The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3)

by Igor Ljubuncic

  “You will inform the Kataji envoy that I will not be seeing him today. Nor will my sister. He will be our honored guest.” The king turned toward Lieutenant Borya. “Make sure he is watched and followed at all times and that he does not leave Roalas.”

  Theo cleared his throat. “That might be interpreted as an insult, Your Highness.”

  Sergei nodded and wished he had not. His brain reeled. “So be it.” The affair with Adam’s bastard son was far more important. And so were the accidents.

  Sasha stood near the table laden with plates of food. She pushed the one with lizard tails away, looking disgusted. “Do you have enough troops to wage war on two fronts, if you must, Brother?”

  Sergei didn’t like her tone. Nor the fact most of the troops in Athesia were his sister’s Red Caps, utterly loyal to her. Facing west, against the possible threats of the High Council and Emperor James, not east toward Eracia and the nomads.

  In the east, he had only the settlers to rely upon. He did not like the idea of having to fight inside the Safe Territories, so close to holy sites. The people were busy rebuilding ruined cities and temples, and now, to impose a new war on them, it would be a disaster.

  But the Eracians might as well choose to invade if cornered. They would call it a peaceful migration, nothing more. It would not be much different from what his troops had done after the last war. How could he object to people of the realms wanting to be closer to faith?

  He had no idea what the tribesmen might do. What if the Kataji decided, instead of grappling with Eracians for their land, to just move south, into the empty stretches of the Territories? Use the land of the gods to advance unchallenged and sweep around their foes? If they captured Mista, there would be no one to stop them from entering Sevorod.

  Sergei realized he might have to mobilize troops back home again. But it would take weeks for the messages to reach his dukes and counts, months before they arrived to help, if they decided to indulge him. Their oath-bound service had ended, and Sergei could not force them again until next year.

  Hopefully, he could convince just Duke Yuri and Count Pavel to march into the Safe Territories and bolster the defenses, perhaps bribe them with a promise of new lands. All of that meant at least four or five months before he could refuse the Kataji delegate. The man would probably not wait for the Parusite regiments to slug north to their positions before departing for home, carrying the king’s ambiguity as his definite reply.

  Or I could indulge Under-Patriarch Evgeny with his combat clergy.

  The army of faith would be useful, akin to the now-disbanded Outsiders. They would serve for life. Only they would not be bound by the oaths like his lords, which meant losing control of the Safe Territories altogether.

  He had the most powerful army in the realms, and yet he felt helpless, indecisive, desperate. He started imagining all the little wars that could burgeon, and he saw himself trapped in Roalas forever, fighting till infirmity, with Adam’s ghost cackling from the grave, mocking his foolishness.

  Sending for Yuri and Pavel might not even work. They would be forced to muster their forces in the middle of winter. It would be a gruesome, tough march through slush, icy autumn rains, and biting storms. Most of the Parusites were not used to harsh inland winters. The siege alone had crippled thousands, without ever seeing an Athesian in battle. Sending them to a forsaken land, where they might fight savages or desperate Eracians, would be a likely disaster.

  He had to endure with what he had. Make sure Sasha listened to him.

  He had to be decisive, ruthless, practical. Like the last man to have held Roalas.

  Perhaps this was what Adam saw when he birthed his little empire. Perhaps he saw the looming threats everywhere, had to listen to a hundred emissaries voicing lies and veiled threats. Perhaps he understood that more war would ruin him, so he settled for a cold peace.

  Bloody Abyss, he cursed to himself.

  There was a loud knock on the throne-room door. Almost urgent. One of the guards cracked it open. A messenger entered and fell on one knee.

  “Your Highness! I must interrupt you; the news is dire.”

  Sergei swallowed. What now?

  The man had road filth on his tabard, his trousers, his boots. His hair fell in a greasy mop down the back of his head. Wherever he had come from, the messenger had spent the better part of his travel in the saddle, tanning his skin to a brown crisp, and he was allowed into the king’s presence without delay. “Your Highness, I come from Konnerick, in Caytor.”

  After conquering Roalas, Sergei had dispatched a hundred spies into the other realms so they could track the movements of enemy forces, private armies, renegade legions, bandits, and Emperor James. They operated in small groups of three or four, living off the land, keeping distance from settlements, and watching roads. They had been instructed to send a message only if something truly major happened.

  Sergei looked at Matvey. “Get this man a drink. He needs it.”

  “Yes, my lord,” the squire mumbled.

  The messenger stood up and unfastened a rainproof horn tube from his back. “Reports, Your Highness. Emperor James has left Pain Daye. He’s moving north, with five legions, plus as many camp followers and maybe thousands of Athesian civilians.”

  Ipatiy accepted the tube and carried it over. Sergei was not interested in the written details for now. “Where was he last seen?”

  The messenger gulped from the wine cup, then breathed deeply, catching his breath. “We had another messenger come from Jorat, Your Highness. He rode hard, almost killed his beast, Your Highness. Took him sixteen days. I got here in six, Your Highness.”

  Three weeks, Sergei thought. In this time, an army that size could have covered only about half the distance of a swift messenger. Heading north. That meant Emperor James was still some distance away from Athesia. Where was he going?

  It was obvious. The renegade Athesian north. The cities of Ecol and Bassac.

  “Twenty-five thousand warriors,” Sasha spoke with disdain. “Hardly a match for us.”

  “Battle hardened, Sister,” Sergei corrected her. “They fought the Oth Danesh.”

  She shrugged. “He’s not a threat.”

  “And that’s the best time to fight your enemy. While they are not a threat.”

  Sasha picked up a small pink pomegranate from the table and tossed it in the air, catching the fruit on its way down. “I can order my troops to cross into Caytor and strike at his left flank. We can finish him right there.”

  “No!” Sergei almost yelled. “No. Our troops will not be crossing into Caytor.”

  “All right, Brother. So we race him north?”

  Sergei rubbed his chin. He wished he had a map. He wanted to visualize the layout of the terrain, but the splitting pain in his skull was painting everything purple in dazzling, erratic flashes. He would instruct the palace mason to brick those stupid fireplaces first thing tomorrow.

  “No, we do not. We don’t know if he really plans on attacking. He might be testing us. Probing our resolve. He might decide to strike toward Roalas instead. Let us not allow him to surprise us.”

  “Emperor James must be destroyed. The sooner the better,” Sasha insisted.

  What do I do now? Lead the troops? Leave the city to Sasha’s scant mercy? Send the princess at the head of the army? Sasha would do whatever she pleased. She would ignore his order to stay out of the neighboring realm. But leaving her in Roalas could undo everything.

  If only his head didn’t hurt so much.

  Theo coughed again. “If I may, Your Highness, my princess? Perhaps you should consider negotiating with the young emperor, to see what he intends. You might be surprised; he might choose to talk.”

  I will consult with Lady Lisa, Sergei thought. No decisions today.

  “I am too tired,” he admitted. “We will discuss everything with the first light tomorrow.”

  The messenger seemed stunned. “Your Highness? Do I ride back? Or…”

 
Sergei pointed with his finger, not at anyone in particular, but in general. His orders tended to get obeyed, and things sorted themselves out. “Arrange accommodations for the messenger. Inside the palace. He has earned it.”

  In all my years as a king, I’ve never had so much trouble. When I was younger, I had Vasiliy to help me and advise me, and he was never bloodthirsty like Sasha. And now, this city wants my soul. Roalas was an evil place. A cursed place. It was the bane of rulers. He knew that now, in every fiber of his being.

  Accidents, murders, envoys, bastard emperors, his head burst. He just wanted to go back to his chambers, close his eyes, and sleep. Forget about everything.

  “We will talk tomorrow,” he repeated. “Dismissed,” he told everyone. But it was he who left the throne room first, heading to the quarters where his imperial hostage was held.

  CHAPTER 22

  Ewan stared at the lake city with disbelief. He had not expected to see rivers and green fields again after the arid plains of the Red Desert, but there they were, just like back home.

  Naman had led him inland for several weeks, following old, well-marked dirt trails. The pirates did not have real roads away from the shore. But that did not stop villages from coming to life on every other hill. Such a strange society.

  Ewan had expected most of the Oth Danesh to live by the sea, but this did not seem to be the case. Most of them dwelled in the rough, hilly countryside dotted with sparse trees, thick shrubbery and carpeted with dark green grass. Valleys had streams inching across their floors. Almost like any stretch of land between Chergo and Eybalen.

  And now, he was facing a real city, with houses stacked in haphazard fashion round the surface of a slate-colored, calm lake, its water fed from four streams. There were animals in the pasture on the slopes of the hills around, black sheep and small horses with shaggy legs.

  Travelers from other corners of this small realm, if it could be called that, were arriving in the city following other dirt trails.

  “Here we are. This is Kamar Doue.”

  This is where I learn the truth about myself? Ewan thought with some skepticism. Nothing really made any sense so far.

  “Is this your capital city?” he asked his guide.

  The fat Oth Danesh rolled his eyes as if looking for a better word. “Yes. No. It is our…How can I explain it? Our cities have no names, yes? But this one does.”

  Ewan was not sure he understood, so he said nothing.

  Naman rolled one of his sleeves farther up his meaty, scarred arm and then moved down the slope. The road snaked and backtracked, so it was almost evening before they reached the waterfront. The days were getting shorter, even this far south, he noticed. Soon, it would be autumn.

  Did they celebrate the Autumn Festival here, Ewan wondered.

  The houses did not share much in common with those in the realms. They had doors and windows, but they were made of some gray-and-brown mud, with flat roofs. Not like the turd-shaped seashore homes or the cave-like holes in the cliffs.

  Still, all in all, it looked like any poor town in the realms, tightly packed, erected on whim, chance, and availability of land and building material, with weeds choking the narrow alleys and rubbish kicked against the walls.

  There were few people outside, but they all stared at him with suspicion and curiosity, as if not sure which of the emotions should prevail. Fishermen were rowing their boats back from the lake, laughing, joking, but whenever one glimpsed him, they all went silent.

  Naman did not seem to notice. He just led on through the jumble of houses.

  Soon they reached a building that looked like a palace. From up on the hilltop, Ewan had not really seen it, probably mistaking it for a cluster of ordinary shacks. It wasn’t very pretty, but it was massive, a heap of bulges and squares lumped together into a towering structure. The building had lamps hanging from hooks driven into the mud-colored plaster, glowing weak yellow. Other ornaments were displayed on windowsills: feathers, chimes, tatters of fabric.

  There were perhaps fifty people congregated in the empty space in front of the palace, waiting for him. Men, women, children of all ages, of all colors. Hair, eyes, and skin.

  “They are here to witness your return,” Naman chirped. “Soon the word will spread, and many more will flock to Kamar Doue.”

  My return again, Ewan thought. He had never been here before. But he kept silent.

  As he came within ten paces of the crowd, they all went prostrate in a ripple. No one said anything. It was unnerving.

  Naman stepped around the lying men and women, beckoning Ewan to follow him. The Oth Danesh pushed the wooden doors wide open, old wood, black with age and wear. Ewan squinted, trying to see what lurked inside.

  The palace opened into a wide hall. The walls sloped inward, forming a sort of dome in the center. There was a pile of furs and cushions just underneath the highest point. The leaning walls were lined with tiers of some big shriveled fruit, hanging from thin ropes, thousands of them. The hall stank of old, moldy leather, spices, wet dust, greasy hair. He did not like it.

  “Please, come.”

  Ewan stepped inside. The floor was beaten dirt, rock solid. There was no one inside. He heard a definite shuffling behind him. He turned around and saw the colorful audience following him at a safe distance, bunched together like frightened animals, faces cast down, gleaming eyes wet with terror and wonder peering from beneath their brows. No one would meet his eyes, though.

  Ewan moved into the palace. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he started noticing fresh details, narrow passages that led out of the hall, still more furs and cushions stuffed against the walls. He looked up at the dangling fruit. He squinted.

  Those were not fruit.

  Those were human heads.

  “What is that?” he growled, feeling disgust tickling his tongue.

  Naman smiled eerily. “We have been counting the years. We keep the count. We have not forgotten.”

  Ewan stared. Some of the heads were nothing more than ancient yellow bone covered in parchment-thin skin and cobwebs; others looked more recent, perhaps a year old or a decade. He could see the wizened flesh reduced to jerky, hair hanging like old cloth.

  Why would anyone do this? Count what years?

  But there was no time to be asking questions. The crowd had entered the hall with him, spreading around, walking in a slow half crouch that probably signified deference and awe.

  Ewan tried to piece together the last several weeks of his journey. Naman and he had spent nights mostly in small villages along the dirt tracks they followed. In all cases, the locals had been silent and polite, showing a mix of curiosity and fear that was expected in their small, isolated communities. Still, no one had shown outright terror at seeing him. No one had shown any indication they might know who he was or what he was. But these people did.

  Naman was goading him forward, toward that pile of rags and cushions. Ewan walked over and stared, not sure what to do.

  “Seat yourself,” the Oth Danesh suggested.

  Gently, Ewan probed the heap with his foot. Not that he feared anything hidden inside might hurt him, but it was habit, his desire to remain as human as possible. He might not need sleep, rest, food, or drink, he might not feel pain or care for the weather, but he could pretend he cared where he landed his bottom.

  There were grins on those faces, even though no one would still meet his eye. Only Naman.

  His guide was facing the fifty-odd people, arms raised, fat hanging from his upper arms and swaying. Then, he said something in the pirate tongue. Ewan did not understand it. But the crowd filtered out in a hurry.

  “They will now carry word of your return to every village and town.”

  Ewan felt a nugget of anger in his chest. “Look, Naman, I do not understand.”

  The fat men knelt down by his side, surprisingly graceful for his girth. His robe was sweated through at the armpits and round his nipples. “The memories must be rusty after so many years, bu
t they will come back. They will.” Then, the man’s face changed suddenly, going from celebratory to somber and personal, lined with relief and some of that terror, all at the same time. It was as if some mask had dropped off his face. “I must be grateful for your return at this time. My youngest daughter was marked for the sacrifice next year. Your return now has saved her. Thank you.”

  Ewan was not sure how he had saved anyone, but he nodded. He was contemplating when he ought to start asking questions. But every new moment made less sense, felt more wrong. And yet, he knew he should be here, for some obscure reason.

  Naman pushed himself off with his knees, rolling back on his feet and going upright in a fluid motion. He flicked his fingers, but the sound came out wet and quiet. Still, whoever had waited for that signal heard it. The open doorframe filled with new shapes, black silhouettes against the evening gloom and the soft glow of yellow lamps outside.

  Some of the lamps swayed, and then they entered the hall, shedding light on the gruesome details of the interior. Four scrawny girls were carrying the lamps on the ends of long poles, high above their heads. They spread about the hall and inserted the poles into peg holes on the floor. More children followed, bearing trays of food. With silent efficiency, they placed the delicacies in front of Ewan. He watched with fascination, trying to grasp the surreal enormity of the situation. Regardless, whenever he saw a pair of blue or green eyes under a mop of light-colored hair, he thought of Doris, and his mood swung from curious to sad to infuriated and back again.

  Then, pairs started to enter, mothers presenting their daughters, Ewan saw. The mothers would deposit their girls in front of Ewan and bow out of their way, joining the growing audience near the sloping walls. Still no one dared look him in the eye, not even the women standing at attention in front of him.

  “Our finest virgin daughters, for you,” Naman said.

  Ewan stared. Just stared, stupidly. He was acutely aware of the women in front of him, their lithe bodies, their mixed lineage that made them more beautiful and exciting than the girls of the realms. He found the combination of dusky skin and pale eyes rather alluring. But then he noticed the shivers, the tense postures, the bitten lips, the agonizing lumps in the throat. The girls waited, because they had been told to wait, he realized, but no one had probably asked them if they wanted to be here tonight. There was only one emotion that could describe their behavior.