The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3)

by Igor Ljubuncic

  More villages, and soon, they left them all behind. Tanid looked back at the sun glimmering on the lazy surface of the Telore like a thousand miniature versions of itself, the smoke from a hundred chimneys, the people like tiny dots crawling the riverside, boats paddling up and down and across.

  “Why are you here?” Ludevit broke the silence suddenly, turning toward the boy in the back. Pasha was sitting against the side plank, his head rocking softly with the cart’s erratic lurches, banging into the wooden board behind him. Two trails of tears ran down his cheeks, pooled on his round chin, and dripped onto the straw mat.

  The boy did not seem to notice. The man smoothed his moustache and looked at the road again.

  At his side, Tanid still said nothing. He wondered how he should treat these humans. How much freedom should he give them? When to praise them? When to chide them? Was he supposed to try to build friendship? Or some kind of trust? What could he offer a man who only wanted money and a boy snatched from his family? Was Pasha sad, or was he frightened?

  It was midday when Bridgen vanished from sight, left behind, gone. Tanid felt he could relax now they were in the open again. The chances of Calemore’s killers showing up suddenly were much reduced.

  Tanid wondered what Pasha could really do. No two Special Children were the same. But he was not going to give up a good chance when he saw one. Ludevit was just what he needed. Maybe the child could protect him from armed enemies. His strength might be valuable, if he got the courage to use it when needed. Still, it was a start. Not exactly an army, but he would need anything and anyone that might help against the White Witch. He still wanted to know everything about the future, but that alone would not be enough. So he had slightly adjusted his strategy, and he was seeking children with combat abilities, too.

  Quickly adapt to changes, the biggest human trait, he thought. If they could do it, so could he. Learn, adapt, survive. That was the important thing.

  I am adapting.

  Faith, he must help build faith. That was still an unknown part. He was not yet sure how to bring religion back to the godless nations of these realms. Maybe aid the king of Parus in his conquest? Offer himself to him. Tanid was bringing faith to these people, after all. But would he believe him? Would anyone believe Tanid?

  The war with Calemore was inevitable. He must help the people of the Old Land realize the danger and unite under him. Their belief would make him strong enough to battle Damian’s son. They must understand.

  The cart followed the land, going deeper into the godless territory.

  CHAPTER 26

  “Let’s hope the emperor doesn’t elude us this time,” Jarman said.

  Lucas grunted and pulled on the tiny bell. The coach resumed its movement. Jarman stuck his head out of the window and stared, marveling at another facet of continental architecture, the city of Ecol.

  It had no curtain wall around it, and the houses spilled freely, almost like weeds left to grow on their own among the cracks in the floor. But you could glimpse two forts outside the city, providing cover and early defense against raiders or bandits. No, three forts, Jarman noticed. Very clever.

  Ecol itself was bisected by a river, one of the tributaries of the great Telore, which marked half the border between the Territories, what used to be this part of Caytor, and Parus, farther south. Jarman did not remember the name of the river. Buildings on both sides of the water looked the same. Farther north, there was a mining camp, a hive of caves and scaffolding and rough low huts and hills shaved free of trees, with their sides reminding him of a sliced-off cake, with layers of brown and black and ocher cream. Halfway between Ecol and the metal town, there was an abandoned manor house. Used to belong to a councillor before he had been killed by the Feorans and had never been occupied since, he knew.

  It was important to remember all these little details, Armin’s son thought. They might come in useful.

  The fields around Ecol had two types of crops, hops or maybe barley—and humans. They grew in clumps, colored tents with flags swaying in the wind, the earth upturned and churned into mud by wagon wheels, hooves, countless boots. The chaos was mind-boggling. Jarman almost winced.

  “How do they get anything done?” he said aloud.

  “With much effort,” Lucas replied.

  Jarman shook his head. Whatever these continental people touched turned into filth almost instantly. A perfectly lush stretch of grass, now destroyed, mauled raw. Discarded harnesses, broken weapons, tatters, rubbish, human refuse. You would think an army had fought and bled there, and not just honored the passing of the summer.

  They were approaching a lone poplar. There was something swaying from its low branches. A pair of somethings, on Jarman’s side. Soon, he realized what those were. He felt his stomach lurch.

  Two wooden cages, with men inside.

  The first cage held a headless corpse, well rotten. Presumably, its head was impaled on a spike by the roadside, with three others. A crude post smeared in paint announced their crimes to those who could read. Rebellion against the emperor, pillage, looting, high treason, each one deserving death, but you could kill someone only once. Or torture them, Jarman thought, staring at the second cage.

  This one had a living occupant, a gaunt, starved prisoner, his skin bleeding from raw wounds pecked by birds and insects. “Water…” the throat begged, weakly, barely audible. “Mercy.”

  Jarman almost felt an instinct to help, but he knew better than to interfere with local affairs. He was soon going to meddle in a much bigger scheme, and it would be best if he did not anger the ruler from the start. Still, it was hard not to feel revulsion. Whatever the display of those criminals was supposed to invoke, it made Jarman disgusted first and foremost. If the effect were supposed to be one of deterrence, it did not work. Nor did it make him afraid. He felt mostly doubtful of those in charge.

  “Those cages aren’t there for your sake,” Lucas said, his tattooed face blank.

  “Whose sake are they for?”

  “The common people. The small folk. They need a sense of justice, and this is the quickest way for them to get it.”

  The black coach rolled on, leaving the man to suffer. Jarman was not enthused about meeting Emperor James. A man who he should be convincing to help save the world.

  There was a military checkpoint at the crossroad leading off to the mining camp and the far camp. But the soldiers manning the barricade just waved the expensive carriage through. Apparently, wealthy visitors were expected and welcome.

  A huddle of workers was returning from the ironworks. They walked, pickaxes slung over their shoulders. A cart full of ore rumbled after them. Jarman watched them, then shifted his eyes to the abandoned villa. No, it used to be a small keep. He could see the bastions, the ramparts, now crumbled, grown over. The Caytorean past stared back with its empty sockets.

  The closer they got to Ecol, the more crowded it became. He could not tell why, but people went in every direction, moving from the city to those army camps and back. Not just soldiers, but craftsmen, women, hundreds of them. Ecol was a hive of activity.

  “The emperor is not going anywhere,” Lucas remarked. He pointed out of his window.

  Jarman stretched. He could see fresh timber laid out, men with blades stripping the bark off and pruning branches. There was a whole row of new houses erected just by a stretch of brown tents.

  “Animals in roofed corrals, pens for cows and sheep. Fortified bulwark around those forts and stakes against cavalry. Emperor James plans on staying and defending his new prize.”

  Jarman sighed. “Let us hope you’re right.”

  If the Athesian ruler intended on moving his army farther south, it would be that much more difficult to convince him to do just the opposite. If he were content on staying, well, it might be easier. Ecol was a solid defense post, Jarman mused, remembering all he had read in the books on war and strategy.

  He glanced at another book, sitting forlornly on the corduroy seat near him—T
heology of the Continental Realms, a book his father had given him. One of the reasons he was an Anada wizard, one of the reasons he was here now.

  Lucas pointed vaguely north. “Our forces will probably have to make a stand somewhere here. Maybe a little farther north. Elfast at most.” It sounded prophetic, ominous. Jarman truly hoped it would never get to that. But he knew his hope was in vain.

  Our first task is to convince a young, impetuous emperor to shed his pride.

  Ecol was a city of weapons. Every second shop was a smithy of some sort, at least on the eastern bank. Stores displayed their wares proudly, racks of swords, heaps of shields, elegant crossbows for the footman and horseman alike, spears with wicked spiked heads, suits of armor with jointed segments like the Bar’baban crab.

  Lucas twisted out of the window and said something to the crew, then slid back in effortlessly.

  The main thoroughfare was busy, packed tight with people. The carriage slowed down and had to stop now and then until the driver could curse the passersby out of his way. Jarman leaned back and resolved to wait. At the slow speed they were moving, hawkers tried to peddle their stuff, sticking their arms into the coach and yelling. Jarman tried to ignore the cabbages and melons and dried meats. He was almost tempted to snatch one from a greedy hand, but he refrained. That would only get him in trouble.

  At least Ecol did not stink that much. The recent rains must have washed the stench away.

  Jarman felt an urge to see the emperor, but he knew he must not hurry things. The matter was quite delicate. So, they lodged for the rest of the day at a place called the Mighty Sword, a semidecent establishment that catered to common people. Jarman tried to look undaunted by the grubby look of some of the customers.

  As usual, Lucas drew quite a bit of attention and a solid measure of consternation. The rumors would surely spread, but that suited them just as well. They wanted everyone to know two Sirtai gentlemen had arrived in Ecol.

  Just to be sure, they dispatched a messenger to announce their request to see Emperor James.

  In the morning, they struck toward the emperor’s home. They could have walked, but the occasion called for an eight-horse carriage and their best robes. Lucas was wearing crimson trimmed in black. Jarman had chosen a majestic cloak of purple round his shoulders. Slightly extravagant, but the continental people loved shine and pomp.

  They were stopped by Athesian soldiers just before the city’s square, although it was round and had a small statue erected in the middle. Lucas flashed the document signed by Guild Master Sebastian, and they were politely allowed to pass through. A man with a halberd pointed them toward a small stable to the left. The two of them stepped out of the carriage and left the care of the animals to a young groom and their somewhat bored driver.

  They reached a second barricade. They could see decent defense here, at least fifty paces of open ground between the row of star-shaped bundles of sharpened stakes and the buildings on the other side of the square. The cobbles were littered with caltrops. Two mounted men with crossbows watched them through slits in lowered visors.

  With fluid formality, Lucas presented the paper once more. The officer in charge pointed at a large four-story house. An almost identical version of it stood to the left. Both had their plaster covered in soot from the smithies and had lost most of their grandeur.

  “There you go, gents. Left, that’s the mayor’s house. Right, that’s his inn. His Highness is there.”

  Lucas led the way, and Jarman followed. Some of the soldiers in the square spared them an odd glance.

  “Well defended,” the older wizard noted. His eyes flicked toward a crossbowman sitting on the roof of the house across. There was another lounging in front of a tailor’s shop. Yet another stood to some attention not far away. Jarman counted. At least ten bows were in plain sight. Still more soldiers moved about, armed with wicked-looking spears or pikes. Not bad.

  They were stopped for the third time before the inn’s entrance. “Where to, chaps?”

  Lucas presented the documents again, this time to an older sergeant. He inspected the letter, then nodded at a courier behind him, who slipped through the lead glass–paned door, each panel a different color. The sergeant waited a few moments, then nodded.

  The two guards at the entrance moved, uncrossed their weapons, and let them enter.

  The place was busy, servants and clerks coming and going, jostling. The common room had every table besieged by men with papers and maps and heavy ledgers, talking rapidly. After several more quick inspections, Jarman and his life slave were led to the back of the inn and into the garden outside, on the other side of the building.

  The garden had vegetables and vines growing around its perimeter, clambering up a latticework of wooden sticks, creating an illusion of privacy. The garden was well- hemmed in by nearby houses, but as far as luxury went in Ecol, it was fairly decent and open. There were more soldiers on the rooftops of the surrounding buildings. They could hear horses neighing in a stable beyond somewhere.

  Jarman stared at the knot of important people seated behind a long dining table. It was covered in tablecloths of all colors, weighed down with pitchers of ale and wooden platters of half-eaten food. Too many cups. A lone sword rested between the dishes, longer than the table was wide and sticking out.

  A fully armored soldier put a firm hand on Lucas’s chest. “You wait here.” One of his comrades walked into the garden.

  Almost at once, all of the faces looked up at the newcomers. Jarman studied them. It was hard to single out the emperor. They all dressed the same, more or less, rich doublets, ever so slightly dirty with use.

  “Bring them over,” someone ordered.

  Lucas looked at Jarman. “You do the talking.”

  “Sirtai delegates. We have been expecting you. This is a rare pleasure,” a young man spoke, standing behind the table, shoulder to shoulder with several others. He looked charming enough, with a confident glint in his eye.

  “Jarman Wan’der Markssin, of Tuba Tuba,” he introduced himself. Then, almost casually, he pointed behind him. “My slave, Lucas.” Just as they had practiced.

  “To what do we owe this honor?” asked another young man, his lips pressed around a cigarette.

  The one from earlier brushed his hair back. “I’m Emperor James. What brings you here?”

  Jarman took a deep breath. What would be the easiest way to convince this man? Stark truth seemed like the best option.

  “We are here to offer our services. We want to be your advisers in matters of war. We have a keen interest in your campaign, and we would like to provide assistance.”

  As they had expected, the statement met with slight shock.

  “Well, we did have a word from Guild Master Sebastian informing us of two unusual guests he received at the mansion. Experience tells us the Sirtai should be treated with honor. But I do not see how my war in Athesia affects your politics in any way. You have not concerned yourselves with this realm before. Besides, my campaign is going well.”

  “We offer magical assistance,” Jarman said carefully.

  There was a long stretch of silence. To their credit, the armed men and the assembled staff did not rush to draw their weapons. There was a certain stiffening of muscles, a breath of hot tension whispering across the garden, but no one did anything foolish.

  “Magic?” the emperor repeated. Jarman saw his face twitch with strange emotion.

  “Yes, we are both wizards. Anada wizards,” he explained.

  The one with the cigarette pointed meaningfully. “I told you about it.”

  Another one, his face burdened with a heavy blink, did not seem convinced. “Want me to get rid of them, sir?”

  James made a quick warding gesture with his hand. “No! Everybody stay calm.”

  “I don’t fucking believe you,” the man with the blink growled at the two of them.

  Lucas coughed. Jarman nodded. His slave extended his hand slowly, so as not to alarm the crossbow
men on the rooftops, and wagged his fingers in the direction of the skeptic. His face contorted, first with surprise, then with shame, then with loathing.

  “Do you believe us now?” It was a simpler demonstration than the one in Pain Daye. Less painful.

  “What’s happened? What’s that smell?” an officer protested, wrinkling his nose.

  The one with the blink detached himself from the lot and walked over, the distinctive odor following him. “I’m gonna fucking kill you,” he whispered at Lucas, but his hands remained at his sides, and he stormed off.

  “You did that?” an old man asked.

  Jarman shrugged. “Some people find it hard to accept our claim.”

  The old man pursed his lips knowingly. “So you plan on making the Parusites all shit themselves?”

  “Can we make this meeting a little more private?”

  Emperor James was wearing a somber face now. “No. Speak your mind. You may have magic. And you know all too well the people of the realms do not like magic. What do you want exactly?”

  Too many people were going to hear this, and he did not like that. Jarman wished he could talk to the emperor privately and explain things to him. “Your quarrel is not with the Parusites. You must focus on making peace.”

  James snorted lightly. “I am making peace.”

  “The nations of the realms must all unite. Against a bigger, common threat.”

  “Which one would that be?”

  Jarman did not want to sound dramatic, and he hated himself when he said, “The White Witch of Naum.”

  No one reacted. The name, the title just passed over them. Jarman looked hard at the emperor. He was trying the best of the ten years of diplomacy and history he had studied, bolstered with the seasoning of real-life experience he had gained in the past few months.