The Forgotten War

by Howard Sargent

  As with so many naval battles, the conditions seemed to turn everything into a free-for-all. As the galleons drove into the heart of the enemy fleet, they were surrounded. However, they were much higher and larger than the pirate vessels and these, given the close proximity of their opponents, were unable to bring their rams to bear. As the pirates scaled their hulls to attack, the archers fired down upon them, dislodging many but nowhere near all of them. The pirates closed around them, hemming them in, surrounding them. Ropes were used to lash the hulls of their ships together, making a platform for all of the ships’ crews to cross, leaping from vessel to vessel, so that soon hundreds and hundreds of men were swarming like beetles around the galleons, all trying to secure a vantage point to scale one of the dozens of ropes that had been hurled aboard and secured with grappling hooks. Three galleons, proffered to them in an almost sacrificial manner – what a prize just one of them would be for the Kudreyans! The pirates were confident in their numbers, singing as they went about their work; Nicholas drew his sword and leapt to slash at the heads of the first men to appear over the sides of the flagship. The galleon rolled as the sea swelled, the rain fell harder and harder, a thin film of blood and water covered the deck.

  But it was then that the pirates discovered their folly. So focused were they on the destruction of the galleons that they had ignored the rest of the fleet and now saw that they, too, had been surrounded in turn. Over the decks of the pirate vessels came the marines of Tanaren hacking and butchering those that stood in their way. For the galleons had set themselves up as bait for their greedy foe and it had been swallowed whole with no regard to consequence.

  And now the pirates were paying the price.

  It took a long time before the battle was finally won, for the pirates were fierce and determined. At sea, running was not an option and, surrounded as they were, the only thing they could do was fight. But again the men of Tanaren had the advantage, for the pirates were pressed between two opposing forces – the high galleons from whence archers rained death and boarders were repelled with cold steel, and the surrounding carracks, laden with grizzled hard-faced warriors preparing to give no quarter. With the galleons at their backs and a press of men before them, not all of the pirates could bring their arms to bear and they were crushed against each other, impotent and helpless, an easy target for missiles and fire. Finally, long after the futility of their struggle was obvious to all, they threw down their arms and surrendered. Duke Nicholas, his sword smeared and bloody, his tunic spattered with gore would return to Osperitsan in triumph.

  The pirate ships were burned; there was to be no booty taken here. As the flames consumed them one by one, Nicholas watched grimly. From the masts of each ship swung the lifeless bodies of the pirate commanders; the remainder of their crews sat bound in rope and chain in the brig or served as ballast among the waterlogged keels. Ten ships held the prisoners, including two galleons. These would return to Thakholm, where they would be dealt with, incarcerated or executed as justice demanded. Two ships had been lost, the carrack that had been rammed at the outset of the battle and one hapless caravel, caught by the wind and flung against a pirate hull. where it was smashed like matchwood. Twenty-four ships then, all mostly undamaged, continued onwards to Osperitsan.

  They got there in the late afternoon of the following day, the island jutting out of the smoky sea like a great black cloud, its features indistinguishable against the sinking sun, sitting atop the island like a great ruby housed in a ring. It was such a fierce light that eyes had to be shaded before it could be looked upon. One thing Duke Nicholas could see, though; one thing he did not need to squint to make out. Neither he nor anyone else among the fleet, waiting silently as they steered their vessels towards Osperitsan harbour, could avoid seeing it.

  For high in the sky over the town and the manor house the wyverns were circling.

  By Keth and Syvukha, and the burning damnation of the great furnace, what had happened here? Was the extent of his treachery so great that his punishment should be so draconian, so extreme? It was as if all the Gods had colluded against him, and who was he to argue, for the Gods, though fickle and prone to fanciful whims, were always ultimately just. His punishment, thought Einar, as he sat alone in the great hall of what had once been Wulfthram’s manor house, was well deserved.

  And it had all been going so well. Though Wulfthram had died, his wife was imprisoned and he had talked the other imprisoned barons round, using persuasion not threats. Vorfgan was securing the town and harbour and was meeting little resistance; he had even managed to destroy the southern Duke’s ship. Einar could see now, though, with hindsight, that he had fallen into the trap of thinking only of what had gone well and ignoring what hadn’t. Nevertheless, that night he swore that he would see Wulfthram to the Gods as he had promised Ceriana, as though by doing that his guilt and culpability would be somehow assuaged. He was a big man but an even bigger fool, thought Einar. How could anything he had done be justified?

  Things then started to go downhill quite quickly as the night wore on. While he was talking to the imprisoned barons, Ceriana had escaped, The seneschal had helped her and, though he was caught and killed, they could not track her down. Then the house of Artorus had burnt down. Women and children, terrified by the bloodshed, had taken refuge there and, though some escaped into the streets beside themselves in terror, others had been trapped inside. He had walked through the place the following morning looking at the charred corpses, some of them little more than infants. There were dozens of them and at that point he knew they could never capture the hearts of the locals, despite him being one of them. Without having the minds of the people, he knew the rebellion would fail sooner or later and his own life would be forfeit.

  There had been resistance at the harbour, too. Vorfgan thought it secured but reckoned without the spirit of the doughty fisher folk. They slaughtered many of his men before order could be restored, and with order came executions and with executions came simmering hostility. And a hostile crowd needed men to suppress it, more than they could afford.

  Still, despite the stiffness of the resistance, the island had been taken and, shortly after leaving the charred and smoking hulk of the house of Artorus, he did keep his word. The local priest, Sidden, helped consign Wulfthram to the flames surrounded by a large and tearful crowd, all of whom were surrounded by Vorfgan’s spear. Despite their presence, he was spat upon many times for, unlike Vorfgan, he was known and trusted here and so everyone knew of his unforgiveable switch in loyalties. His mood started to spiral downhill at that point; he barely listened afterwards as Vorfgan laid out his plans to defend the harbour from the inevitable counter-invasion and to fortify the town over the winter against Wulfthram’s men, many of whom had taken to the country, hiding, organising, and ready to start some sort of guerrilla war against them. At least that’s what Vorfgan thought. Personally Einar had stopped caring overmuch – he would fight, he would never be taken alive, but unlike the excited blond man talking to him, he knew that their grand plans were looking increasingly unachievable.

  But little did he suspect how exactly the end would come.

  Earlier the previous day he had been with Vorfgan, checking to see how the walls of Osperitsan Town were being strengthened. Vorfgan was smiling; he had not stopped since he had taken the town.

  ‘The harbour is ready, Einar,’ he said triumphantly. ‘When the fleet comes they will be repelled; their ships cannot all get in the harbour at once and so we will burn them, one at a time.’

  ‘That is good,’ said Einar in a monotone.

  ‘And then I shall return to Clutha and leave this place to you. Even as we speak my men are attacking Vihag; it may even be taken by now. Then it is Thakholm and after that we give our terms to the Grand Duke. It is a shame Wulfthram’s widow is gone but she was hardly a core part of our plans. Cheer up, big man.’ He slapped Einar on his shoulder. ‘Things move quickly and, to our advantage, there is little that can stop u..
.’

  He was cut short. ‘What was that?’ he said, his face puzzled.

  Einar did not answer for a second. ‘Hooves,’ he finally answered. ‘Horsemen up from the harbour.’

  ‘No, man, not that. That.’

  Einar heard it this time. ‘Sounds like some sort of bird, or an animal, caught by a predator.’

  ‘No,’ said Vorfgan. ‘It is not that; it is something bigger.’

  Einar looked at him; he seemed perturbed, even fearful. Einar’s hearing was not what it used to be, so he couldn’t be sure of what he had just listened to. He turned his head towards the road from the harbour.

  A horseman, one of Vorfgan’s, was careering along the road apparently heedless of his own safety. Behind him two other horses appeared over the crest of the hill, riding just as hard. The first horseman charged through the opened gate in the partially reconstructed city walls, heading straight for Vorfgan in the square.

  ‘Run!’ he screamed, his voice hoarse, his eyes wide with terror. ‘Monsters! Demons! Our doom is come!’

  ‘Wait, man!’ Vorfgan called out angrily. ‘Stop! What is wrong? Tell us!’

  But the rider did not stop. Vorfgan’s man or no, he spurred his horse on straight to the manor house, kicking up dust in his wake.

  ‘Damn him, I’ll have him flogged for his impertinence!’ Vorfgan’s temper almost got the better of him as he watched the man disappear. Then he felt Einar’s arm on his shoulder and turned back to the road into the town.

  The other two horsemen were equidistant from the crest of the hill and town gates when something rose high into the sky from under the hill line. Thirty feet tall at least, a serpent with wings and claws and the face of a lizard with a mouth full of jagged yellow teeth. It saw the horses and the soldiers inside the town and shrieked, a keening, discordant sound that made everybody stop up their ears. Another of the beasts followed behind it. The two of them looked at each other, even hissed at each other before flying towards the horses at a murderous speed.

  They took a horseman each, snapping their steeds in colossal vicelike jaws before tossing them casually into the air. They could hear the screams of both man and horse as they plummeted back down to the ground. Einar heard the sickening, bone-crunching thuds as they landed, and then both man and horse were lost to view as the creatures pounced on them, rending flesh and splintering bone as they fed. They were messy eaters; gore soon pooled around their great clawed feet and their narrow, arrow-shaped heads were bathed in crimson. Einar watched fascinated, as everyone around him wailed in terror, fleeing for the sanctuary of the manor house. He looked at the walls they were building, a more ineffectual defence he could not envisage. Then more of the great winged monstrosities hove into view, making directly for the town and its people.

  Vorfgan had not moved either. He seemed equally entranced by the horrible spectacle and perhaps at last the extent of his folly was being laid bare before him. It was Einar who came to his senses first.

  ‘Vorfgan! The manor house. Now!’

  Einar turned and ran, expecting to hear the great beating of wings behind him at any second. He made it to the house gates, and the courtyard. The door was barely ajar and men were inside it, calling him. If he made it, he would be the last to do so.

  Bursting his lungs, he put on one last terrific spurt. The monsters were close; he could hear them screeching, a deafening, blood-freezing sound. He gained the door. Just before he slipped inside, so the door could be closed and barred, he looked behind him. Several of the beasts were hovering over the town, squawking and snapping at each other. More still were bearing down on the manor house; they would be in the courtyard within seconds. And then he saw Vorfgan. The man had not run as he had; instead, he appeared to have found a horse. The time it took for him to mount it, though, had cost him, there was no way he could get to the manor house now without being devoured. Instead, he saw him ride into a side street. Einar knew that it had a road that soon became little more than a dirt track which led southward, joining on to the main rode to old Thudig’s lands. A great lizard was pursuing him, two in fact. Einar ducked inside the house, hearing the great wooden cross piece being slammed shut to bar it. Vorfgan was on his own.

  Within seconds those people sheltering in the great hall had been forced to flee again, as one of the windows shattered. A great lizard head reached through it, grabbed some poor hapless man and was gone in a trice. It was time to flee again. And so that night was spent underground in the servants’ quarters. People huddled together in terror. The ancient priest, Sidden, gave a service and did his best to comfort those he could. But the monsters were prowling. Their cries could be heard from the courtyard, or the manor house roof, on which some of them seemed to be perched. Einar gathered the soldiers together, told them to protect the civilians and reassured them that these beasts could not dig through solid rock, though how he knew this, fortunately no one asked him.

  That was yesterday. And now here he was, back in the great hall where he had spent many an hour with Wulfthram, drinking, talking, planning, carousing. Only the one window had been shattered. As Einar suspected, the beasts were too large and ungainly to clamber through. It was fortunate indeed that they did not have forearms like true dragons were supposed to. As he walked slowly over the floor, crunching glass under his great boots, he heard someone enter the room behind him. It was old skullface himself, Baron Rosk.

  ‘Why are you here?’ Rosk asked. A simple enough question but one he could not fully answer.

  ‘I have hazarded a look outside,’ Einar said. ‘It is strange. They are in the courtyard, on the roof, but they are leaving the town alone. Why is that do you wonder?’

  As he finished speaking, something crashed on to the ground outside, smashing into pieces. Rosk flinched. Einar remained unmoved.

  ‘The roof tiles – they are pulling them off one by one; they could be in here very soon.’

  ‘Then let us return to the servants’ quarters and quickly! You are needed there, Einar, not up here. I doubt you can persuade those ... things to join your cause as you did me.’

  Einar nodded and walked over to the other man. ‘No one knows that I turned you, not even your own men.’ He put his hand on Rosk’s shoulder.

  ‘When the southerners finally come here, tell them nothing of our former conversation. You are still the Grand Duke’s man, imprisoned by the filthy rebels – remember that. Do that and there will be no reprisals against you.’

  Rosk’s relief was audible. ‘And will you not tell them?’

  Einar laughed as another tile smashed on to the floor outside. A shaft of light shone on to the great dining table in the gloom. A hole had appeared in the roof. They were almost through.

  ‘Back to the servants’ quarters, Rosk. These creatures are a punishment from the Gods. If they are given what they want, perhaps even now they may leave others unmolested. Go!’

  Rosk beheld the other man’s face and saw the resignation in his eyes. He slowly shook his head and then, without another word, he turned and ran back down the corridor, leaving Einar alone.

  Einar shut his eyes for a moment. Another tile fell and the shaft of light broadened. A great red eye appeared through the gap in the roof. The monsters started to screech in excitement.

  As with the halls in many such great dwellings, the walls displayed a great variety of shields and weapons, the Baron displaying the coats of arms of those loyal to him. Einar walked over to them. Under his own great red shield emblazoned with a black boar were two great crossed axes. In old Kibil, fighting with such weapons was the ultimate discipline of a true warrior. Einar pulled them loose, holding a mighty axe in each hand. He swung one, then the other, enjoying the sound they made as they swooshed through the air. He had wanted to die a hero not a traitor; redemption was no longer possible for him but he was still Baron Einar, and he was not going to die like a rat in a hole.

  He went to the door, put his axes down, lifted the bar and slammed back the bolt. Anot
her tile fell from the roof and this time the creature could push its head all the way through the gap, hissing venomously at him. Einar picked up his axes again.

  He kicked the door open. It creaked back on its hinges and Einar blinked as he adjusted to the light.

  Two of the great beasts were in the courtyard directly ahead of him. When on the ground they were awkward, ungainly; they sometimes even slithered along like snakes. The courtyard itself was a charnel house; they must have been bringing victims here to feed. There was not a square foot that was not coated by blood, faeces, entrails or body parts. Of what he could glean from the remains he could see that they all seemed to be soldiers. The villagers were not being targeted. Further proof that these were creatures sent by the Gods to punish those that dared question the order of things.

  ‘Look at me!’ Einar shouted at the top of his formidable lungs. I am Baron Einar of West Osperitsan. A warrior of Kibil! A soldier of Syvuhka! This house belongs to a friend of mine, one I betrayed in my stupidity. He is with the Gods now; he will not be damned as I will be, so what is his is now my responsibility, and I say to you leave this place and do not come back!’

  The wyverns turned to look at him, craning their long necks in his direction, hissing and spitting at him. They started to move towards him on their squat, ungainly legs. Einar heard more noise above him – more of the beasts were looking down from the top of the manor house – and finally he heard a great thump and crash behind him as the animal pulling off the tiles had made a large enough space to climb through the roof and had fallen into the great hall where it screeched in triumph.

  ‘So you will not leave,’ said Einar, feeling the battle wrath surge inside him. ‘Then it is time you were taught to respect your betters.’ He raised his axes to the skies. ‘Syvuhka!’ He roared, a noise fit to match that of his enemies. And with that he charged straight for the nearest wyvern, both he and it screaming in their rage.