The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3)

by Igor Ljubuncic

  “But we must defeat the Red Caps first,” he insisted. “We cannot just let them destroy us.”

  Deep down, Amalia wanted revenge. She wanted to see the Parusite armies defeated, forced into retreat back to their land. She wanted to savor the victory of the Athesian forces, to see national pride restored to her soldiers. Only then could she truly forgive herself.

  But then, she was gambling. Princess Sasha against the White Witch of Naum. Both threats were very real, present. Her instinct told her to focus on Calemore and forget all about the nuisance farther south. Only her cowardice wanted her to choose the easier option.

  “I will support your decision, Brother,” she told him.

  If he did not like being forced to choose, he did not show it. Maybe he was mastering his role, becoming the loving, powerful emperor Father was. Maybe he was his true heir, and she was just a silly girl who once mistook petulance for toughness.

  “Jarman urges me to make peace,” James complained, his voice dripping with desperation and resentment. She could see the inner struggle plain on his face. “How can we make peace with them? Is that even possible? There’s this magical threat, this witch with his invincible weapon. I never thought I would have to worry about myths and legends.”

  Amalia had many other matters to discuss with him, including the delicate matter of his wife Rheanna. But she knew she could not broach that topic yet.

  “Yes, we will defeat the Red Caps first,” James declared.

  Oh, he had decided a while ago, she thought, when he had made his troops kneel in the snow and raise their spears against the marching wall of women bent on killing them, only now he had accepted the burden of his decision. Amalia understood his dilemma completely. She admired his courage.

  The only thing keeping her from being pleased with her half brother’s choice was the unbearable knowledge that whatever victory they scored against the Red Caps would be temporary. The real battle with Calemore could not be ignored. She did not fully understand the threat, she was not sure she ever would, but she knew that it was monumental, terrifying, larger than life.

  She believed her father had understood the threat.

  Which was why he had halted his offensive and resorted to peace.

  Twenty years, a long time in our lives, but do they matter to someone like Calemore?

  Jarman had it right. But James and she simply did not have a choice. They had to resolve the war against the Parusites one way or another. It seemed it would have to be through bloodshed.

  They returned to their anxious bodyguards. Timothy, James’s gangly squire, was watching them carefully. Amalia noticed the blue-faced Sirtai had vanished from the crowd. Commander Xavier was there, his piggish eyes staring at her lewdly, brazenly. She wondered what his Caytorean officers thought of her. Did they respect her? Or loathe her? Landon was there, too, looking extremely embarrassed, avoiding her eye.

  Nearby, coming down the well-beaten road of stone and ice, a small train of carts was ferrying workers back to the city, faces smeared in grease, bodies bundled in thick wool. Coming from Ecol, a pair of oxen were dragging a new gate. It was too big and too ungainly to load onto a wagon, so they just dragged it, like a giant plow.

  The young Sirtai stepped up to her. He smelled of garlic. “You must convince your brother.”

  Amalia sighed. “We are facing a dire threat from the Parusites.”

  Jarman’s lips almost touched her chipped ear. “Lucas and I can handle them.”

  She felt a stab of vile satisfaction in her gullet. “You will obliterate them with magic?”

  The wizard’s brows shot up. “No. We need them. We need every soul in this war against the White Witch. The whole of the realms must stand together against him. No, Lucas and I can infiltrate the Parusite camp easily and meet with Princess Sasha. We will then offer her a proposal.”

  Amalia felt she would not like this. “What kind?”

  Jarman braced himself. “That you become the subjects of the Parusite king.”

  Her life at court had taught her to react with aloof disinterest to most things. But she felt her teeth gritting in cold rage. “What? That is preposterous!”

  He made a placating gesture with his hand. “Please. Consider it, Your Highness. You must understand the urgency; you must understand the enormity of the threat. Do not mention this to your brother just yet. He will not accept this lightly.”

  “And I will?” she snapped.

  Jarman was looking at her curiously. “You have held the bloodstaff in your hands,” he said, but it was part question, part statement. “You do understand.”

  “This is too much,” Amalia hissed.

  The wizard inclined his head. “It is difficult, I know. But the only way to prevent more war is for Athesia to become the protectorate of the Crown in Sigurd. That’s the only way this war can be won. You must do it for the sake of your people and the realms. Put aside your own personal games. This is above any one man.”

  “And why are you here? Why do you care about the realms?” she assailed him. “Since when does a Sirtai care about what happens here?”

  His face turned blank. “My interests are not personal.”

  Amalia smirked. “Aren’t they?” She began walking away from him, trying to contain her fury, and the tiny knot of satisfaction at having disturbed his peace of mind. Did she trust them, James had asked her. Not at all.

  James was already busy conferring with Master Hector, his Caytorean sergeant. At his side stood a bevy of the city’s merchants, men whose businesses would be seized or pressed into the war effort, and they did not seem to like it.

  He looked at her. She nodded at him.

  In a strange twist of fate, the one man in this whole world she trusted now was her father’s bastard, a man who had wanted her dead only a few weeks earlier.

  When they got back into Ecol, she would handle some other unfinished business. She would have to meet Agatha and ask her back into her service. If she wanted to survive this war, she needed her friends. Pete might not like it, but he was a soldier of the realm. He would understand.

  CHAPTER 44

  Viceroy Bartholomew was eager to see olifaunts in action. Which was why he had joined the expedition party raid, despite the early hour and icy cold.

  He was holding the looking glass in his gloved hands, the eyepiece smeared in grease so the frigid metal would not stick to his skin and pull his eyelid off. That would be most unfortunate, he knew, and it might hurt his budding career.

  Duke-made-Monarch Vincent had died from poison, blissfully in his sleep, leaving the realm rudderless once again. Luckily for all parties involved, Bart had been chosen to represent the monarch while in exile, and that meant the authority defaulted to him. Until the surviving nobles sorted out the trees and branches and weeds of hierarchy, birthright, seniority, influence, and wealth, Bart was at the helm of Eracia, steering boldly.

  The news had reached him only days ago, carried by a messenger with a severe cough in his lungs, who had braced the storms crossing through Athesia, the Safe Territories, and what still remained of southern Eracia. The man had taken almost three times as long to get there, but that could not be helped.

  Bart only wished he had more knowledge of what was happening north of the nomad lines. He had heard rumors, but any drunkard could spin a tale for a pint of warm winter ale. As far as stories went, there was an army coming to life, led by his uncle. That was good. Karsten was an able man when he put aside his bitterness.

  He had also received news of the said Northern Army suffering defeats, and a strong body of tribesmen sneaking past the defenders, heading deeper inland, toward the Barrin estate. Less good. But there was nothing he could do except press on with his own campaign.

  The morning attack would commence in one hour. It would be spearheaded by Junner’s men and two of his mighty beasts. Despite the fact the olifaunts were bred and trained for war, despite the fact the Borei had come to Eracia to practice their trade, the
mahout had been really loath to put them to combat, especially in the cold; their fat skin protected them, but they were used to a warmer climate. Junner had sulked and fretted, as if someone had asked him to throw a baby into a pond full of snapper turtles.

  Their target was a village, the southernmost tip of the enemy occupation. It sat on a finger of land jutting into the Kerabon River, dominated by an old monastery, one of the few that still peddled religion to the Eracians. Still, the common people liked their faith. When you lacked in gold and food, spiritual gruel was the only thing in abundance.

  The place was called Sacred, and it probably belonged a few hundred miles farther south, in the Safe Territories.

  From what he had learned, the nomads avoided spreading their forces too thinly in little villages of no strategic importance, which was why their toehold in Sacred was a mystery. There was nothing useful inside or near the place worth risking their lives for, Bart thought. There were many bridges elsewhere, better land for raising crops. No mines, no manor houses or castles, nothing really.

  Regardless, the Eracian honor called for cleansing every house of the nomad scum. Sacred was the first one on their journey to Somar.

  Bart lowered the looking glass and wrapped it in silk to keep the lenses from frosting. He looked at Junner. The man was playing with a pair of bone dice, deftly rolling them over and round his knuckles.

  “I do not like it, Lord Count,” the mercenary insisted, but it was hard to tell how much of it was genuine concern and how much a well-calculated game.

  “If you do not participate in this battle, it will harm your reputation,” Bart offered smoothly.

  The Borei grimaced painfully. “Ah, yes. When you’re the best, you’re the best.”

  The truth was, there was his own reputation at stake. He had to convince the Eracians that these foreigners were not just after their money and wives. He had to show them he had brought useful military help, and that the mercenaries could be relied upon, as much as any paid sword could be trusted.

  Bart left Junner to discuss the fine details of the attack with Commander Faas, the newly appointed head of the Eracian Southern Army. He was truly lucky to have someone like him and Ulrich at his side. For a moment, he imagined having the Privy Council members with him. He shuddered at the thought.

  He walked back to the camp, a black stain on the ground, erected a mile from Sacred. There was no point hiding. Half a dozen similar camps covered the horizon, being struck almost every dawn and erected anew at nightfall, each time creeping a few miles farther north, tightening the grip on the nomads.

  The camp belonged to the Fifth Division, and now Colonel Maurice was leading it. Soldiers were doing the last preparations before the assault, drinking, singing, checking their gear, oiling weapons, smearing their skin in soot and lard to avoid chilblains.

  At a nearby fire, he saw one of the footmen stringing his lute and chanting in a rough voice: “Monarch Leopold took the Kataji bear into his bed; he fucked it not, but rather lost his realm and head.”

  “Hey!” Bart snapped.

  The group of men raised their merry eyes, and all mirth fled them instantly. With deep consternation, they stared at the superior standing in front of them, wondering what their punishment might be.

  “Cuff him on the head,” Bart told one of the singer’s friends. Almost automatically, the man slapped his friend’s nape, making his head bob. “No more songs like that.”

  “Aye, my lord,” the singer mumbled.

  Bart moved on. He followed the mucky trail to the brown command tent and ducked inside, the soldiers at their posts snapping to attention. Inside, it was hot and stifling, fumes from tiny coal braziers filling the room with acrid soot. The large stove was broken, its chimney funnel rusted, and the leader of the army had to wait until it was mended. Such was the sorry state of his forces, Bart realized.

  Colonel Maurice was sorting out the latest details with half a dozen junior officers. He brightened when he saw the viceroy. “Your Highness. We are ready to move against Sacred.”

  Bart nodded curtly, trying to appear as official as the rest of them. “Very good. The enemy strength?”

  A battalion commander cleared his throat. “Just a hundred or so. Really strange, Your Highness.”

  Well, the only way to unravel the mystery was to storm the place. Bart waved his hand. “I hope your scouts report no nasty surprises, and I expect you will be taking prisoners for interrogation. Continue, please.”

  He listened, but soon he got bored. He did not really want to be in this tent. In fact, he was rather useless, maybe even interfering. The ruler of the land did not have any useful function, he kept noticing. His purpose was to be seen, to inspire by his presence.

  Bart considered paying Constance a visit in their tent, just to check on her, but he refrained. He needed to stay focused. Still, he had brought her along simply because he did not trust her out of his reach. Everything had changed since she told him of her predicament. His predicament.

  The attack began while the sun was halfway up the sky to its zenith. Clear winter days were usually the coldest. And the most dangerous. There were no clouds to trap the heat, and the snow was a brilliant silver plate, blinding with its sharp glare. Men would find the crust softening, their feet sinking into the wet drift, sapping their strength. They might unbutton their shirts, mistaking the lull for anything but a trap. Then, the night would come, the slush would turn to ice, and all those who had let the fierce cold lick their necks and chests would be regretting their foolishness.

  Bart watched from his monarchical distance as the Eracian troops entered Sacred. The battle was almost boring. Soon, the monastery was surrounded, and the advance force waved a blue flag that indicated it was safe to approach.

  Still, the army was taking no chances, and a full two thousand soldiers were deployed around the village, ready to repel any ambushes. Bart followed on a horse, crossing the bridge.

  “Report,” he asked a captain guarding the village entrance.

  “No casualties on our side. Once they saw those monsters, they fled and barricaded themselves inside the monastery, Your Highness.”

  Too easy. He still dreaded something awful was going to happen. No man was bound so much luck as himself. Maybe he had just gotten used to being derided, trodden upon, ignored, and sidelined, so he treated any good turn of fortune with suspicion, but this was just too much. Highly cooperative officers, bloodless battles. That did not happen in real life.

  Bart felt a nagging sense of distress as he walked the dirt lane between closely pressed mud--and riverstone houses, the eyes of several women and children watching him with fear. Everyone looked grubby and weary. Soldiers guarded every doorway, every side approach, looking ill at ease near their fellow countrywomen. Normally, he would expect men to be rather eager around women.

  He walked to the monastery. It was surrounded by a thick wall of Eracians, crossbows trained at the small tower jutting from the building roof. For an instant, a face popped into view at the top. A swath of bolts clattered into the mortar, chipping stone.

  Junner’s animals were standing to the side, looking just as fidgety as everyone else. One of the olifaunts was stamping its legs and unfurling its trunk. Bart approached the mission commander, one of Ulrich’s majors.

  “Report,” he heard himself repeat, the sum of his usefulness.

  “Those bastards got themselves penned up inside. Probably fifty or sixty of them. We were thinking of firing up some straw, trying to flush them out with smoke, but there’s not enough around. My men suggested peeling the roofs off the houses, but we wanted to check with you first, Your Highness.”

  “Good thinking.”

  Tearing down homes as the first act of liberation would not do. Sacred’s few survivors needed help. Bart had no idea what the women had endured since the occupation had begun, and by the way they were looking at them, things had been difficult.

  “Junner!” Bart hailed. “Get a length
of chain worked round the hinges, and get your olifaunts to pull and tear the door down.”

  There was a wave of chatter in the tight press of soldiers. At first, they had worried about the huge beasts, but now they treated them as their favorite weapons.

  “Will be done, Lord Count,” the mercenary chirped. He spoke to his men in their language.

  “That man is disrespecting you, Your Highness,” some major asserted, overeager to please.

  “He is just not familiar with our titles, that is all,” Bart said. “Do not mind him.”

  The Eracians watched with fascination as the Borei did what they did best, while a party of crossbowmen covered the tower top so that the nomad archers could not fire down on them. Junner’s troops soon rigged the door, and the olifaunts pulled the door down in a loud shriek of wood and stone. The siege quickly ended.

  A forest of spears was leveled at the monastery’s dark interior. They could feel the bodies inside; they could guess their shapes moving, fretting, getting ready for their final stand. No one wanted to be the hero who stormed first, on either side.

  “I will order the men to step in,” the major in charge offered bravely.

  Behind him, more troops were coming, both Faas and Maurice among them. Everyone was there. This was the perfect spot to slaughter half the top officers of the newly assembled Southern Army. Kill Bart, too. He did not like all this. He could mostly understand great battles, he could understand the politics of the court, but he could not understand the suicide stand of the Kataji in an unimportant village.

  “Maybe we can sort this peacefully.” The practical coward in Bart’s heart voiced his opinion. He still remembered how he had once believed in peace at all costs. Well, he had evolved since, but the need to avoid violence was strong in his bones.

  The moment one treats death with indifference becomes the day one should step down from power, Bart reasoned. He had to cling to that notion. He had to be prepared to sacrifice men for his own needs, and those of his nation, but the price must not come lightly. Look what happened to Leopold, he thought sourly, recalling the song he had heard earlier. It was rather amusing, if unpatriotic.