The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3)

by Igor Ljubuncic

  He must not get away, Tanid thought. The second survivor was on his knees now, trying to surrender. A flurry of spears fell on him, stabbing him through.

  Tanid was watching the shape vanish in the gloom. He could not let the last killer escape. That meant using magic, but he had no choice. He released a tendril of his power, and it hamstrung the man through both knees. The howl pierced the blizzard sharply, startling everyone. Ludevit reached the fallen figure, and his ax fell once, twice.

  It was over.

  Spatters of blood were quickly covered in fresh snow, and it was as if the battle had never taken place. There was no shouting or cheering, just some ragged screams from the wounded. The defenders quickly dragged their comrades into the barn.

  Tanid went inside, followed by his two Special Children. The shed was warm, stacked high with the summer-harvest straw. The living space was small but cozy, and tightly crowded with fifty-odd faces, the beginnings of his army.

  The Army of One God.

  After arriving in Athesia, Tanid had gathered enough courage to begin spreading the faith with the local people. He would attend the prayers, visit monasteries, talk to peasants and soldiers. He was ever wary of the priests, but he knew he could not hide forever. With Bad Luck Ludevit and Pasha at his side, he had hoped he would have time to discover and defeat any plot against him.

  Not an easy thing convincing people of his divinity, making their belief stronger, but slowly, he had made his powers more known, his influence better felt. Small things, like healing a woman’s leg or a baby’s lungs, delaying frost so the villagers could gather another bag of onions from their narrow land parcel. People prayed, and he listened. Oh, he knew he was risking revealing his location to Calemore’s hunters, but it just could not be helped. Without doing anything, he would certainly be found and killed one day. This way, he could at least await his assassins with the power of belief coursing through his veins. He gave to the people, and they gave back.

  Rumors had started to spread about a strange man who brought luck wherever he went, and how his touch cured disease and bad humors. Folks began talking about their prayers being answered by the gods, their faith rekindled and bolstered. Tanid made sure to praise the deities, but one in particular, himself. Not an easy task, not with the brothers and sisters watching him take over their sermons, but slowly, he was gaining trust with the populace.

  Tanid had not intended to garner followers, but they just came one day, a knot of poor boys with zeal in their eyes. And so his small cadre had grown.

  With winter cloaking the world, and the year turning, he had almost a hundred souls in his service, young and old, born in Athesia and Parus, and even one fellow from Caytor, all convinced that he was somehow gifted and blessed. While most men in the realms would be wary of anyone with magic, these people loved him.

  The rafters were hung with smoked meat, far from the reach of animals. Bales of straw were covered in blankets, and men rested or slept on them, gambling, talking. There was no fire inside the barn, but a pair of boat lamps were nailed to the wooden beams supporting the roof.

  On one of the itchy pallets, a wounded man was lying, his legs twitching, his face the color of flour and glistening with sweat. A knot of other defenders was clustered around him, the snow on their leather and wool clothes melting and dripping down.

  Tanid gently squeezed past the gathered men, past the smell of sweat and excited breathing. Men reacted nervously when a hand tried to push them aside, but when they saw him, they softened instantly and stepped away deferentially, something akin to awe clouding their features.

  The god knelt by the injured follower. The man had a length of broken spear lodged in his thigh, close to the joint. Black blood was seeping through the layers of his clothes, coloring the straw in dark ribbons.

  Tanid smiled softly and placed a soft hand on the man’s cool brow. “You fought bravely, Son. I am proud of you.”

  “Can you help me, Father?” the lad whispered, his voice thin with oncoming death.

  All around, men watched expectantly. There was silence in the barn, and all those busy tossing dice or chewing on salted beef stood up and came closer, gathering around. Several other soldiers needed medical attention, but they mostly sported lighter wounds, small gashes and bruises. Even they stood now in the crowd, waiting.

  Waiting for the miracle.

  Tanid placed his other palm on the ruined leg. The hot blood was a sharp contrast to the man’s clammy skin. Tanid felt life streaming round his fingers. The wound was fatal, and without his assistance, the soldier would die very soon.

  He needed magic, and that meant announcing his presence to Calemore’s animals. But it was a sacrifice he had to make.

  Tanid closed his eyes and let his power trickle into the wound, sealing the torn arteries. The soldier only moaned softly as he was healed.

  “Take the spear out,” Tanid said.

  Someone closed his gloved hands on the broken shaft and pulled it out with a sucking sound. Around, men blinked instinctively, expecting a nasty spurt, but no fresh blood poured out.

  Tanid sighed when he was done. The toll on his magic wasn’t great; he was hardly tired. His power was getting greater every day.

  “You will be well, Son. Soon, you will be able to walk again.”

  “Praise the gods,” someone muttered. Everyone else repeated the words.

  A solid heat of faith washed over Tanid. He felt invigorated, elated, grateful for the human passion and dedication. Looking at those faces around him, he knew they loved him even more now. Hesitant hands reached out, touching him, patting his back. They all wanted to be part of the miracle.

  Tanid retreated to a quieter corner of the barn and sat on a bale. Ludevit was cleaning his ax, trying to dislodge a tangled length of sinew from the blade. Pasha had that dazed look he’d worn ever since being sold, but the boy was obedient, loyal, and he understood his sacrifice.

  The barn door slid open. A square of bright light outlined the silhouette of a newcomer, wrapped in a flutter of snowflakes, before the door closed. Tanid saw it was Holy Brother Clemens.

  The farm was located maybe a mile from Keron, a middling Athesian town. It had been damaged extensively in the war, but it had given the Parusite king a great opportunity to rebuild with many new shrines and monasteries. A once-godless place had become a well of faith. It had become the recruiting grounds for his army. No Special Children there, but it was full of fervent, zealous followers, and their strength compensated for their lack of magical skills.

  Tanid had never expected the clergy to join his side. Well, they did believe in the gods and goddesses, most of them, but they were also quite knowledgeable in history and did not take kindly to any manifestation of magic. For them, someone with godlike powers was going to be a threat first, a miracle second. Worse yet, they might actually believe him, or discover his true identity, and he was not sure how the people of this age would handle the terrible realization of a god in their midst.

  Clemens was different from the other priests. He was more open-minded, which must have brought him into his fold. Fed by rumors of a great healer, he had wandered from his small house of prayer in Keron to find Tanid and his budding force of disciples.

  Rather than feeling suspicious or bashful around Tanid, Clemens was glad to aid him. He acted as his representative, searching for other men of faith. His religious status lent him credence and trust among the local population. The holy brother organized foraging parties and traded for goods in the town, making Tanid’s war effort that much easier.

  The priest also organized the soldiers. Half the force was abroad at all times, scouting, patrolling the area, watching the roads, recruiting among the villages, spreading rumors of faith. Day by day, Tanid was growing stronger. He never forgot how vulnerable he was to knives and arrows and poisons, but every morning made him that much more resistant to the White Witch.

  A soldier cursed and gasped as one of his comrades tried to set a brok
en bone. Two more men were lying on the pallets now, recuperating from the fight. Blessedly, no man had died. The defenders had set a successful ambush of Calemore’s killers.

  There would be many more, better organized, better prepared, and they would not be so easily surprised. But that was in the future, the elusive future. Perhaps he would never find his prophets; perhaps he would never learn what the distant time had in store for him. Maybe he would have to defeat Cale-more by cunning only. He was learning, adapting, growing. Humanity looked so much less frightening now that he was part of it.

  Clemens shrugged off his heavy coat and placed it on one of the bales. He had just returned from Keron, this time without fresh recruits. “Your Holiness,” the priest said, addressing his god, “I had no success. The blizzard forced the people into their homes, and the houses of prayer were almost empty today. But there were some souls there, asking the god of weather to be merciful.”

  Tanid could lift the storm, make it pass Keron. No, not yet. He was not strong enough to attempt that. There were more important things still, and evading Calemore for a while longer was one of them. Then, there was the delicate matter of approaching the king.

  Could he do that? Could he petition the Parusite ruler and ask him for soldiers? He knew that the patriarchs were trying to build their order with troops, which suited him just fine. But he had to somehow convince the king to make those men available to him for his needs. For the war of faith and life that loomed above the Old Land. Only, how could he convince people who did not even remember the name of the White Witch of the great threat he posed?

  The holy brother was rubbing his arms fiercely, trying to warm them. A young boy handed him a platter of hard rye bread and a boiled egg. The priest blessed the child, then sat down to eat at Tanid’s side. Almost like in the ancient times. When men and gods stood and fought together.

  Tanid nodded, indicating he was pleased with the report, then climbed the ladder to the barn loft. The roof was sagging with snow, but holding. There, among the rafters, there were tiny pigeonholes that let the air stream in so the straw would not mold and rot. The holes had tiny tin hats that kept the draft from closing them, small windows that let Tanid glimpse outside.

  He crouched low and watched the men outside pile the dead bodies. There would be no burial in this storm. They would wait until temperatures rose before they could hack the ground with spades. Not a dignified way to treat dead bodies, but it could not be helped. It was snowing heavily, and the world ended in a white wall.

  Tanid was staring north. Just a few days away of travel on foot, the king of Parus sat in Roalas, unaware of the doom that threatened his people. Would he be wise enough to listen? Would he understand the need?

  He did not know how much longer he had. Even gods were blind sometimes.

  Well, the best he could do was prepare. That meant prayer. He stepped down the ladder and asked Holy Brother Clemens to lead the service, praising the soldiers and their luck and the gods who had bestowed it upon them. It was still midday, not a customary time for a sermon, but there was no bad time for Tanid to get more power. So, he stood by the priest as he chanted and sang, and watched the men around him kneel and weep their devotion, and their energy imbued him with a feeling of hope and potency. Calemore might be coming for him, but he would be ready.

  CHAPTER 38

  Amalia was dreaming, but then a strange, alien noise barged into her sleep. In that brief yet slow moment between slumber and reality, she realized something was wrong.

  I have been discovered!

  She kicked awake with a start, her breath hissing between her teeth, trying to disentangle herself from the blankets, rising, pushing off the bed. A meaty hand clamped round her mouth and shoved her back against the mattress. She wanted to howl, but all she managed was to mumble into that callused skin that smelled of sword oil and bacon. She tried to shake the grip off her, slamming her head left and right, but the palm stayed, choking her breath short.

  A fist pummeled into her stomach, and the muffled shouts turned into a thin wheeze. The hand came off. Amalia wanted to scream now, in earnest, but no words came.

  “Keep still, bitch,” someone growled.

  She flailed madly in the darkness, legs and arms. Another punch. Strength sluiced from her limbs. Rough fingers grabbed her hands and smacked them together; then a hard, coarse rope was wound around them, cutting off her blood flow. She could see gray-and-black shadows dancing above her, and one of the big forms wormed a sack over her head. Total darkness.

  She was hustled to her feet and marched out of the cabin. The night air whipped her across her bare shins. Her toes stubbed into the crusty snow, and the otherwise soft powder chafed like a file against her skin. The cold was instant, sharp, numbing. Then, they tripped her, and her knees jarred into the frozen ground. More rope was coiled round her ankles.

  Her breath was coming in like egg yolk through a straw, and she began to form a wordless, strangled cry of indignation and, underneath, genuine primal fear. Even as the sound rippled into the stinking fabric smothering her, a well-planted kick doubled her over, turning the hot pain in her chest into a fiery agony.

  “You keep quiet, and no more kicks, eh?”

  Burly arms hauled her up, over a saddle or someone’s shoulder, she was not really sure, her thoughts fuddled from asphyxiation. They were not trying to be gentle. Things poked into her flesh, elbows or hard leather or tack, jabbing hard. The cold wrapped her, an intense winter-night chill that left a raw, stinging mark on her flesh. She could feel heat fleeing her body everywhere those icy fangs bit.

  Like a sack of potatoes, she was hauled for some time, blood pounding in her head. She was jostled, upside down, disoriented, nauseated, her nose full of stink and not enough air. Her head banged and lolled, each bump sending a coronet of pain round her skull. She felt bile caressing her throat. The cold robbed her of all strength and dignity. Deep in the pit of her stomach, leaden terror weighed and rolled.

  She was lowered to the ground. Solid. Warm. A carpet. The sack was removed, and she had to squint against the lamp glare. The watery shadows resolved into a scene.

  A simple room with sparse furnishing but good lighting. Hot, musty, windows barred, the stale smell of dust and old clothes heavy in her nostrils. She had no idea where she was. Someone was standing in front of her.

  Her half brother.

  “Hwwea—” she tried.

  He lifted a finger to his lips. “Not a word. Not a word.”

  Amalia swallowed, trying to keep herself calm. It was not easy. Her own breath was coming in quick, raspy bursts, the sound of a terrified, cornered animal. I’m Adam’s daughter. I am not afraid, she tried to tell herself, but it was a weak, pitiful lie.

  The world pulsed with her own blood, a rapid red cadence that blurred her vision black. She was weak and dizzy, and she wanted to pitch forward and retch on the bastard’s shoes.

  “Get her a cup of wine, now,” the usurper commanded.

  Another rough hand cupped her chin, keeping it still. Then, a fat thumb pressed under her lip, prying her jaw open. A wooden cup rattled against her front teeth, her upper gums, a painful smack that resonated in the center of her head. Hot wine sloshed against her tongue. She gasped, gurgled, swallowed. She coughed, and some liquid sneezed out of her nose. But then, some sort of energy filled her body. It was a whisper, but enough to let her remain kneeling before this man who called himself the emperor.

  James crouched, his face angled, staring at her intently. He looked as if he had not slept, but rather waited for her to be brought to him. His gaze lingered over her features, her short crop of hair, the chipped ear, the scar tissue. His cheeks twitched with emotion, but he said nothing. She could not decipher anything.

  Who betrayed me? she wondered, her mind a helpless boat being wracked in a raging sea storm.

  “Bring Commander Nicholas here,” the emperor barked.

  Some door opened and closed behind her, once, twice. She c
ould hear leather boots groaning on the carpet, she could feel a presence behind her, and then the commander of the Fourth Legion came into her view. The man she had ordered into Caytor a lifetime ago. The man she knew very well and had so carefully avoided for the past half a year and more.

  The officer looked at her. His eyes went wide.

  “Commander?” James asked carefully.

  Nicholas nodded. She could see the man tense. Then his stare was on James, and his body language spoke of danger.

  There was movement to her right, the glint of a knife. It was that man Xavier, casually holding a dagger in his hand, flush with his leg. The room crackled with tension. Amalia could hear her own heart thundering, drowning out all other sounds. Not that there were many sounds in the chamber, just the labored, terse breathing of several men fiddling with life and death. Her death.

  “Your thoughts, Commander? What should we do with her?” James said.

  Nicholas swallowed; it was an audible gurgle. “I do not know, Your Highness.” Guilty muscles in the side of his face tried to pull sideways, toward Amalia. There was familiarity there, habit, maybe even loyalty, but he kept gazing at the usurper.

  James rubbed his forehead. “You have sworn to me, Commander. You marched your troops to my position and offered your service to me as the emperor of Athesia. You did so when you believed Empress Amalia was dead.”

  “This changes everything, Your Highness,” the officer whispered. There was sweat beading on his forehead, turning it glossy.

  “This changes nothing, Commander. You are a soldier of the realm. You obey the ruler of the land. Your oath is to whoever holds that title. Not to any one man or woman, but to the ideal. Do you understand me?”

  The commander of the Fourth Legion huffed. “This is a very difficult situation.”

  “It is, and I do not blame you. Nor do I question your doubt or your loyalty. However, there can be only one ruler to Athesia. You have yourself sworn to me and acknowledged my authority.”