The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3)

by Igor Ljubuncic

  Sonya looked at him, her thoughts rolling. She had to think fast. There was still one more course of action she had not yet explored. Honesty. Simple, brutal honesty.

  “I want a better life for myself than this.” She gestured vaguely around her. “I want better food, nice clothes. I want power. And only you can provide them to me now, Master. But I do not know what to do.”

  His intelligent eyes did not blink. Neither did he move. She had his attention, and she must not squander it.

  “Would you not prefer if I were clean?” she asked, trying to keep the coy, whorish tone from her voice; after so many years at court, it was a difficult exercise.

  “I do not care,” Pacmad said simply. You’re just meat, his eyes added.

  “Do you not want me to be beautiful for you?” she tried, almost pleading.

  “I do not care,” he repeated.

  “Don’t you want me willing, unafraid?” Her last chance.

  That silence again. Honesty was such a powerful weapon sometimes. But there it was; she had finally managed to get past his harsh exterior and into his mind. A willing concubine, that was who she must be, it seemed. But not one who just cracked into a false smile and opened her legs wide. No, she had to be committed; she had to love it. This man would not tolerate any games.

  Sonya understood that now. Her ultimate goal had not changed, but she would have to rethink her strategy yet again. Deceit was out of the question.

  She looked him up and down. Not an ugly man. Not repulsive. He was crude, and he stank, but he was lithe, he bore with dignity, and he was smart.

  “Willing?” he whispered. Then, he turned and left the chamber. Sonya remained by the bed, hesitant to move, fear creeping up into her belly. She just could not predict what he would do next. He had never left before without raping her. This was disturbing.

  Pacmad returned, holding a knife in his hand. It was a hunting weapon, with a bear claw mounted on a wooden hilt. He knelt in front of her, smiling wickedly. He extended the knife toward her, handle first.

  Sonya felt a tingle in the tips of her fingers.

  “Take it,” he told her.

  What now, she wondered. This must be a test. If she took a knife, would he take that as a pretext to kill her? Or was he trying to see what she would do? Kill herself? She could do that. She was brave enough. But she wasn’t sure if she knew how to end her life quickly and without pain. Attack him? Was she fast enough to surprise him and stab him in the neck? No. What a fool she was. He was expecting that. He wanted her to try something like that.

  Her hand closed on the weapon, and she lifted it from his callused palm. The tip wavered, and then she placed the knife back. The chieftain kept on smiling, his eyes locked on hers. He didn’t care about the weapon. He had already known what she might try. Sonya was fascinated by her captor. She had met few men with such candor, such a mean streak, and yet such calculated intelligence.

  He was an animal, her Eracian upbringing whispered, and she should be hating him, but you could not hate a tool.

  Pacmad could read thoughts, it seemed. “You should hate me, no?”

  Sonya focused on honesty. “I want to know you better, Master. I want to help you.”

  He snorted. “Help me?”

  She rallied. “I could give you advice on Eracian customs and negotiations. I could help you with treaties and numbers. I am a very skilled businesswoman. I want to know who your other lovers are, and I want to be the best of them.”

  The Father of the Bear stood up, gazing down at her. She craned her neck, and her head buzzed with pain. Well, it would take the rest of the day for that agony to wear off. It usually did. At least the dull throb in her side and chest had almost vanished.

  The moment is ebbing, she realized with mounting panic. She must maintain momentum. “You can always beat me if I fail you or displease you,” she offered simply, with her newly acquired honesty. “But you are strong enough and brave enough to give my suggestion a try. Please.”

  Pacmad sucked on his teeth. “The only way to win a woman’s loyalty is to put a child in her. That’s the only way. And you won’t give me any children.”

  Sonya put a hand on his calf. He did not resist or kick at her. “I will be loyal to you. Please let me.”

  Pacmad kept staring and staring, and it went on forever. She had no idea what he was thinking of, and it frightened her. Her neck hurt, and she wanted to lower her gaze, but she did not dare.

  “You want to pleasure me, how?” he asked suddenly.

  She knew she was far from being the most versed woman in Eracia when it came to love and sex, but she knew her share of tricks. Growing up in a society where intrigue and scheming were more valuable than strength and valor, she had quickly learned a thousand ways to win over stubborn men when logical argument and simple common sense failed.

  Slowly, as not to alarm him, she reached up and undid the laces on his trousers, then pulled them down to his knees. He was already erect, she noticed, coming face-to-face with his member. Up close, it was a grotesque little thing. The tribesmen removed half the skin on their penises in some crazy ritual, so they looked like peeled sausages. And he had a pair of moles there.

  She cupped him in both her hands, and it was gone from sight. Even her stupid husband had a bigger cock than this, she remembered. Never mind. She began stroking. Pacmad grunted, and then his breath turned deep and nasal.

  Like always, he was quick. She anticipated his climax and edged away, and he spilled his seed on her bed. Well, the linen was already filthy and bloody; a few more drops would not make any difference.

  Pacmad thrashed, like a colt burdened with its first saddle, but she squeezed hard and held him fast until he was spent. He tottered backward a step. Then, that sudden calmness settled on him, the way it always did with men. It would not last long, but he was the least dangerous in this mood now.

  She waited until his breath settled. “Did you like it?” The last time she had jerked a man off was with Margrave Jason’s eldest son, Owen, when at first he had refused to sell those warehouses in Paroth to her.

  The Kataji fumbled with his soggy meat, tucking it back into his trousers. “Yes.”

  “I can do many other things,” she offered and instantly regretted it; she had just used her coy voice.

  He spotted it, too. He turned cold again. And dangerous.

  “Never forget, I hold your life in my fist.” He demonstrated, closing it.

  Sonya wiped her palms on her thighs. “I am truly sorry. I did not mean to underestimate you.”

  Pacmad traced a finger down the side of her jaw. “Yes, you did, you conniving bitch. But you will learn. You will learn to be humble. You will realize that I own you, and once you do that, life will be much easier for you.”

  And he left.

  Sonya remained in her stinking little prison, bored, exasperated. What could she do? For months now, she had tried her best guile, and it seemed to have little effect on Pacmad. But she must not give up. Every day was a victory, the day she survived, the day she maintained her dignity, her sanity. The day he did not beat her much. And today, she had gotten away with a hand job. It must be worth something. A small victory.

  Later that day, the bent old woman came in and cleaned her room. She took away the old bedsheets, cleared the chamber pot, brought her her meal. Sonya’s heart skipped when she saw the food heaped on the platter. There was some red meat there, badly cooked potato halves, a whole radish, and a pair of small apples. Pacmad had never bothered with fruit and vegetables before.

  Sonya sniffed the contents of her flagon. Wine. She could not believe it. Real wine. After months of stale beer and lukewarm water, she had wine. Carefully, she pitched the flagon and let a trickle gurgle into her cup. Red wine, delicious. Her arms almost trembled with excitement.

  Sonya lay back on her clean bed, spread her arms wide, closed her eyes, and gurgled the wine in her mouth. The fumes rose at the back of her throat and snaked up into her nose
and her head, leaving her slightly dizzy. What a beautiful sensation.

  She had not been beaten much today, and she hadn’t been raped. And now, her ruthless master had favored her with fruit and vegetables. Perhaps she would be able to shit without her knees going numb from so much squatting, for a change. Small things, small victories.

  Most importantly, she had learned today that even Pacmad could be tamed. A man was a man, and she was slowly unraveling his resolve.

  Eracia might be defeated, but she was not.

  She was only starting her battle.

  CHAPTER 11

  Ewan had imagined the far south to be more arid, more yellow.

  After weeks of crossing vast, empty plains with little vegetation, he was surprised by the sudden bloom of fresh green. But then, nothing he had expected from the Oth Danesh turned out to be ordinary.

  Like so many times before in his young, disjointed life, Ewan watched a big city open up before his eyes, enticing, luring, offering its share of greatness and disappointment. He really had no idea what he might find, but he hoped for some answers.

  Maybe he’d learn who he was, what he was.

  Ewan realized he was standing in the middle of the road, and angry travelers were shouting at him in a variety of languages, none of which he understood. He sidestepped into the thorny undergrowth that choked the roadside. A lazy olifaunt lumbered past him, an entire family of Borei straddled in a wooden nest on its back, swaying precariously.

  He could feel he was no longer in the realms. And it wasn’t just the vegetation. He didn’t hear any Continental; people looked different from one another, more secluded, more tribal. Folks made sure to display their colors and charms with great pride.

  The architecture was different, less grand. There were fewer cities, but a lot of villages and trading communities, and the large maze before him was the first grand cluster of buildings he had seen since leaving Mardoan. A new world. Places you did not often read about in books or see in the maps.

  He wondered why.

  His journey to the Oth Danesh land had been largely uneventful. He had traveled day and night, under a blistering silver sun and a dazzling bright canopy of stars, ignoring the gusts of fire-breathing winds howling from the Red Desert, ignoring the lean, hungry wild dogs and the bands of hunters that sometimes showed up on the horizon. Southern Parus was mostly lawless, and the king’s justice only held with his troops around.

  Ewan had walked through the easternmost Borei settlements, met Badanese caravans, spoken to pilgrims from lands even stranger and more distant. He had seen cultures unfurl before his eyes like a scattering of rugs.

  And now he stood here, and he knew this was the beginning of the end of his journey.

  There was a road marker maybe a stone’s throw ahead, a large block of unadorned stone, its edges blunted by the salt and the wind. He had seen those scattered in the desert, sometimes without any roads around. Some had borne carvings, simple designs, circles and straight lines; others had been painted. But whatever history and ancient civilizations may have lived there once and placed those stones, the history books of the realms never mentioned them.

  Ewan knew so little of these pirates. And they seemed to know a lot about him.

  He was a legend in their history, they said.

  The Oth Danesh city was an endless warren of holes dug into the cliff side in long, twisting rows, following the terrain. Every few flights, there was a wide terrace planted with trees or crops. Closer to the sea, the holes transformed into real buildings, upturned bowls piled on one another like a goat’s droppings; by the river, a net of docks and piers struck into the water.

  He had seen a dozen smaller versions of this place farther north, and if his eyes did not trick him, round the bend of the shore, half hidden by the sea mist, there were dozens more. Inland, he could see tiny villages dotting the hills, but he wasn’t quite sure if those belonged to the Oth Danesh, too.

  Nothing indicated he should have come to this place, but deep down, he felt it was the right destination. Well, standing and waiting would get him no answers.

  He resumed walking.

  The city was a surprise. First, he learned it had no name. The locals didn’t care for one. They expected those who needed to know where it was would find it. Ewan decided Cliff City would definitely work for him.

  Then, he learned the sailors did have a name for their place. But only the dockside area, where they lived. For all they cared, the warren of pigeonholes above them was a necessity, a nameless necessity that supported their fare, providing them with food and tools and timber when they needed it, as well as other commodities. Their society ended at the first wrinkle of land above the sea level.

  It was madness.

  Ewan believed he would find more luck at the docks. Always the docks. His curse.

  There were more than a hundred ships in the mooring, including a single Parusite cog. Well, that did not surprise him. Then, he noticed a difference between the merchants and fighters. Those in the pirating business had people of all skin and hair and eye colors, some with notable realms-like features.

  Stolen children, Ewan thought sourly. His mind drifted back to Doris.

  “Excuse me,” he said, trying to catch the attention of one of the sailors. The man said something that sounded like a curse, slid around Ewan, and walked on. “Excuse me.” Ewan tried another man, dark-skinned and with no ears. The sailor glared at him with eyes more yellow than white and marched on without breaking stride.

  I look like a child, and I have nothing to sell, the boy thought. He was more powerful than all of them combined, but all they could see was a scrawny foreigner who intruded on their business.

  Ewan took a deep breath. The next person tried to slither away, but Ewan’s grip stopped him dead. The man grunted, pulled once or twice, and when he realized his muscled arm was wedged solid, he looked up, angry and somewhat confused.

  “I am looking for someone,” Ewan said.

  “Continental?” the sailor said and spat. “I talk less.”

  Ewan ignored the remark. “I am looking for Toraan. Toraan? Underlord Calad?”

  The sailor’s face was blank. “Leave hand.”

  Ewan released him. The man spat again and dashed off. What could he do now?

  There was one thing, and that was draw attention to himself, but he did not want that. He did not understand this civilization; he knew nothing of their customs. He wanted to be sure he didn’t have to kill anyone for information.

  People jostled into him, elbowed him, even tried to push him intentionally, because he was small and innocent looking, and he stood in the middle of a busy unloading area, interfering. Ewan hardly paid any attention. He scanned the docks. They were tiny compared to Eybalen, but twice as busy and ten times as crowded.

  Where should he look for Toraan? Inspect every ship? Perhaps the scout had not yet returned from the realms. Perhaps the man was on a ship sailing back home. Or dead?

  A babble of cries erupted to the left of him. Aboard one of the ships, he turned and saw a man crack his whip in the air. He was growling and shouting. Then, with tiny heads just peeking above the handrail, he saw children totter out of the belly of the ship, frightened, starved, filthy. On the docks, near the gangplanks, several men waited, with small carts and open cages loaded in the back.

  The children could have come from anywhere, Ewan realized. Maybe even Caytor. His anger flared up as he remembered Doris’s babies, his promise. He started moving toward the ship.

  What could he do? Free those children? And then what? Who would feed them and clothe them and protect them? He did not have time to take care of them personally. He could not afford it. He must have his answers. And after meddling in the affairs of the gods for so long now, he did not believe his future would be any brighter or less dangerous.

  The men on the docks looked like foreigners. One had the features and dress of a Borei. Another could have belonged in Eybalen. Merchants, waiting to
buy their stock.

  Ewan took a spot nearby. They frowned at him.

  The first of the slaves stepped off the gangplank, terrified, dazed. The Borei shouted something. A price? The man with the whip nodded. The first child went over into a cage. Ewan felt cold black fury rising, threatening to smother his senses. If he lost control, he did not know what he might do. He could not watch this without interfering. But he must not draw attention to himself either. What would Ayrton do?

  He made a choice.

  There was a metallic screech, sharp, painful, as his hand closed on the bars of a cart cage and warped them as one might mangle grass stalks. Rivets popped; the wooden boards tore. Everyone within hearing distance turned. The human buzz stopped. The man with the whip, the slave buyers, all the other tough, evil-looking sailors were staring at the unassuming boy from the realms, holding a knot of twisted iron in his slim hand.

  “I do not know where those children came from, but they will be going back,” he said.

  More silence. It stretched for a while. Then, someone decided to be brave. With a heroic roar, one of the sailors swung his bent sword and rammed it in Ewan’s shoulder. The blade should have cut cleanly through flesh and bone. Instead, it snapped. Wailing with pain from the rebound, the sailor collapsed, gripping his hand. A ripple of curses exploded across the docks.

  Well, he had their attention now, exactly what he had tried to avoid. “Anyone knows Underlord Calad? Toraan?”

  No one answered. The crowd watched, transfixed, terrified.

  “Who are you?” someone asked.

  “I am the landman who defeated Underlord Calad’s champion in a game of Sleeper. Let it be known.” He didn’t want this. He did not want this. But the children, he could not let them be sold to slavery. He had to stop it.

  A few people detached from the crowd. Good. He waited. They waited. There was nothing else they could do. The only sounds were the sloshing of the sea against the wooden hulls, and the thin whimpering of a sailor nursing his wrist.

  Soon, there was some pushing, a space opening in the thick, sweaty crowd. Noise. Curses. You didn’t have to speak the language to pick them out. An older man forced his way into Ewan’s view. He was decidedly fat, with gray hair knotted in a long braid that hung to his knees. His skin shone as if oiled. Not a sailor, it seemed, but his meaty arms were lined with white scars.