The letters were alien, written in some language he had never seen before.
Or maybe he had, because he could read it.
Understanding flickered inside his head, like sparks rising off old gray ashes stirred by a sudden gust of wind. He felt excitement tighten his muscles, and they became steel. The sounds and images of the world around him faded, replaced by a soft, woolly darkness. All he could see was a canvas of human flesh, shuddering under his touch, and those letters, spinning, sparkling, becoming words and sentences.
The very last volume of The Pains of Memory, he knew suddenly.
Passed from one spiritual leader to another, from mother to daughter.
A message for him.
He began reading, his lips quivering with a language unheard for thousands of years.
I have written this, he thought with delightful insight. This is a message for myself, from me, my ancient me. He had written this for himself so he could read it when he needed it again. An account of the time before the war, and the war itself, a first-person recounting, without any misinterpretation by human translators.
I have been fighting the gods and goddesses, Ewan realized suddenly. He did not like that. Why would he fight them? And if he had, why had he tried so hard to defend them from Damian? Why had they not clamored against him in the Abyss? Maybe they could not recognize him?
He had fought alongside Damian, it turned out.
Some human factions had sided with them, while others had followed the gods. The war had continued for centuries, with magic and dreadful weapons that he could hardly grasp. But then, Damian had been betrayed, and his forces routed. They had been forced to flee from the Old Land, north and south and west. Oth Danesh, my people, he thought and read on. His fingers made their shameless trail over the girl’s skin. She was panting now and chanting incomprehensibly, but he did not care. This was the truth; this was the key to his mystery.
Not just Oth Danesh, other people, too. The nations of the Red Desert and the Singing Heights, the Badanese, many others. They had all been scattered away, banished away from the Old Land. A magical barrier was put in place to keep them there. No, he had placed the barrier. Ewan frowned. Yes, he had put the magical Veil there, but it was only meant to keep those with magic away. Them and the gods. Ewan smirked. No wonder the books had twisted the truth.
He had fled, fled north…
He paused reading.
North?
The real world grew more solid, but it was still a dark gray shadow.
“Give me the last volume,” he growled.
Naman handed it to him. He could not see his tutor, but The Pains of Memory was a clear outline in his hands. He flipped it open at the page where the map of the Old Land had been sketched. Most of it resembled the realms, he realized now. He had not seen it before, but he could see it now.
A nation that has no names for its cities and its foes, a nation that has books meant to be read from the last volume. So why not maps meant to be pored over upside down? North, south. South, north.
His fingers squeezed and raked and trailed white marks on Raida’s skin. She was shouting and screeching now, he thought, but he could not stop.
He had promised to return, to defeat the gods and goddesses and take their place. Then, there was his signature. Cale-more. His brain reeled. Calemore. Kala Meh. He remembered his struggle with the Oth Danesh guttural pronounciation. Kala Mer. That was him. The king, the champion.
Or that would have been him.
But he was in the wrong place.
The real world snapped back. Raida collapsed on the floor, her skin covered in sweat. She was panting, but she did not seem hurt, maybe blissful even. He ignored her. She was meaningless.
His head was spinning, new thoughts coming to life. White clothes, the scepter, this hall with its heads, the terror of the Oth Danesh people, none of them belonged to him. None of it was his memory, his legacy. They belonged to Calemore, Damian’s first son.
He knew now. There was a sharp stab in his gut.
He might already be too late.
“The nation will not go to war,” he declared. “I will go alone.”
Naman was cowering in the corner, his skin pale. “As you command.”
Ewan rose to his feet. He leaned forward and picked up the smooth glass rod. He knew what it was now and how it was meant to be used. He surely would need it in the upcoming battle.
The Oth Danesh had gotten one thing right—the war was not over yet.
Ewan threw the white skin cloak on the ground. For a moment, he looked for something to burn the vile cloth. There was nothing handy, so he dashed out of the ugly palace and began running. There was a ripple of terror around him, men and women fleeing to the sides of the road and going prostrate, but he ignored them all. They were irrelevant, meaningless, a remnant of an ancient feud. They did not matter. Ewan had to stop a much bigger threat.
Soon, he left the city of Kamar Doue and was tirelessly sprinting toward the realms.
North.
CHAPTER 55
“We need reinforcements, now!” Master Hector shouted. To see the old man unnerved was a troubling sight.
For five hours now, the Red Caps were engaging the mixed Athesian and Caytorean legions around Ecol, pressing hard, south and east. They had come in full strength just before dawn, marching in silence, wreathed in the early morning mist like ghosts.
The southern fort was in their hands yet again, only this time they had not burned it.
James glanced at the chaotic battlefield. He nodded. Malik scribbled a quick order. A messenger snatched it from the extended hand and ran to his horse at the bottom of the observation post. Soon he was galloping toward Colonel Gilles’s cavalry regiment, waiting midway between the front lines and the city, a force almost a thousand strong.
The emperor turned to watch the carnage near the occupied garrison. The Red Caps were driving a wedge into his defense, pushing almost parallel to his position. Behind the thick row of defenders with spears and swords, a carpet of archers was taking almost direct aim at the women, trying to pin them down with arrows. The enemy was firing back from the fort’s wall and its corner towers.
“Relentless and disciplined,” the old sergeant remarked, his voice bitter.
James sniffed hard, trying to keep his frustration down. The thing was, he was running out of brilliant ideas. No matter how he tried to counteract, Princess Sasha just kept pushing on. He looked at the tall wooden platforms raised all about the city. Men were kneeling and taking aim. Shafts wobbled in high arcs, some trailing smoke behind them. Then, they hailed down on the enemy, but the women were holding their shields up, ever up, and the arrows snapped and clattered away.
“We should pull back to the city,” Captain Nolan said.
James shook his head angrily. “No. We cannot abandon the siege line. If we do, the Third and the Seventh will be overrun.” He wanted to raise the looking glass and look east, but there was no need. He could see the battle develop all too clearly, the blot of enemy troops spreading like ink. They might soon conquer the abandoned manor house and the mines. His legion was waiting there in reserve, and it looked like it might be needed soon.
Warlord Xavier was engaged heavily around the fort, together with Nicholas’s troops. They were truly earning their pay and proving their loyalty now. James glanced at the city. He had a handful of volunteers and city watchmen as the last line of defense, but he doubted they could drastically change the outcome of the battle.
“Is there any chance we can push through the enemy formation and sap that bridge?” he asked.
Master Hector grimaced. “Not easily, no.”
He swore quietly. The enemy had control of the river crossing and was easily shuffling its forces between the two banks as needed, keeping the defenders busy. If they could destroy the bridge, Sasha would not be able to beef up either of the two forces and would have to press on with whatever she had. But the destruction of the bridge was
a sweet, distant prospect.
The cavalry crashed into the mayhem around the southern fort. Men rushed to get away from being trampled. With lances leveled, the horsemen pushed into the human wall. They could not bring their speed to bear, but the mass of their fierce armored animals was enough to cause a dent in the enemy advance. The arrow rain slackened for a while.
“The Third is buckling,” Master Hector declared ominously, looking at his own troops lose cohesion and valor as the Red Caps tore into their right flank. A trickle of Parusite troops was already marching toward the manor house. The First Legion was moving to engage. “With your permission, sir?” the old man pleaded.
James agreed reluctantly. The man slammed a leather-padded helmet onto his leathery face and began walking down from the observation post. Hector’s elite, a modest force of two hundred men, was waiting patiently, watching the rout of their comrades in impotent distress. Soon, they left a muddy pulp in their wake as they plodded away.
James did not know where Princess Sasha was. He could not identify her in the chaos of enemy units. Almost childishly, he yearned to engage her in single combat. Every instinct told him he should be heading back toward the safety of the city, where he could maintain a smaller but more easily manageable front. There were siege weapons in the town now, and Master Guilliam had promised a Slicer by next week. James sorely wished for one of those killer bows now.
Every instinct screamed at him to retreat, to cast away his pride and focus on saving his army and what little territory he ruled. He remembered all too well his wife’s advice, how he must keep calm and aloof, how he must observe war affairs from afar. He had to endure the bloodshed stoically and make emotionless decisions. That’s what emperors ought to do. He should never engage in combat personally. He was too valuable for that.
James looked at his own imperial guard, some of the best men in the force, committed to standing around idly. He could see the anguish on their faces. They were, too, a reserve, in a way. With excellent armor, weapons, and training, they probably accounted for more than the scattering of boys and old men recruited from Ecol and nearby villages, or the frightened city watchmen who awaited their deaths near the mining camp.
“We must retreat,” Captain Nolan urged again.
“On the contrary, we fight,” James snapped. “Timothy, with me.”
The captain paled. “Sir, please. Who takes command now?”
James shrugged. “From up here, you will have a better view of the battlefield than I will out there in those fields. You have the provisional command. Make sure you use the reserves wisely. Do not commit the reinforcements until they are needed. Keep this hill at all costs.”
Captain Nolan saluted, but James was already walking down the narrow trail that wound around the stakes. The ground was covered in ashes to prevent running men from slipping. At the base of the hill, James let Timothy tighten the straps on his armor before he mounted his horse.
“Boy, you have your own command,” he told his aide.
“We will keep at your flank,” Timothy said bravely.
Moments later, they were trotting northeast, toward the unstoppable torrent of Red Caps. Master Hector was probably already engaged, but he could not see the terrain that well anymore. Robbed of the high view, he felt instantly confused, insecure. Even a few paces of altitude made such a drastic difference. Now, his vision was limited to scarred fields, bodies strewn on the ground in absurd poses, the stream of weary troops with grime and blood on their clothes and skin. He was glad for the fact the enemy force consisted mostly of women. It was so much easier identifying your foe; you did not have to focus on banners and colors.
They merged with the retreating Third Legion, gave them their strength and courage back, and then backtracked into the slaughter. A raucous cry escaped the lips of men around him as they lowered their weapons and slammed into the wall of Red Caps.
He saw saw one of Xavier’s men topple off the horse, impaled on a broken spear. His gelding reared and kicked, but the enemy soldiers kept pressing and stabbing, piercing its belly. The large dun animal crashed down, scattering men like toys.
Rushing in, James swung his sword hard and felt it connect. His hand shuddered as he pulled the blade away clean, hair and hot blood flying, specks touching his face. The woman dropped without a word.
You are being a fool, his soul, marinated in many hours of warfare and tactics, was trying to tell him. But he was not listening. Instead, a glamorous image of his father saving the nation floated before his eyes, transposed over the sight of death and agony.
Lieutenant Timothy edged closer, keeping his shield up, protecting him. The gangly boy was being defensive, swinging lightly, mostly to keep the jabbing spears away. Bruce was at his side, too, the flanks of his beautiful steed lathered in sweat and gore, mauling the enemy with high overhead blows.
Then, James saw Master Hector maybe ten paces away. His own forces were pushing hard, keeping the enemy at bay. The Third Legion had fully regrouped, it seemed, and was striking back. A horn sounded. He did not know whether it was friend or foe. He did not care. There was elation and a desire to kill in his heart. For a blissful moment, he did not need to think about Amalia, Jarman, or anyone else.
He saw a flag rising above the carnage. The First Legion. Now his united massive force would show the Red Caps all its worth.
The Parusites were on the retreat. But even in their defeat, the women were grim, stubborn, dignified. They were yielding ground, but slowly, very slowly, never breaking formation, the notion of a rout never once considered. The defenders were eager, screaming defiance, giving all they had, hurling the women back.
James let the tide sluice past him. He gained a moment of respite. He reached for his water canteen. It had been sliced off clean, and there was a deep gouge in his saddle. He had never noticed that blow.
“Water,” he gasped. One of his bodyguards tossed him his own skin, and James drank eagerly in between quick breaths.
Sergeant Hector reined in near him, his horse neighing angrily, dancing in a circle. “That was close,” the old man said and spat. He was covered in blood, but it did not seem to be his.
James nodded. He wanted to ride south and engage the bulk of the enemy force there, but at the moment, his task was to protect the east and north sides. If the enemy breached their lines, all other positions would become indefensible, and they would be forced to flee back into the city. Then, a real siege would begin. With the Parusites having superior numbers, he could not afford that to happen.
Still, he needed information. He tried to whistle, but his lips were too wet. “I need a report. I need to know how Warlord Xavier is faring!” he shouted. Lieutenant Shawn sent one of his men to a nearby tower. The men high on the shooting platform would have a better idea.
His breathing slowed as he waited. The din of the battle made his head hurt, made it almost too hard to concentrate, but he kept his focus. He could not let his battle rage flare down now; he had to remain alert. The ten thousand men of the First and Third had redeployed almost near the original siege line and were holding the enemy at bay. Elements of the Seventh were heading toward the mines to rest, while the still incomplete Eighth Legion under Commander Wayne was coming to replace them.
Well, that was what he thought was happening. All he could see was a mass of men seething like a swarm of maggots, and flags tottering and snapping on tall poles. If not for the killing, the day could have been beautiful: early spring, sharp, clear, and cool, with a soft gossamer haze pierced by soft golden sunlight.
James removed his helmet for a moment. His scalp itched as fresh wind ruffled his plastered hair. He looked toward the nearest watchtower. The men on the platform were standing and no longer taking aim. They seemed to be gawking north, away from the battle.
The horn sounded again, two long, forlorn notes. Then, a bugle joined the commotion, piping shrilly. James felt a tremor of dread up his spine. An army approaching? he wondered.
&nb
sp; The dispatch was coming back at full gallop. He pulled up sharp before the emperor, almost sliding off the saddle. Clots of earth flew around him.
“Sir, sir, another army coming from the north, beyond the mines! More Parusites, sir. And they got those huge beasts.”
James looked at Sergeant Hector. The man had a hard, resigned look on his face. Well, they had thought the Red Caps did not have any olifaunts. It turned out they did, and now they were leading a surprise attack from the north.
How had they gotten there? Did they cross into Caytor to avoid being spotted by his scouts and spies? Or did they travel all the way around from the west, entering Eracia, slipping past Bassac? It did not matter. They had to be defeated.
He took a deep breath and put his helmet back on, squeezing his cheeks until his voice came out funny, pinched. “Get the First back here. The Third will have to hold on its own. I want all the troops near the mines forming up a solid defense.”
They were riding again, a stream of grim, determined men with a taste of victory on their lips and uncertainty in their hearts. Soon, they could see the enemy.
The huge gray animals were lumbering through the mining camp, crashing wooden skeletons and huts, rumbling forward like a landslide. The Athesian troops were inching back away from their towering, menacing presence, trying to deploy.
James stopped to the rear of the triple row of archers, getting ready to fire. A boy was ambling sideways before the front rank, using a torch to light their arrows. Drums were pounding somewhere. Must be those mercenaries.
“I heard they hate dogs,” Bruce remarked. “Or we could set a few pigs on fire and send them at those monsters. No beast likes fire.”
James snapped angrily at Xavier’s man. “Do we have any pigs here?” He looked around. “Dismount.”
The mining camp was in ruins now, a wreckage of shattered scaffolding and low buildings, a cloud of dust rising all around. A solid formation of olifaunts was moving toward his position. There were not that many, but they sure looked scary.
The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3) Page 55