The Forgotten War (119 page)

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 bellowed 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.

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:

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.’

‘As it must be. For ever,’ repeated the crowd.

The musicians started to play again. ‘O May the Gods Look after a Humble Creature Such as I’, a traditional melody, slow and sonorous, and one associated with funerals in the minds
of those present. From the house of Artorus the pallbearers emerged, each carrying a flaming torch, the crowd parting silently to let them through.

Morgan reflected that the words spoken at a funeral were not important. Few people listened to them. Instead, many bring their own memories of the deceased with them and it is on these that they
reflect as the ceremony unfolds, just as he had done earlier. He wondered what had gone through the minds of Mathilde and Kraven. The boy had stood up well until now, grieving but dignified, and
must have made a good impression among the onlookers.

The pallbearers surrounded the pyre. The priest spoke the final words.

‘May the flames send you to the Gods, to sit at their side and be forever at peace. Gods protect you. Gods protect us all.’

At that the torches were thrust into the gaps in the pyre. The musicians continued to play. At first little happened. The kindling crackled and blue smoke started to billow in the wind. However,
once the flames had caught progress was rapid. Pretty soon a column of high flame was soaring towards the sky, towards the Gods. Glowing red sparks started to rain back on to the ground as the
crowd watched solemnly. The bier holding the Baron, soaked in oils, as was the Baron’s robe, went up instantly and was soon hidden from the onlookers, clothed in its fierce flames.

The crowd started to slowly disperse and young Kraven was finally overcome. His stepmother held him close as he started to sniffle loudly and then sob openly. Morgan tried to suppress feelings
of disappointment in the boy. He was so young after all; he had every right to grieve as he was now doing.

Pretty soon it was just the priests, Morgan, Mathilde and Kraven, and some of the knights remaining. There was some soft feathery rain at last, not enough to stop the fire but almost a signal
from the Gods that things had finished here and it was time to return to the routine of the day. As one, the remaining mourners turned and headed back up the road to the castle, each too
preoccupied with their own thoughts to make any attempt at conversation. There was a loud crack behind them as the pyre collapsed in a shower of flame and sparks. Baron Felmere was no longer of the
world of mortals; for him, hardship, pain and despair were burdens passed on to others, however reluctant they were to receive them.