The Forgotten War by Howard Sargent Page A

Morgan recognised another of the volunteers, although in truth he only barely knew him.
He remembered noticing him in a skirmish with some Arshuman mercenaries where he had impressed with his blade. Though not as young as the two archers, Morgan would not say he was as veteran as
himself; rather, somewhere between the two. He was quite a short and wiry man with no spare fat on him. He wore heavier armour than the other men – a lot more chain mail – and had metal
leg guards, too. Slung over his shoulder was a plain circular wooden shield. His long sword was sheathed in a scabbard far more ornate than most of the men here carried.
    ‘Hello there, sir,’ the man said. ‘I am surprised that you recognised me.’ He, too, was dark haired, though it was curly and thinning on top.
    ‘Not at all – I remember your abilities with the sword.’
    ‘Abilities that get little enough practice here; I am more adept at putting up a tent and dice playing these days.’
    ‘Well, if you want a more hazardous challenge...’
    ‘Thank you, sir. I will be ready when you call.’
    ‘Good man.’ Morgan turned to Rozgon. ‘Now all I need is someone who can handle horses.’
    ‘I can help with that.’ Reynard who had been listening at a respectful distance came forward. ‘You should have one of the knights with you – to represent the Baron, if
nothing else.’
    Morgan readily acceded. ‘Very well, I will let you choose. Everyone should settle up their business here today; we will be leaving tomorrow at dawn.’
    And so they departed. The camp was on a slight hill with a good view of the open plain around it and was fed by a small stream, and it was the course of this stream that they
followed. They took four horses with them, not the glorious chargers that the knights favoured but rather smaller, sturdier beasts built for hardiness. The knight selected by Reynard was one Sir
Varen of Shayer Ridge, a town nestling in the foothills not too far from the pass they needed to take through the mountains. He was the son of the magistrate there and it would be the final
civilised place they would be stopping at to resupply and get fresh horses if required. The choice of Sir Varen was a good one therefore, because, apart from him, only Morgan and Rozgon knew the
route they were taking, so even if two of them were to die the mission could still continue. Morgan’s only concern was the man’s youth; he really wanted more veterans in the party but
the handsome young knight looked like he had only recently been promoted from squire. Varen had forgone the usual knight’s plate in favour of mail and studded leather, and appeared to favour
the mace in the Felmere tradition, as one was strapped to his back, its blackened metal head giving it a particularly vicious look. Morgan himself favoured the long sword; it was his opinion that
four feet of tempered steel had never let anybody down.
    They were to follow this course westwards for two days until they came to the Vinoyen River. They would cross it at the bridge at the town of Tetha Vinoyen, turn northwards and two to three days
further travel would see them at the pass. Of course, it also meant passing through Baron Ulgar’s lands, a man whose hostility to Felmere was well known. Morgan hoped that his own close
association with the Felmeres would not be too problematic.
    After half a day’s uneventful travel they came to a dirt road sheltered by a brake of trees on both sides. As they joined it, Morgan mused on the fact that they hadn’t seen a soul
all day. There was a time when many of the abandoned farm buildings they had passed would have been hives of activity. It was getting close to harvest-time and the fields would soon have been
filled with many sweating men and women, singing and breaking their backs as they scythed and bundled the crops, pausing just twice a day to fill their bellies with bread, cheese and sweet cider.
The farm he had grown up in wasn’t too far