The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3)

by Igor Ljubuncic

  “Within months or maybe days, a huge army, the likes of which the realms have never seen, will descend on this land from the north, led by the most ruthless leader you can possibly imagine. He comes to destroy everything and kill everyone. He must be stopped.”

  “North? North where?” The man with the cigarette again, his face locked with a curious expression, but Jarman was too focused on the emperor to give it any great thought.

  “There isn’t anything north of the realms. Everyone knows that,” one of the officers grumbled.

  A lukewarm wind of frustration slapped him in the face. Jarman knew he should not have expected more from a people that tried their best to forget their past. An age of ignorance, and now they had to take his word for it, believe in monsters they had not even heard of in their bedtime stories.

  But Jarman saw a seed of doubt in the emperor’s face.

  Just what he had hoped for.

  If there were anyone who might believe his farfetched story, it was the son of Adam, the son of a man who had fought against the Feorans, against Damian’s forces. He would understand.

  At least, that was what he had seen in his dreams.

  There had been the girl, too, but she had died in the war.

  How much does he know? Jarman wondered. How much does he suspect, does he guess? Has he ever seen magic? Does he know anything about his father’s wars? Does he know anything about the gods?

  A terrible risk, but Jarman had to take it.

  Few people in the realms had taken the wondrous tale of Emperor Adam’s quick victory against the Parusites with any credibility. They had all dismissed the horrendous death tally as a glorified story, a bard’s embellishment, a silly tale retold by drunken soldiers. No one had believed the account, even from those who had sworn to have watched from Roalas’s battlements as their ruler fired a magical weapon into the rows of enemy cavalry, decimating them in seconds.

  Most of the Sirtai had dismissed the story, too; they did not care about the continental people.

  But Armin Wan’der Markssin never had. Nor had his son.

  “What do you want in return?” the emperor asked, ignoring geography.

  “Nothing,” Jarman said, trying not to feel exasperation. “Saving the world is enough.”

  “And you wish to be my assistants?” James emphasized.

  Jarman looked at the soldiers around him, all eyes boring into him. “We want to help you make the right decisions for the sake of your nation. We want you to prepare for the war against the White Witch and lay aside your other feuds and ambitions.”

  The emperor picked up a cup and drained it in one go. “That’s a very bold claim. You are surely asking for a lot. You are strangers. I have never seen you in my life. I do not know what you really seek. And now, all of a sudden, I should follow you blindly?” But if he were arguing against Jarman’s request, he did not sound too convinced. A sort of inner conflict was raging inside him.

  “You should accept their offer,” the man with the cigarette said.

  “With all due respect, sir, this is a mistake. They could be spies,” an officer interjected.

  “Our first objective is to free Athesia,” another man in uniform insisted.

  “You think a spy would go around with a head like that?” The man with the cigarette pointed at Lucas.

  “Enough,” James snapped. “I do not know what you really are. But sometimes, brave decisions are needed, even if they may seem unwise or unpopular. I would be a fool to reject a Sirtai offer.” He flicked his fingers. “Get these men refreshments. You want drinks?”

  Jarman raised a hand in polite refusal. “Perhaps later.”

  “You are welcome to stay,” the emperor conceded, trying to sound graceful, trying to keep that worried, excited edge from his tone. “However, the objectives of my campaign remain. I will gladly hear you out and weigh all your proposals. However, unauthorized use of magic will not be tolerated.”

  He knows something, the wizard thought. And that is good.

  “That sounds reasonable,” Jarman agreed. Most of the audience was not pleased, he noticed. The superstitious aversion the continental people had for magic was only expected. He had never believed he would convince them all, let alone make them trust him in the first meeting.

  But Lucas did not need to kill anyone for them to start listening. A good start.

  A partition of a wooden wall behind James slid sideways. A short man stepped over a bank of small red tomatoes and said something to one of the officers in the emperor’s retinue. Jarman stared beyond the garden enclosure. An entire squad of soldiers was standing there, weapons drawn, lurking, waiting.

  They must have cleared a section of the nearby stall that leads to the street so the emperor can escape if necessary, Jarman mused. Perhaps these people were not that dumb after all.

  There was more to discuss, but the moment had passed, and Jarman did not want to press. “We thank you for your hospitality. It would be prudent if we met again tomorrow, in a more private manner.”

  Emperor James gave a quick, curt nod. “That could be arranged.”

  Jarman flexed his fingers. No handshakes at this point, he realized. “We will retreat now. Thank you, Your Highness.”

  And they stepped out of the inn, leaving the stunned audience to discuss the sudden arrival of two Sirtai magic wielders in hushed voices.

  “Well done,” Lucas said. “You bore well.”

  Jarman felt a touch of pride. “Thank you, Lucas.”

  Although the meeting was over, his friend still wore a grim expression on his face. “This is only the first step. We must be ready for anything. They will try to lie, delay, evade answers, manipulate every situation to their benefit. It is imperative that we make them understand the enormity of the situation.”

  Jarman sighed. “All right.”

  “And I noticed that man with the cigarette is—” Lucas began, but then stopped.

  Armin’s son frowned. It wasn’t customary for Lucas to be easily distracted by anything. But now he was. His blue-tattooed head inclined to the left side, he was staring across the square at a seemingly nondescript clerk in a gray robe. But there was no mistaking those features.

  A half Sirtai. One of them.

  Lucas did not look away. “He has magic. Not much, but enough.”

  Jarman replayed the entire meeting with the emperor in his head. Suddenly, the furtive glances, the confused frowns, the ripples of doubt across the emperor’s face made so much more sense. His easygoing manner when magic was mentioned. Not indecision or lack of knowledge. On the contrary.

  “We made a wise decision,” Jarman growled.

  Lucas was still staring. “Yes, we did. Emperor James might need no convincing after all.”

  Jarman wanted to approach the clerk, but he refrained from doing so. He wanted to know more first. Still, one thing was certain. Adam’s son had been exposed to magic before and used it to his needs and advantage. And that meant the war against the White Witch may already have begun.

  CHAPTER 27

  Bart tried not to look smug. But he was feeling very content, at ease.

  The death of four members, with Count Derrick and Duke Norris the latest additions to the mysterious bout of accidents afflicting the Eracian nobility in Roalas, had reduced the war council to just a few people.

  The room burst with soldiers. No one was taking any chances. Food and drinks were tasted by a hireling, and all of them went about escorted by at least four guards at all times. Even Bart played his part, having his own men in attendance. They did not know much about his plot with Junner, so they bore seriously. Nothing like honesty to hide a lie, he thought.

  Bart could see deep, stark fear etched in their faces. Countess Silvia was paler than usual, and no amount of makeup could cover the fact she was terrified. Duke Vincent was the stubborn old fool as ever, with a trace of his suicidal character plain to the eye. But even he seemed distressed by the deaths. Bart’s unspoken ally, Daryl
the drunkard, managed to look afraid when he was sober enough to figure out the situation. Bart managed to keep a calm face, for everyone’s sake.

  However, the room full of soldiers did make him want to laugh. Never mind the fact that all four deaths had happened far from the council meetings. Perhaps the meeting was the safest place to be right now. Bart never asked Junner how he did his job. He did not want to know.

  Farther away from the political scene, a dozen other Eracian dignitaries and merchants had met their deaths, with a little less finesse than the foremost nobles of the realm. Someone had been stabbed in the gut in the street, a case of a mistaken identity. Another was beaten to death over a fictitious gambling debt. And so it went, the list getting longer and Bart’s chances of success getting higher.

  He almost had what he dared called a majority in Vincent’s stupid assembly.

  If he were supposed to feel remorse for killing these men, he felt none. He felt almost too good. The acts of death actually liberated his soul of the filthy weight that had been dragging after him for the past several months. The sensation of utter helplessness was being replaced with one of hope. Knowing all too well he would be risking his own life trying to rescue Eracia, he felt his sacrifice and emotional burden were fitting.

  “We will soon all be killed,” Bart purred in a somber tone.

  “This is outrageous. We are being decimated while the Parusite king does nothing!” Vincent hollered, ignoring the fact the men protecting his life in this very room were Sergei’s men. A few somewhat braver dignitaries had taken up arms, but they hardly qualified as bodyguards.

  “Then we must do something,” the count insisted, all the initiative on his side. “The longer we dally, the more exposed we remain. We are a sitting target here in Roalas, and obviously, someone has an agenda to see the Eracian elite destroyed.”

  “Go to back to Eracia?” Silvia said, her voice brittle.

  Bart nodded reluctantly. “Perhaps yes. Whoever is organizing these murders, it is obvious they want us to remain here, indecisive, so they can pick us off one by one. We’re far from home; we have no one we can trust here. We will be much better off in our own country.” But home meant war against the nomads. Bart counted on their cowardice.

  Daryl sipped his wine, already quite inebriated, but like all veteran drunks, he seemed to perform slightly better in between sobriety and total drunkenness. It just took him a while before he got there.

  Silvia swallowed. “Perhaps.” She turned her eyes toward him, hopeful.

  Bart made a face as if he were trying to agree to an idea he disliked. “Duke Vincent, I will head back to Eracia and muster our forces. But you must give me the full authority to lead them. That’s the only way we can counter the threat of these assassinations.”

  Trying to convince them to give their power over to the lowliest member of the war council was a lost cause. But trying to convince them to agree that he sacrifice himself for their sake, they seemed more open to that idea. The only problem was, they had to work around their fear.

  He leaned back. His eyes scanned the crowd of soldiers hulking in the corners. They all wore serious expressions, but he could glimpse contempt here and there. He did not blame them.

  King Sergei had taken the deaths quite seriously. The first pair had seemed like accidents, but after Derrick was found with his neck carved open, any doubt about the unfortunate nature of their demise had evaporated. Roalas had transformed almost instantly. There were more patrols in the streets, and the watchmen often stopped people, asking questions. The gates were clogged with long queues of small folk waiting to get in and out at the checkpoints.

  The Parusite leader had to exercise his power, had to be seen to be doing his best to save his guests. Their deaths were a direct affront to his authority, an insult to his rule, to his capability. It had far wider repercussions than just the death of several nobles. Bart did not enjoy that part of his scheme, but it was unavoidable. Besides, Sergei had avoided him for a while; perhaps now he would listen.

  Count Bartholomew wondered how he might assist in bridging the gap of mistrust between Eracia and Parus. He already had a few interesting ideas. But first, he had to convince his comrades to let him assume control of southern Eracia.

  Duke Vincent grunted, some inner battle raging in his head coming to an end. “What do you plan on doing, Bartholomew? Attack Somar?”

  Bart placed his hands on the table. They did not twitch. Utterly calm. “Not outright, no. I want to mobilize our divisions. Unite them under a single banner, a singe command. Mine, with your blessing, of course. After that, I believe we ought to drive a wedge, west, and cut the nomad forces in two, much like they did with Eracia.” Look at me, a diplomat, preaching on the matters of war. “Then, once Somar is encircled, we will either lay siege or try to break into the city. For all we know, the nomads might retreat by then. They are not used to living in big cities.”

  The old man rolled his eyes, thinking.

  Countess Silvia thrust her head forward. “Can we trust the army?”

  Bart almost winced. The same rotten argument. “It’s our best chance.”

  “We should do as Bart says,” Daryl piped in, his voice slurred.

  “You will make those tribesmen pay,” Vincent said, half stating, half asking.

  Bart made his most patriotic face, hoping the beard did not hide the honest line of his tightly pursed lips. “I will make them bleed.” That was what the old man wanted to hear.

  Duke Vincent waved his spotted hand. “All right. So be it. I will draw a letter granting you the full authority over southern Eracia as my second.”

  “We need to formalize your status, Your Grace,” Bart said smoothly. “With the monarch’s line eradicated, you are the most suitable candidate for the crown. We do not know the situation in the north of the realm, and we must assume we are the only nobles left. Therefore, we must declare you monarch in exile.” There, he said it. He took a deep breath and waited.

  “Right, right,” the duke murmured, looking somewhat confused.

  “I will assume the provisional role of a viceroy,” Bart went on, recalling some of the books he had read about his realm’s past. There had been only one other recorded case of the monarch’s nobles electing one of their fold in his stead. Liam the Bright had gone missing during a hunt and had remained missing for almost four months. It turned out he had gotten separated from his party, rode off by himself to some remote village, and stayed with the locals, posing as some nameless knight. A certain Duke Otto had been chosen to lead the realm as the viceroy. So there was the precedent, if anyone in Eracia bothered to question his appointment.

  Bart did not really care for the title, though. He was doing all this for the sake of the realm. He wanted to save Eracia. That was all.

  Any other time, the whore Silvia would have instantly objected, but she was just staring at him dumbly, petrified with terror over her own fate, willing to take any chance that might help her keep her slim neck intact.

  Bart pushed aside his thoughts, trying to focus on staying serene and dedicated to his cause. He did not want to think about his father, mother, Sonya, Constance, or any other distraction. He had come to Athesia on a mission of peace and failed once. He would go back to Somar and bring the promised peace. It made no difference the monarch was dead. The realm was more important than one man.

  “It shall be done,” the duke agreed at some length.

  Bart kept his emotions at bay, but they gurgled in his stomach, like a bad meal, trying to erupt. Finally, some progress, after months of gangrenous indecision and stalling, he would be allowed to do something useful.

  Oh yes, his stay with the Borei had changed him. Once, he had tried to preserve his cowardice, to avoid war at all costs. Now, he was looking ahead, and all he could see was war. But he did not feel afraid.

  He was tired of being pushed around, of being used, of being ignored and slighted. He was tired of compromising. He was tired of being nobod
y.

  Calm, he had to stay calm.

  He had just won a victory. He should be happy.

  But there was only grim expectation. Perhaps happiness belonged to someone else, or he had yet to discover it. Still, there was no reason to lament. One day, he might even change the way he chose women in his life.

  King Sergei did not ignore him this time. The four deaths were more than enough to warrant an immediate meeting with any of the still-breathing dignitaries, should they ask for one.

  Wisely, the Parusite ruler had chosen a small, secluded study to talk to him. After their short acquaintance during the siege, the king seemed to have learned this Eracian count spelled trouble, so he was best dealt with away from prying eyes and ears. Bart was glad for the intimacy of their reunion, because he did not want the news of his success to spread just yet.

  “What do you want?” Sergei barked. If the king feared an escalation in relations between Eracia and Parus, he showed none of them in private.

  Bart gently placed the declaration on the table in front of the king. It bore only four signatures and matching seals, but it declared one new monarch and one new viceroy for Eracia. “I will be leaving Roalas soon. I was selected to lead the Eracian armies against the nomads.”

  Sergei made a face as if he did not believe the count would undertake such a hazardous task upon himself.

  Another man who despises me, Bart thought sourly. However, among all of them, Sergei had the most reason. Bart was the reminder of his failure to secure peace with Amalia, to save his son. They both knew that.

  “You have my leave,” Sergei announced unceremoniously.

  “I will need your support,” Bart countered.

  Sergei straightened in his chair a little. “Yes?”

  Bart laid down another paper. “Eracia hereby officially requests your help in defeating the nomad invasion. I must ask for a small contingent of troops to be assigned to my command permanently. These troops will assist me in carrying out my duties as well as serve as protection again possible threats, here in Roalas or back home.”