The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3)

by Igor Ljubuncic

  I’m an Eracian, married to a Caytorean woman. But then, so was my father. Where do I get the inspiration? Was it necessity? Was it greed? Was it desperation? Or some higher vision? He had to cling to the notion of greatness. Back at Pain Daye, it all sounded splendid. But in this little village, the conquest seemed long and bloody and pointless.

  “What’s your name?” James asked again once the man had gained enough breath back.

  “They call me Mite.”

  “Speak,” Xavier warned.

  “I ain’t no fuckin’ soldier of the realm. I used to be in the jail in Roalas, awaitin’ hanging, but then that whore empress offered us pardon if we’d go out and fight, so I said why not, better off free than rotting there, so we fought, and we broke through the lines. And we got here, and I got my li’l army going, till you fuck faces shows up.”

  “Why were you in prison?” James took a small step back. The man reeked.

  “Your golden little mind wanna know? Why you give a shit?”

  “Sir, we cannot tolerate that kind of language!” Xavier protested.

  James smirked. “True. Does anyone have a copy of one of Blackwood’s works? He might like them.”

  “I know Blackwood,” the captive said, licking his lips. “Where Handsome and me got to kill them women.”

  Perhaps his warlord did have a point. “Take him away. I want to talk to someone sensible.”

  Dusk was creeping in on the world when the little interrogation was finished. James was not pleased with the answers he got. Mite’s renegade force consisted of former criminals, survivors of a surprise night attack against the Parusite siege lines, and mostly defectors from the two turncoat legions. They were all dejected, hopeless men with no prospect in life other than looting, drinking, and living to see the next sunrise. No one bothered to wash or shave, and they had lice in their hair. They spent their time escaping capture by the Red Caps or the loyalists, still fighting for Amalia. That last bit cheered James a little. But he did not like the fact the land was almost deserted. Sensible people had fled south, into the embrace of the Parusite king and his sister, who offered shelter and food.

  Taking over northern Athesia would mean ruling a land without people. But maybe, it would have to do for now. A rough start. My father won his first battle much like this. Only with a hundred men at his side.

  Rob arrived with the rear force. He was still wearing city clothes, although he was coated in muck up to his thighs. His friend was smoking a cigarette, at ease in this weird little place.

  “I want you to find those loyalists,” James told Colonel Perry. “Get in contact with them. Make sure they understand who I am and what I want. There’s no reason to spill friendly blood.” James turned toward Master Hector. “We will stay here for a day, get some rest, then move on. I want a hundred refugees to volunteer to stay here. And they’ll get protection, too.”

  Rob stretched when he dismounted. “Did I miss any good fun?”

  James waved his impromptu war council away. “A small battle. A small victory.”

  Rob pursed his lips thoughtfully. “That’s all you need. A string of them.”

  “Not what I expected,” Adam’s son confessed.

  “Oh, you wanted a crowd cheering you home? Like at Pain Daye?”

  James shrugged.

  “That took the better part of a year and some serious negotiations by most of the High Council. This land has never seen you, never heard of you. They don’t know who you are. And King Sergei is a damn good ruler, too.”

  “So what do I do?” James kicked at the grass impotently.

  “You’re your father’s son. You will figure it out. For now, stick to the plan.”

  James liked Rob a lot. He always knew what to say and how to cheer him up. Yes, he would stick to the plan. Once he secured this empty stretch of land, he would get all the refugees settled. It would not be much, but it would have to do. Then, he would send a reassuring message to Eracia, while working on winning the hearts of the loaned private armies under his command. Their performance in Caytor had been good, but this was different now. They were fighting a new war, outside their home.

  What if the Athesians did not want him? What would he do then? Go back to Caytor, claim Pain Daye for his own? Perhaps all those councillors were not entirely wrong when they had urged him to leave the mansion. They had wanted proof of his good intentions.

  He wanted Rheanna at his side to reassure him. He wanted Nigella’s magical advice. He wanted to be sure, but every day, problems only mounted, and his doubts grew. His earlier cockiness was wearing off. This was no longer a romantic story of a forgotten child rising to glory, of a charismatic man winning the hearts of his followers. No more swordplay, no more hunts with his friends, no more excitement over battle and honor. Things were turning brutal. He was confused, disillusioned, mistrustful. The only person he could really trust was his mother, and she was far away, in another realm torn by war. Rob, Rheanna, Timothy, they were all companions, but a year ago, he hadn’t known about their existence.

  He shook his head, hard, until his ears rang.

  Enough.

  I’m a bloody emperor. I’m Adam’s son! his soul shrieked. He could not indulge in weakness and petty wishing. He could not waste time second-guessing his friends, his officers, anyone. Things were as they were. He was the emperor, and they must do as he demanded. He just had to make sure that he did it with style and grace so they loved him. Statesmanship.

  “Are you okay?” Rob asked him, worried.

  James realized he had daydreamed for a while. “I’m fine. Just dizzy from this grassy smell.”

  Rob puffed on his cigarette. “Tell me about it.”

  He would figure it out.

  For now, he had a bunch of criminals to hang. He called one of the soldiers. “Get me Warlord Xavier.”

  “Sir?” the butcher asked when he returned. He seemed to have been eating, crumbs of food sticking to his cheeks.

  “I want all of them hanged. Make sure you do it far from the camp. I’m not in the mood for pleading and screaming.”

  Xavier nodded, pleased. “Plenty of trees to go about.”

  “Congratulations, Emperor,” Rob said after the warlord went away.

  “This is the first battle,” James spoke aloud, reassuring himself. “There will be more.”

  Rob flicked the cigarette butt into the dusk, and it trailed a bright orange line. “Just like your father.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Sergei’s head was beginning to hurt, and it was only midmorning.

  A king had to allow people to petition him every now and then. Clerks could handle ordinary citizens, merchants, even some of the rich folk. His sister could adjudicate other, more complicated matters pertaining to her princedom. But the king had to see to Duke Vincent of Eracia himself.

  “I must demand protection, Your Highness.” The duke was almost shouting.

  Sergei stared at him, wavering between worry and ridicule. The old man was probably the most senior aristocrat in the Eracian society. With the monarch’s line eradicated, he stood highest to being elected the new leader of the torn nation. Provided everyone could agree on his nomination. Provided the Eracians gained back control of their country. So far, they had failed on both accounts.

  Having someone like Duke Vincent as a rival had many advantages. The man was utterly predictable, so easy to please or insult. Hardly a politician. A relic of a time long gone. Even the Parusite lords had a better notion of diplomacy and negotiations than him.

  Even so, Sergei did not dare disparage him publicly, or ignore him too much. There was always a risk the man might take an unforgiving grudge, and if somehow the Eracians prevailed against the nomads, Sergei would have earned himself a new enemy. He could not afford to have Eracia as a foe.

  Which was why he could not let Sasha see the duke, although Vincent might be more lenient toward a woman. Old, honor-bound fools like him usually were.

  Oh, his head was b
eginning to hurt fiercely. A coronet of slow rolling thuds, getting hotter, crept up behind his ears and toward the crown of his head, like errant vines.

  The throne room was too hot, too stifling.

  Sasha and her fires.

  Two throne seats had been brought forward, one for the princess and one for him. They sat side by side, mostly trying to agree through a silent brotherly bond that required few words. At his side, Genrik and Theo posed. Sasha had her priestess in attendance. A host of other clerks hovered nearby, plus two servants ready to offer refreshments.

  After long months of waiting, a load of lizard tails had finally arrived in Roalas, and Sergei could once again enjoy Timur’s delights. The palace cook was not happy with a strange man taking over the kitchen, but as much as Sergei allowed the city business to continue untouched, this was one area he would not relent.

  His three squires were also present, along with Lieutenant Borya and a dozen royal guards, all dressed for the occasion. A small crowd had gathered to listen, mostly the rich people of Roalas. Sergei noticed several merchants, too, including Caytoreans. He did not doubt there were spies in the audience, so he made sure to present his best act for their sake.

  “The violence is simply intolerable. This constitutes an attack against Eracia,” the duke droned.

  Sergei wanted to argue, but the man was probably right. As his honored guests, inside the palace no less, they were his responsibility. If any one of them came to harm, it would be his fault.

  Well, two of them did.

  Everyone had dismissed the first death as a mere accident. Count Thomas, found dead at the bottom of a stairwell, his neck broken, his skull smashed in by unyielding masonry. It had come as a shock, but the man was known to drink, and, well, people fell off stairs. Nobles were not exempt.

  However, the second incident, only days apart, was suspicious. Margrave Sydney had drowned in his bathtub. He had been found by a towel maid, his head submerged, only the top visible, like some upturned bowl. Chief Healer Radburne had proclaimed the death cause to be seizure of the heart, which could happen when middle-aged men lounged in hot water for too long. Not a mystery on its own, just an awful lot of bad luck.

  It was uncanny. All of these nobles had survived the entire siege unscathed, and now two had died within a week. Unsettling.

  Still, there were no signs of struggle, no signs of foul play. Which made Sergei pretty much helpless. What could he do now? Start rounding up his citizens, questioning them? He was trying to build on what little trust he had with the Athesians; blaming them for the death of two prominent Eracians was not going to help his cause. And if he had to point fingers, the Eracians seemed the most likely culprits. After all, they alone had to gain from the death of their comrades.

  Why not start with the duke? he wondered. Maybe that would be too obvious?

  Bloody heat. Bloody headache.

  “I can provide you with an armed guard at all times,” Sergei said. “Meanwhile, my men will begin an investigation.”

  Duke Vincent made a gruff sound, something like agreement.

  Sergei felt it was settled then. “Thank you for your time.”

  The Eracian retreated to the cluster of his followers, the so-called war council. Sergei called it the “woe council.” He had never seen such a sorry lot. Well, he had. His own nobles, after his son had been kidnapped.

  Surrounded by fools, he thought glumly. But it didn’t matter now.

  “Who’s next?” Sasha asked, turning toward her priestess.

  Theo coughed, holding a ledger with a list almost triumphantly. “Your Highness, my princess, we have Lord Orson of Shurbalen.”

  Sergei frowned, then remembered the old man droning about today’s petition earlier.

  The High Council had kept rather quiet of late, probably trying to assess the situation before reacting to last year’s fiasco. On one hand, the king had freed their men, a solid gesture of goodwill, and he had sent his soldiers to fight the pirates, another gesture. But they had the young Emperor James on their side, so they could afford to be silent.

  The king raised his hand and bade the petitioner approach. A tall man detached himself from the colorful crowd and stepped forward, bowing formally.

  “Your Highness,” he said. “I am Lord Orson, a member of the High Council.”

  Sergei rubbed his temples. “What brings you here, Councillor?”

  Lord Orson bowed again. “I am here to demand the release of eighteen hundred Caytoreans still held by the Parusite authorities. Mostly women and children, taken from their homes by the Oth Danesh.”

  Sergei exhaled deeply through his nostrils, the air hissing loudly. The pirate curse was going to haunt him forever. “We do not have any Caytoreans in our custody. All those returned have been safely escorted across the border.”

  The councillor cleared his throat. “We demand a monetary compensation then.”

  Sergei stared at the man. His lordship title was nothing more than custom, he thought, like so many other things with the Caytoreans. One of his forebears must have been a nobleman in earnest, but now the only connection to that family line was through vast amounts of money.

  “Let’s hear it.”

  The lord flicked his fingers. A clerk stepped forward and handed over a leather-bound case. Theo accepted it, glanced briefly at the documents inside, then gave it over to the king. Sergei opened the binder and scanned the pages. Names, relations, social status, price. A hundred silvers for a common girl or boy under ten summers, three times that for those just under the age of consent. Heaps of gold for the rich. Small mountains for councillors’ families. He did not like that.

  There was money in the city coffers, but he needed it to rebuild Roalas. He could not spare anything for reparations—if he decided to pay. An admission of guilt might mellow the relations with the Caytoreans, but it might also make him an all too easy target for future bribery and blackmail. Was this how Amalia felt when her father died? Felt a strong need to save face, no matter the consequences?

  He looked at the thick layer of red and yellow wax on the last page, imprinted with at least a dozen seals. One or two names looked familiar, but he had mostly ignored everyone in the last few months of the siege and afterward, so he could not be quite sure. Too late to regret that.

  Stolen children, this is going to be my legacy. They will call me Sergei the Baby Snatcher.

  “Your petition has been noted,” he informed the councillor.

  Lord Orson did not move. “What is your decision, Your Highness?”

  Sergei maintained a blank face despite tiny hot claws of headache pulling on the inside of his eyes. “I haven’t decided anything yet, Councillor. You are welcome to stay in the city. I will duly inform you of my decision.” He felt Sasha’s eyes boring into him.

  He spared her a glance. She seemed to be disagreeing with him, but he was the king.

  “Who is next on your list, Theo?” Sergei asked, returning the gaze. Sasha’s lips twitched into a sneer; then she looked forward, at the audience. He flicked his fingers, and a servant brought him a platter of sugared lizard.

  The adviser blinked his old eyes. “Your Highness, there’s a Kataji emissary who—”

  Sergei leaned forward in his seat. “A nomad envoy? Here?”

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  He rose and clapped once. “This session is adjourned.”

  Borya moved to clear the crowd. There were small murmurs and protests from the petitioners and spectators, curiosity mixed with indignation.

  “I expect you to tell me such things in advance, Theo,” Sergei chided once the throne room was empty. The absence of people did little to reduce the stifling heat from the two fireplaces.

  “I was informed only a moment before the session, Your Highness. I felt it was important enough to notify you at once. The Kataji insisted on seeing you immediately. He even refused to wash up from the road.”

  My head hurts, and now I must suffer a stinking tribes
man.

  Sergei looked at Sasha. “What do you think, Sister?”

  She sniffed. “Now you care for my opinion?” she snapped.

  Theo shuffled nervously, uncomfortable to be so near a family quarrel.

  Sergei flashed an angry look at Sasha. They should never fight in public, but she did not seem to care.

  “The mongrels probably want to know if they can count on us for assistance. Or noninterference.”

  “Why would we want to aid these heathens?” he demanded.

  Sasha rose. Her robed friend followed, tailing after her like a second shadow. “Because they might offer you the south of Eracia. Think of that, Brother. This means removing the Eracian threat from the Territories once and for all. Securing the west border permanently.”

  Sergei imagined the layout of the realms. The Safe Territories bordered with the nomad lands, but that area was sparsely populated. Mostly some Eracians, a few stray Parusites, a handful of tribesmen more content to trade in fur and rare metals than fight.

  Still, it was a tempting notion. Once he completed the conquest of northern Athesia, with the whole of the Safe Territories in his hands, and maybe a part of Eracia, he would have increased the realm by half as much as it was today. In less than two years of fighting. Even Pyotr would have been proud of such a campaign.

  However, it all depended on what the nomads wanted.

  And his success in the north, which wasn’t quite so successful.

  Sergei opened his mouth to speak, then stopped. He had to be very careful now. Perhaps the arrival of this emissary and the death of Eracian nobles was not a coincidence. In fact, the nomads had the most to gain from the removal of their enemy’s elite. And yet, it was too obvious.

  His head hurt too much. He could not decide just yet. He wanted to resolve the deaths first. If they turned out to be murders, he wanted to know who and why.