‘Fenchard has surprised me, too,’ said Morgan. ‘I thought he had neither the wit nor ability to commit an act of such audacity. What is the situation now?’
‘The Arshumans are on the other side of the river. We have burned the bridges but that will not hold them for long. By this time tomorrow their cavalry could be within spitting distance of Tetha Vinoyen; we have precious few men to stop them.’
‘Perhaps it is not men that we need. Itheya, the Arshuman light horse have been a curse to us for many years. Do you think they are a match for you?’
Itheya gave a musical laugh. ‘Is that a challenge?’
He returned the smile, ‘Time to prove yourself, my girl. Seriously, though, the people we passed earlier and others like them need time to find what refuge they can. You can give them that time. You cannot stop the yellow advance – there are not enough of you – but you can harass them all the way, make them pay in blood for every yard gained, and save many of my countrymen’s lives. I just hope I don’t slow you down.’
Dominic coughed politely. ‘You may have other things to consider.’
‘Such as?’
‘You were close to Baron Felmere, I believe. I am sorry to tell you that he is dead.’
It was Morgan’s turn to look stunned. ‘In battle?’ he said quietly.
‘No, in his tent, at the end of an assassin’s knife.’
‘Xhenafa carry his soul safely.’ Morgan’s voice sounded thick. ‘Was this assassin caught?’
‘No, we think he escaped downriver; probably one of Haslan Falls men and certainly a professional job. If it is any consolation, it was a knife in the heart, instant and painless.’
Morgan turned to Itheya. ‘I am sorry but I will have to leave you here. I will need to get to Felmere Castle to speak to his wife and boy. Dominic, is there anyone who can guide these folk here; they do not know the country.’
Dominic nodded. ‘Reynard has completed the evacuation of Grest. He will be here shortly and will be happy to help the lady.’ He swallowed. ‘Morgan, there is one more thing – one that implies that Felmere Castle is just the place you should be headed.’
Morgan spoke wryly. ‘What can that be. I am going to see his boy Kraven, unless someone else wishes to do so in my stead.’
‘No, Morgan, it is a job for you. You see, once we knew of his death, we had to read his will. The north is without a Prosecutor of War and his son is not yet of age. Fortunately his will was clear. It names the man to be both guardian of his son until he does come of age and, by default, ruler of his lands and the new Prosecutor – that is, until the Grand Duke names another.’
Morgan looked askance. Surely he could not mean...
‘Yes, Morgan, it is you he names. Reynard was too young and would have to give up his position with the knights. He wanted a man who has raised a son, a shrewd man and a good judge of character. These are all his words by the way. He named you to rule his lands and to recover the mess we are now all in. May Artorus help you.’
Morgan was dumbstruck. Finally he turned to Itheya, who wordlessly handed him her flask of zhath. He took a mouthful, wishing it was something even more poisonous. What in this world of horror and wonder had the Gods done to him now?
Book Two: Winter
1
The heart and soul of the country of Tanaren lay in the capital. The soul lay in the spires and the monolithic façade of the Cathedral of Artorus on St Kennelth’s Hill, home of Grand Lector Josephus XVII and the building from where every church, religious house and Frach monastery was administered. All priests were consecrated here, no matter which God they represented, before being sent to spread their faith throughout the land.
The heart lay, appropriately enough, close to the soul on the Loubian Hill. There stood, overlooking the mighty river Erskon, the whitewashed walls and terracotta tiles of the palace of the Grand Duke. The sun had set in favour of a brilliant full moon, one that bathed the frost-rimed cobbles in its spectral radiance. The lack of people on the streets was testament enough to the cold; only those who had to be outside of necessity could be seen. Sellers of flowers and candles, often children, hung around outside taverns and inns, hoping to make enough for their family to eat that night; guards patrolled the wider streets, cursing the Gods for being given the night watch, and in the darker parts of the city street gangs huddled together, plotting raids on lightly guarded warehouses or on each other. In the red-light districts, just back from the docks, prostitutes strolled nonchalantly from street corner to street corner, often in pairs and for once wrapped up against the chill. Here things were busier – carriages clattered over the broken roads, disgorging groups of drunken well-heeled young men who headed straight to the large well-kept brothels that were all clustered closely together and were constantly engaged in cut-throat competition for business. The Rose District it was called, where Voyagers’ Hill joins People’s Hill to the west, a sink of villainy and sporadic violence and the focus of moral outrage in the city.
The Rose District, however, was not on the minds of anybody circulating around the Grand Duke’s palace this frosty evening, at least not at the present time. For it was the occasion of the Winter Feast ball, one of the highlights of the social year. For the last hour or so, the great doors of the palace had stood open to receive the specially invited guests among whom were many people of importance from over a hundred-mile radius. It was an invitation refused by no one, such was the prestige of the occasion.
For the first-time attendee, such as Lady Delphine Marsphala, wife of Baron Sydmon, it was a case of alighting from her carriage, bones jarred from rattling over the uneven roads, and being deftly shown the way into the palace by a liveried servant – through the giant doors, carved with a likeness of Tanar, the first Grand Duke, sitting at the hand of Artorus; into the high-vaulted reception room, its carpet muddied by countless damp shoes, and onwards into the throne room, which for this evening was used as a place for guests to mingle and chat free of the noise of musicians and kitchen servants. The throne room had many gilded windows under which were hung broad tapestries depicting the so-called ‘Nine Great Battles of Tanaren’, all of which had some part in shaping the country and its people. Before them, stood busts of each and every Grand Duke, over fifty in total, each casting a baleful eye over the proceedings. A couple of busts, including the infamous Eginvald, had black cloth draped over them. The throne itself, positioned high on a many-stepped dais, was perhaps not as impressive as the room it inhabited. It was little more than a high seat carved in oiled dark wood. It would take someone with some knowledge of Tanaren’s history to realise that the wood from which it was carved was taken from the very first ship, the Hammer of Mytha, to sail into Tanaren’s harbour, a ship carrying Tanar himself, fresh from his triumph at Roshythe.
From there, down a wide, soft-carpeted hallway and up a small flight of stairs, our sample guest, Lady Delphine, passed into the grand ballroom. It was not as cavernous as the throne room but that was partly the idea. With its two low galleries packed with singers and musicians and the bare floor bursting with elegantly swirling bodies clad in rustling silks and swishing velvets, it had an air of hot intimacy far removed from the rarefied coolness of the throne room. Servants stood near the walls holding trays of wine and spiced mead, guaranteeing that the latter stages of the evening would be undertaken under an alcoholic fume leading potentially to many scandalous indiscretions.
Finally, sandwiched between the ball room and the guest rooms, was (discounting the privies) the sumptuous dining room. This room was circular, with a raised dais for the Grand Duke at its centre upon which stood a circular table. What gave the room a special place in the Grand Duke’s heart, though, was the skylight window – a vast, leaded, glassed dome positioned directly over the Grand Duke’s table. Through it, the night sky looked down on the revellers below; it was if the very Gods were watching and judging their servants, the greatest citizens in Tanaren, as they took their meal. Surrounding the banqueting
hall were various storerooms and, to the west, the kitchens, the biggest in Tanaren, home to at least a dozen spits, several ovens for baking bread, and many large cooking fires. Despite each having a flue, it could get unbearably hot, especially in summer, and had earned the nickname ‘Keth’s Furnace’ from the hard-pressed kitchen staff, many of whom sported livid red scars caused by their hazardous environment.
Winter Feast itself was a day of church-sanctioned gluttony that preceded the seven-day festival of Saint Benethelia, a saint beloved of Meriel – a period of fasting in which no meat could be eaten (fish was an exception, a term that over the years had come to mean any water-dwelling creature including water fowl and beaver) and only one meal could be eaten during the hours of daylight. For many of Tanaren’s less fortunate citizens, this was only a slight departure from their normal routine. A larger difference, though, was the requirement to pray three times a day, in addition to the customary morning and evening devotions. These prayers were to Meriel only and in them consideration had to be made to the elderly, infirm or those less fortunate. Words, however, were not sufficient, for the true devotee must spend an hour helping the sisters in the houses of healing. For the wealthy, a financial disbursement to the sisters was deemed sufficient, service to the Gods rendered by the mere loosening of a purse.
Now, however, was the feast before the fast and the nobility went about pursuing the call to hedonism with reckless abandon. The grand ball was an addition to the feast instituted by the 33rd Grand Duke, Travanor II, who wished to flaunt both his wealth and his pride and joy, the selfsame kitchens being used that evening.
So the stage was set for a memorable night. Hours of formal dancing, a meal inspired to induce gourmandising from even the most parsimonious, and finally, for those with the strength to lift themselves out of their dining chairs, more uninhibited dancing, as the musicians were encouraged to cut loose with some of the more frenzied reels in their repertoire.
There was only one slight disappointment for the assembled throng – the absence of the Grand Duke himself. He had been there earlier, in the throne room, greeting people as they arrived, and he was seen after that, as the first timorous dance steps were taken, watching and smiling in approval. However, barely had the first dance – a courtly two-step, in which the hands of male and female partners barely touched – finished, when he excused himself and disappeared. At the time the guests expected a prompt return from him but this had not happened. Only the dukes and barons of his inner circle, his most trusted advisors, knew where he was.
Adjoining the long corridor from where the banqueting hall led to the guest rooms was one of the palace’s many high towers. These towers, thin and tall and clad in white, held the rooms of many of the Grand Duke’s security staff – the city watch and the Silver Lances, his bodyguard – as well as his religious staff. In this particular tower, home to the city guard and their armoury, was – up a spiral flight of steps – an anteroom, one which the Grand Duke used frequently. He stood there now, peering through the glazed, slitted window at the shadowy hulk of the Grand Cathedral, close by on the neighbouring hill.
He was not alone here; six other men were with him, sitting on low chairs that almost filled the tiny room. Three were Baron Richney, the young man who had visited Thakholm not that long ago; Baron Duneck, another man not out of his twenties, blue-eyed and straw-haired, and Baron Fillebrand, older than the other two and with a white eye and scar running above and below it, a legacy of a badly trained hawk getting overzealous during a hunt. His promotion to Duke had been the briefest affair; the furious backlash from other barons had forced the Grand Duke to rescind his move within a week, Fillebrand’s own reluctance in accepting the title being a key part in the withdrawal of the honorific. The other three were dukes, holders of the highest title in the land and one, unlike Baron, which the Grand Duke could not strip them of. The silver-haired Duke Edrington, beard trimmed to a fine point, sat next to the room’s lamp, its only source of light and one that reflected shinily off his balding head. His close friend, Duke Marschall, a thin man with dark hair and a yellowish pallor to his skin, sat next to him. Finally, the only other man not to take his seat, standing behind the others with his back to the wall, was Duke Nicholas Hartfield. He calmly watched the other men while sipping quietly from his goblet, the others present having downed theirs some time before.
Without turning to look at them, still staring aimlessly out of the window, Leontius finally spoke.
‘In a guest room, under a secure guard, I am playing host to an ambassador. Nothing unusual there, you might say, but, as you probably know, the ambassador is Arshuman, the first one to visit under my rule, and he has brought with him terms. I have yet to listen to them but I can make a shrewd guess as to how they will play out.’
‘Universal surrender of all lands east of the Kada? Our total surrender guaranteeing cessation of hostilities?’ Edrington spoke in a bluff voice with an accent that could come only from the highest nobility. The glow from the lamp made his face look almost demonic.
‘Pretty much. They will kindly deign to leave us with Sketta, and a rump of land in the south, I imagine, a part of the country they have no interest in. How, gentlemen, will I answer their terms?’
There was a hubbub of indignation from the seated men.
‘Send him back in two ships, his head in one and his body in the other.’ Duneck’s remark drew a laugh from Richney, silence from the others.
‘Tempting as your suggestion is,’ Leontius said, finally turning round to face them, ‘we live in more civilised times. He will return with a rebuttal, yes – it is, after all, what he and his king expects – the only reason he is here is to rub my nose in His Highness’s shit. What concerns me more is how we claw ourselves back from the desperate situation in the east. Hartfield, tell them the current situation, as your son has written to tell you.’
Nicholas drank deeply and set his goblet down on the floor.
‘You all know of the desertion and betrayal of Baron Fenchard, I take it?’ Everyone in the room nodded. ‘Well, his men have secured the strategic towns of Grest and Tetha Vinoyen. They also hold Haslan Falls and the fortifications at Axmian. In short, the only land they do not hold is the city of Felmere in the north with its adjoining lands and nearby subject villages and towns such as Shayer Ridge, where the diamonds come from.’ More nodding in the room. ‘Baron Lasgaart’s loyalty we are unsure of; he is no traitor but is holding his lands with a bare few hundred men that he managed to get across the river. He is under extreme pressure and may defect from us, simply to ensure his own survival. And lastly but no less significantly, in the south and east Baron Garal has declared for Arshuma, putting pressure on Esric.’
‘And that is not all,’ said Leontius. ‘Marschall.’
Duke Marschall spoke: ‘As you know, I am related by marriage to Baron Wyak of Athkaril, a key city in this campaign, a gateway to the Seven Rivers. Related we may be, but I have borne this man little love in the past. He is weak, lazy and cowardly. Well, now it seems the Gods have finally judged him. His city, packed with refugees whom he has used badly, has overthrown him. A lot of it has been burned and no one man controls it now. Ironically enough, a force sent by Fenchard was poised to take it but the locals burned the bridge to cinders before they could cross.’
‘And Wyak?’ asked Edrington.
‘Disappeared. Maybe dead. There is a rumour he was allied with Fenchard; I cannot confirm or deny the truth in this but maybe he has fled to them. There is no love among us for a baron who cannot control his lands.’
‘Wyak is a dead man walking,’ said Leontius, ‘If he turns up, I will deal with him; you are happy with that, Marschall?’
‘Do what you will.’ Marschall said with a sardonic smile.
‘Good,’ said Leontius briskly. ‘Now to the better news, things aren’t unremittingly bleak – Hartfield?’
‘Well,’ said Nicholas, ‘what Dominic tells me is that the Wych folk we managed t
o recruit are absolute demons on the field. They appear like ghosts to the Arshumans, materialising out of nowhere, slaughtering many, then disappearing before an arrow can be trained on them. They operate almost on their own. Reynard of the Eagle Claw liaises with them, and they have saved many lives through their lightning-fast reactions. The Arshumans, who used to hold the advantage in fast cavalry, quail in terror at their approach. The other thing my son accounts as good news is the late Baron Felmere’s replacement as protector for his son. He has gathered many of our scattered troops to him and hopes to counter the foe in the spring. He is apparently an experienced man who knows the vagaries of battle out in the east. Dominic states that all is not yet lost, though help from outside would be welcome.’
‘He is a commoner, I hear,’ said Fillebrand distastefully. ‘Should he be replaced with a noble?’
‘Maybe in the future,’ said Leontius, ‘but right now the only candidates are either dead or turned from us by Arshuman gold and the promise of power under their king. Lasgaart is the only one I can think of, but he is an administrator, not a warrior, and has his own problems at the moment. This man stays there for now.’
‘So,’ Fillebrand said tentatively, ‘do you have a plan, my Lord?’
Leontius did not answer at first; he opened the heavy door to the room and called for more wine.
‘We have a fine cellar here,’ he said to the nobles. ‘Wines from Tarindia, Fash, Sessithulo and Crown Haven. I insist you all try as much of it tonight as you possibly can.’ He shut the door again.
‘I am not a man of war, though I have studied its practice deeply and long. From what I can see, all of us need to play a part rather than sitting in our draughty halls and criticising from a distance. First of all, Athkaril needs to be secured before the enemy gets it. To that end, I am going there in person with my men and shall attempt to command operations from it – use it as a base if you will. Secondly, we need to keep these Wych folk on our side. Richney, take a thousand men to their forest with the weapons we promised. You are to leave them on an island on the river. Do not enter the forest on any account – that would be an act of war.’
The Forgotten War Page 80
