhaps for Ulian, who stopped briefly to contemplate the wonder still visible in the murk.

  ‘If only circumstances were different and I had more time,’ he said. ‘Cedric did invite me to come with him on more than one occasion, but fool that I am I always declined. I have never been one for travel.’

  ‘All my life I have lived in castles and palaces, surrounded by cities that are little more than shanty towns, but this is an entire city built like a palace – it goes on for miles and miles.’ Ceriana spoke in hushed tones, the fog still oppressed her.

  ‘And the others are leaving us behind,’ he replied quickly. ‘Come, let us not get lost in this mist.’

  They quickly caught up with the others, who had struck a path towards a cluster of three small and crumbled towers surrounded by an encircling wall that was pierced by a single delicate archway, narrow and slender. It was through this that the strange light shone. The wet grass soaked the hem of Ceriana’s thick velvet dress and her thin shoes, already derided by her husband as utterly impractical, offered her no protection from either wet or cold. She drew her cloak closer around her.

  ‘Footprints,’ said Haelward. He indicated a patch of grass bruised by several booted feet. The grass was springy but had not yet recovered from its trampling.

  ‘Recent, too,’ said Wulfthram. ‘And we can all guess where they lead.’

  Ceriana followed them, knowing full well that they would lead to the archway. And so it proved. Once they got there, the prints proceeded inside, clustering around the central tower. The whole enclosure was a mass of tumbledown stone. Very little remained of the integrity of the towers, but any rubble obstructing the route to the central tower had recently been cleared away. It was here where they now stood contemplating the next move.

  ‘We have to go in,’ said her husband.

  ‘I thought we were waiting till morning?’ Ulian asked.

  ‘Day and night are the same in a tunnel and we have the lanterns. We are here now; there is no point going back. Let’s get this finished.’

  ‘I am unsure,’ said Ceriana, ‘about the rest of you coming with me. With this amulet I am theoretically protected from harm, but no one else here is.’

  Wulfthram gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Not this again. Are you protected from the creators of these footprints? Is hiding in the town any safer than being here? If anyone wishes to go back to the ship, they are welcome to do so, but from what I have seen there is no sanctuary to be found, not even there.’

  ‘None of us is going back,’ Haelward said softly.

  ‘Then let us press on.’ With that Wulfthram strode towards the ruined tower, Ceriana following close behind.

  A series of wide and steep black steps led downwards close to the entrance to the tower; at their foot she expected to see a floor with some sort of doorway, but no, the steps just went down and down straight into the bowels of the earth through a circular hole in the ground. It was not a haphazard construction, lined as it was with smoothed and rounded stone. And it was from here that the green light emanated before being trapped and reflected by the fog swirling about them.

  ‘The steps are damp and slippery,’ said Wulfthram. ‘Take them carefully; if you slip who knows how far down you will fall.’

  He took the lead, holding a lantern before him, although the green light provided plenty of illumination, Ceriana followed him closely. It was a difficult climb, for the steps were steep and she was the shortest person there. She put her hand into her husband’s and he
assisted her firmly but gently as they made their way downhill. They passed the stone-lined underground entrance, which was not much more than a glorified hole in the ground. The sickly green light revealed a narrow shaft, walled with bricks covered in mossy green and smelling of damp and earthy decay. Ceriana still could not see how far it descended. They pressed on; time passed and the steps continued. Ceriana’s thighs were aching in protest at their forced exertion. Her feet were wet and cold, and there was a dewdrop hanging miserably from the end of her nose. The strange light still had no visible source. Then Wulfthram stopped so suddenly, she bumped into him.

  ‘Well, here we are,’ was all he said.

  She realised with some relief that they had cleared the last step and were standing on a small uneven landing before a great arched opening in the wall. It would have been another delicately tapered entrance but the weight of the earth above it had cracked and buckled it and the tallest among them would have to stoop slightly to pass through. The strange green light seemed to stop here. The tunnel ahead was swathed in total darkness. The small party exchanged nervous glances.

  ‘I lead with one lantern. Strogar, bring up the rear with the other. Ulian, keep next to me with your scroll; anything you can see that can point the way for us, just shout out. Ceriana, just stick behind me. Maybe your amulet will help those stood close to you.’

  ‘You do like shouting out your orders, don’t you?’ she whispered in her husband’s ear.

  ‘I do. They always appear wasted on you, though.’

  ‘Then I will obey this time – just this time.’

  Wulfthram grunted and strode forward, his lantern casting wild shadows on to the narrow walls.

  The heavy boots of the soldiers echoed on the uneven stone floor. Every sound was amplified tenfold in this confined space. Ceriana felt as though her breathing sounded like that of an exhausted, panting dog, and every time she looked up she half expected to see a strange wraith-like phantom waiting for them at the edge of the darkness, beckoning them to their doom. So far, though, there was nothing except the drip, drip of water leaking through the cracked ceiling and running in rivulets down the dank green walls. Her feet were certainly getting no drier.

  Then came their first dilemma. Ceriana felt a draught tug at her ears and realised that there was a shaft to their left. Wulfthram stopped and held the lantern up to it.

  ‘Another passage,’ he said. ‘This was bound to happen sooner or later.’

  ‘Hold the lantern here a second.’ Ulian was fumbling for something in his pack. He produced some parchment and started scribbling on it with a piece of graphite. ‘It’s as good a time as any to start a map.’

  ‘But which way do we go?’ Ceriana asked.

  ‘We could split up,’ suggested Haelward.

  ‘Probably to never see each other again, to get lost and hunted down in the dark, forgotten by everyone until we are nothing but bones and shadows.’

  Haelward looked at Ceriana. ‘Bad idea, then?’

  ‘She is right,’ said Wulfthram. ‘We do not separate down here.’

  ‘I’ll say it again.’ said Ceriana. ‘Which way do we go?’

  Ulian was peering at the archway in the dim light when he suddenly gave an uncharacteristic whoop of triumph. ‘Here, bring the lantern here ... No, lower ... That’s it, now what do we have here.’ He put down his ad hoc map and pulled out one of his many other scrolls. Everyone crowded round him so closely he had to shoo them away.

  He indicated the third stone of the arch on the right. Ceriana had keen eyesight but even she couldn’t make it out at first, but then there it was – a series of elegant fine white scratches carved by a strong hand.

  ‘By Elissa, how did you see that?’

  ‘Years of deciphering spidery scrawls in many books. It gives you an eye for this sort of thing. Now hopefully I have the pattern written down somewhere.’

  Drip, drip, drip. Ceriana shuffled from one foot to another waiting for the scholar to pronounce judgement. After an age which soon became an eternity, Ulian spoke again.

  ‘I do not find an exact reproduction here, but I have found something that is a close approximation – three cross strokes, a diagonal and that pattern there. The closest I have is the symbol for home. It is to home that this passage leads, whatever that means.’

  ‘Home,’ said Wulfthram. ‘Well, I had rather it had said the place where the red stone belongs, but I suppose it will have to do.’

  ‘Towards home then?’ asked Ulian.

  ‘Towards home. It sounds like the place we should be heading. Unless there are any objections?’

  There weren’t. Wulfthram ducked under the narrow arch and carried on.

  Shortly after, they came to a junction, and then another. Each time this happened Ulian would amend his map and look for the tell-tale symbol. Fortunately, he found it on each occasion. And so they continued, into this dark forgotten place where time did not seem to exist.

  They came to a flight of broken steps; there weren’t many but it helped reinforce an impression Ceriana was getting.

  ‘We are going ever deeper,’ she said. ‘The passage was sloping downhill already. Did anyone notice? And it is getting warmer and drier; my feet aren’t nearly so cold.’

  There was an air of agreement among her companions, though no one actually spoke. As they continued along the passage, Ceriana listened to her companions’ rhythmic breathing – Ulian’s was thin and wheezy; Strogar’s deep and sonorous; Derkss’s fast and short; her husband’s deep and assured; Haelward hardly breathed at all... And then she heard something else; it sounded like breathing but, no, it wasn’t; it was more like whispering. There it was again, like a soft freezing wind passing over jagged shards of ice. It was barely perceptible, more like a gentle hiss, but for all that a hiss cloaked in threat and menace, a dagger in a velvet scabbard. And there were words there; she couldn’t understand them but there was a form to the noise that had to be language of some sort.

  ‘Did anyone hear that?’ she asked.

  Ulian stopped and looked at her. ‘No. What did you hear?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘But I think something is watching us.’

  Wulfthram’s face was a warm orange under the lantern. ‘What exactly do you think it is?’

  Ceriana said nothing, but her expression gave her thoughts away.

  ‘The guardians,’ said Ulian. ‘If they know we are here, why aren’t they attacking us?’

  ‘Perhaps they are curious about us? Perhaps they want to see why we are here first?’ Ceriana sounded hopeful.

  ‘Well, concealment was always going to be unlikely down here,’ said Wulfthram. ‘Come on, let us continue while the lanterns burn.’

  Ceriana felt the amulet against her skin. She had thought that the heat of her body would take the coldness from it and make it barely noticeable, but this had never happened –it was always cold as a winter lake, a constant reminder of her predicament and of the life she had lost after that fateful day on the beach. A fleeting memory of Doren and her family made her stop and swallow sadly. Then she composed herself once more; feelings of loss and regret were entirely inappropriate at this time.

  Not twenty steps further on and they all stopped almost in unison. There was a swirling draught and a sense of space about them. And above them. The lanterns gave little away, except to show that the walls had disappeared.

  ‘A cavern?’ asked Haelward.

  ‘If it is, it is one without a floor.’ Wulfthram stepped forward and by the light of the lantern they saw the dead drop ahead of them. The ground disappeared over a wet stony lip and into a chasm of pure darkness. Ceriana sighed in disappointment, thinking it was journey’s end, but then saw that this was not the case. A thin finger of stone, a pathway maybe five feet across, extended in front of them. It was not like any bridge she had ever seen before, for it twisted like a fast-moving snake and seemed to extend downward into nothingness. As to where it ended or led, the lantern’s sma
ll light could give no indication.

  ‘Be very careful, everyone,’ said Wulfthram. ‘Take your time; I want no one falling here.’

  With some trepidation, Ceriana followed Wulfthram and Ulian on to the strange structure. She looked up, left and right, but there was just blackness. She decided to concentrate on her feet and ignore everything else. The air was getting warmer and more stifling; she was beginning to feel uncomfortable in her cloak and her dress felt prickly on her neck and back. And then the strange whispering returned, clearer this time, a language she did not understand spoken by someone who felt as if he was standing right on her shoulder. She swung round to confront the tormentor but there was nothing but the eternal night around her.

  ‘Are you sure none of you can hear that?’ she hissed. Her voice barely carried in the dead air. Heads were shaken and so, with a sigh of nervous frustration, she carried on.

  Eventually (and she couldn’t even to begin to guess the time in the world above ground) the strange pathway ended in a broad landing, which produced a collective sigh of relief. Wulfthram, however, afforded himself little time to gather his thoughts and continued to press forward. Ceriana found herself rather admiring his singular determination. She was not sure if it was driven by concern for her or just a desire to get out of this place as soon as possible, or maybe a little of both, but whatever was driving him on she was grateful for it.

  ‘Ulian,’ he called, ‘we have more than one entrance here. Come and look.’

  With his lantern held high, Ulian walked the length of the broad face of rock in front of them. He passed one archway, then another and another. In total, there were five such openings facing them, five unblinking eyes, darkness within darkness; it was difficult not to feel lost and completely helpless within such stifling confines.