The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3)

by Igor Ljubuncic

  Look on the bright side. Whoever informed them seems to like me, he thought.

  “Who leads the Southern Army?” he asked after a while.

  The two colonels exchanged a pained look. It was the other one who spoke. “No one.”

  “But we should not discuss war like this,” Ulrich added quickly. “Where are our manners? Please, Your Majesty. We want to formally welcome you and escort you to the city. Lord Jordie has made the necessary preparations.”

  Bart nodded again. He looked behind him and waved. Junner waved back, and the mercenary force started moving.

  Three hours later, he was warming his feet in front of a huge fire, a large cup of hot spiced wine in his hand. He was sipping slowly, his stomach irritable after his stressful encounter earlier. The other leather chairs creaked and groaned with the weight of the two colonels and the city’s steward. Like him, they were drinking, and like him, they tasted the wine carefully.

  Captain Paul was standing to attention in the corner of the room, sweating. Four clerks were seated behind a desk farther away from the fire, waiting to write down important missives. An older man in spotless livery was waiting by the serving table, his white-gloved hands folded in front of him.

  “Please continue,” Bart goaded.

  Faas coughed and leaned forward. “Since the enemy seized the capital, there has been some unrest in the south. Commander Korbin died from a heart attack shortly after the news reached us, leaving his office vacant. Without the monarch’s decree, we did not know who to appoint. Ulrich and I agreed to keep any bickering and personal ambitions aside for the time being, until such a time Korbin’s successor was announced. Not all division heads shared our view.”

  He placed the cup down on a small round table by his sofa. “The Second Division went to war on their own. They tried to cut the enemy’s supply lines near the border. We have not received any news since. Colonel Bennet of the Seventh wanted the commander’s post for himself. There was…an incident with his division, but he’s been imprisoned now. Several regiments have deserted.”

  The report went on, painting a picture of confusion, greed, internal squabbles, outright brotherly warring, and additional attrition of the army’s meager ranks. All the while, the nomads held a tight grip on the capital and strengthened their defenses. Bart thought he ought to be grateful for the selfless work of Ulrich and Faas. Although, after spending so much time with his colleagues in Roalas, he instantly doubted anyone’s patriotic motives. He found the notion of a personal sacrifice for the greater good silly.

  Was it not what he was doing, he wondered. No, most likely not.

  Bart patted the heavy armrest. His coat was spread over it, and the soft, velvety inside was fun to touch, like the skin on Constance’s thighs. He could hear the scribble of pens behind him.

  “How many men do we have?”

  Ulrich rolled his eyes. “Roughly twenty-eight thousand.” He made a pained face. “And this includes boys aged fourteen, some volunteers, a scattering of soldiers of fortune, grizzled old men who want to die in battle, and what few miscreants we could round up from Paroth and here.”

  Bart sighed. Five divisions, at roughly half their strength, mostly green troops, hardly adequate enough to be called soldiers. And no commander. He looked at the two men, total strangers. He had no idea what their skills were, their ambitions. For all he knew, the lovely staged parade in the middle of a cold winter day was the best they could do. They had surely gone to some extreme detail to impress him, that was for sure. But they worked together, even though they knew only one could be elected to the commander’s post.

  “If we move the troops north, that means we leave Ubalar undefended?”

  Lord Jordie smiled pleasantly. “We have assurances from Emperor James he will not move against us. This means we can safely vacate our garrisons in Spoith, Baran, Penes, and Decar and focus all our effort against the Kataji.”

  Amalia’s bastard half brother, Bart thought. A wild factor in this game. He did not like it. Favors did not come freely. But then, he had almost blackmailed King Sergei, no reason why this James might not try the same thing. Playing at being Adam, most likely. He sipped some more wine.

  “The army needs a commander,” he voiced. There was an intake of breath as the two seated men braced for graceful promotion or bitter disappointment. “You will sort the position among yourselves. An annual rotation is good enough for me. Either way, I must commend you for your fortitude in keeping the peace. The last thing we need is a civil war.”

  The two colonels remained silent, thinking, battling humility and desire. Whatever they thought, they hid it well. All Bart could see on their faces, lined in orange flames, was deep introspection. It would have to do.

  Winter wars were a dreadful business, but this one couldn’t be delayed, he knew. The nomads could not be allowed to remain in Somar any longer. Still, he was not a butcher. He would try civil discourse first.

  “Send a letter to the enemy general. I will allow him to peacefully retreat to his lands within one month. If he does not comply, he will be destroyed. Then, we invade their lands.”

  “It will be done, Your Majesty,” Faas piped in a second quicker than his comrade.

  “What about our finances, Your Majesty? We will need money for the troops. We are sorely lacking in weapons. We might need to import crossbows from Athesia.” Lord Jodie frowned. “Or perhaps we should call it Parus now.”

  Bart rubbed his chin, the whiskers rustling. Everyone knew Monarch Leopold had been bankrupt for a long time, and he had kept borrowing money from his nobles. It seemed that the Barrin wealth would have to be invested in the realm’s defense. Only he had no access to his assets. He would have to send letters to his mother and Uncle Konrad. That mean a perilous journey through and around enemy lines for some poor messenger.

  “Letters of credit will do for now. If anyone disagrees, threaten to confiscate their lands. Those who cash in more than what is required will get favorable interest rates and exclusive trade rights after the war is concluded.” Sonya would have said something similar, he was sure, feeling uncomfortable with the ease with which he dealt with the subject. Getting used to power was quite effortless.

  “It will be done, Your Majesty,” the steward agreed.

  Bart rose and picked up his heavy cloak. “Thank you. We will meet again in the morning. I expect your full staffs to be present, and I want an up-to-date map of all enemy positions and strengths, our own order of battle, financial situation, supplies, everything.”

  He left.

  Later that evening, he was lying in bed, recalling the afternoon’s events, one arm draped round Constance’s slim form, his fingers drumming idly against her spine. She was snuggling against his armpit, breathing into his hair, tickling him.

  It had all gone much better than planned. He had not needed to kill anyone or threaten anyone. There had been no incidents. His colonels seemed to be smart and reasonable men. There was a favorable rumor of the Athesian emperor lending his support to their cause. All of a sudden, his luck seemed to be turning, and he was worried.

  Things can’t be that easy, he thought. Something bad will happen.

  The olifaunts had created an uproar in Ubalar. Women and children, even the elderly, had braced for the sullen cold and come out to watch the majestic beasts parade down the cobbled streets and outshit the horses. Junner had staged a quick show, collecting coins from hesitant hands as his mahouts made a few rudimentary tricks. Then, he had burrowed into the crowds and graciously robbed them.

  Constance had spent time waiting for him at the lavish mansion that had been vacated in his honor, looking awed by the opulence. For some reason, the gaudy excess seemed to bring out the quiet side in her, as if she could not contemplate the enormity of her fortune. Until she remembered Bart was a married man, that was.

  His soldiers had melted into the brothels and shops, buying themselves food and drinks and whores and new clothes and telling the stories
of their travel to Athesia and back. For most Eracians, they were heroes unheard of since Adam’s time. After a long month on the road, the silent standoffs with the Parusite settlers in the Safe Territories, the ghost cities and ruins of the Feoran attacks, the dark woods, the blizzards, the cold, windy nights, they had finally reached sanity and something that resembled their old homes. But most had families north of the division line held by the nomads. Their journey was far from over.

  “I need to tell you something,” the Caytorean girl whispered against his nipple, breaking the silence. There was a brittle quality to her voice, and his attention spiked instantly.

  Alert suddenly, he kicked the bedcovers from his right leg and wagged his toes. “Tell me.”

  “Promise you will not get mad,” she said.

  Bart frowned. Well, this was another game he had to play. “What’s this all about?”

  “Please, Bart. Promise,” Constance pleaded.

  He grunted. “All right. I promise.”

  “I am with child,” she stated simply.

  I am with child. It took a moment for the words to register. The first emotion that bloomed in his head was one of surprise. Then, one of panic and revolt. Then, a spasm of pride as he imagined himself raising a son to glory, something he had never thought he would see, never desired with Sonya as a mother. Then, he realized he had made a young Caytorean noblewoman pregnant.

  “What?” he mumbled.

  She cringed, as if expecting him to hit her, and her noticeable flinch shocked him even more. “Please, do not be mad.”

  Bart swallowed. Suddenly, it was too hot in the room. He pushed off the bed, rose up, naked. The chill air steadied his nerves for a moment; then a wash of elation, disgust and worry robed him as warmly as the finest samite.

  “How?” They had been using frogskins quite often, but not always. No, not always. More often than not. Three-quarters of a year was a solid stretch of time to work your seed into a sapling. Constance was young and fertile, and so was he, it seemed, despite his age.

  But the pride for his cock was outweighed by the implication of his achievement. Constance was his mistress, his bed playmate, a girl of fickle loyalty and a dark past, a lady from an enemy realm, and he was married still, maybe, and he was the viceroy of Eracia.

  The richest man in the realm had a vixen for his concubine. Now, she presumably carried his child in her womb, a hostage, a weapon to be used against him, a reason to be joyous and sad and deeply concerned.

  “How?” he repeated stupidly.

  Constance was almost crying, but she kept her tears back. “You know how.”

  “It’s mine, right?” he whispered and cursed himself.

  Her lower lip quivered. “Yes. Please, do not be mad.”

  Bart sighed. He reached to touch her, and she cringed again. Then, his fingers touched her bare shoulder, and she relaxed, slumped against him.

  “I am not mad,” he rasped.

  “I want to raise the child,” she said, her voice barely audible. “I want to.”

  “How long have you known?” he mumbled.

  She squirmed. “About three months.”

  Since that day she asked him about his marriage, he guessed. Three months. An awful long time. Her belly was a tiny bit bigger, but he had assumed it was from overeating. She had delayed telling him as long as she could, until she was sure, until it was too late to kill the baby with herbs. Only the fear of her pregnancy showing must have swayed her.

  “I don’t recall seeing you get sick in the morning,” he said with obtuse stupidity.

  One of her slim shoulders came up and down. “Not all women have that.”

  What now? he wondered. This changed everything.

  Being a father was a notion he had put aside from his agenda, and now, he was not sure what to think. His instincts and interests wrestled. He did not mind the idea of siring a son. That would ensure his family line did not die with him. But having to raise him, worry for him, take him along, the notion made him nervous, vulnerable. A damned distraction. Worst of all, it meant he would become a hostage to this young woman and her wishes. He would have to rely on her to bring up his child properly, to make sure the child loved him.

  He did not have time to be a father. He had a war to win.

  Bart was not prone to swearing or noisy outrages, but he wanted to scream. It’s all your fault, his conscience cackled. You let your cock be the master of you. Now, you pay.

  Shit.

  “Do not tell anyone,” he said quietly, as if afraid someone might hear past the thick walls and the padded door. “I will arrange a maid to help you around. Meanwhile, I will try to figure out what we need to do.”

  Constance wiped the corner of her eye. A tiny sniff escaped her nostrils. “Will you acknowledge the child?” she hazarded.

  Bart wished he were in a battle somewhere. It would be easier. “Listen, Constance.” He realized his tone was harsh. He took a deep breath and softened it. “This is a very…complex situation. We must tread carefully. I am still married officially.”

  Where is Sonya? he wondered. His fingers reached again, but he withdrew his hand hastily. Constance did not look like she wanted his touch right then.

  “I am also the viceroy of Eracia, and we must win this war against the nomads. These difficult affairs take precedence. For now, the best thing is to stay together, keep the pregnancy discreet, until we can decide what the best course of action is for the two of us.”

  The Caytorean girl nodded, but she did not look convinced. He could only begin to imagine the sensation of rejection and fear she was feeling. He did not blame her. He almost forgot how manipulative she could be.

  Nightfall did not help. It darkened his mood. He stared at his mistress and wondered what a practical man of his wealth and status might do. The only question was, was he brave enough to be what everyone expected of him?

  “Please do not hurt me,” Constance pleaded.

  “I will not hurt you,” he heard himself say without much conviction, his tone flat.

  She stretched her arms, beckoning him. He stood up to the side of the bed and hanged there like a fifth post, while she sidled closer and hugged him, her warm cheek planted against his stomach. Her eyes were closed, and she was holding him fiercely, and with every passing moment, he was feeling more and more confused.

  “I want my baby,” she muttered into his skin.

  Bart remained still, leaning against the bed and thinking. What do I do now?

  CHAPTER 37

  “They are coming,” Bad Luck Ludevit announced suddenly.

  Tanid tensed. Fear, mixed with anticipation. Strange that a god should fear his creations. But that was the way things were.

  “Are you ready, my son?” he asked Pasha.

  The boy nodded. He looked bashful, afraid, like he always did, but Tanid knew he would obey. There was something simple and primal about violence. He could almost understand why Damian had chosen to bless humanity with it.

  Tanid slid back into the background, behind the farmhouse. Ludevit ambled toward a snowed-in shed and hunkered down, gripping an ax in his hand. While Pasha fought because he was told, this man almost seemed to like it. Maybe it was money, maybe survival, maybe the pent-up wrath of years of rejection and now, finally, unbridled power.

  It was snowing in earnest, a year’s-end mantle, the kind people prayed would be short and light. Tanid could feel the collective magic of thousands of mouths scattered across the south of Athesia whispering the same words, the same pleas.

  The world was clouded, high above and up close, a solid white fog that just made little snowflakes appear before your eyes suddenly. The end of the barn was a blur. But Tanid knew there were other people there, his followers, men of faith.

  Two, three, seven black forms materialized maybe ten paces away. Men wearing thick leathers, black armor, short capes, their faces covered in chain hoods. They were walking briskly but not running, kicking snow. One was armed with a crossb
ow; the rest were toting long swords.

  One of Calemore’s hunting parties, Tanid reckoned.

  Or maybe just bandits.

  With Pasha’s invincibility, Ludevit’s premonition, and the strength of prayer behind him, Tanid no longer felt as scared as before.

  Bad Luck Ludevit charged from behind his shelter, chopping. The moon-shaped blade arced and sliced into the extended arm of the leftmost man, cutting through cleanly. The man howled, and his words were silenced by the snow.

  Tanid stood behind Pasha, watching. New shapes formed around him, young men armed with all kinds of blades, spears, short swords, cleavers. Not an army of soldiers, but a force of believers. Silently, they rushed the attackers.

  The crossbowman knelt, without hurry or fear, and scanned the wooly terrain around him. He was seeking someone. He was looking for him, Tanid knew. The killer spotted the clumsy boy and the cloaked figure behind him. He took aim and fired.

  The bolt slammed into Pasha’s chest and shattered. The boy yelped, but he was unhurt.

  My Special Children, Tanid exulted.

  With a snarl, the crossbowman tossed his weapon away, drew a knife, and charged. Tanid pushed Pasha in the back. The boy lurched forward and brought his arms up defensively against the slashing knife. But the assassin merely tried to roll around and get to Tanid. Pasha swung his fist and rammed it against the man’s shoulder. Normally, an armored soldier would not have noticed the punch. But the man spun around as if smacked with a sledgehammer and fell hard, barely moving.

  Pasha turned toward Tanid, his peasant’s face lit with horror. The god smiled encouragingly. “You did well, my son. You did very well.”

  The battle was ebbing now. The attacking force was reduced to just two men. The air was full of meaty grunts, dull clangs of iron, surprisingly little screaming, and lots of puffy flakes. One of the killers turned around and began to run. Ludevit rushed after him, hopping through the drift, staggering.