The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3)

by Igor Ljubuncic

  His conscience squirmed. Maybe not.

  He was the god, and that made all the difference.

  In a week, a month, or maybe a year, the two of them would fight and decide the battle started in a different age. Saving humanity was out of the question, so it was all about who would control it. Tanid knew his kind had supposedly won the last war, but the aftermath smelled every bit like defeat. They had wanted to hurt Damian more than they had wanted to heal the world. Tanid would not repeat the same mistake. Not this time. There would be no banishment. No magical barriers. No postponed punishment. The only outcome that awaited the White Witch was a cold, certain death.

  Tanid rounded the camp and went back to the fire, where Clemens was still preaching into the night. The power of his words was almost as strong as the prayer. Well, until he figured out the answers to the cardinal question of his own existence, he needed every bit of faith he could get.

  So he joined the rapt crowd and shared in the magic of storytelling.

  Every day, his followers learned a little more about the war that had begun in another era and was about to be concluded soon. They would need the conviction when the moment came. And so would he.

  CHAPTER 50

  Springtime had come to Athesia, and with it, the smell of wet earth and old, sour cabbage vats being emptied and cleaned. Days were getting longer, the nights shorter and warmer, and the snow patches were shrinking away, leaving a muddy brown earth behind. The roads were passable again, even if it meant soldiers cursing knee-deep in muck and ox piss.

  The arrival of spring also heralded fresh, fiercer attacks from the Parusites.

  Princess Sasha was relentless in her attempts to conquer Ecol. She was throwing her women against the forts, the ditches, the stakes. But if James and his legion commanders had hoped for a quick victory, she was proving them wrong. No senseless charges, no heroic deaths. Sasha’s Red Caps fought with skill and cunning.

  Their forces were roughly matched, those of the Athesian defenders mostly concentrated around the town, with a solid reserve farther north and in Bassac to counter any raids, as well as make sure no stray army from Eracia or Caytor wandered into the realm unannounced. There was little likelihood of that happening, but James had nurtured a solid patina of paranoia since Rob’s death. He might not believe in a magical army storming the realms from the north, but that did not mean he ought to expose his flanks and rear.

  Sasha had more luxury of movement, so she shuffled her girls east and west, probing, searching for places where she might strike next, and James was forced to react. Her troops were well disciplined and used to warring in winter since the Siege of Roalas, so they did not suffer from all the mistakes his own troops were enduring.

  However, almost routinely, the brunt of the attacks came against Ecol. James wished he was strong enough to retaliate, to take on the offensive, but that would not happen anytime soon. The rift between his paid Caytorean units and the Athesians was still deep. Amalia seemed wary of the men the councillors had provided him, expecting them to betray him and her any day. He thought he had gained their loyalty, but long months freezing in the snow had lessened their enthusiasm. They did not openly speak against him, but they were wondering when his imperial dream might finally come to life.

  James desperately needed his wife around.

  The spring heralded her return, too.

  Guild Master Sebastian had written to him several days ago. Rheanna had sent a letter informing him she would be leaving the capital shortly after the New Year’s turn. Which probably meant she was nearing Pain Daye now. That meant he might see her in about three weeks. Just in time for the festival, as she had promised. Rheanna would know what to do, how to manipulate the soldiers. She would find a way to fire up their zeal, to rekindle their love for his charm and leadership.

  In the cold, filthy trenches around Ecol, the spirits were low. Young men once enamored by his quest had found the notion of fungus growing in their loins too much to take. Many of the city fops had retreated to Caytor to await better times. They had left their private armies behind so they would not be regarded as traitors, but they did not see a need to risk their own lives. James wondered if they were truly bound to him now that he had married a Caytorean woman. Probably not. They only answered to the High Council, and while it had pledged some support to his cause, their only loyalty was to their profits, as always.

  Some remained, but they preferred to drink themselves insensible in Ecol’s taverns. Only a few shared in the killing, earning a lifetime of bravado and stories that would make Eybalen ladies swoon when they retold them. If they lived that long.

  Despite James’s misgivings, Xavier seemed quite eager to shed Parusite blood. His fickle, murderous nature made James suspicious, but he never showed any signs of being bored or tired of the war business. Master Hector also seemed bent on staying at his side. The Athesians were truly loyal, at least, but they most likely followed his half sister rather than himself.

  Ahead, in the field, the Red Caps wall was approaching, marching steadily.

  James found the notion of killing women strange. Like him, most soldiers were not comfortable with the idea either. They might not object to cuffing their wives when they misspoke, or beating whores when they would not please them or when they caught them pilfering coins from their pockets; they had nothing against rape and hurting women in a small measure now and then, but the wholesale butchery shocked them. James believed Princess Sasha knew this and exploited the situation to her best advantage.

  Captain Nolan spat in the puddle at his feet; it was foamed with urine. The night guards had found it too cumbersome to leave their posts. “That’s a tight formation.”

  Warlord Xavier was blinking furiously. They all wished they had one of the Slicers for use, but the two examples Master Guilliam had built for them had been destroyed by a Parusite saboteur; she still swayed from the tree she had been hanged from, but that did not make things any better.

  “Arrows?” the man wondered aloud.

  “Too tight,” Colonel Gilles grumbled.

  The Red Caps were advancing with large square shields raised above their heads, overlapping like scales. Only the front row held theirs forward. Their ranks seemed unbreakable.

  James and a knot of his officers were sitting behind a row of sharpened stakes on a mound erected just behind the front lines. Soldiers had shoveled for a week to erect the little hill so the emperor would have a decent observation post. The towers were reserved for archers, although he stood almost as tall as the shooting platforms.

  It seemed a wave of almost fifteen thousand women would hammer his position almost at the same moment. They were all coming on foot, so the stakes and the ditches designed against cavalry did not matter that much. Commander Nicholas and the old sergeant were protecting the right flank. The Seventh Legion and men from Councillor Vareck’s contingent were deployed east. The first and the second held the middle.

  Behind, the sprawling tent city polluting Ecol’s surroundings was abandoned, all of the craftsmen, helpers, cooks, maids, and noncombatants having fled into the town. All that remained behind was the scattered gear and the stench of rotten vegetables.

  More troops waited in the three forts, including the rebuilt south one, and the cavalry was hiding behind the walls, trying to maintain some element of surprise. But with soldiers so eager to fuck anything with a pair of tits, the men never bothered asking if any of the wenches wandering in their camp might be Parusite spies, so James did not believe he would truly catch Princess Sasha off guard.

  A hundred of his men shared his position, ready to defend and escort him away if needed. Timothy was there, too, looking somewhat dazed, although he was coming to terms with his promotion earlier last year.

  When the Red Caps came within bow range, the archers loosened all they had against the women, shielded or not. The sky darkened with a thousand needles, and they dropped on the enemy in a squall of cracks. Only a few women dropped, far t
oo few.

  Bold move, James admitted grudgingly. He did not know if he’d have the nerve to send his troops marching against an entrenched foe with such easy determination. But then, these battles against the Red Caps were the first real campaign his men had fought. They had defeated the Oth Danesh, but the enemy had been worn-out, weakened, and outnumbered. Then, they had celebrated their quick conquest of northern Athesia against brigands. Now, at last, they were learning what real war was really about.

  As the troops came closer, a ragged shout rose from the throats on both sides, an anticipation of imminent death. Then, the ranks collided, almost too slowly, and the killing began. The lines buckled, wavered, rippled back and forth, but nothing significant happened.

  Xavier tapped one of the runners on the shoulder, pointing toward a weak spot in the second legion’s formation. The man nodded, then skidded down the hillock and clumsily raced off with the new orders, his large wicker shoes helping him tread more lightly through the muck.

  James watched, a mix of impotence, elation, and determination washing over him. He wanted to be closer to the front, but they would not let him. And he knew how stupid and useless that would be. But he could not stop wondering how his father might have conducted this war. At what point had he stopped dipping his own hands in blood and let others do the grisly work for him?

  Rob might be able to tell him, but his friend was dead.

  James pushed the White Witch tale out of his mind.

  From two hundred paces away, death seemed very neat. Men fought and died, or they killed someone, and the pile of bodies grew thicker. There was a lot of screaming, and the weapons clanged, but it became a unified roar of wood and metal and sore throats.

  The emperor wanted to surprise his enemy, but he had nothing. Sasha was just as cunning as he. She was well prepared for his ruses. She ignored his baits and traps. She protected her sides all too well. He had mounted a few raids, only to draw out his men before they were butchered. Ecol had been under a loose siege for a long while now, and he could not escape the feeling this was like Roalas all over again.

  Amalia would not speak of it much.

  She was not there to witness the killing. He could not blame her. Round this time last year, she had lost her father’s realm and fled as a nameless refugee.

  Neither Jarman nor Lucas were there, and he briefly wondered if their magical shield around him worked even if he could not see the wizards. Forget that! Ah, the Sirtai saw this war as an unnecessary, sorry affair that distracted them all from the real threat. But with the air misting with blood, and men and women dying by the dozens every moment, the story of some ancient immortal man seemed empty.

  “I want Colonel Perry committed,” Xavier snarled at another messenger. “Now!”

  The man fled.

  Gilles was biting his lower lip, scanning the battle line with a looking glass. He was wondering when he might deploy his horsemen. But the ground was tricky, slick and soft, and it would hobble the animals. The princess had chosen her timing well; James could strike back from the flanks and try to encircle her with cavalry. She would have ample time to regroup and defeat him. All he could do was send men slogging through mud and hope for the best.

  The smaller, lighter people had an advantage in this terrain, he thought sourly. Like women. They did not sink as deeply into the gray soup.

  To the west, his troops were buckling. Nicholas seemed to be in trouble. One of the adjutants raised a red flag and waved furiously. Somewhat to the rear, a thousand men waiting for their turn in the killing began moving forward, toward the gap tearing where the Fourth Legion was fighting. James had three thousand more fresh troops in reserve. He hoped that would be enough.

  Luckily, the Red Caps did not have any olifaunts. He was not eager to meet those monsters in battle. They sounded frightening enough in the stories, and so much more real than the White Witch of Naum.

  From what little rumors from south of Athesia that did reach him, King Sergei and his sister seemed to disagree on how the war should proceed. The king was pushing for some fragile standoff peace with him, but Sasha wanted to fight at all costs. Just as Amalia and he had united, the Parusite brother and sister had grown distant.

  James scanned the battlefield, left, right, behind him, as if to reassure himself Ecol still stood. Then, he spotted a small party moving toward him. He scowled. He thought he could see Amalia and his two Sirtai advisers.

  Why would they come here now?

  His sister was wearing those garish red galoshes, hiking her skirt high, although the hem was all muddy. A small retinue trailed after her, keeping away from the Sirtai. She weaved her way around the sharpened yew stakes, climbing to the top of the hillock. Some of the officers had turned to regard her, momentarily forgetting about the battle. They saluted somewhat awkwardly.

  James wished to turn back to watch the fight evolve, but he was curious why Amalia would show up here suddenly. “Any trouble, Sister?” he asked with some alarm.

  She shook her head. “I want to see the fighting,” she said.

  He wondered what had propelled her to witness the horror, but he saw an inkling of determination in her eyes. There was a struggle there, but she did not share it with him.

  Amalia took her place at his side in the waist-deep ditch. Somewhat reluctantly, Jarman lowered himself into the fetid water. Lucas remained outside, the soldiers keeping a respectable distance from him.

  The young wizard frowned with distaste. “When does one get fed up with killing?”

  James ignored him. He stared at the killing field. But his eyes wavered toward Amalia. She seemed as if she were forcing her eyes to watch the death, as if she was trying to overcome some deep fear. James could only begin to imagine how she had lived through the months of siege and the battles, how she had felt when her empire crumbled.

  Then, he realized another uncomfortable truth.

  When Rheanna returned, there would be two empresses in Athesia. It would become really crowded. He also knew everyone was gossiping about how he should produce an heir. That was a rather tricky topic. He had never discussed it with Rheanna. He was not sure what she had in mind, but the fact she had remained unmarried for so long spoke of her commitment to her profession. Maybe she did not want children. James had no clue what was expected of rich female councillors. In Wind-point, women would settle down as soon as they could and raise families. If they did not, they were treated with disdain and mistrust. But in Eybalen, things might be different. They probably were.

  But then, Amalia was unmarried, and she needed a husband, too.

  He did not dare talk to her about it, although for the sake of the realm, they both should be thinking about offspring. Only, what would happen if they both had sons? Who would be the claimant to the throne? In fact, what would the two of them do once this conflict was resolved? Could they continue ruling side by side? Would Amalia be willing to step down?

  He was male and older, and by all traditions, the throne belonged to him. But then, he was only a bastard, conceived before Emperor Adam had forged his realm. He was a foreigner, too, raised in Eracia and with Caytorean paid soldiers as his followers.

  Neither Blackwood nor Askel nor kal Garmen had prepared him for that. In their books, decisions were simple.

  “Do you enjoy command?” Amalia asked, her voice barely audible. He had no doubt the question was addressed only to him.

  James spared a glance at Jarman. His scholarly eyes were boring toward the death he deemed so unnecessary. “Did…Did you ever see Father lead in battle?”

  Amalia looked at him. “No. I only heard stories. I only had his greatness as my guide.” She shrugged. “He tried to teach me, but you cannot learn war from stories, even your own father’s.”

  James let his lip twitch in a ghost of a smile. “I always wonder how he fought. Whenever I lead in battle, I am trying to envision the situation through his eyes. Try to guess what he would have done in my place.”

  “Do
you think we can win?” She looked uncertain, maybe even afraid.

  The emperor grimaced. “The enemy has superior strength. Even if we fight off the Red Caps, the king has more troops in Roalas. And he has mercenaries. He might summon his lords with reinforcements from Parus.” It did sound hopeless when he thought about it. But maybe the common people would rise in rebellion against the invader. His marriage to Caytor might grant him a wider military alliance from the High Council. Maybe. So far, he was defending himself against the Parusite assaults, and he could not find any way to grab the initiative.

  “I once thought Athesia was invincible,” she admitted. “I was such a foolish girl.”

  Jarman noticed their talk and stepped closer. He shattered the moment James had with his sister. His face radiated one message: unity. Maybe that’s why they had come. Maybe they were in secret league with Amalia? He wanted to feel anger, but he was too anxious.

  James tried to empty his mind of worry. He looked at the battle. His troops held. The enemy seemed to have lost its momentum and was slowly retreating. He had no idea what Princess Sasha had tried to accomplish, and he hated reacting. But every little victory counted.

  A horn sounded victory once the Red Caps pulled back, holding their shields above their heads as they marched back to their lines a mile away. The cheering defenders responded with new volleys of arrows, but they did little damage.

  Another attack thwarted. Somehow, though, he did not feel like a great military genius. He doubted Emperor Adam would have bragged about withstanding a dozen wintertime assaults by women. But his troops were that much more experienced after today’s fray, and that counted for something.

  Once Rheanna arrived, he would invest all his energy into consolidating his forces and spit shining their loyalty. He was hoping she could help him secure fresh troops, fresh finances. He needed Caytor behind him, all of it.

  Then, maybe, he could begin to wonder about what an imperial marriage really meant.