She reached for the jar and then withdrew her hand.
Now that Rob was finally dead, it was as if some great anchoring weight had been lifted from her soul. She was no longer afraid, no longer burdened by her past. She felt she could strive for new things, new dreams.
The Book of Lost Words had given her some ideas.
Calemore might not be the perfect man—he might not even be a man—but he was kind and gentle with her, in his special, magical way. He loved her food, and he was intriguing. She could talk to him; she could rely on him, even as he plotted grand and terrible things upon the world.
With the book in her hands, she could perhaps steer reality toward the future she wanted.
There was going to be much suffering in the world in the coming days, she knew. Calemore was going to render unimaginable evil. But not toward her. Not against her. She wondered if she should be feeling any compassion toward the world and people around her. Did they deserve it? The world that had ridiculed her her whole life? The people who had ousted her? What had she ever gotten from her neighbors but fear and mistrust?
For better or worse, her old life as Nigella the herbwoman was over. She would never be the same again. Sheldon had a trade. She no longer had to worry about his upbringing. It was time she put her long-buried passions and desires ahead of everything and everyone else. The bold thought exhilarated her. But she knew what she wanted.
Probably for the first time in her life, she knew.
Nigella stowed the glass jar away in the cabinet. The next time Calemore and she made love, her womb would be clean.
We will be together, she promised herself and sipped hot tea, free of any poisons.
Lucas stood on an outcropping, watching the army stream by. Such a large force had not been seen in the realms for many thousands of years. Its presence signified a change. The White Witch of Naum was marching to war. And the continental people were unprepared, divided.
As a scholar, he felt privileged to be witnessing the turn of another age. Although this monumental event signified a return of the previous one. The conclusion of the First Age of Mankind as told by these people, the conclusion of their sorry wars. The betrayals, the secret pacts, magical barriers, old enemies banished and returned, gods and goddesses dying, coming to life, dying again, plotting and scheming against one another.
It would have been a most intriguing historical adventure if not for his personal investment.
He had failed to punish the man responsible for Inessa’s death.
Now, there was a chance for him to make a difference and help Jarman fulfill his own revenge. Stopping Calemore was what mattered now. If they foiled his plans, if they brought him down, their mission would be complete. Lucas would be free of his lifetime obligation, not that he minded being bonded to his young friend.
The god Damian had surely tried to execute a brilliant plan. Had he succeeded, this invasion would probably never be taking place. In fact, Calemore would most likely have been dead. But Damian’s failure had created a dangerous new reality. Any other way, the Sirtai might have remained untouched by the silly divine affairs of the continental people. But now, with the White Witch trying to reacquire his dominion over the realms, there was a real risk of his homeland being drawn into the battle.
Stopping Calemore was imperative.
Lucas did not want to contemplate the possibility of Damian’s son subjugating the entire land and harnessing all its magical power to his will.
Unfortunately, that meant trying to convince the small-minded, obstinate rulers of the realms to put aside their bickering and unite their strength against a common foe. That meant he had to stand by and watch passively as the massive column rolled past his lookout spot, almost without end.
He did not place much hope in the surviving deities, their Special Children, or the leaders of the nations facing this great threat. He did not believe they would be able to see past their short lives and grasp the enormity of the danger that engulfed their world. But Jarman did. His friend desperately wanted to believe Amalia would be able to see. So, Lucas followed.
As a wizard, he disliked the prospect of an action without plan, without careful study of all the implications and consequences. It went against everything the Temple of Justice had taught him in the nine decades of his magically prolonged life. Relying on chance, whim, and emotions of people possessing limited knowledge and intelligence was extremely risky.
But he owed his friend that much.
That did not mean he was not planning four steps in advance. What would happen if Amalia did get convinced now that her half brother was dead? What then? What if all the people of the realms did unite? What then? Would they be able to fend off the attack? Or merely stall it for a while? They did not have anything in their arsenal that could match the witch and his magical weapons.
Their best chance was Sirtai assistance, but that would not happen. Thousands of years of forgotten history had not only affected the realms. The Sirtai were just as ignorant and stubborn, even if their attitude stemmed from the exactly opposite circumstances; they had all the power and knowledge, and they refused to let events touch them. They would not interfere, even if the continent burned.
It had all gone wrong the moment they had met James. Jarman should have known right then that his information was flawed, that the lad was not in possession of the bloodstaff. That left the two of them with a very bleak prospect. What now?
Two wizards, one of them with an unpainted face, against a foe who had spent the better part of the last age honing his revenge to perfection. That was what this war would come to.
Unless they found a miracle, but Lucas did not believe in miracles.
Perhaps we are missing something, he thought. Still, no matter how hard he tried to rationalize possible solutions and options, he could not find an answer.
As a Sirtai, he wanted to leave these primitive folks and their gods and goddesses to their unresolved battles, to let them kill each other until no one was left. That was the sensible thing to do. But he found himself standing, one leg propped and with his elbows leaning against one knee, and watching the soldiers from Naum trample the grass of northern Caytor to death.
We must find a way, he swore.
On the plains below the rise, the army marched in neat rows, an endless stream of men wearing all-white uniforms and bearing white flags. You might mistake them for missionaries of peace, but they were an army of death, bred and raised for one purpose only.
It had cost Lucas a fair deal of magic to get here fast enough to witness their passage. He would toil his soul some more by traveling back to Athesia. Even now, he was burning his magic in order to keep himself invisible from the enemy. But he had to be here, to see this. The turn of an age.
What are the continental gods up to? Where are their Special Children in this hour of need? The books claimed they would come forward at the right moment. Maybe the books were wrong, Lucas feared, and this war is already lost.
His Sirtai upbringing, logic, and knowledge were telling him to go home, to leave this madness behind. Only he had promised Armin Wan’der Markssin that he would avenge his wife, and that pledge still remained. If there were a time when a wizard put aside his heritage, reason, and intellect, it was when it came to his oaths. There was nothing that would stop him there, not the gods, not their children, not the turning of an age.
Jarman was here to punish Calemore for the death of his third mother. Lucas followed. The gods, goddesses, Special Children, they all did not matter. James, Amalia, they did not matter. One day, they might discover unforeseen help in these realms, stumble upon another magic wielder, or find a god who would fight the witch. It did not matter. Until then, Lucas would stand by Jarman, and they would fight in this foreign war made personal.
He stood leaning against the rock and counted the enemy soldiers streaming into the realms, leaving behind a dust cloud of destruction.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Igor Ljubunc
ic is a physicist by vocation and a Linux geek by profession. He is the founder and operator of the website www.dedoimedo.com, where you can learn a lot about a lot. Before dabbling in operating systems, Igor worked in the medical high-tech industry as a scientist. However, he really likes to write, particularly in the fantasy genre, and has been doing so since the tender age of ten summers. You can learn more about Igor’s writing on his book series website, www.thelostwordsbooks.com, or you can find him on facebook.com/thelostwordsbooks.
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3) Page 59