The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3)

by Igor Ljubuncic

  She nodded again, holding her breath. If she lived through this incident, she promised herself she would never leave her side of the camp, never walk around without Agatha. What was she thinking? She was no strategist. She knew nothing about war. She was a deluded girl who thought she could step into her father’s shoes. A tear of shame budded in the corner of her eye. Empty rage filled her.

  “Mess over there. Get yourself somethin’. And beat it.”

  Amalia did not need goading. She scurried away, hunched low, trying to hide her figure. She pushed her hips forward so they did not sway when she walked. The rain had plastered her dress to her legs, and in the rain-draped world, it could be mistaken for baggy trousers. That was good. She had a disguise; she could avoid detection.

  She whimpered, short of breath, as she staggered home to her little tent, to her splinter of sanity. This was where she belonged now. Her life was all about being a helpless, ignorant commoner, living at the whim of those bigger and stronger than her. She was just a lowly subject of Emperor James, a washerwoman for his troops. A nameless peon in his war.

  Why do people put up with this? she thought. For the same reason I do.

  Amalia sat down on the muddy grass, shivering, sobbing. She was hungry. Her body hurt. She wanted a friend to tell her that it would all be all right one day. That she would see her pride and power restored, that she would once again matter. She wanted to believe her worthless little existence had meaning. Above all, she wanted to believe she had it in her to endure this madness. But for any solution, there must be a plan, and she had none. Her mind, day after day, was barren. Not the kind of education her father had given her. Still, even if her own life depended on it now, she could not come up with anything other than loathing and pity for her sorry state.

  For the briefest moment, she considered finding herself an officer, who would at least take care of her, so she need not be alone and fret over every meal, every little issue, and worry constantly that someone might take liberties with her. But she did not have the guts for that either.

  Later on, the sky did clear. The day turned out to be nice, and Ecol folks poured out of their homes to witness the parade of the city’s crossbow makers and then watch the lords and army commanders and their best shots compete, firing at ducks and geese. People laid down their bets, they laughed and shouted and swore, but everyone was happy, and there was still more food and drinks for everyone. They even roasted the birds killed in the tournament.

  Only Amalia sat on her own, wondering what she had done wrong to deserve her fate.

  CHAPTER 25

  Tanid watched the people of Bridgen pray, and it made him feel good.

  This close to a sermon, he could actually sense the energy of their belief. It caressed his skin like a trail of morning mist. It imbued his body. It made him feel that much stronger and haler. Oh, he needed every ounce of power he could get.

  The Parusites had converted the entire region back to faith. Bridgen and the nearby villages worshipped the gods now. They did not know he was all the gods now and all their belief belonged to him. Come the morning and evening, every day, they would pour out of their homes, kneel before shrines, and murmur songs and words of prayer in his praise. They asked for better crops, for favorable winds, for a mild winter, for their children to be healthy, for their pain to go away. They asked for love and favor and money. They asked for longer lives.

  He could not grant them their wishes. Not individually. But he intended to make sure Calemore did not destroy the Old Land. For that, he had to be immensely powerful. He needed every living soul in the land to give their faith to him.

  Soon, the ceremony was over. The gangly youth acting as the holy brother walked back to his small monastery, an old winery converted into a house of the gods, just a short distance away. He hobbled, his right leg stiff. The knot of peasants dispersed, going back to their lives and jobs. Most headed for the riverside, where their boats waited, some loaded with buckets of barley, others with fishing nets.

  In just two days, the nations of the Old Land would celebrate the season’s turn, and he hoped they would invest extra time in giving love to their one surviving deity. He needed every scrap.

  There was already the feeling of a small festival. Women had decorated their doorways with wreaths of flowers. The harvest had been almost fully collected, stacked as high as some of the homes, straw and hay and sunflowers apart, weighed down with tarps and stones to keep them from billowing in the wind. A lone old bull, chained to a pole in one of the villages, bespoke of a sacrifice. The animal had outlived any other use.

  Normally, Tanid would be quite worried around so many people all at once. He could not really be sure of any new village, any new place. Every time, he had to tread carefully, make sure he did not draw any attention, make sure he was seen as just another inconspicuous, unremarkable traveler.

  Now, finally, he had an edge.

  After almost exposing himself in Sigurd, he had fled north to cover his tracks. Besides, heading north was the right thing to do. He felt he ought to head back to the heart of the Old Land. The Parusites were believers, and apart from finding Special Children, he could do little to bolster faith there. But these other realms to the north were poor in religion. He had a lot of work ahead of him.

  A few days on Gerassim’s Stride, he had stumbled across a village and learned of a man named Ludevit who could sense immediate, impending danger. Tanid had expected his neighbors to bless him for such an ability, but he was mostly shunned and cursed. They called him Bad Luck Ludevit, and no one wanted to be around him lest his misfortune caught up with them.

  Tanid had been fascinated, hearing of a grown man with special talents who did not bother hiding his ability and yet managed some semblance of a normal life in a land that tolerated no magic. So, he had gone to investigate, met the man, and now Ludevit followed him.

  Which meant Tanid would know if any evil was lying in wait.

  His first glimpse of the future.

  Ludevit was a fairly taciturn person, which was expected of someone blamed for every death, broken leg, miscarriage, and fire his small community had seen in the past forty years. But he wasn’t callow, and he had a spirited streak, just what Tanid needed.

  The Special Child, four decades old, was leaning against the fence of a sheep pen, munching on a raw turnip. He had pepper-gray hair and a black moustache, and he scowled all the time. A fitting mien for a harbinger of tragedy.

  Tanid walked back to him, fingers gently stroking the wild wheat stalks. “All safe here?” he asked.

  The man nodded, spitting a bit of chewed turnip skin, but it stuck to his chin.

  “We will cross into Athesia soon,” he informed his travel companion. His eyes flicked over the shimmering stretch of the lazy river, toward the godless realm. It looked no different, but there was a bleakness there, an empty gray void.

  “We take the bridge?” Ludevit asked, his mouth full.

  Tanid licked his lips. He did not feel comfortable crossing the bridge, and he thought he might prefer a ferry. But it would take longer.

  “Yes. Soon.” The Special Child would let him know if there was any danger looming ahead. “I must first go to that village.”

  Another rumor. Another possibility of finding a Special Child. Ludevit nodded again. It also meant, No danger here. Tanid walked toward the cluster of straw-roofed homes.

  Convincing Ludevit had been fairly easy. He had only wanted money. The man was religious, but in his own unique way. He never prayed with everyone else; he did it on his own, in his own hours. Tanid guessed it did not make much difference. The timing of the ritual was to perpetuate the habit, but faith was boundless.

  Ludevit didn’t have much in life, a little shop for making fishing baits and crab traps, no wife, no children, no friends, an existence on the outskirts of society, in the shadow of mercy and tolerance. Tanid had expected someone with such premonition to be involved in risky business, but maybe because of his ta
lent, and despite it, he had chosen a peaceful trade. Or perhaps he had been left with no other choice.

  Tanid had not asked too many questions. But he had introduced himself as a merchant, one who dealt in antiquities, going from one big city to another, selling relics to rich people, and needing someone to watch his back. Not a hired blade, a second pair of eyes and ears. That was all.

  The reticent villager had accepted it, for gold. The most common of reasons and motives.

  So far, Ludevit had not questioned anything Tanid suggested. He did not seem to care.

  The god recalled the last war against Damian, several centuries before the Great Court. Everyone had been so desperate, seeking a resolution to a strife that threatened to kill them all. He recalled the crazy, hopeless ideas that his kindred would propose. It was at that time that some of the gods had come up with the idea of breeding men and animals for war, investing powers into the human body, building weapons that could level mountains. He recalled going about the world, seeking allies, seeking help.

  Not much different from today, except now he was all alone.

  Tanid reached the village. A man was loading swaths of hay onto his donkey, which just stood there patiently.

  “Mornin’,” the god greeted.

  The peasant looked at him askance, face puffed with labor, then dropped the bundle he was about to load onto his animal and paused. “Mornin’ to you, stranger.”

  Most places would shun someone like him, a lone man with dust on his coat and nothing visible to sell, but Bridgen and its surroundings were busy with river traders, ships and barges coming from the north, carrying grain and livestock all the way to the sea. Recently, lots of troops had traveled through the region, going back home after a year of war. Bridgen was a convenient place to stop and buy goods and exchange stories.

  This little place perched closer to the river and had its feet sunk right in the water. A tiny brook that fed the Telore paddled its mill wheel. They crushed seeds here and sold them to their neighbors, who might specialize in making rope or scythes or leather. The whole chain of these villages lived and worked together. They even shared their prayer shrines.

  Tanid was glad he would not need to lie too much. “Heard you have a boy who has rages.”

  The peasant smacked his lips thoughtfully. “Maybe we has; maybe we hasn’t. What is it in for you?”

  Tanid glimpsed back. He could see Ludevit, still leaning against the pen, unconcerned. No danger here, it seemed.

  “I…my journeyman and I, we are looking for a strong lad to work with us.”

  “What you be doin’?” the other man pressed.

  The god considered. A small lie. Something innocent. Something that would not require magic.

  “We are merchants. We sell and train dangerous beasts. From far lands. Legged snakes, horned cows. Like that.”

  The peasant resumed loading his donkey’s back. “Hold on a moment. I’m gonna take you to the boy’s pa.”

  Tanid waited while the man finished heaping the animal’s tack, then led it slowly down a beaten grass trail toward the houses. The god walked behind him, looking around, searching for anything that might look suspicious. But he only saw men and women kneeling, collecting the harvest, a boy plucking feathers from a dead goose, a black cat sleeping on the edge of a straw roof.

  They found an older villager molding clay into pottery dishes on the other side of the mill, his big fingers pressing into the soft mud-colored dough, leaving his prints in the bulbous shapes he was making. One of his legs was dangling in the water idly, stirring small ripples. They fluttered and then wavered, colliding with the froth from the wheel.

  “Vanyuchka, this man asking after yer lad,” the donkey man told the potter.

  The boy’s father was bare chested, and he rubbed a clay-wet hand against his sun-weathered skin. “Wha’ for?”

  “Merchant, sir. I need an apprentice.”

  The man did not rise. “You pay good?”

  Tanid nodded. “Yes. I do.”

  Now, the potter rose and smeared his hands on his trousers, gray from much use. “Vanya’s my name. So you wanna take Pasha to be yer apprentice. In them big cities?”

  The god refrained from scratching his shoulder blades; it felt as if someone was watching him, but he knew it must be his imagination. “I’ll give you three years’ worth of the lad’s pay. And he’s gonna get his trade. But I must first see him. I must see his talent.”

  Vanya turned and led them farther down the riverbank. Tanid stepped after the potter. A scattering of chicken hens hopped away from his feet. Dumb birds, Tanid thought. Dogs and cats were the smartest; they knew not to approach too close to him. Most horses shied from him, too.

  “Wanna buy crocks?” the potter asked, his back to Tanid.

  Tanid considered his reply. “I just want to see the boy.”

  Vanya led him to a small, low shed at the edge of their village. A big boy with a mop of flax-colored hair was kneeling in the wild grass, staring intently at something. He spun around when he saw his father approach, and the stranger in tow.

  “Son, stand up,” the potter instructed. “This city lord wanna see you.”

  Pasha straightened up. He did not look special, except for his size.

  Tanid kept his distance and wondered what he should tell next. “So what’s your skill, son?”

  “Ain’t got no skill,” the boy blurted instantly, almost mechanically.

  “I heard you have these rages,” Tanid suggested.

  The donkey owner shrugged. Vanya breathed deeply, resigned. “Show him, Son.”

  The boy stared down at his feet, looking abashed. “Don’t wanna.”

  Vanya slapped his thigh. “Don’t make me take my belt to you, y’hear?”

  Pasha made a small gurgling sound; then he bent down and picked up a rock. An ordinary lump of stone. He stared at it intently, then the sinews in his forearm bulged, and he shattered the rock with his bare fist. It crumbled like a shard of baked clay.

  Tanid pushed down his excitement. The boy can crush rocks with his bare hands, and still, there’s that twitch of fear when his father threatens him with a beating. The lad still hasn’t come to terms with his powers.

  “Is that all you do?”

  Pasha was still avoiding his gaze. “Sometimes, I gets angry and break things.”

  The god looked at the father. “The patriarchs did not come for him?”

  Vanya did not look pleased by the question. “What’s in it for you, that?” But then he continued, almost glad to share the story. “When he was younger, ‘bout two summers back, he got his first rage. Our holy brother had his leg mangled under a cart what turned over. We all tried to move it, but ‘twas loaded with stones. So my son here got all funny, and he pushed that cart over and saved the brother. Pasha don’t bother no one, and we don’t get bothered none.”

  “Do you want to come with me to the city, lad?” Tanid asked the Special Child.

  Pasha did not answer, just kept staring desolately at the ground.

  His father seemed to like the idea of three years’ worth of gold. “He’s goin’. I has six mouths to feed, and they don’t get no smaller.”

  And so the boy was sold to him. One hour later, just like that, the boy had bidden his brothers and sisters and his weeping mother farewell and was lugging after Tanid, sniffing, a small pack of rags and some food dangling from a sack on his back.

  The god led him back toward Ludevit, toward their small merchant’s wagon, a real one this time, not an illusion. Tanid could travel well on foot, but not with humans for company. That would be too slow. So he had relented and bought transportation, with two dumb mules in the front that did not care about who sat behind them.

  Strange, Tanid thought. One man hated for his abilities, another ignored and maybe even blessed. It had more to do with chance than anything else, and the notion unnerved him. He wondered how many Special Children may be out there, with small shreds of chance that kept them
hidden, hated, or hunted. How many had perished, lost to prejudice and fear.

  Our fault, Tanid thought. We wanted humans to go back to what they used to be so long ago. We wanted them docile and harmless. We instituted a religion of persecution against the strange and special. Tanid remembered his excursions into the world at the beginning of the Second Age. He recalled the devastation, the human treachery. The world he and the other gods had created would never be again.

  Thinking back, they should have stayed and fought and made sure that mankind did not forget their makers so much. But they had all been so weary from the war, and everything looked dark and hopeless. They had all just given up.

  “Do you know the extent…” No, that was a complicated word. “Do you know how strong you are?”

  Pasha sobbed, dragging his feet. Behind him, the village went about its business, the strange lad forgotten. Only Vanya stood on the road, watched, waved, and jingled a heavy purse, a rich man now.

  Ludevit frowned when he saw the burly boy. But he did not ask any questions.

  “In the back,” Tanid told his new companion. His new weapon. He wanted to feel compassion, but he was not sure how to muster sympathy for these humans. Once you’ve seen so many generations wither and die, you got used to it. Not one of them was above his cause. Not one of them would be spared if Calemore got his way.

  The cart trudged away from the sheep enclosure and clambered onto the main road, which meandered about three hundred paces from the riverside, cutting above a dozen villages on the Parusite bank, then entered Bridgen. The town had houses on both sides of the river, two almost identical lumps, connected by a single wooden structure, its piers sunk in the water, overgrown with cattails. People were walking or driving across. Tanid felt a moment of panic as he watched that narrow span.

  Caught out there, he would have nowhere to run.

  Ludevit seemed unconcerned.

  Tanid almost held his breath as the cart rolled into the town. He glared at the women and men with suspicion, looking for Calemore’s agents, seeking assassins. But nothing happened. On the bridge, he gripped the side of the cart and stared hard at the far bank, counting the hoof beats. He let out a breath of relief once the wagon lurched up the beaten stone ridge and onto the road. A sullen boy leading a cow was waiting for them to pass.