The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3)

by Igor Ljubuncic

  He wasn’t fooled by that look; her eyes were shrewd, deep. “Nothing yet.”

  “What about the refugees? You can resettle them in the south.”

  “No. They are Athesians. They will be going back to their land.” After I conquer it, he thought.

  “They are not a pretty sight for people visiting Pain Daye. Kind of like a food stain on an immaculate dress,” she spoke, her tone beautiful, luring. “You might want to move them away, maybe to Goden at least.”

  And lose my subjects? he thought, almost resentfully. He feared letting them out of his grip, as if the only thing that kept their patriotism burning was their presence. But more than that, he feared letting Athesians mingle with Caytoreans. He wasn’t quite sure how that would unravel, or worse, how a possible conflict between civilians might impact his young army. The last thing he needed was the Fourth Legion coming to blows with their local friends. He might be their emperor, but only because another had died. He did not forget his unlucky inheritance.

  “Can I suggest something?” she persisted.

  James rolled his eyes, trying to act tough in front of his men. He thought Master Hector was grinning. “Please.”

  Rheanna leaned onto the table, her bosom swaying, her lush curves rippling under tight satin. He felt a wave of her femininity spread through the room. Men reacted to it subconsciously, their jawlines dropping a hair lower, their nostrils tightening, their stance growing more rigid, alert. Rheanna commanded the war room, and all she had done was put her immaculately manicured hand on the lacquered tabletop.

  “The west front is terribly exposed,” she said.

  Front terribly exposed, he mused. James thought she meant Athesia, but her finger slid farther, toward Eracia. He imagined that finger sliding up his chest.

  “Here.” She tapped in the general vicinity of Paroth. “Most of the Eracian army is there, wondering what they ought to do now that their monarch has lost his head. But you have the nomads pushing all the way to the border. Who knows what they might decide to do next? Invade the unprotected northern Athesia?”

  “Distant land, distant problems,” Xavier muttered, cleaning his fingernails.

  James shot an angry glance at the warlord, but the butcher did not seem to notice. The emperor frowned, thinking. As always, his wife was thinking three steps ahead. The Eracians were now a frightened bunch, their land cut in two. The Eracian Southern Army was locked between their savage enemies, the Parusite invaders, the untrustworthy Athesian neighbors, and the Safe Territories, lawless and too full of armed men who most likely answered to the throne in Sigurd. The Northern and Western Armies had suddenly found themselves with their back exposed, unprepared.

  The east was held, for now, in the hands of the few surviving nobles and their troops. James looked up. His eyes fell on the tiny chip of paint that stood for Windpoint, a cubit away from the Barrin county.

  His mother was there.

  He pushed his feelings deep into his stomach, trying to think rationally. He was an Eracian, and he should feel anger at having the Kataji roaming in Somar. But his stay at Pain Daye had changed the way he perceived lands and people. They were no longer an emotional weight, but a possession. Something to own, something to use.

  But he would be a liar if he said he didn’t often think about his mom, Alexa, Celeste, Bailiff Edmund, his friends. He wondered how his mom was feeling or what she was doing about the enemy invasion. She had been a commander in her day. A commander in the Eracian sense of the word, he thought, not just a leader of a single legion, a leader of a whole army—just like him now. He wondered what she would do. He had not received a letter from her in a while, and that worried him. The last one was all about her fury for not being invited to his wedding. Mercifully, she had not told Celeste. But she had promised to come one day and meet his wife. That ought to be interesting, he thought.

  Even if he wanted to help Eracia, he could not. He was half Caytorean now. He was Athesian. His birthplace meant nothing.

  But his wife’s finger was pointing to a solution to his worry, and a dozen others besides. He might not fight for Eracia, but he could fight the nomads to defend his own realm.

  Yes, he could do that. He swept a finger in an arc, from Pain Daye to Somar, a month of travel in one quick gesture. “We could march west, take over northern Athesia. Probably capture Ecol or Bassac. This puts our left flank at danger from the Parusites, but then, they leave their own right exposed if they move north.” He knew that quite a few of the enemy had left, heading back home to their steads and farms. The Parusites did not have a standing army, save for those Red Caps, women without home or hope, the most dangerous sort. “We can then join with the Eracian regiments”—he tapped Decar—“and offer them help with pushing the nomads back and restoring Somar to their hands.”

  “Or we just take it for ourselves,” Xavier piped in. “What if they don’t appreciate our gratitude?”

  James grimaced. “They will definitely not appreciate us fucking them in the arse while they’re busy with the nomads.”

  Rheanna put a hand on his forearm, a calm, dominant touch. He understood. Expletives were a bad choice for commanding authority, it seemed. “Your presence in northern Athesia is crucial. You must assure the Eracians that you do not intend to invade their land, and you threaten an intervention against the Parusites stationed in the Safe Territories should they try to advance north. This will allow the Eracian southern forces to move against the nomads. After this affair is concluded, the new monarch will be very grateful for your assistance.”

  James nodded. When did his wife become an expert on military tactics? Or was this just diplomacy and investment in future wealth, her bread and butter?

  She stroked his cheek. “I will see you later.” And she left, her lovely body drawing more than one glance, her husband’s presence notwithstanding. The men just couldn’t help themselves.

  “Ah, women!” Colonel Gilles exclaimed. “In my home, I don’t let my wife talk. She takes care of the children and cooks for me. That’s all.” He looked at James. “No offense meant, sir.”

  Xavier snorted. “Your voice is awfully high today, Gilles. Maybe because she has her hand round your balls, eh?” He gestured vividly to help anyone with bad imagination get the point of his joke. There was little laughter; they had all heard this too many times. Not discouraged, Xavier spun toward Timothy. “And you little rascal. You play dumb and shy, but you bed them like a badger.” He punched the boy in the shoulder, making him sidestep.

  James rarely saw Xavier in such a merry mood. He wondered why. A butcher. But not the butcher Nigella had promised him. Oh no. He had gotten it all wrong the first time.

  Rob ignored the warlord. “Your lady wife is remarkable.”

  The emperor nodded. “Yes, she is.” He still sometimes wondered why she would help him gain friendship and trust with the Eracians. It went against Caytor’s interest. It might even portray him as an Eracian in their eyes. But he realized what she was doing. She was pushing him to be respected by both Caytoreans and Eracians. Like his father had been. Because that was what Athesia was all about.

  Maybe he was too lucky?

  Her plan was sound. Everyone else—the Kataji, the monarchless Eracians, King Sergei—they all had to make sure no one sneaked up on them from behind. He just had to move his forces into northern Athesia. His rear was covered. The Parusites would not dare attack Caytor, not after what had happened with the pirates.

  Master Hector coughed. “Before you can take any land from brigands and our pious southern neighbors, maybe you should focus on making your troops excel in combat?”

  That again, James thought sourly, distracted, the focus of his resolution wavering. The old man believed any soldier with less than ten years of bloody fighting was a rookie. He felt the idle camping outside the mansion gates was a waste of good pasture, food, and everyone’s time. He wanted to keep the soldiers moving, marching, always dirty, always busy, lean, homesick, and ready t
o kill. He saw the engagements against the pirates as a warming-up session. For him, the mascots, the legions, the shuffling of troops, it was a backdrop to real training and discipline, and he was never satisfied.

  Rheanna was right about the military presence, though. James did feel it was time to start clearing Pain Daye of soldiers of all nationalities. Before the Oth Danesh, his troops had all looked toward future battles with almost childlike excitement. Now, that sentiment was gone. They were no longer a bunch of green men drunk on glorious stories. They were dangerous armed men with blood on their hands.

  Dangerous men, with nothing to keep them occupied.

  Many of them lusted for revenge, to have a go at the Parusites, and damn the odds. The Athesians wanted to fight for their land, for their emperor. The Caytoreans wanted to retaliate for the humiliation and pillage they had suffered by the pirates. King Sergei had made a grave mistake when he’d allowed his mercenaries to roam inside Caytor for so long. He had estranged the Caytorean people when his sell-swords burned their homes and stole their children. It gave James a lot of leverage, but it also made his legions harder to control, like a frisky horse trying to chew through its reins.

  Malik handed a bundle of papers to another clerk. Sensing a pause in the briefing, a servant stepped in with a tray of fresh drinks and small, sweet cakes. Commander Nicholas tapped the edge of the table somewhat nervously. He did not seem satisfied with the idea of going northwest. He probably felt the only way he could restore peace to his sleep was by charging Roalas’s walls, shrieking vengeance.

  James scanned the room. His eyes took in the assembled officers, his squire, Rob, the busy lot of scribes and secretaries running around them. They all believed in a different shade of truth, saw a different direction to the path he was carving. Some wanted glory, others wanted blood and plunder, and some shared his vision. He had many other worries, but without a realm, most of his focus came back to this group and their problems.

  What he had to do was make sure the fragile alliance between his dead sister’s troops and his own held. He had to decide what to do with the refugees before the winter and never quite forget the gratitude and interest of the High Council. Never that.

  Pain Daye was an illusion. It would have to end one day. Only he had not decided when yet.

  But after his wife’s visit, it seemed rather simple. The father I’ve never known must have never had these moments of weakness, he wondered and was almost tempted to ask Rob. No.

  He realized he was looking at his woes from the wrong angle. He was trying to find common ground to everything, to please everyone. But he was Adam’s son. He had to focus on resolving his issues in a simple manner, with ruthlessness and unpredictability. Leave Caytor and reassure the High Council he did not plan on staying in their country forever, a threat and a parasite as much as an ally and partner. Move into northern Athesia, gain support from his people. Help the Eracians defeat the nomads, obtain their trust. Turn his eyes south and defeat King Sergei.

  Yes, he was a lucky man to have Rheanna. He could not have asked for a better partner.

  He was tempted to accept her suggestion outright, but he feared the reaction from his officers. They would not take kindly to a woman presenting a solution to a problem they’d been wrestling with for weeks.

  Tomorrow then. He would meet with his officers tomorrow and convince them his lady wife’s idea was theirs. Well, it was, essentially, with just some female touch to soften the rough edges. Tomorrow, he would convince them to assemble the army for a march on Ecol in two weeks. It would be a challenge, he knew. An exercise in wit and diplomacy. But if he wanted to rule Athesia like his father did, he’d better sharpen up.

  CHAPTER 5

  Victory was nothing like he’d expected, King Sergei thought. Three months now, and the bitter aftertaste still lingered in his mouth.

  He stood in a small, narrow room with high walls, its ceiling replaced with lead glass panes, so it let colored patches of sunlight through, orange, yellow, muted green, pale blue. The chamber was bare; the floor was bare. There was no decoration save for a marble block laid on the ground—rectangular, man-size, the tombstone that had never been finished.

  Emperor Adam’s grave.

  Sergei had discovered the resting place of his father’s archenemy almost by accident. He’d interrupted a pair of his soldiers desecrating the place, one with a pickax, ready to swing against the stone, the other with his trousers down and trying to defecate on the would-be headstone, drunk and laughing. The day after, both of them had hanged. Sergei might hate Adam the Godless and his progeny, but he could not allow a dead man’s grave to be violated. It went against his faith.

  Adam’s daughter had never finished carving her father’s features out of the stone, the war having cut short her plans and ambitions. Now, the tomb was a neglected remnant of her failed leadership. Even servants were too afraid to come here, fearing his wrath.

  For Sergei, though, it was a reminder of the price he had paid to be standing there. The life of his firstborn. Such was the burden of kingship.

  He often came here when he started doubting his quest, his leaving Parus on this vengeance pilgrimage. So much had changed since. Sometimes, he forgot what he was doing in this miserable place, so he had to seek Adam’s grave to reassure himself it had not been in vain. It could not have been.

  But the woman who had killed his son was nowhere to be found.

  The king retreated, descending the wide flight of steps that led into the death chamber, his bodyguards trailing, fully armed. He had never needed them before, but reality had changed. He did not fear death. He feared what his demise would cost Parus. So early after the conquest, it would spell disaster for his realm. His work was far from being finished.

  The royal—imperial—palace in Roalas, such as it was, was a small, shabby place, hardly fitting his status. Anyone’s really. It spoke volumes of Adam’s legacy and his gruesome work. The man had taken the first big city he had laid his eyes upon and made it into the capital of his young realm, ignoring protocol and custom. He had taken over the military keep and converted it into his home. He had destroyed temples and chapels and made them into warehouses and stores.

  Sergei rounded corners, going back to the court room. Servants and clerks edged out of his way, bowing. Athesians, all of them. They had adapted almost instantly. Looking at them, you could read fifty years of history from their cold, emotionless faces. They had seen the councillors rule them, then the Feorans, then Adam and his daughter, and now the Parusite king. Roalas was a place that spelled doom to those who tried to hold it. An unholy, unhappy place.

  Sergei tried to ignore the casual disdain they showed him. It was unsettling.

  He found his sister half sitting, half leaning against a large table, her right leg dangling with clockwork precision, her eyes staring at some papers. Her priestess friend was writing, back straight as a steel blade. Two Red Caps stood guard, arms crossed on the hilts of their swords, tips down between their legs. A silly pose, one that left you tired and too slow to respond, but Sasha insisted.

  Another person to have embraced reality almost instantly. It seemed everyone but him had accepted Amalia’s defeat and now worked toward making a new future for the Athesians. For some reason, he hesitated. He wavered. He was held back by angry ghosts tugging at his soul.

  There was a fire burning unnecessarily in the west hearth, crackling and hissing, sap bursting. Unlike Adam’s grave room, the walls here burst with decorations. You could hardly see the stone. Sasha had commissioned all of Roalas’s painters to create a vivid recollection of the city’s fall, and then displayed the canvases all around the court room. If you stepped close to the paintings, you could still smell the tangy aroma of flax oil.

  The Return of Faith, she called the glorious scenery. She wanted every person allowed into her presence to admire the victory of Parus over infidels. Sergei felt the gesture pointless, but he did not argue with her choice. It was her court roo
m.

  She was the ruler of Athesia now.

  As a king, it belonged to him during his stay, so he could have asked for any setting. And he’d have exercised his right with any one of his archdukes. But he could not bring himself to do that with his sister. So he let her do whatever she pleased.

  Sasha nodded as she heard him approach, without looking up. His bodyguards assumed stations opposite their female counterparts. Sergei stood in the center of the court room, admiring the prize of his campaign. He could see lines where walls had been knocked down, each section a slightly different shade of gray. The Athesian tapestries and armor suits had been thrown out. A pair of fireplaces had been built from fresh brick and mounted with shields. Sasha always complained it was too cold. Sergei hated the smell of smoke.

  “Sister,” he said when he realized she would not greet him first.

  Sasha looked up, rolling a quill between her fingers. “Brother.” Her priestess companion looked up, staring sharply, almost accusingly, at him.

  “We need to talk,” he said.

  The princess seemed to weigh his words, then flicked her wrist. The soldiers filed out, their armor clinking. The priestess lingered. Sergei felt his anger rise. He pointed toward the door. Sniffing, the woman rose and walked out. Some nameless servant closed them in from the outside.

  “What is this about?” Sasha asked, sounding annoyed.

  “The hangings,” he told her.

  Sasha frowned. “What about them?” But then she rose and walked to the nearest fireplace.

  Sergei took a deep breath. “You will not gain love and sympathy from the Athesian people if you keep murdering one of them every day.”

  Sasha snorted. “When they surrender Amalia to me, I will order the hangings stopped.”

  The king looked up at the rafters wrapped in banners. Amalia, he thought. No one knew what had happened to the empress in the attack, but her body had not been found inside the Imperial Manse. Most people assumed her killed and forgotten somewhere, left to rot, but Sergei did not share their sentiment. He believed she had fled the city. But then, why hadn’t she revealed herself to her people? It bothered him.