The Forgotten War

by Howard Sargent

  All except one. Ulian had made to follow the others as they fled, but, once they were in the tunnel, he turned and walked back to Dureke.

  ‘Do the ritual,’ he said, choking slightly but with a firm resolve in his eyes.

  ‘I am the one you should use. I have few enough years left as it is.’

  ‘Come forward then,’ the armoured figure replied. ‘It will be as you wish.’

  Ulian approached the throne. Dureke placed one steel hand on the stone and waited for Ulian to come closer. When he was close enough Dureke placed another hand on Ulian’s forehead. The shock of the spirit’s icy fingers caused him to convulse but he stood his ground.

  Dureke started to chant, a deep slow sonorous chant that rumbled through the dust and stone of the floor. And all the time the rope fuses burned.

  The stone started to flare, a brilliant scarlet red reflecting off the white steel of Dureke’s armour. The guardians surrounded the two figures and started their own whispering, a hundred hissing sepulchral voices, their sound reflecting off the walls and rising towards the chamber’s high roof. The brighter the stone flared, the paler Ulian grew; he seemed fixed to Dureke’s hand and shuddered and convulsed at the spirit’s touch. Then Dureke himself started to glow and, as he did so, the light of the stone started to recede, to diminish. Dureke’s chant grew louder, as did his followers’, and now he blazed like a flaming torch, the light casting high shadows in this darkest of places. The torches on the wall gave off no illumination now. Dureke was the sun and the chamber his universe, the guardians his satellites, beholden to him for their long existence. Then the light of the stone snapped off completely; it became dark, dark as obsidian, a blacker eye in a sea of blackness. It seemed to absorb what little light surround it, to devour it, to feed on it. And Dureke, even as he shone like the brightest star in the cosmos, was plunged black into darkness. The flame he had drawn into himself was released from his spectral form and instead flew upwards to the chamber’s roof, where it blazed brightly for less than a second and was gone.

  Back on the floor, next to the throne, Dureke finally released Ulian from his grip and the scholar, who loved his desk and his books and his lectures and who hated travel so much, slumped to the ground. It was as if all of his blood had evaporated, such was the paleness of his skin, whiter than candle wax or the virgin snow in a winter’s field, even the irises of his now-sightless eyes seemed devoid of colour. A man whose sacrifice would be known by so few people but mean so much to thousands of others, though they knew it not.

  And, as the power finally left the stone of the dragon, the flames that had been creeping slowly along their fuses finally found their mark.

  Ceriana and her companions had almost cleared the tunnel when the barrels finally did their work. The creature on the roof did not move as they passed it; it was now a sickly luminous green with a dark, nearly black polyp forming at its centre. They tried not to think about Strogar; it was their own survival that was imperative now. Wulfthram had snatched a torch as they fled the chamber and this was their only source of illumination as they ran.

  Until the explosion.

  The first Ceriana knew of it was the noise, a dull muffled rumble that made her ears pop. Then came the red fire, briefly lighting up the tunnel as though they were running from Keth’s infernal furnace itself. She choked and spat out a mouthful of black dust. And then came the sound of avalanche, of tons upon tons of rock and earth pouring into the void, she turned her head quickly and saw a great spume of coal black dust roiling along the tunnel, heading for them at such a velocity there was no way to escape it. Behind this noxious cloud was a lick of crimson fire, swiftly extinguished as the tunnel began to collapse in on itself.

  ‘Run, everybody!’ She could barely get the words out through the choking fog. She felt the dust fill her lungs, her hair; she felt it stinging her eyes and blocking her nose. But she did not stop running. She did not dare. And suddenly there it was, a cold air hitting her full on the face, a sense of space to her left and right. She suddenly remembered there was a precipice close at hand and stopped her running, flinging herself to her left as the tunnel behind her collapsed, shooting forth a midnight cloud of debris, a jet of filth and spoil that covered all of them in such a thick film of grit and residue that she felt a swim in the Western Ocean, so close to them, would not even remove it all.

  As the cavernous echo of the collapsing rock behind them began to recede, Wulfthram was the first to get up. His torch was still lit, though it was sputtering alarmingly.

  ‘Here, the land bridge over this gorge – it is here. Hurry, we do not know if the earth above us has ceased collapsing.’

  ‘Where is Ulian?’ asked Haelward. It was the first chance they had to take stock of their surroundings. In the chaos no one had seen what he had done. Except Ceriana. She had sensed it, felt it when he made his sacrifice.

  ‘He is gone,’ she said, ‘and the stone is drained. I don’t know what else to say.’

  It took a second for the words to sink in. Haelward, his face looking unearthly in the light from the torch, was about to speak again when there was an ominous rumble from almost directly above their heads.

  ‘Later,’ said Wulfthram. ‘For now, we move.’

  He led the way along the narrow stone bridge as it wound its way over the abyss to their left and right. Despite the precariousness of the traverse it seemed to Ceriana that they crossed it in no time at all. Behind her she could hear the hollow sound of dust and light earth falling into nothingness as the ground above them continued to settle itself.

  ‘Which way now?’ asked Wulfthram. ‘Does anybody remember?’

  ‘I do,’ said Haelward. ‘Follow me.’

  ‘I am glad one of us has a sense of direction.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t really,’ replied the smiling soldier, ‘but I do have a strong sense of self-preservation, especially after all we have seen down here.’

  They followed him through the tunnels. As they went Derkss piped up.

  ‘What by all the Gods caused that collapse? Did the priests summon Keth’s demons?’

  ‘Nothing as dramatic,’ Haelward replied, ‘though no less effective. I should have realised what they were doing, but I have only witnessed such things at first hand myself twice. Those barrels they ignited, they contained a powder that just explodes in a ball of fire once a naked flame is put to it. When I was in the marines some Kudreyan pirates got hold of some; they started hurling these small metal globes on to our ship. They had a lighted wick, like the barrels we saw. Well, we were all laughing at them as though they had lost their senses; people were calling over to their ship asking if Uba, god of fools, was steering their vessel. Well, suddenly the cursed things just went up – a gout of flame and a wave of force that could knock a man over. Closest I came to death in that war it was; I was a fool to have forgotten about it. It is to the right here, my Lord.’

  Ceriana followed them, feeling a sense of familiarity as they entered tunnels where the rock was damp and moist. One more turning and in front of them was a passage ending with a low roof beyond which was a steep step illuminated by a small well of light, projected through the earth by the late autumn sun, an object Ceriana had all but forgotten about.

  ‘Praise Artorus and the Gods for daylight!’ sighed Derkss. ‘We may abandon them, but they never abandon us.’

  Allowing herself a brief moment of blasphemy to wonder what Strogar would think of such a statement, Ceriana braced herself for the steep but welcome climb, and so it was that shortly afterwards they emerged, blinking, filthy and as black as coal miners, into the fine mid-morning sunlight. Their surroundings looked so much more benign without the mist and the night surrounding them. If she wasn’t so choked and emotional, she would have loved to have taken her time to wonder at the people who had created this city of ruins. According to Dureke, she had some of their own blood in her. She knew for certain that there were many gaps in her family tree; it could be traced back over a t
housand years after all. Who could say who had filled them, especially in the early days of the invasion of the land that would become Tanaren. As they walked slowly back towards Oxhagen, they noticed a spiral of dust less than a mile away, a plume reaching for the thin white clouds above from behind a stand of trees to their east.

  ‘I imagine there is a fair old crater there now,’ mused Wulfthram as he stopped to clear his throat and lungs of the tar-like substance clogging them.

  ‘Yes,’ said Haelward. ‘After all that has happened I can content myself with the thought of those damned priests scrabbling through the earth for months on end only to find their precious stone is no use to them.’

  ‘No,’ said Ceriana sadly, ‘they will know it no longer has power. Ulian has ended the threat they posed to the west and north, at least for now.’

  ‘The university needs to know,’ said Wulfthram. ‘Both of his loss and the reason for it.’

  ‘There is something else,’ Ceriana said while wiping her face with her hand, trying and failing to make a clean patch ‘That priest Luto said they had raised a dragon in the east. It may be that they are all too aware of it already, but if not, they should be warned. My brother is out there; perhaps I should write to him.’

  ‘It sounds like,’ said Haelward, staring wistfully at the sea through a gap in the collapsed city wall, ‘it is time for me to travel again. I can escort Willem and Alys back to Tanaren City and carry on back to the east. I can take your letter, though a professional travelling through the coaching inns would probably be swifter.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Wulfthram, ‘it is time for the two youngsters to go home. The next port Eltlo is some ten miles down the coast; we can take you there. I don’t know if you can find a ship that can take you all the way to Tanaren, but there should be one that takes you most of the way at least.’

  They were starting to go downhill and Oxhagen lay huddled around the bay before them. Their ship lay at the harbour and the sun glinted off the flecks of white foam that dappled in the grey-blue sea to the west. It was an idyllic scene, as far removed from the circumstances of their arrival as it was possible to be.

  A horseman was riding up the path from the town; he appeared to be purposefully heading towards them. The bedraggled group stopped and waited for him to get to them.

  ‘Hail, Baron Wulfthram!’ the man saluted them. ‘The men of your ship told us where you were. I see the landslip caught you in its midst. Anyhow, Baron Farnerun waits in Oxhagen for you with the rest of his men. He is at the manor house where you can bathe and hopefully accept his hospitality.’

  ‘I would be delighted,’ Wulfthram replied, ‘but is there any news of the people of the town? When we travelled through it earlier only the dead remained.’

  ‘Indeed, my Lord, most of the people fled to Eltlo and to other nearby villages. It was their calls to the Baron and your letter that prompted him to journey here. He is not allowing them to return until the strange threat to them has been dealt with.’

  ‘Then he can recall them. The danger has passed here.’

  ‘That is joyous news indeed. Please, my Lord and Lady, remain here while I go and sort out horses for the four of you; it will be but a few minutes before my return.’ With that he turned and headed back down the path.

  Ceriana sat on the wet grass, her head spinning with the night’s events. At long last tiredness was beginning to stretch its fingers over her and she nodded, resting her head against her husband’s shoulder. Much had changed for her, and also little, but she was too tired to take stock now. Instead, she gazed blearily at the sea, the sea that had brought the stone to her in the first place and she wished she had never decided all that time ago to head for that picnic on the beach.

  52

  The square was busy for the time of year. Perhaps this was due to the fine crisp late-autumn sunshine; perhaps, rather, it was the presence of the market stalls squeezed around the square’s periphery, their vendors hoarse with cajoling, begging and charming the apathetic locals into parting with their modest savings in return for the best bargains this side of the river Kada; or perhaps it was the looming presence of the three gallows positioned at the square’s west end near the town gates, their silent brooding presence eliciting feelings of both anticipation and dread.

  Baron Eburg and his mother were there seated in style at a raised, cloth-covered platform at the opposite end of the square to the gallows and thereby afforded the best possible view of proceedings. A couple of senior retainers and Captain Jeffen were with them, keeping a stern eye over the local guardsmen secreted among the villagers. Never a man at ease, he was one to see sedition everywhere and in the current climate he was barely able to keep his seat.

  They had arrived early, wrapped up against the cold. Really it was probably too early, for located in the narrow streets directly behind them was the town’s shambles and the slaughter of the pigs for market had not been completed. So they had to endure an uncomfortable period where Lady Eburg had to stop her ears against the almost human screaming of the doomed animals. Although most of the blood was collected for sale, the narrow gutters surrounding the square still filled with the stuff for a while before draining through the grilles into the river.

  Eburg drained his posset, fortifying himself against the chill that was stiffening his fingers and numbing the extremities on his face. He turned to Jeffen.

  ‘It is far too cold for Mother out here, Jeffen; can’t we speed things up a little? The square is full; I don’t see the problem with starting things earlier than anticipated.’

  ‘As you wish, my Lord; I will have a word with the jailor and executioner.’

  Jeffen left them to do just that. Eburg enquired as to his mother’s health.

  ‘Never better, my boy You could have told Jeffen that it was you feeling the cold not I. I have never been troubled by the inclemency of the weather and personally find it rather bracing. The freshness of the air is ideal in dispersing any of the fetid vapours that cling to a city so.’

  ‘Yes, Mother, but you have not spent months in the field as I have. The allure of a quiet room and an open fire cannot be understated to a man wearied by the grind of life in the saddle.’

  ‘Nonsense, my boy. Hardship and privation are what makes a man a man. Your father could endure any weather. I do not know how he begat such a weakling as yourself.’

  ‘Well, he could endure anything but the cholera; that was what saw to him in the end, was it not?’

  ‘Do not be so disrespectful, child! He was your father, though you knew him not; a fine man and capable steward of his lands.’

  ‘Implying that I am not so capable, Mother?’ Eburg said wryly.

  ‘Not at all – he did not have all the obstacles to sound rule that you have had to endure; no Prosecutors looking over his shoulder constantly, waiting to leap on the tiniest mistake. You need to be ever more the diplomat than he had to be.’

  ‘I thank you for that, Mother. I do feel sometimes that the Gods pull me in a dozen different ways at the same time. I will be happy to see these executions go smoothly so that maybe I can relax for a few days before Winter Feast.’

  ‘Indeed, Zlaton. Just let thoughts of spiced wine and fowl with berries content you over the distant and trivial concerns of war and your uncertain tenure over your lands.’

  Eburg hissed with exasperation. ‘Mother! Stop vexing me so!’

  ‘Very well, I will do so. If you need time to relax, then take it. Leave everything to me. It is usually the correct thing to do. Mother will see that things are done appropriately.’

  Eburg did not reply; his earlier, brighter mood was fading fast. He gazed at the gallows standing before him. Crows had gathered and were perching on them, pecking tentatively at the ropes knotted around the top bar of the gallows frame. They had been built on to a wooden scaffold on which now stood one man alone. The executioner. He was wearing his traditional conical black hood and robes and was clapping his hands together to keep the blood flow
ing. Once that was over, he set himself to checking the ropes. As he tugged at them, the crows scattered, their noisy protest drowning out the general hubbub of the crowd below.

  A short ladder gave access to the platform and up it now climbed Brother Cornelius, followed by three bound and hooded men. They were encouraged in their progress by halberd-bearing men-at-arms who thought nothing of giving the prisoners a quick jab, a reminder that their mortality was at hand and there was nothing they could do about it. Once they were all assembled on the scaffold, the prisoners positioned under their own noose, Cornelius strode forward and addressed the crowd.

  ‘Brothers and sisters, if I may just call you forth from your perusal of the goods of the market, goods provided unto you by the bountiful Gods themselves, I would like to say that we are here also to witness the demise of three souls. No; three men and two souls found to be unworthy of the Gods’ mercy. Crimes they have committed, and death is the sentence pronounced by the temporal justice of these lands. Before we proceed, let us just say the Prayer of Artorus and help commit the souls of those poor unfortunates behind me to a higher judgement than any that can be found here on this Earth.’

  Everyone stopped what they were doing, including Eburg, and recited the prayer they had all learned before they were out of swaddling clothes. That done, Cornelius recited the Prayer of Xhenafa while his audience remained with their heads bowed, showing their supplication to the Gods.

  ‘Divine Xhenafa, whom we shall meet once and once only, I commend the souls of the condemned to Thee. Guide them safely to the seat of the Gods and forgive them the sins of their miserable lives. Let them be judged fairly and, if they are required to labour in Keth’s furnace for eternity, grant them the forbearance and endurance required for such a task. As it must be. For ever.’