Some footprints still remained on the ground as the frost had not yet disappeared. There had been a fight. There were several pairs of booted feet and the pattern seemed to indicate that there were four men taking on one, the one probably being Willem. There was some spattered blood on the ground not yet congealed. He hadn’t been out that long, then.
Suddenly there was a noise causing him to snap to and whirl around looking for unseen foes. It was a cross between a groan and a sob and it was coming from ... the ditch.
Moving as fast as his legs could carry him he reached it and saw Willem, bloodied, wet and miserable, lying on the frozen stream. His one eye was bloodshot and he looked up at Haelward despairingly.
‘They’ve taken Alys!’ he said through chattering teeth. ‘I couldn’t stop them. They’ve taken her.’
‘All right,’ said Haelward kindly. ‘Tell me in a minute; let’s get you out of here first.’
Gingerly, he eased the younger man on to his feet and slowly pulled him out of the ditch. Willem was in a worse state than he was – his scalp was cut and his face bruised purple. He was also limping.
‘Let’s get a fire going...’ Haelward started.
‘No, no, they’ve taken her. We have to get her back!’
‘Which is something you are in no state to do until I have had a look at you and you have warmed up a little.’
Ignoring his own battered frame, Haelward got a fire going quickly. He then took some bandages from his pack and roughly covered the top of Willem’s head before rubbing a brown poultice over his bruises. Then it was time for some water and travel rations. When that was all sorted he finally asked Willem what had happened.
‘We were both fast asleep. I heard someone climbing into the wagon and thought it was you. Then I look up to see this man, a big fellow with a beard. He thumps me one and then both he and someone else made a grab for Alys. She fought like a demon biting and scratching; I joined in then they called another man in. The bearded man gave me a kicking as they pulled Alys out of the wagon. Then they followed, leaving me alone. I wasn’t having that and as soon as I got my wind back I got out of the wagon and started to take them on again. Two men held Alys, while four had a go at me. It was not a fair fight and they ended up chucking me where you found me. Then they left with Alys about twenty minutes before you found me. They tied her and put her in their own wagon before driving off.’
‘So that would be about an hour ago now and there were six of them.’ Haelward was going over things slowly in his mind. ‘Did they talk to each other? Give any indication as to where they were going?’
‘Not really, they did mention a town about a couple of miles up the road but I got the impression they were moving on from there pretty quickly. What by all the Gods would they want with Alys? She has no money; neither does her family.’
Haelward hesitated, unsure of how to put his suspicions into words.
‘It looks like an organised gang. Bandits. If there is money to be made, especially dubious money, you get these people. They are like fungus on dead wood; they spring up everywhere. Let’s get to this town and ask around. I hope they have a blacksmith; I need a sword.’
It was not really a town, more a large village surrounded by a stockade. It clung to the road like a new-born to its mother. It had a large coaching inn, a house of Artorus and Meriel, a magistrate’s house and, to Haelward’s immense relief, a smithy. They went there first, Haelward emerging shortly after with a sturdy no-frills blade, well oiled within its leather scabbard.
‘Now to the inn,’ he said.
It was a well-used place, obviously a popular watering hole with travellers heading to and from Tanaren City; clean and warm with a roaring fire blazing merrily away in the hearth. At this moment in time, though, it was almost empty – just four or five men scattered at various tables around the large room. Haelward indicated where three tables had been pulled together so at least half a dozen men could sit around it with ease. It was empty now, though. Haelward headed to the bar, calling the innkeeper over.
‘Do you want a room, lads?’ He looked harassed, despite the lack of clientele.
‘No, thank you,’ said Haelward politely. ‘I was wondering if you had seen a group of about six men in here recently; they may have sat over there.’ He indicated the cluster of tables.
‘And they may have had a girl ... I mean a young woman with them,’ piped in Willem.
‘No, lads, it’s been quiet here as you can see.’ The man’s nervousness was obvious.
‘Are you sure? They wouldn’t have been here long; just a drink and a bite to eat, I imagine’ Haelward leaned closer to the man.
‘N...no, there has been no one.’
‘I see.’ Haelward started to speak a little more loudly, so everyone in the room could hear him. He also audibly slid his sword part way out of the scabbard.
‘Think carefully. I am not a common bandit. I have spent all of my adult life serving the Grand Duke’s army. I have fought in the east, in the west, at sea and in the capital itself. This boy with me looks a little callow but uses a knife like it was an extension of his right arm. So I will ask again: have a large group of men been in here recently?’
The man glanced behind Haelward, at some of the men sitting at the tables. He swallowed and said again: ‘No, I am sorry but I cannot help you.’
‘Very well,’ said Haelward. ‘I will go and speak with the magistrate, see what he says about those who willingly harbour bandits.’ He turned and left, nudging Willem with his shoulder so that he followed.
Back on the main, nay the only, street in the village Willem hissed at him.
‘Why are we leaving? How can the magistrate help us?’
‘He can’t,’ Haelward replied briskly. ‘The bandits probably own him, just as they own the innkeeper. This whole town is probably a base of theirs where they can deal in whatever makes good coin and that, I am sorry to say, includes the kidnap and sale of young girls. You may have noticed I talked up your abilities with a knife a little. They need to consider us a threat.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I want them to come after us.’
‘But won’t they kill us?’
‘You have just detected a possible flaw in my plan. I am rather hoping they don’t consider us that much of a threat and are not fully concentrating.’
Willem glanced quickly behind him. ‘There are two men behind us.’
‘And the man ahead, walking towards us to head us off; they have been watching us since we arrived.’
‘Can you defeat three of them?’
‘Probably not, but I have you to help me. Think of Alys – let that motivate you.’
The man approaching them stopped less than ten feet away. Haelward and Willem stopped, too. The two men behind them walked past Haelward’s shoulder and joined their colleague. Three sturdily built, slightly lumpy men with knives at their belts and cudgels in their hands. Haelward felt the pain in his head again.
‘Is there something you want?’ he ask them calmly.
The man in the middle, smallpox scarred and sandy-haired, replied.
‘You are asking questions, friends – the wrong questions to the wrong people. Now we have to persuade you to leave – whether on horseback or flat out on the back of a wagon, it is all the same to us.’
‘You know we can’t do that. A friend has been kidnapped; we have to get her back.’
‘Forget her, she is gone. She has an exciting future ahead of her, most of it to be spent on her back. Now...’
It was too much for Willem. Giving a feral roar, he drew his knife and barrelled into the man before he could finish his sentence, sending the two of them sprawling into the dirt. Almost forgetting himself, Haelward drew his sword with a liquid grace born of many years of experience. He slashed the nearest man across the chest and shoulder, opening a deep red scar and sending ribbons of blood into the air where they fell like droplets of spring rain on to the frosted ground. The man bellow
ed in pain and anger and hefted his club to strike. Haelward backed away, keeping him at arm’s length. The man looked furious but, despite that, Haelward could sense his impotence against a practised swordsman. His companion joined him, knife drawn, but Haelward saw he was considering the odds, knife against sword, and Haelward’s words in the tavern. He was obviously thinking that he wasn’t being paid quite enough to go against a seasoned warrior in the employ of the Grand Duke.
‘We will be back,’ the wounded man said. ‘Dozens of us – you had better leave sharpish.’
‘We will,’ said Haelward. ‘Now piss off.’
The men did so, loping warily away towards the inn. Haelward considered his foresight in getting the sword first, when the blacksmith had thought him just another local thug rather than a man in conflict with those that ran the place.
Behind him Willem and the man were rolling on the floor still. Willem’s knife lay on the floor a few feet away and it was obvious this was a battle he was losing. Haelward pointed his blade against the man’s throat, pricking it and drawing blood.
‘Let him go!’ Willem rolled clear of the man’s relaxed grip, picking up his knife and standing.
‘Answers,’ said Haelward, ‘and quickly so we can leave. I will think nothing of opening your throat, you understand? Now, where is the girl?’
Froth speckled the man’s fair beard. He ground his teeth, trying to figure out what to do next.
‘Answers!’ barked Haelward in anger. He pushed his sword deeper into the man’s neck where the blood began to spill more freely.
‘Sold!’ gasped the man, trying to speak against his wound. ‘To one of the Tanaren gangs in the Rose District; she will work the brothels, far away from anyone who knows her.’
Willem kicked the man in anger. ‘She is from the capital, you fool. What else would they do with her?’
‘Then it would be a nearer coastal city, New Perego most likely; the Tanarese gangs run brothels there, too.’
Furious, Willem kicked the man again and again in frenzied anger. Eventually Haelward withdrew his blade, leaving the man to clutch his wound to stem the blood flow, and grabbed Willem by the shoulder.
‘Enough,’ said Haelward, gently but firmly. ‘We have to leave ... now. Let us just hope they haven’t tampered with the wagon.’
They were gone in minutes, heading down the road, looking warily behind them. ‘We will have to ditch the wagon and travel across country,’ said Haelward. ‘They will be looking for it. We carry everything or load it on to the horse. New Perego is some three or four days away, I reckon, maybe more.’
‘Do you think we can get her back? Do you think she is there?’
‘I don’t know, but I promise you, Willem, I will try my damnedest to do so, just as you will. The Rose District gangs are no joke but Tanaren is their base, not New Perego. Let’s just hope they send the fat lazy gang members there rather than keep them at home.’
With daylight almost gone, they ditched the wagon. With the horse loaded with gear they struck out across country. Eventually they found a copse where the horse could be hidden and spent the night there with one of them on watch constantly. The following morning was warmer, and so they continued their journey. Even Haelward had no idea what awaited them at its end.
11
In the town of Felmere, the broadest and most important road ran in a straight line from castle entrance to the large square and at this juncture it was lined by masses of people. In the square itself, outside the high, imposing fac¸ade of the house of Artorus, a large pyre had been built, some ten feet high with layers of cut logs positioned at right angles to each other and with the gaps between them stuffed with dry kindling. The Artoran Father’s pulpit had been carried outside to stand close to the pyre; it had steps and was of a similar height, ideal for the holy man to proselytise to the assembled gathering.
The noonday bell chimed from the religious house to signal the start of proceedings. Through the ever-open castle gates, down the hill and over the wooden bridge crossing the river, came the funeral corte`ge. At its head, wearing a black silk dress with a long train and with her face totally veiled in the traditional manner, walked Lady Mathilde. Alongside her and also clad in black, carrying a short silver ceremonial sword was Felmere’s only boy, Kraven. Just behind the two of them and flanked by soldiers clad in polished mail was the black armoured figure of Protector Baron Morgan, his face drawn and solemn. He was at the head of six pallbearers who lofted high a bier on which lay Lukas Felmere’s body. He was dressed in white linen embroidered in blue thread and his hair had been waxed and combed to perfection so that it lay just covering his shoulders. His face was peaceful, an expression few had seen him wearing in life, especially in recent years. Behind them came Reynard and Dominic leading the knights, followed by the other nobles and officials and finally the castle staff, all given time off to pay their respects. Standard-bearers flanked the procession, the banner of Tanaren, the mace of Felmere, the banners of the knights and then of the various noble houses to whom Felmere was their protector. The red of Lasgaart brought up the rear.
Two priests walked up to Mathilde and joined her. They started swinging incense burners, which smoked heavily, releasing their pungent spicy aroma over the heads of the watching crowd before being dispersed by the breeze.
In this way the solemn procession reached the square. There were ladders leaning on the funeral pyre and using these the pallbearers gently placed the Baron’s body atop it. Lady Mathilde stood close by with her adopted son, waiting for the priest to begin his address to the public.
The priest started giving a brief overview of the late Baron’s life and his rise to be the east’s most powerful noble. Morgan had heard such things many times before and found himself drifting. His ceremonial armour, with the mace ironhand engraved into his breastplate, did not fit him properly, built as it was for a taller man, and the gauntlet and greaves were the same. He recalled the first time he had seen the Baron, in the bloodied fields outside Axmian. Morgan had found himself in the midst of the mêlée, trying to break through the Arshuman lines to join up with the Baron’s attacking force. He and his men had come from the fort, the Baron was attempting to relieve it and finally, after much bloodletting, they had scattered enough Arshumans to finally meet in the midst of the carnage. The whole battle had been finely poised until then, but for the first time they were holding the upper hand. Morgan was just a matter of yards away from the Baron when he saw him felled by a bruising blow from a shield. He remembered charging to protect the fallen man, swiping and wounding the men poised to run him through. He and some others stood their ground as the unit rallied to protect him. The standard-bearer was cut down and Morgan remembered picking up the banner and calling the men to him. The Baron recovered and returned to the fray as the enemy line finally buckled. Morgan remembered very little else, just the heavy blow that scarred his face and the visage of Sir Trask looming over him. Then, as now, he was with the Arshumans; Morgan remembered him, mace held high ready to strike him a final blow when a press of men drove him back and into full retreat as the enemy melted away, defeated. ‘I will see you again, standard-bearer,’ Trask had bellowed to him. ‘You will not escape me the next time.’
The next thing Morgan remembered was waking up in the field hospital with the Baron looking down at him, the light of triumph in his eyes. They talked and struck up a friendship, one that lasted off and on until the end.
The priest finished his address and the musicians struck up the funeral dirge. A small choir started to sing the lament, a traditional funeral song, one heard by the crowd many times before and one in which they all joined in. The incense bearers walked the square, singing while covering everybody with their smoke:
‘We all walk the road, end in the same place
And Xhenafa guides us straight and true
We all stand alone, praying for the Gods’ grace
And Xhenafa leads us, stood in plain view
Jud
ge us kindly, wisest of the wise
Judge us kindly, fairest of the fair
Judge us kindly, as we implore
By your side now and evermore
We all have a journey, maybe long or maybe short
And Xhenafa guides us straight and true
We all must account, and to the Gods we exhort
And Xhenafa leads us, stood in plain view
Judge us kindly, wisest of the wise
Judge us kindly, fairest of the fair
Judge us kindly, as we implore
By your side now and evermore.’
The musicians stopped, the crowd was silent. A soft breeze whipped up the dust in the square, causing a cloud of pigeons feeding on the castle lawn to take to flight behind them. The priest gave his final address.
‘And so we consign this man’s soul to the Gods, a man who has touched all our lives in some way and who never stopped fighting for us, no matter how remote the chances for success. May the Gods keep him at their side for somehow I do not think the furnace awaits such a man as he. May the Gods also bless his young successor and the current Baron Protector. May they guide both of them to be both righteous and to protect the people they serve. As it must be. For ever.’
The Forgotten War Page 92
