The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3)

by Igor Ljubuncic

  Farther out, away from the common life, two dozen Eracian nobles were cheering four of their colleagues as they galloped in circles in front of the city’s south wall. Bored sentries at the walls watched them, too.

  The course was marked in spears, with scarves tied to the heads. It was a simple oval track, nothing too demanding for those trained to ride for pleasure and not war. The hooves hammered on the beaten dirt and grass, clots flying. Men were shouting, clapping, cursing, laughing. A ragged crowd of Red Caps and Borei stood a little farther apart, making their own bets and guesses. No Borei would ever miss a good gamble.

  Bart stood in between the two crowds, a man of his own belief. He was one of the Eracians, a noble, a count, a rich man, but he didn’t think the people of the south, or the city folk sloshing through the muddy bank, any lesser than him. It was an astounding realization.

  Count Thomas won this round. He raised his arms in victory, but then quickly clamped them down on the reins. Bart watched sadly. Eracia was a country under invasion, and all his peers did was waste time. Cowards.

  From the corner of his eye, Bart saw someone approach. Junner. The mahout had been unemployed ever since his olifaunt died in one of the attacks. Unemployed meant he spent his time peddling anything he could find and making good money selling his virgins and arranging animal fights.

  “Lord Count,” the Borei said.

  Not a primitive, Bart thought, that mixed elation and anger thudding in his temples. Just a man from a different land, a different culture. As smart as any one of us. “Junner, my friend.”

  The mercenary grinned widely, a dangerous sign. Bart was glad he had no money on his person. But Junner was good for letters of credit, a solemn word, anything. “Not enjoying the race, eh?”

  Bart suppressed a flood of dark thoughts—envy, disappointment, resentment, pure rage, slight worry, indifference he felt for the unknown fate of his wife. “Not really.”

  Junner stepped close, smelling of garlic. “I have a new virgin for you, if you want.”

  The count smiled. It had become a standing joke between them. The sort of thing you savored when the moment was right, but left you wondering how you could ever consider it funny when you went away and the intimacy of comradeship evaporated. “No, thank you.”

  The former mahout wagged a finger. “You’ve grown very wise with your gold, Lord Count.”

  Ahead of him, Thomas had dismounted and was shaking hands with his fans. Some thumped him playfully on the shoulder or the back. The defeated men were counting their coins into a large hat.

  They didn’t even own their horses, Bart thought. King Sergei had loaned the animals as a gesture of pity.

  Junner seemed to realize Bart was in a sour mood. He knew there would be no money for him. “No matter, Lord Count. You can find me by the West Gate. I like them women with their mud on their feet when they come back. I love Athesian women’s feet. Small and dainty. Our women got them like eagles’ claws.”

  Bart watched the Borei retreat. As expected, Junner did not go back to the city. He burrowed into the crowd of spectators, working his crude, dangerous magic. The count looked away. It all looked surreal. You could almost forget there had been a war here. The peasants and farmers went about their business as far as the eye could see. The roads were dotted with carts and travelers. Parusite soldiers were repairing the damaged section of the curtain wall, digging a defensive moat nearby from a river inlet. Life went on as usual. Only several weeks away to the north and west, his realm bled.

  Monarch Leopold was dead, they said. His family too.

  Most of the people who had attended the stupid alliance had been killed. Among them, most likely, Countess Sonya of Barrin, his harpy of a wife.

  A man should feel something for his partner, he thought. He tried to force himself to feel concerned. But there was just a bleak fog of emotion. This worried him more than Sonya’s fate.

  He had been cast aside. No longer in charge of saving anyone, no longer in charge of preventing a war, no longer inspired to be a silent, peaceful hero. There was nothing left for him here. King Sergei had chosen peace and reconciliation. Amalia was most likely dead. The Athesians had quickly turned their hearts to this new ruler who offered protection and bread. Kneeling for a few hushed words of prayer in the morning and before dinner was a small price to pay.

  What Bart had was a handful of disappointments, and he could not even wipe his arse with them.

  As the most senior member of the Privy Council, Duke Vincent was in charge of the freed delegation now. The old fool had assembled an ill-named war council and was trying to rally support around him. Perhaps the man believed the council would elect him as the new monarch once the war was concluded with an Eracian victory. Only he had no army, just a bunch of useless aristocrats who preferred to drink and whore and race and lose loaned money.

  The army was in Yovarc and Decar and Spoith, maybe, locked down in their garrisons, waiting, trying to form up. They might try to liberate Somar, but not without support from the surviving nobles. And so far, there wasn’t a single unified decision about what should be done. Duke Vincent wanted to charge into the city at any cost. Most others wanted to try to make themselves the favored candidate for monarchy before making any other decision. Which meant bickering, backstabbing, lies, stalling, and wasting more time.

  A few sane minds pushed for sending envoys to the isolated north, trying to rally support there. Others wanted to parley with King Sergei for military support, forgetting that another suggestion of an alliance had made their realm burn and bleed. All Bart could see was the Eracian strength slipping, their presence in the Safe Territories dwindling, their chance of retaking Somar becoming lesser every day.

  The Southern Army divisions were reasonably strong, but without leadership and surrounded by hostile forces. King Sergei showed no inclination of moving his Athesian forces anywhere, but you just could not know what he might do. He also had Amalia’s alleged half brother to deal with. And that could drive him to some harsh decisions.

  On its own, the army might be able to challenge the nomads, but not with the Parusites behind them. One wrong move, and they would be obliterated. Before too long, Eracia would be reduced to its northern ranges. Bart could find no reason why the Parusite king might not choose the Kataji over a decimated Eracian exile. The Parusites had always striven to make the Territories theirs, what they had almost completely done ever since the Great Desertion. The Eracians retained only a small foothold around Talmath and farther north, in the Borean Woods. Sergei could expel them, crush the Southern Army using the nomad forces as the anvil to his hammer, then make peace. Afterward, circle back and defeat the last pockets of defense in the north of his young princedom. He would become the new Pyotr when it came to the extent and success of his campaign.

  Bart knew men of power could hardly resist having more of it.

  Even he had fallen victim to its addictive caress.

  Which left Bart with desperation in his heart. He thought he knew what he must do, but Duke Vincent would never listen. He was scorned by his colleagues. They thought they were better than him because they had fancier titles. It was a mistake he had made once, and now he was paying for it.

  Small steps. Try to unify the would-be council. Maybe. If he could gain their support, he might sway the obstinate old man. The biggest problem was, no one saw any reason to help him. King Sergei had forgotten him, pushed him away from his memory. Bart was too sharp a reminder of his son’s death. He wanted nothing to do with the man who had offered him a choice to prevent an all-out assault against the city. Bart could imagine the man’s bitterness.

  I gave him an opportunity to save his son, and he wasted it.

  Princess Sasha? No. She wouldn’t help him either. His fascination with and almost fatal attraction to her made no difference. The woman was harsh, and she cared only for her realm’s interests. No Athesians would help him. They served their new king now.

  It left him with
the Caytoreans. But unlike his peers, he had not made friends with any. For him, Caytor was still mostly a page from the history book on great wars and suffering. He felt awkward thinking of them as partners. Perhaps the next generation would forget the skirmishes and Adam’s rule; perhaps they would grow to like their neighbors. He could not.

  So, he had no one.

  Suddenly, he could not stand his peers anymore. He turned around and went back into the city. Unlike other Eracian nobles, he had refused staying at the Imperial Manse at the expense of the Parusite king. Instead, he lodged in a large, lavish inn in the nearby Street of Lights, which displayed some of the wealthiest establishments in Roalas: guild houses, manor houses, Lord Benedict’s villa, merchant places, and banks. Apart from some broken windows and scratched paint, the rich part of the city had not suffered much in the final assault. The Parusites had skillfully avoided ruining and burning, focusing on driving toward the palace.

  Still, if you looked hard enough, you could find broken buckles and spurs and arrowheads in the gutters and near trees and bushes, where the children and sweepers had missed them.

  A squad of city watchers went by, Parusites and locals mixed together, marching with cold efficiency. The people in the streets paid them little heed. The sight had become almost natural. King Sergei was an awfully peaceful invader, much like his predecessor some nineteen years back. Yes, most people in this city had seen it all before. They understood the dynamics of conquest all too well. The best they could do was cling to promises and hope for the best. Perhaps if they tried hard enough, the king would be even more inclined to keep his word.

  Bart approached the White Swan. He had hired the entire establishment for himself and his escort, the men and women he had set out with from Eracia a year ago. He had felt a moment of pride when they’d all decided to join him, despite grumbling and scorn from other aristocrats. But a year together, gambling, drinking, sharing the same experiences, had made him more than just a dandy in charge. He had become their friend. They no longer treated him as a soft-faced rich fool who thought he was better than they. He was one of them, a simple man with simple desires.

  Corporal Rickey was keeping guard outside, lounging in a chair, flipping a coin, betting against his own luck. When he saw the count approach, he nodded.

  Bart let his eyes adjust to the clear shadow of the large common room. Alke was cleaning cutlery with a towel, helping the two servant girls prepare lunch. Old Edgar was snoring on a bench near the wall. Three soldiers sat behind a table, playing cards. A flutter of quick greetings went past him. He raised a hand in acknowledgment and headed up to his chambers. As he passed by the table, a strong stench of brandy filled his nostrils. He could not blame them. It was either that or fight suffocating boredom and worry about home.

  He fished a key from a trouser pocket and unlocked the door, entered. The chambers were spacious and luxurious, with big windows, a separate dressing room, and even its own toilet chute. Rich people did not fancy running about the inn when drunk or sick, looking for a place to relieve themselves.

  There was a large bed in the main space. Constance was soundly sleeping in it, white sheets entangled round her body. She had not heard him enter. Her face was serene, slack, drool marking a wet spot on the big pillow. Bart stood there and watched her.

  The young girl was still a mystery, a sweet, promiscuous mystery. She had shared his bed for almost four months now, and he still didn’t know much about her. Except that she came from a reputable family in Eybalen and that she had fled the city with that strange lad Ewan. But she had not told him about her parents and siblings or about the man she was running from. Well, it had to be a man. What else?

  Why do I always fall for the vixens, he thought. As one of the richest aristocrats in Eracia, he had been offered a dozen potential candidates, baronesses and countesses that his father had thought would make the best match. Of all, he had chosen Sonya.

  And stayed with her.

  They had been married for eleven years, and still, she had not brought him any offspring, not that they’d had sex that often. Still, it was a matter of reputation and prestige. Within a year, people had started talking and spreading rumors. He had been the center of every spicy topic his peers could come up with, from having a limp member to visiting beds of other women, all but his own. They had called his seed weak. And when he simply ignored them, they had turned on her, called her a whore and a cuckold. Whatever the reason was, Sonya was most likely barren and would never bear him a child. The Barrin line would wither with his death, it seemed.

  His two brothers were long dead. His mother’s brother had died young, just like Elliot and Wilhelm. His uncle on his father’s side had made himself a cripple in a hunting accident, falling off a horse. Aunt Marina only had daughters. His father had died cursing his son’s failure.

  Bart didn’t care really. Death should scare him, and it did, but not the loneliness of it. He feared the blood and pain and suffering. He didn’t worry about leaving this world without boys and girls to continue his legacy. Somehow, it seemed pointless to him. Eleven years of Sonya had chiseled the notion of happy families from his heart. It had become a contract, and he made sure he wasn’t often on the losing side of the deal.

  Which made his adulterous relation with Constance all the more pleasing. She was a Caytorean, an enemy, and the notion sent a thrill up his spine. She was not his wife. Even better.

  Well, when he felt like he had no one, it was sort of a self-pitying lie. He did have Constance. But if she wielded any power and sway in the High Council somehow, she kept it well hidden. In fact, she almost tried to deny her origin, especially around her other fellow countrymen. Bart had to know her secrets.

  I’m a hypocrite, a weakling, and a liar, he thought. Yes, he cultured disdain and mistrust for his neighbors, and yet he had ridden out to try to stop an all-our war. He loathed violence, but then had himself committed to months of it, watching from the sidelines like some pervert. He despised his wife’s cruelty, only he made sure to repay her with the same coin. And for all his talk about the huge gap between the two nations taking years to bridge, he had no trouble sleeping with some Caytorean girl in an Athesian inn in a city occupied by the Parusites. If he were alive, his father probably would have forgiven him for his other failures.

  Bart knew he would never have respect from his colleagues, or from his wife, if she still lived. He could only focus on what he wanted. And for now, what he wanted was to unite Eracia again and expel the nomads from its lands. A selfless cause. Almost as good as his journey to meet with Empress Amalia. He just hoped this new quest would be more successful.

  He sat down on the bed. Constance stirred, but still did not wake up. He envied her. She could slumber till noon without any difficulty. He was already old enough to feel itchy when the sun climbed above the lip of the earth. Which meant hours spent walking through the city, studying the faces, observing rituals and customs, learning the subtle cultural differences of a mongrel nation forged twenty winters ago, watching religion grow like some monster child.

  And in this city mire of dirt, tragedy, and feeble hope, he was desperately searching for an angle, for some advantage to turn events to his favor. The Privy Council was a hopeless bunch of idiots. But he was outranked, and all he could do was suffer the foolishness with a polite, grim smile. There would be no help from the king or his sister, no help from the Athesians. So what could he do? Was there anything?

  The expensive chamber had no answers. Not today. So he took his clothes off and burrowed into the warm sheets for another round of national reconciliation.

  CHAPTER 7

  Alexa sighed. “Here, I think.”

  Mali grunted as she knelt down inside the small, stuffy shed, her finger tracing invisible lines above the mossy floor. Then, she buried them in the soft clay and dug a chunk out. Another. After a few claw-like attempts, she grimaced.

  “No, not here.” She turned toward Alexa. “How much dirt can accum
ulate over two decades? What do you think?”

  Her friend shrugged. “Not more than an inch. Can’t be more.”

  Mali squinted at the shed’s interior, slanting her head as she appraised the floor and wall angles. “Well, got a bit of slope here, so with rain and all that, could be some mud seeped. Ah. Give me that shovel.”

  Twenty years ago, they had buried a large parcel here. They had sworn they would remember exactly where, but time had eroded their memory. It wasn’t a large shed, but she didn’t want to dig like a fool if she didn’t have to. Besides, for Mali, it was a matter of pride.

  She decided the parcel rested about a step away, deeper inside the shack. With her jaw set, she slammed the shovel into the clay and pushed deep. She was almost ready to admit defeat and try another spot, when the shovel stopped sinking, pressed against something hard.

  Mali grinned, looking at her friend. “Got it.”

  The two of them worked in silence, shoveling earth aside. Soon, they exposed a bundle, almost human in size. It did look like a body, Mali thought. The corpse of my past, of my career, of my regrets.

  Coming back to life.

  The bundle was wrapped in several rolls of cloth. On the outside, the fabric was tattered and moldy and eaten through by worms, but the inner layers were untouched. Maybe faded a little. Good. Grunting, Mali pulled it out, recalling its significant weight. Well, it had a lot of stuff in it.

  Her weapons. Her uniform.

  Self-professed scribes usually wielded pens, so she had been forced to hide her sword and body armor somewhere before declaring herself an innocent woman before the people of Windpoint. Luckily, she had come with enough money to buy an old merchant’s shed at the outskirts of the town and hide her secrets there. And keep them for twenty years.