The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3)

by Igor Ljubuncic

  Soon, it began. First, the screening force of light cavalry rode behind the would-be enemy encampment, trying to bait them, but they held and did not break the formation. Then, the skirmishing force, comprised mostly of men, rushed the east flank. The rules of engagement were simple; you pushed with your shields only and tried to snatch the company banner.

  Mali was watching through a looking glass. You would assume the shields-only practice would be innocent enough, but the trainees fought with vigor. The men were pushing, jostling, their teeth bared in snarls. The female soldiers were pushing back, hammering their shields into the mass of attackers. Mostly, the large pavises just scraped against one another, making a loud grinding noise, but some of the soldiers, practice or no practice, were trying to swing the shields as weapons, hoping to ram them into other people’s faces. Wooden splinters snapped off the shields. A gaggle of curses erupted from the tightly pressed mass. A fist or two flew, and a bloodied face went down. All friendly competition.

  Mali winced.

  While the defenders were engaged with the skirmishers, the bulk of the attacking force advanced in two wedges, driving against the north and west flanks of the box. Within minutes, more than a thousand women were panting, swearing, and hollering into each other’s faces, the line of shields buckling and snapping and twisting like a snake. There were going to be a handful of broken noses at the end of the day, Mali noted.

  “Not bad,” Alexa commented.

  The cavalry force had rushed from the south side, encircling the defenders completely. Dangerous business, using horses for the exercise, but Mali could not think of any other sensible way of getting her ladies ready for battle apart from real killing.

  She knew that other all-male units did not share in her techniques. Some commanders thought she was being too brutal, causing injuries even before the battles started. Some felt it was unnecessary to go to such extremes. Mali only hoped her soft games would be enough to make a difference in real combat.

  Just a few minutes into the wrestle, she could see the strength sapping from the soldiers, especially in the front lines. But this was the critical moment. Could the second and third and fourth rows of soldiers step forward and rotate their exhausted comrades, both defenders and attackers?

  Well, they sort of did it. The centers held well, but the sides wobbled dangerously. An earnest fistfight had erupted on the east flank. A man was trying to snatch a shield from a girl, and he was obviously stronger than her. Then, he went down with a kick to his stomach. Someone punched the girl without the shield, and it was another woman.

  “A rather rough scuffle,” Mali said.

  Alexa grunted. “I will talk to Major Sophie.”

  Mali lowered the tube for a moment. “Yes, you need to explain to her that her soldiers really should not be attacking their own side.”

  “You know how some of these women are,” Alexa almost whispered.

  The colonel sighed. “Let’s hope they do the right thing in battle.”

  It was almost an hour later when the attackers finally gave up and retreated, their hands empty. The company banner remained on its standard, stuck in the ground in the center of the defense formation. A weak, throaty cheer exploded from the victors. The other two companies, the skirmishers, and the small horse retreated.

  Mali climbed down from the tower and went to inspect the troops. Then she went to talk to her officers. “Any casualties?” she asked them inside the command hut at the end of the practice grounds.

  Sophie was panting, her hair plastered with sweat as if she had spent the entire battle running rather than standing near that standard, shrieking orders. But Mali knew how demanding the command could be. Abigail was wearing a grim expression on her face. Major Theresa looked rather calm. Meagan, the cavalry commander, was a low-ranking noblewoman who had lost her husband to the nomads, and she was wearing a defeated look on her narrow face. She was not a gutsy type, but she was smart enough and could ride well. The one man in the lot, Captain Gordon of the skirmishers, was trying to look smug, probably for having come against the highest concentration of breasts in his entire life. But Mali could read anger and contempt there.

  “Some broken arms, one broken leg, a whole lot of bleeding noses and lips, sir,” Sophie said. She looked at Gordon as if it were all his fault.

  “And what do you think, Captain?” Mali turned to the skirmisher.

  Gordon snorted. “Not as good as I’d have hoped for,” he offered. “Sophie’s bitches—”

  “What did you say, prick?” the company commander snapped, moving forward. Theresa put her arm up and blocked her passage.

  Mali cut them off. “Captain Gordon, if I hear you using that word again to describe your comrades, I will have you stripped of rank. You’ll end up as a lowly scout in some obscure unit somewhere. If you are unhappy with your commission, just speak.”

  The man wiped his neck of a spatter of wet earth. “My apologies, sir. In the heat of the battle, you know.”

  “So how did it go?” Mali pressed.

  He raised one shoulder. “Well, when there was that opening on the left flank, we didn’t take advantage of it. I should have shifted all my troops there, right.”

  Mali nodded. “You could have. Abigail was holding your right side, so you could have afforded to expose your flank. The defenders would not have rushed, because that would have meant opening a gap in their own line.”

  Theresa lifted a cup of cool water and drank, sloshing it in her mouth. “My line was staggered, as much as five paces end to end. I should have pressed more tightly, sir.”

  Mali was pleased her officers could see the problems in their execution. That was the first step to becoming good leaders. Now, if only they could react in time and correct the problems while they were happening. But she should be glad they had made that much progress in the last two months.

  Meagan raised her hand politely, waiting to be allowed to speak. Mali arched her brows at the woman. “I should have led my horse around into the gap once the scuffle broke out, sir.”

  “Not bad overall. Tomorrow, we do it all over again.” They groaned ever so slightly, but they could appreciate the importance of rigorous exercise. “Dismissed. You, too, Alexa. Captain Gordon, please stay.”

  The officers filed out. Gordon remained, looking somewhat uncomfortable. Mali did not envy his position. He served with women, under a woman, and most men found it somewhat hard to accept this hierarchy. Gordon was no exception. He was doubly cursed for having a fair dose of disdain for women. But Mali could not be picky when it came to her young battalion. She had gladly accepted whatever help Royce had cooked up for her. At least Gordon was not an outcast who could barely speak and only yearned for blood. He was a fairly skilled officer, when he decided to use the capacity of his brain for thinking rather than his loins.

  Mali had no intention of changing him. Men his age—no, men any age—were incapable of changing. The best you could hope for was to dump them in a situation that brought the best out of them. With Gordon, she hoped to make him forget his comrades had a slightly different anatomy.

  “What can I do for you, sir?” he asked, somewhat nervous.

  “Your combat skills are decent. At least out there,” she lectured. “There’s the simple matter of your attitude. Unacceptable. Some of those women might be bitches,” she said bluntly, and his face went blank, “but that does not mean you’re allowed to say it out loud. Make sure you give those women their proper respect, even if you think it’s undeserved, because your life will be depending on it. And the lives of all your troops. Do you understand?”

  He swallowed. “Yes, sir. Won’t happen again.”

  Mali inclined her head. She looked him up and down. “How old are you, Gordon?”

  The captain frowned. “I’m forty-two, sir.”

  Mali pursed her lips. “Did you leave your wife at home?”

  Gordon rubbed at his upper lip; a thin moustache was outlined there. “No, sir. Never got m
arried, sir. Military life, you know how it is.”

  Mali was silent for a moment. Her return to the army had made her acutely aware she had not enjoyed a cock in twenty years. Somehow, ever since coming to Windpoint, she had pushed down her former life into a dark corner and kept it hidden there, suppressed. Perhaps a mistake, but now, she was no longer burdened by that decision.

  Gordon was younger than her, quite a bit, but what did it matter? He was handsome enough.

  “A question for you, Captain, and you may speak freely. How do you feel about fucking your superior?”

  His eyes went wide. He looked left and right, as if expecting to see a leering audience there. “Eh, sir?”

  “Mind, this will change nothing in your duties. You do not get any special privileges out there.”

  The look of amused panic on his face was priceless. “I am not sure I fully understand, sir.”

  Mali smirked. “You have fucked women before?”

  He nodded stupidly.

  “Your commanding officer is asking you to perform a similar task with her. With discretion.”

  Gordon dared glance below her face, at her chest, her hips, her long legs. She was not exactly the best-looking woman in the camp, but she still had some of her youthful figure hidden under her uniform. Wishing for bigger, perkier breasts or less fat on her rump was not going to change anything.

  “Sir, am I going to get into trouble?” He sounded like a boy, frightened.

  Mali stepped closer. “You may refuse, and no harm done. This will change nothing. All I’m asking is for some fun before we all die. Your rank, your pay, your duties all remain the same. You do not hold my hand; you do not call me ‘dear.’ No mushy feelings, no hugging, no tears, no poetry, no stupid sentiments. Just some decent fucking.”

  The captain was silent for a long while, probably using all his intellect to weigh all the different angles and snares. Then, his face went slack. “Well, sir, I guess I can do it.”

  Mali patted him on the shoulder. “Good. See you tonight.” And she strode out of the hut.

  CHAPTER 29

  Sonya stared at her extended fingers, at the fresh layer of dark red lacquer on her long nails. “I don’t like it,” she snapped.

  The maid lowered her head. “I am truly sorry, my lady.”

  Sonya pushed off the sofa and bowled past the girl, brushing her thigh against the woman’s shoulder, tipping her over. “Stop behaving like a fool! You’re embarrassing yourself.”

  “Sorry, my lady.” The girl scrambled up to a kneeling position, still gripping the fine-grained nail file.

  The countess ignored her and walked to the wall mirror, a new one Pacmad had given her, tall and wide enough to let her admire her figure. Since he had allowed her freer access around the palace, she had managed to shed some extra pounds of fat off her waist and thighs. She was beginning to look presentable again. Carefully, she smoothed her hands over her belly, over the soft bulge of her bottom. The pearl-colored samite dress, worked in silver thread, looked exquisite.

  “I must look my best for General Pacmad, and now you ruined it, you silly girl.”

  The maid was on the verge of tears. “Please, my lady, do not tell him. He will hit me.”

  Sonya spun around. “And you deserve it, you clumsy twat. You’re useless as my maid.”

  The girl was almost groveling now. “Please, please, my lady. I was only a needlewoman before.”

  The countess stepped closer. “Before?” She let the girl squirm under her withering gaze for a few more moments. Then she softened her expression instantly, turning all soft and smiley and reassuring. “No matter. Come sit here by my side.” She lowered herself onto the side of the bed, mindful of the corset digging into her ribs. “Tell me something.”

  “Yes, my lady?” the maid sobbed hopefully.

  “You are allowed access to other women in the palace, too, aren’t you? What’s your name anyway?”

  “Janice, my lady,” the girl said. “Yes, my lady. General Pacmad has me attend to several other ladies.”

  Sonya patted the girl’s rough, needle-scarred hand. “Who are they? What are they like? How do they take their captivity? I want to know everything. Tell me, or I will be angry, and then I will have to speak to General Pacmad about how you ruined my nails.”

  Janice opened her mouth, trying to say something, probably some stupid protest, but then she thought better of it. Carefully, she worked her peasant tongue to speak. “Ladies Linnette and Fidelma, Viscountess Verina, and Baroness Richelle.”

  Sonya rolled the names through her head, placing them on her ever-changing cobweb of power like little flies, fluttering, caught, waiting for the spider to come and snatch them.

  In recent weeks, Pacmad had given her more and more freedom, more responsibility, a wider access to amenities. She had a fairly decent wardrobe now. She could bathe and be pampered whenever she pleased. She had creams for her skin, jewels for her neck and fingers.

  But one thing the chieftain absolutely made sure not to give her was free access to his other concubines and prisoners, not unless he wanted her there for some reason. He still suspected her, still mistrusted her around her former countrywomen. He believed she would spin a plot against his rule the moment he left her alone with the other women. The assumption could not be further from the truth. She wanted to make sure her competition did not get in her way.

  Oh, he knew she was trying to be his best mistress, as she kept telling him now and then, only he did not quite believe her. Her story did not move him. Or her motives. Perhaps they stayed his hand now and then, or even made him chuckle, but his trust was a dark, black, oily, elusive thing. Whenever she tried to dig her nails into it, it slipped away and left her with a scraping of frustration.

  Well, she should not be disappointment or dismayed. Every day, she won a small victory by staying alive, by getting what she wanted, each time a little more than the last. Pacmad had even let her enjoy the help of this oaf Janice. She could walk the palace corridors, go into the gardens, venture into the city streets. No other woman in captivity could claim that.

  Regardless, her journey was long, and she had only started. She might no longer get beaten as often as before, but Pacmad still treated her like a whore most of the time. He was wary of her ideas and suggestions, as if they hid a barb of poison among their words.

  Perhaps the general knew the moment he let her talk to the other women that she would utterly corrupt them, making them useless. He would then be forced to get rid of them, and she would hold all the power, all the sway, in her hands and between her thighs.

  Sonya was planning well ahead. Once she gained full control of Somar, she would have to make sure Pacmad’s wives did not interfere with her plans. She had to somehow sideline them and make Pacmad depend on her. She had to make him believe in her abilities, all of them.

  Janice was speaking. “Lady Fidelma had a miscarriage last week, and Pacmad got so angry, he broke her arm. The baroness is with a child, too. She will bear him a son, he says.”

  Sonya frowned. Not good. She could not allow some slut to steal Pacmad’s attention with her womb’s unholy products. That was one thing Sonya could not really contest with the other women. She needed Pacmad to forget about siring his bastards upon the Eracian prisoners and work on establishing his authority and broadening his power so she could enjoy it through him. His meaningless vengeance was distracting.

  “And the others?”

  Janice folded her arms in her lap. “I think Lady Linnette is bad in her head. She talks to herself quite often, my lady. Viscountess Verina is bearing well. Never cries.”

  Sonya weighed the chances of her two major opponents. Both were noble, both of a lesser class than she was, so not a threat in that perspective. Richelle was really a pond feeder, from a poor family, but she had a baby growing in her uterus. However, in the longer run, Verina was probably more dangerous. On the other hand…

  “Anything else?”

  Janic
e shook her head, gaze lowered.

  She smiled at Janice. “You will keep telling me everything you hear.”

  The maid wiped a lone tear from her cheek. “Yes, my lady.”

  Sonya stood up. “Good. Keep doing it, and I may even reward you. Now go.” She made a shooing motion. Janice quickly collected her things and rushed out of the chamber. Sonya was left alone, and she gravitated toward the mirror, admiring her chest, her stomach, her legs.

  The countess turned toward the door. Pacmad ought to visit her soon. Sometimes she saw him during the day, when he asked her for help with the numbers and accounts and letters. Running the city was a complex task, and his tribesmen were not faring too well.

  She hoped he would come today. She had to have him here, because otherwise, that meant he would be fucking some other Eracian. She could not allow them to taint his mind with their evil schemes and sad stories. Every day he spent in another woman’s bedroom was a chance missed for Sonya to upgrade her status, gain more favor, anchor her security and survival in Pacmad’s ruthless world.

  Sonya walked over to her small fireplace. A few embers glowed red, radiating pleasant heat. The sheet of leaden rain falling for the past week had cooled the air enough that your breath would mist in the early morning. She picked up another broken log and placed it on the gray pile.

  Time stretched. She got bored. She tried to read a book salvaged from the ruins of Leopold’s collection, but it was too dark to strain her eyes under candlelight now, so she tossed it back onto her bed. She slurped a glass of wine, but her stomach felt queasy, empty. Only she did not want to eat, because she had to lose more weight so she was even more alluring for her master.

  Another hour passed, and the world turned dark. A flash of panic gripped her, a momentary one, a heartbeat of weakness, nothing more. What if Pacmad did not want to come to her tonight? Maybe he was busy with that Aileen whore. Sonya thought she may have made a mistake in letting her like him, because she could pose serious competition if she got round the terror of Pacmad’s visits.