The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3)

by Igor Ljubuncic

  “Can we expect any help from Lord Karsten?”

  Mali dug a nail between her teeth, fishing out a crumb. “Well, if we can trust Winfred and Finley’s sources, he’s recruited some more men. So at least the estate will not be undefended. But the news is a few weeks old, so we can’t really know.”

  “When do we march?” Alexa stood up by Meagan, looking down at the drawing of the realms. Her fingers traced the valleys, the forested land, the dots that stood for villages and towns.

  “In two days. We will leave all the wounded here. The enemy has at least three days’ head start. However, Winfred thinks they will not rush north too fast, because they want us to follow them. So we can expect them to harry us and lay ambushes. They will probably want to destroy us to make sure their progress north is unchallenged. If I were a Namsue chieftain, I would do the same, really. The least favorable thing he could do is wear his troops down in bad weather and the cold, get bogged down besieging Lord Karsten, and then get buggered from the rear.”

  “We could just leave them to starve. Cut off their supply routes and let them die from the cold.” Alexa reached for the pitcher of wine and poured herself a cup.

  Mali felt tempted to drink, to hammer herself silly, but no. She was going to meet Gordon later on, and she wanted to be clearheaded for a change. The man had been trying a rather nasty trick with her lately, and she was not sure she would be able to fend him off if she lost her wits.

  Alexa’s plan was not bad. The only problem was, the same snowstorms and frost would affect her girls, too. The winter still had some two months’ worth left in it, if not longer. True, there were no more black toe and ear accidents, but that did not mean the troops would relish dragging their feet through thigh-high drifts, avoiding bogs, sleeping in huddles, shivering, munching down cold, frozen lumps of old, musty bread and stringy meat.

  Mali wished she had more soldiers, more cavalry, better armor. She wished she had more influence. But all she had was a bunch of women with a killing agenda and a dreadful future ahead.

  For a moment, she wondered how her son was faring. What kind of choices did he face? Was his wife being nice to him? Did he have to fight his enemies? But the information was scant, almost all traffic cut dead by the winter and by war.

  It was not the time for distractions. She put James out of her mind.

  “Meagan, I have a task for you. I want you to appropriate one hundred extra horses.”

  The officer frowned. “Appropriate?”

  Alexa grinned and patted her lightly on the shoulder. “Steal, lass.”

  Meagan seemed shocked by the notion. “Why? How?” The girl reached for her own wine.

  The commander of the Third Independent Battalion tapped the tabletop. “I want to make sure we have a proper cavalry for this campaign. Some beasts will surely die from the cold or in battle, and we need reserves. Salted horse meat might come in useful, too.”

  Alexa stepped in. “How do you do it? In the past, we usually fucked someone.”

  Meagan sputtered. “Sir, with all due respect—”

  “That usually does the trick,” Mali said smoothly. “But I don’t care how you do it, as long as you get the horses. You can take them from Winfred’s units. But do not mess with Finley’s troops. They will be coming with us.” She put on a somber face. “One more thing. I need your recommendations for promotions. We need two new majors to replace Abigail and Sophie. Please write your reports. You can nominate your own captains or some from the other two companies.”

  “Sure thing,” Alexa agreed.

  Mali reached for the bowl, but stopped herself. She found the idea of nibbling cracklings, sipping wine, and ignoring the world for a while extremely alluring, but she knew she could not afford any of those. Yes, she had to see Captain Gordon. She rose, nodded informally at her two surviving officers, and left the tiny stall.

  Her lover was waiting in her quarters. She found Gordon standing in the middle of the room, naked, with only a pair of stout woolen socks on his legs, all the way up his shins.

  He looked ridiculous.

  “You know I get cold feet,” he said defensively.

  Mali burst out laughing. There was something utterly sweet and idiotic about naked men in socks.

  “How was your day?” he asked, sounding ever so slightly offended. Gordon’s skirmishers had been busy securing provisions, which meant they were going into houses and taverns in Dwick and nearby villages now under Eracian control, trying to buy, pilfer, or gamble goods off the locals. Since almost all of them were widowed women, they usually dawdled quite a lot. Mali thought sending women might help the survivors gain more trust, but the small folk had to get used to seeing Eracian men in their midst again. Besides, Gordon’s men were very good at what they did, it seemed.

  Then, she realized she was rethinking her ugly meeting with the other colonels, and she banished the memory. “I do not wish to discuss military affairs now.” She began undressing, peeling off her uniform, the two blouses underneath, the snug silk shirt.

  Gordon waited patiently as she slipped her clothes off. He watched her sit down on the edge of the bed and groan as she pulled off her cold-stiffened boots, tapped one socked foot as she removed her pair of trousers and leggings.

  Soon she was as naked as he, only she stood barefoot in front of him. The room was slightly chilly, but it suited her. A brisk cold always made things more interesting.

  She wondered what he saw. Her body was tall, gangly, still athletic despite her age, but with too many scars and not enough rump. He was decently built, with a small, hairy paunch that spoiled the overall effect. And those damn socks.

  Mali pointed at the bed dramatically. “Shall we?”

  He hesitated.

  One of her brows arched up dangerously. “Captain?”

  “I need to ask you something.”

  Mali’s expression soured. “What?”

  Gordon swallowed and took a deep breath to encourage himself. “Were you ever married?”

  She shrugged one bare shoulder; there was a rope of scar tissue there. “Never had time.”

  “Kids?” he ventured.

  Mali did not want to tell anyone about James. “Why are you asking?”

  The captain opened his mouth, closed it. “I wanted to know about us, you know—”

  She put a finger on his chest, silencing him. “Gordon, we talked about this before. You don’t get all gooey on me. We’re in this for pleasure. A man and a woman, consoling each other through difficult times.”

  Her officer did not seem satisfied with her answer.

  Oh, men. She should have known it. There was a reason why she had never committed to any one of them when she’d been the commander of the Southern Army.

  “It is better if we keep it like this. Then, no one gets hurt,” she said more softly. Her finger was making him excited, she noted. “Get the frogskin.”

  “Can we try without?” he hazarded.

  Mali tsked. “We talked about this before, too. Now don that thing.” She still had her menses. The last thing she needed was another child growing inside her belly. At her age, it would definitely kill her, or come out with a tail and two heads.

  After Adam, she remembered her lesson all too well, no matter how much she loved her son.

  Only in his case, even the bloody frogskin had not helped.

  Gordon hesitated. “We could try that other—”

  “No!” She jabbed with her finger hard, pushing him onto the bed. He flopped, and his socked feet jumped up.

  Mali waited while he rolled the thin sheath onto his member. Then she straddled him. Just innocent fun, two adults sharing a bed together, there was nothing wrong with that, was there? She tried to ignore the pained look of passion and something akin to emotion creasing Gordon’s face.

  It was over far too soon. She had barely worked herself up when he tensed and slumped. She felt a tingle of disappointment, then slid off him and pulled a blanket over their hot, heaving
bodies. He lay there, panting, staring up, probably thinking too much, gathering more courage for another silly question.

  But if she put her grief, madness, and life’s bitter lessons aside, the notion of marrying some silly man did not sound too awful. One day, she would be too old to wield a sword. She would retire, or be retired, and in the best case, Alexa would be by her side.

  And then what? Go back to pretending the world did not exist once again? Fear each turn of the summer like the one when she died alone and unnoticed, without loved ones at her side? The idea of some man being there was comforting. Or at least the knowledge she would die having buried him first, after a few quick years of love.

  Gordon turned to look at her, then snapped his head away guiltily.

  No, she could not afford to get involved. She could not risk it. First, she must liberate Eracia. Then, there might be time for soft passion and fluffy dreams. As a commander of an army battalion, as a woman who had once led an entire army, she owed it to her soldiers to remain aloof.

  In two days, there would be a new wave of bloodshed. For now, she could pretend to enjoy herself. And laugh at Gordon for wearing socks in bed.

  CHAPTER 42

  Ewan lounged in the wolf-pelt chair, head resting against the wall behind him, eyes closed, listening. He rocked gently on the rear two legs of the chair, the motion in rhythm with Naman’s reading. For the past three hours, his tutor had been translating text from The Pains of Memory.

  Every day they did it, for seven, eight hours, sometimes longer. Ewan would sit there, patiently, and let the strange memories he could not recall assail his brain while he pretended to drink and eat and appear somewhat normal to his terrified people. Naman would beg a short recess every now and then, to stretch his legs and relieve himself, and then he would be back, reading, his voice turning hoarse as the evening set.

  “The king said: Bring me a champion who will return my scepter, and I shall name him the leader of my armies. From the muddy darkness, where only the hale can crawl.”

  Ewan raised a hand, pausing the fat man. He hated these riddles. He hated the fact everything written in the distant past sounded like gibberish. Maybe it was the gulf of relevance, maybe the chasm of time, maybe just vast differences in the language, made even more obscure by translation. But he did not like having to guess what Naman was telling him.

  “What does that mean?” Ewan asked, trying to keep annoyance out of his voice.

  The Oth Danesh used the moment to wet his lips with some water. “I am only reading what is written in the books. It is difficult. Some of the words are very hard to translate.”

  Ewan ran a finger against the raspy mortar behind him, feeling the tiny air bubbles in the render. He thought the mention of the champion probably had to do with that man swimming into the icy lake. But the rest made no sense.

  That lake again. It drew him.

  He recalled glimpsing Kamar Doue the first time. He recalled the slate-colored lake, a deep impression in the hilly land. There was something he had briefly thought back then but dismissed, his mind preoccupied with meeting strange people who held him in abject terror. Now that he had day upon day to reflect and regurgitate the information, the thought came back and nagged.

  He wanted to look at the lake again.

  “There’s one more thing,” Naman said.

  Ewan looked at the magic wielder, looking miserable in his own chair. Well, at least he was not groveling on the floor, which was a definite improvement. “What is it?”

  “The girl Raida is here to see you.”

  Ewan rubbed his face, sighing into his palm, hot air slithering up to his eyes and seeping through his fingers. He was tired of being here and not knowing what he must do, tired of his promise, and growing more and more alarmed by the nagging sensation in his belly. It had not disappointed him twice already, so whenever his instinct or premonition or whatever it was beckoned him, there was something serious, sinister, and most likely divine waiting for him somewhere north. Going away would be easy. No one would question him; no one would stop him. There would only be the sour emptiness in his soul, the knowledge he had let Doris down, that he had abandoned her babies.

  He no longer worried so much about letting down these Oth Danesh. He might have promised to come to help them, but he was not sure he wanted to relearn the identity of the person he was supposed to be in their legends. So far, all he had heard hinted at dreadful things. If they were indeed true, what did that make him?

  He had always known he was a monster. Perhaps coming here, he had naïvely thought he might redeem himself somewhat. But every passing day revealed more gruesome details, more horrid, obscene details, and he was liking this promise of greatness less and less.

  “Who is Raida?” Ewan asked wearily.

  “She is our spiritual leader. She has arrived in the city after a long journey through snow and fog. Like so many, she has come here to bask in your glory and wait until you lead us to greatness.”

  Kamar Doue was a city bursting with newcomers, travelers, pilgrims, holy men, Oth Danesh from every corner of their nameless realm come to partake in the legendary return of their king, the man Ewan was supposed to be.

  Only he did not feel like a king.

  He surely did not want to be the man from The Pains of Memory.

  I asked for answers. I never thought I might not like them, he thought almost cowardly.

  “What does she want from me?”

  Naman winced as he stood up on tiptoe, trying to get blood flowing in his chubby legs. The room was cold and empty, with only a few lamps to turn the dreary interior brighter. Even so, their oily light was weak and pale, as if there was nothing that could shatter the gloom of the place.

  “Raida has…magic, too,” Naman said. “She can see into the future. She wants to be at your side and help you make the right choices.”

  Ewan smacked his lips loudly, rocked forward, and rolled gracefully up onto his feet. He wondered if he should really see this girl. But then, how much worse could it get? What other atrocity or abomination of character they ascribed to him was there that he could learn and still not remember?

  He felt like a beggar. A rich one. But the instinct remained, and you stretched your palm out, even when you no longer needed the coins. He wanted answers. He wanted to know who he was.

  “I will see her,” Ewan agreed.

  Naman nodded and retreated from the ugly palace. Outside, shivering in the bitter cold, servants waited, a whole host of them, ready to rush in and serve him. They would still not look him in the eye, not even once.

  It was a while before Naman returned, towing a colorful entourage behind him. Ewan suspected the slim figure walking slowly in the center was this Raida. She held her arms to the side, fingers touching the hands of two other women left and right. She had a wooden gait, stilted, as if she measured each step carefully, probing the ground, uncertain. Ewan frowned.

  Through the open door of the throne hall, or whatever the Oth Danesh thought this place ought to be, Raida shuffled in, her robes fluttering in the wind. The two servants deposited her and retreated, bent low, eyes fixed on the floor. A knot of other people remained just outside. Only Naman stepped back into the palace.

  “I will translate,” the fat man offered.

  Ewan beckoned with one hand for the girl to approach. She did not react. Naman said something, which Ewan thought sounded like, You may approach, and she inched forward. Small, hesitant steps, feet barely advancing. Must be some kind of a ritual, Ewan observed.

  Then she stepped into the pool of jaundiced lamplight, and Ewan saw her eyes were missing.

  Two black sockets stared at him, and he felt icy tingles creep over his skin, an uneasy sensation after so long without any feeling in his body.

  “Why is she blind?” he asked stupidly, looking at his guide.

  Naman made an uncomfortable face. “She gouged out her eyes in your honor. So she would not be blinded by earthly sights and would onl
y focus on the visions of the future.”

  “In my honor?” Ewan whispered.

  The old man ran his pudgy hands over his clothes, smoothing the creases, dusting snowflakes off the leather vest. “Yes.”

  Raida knelt about halfway from him, on a cue from Na-man. She went prostrate, like every other Oth Danesh before her. She was wearing a thin robe, and Ewan could see her frame shivering. More madness, more desperation, he thought.

  “Get a blanket for her,” Ewan barked, trying to keep his voice steady.

  “No,” Naman protested. “She must be like this, she says. She must be on the brink of pain; that’s when her magic works best.”

  Another freak of nature, like me. Ewan gritted his teeth. “Get her a blanket, now.”

  The fat man had no choice but to obey. He snapped at the huddle of servants outside, and soon Raida was swathed in musky goat pelts, sitting still in a chair opposite Ewan, her face blank and staring nowhere, slightly tilted. It all made sense, that awkward gait, those tiny steps, those fingers brushing against the hands of those two women.

  Raida said something, her voice high.

  “She is delighted to be in your company,” Naman translated.

  Ewan was not sure he could return her feeling with any sincerity. He felt hollow.

  There were more words from her, too fast for him to understand even a little. “She asks when you might want to bed her?”

  Ewan tensed, but he really should not be surprised. How could he have expected anything bright or useful from these Oth Danesh? Pains of Memory was such an apt name for a handful of volumes summarizing their history. Nothing good happened in Kamar Doue.

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  Naman frowned. “That’s how her magic works. She is promised to be your wife.”

  A blind, mad girl for a spouse. Well, it’s only fitting, being the monster that I am. Ewan tried to keep his eyes off her, but he was unable to avert them. No matter how much he loathed this place and everything it stood for, he could not ignore the female presence before him.

  Even though he knew he would never force Raida into his bed, he still tried to see past the madness and misery, tried to imagine what her features might be like if she had eyes. But there was no beauty now. No, no. This was nonsense.