The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3)

by Igor Ljubuncic

  James saw a giant hole in his friend’s chest, leaking dark blood through ruined bone and muscle.

  Rob had just been wounded.

  None of the bodyguards seemed to have noticed yet. There was just stunned silence, and his friend dying, his blood melting the snow under him.

  James felt confusion first; then it was replaced with naked fear.

  “We’re under attack! Soldiers, to me!” he tried to roar, but his voice came shrill, thin.

  The quiet training camp exploded into mayhem. James found himself crouching, big hands pressing against him, keeping him down. His guards were trying to protect him with their bodies and large square shields. People were shouting and cursing. Glimpsing through a forest of armored legs and arms, he saw someone drag Rob’s limp body away, leaving a trail of red smears behind, already gelled with cold.

  James felt as if he were watching someone else’s life in stark detail, the emotions compacted into a solid ball of icy shock. Not the kind of heroism you expected from an emperor, not at all.

  “Move aside!” a voice called, strong, authoritative, louder than the rest. Jarman stepped into his view, pushing past the panicking troops. The wizard was wearing all black and a fox fur cape, looking like a rich merchant rather than an exotic Sirtai magic wielder. His sudden, heavy presence seemed to stun everyone. “Move,” he barked again, his tone dangerous.

  James saw his soldiers obey, relieving the suffocating pressure off his back and shoulders, opening a space around him. He could breathe again. Jarman lifted a hand, and his fingers twitched. James thought he saw the air shimmer in a dome above him, as if someone had huffed against a windowpane.

  “Now you’re safe,” the Sirtai said, breathing hard. “Those soldiers cannot protect you from the weapon that killed your friend.” He shrugged. “I only wish you had not requested we do not use magic. We might have been able to detect the attack earlier.”

  James was silent for a moment. Safe?

  “Rob is dead?” he whispered. Rob is dead? Well, of course he was. No one could survive that gaping maw of red in his chest where the heart and lungs were. Only now he had said it, he realized what had happened.

  An assassination attempt, and they had missed, killing his friend instead. Pum’be? he wondered. Did they ever miss?

  Instantly, he was feeling relieved that he had survived. Elation, followed by regret and shame and that guilty glee that said, Better him than me.

  Jarman was snapping his head left and right, looking, scanning. The soldiers were standing outside that air shield, looking foolish and afraid. One poked a hand against the shimmering bubble, and it felt like he was caressing solid stone. But the air and sound passed through, and the chaos was every bit as lively as before. Nothing like a failure to make everyone try twice as hard.

  Now you’re safe.

  No guilt, just relief. Simple, brittle relief. James began to realize there would be no more death now. Whoever, whatever had killed Rob could have tried again. The fact they had not meant the element of surprise was spoiled, and there would be no further bloodshed. All the commotion and extra vigil would be a wasted effort of bruised egos and helplessness. Oh, how his mind raced now, so full of wise counsel, but he could not shake the very intimate knowledge he had hunkered down and shouted for help first. Would my father have balked like that? Would he cower while his troops protected him?

  Jarman knelt by his side, touching his left hand against James’s spattered face. “You are not hurt?”

  James shook his head, a strained motion. “No. This is not my blood.” His voice still sounded girly, full of breathless air and excitement.

  The wizard exhaled in a loud huff. “Good. Do you know what that was?”

  James frowned. “A crossbow?” His friend was dead, but all he could focus on was the fact he lived and was unharmed.

  “No, Your Highness. That was the bloodstaff. The deadliest weapon you will have ever heard of.”

  The bloodstaff, it sounded like another scrap from one of the myths. James saw movement from the corner of his eye. Lucas was running in big, efficient strides, dashing toward the mines, a handful of soldiers following after him, because it seemed the only sensible thing to do at the moment—run and look busy. Closer, Amalia was walking toward him, a huddle of soldiers around her, shields raised high.

  A moment of selfless fear washed over James. What about his half sister? “Amalia is unprotected.”

  Jarman released his magical barrier. “No. Your enemy targeted you. Or rather, your friend. If he’d wanted to attack Amalia, he would have directed his weapon against her.”

  “Who?” James asked stupidly.

  The wizard’s eyes flamed with emotion. “The White Witch.”

  Amalia stepped close, her face pale. Behind James, a knot of armed men were staring at Rob’s corpse. He looked serene, his features creased with an unfinished sentence. The only thing out of the ordinary was a giant, gaping wound in his chest.

  She knelt and reached forward, her hand hovering and trembling above the red ruin. “This was done by the blood-staff,” she whispered.

  Jarman was staring at her intently. “Yes, it was.”

  James felt a spike of terror claw up his back, between his shoulder blades. She knows this? How? Was she in league with the Sirtai? After all, Jarman had interceded on her behalf, saved her life.

  A few moments later, everyone was there, his commanders, their deputies, a hundred soldiers. They all stood and pushed and jostled, looking afraid and shocked. No one really understood what had happened. No one could guess the enormity of the disaster in their midst.

  “My weapon makes a wound like that,” Master Guilliam remarked cheerfully.

  The Sirtai smiled at him. “And where is the missile?” The master’s grin vanished.

  James was sitting in the cold snow, the chill seeping through his wet buttocks. One of his hands had gone numb resting against the ground. He rubbed his palms together. Slowly, he stood up, swaying, dizzy with fright and, mostly, a sense of worthlessness. Today, he finally understood that he was just a tiny figurine in a great game.

  Images flickered before his eyes, Nigella licking her palms and predicting the future for him, these two Sirtai coming to preach to him about unseen dooms and great enemies. Strange names, strange places, fables. It no longer had anything to do with King Sergei, the High Council, or anything of that sort.

  Jarman tried to tell me. I did not want to listen.

  The hubbub subsided, becoming only a leathery jangle of armor, shouted orders, the crisp rustle of kicked snow. Discipline and logic came back to his troops, and they did what was expected of them. They set a perimeter in widening circles, archers in the center, swordsmen at the flanks, horsemen with lance and crossbow riding out to inspect the terrain, looking for any signs of trouble. Men kept their shields in front of them, forming a wall around him.

  A chivalrous, meaningless act.

  It was beautiful, but half an hour too late and totally useless.

  Nearby, men who had witnessed some of Jarman’s magic and could see the corpse of the Eybalen investor and a good friend of the emperor held their conviction in lesser regard. They seemed shamed and stunned. They had tasted magic, and their old superstition and bedtime terrors came back. James was worried by what he saw. Tomorrow, rumors and stories would begin rolling and grow bigger with every turn. He would have no say in the power and unpredictability of this new reality.

  Like a man stiff from too many hours of hard riding, James hobbled over to his friend and knelt near his sister, every muscle in his body weak, spent. Amalia looked genuinely afraid. Unlike the soldiers, there was a lucid gleam in her eyes. She understood this threat, and it worried him.

  “You have seen this before?” he mumbled.

  She nodded mutely.

  “A magical weapon?” he asked.

  She nodded again.

  The Sirtai was there, too, staring sadly at the dead man. “I wonder why Calemore would wan
t your friend dead. What did he know?”

  “He wanted to tell me,” James stammered. “But then, he just collapsed.”

  Amalia reached and wiped a streak of blood from his cheek. He started at her touch, but then almost felt relieved.

  “How can you fight that?” James could only see the garish dark reds, like the petals of a wicked flower, the greasy, hot buds of death. He had witnessed the carnage of war before, but never something like Rob’s death.

  “With magic,” Jarman said curtly. “Only with magic.”

  Lucas returned. His clothes were drenched with sweat, but he did not seem winded. His blue face revealed no trace of emotion. Jarman just glanced at him briefly.

  “He’s gone. Whatever he wanted, it was between him and your friend Rob.” He put a hand on James’s shoulder. “From now on, you will need our protection at all times. We shall never leave your side.”

  James made a small, weak motion, and his hand slumped into his lap. “So be it.”

  “You must focus your effort on defending Athesia against the forces of Naum. We do not know when they will attack, but they surely will. The wars in the realms are meaningless. You must all fight together against the common enemy.”

  So long, friend, James thought. He gripped Rob’s dead hand and then stood up. Time to act the emperor, he thought. I have shamed myself enough today. Time to put on a brave, stolid face. But he only felt like hiding. This was not what Nigella had prophesied for him. Not this. He was supposed to be the ruler of his father’s land, not get embroiled in some magical war. This was insane.

  “James,” Amalia said in a quiet voice, “we stand together.”

  Her scarred ear filled his vision. He closed his eyes. “Yes, we do.”

  “Your Highness! Your Highness!” someone called.

  His bodyguards stiffened, seeking new threats. James twitched with fear. But he should be safe here, Jarman said, right?

  “Your Highness!” the voice persisted.

  A man stepped close. It was a messenger from the Third Legion. He glimpsed Rob’s body and blanched. Then, he recovered, looking straight ahead.

  “Uh, sir, the Red Caps are on the march. Moving against Ecol. Got news right now, sir. We have four days, maybe five.”

  Jarman raised his hand before James could speak. “Send an envoy to parley. This war must not be.”

  Like a bubble of hot air expanding in yellow mud, the emperor felt anger replacing his hesitation, his terror. The kind of impotent anger you embraced like a long-lost love and crushed close. This was better, this emotion, simpler, more pliant. He could master this anger.

  King Sergei wants peace? he thought sourly. Apparently not. He recalled Jarman and Rob trying to convince him, and he almost felt betrayed by their silly, naïve compromise. Everyone wanted to make him do something, always different from what he wanted. He was Adam’s son, but no one would allow him to do as his father did. Enough. He was tired of all the preaching. Maybe magic was more important than Athesians killing Parusites, but that meant nothing to villagers and townsfolk who looked up to him for their protection and survival.

  “That’s foolish of them,” Commander Nicholas observed. “We outnumber them.”

  The messenger spat in the snow. “No, sir. Fresh troops. Some say Princess Sasha is leading them.”

  Jarman was almost quivering with anxiety. “Your Highness, please be sensible.”

  James looked at his half sister. Her face was blank. Your choice, her eyes said. He was grateful for that much. His one and only ally, the least likely candidate, the woman who was his kin, the woman he had tried to kill just a few days ago. But she knew far more than she shared with the world about her defeat against the Parusites, her encounter with this magical monster called Calemore. Yet, she deferred to him, let him decide.

  Emperor Adam had always been merciful—he recalled Rob’s words—when his enemies talked reason. But when they resorted to violence, he would crush them utterly and without any pity.

  “Prepare the legions. We are going to fuck those Red Caps.”

  A genuine cheer of relief exploded around him. Finally, something good, something they could all understand. In the flurry of activity, Rob’s body was quickly forgotten, the blood that was his and the pellet that had killed him turning to red ice.

  CHAPTER 41

  Mali exited the army headquarters with her teeth gritted. She took a deep breath to calm herself, then kicked the shield leaned against the wall, but not too hard so she did not injure her foot. The soldier standing guard looked at her with a worried expression, then trained his eyes straight forward. He did not want to draw the wrath of a really pissed-off colonel.

  Dwick still stank from the fires and butchery, a nauseating combination of pig blood and ashes.

  Her breath wreathing from the corners of her mouth, she stalked across the yard toward the Third’s provisional barracks. The snow under her feet was black and slick, stomped thin like a tin sheet. Strange, how those white flakes and human flesh behaved the same when beaten. The longer you pummeled them, the darker they turned.

  When empty of swine, the warehouses could host a whole lot of soldiers. The entrance was adorned with her new banner, a red flag with a pair of breasts in gold thread. A silly, stupid motif that made men hoot and whistle like idiots, but she could appreciate the irony. Then, you had the heads of several notable Ram’arush warriors hanging frozen from thin ropes, almost like chimes. Well, in a town made for slaughter, it was a fitting decoration.

  Dwick had fallen eventually, after four assaults.

  Mali was down three hundred and fifty soldiers and two of her majors. There would be no forming of the Fourth Independent Battalion, she knew, because all the reinforcement would go into beefing up her decimated ranks. Half the troops were still recovering or slowly dying from their wounds, that much more experienced and that much more crippled.

  The town had become a sorry lodging for the two divisions and her forces, divided into barracks and makeshift hospitals that reeked just as badly as the pigsties. Well, at least the latter were now empty and the army had enough salted pork to last till the summer. One thing that would not be in shortage.

  To their credit, the nomads had held the town fiercely, fighting to the last man. Not only had they not tried to retreat or surrender, they had mounted raids against the attackers, sometimes even in the middle of the night. They had matched the Eracians in ferocity and bravery and outclassed them in skill, using the abattoir and empty houses to stage deadly traps and ambushes and lure the attackers to their deaths.

  Winfred and Finley persisted on launching assaults, ignoring strategy and focusing on brute strength. Maybe they did not care about their men, or they could afford it. Mali hated this first campaign. It smacked of ill choices, amateurish decisions, and a lot of bad luck.

  She entered the warehouse, saluted in return to the handful of sentries and junior officers she saw, and ducked into her command stall, a sorry partition of wooden boards that marked her space in the large building. There was no ceiling; the rafters stretched seven paces above her head.

  Alexa was sitting in a chair, one muddy leg propped against the rough table leg, eating cracklings from a bowl in her lap. Meagan was there, too, staring at a map, holding a wooden ruler in her hand, a ledger of notes at her side. The girl had grown bolder in the recent fights, but she still acted somewhat reserved and skittish.

  “Stupid men,” Mali snarled as she entered, slamming the thin door behind her. The entire structure creaked.

  Alexa snorted. “C’mon, you’re not a girl anymore. You can’t be surprised by their stupidity anymore.”

  Mali sighed wearily. “Winfred thinks we should stay and secure Dwick.”

  Her friend spat a half-eaten crackling. “What? Why?”

  Mali brushed a sprinkle of snowflakes from her shoulders. “He thinks leaving men behind, in a town full of women, could cause only trouble. This way, we stay and secure the town, garner sympathy from the
locals, and maybe recruit a few into our ranks.”

  Meagan shrugged. “That’s not such a bad idea, sir.”

  Mali reminded herself the noblewoman did not really know her true identity. The girl was too young to bear twenty years of grudge in her soul. “Not a bad idea. But I’m sure not going to let the likes of those two cocks get all the glory while we do the mopping duty. No, we’re not staying here.”

  Meagan nodded. “As you say, sir.”

  Noble born, not the gutsy type, yet she was a widow, seeking to avenge her husband. In a way, she was fiercer than most men Mali knew. She should not dismiss the woman’s soft manners for weakness.

  “So, we will be marching on Somar, then?” Alexa spoke, munching noisily.

  Mali doffed her mittens, pulling hard. The leather protested, making her grumble. She pulled up an empty wickerwork chair and plopped down. Without asking, she buried her hand in the crackling bowl and scooped up a handful of greasy snacks.

  “No. We will be marching north.”

  Alexa frowned. “Why?”

  Mali sighed again. “As it turns out, while we were busy assailing this cursed place, another nomad army slipped behind us. They might be headed for the Barrin lands. Most likely, their task is to pester us and draw the army away from the capital.”

  “We had scouts out there!” Alexa exclaimed.

  Mali grimaced. “No, Finley did. Seems the enemy traveled in bad weather and often at night, and they might have even braved the border with Athesia. A risky move. Seems like they are Namsue.”

  “How many?” Alexa moved the bowl away.

  “Probably as many as eight thousand, maybe more.” More than us, she didn’t have to add.

  “We will be going alone?” her friend asked.

  Mali wiped her hands with a napkin. “Finley will be coming, too. But that still means the enemy might have almost a third more troops than us. Not sure what Velten is trying to achieve, but if he wants to get rid of Finley, there are less bloody ways.”