The Humbled (The Lost Words: Volume 4)

by Igor Ljubuncic

  Bart blinked slowly. When he opened his eyes, the world was just as it had been earlier. His uncle was deftly wheeling himself around puddles and ruts in the ground, coming closer. The three commanders were reading the message, their faces impassive with shock.

  An enemy army? From the north? What?

  “Bartholomew!” his uncle shouted. “Well met. I see you have made yourself into quite a man after all.”

  “Greetings, Uncle,” Bart said, feeling small.

  Karsten halted a mere pace away, muddy water flying from the metal rims of his wheeled chair. “Officers. I would get up, but my condition precludes me from doing so, he-he. Well, we must assemble a council right now. We have dire matters of war to discuss. Call your staff.”

  Commander Faas glanced at Bart, looking uncomfortable.

  “Please do so,” Bart agreed. To his dismay, he noticed his mother was coming over, too. She had that deceptive look of weakness and frailty, but her stride was as steady as any well-trained spearman’s. One relative crippled, another quite healthy, both very much sly.

  Karsten made a quick turn with his chair, almost running over Maurice’s foot. The major had to step back to avoid discomfort to his toes. “Bartholomew, I still can’t believe you’ve made it this far. A viceroy, would you believe it? My dear brother would have been proud to see you now.”

  Bart sighed. “Uncle, please follow me. No, Major. My uncle prefers no aid.” Maurice raised his hands up defensively. Bart turned his back to his uncle, walking toward the command lodge. He imagined the Kataji bowmen standing on the curtain wall parapet, leering at him.

  “Bartie!” his mother called, her voice carrying over the jangle of armor and harness. “Bartie!”

  He rolled his eyes and spun around. A very miserable-looking Ulrich ducked out of his way. Bart saw Junner still hovering nearby, watching the Barrin family with keen, professional interest.

  “Where’s my favorite son?” Lady Elizabeth cooed with all the elegance of a trueborn dame.

  The only son left, Bart thought sourly, remembering Elliot and Wilhelm. “Mother.”

  She grabbed him forcefully, almost clamping his ears, and planted two kisses on his cheeks. She smelled of lavender, like she always had, the smell of his childhood.

  “Bartholomew!” Lord Karsten yelled, refusing to be one-upped by the old woman.

  An army of slightly stunned and very polite officers followed their viceroy and his crippled uncle toward the command lodge. Bart quickly waved to his mother and watched her being intercepted by Alke and Edgar.

  The junior staff was waiting, ready, maps spread on the tables, held down by various implements, weak after-rain sunlight streaming through the windows. Servants were piling food and drinks everywhere, their anxiety reflecting that of their masters.

  Bart stepped in, heard a dull clank behind him. Someone coughed quite emphatically. Bart turned to see his uncle barricading the entrance, the wheels of his chair touching the slightly elevated step of the cabin’s entrance. He seemed to be waiting for someone to help him. Then, as one of the more naïve captains tried to assist, Lord Karsten got his sweet little victory.

  “I can manage on my own, son,” he said brusquely and deftly spun the wheels back and forth and back, tipping himself slightly to reduce the weight on the front of the wheels, and edged himself into the cabin, the muscles on his arms bulging and trembling. Commander Faas and Colonel Ulrich followed, severely embarrassed, although not nearly as much as Bart.

  “You can throw those maps away,” his uncle declared, looking almost bored.

  “Why?” Bart asked, fully aware he was being baited.

  “There’s a much bigger army threatening the realm. It has overrun our land. Within a few weeks, they will descend upon Somar, and this little affair with the nomads will have become meaningless. We will be dead, all of us, dead. You must focus all your effort on leaving to go south.”

  “You mean we ought to retreat from the capital, Uncle?”

  “Do we have any credible reports about this army?” Ulrich inquired.

  “I am credible enough, I would say.” The lord bristled. “If you need convincing, you can talk to any of the tens of thousands of people who have just fled their homes.”

  “What is the enemy strength?” Faas snapped his fingers at one of the adjutants, who drew his pen like a warrior unsheathing his sword.

  “Hundreds of thousands. Maybe more.”

  Bart realized he was gawking like a fool. “Larger than the Parusite force?”

  Lord Karsten snorted. “Much larger.” He gestured. Tobin, his uncle’s old-time attaché, stepped forward with all the grace of a patient assistant, well used to the man’s tantrums, and handed over a leather book. The crippled man took it and threw it on the table in front of him. “You want numbers, you have your numbers.”

  “Do we know anything about this enemy force?” Ulrich pressed.

  “They did not seem keen on discussing their intentions with us. They were too busy destroying, burning and killing. Whoever they are, they do not mean for Eracia to survive their onslaught. We must be prepared to abandon the realm and flee.”

  “The implications are dire,” Faas mouthed in a low, awed voice.

  Bart rubbed his forehead. The implications were catastrophic. Even without some incredible enemy showing up suddenly in the northern reaches of their country, the presence of so many new people around the siege lines complicated everything. There would be so much more crime and disease. Security and discipline would plummet. The civilians were likely to complain and cause trouble, and there would be a grave shortage of food. Bart did not like the idea of having to redistribute the supplies. He liked the fact there would be no more reinforcements and supplies from the north even less. This meant he was going to be forced to ask King Sergei for help, and he hated that notion.

  So here he was, waging one of the most important wars in Eracian history, fighting for its heart, and now, he was being asked to give everything up and run away, like some coward.

  He imagined Sonya watching the Eracian soldiers turn their tails and flee, leaving the women to their captors. He could imagine the sneer on her face, the perfect expression of contempt, the sum of his life etched into one grimace. He almost physically felt her disdain.

  Oh, he was done being a coward.

  He closed his eyes. “There will be no retreat.”

  A low murmur rippled through the crowd, almost involuntarily.

  Lord Karsten slammed a fist against one of the wheels. “Bartholomew, this is not the time for foolish ideas. The Eracian nation must retreat. We have to go to the Safe Territories. We must distance ourselves from this enemy. Meanwhile, all the leaders of the realms have to be alerted to the threat.”

  “They shall be,” Bart said, his voice calm. “But there will be no retreat.” Not as such.

  “Remaining here is suicide!” the cripple roared.

  “Uncle, keep your voice down,” Bart warned. “May I see those reports, please?” Faas handed him the ledger. Carefully, Bart opened its pages, reading. Not good. Not good at all. Sonya, Constance, his son, his imposing uncle, the war with the Kataji, and now this. Lovely.

  “Colonel Ulrich, I must ask you to assemble a regiment of horses and send them north. Light cavalry only so they can outpace any enemy troops if needed. Now, do we know anything about our northern detachment, Commander Velten?”

  The man cleared his throat. “We have not received any news from Colonel Finley for months now. We must presume they are lost. Either defeated by the Namsue or this new army.”

  “Perhaps this army is in league with the nomads?” Ulrich suggested.

  I didn’t want to consider that, Bart thought, a sour taste budding in his mouth. “We cannot assume otherwise until we have more credible information.” He looked at the outline of the city, surrounded by colored wooden blocks denoting various Eracian units. “We do not have much time. We must liberate Somar. If this enemy force is coming here, a
nd if the reports are true, they will destroy the capital and kill all our women. I will not abandon them to either the nomads or their potential allies.”

  Lord Karsten tried to interrupt, but Bart silenced him with a raised finger. “After we free Somar, a contingent of volunteers will remain to protect the city. All noncombatants will be evacuated to Paroth and Ubalar, with further plans to evacuate the cities, if needed. Meanwhile, all the crops must be harvested so that no food is left for the enemy. Major…”—he had to remember the name—“Kilian, I want your sappers ready to destroy all the bridges and ferry crossings.”

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  Not a war leader, Bart thought, and here I am, devising war strategy. For a moment, he remembered King Sergei doing the same thing during the Roalas siege, after learning Vlad had been kidnapped. He felt empowerment, a steel ball in the pit of his stomach. It was a cold weight, but it didn’t feel wrong. He almost liked this no-choice scenario.

  “We will act under the assumption this enemy army cannot be defeated in combat. We will prepare to stall them for as long as possible to allow a safe withdrawal of our people south.” He looked at his uncle, challenging him to dispute his strategy, but the old man just looked mildly irritated. “Their gains must be slow and bloody.” Bart leaned against the table, one of his wrists making a tiny popping sound. “However, we are not leaving Somar. Until the city is freed and the nomad invaders are repelled, we will not be going anywhere.” He had decided he would not abandon the women in the city. He owed them that much.

  He turned toward the Southern Army commander. “I believe the time for the infiltration mission has come. Your men are fully ready, I presume?”

  “They have been for some time now, Your Majesty.”

  Bart nodded, pushing himself upright. “Good. I guess this war starts in earnest now.” He realized he was giddy, swimming with excitement, fear, confusion. He knew there would be nothing good about this turn of events, only more death and suffering, while none of his other problems would go away. His wife was still there, and so was his mistress and her child. No matter how many foes he defeated, they would haunt him.

  “They will attack tonight,” Faas promised. It was going to be a long, sleepless night for everyone.

  Soon, the meeting was over. Nervous officers rushed to follow up on their orders. The rather dull day was becoming a hot, white chaos. He could hear the growing din outside. He wasn’t certain how the nomads would interpret the arrival of the Barrin people. Would they be alarmed by so many civilians? Would they bolster their defenses? Well, the time for doubts and wavering was over.

  “You certainly have changed, Nephew,” Lord Karsten said, remaining in the lodge.

  Bart glanced at one of the servants collecting wine cups. “Yes, I have.”

  His uncle almost smiled. “Well, a refreshing change, by all means.”

  “Are you certain about this enemy, Uncle?”

  The man patted his wheeled contraption, callused hands running over wet metal rims. “This threat is real, Bartholomew. I have no idea where this enemy comes from. I am just as surprised as you are. But the world is vast, beyond the measure of our maps.” He wrinkled his nose at the charts and drawings covering the tables. “We all know there are many nations in faraway lands. It is up to us to protect the realm against this new threat. Just as Vergil did in his time.”

  Bart felt uncomfortable staring down at his uncle, so he sat down. “I will have to ask the Parusites for assistance. But this does not bode well for Eracia. What will happen if our people are forced to cross into the Safe Territories? Will the king construe that as an invasion? Will he treat our plea for help seriously? Will he ever bother responding? I hardly believe your report, and you’re here. He might think I’ve gone insane.”

  Lord Karsten rolled himself closer and placed one of his strong hands on Bart’s knee. “Two years ago, if someone had told me my spineless nephew, the lowest member of the Privy Council, would rise to become the viceroy of the realm, I would have laughed in their faces. Yet, you are here, proving miracles can happen.”

  “Thank you for the compliment, Uncle.”

  The old man bahed. “Stop sopping. You do not need my sympathy. You have women for that.”

  “Sonya is in the city,” Bart said, trying to keep his voice flat.

  “So, you finally have the chance get rid of her.”

  Bart sighed. “I will be one to decide the fate of my marriage, not some Kataji chieftain.”

  Lord Karsten slanted his head. “I hear you have a son. A bastard. To some Caytorean floozy, no less. It seems you have had quite a bit of time on your hands recently. But I guess that shame is a less pressing matter now.”

  Bart bristled. He looked at the remaining help. “Out, please.” The lodge was soon empty apart from the two of them. “There’s nothing shameful about what I’ve done. Frankly, I’m long past caring what you or Mother may think.”

  “What made you change so much, Bartholomew?”

  He shrugged. He didn’t really know. It probably did not matter. “I just got tired of the humiliation.” He just frightfully hoped he was acting for the benefit of the realm and its people and not his own petty, selfish ideas. “I am a busy man, Uncle. You are welcome to stay, or you may evacuate to Paroth with the noncombatants.” A blithe jibe. “However, I must warn you, do not ever dispute me in public, or I will remove your authority and forbid you from joining the staff meetings. Your gold and your affliction do not make you into a holy man.” He frowned. “Is there any gold left at all?”

  Lord Karsten grinned, hiding his fury. “The gold is safe with us.”

  Bart stepped behind his uncle and turned his chair toward the exit. “Excellent. I will need finances to keep this war going properly. Thank you for your time, Uncle. We will talk later. Try to keep out of the deep puddles.” He propelled the old man out.

  Standing in the doorway, he watched the wheelchair roll away, feeling satisfaction in his limbs. Have I gone truly mad? he wondered. But can a madman ever know he’s mad? It did not matter. Eracia was at war, and he had to fight for the nation’s freedom. Complications, new problems, nothing mattered. Nothing would stop him now.

  He stood there, people around frowning and wondering what their provisional ruler had on his mind. If they could glimpse inside, they would see him thinking about Sonya, standing on the parapet, her face a mask of disdain.

  That would not do. There was his one true motivation.

  He had finally reached a decision.

  CHAPTER 17

  There was a loud noise, the sound of a heavy wooden door slamming into a wall, and Sonya woke, her mind sharp and alert. In that instant between reality and dream, before her body could obey, she knew she had been discovered.

  It’s over, she thought, and a strange calmness gripped her. I die with dignity, like a queen.

  “Get up. The general wants you,” a male voice rasped.

  Sonya opened her eyes, blinked away the sleep mist, made sure there were no tears in them, and looked sideways. There was a Kataji warrior blocking the doorway, the smooth leather of his uniform shining in the torchlight seeping from the corridor. The yellow light only accentuated his animallike features, the sharp creases in his whiskered face, the tufts of pelt randomly sewn to his jerkin, the weapons belt studded with knives.

  She was having such a beautiful dream. Now, things would get difficult. And painful. She was already bracing for pain. Against her volition, her stomach muscles hardened, her breath getting shorter, with a panicky wheeze riding on top of it. Gently, she slid the thin linen sheet off her body. The soldier was watching her shamelessly, enjoying her curves. Her nightgown did not provide much in the way of modesty.

  “I must dress first. You will wait outside,” she said, sitting up.

  “Come now,” the soldier grunted.

  Sonya rose. The soldier let her pass, watching her carefully, then followed. There were two more men in the corridor near her, both holding
torches. Another stood farther away, with a drawn blade. The nomad warriors smelled of musty hide and old sweat, and it wasn’t a soothing scent for her fluttering stomach.

  The torchbearers and their armed comrade turned and led, left and right, boots shuffling, sword sheaths scraping against mortar or clinking against an odd piece of furniture. She expected to find more of these beasts around, sleeping, but their filthy mats and pelts were empty.

  I’m not the only one roused from sleep, she mused.

  Unsurprisingly, her escort led her toward the throne room. However, what did surprise her was the commotion.

  There were almost a hundred souls present, in various states of discomfort and pain. Round the perimeter, the tribesmen stood guard, holding swords and spears. Closer to the dais, a huddle of women waited, looking utterly miserable. Their panic was obvious. Sonya discerned a large number of her noble friends and enemies there, which confirmed her suspicion. Pacmad had unveiled their plot.

  The Father of the Bear stood near the throne chair, ogling the lot with half a sneer on his face. He looked smug and irate at the same time. She had been around him long enough to recognize the barely bridled violence pulsating through his limbs, the almost imperceptible twitch of his fingers as he longed to release his wrath.

  He heard the footsteps of his warriors and glanced her way. Saw her. “Bring her here.”

  Sonya made sure she did not waver, whimper, or stumble as she approached the other Eracian women. Some were watching her, hope and terror lined in their features. Others just stood there, numb, shocked.

  “Are you going to tell me?” Pacmad asked her suddenly.