The Humbled (The Lost Words: Volume 4)

by Igor Ljubuncic

  Xavier was on his knees, gripping feebly at a chain round his neck, face purple and swollen. A Borei warrior was choking him, even as dozens of soldiers of all colors streamed past. Another mercenary was standing nearby, sword in hand, watching and grinning.

  “Good work, Your Empress, you almost had us worried,” the one doing the killing chirped.

  The second one touted, shaking his head, “Yes, would cost me a fortune if he’d done you in.”

  The warlord was making gurgling noises, spit dribbling down the side of his mouth. His face was the color of a rotten plum now. His hands were touching his chin, as if feeling the whiskers there. Amalia was cold, terribly cold, but she didn’t care right now. All she wanted was to plunge the knife into the swine’s heart.

  “Wanna do it, Empress?” the swordsman asked.

  Amalia gathered her breath and lunged forward. She stabbed toward the chest, but the blade grazed sideways into his arm. The Caytorean hissed thinly. She aimed again. Belly. There, she couldn’t miss it. She touched the injury below her own ribs, leaking blood into the freezing night. Stabbed, stabbed again. Her fingers were on fire, and she realized she had cut herself.

  “That’s enough.” The second warrior stepped forward, dragging her away. He had a bandage ready and was wrapping it round her middle. “Goose lard so the wound don’t stink up. Good work. I earned my coin back. I bet on you. Excellent.”

  Amalia nodded dumbly. “You’re welcome.” She collapsed into the mud, retched again, and it was as if someone had kicked her in the guts.

  The Borei laughed. “It’s fine. You will live, lass. Just a scratch there. Your fingers won’t be as delicate as you might like for a few weeks, but that’s what happens to all amateur knifers. Not your fault. You did well.”

  Someone put a musty blanket round her shoulders.

  Just as quickly, the two mercenaries vanished in the chaos. The warlord’s corpse remained there, strangled and stabbed through, already caked over with mud. No one paid him any heed. No one paid her any heed. The men and women were running to meet the enemy. But she knew what was going to happen. Soon, they would be retreating once more, fleeing the northern force. It couldn’t be stopped.

  Calemore was going to win.

  The air was no longer black, she noticed. It was peppered white. Snow.

  “Amalia!” She recognized that voice. The wizard. “Amalia!” He sounded like a frightened girl.

  “What?” she bawled. He was standing above her, panting, looking worried.

  “Oh no. Come here. Are you hurt? Lucas!”

  Somehow, she stumbled up and let herself be dragged away. But then she realized she could walk. She was bruised and cold, but her legs obeyed, and the pull of pain round her abdomen was just a line of fire, nothing serious. She was stronger than that. Fuck them all. She wasn’t going to be a coward anymore.

  “I will heal you with magic. Show me your hand.”

  Amalia wanted to refuse his help, but what would be the point? She must use him, use all of them, and once she was done, she should discard them, abandon them, crush them pitilessly. They were all just tools, serving her.

  She looked at the wizard, his hair dotted with silvery flakes.

  Then, the world started spinning and went black.

  She woke up in a carriage, a small lamp swaying above her head, painting the interior jaundiced. Agatha sat opposite her, face full of worry, her baby asleep in her lap. There was someone at her side. Jarman, wearing clean blue robes. He looked haggard, but his face lit up when he noticed her stir.

  “Where are we?”

  “Still fleeing the northern army, I’m afraid,” he admitted.

  Amalia glanced down at her body. Clean, warm, no trace of pain. She stared at her right palm. There were pink lines where she expected to see gashes, across the bridge of her hand, down the side of her thumb. The Sirtai was wearing a solemn expression on his face. Was it humble self-satisfaction?

  She pushed herself off the plush seat and moved the velvet curtain aside, just an inch. She couldn’t see much, just a gray swirl.

  “We held as long as we could. But we were forced to begin retreating into the night. Luckily, the earth has frosted over, so the passage is much easier for us. Not so for the enemy, because they must tread in our mush. They are steadily falling behind. We could gain as much as a whole day if the weather continues like this.”

  Amalia wanted to hear more details, but at the moment, she felt content not knowing. The snug, hot safety of the carriage was good for her. She felt protected. At the back of her mind, a lone thought was floating, like a piece of driftwood, trying to remind her that she had stabbed a man. A monster, a butcher, but still a human being. She hadn’t just ordered him hanged from the gallows or cut down with a sword; she had personally delivered the lethal blow. What did that make her?

  She didn’t want to know just yet.

  Agatha was crying, she noticed. Silent, hard tears. Jarman’s face wasn’t humble, as she first thought. It looked pained.

  Amalia frowned. “I’m all right,” she whispered, reaching out toward her maid. “I’m fine.”

  Jarman swallowed loudly, his whole head bobbing. “Amalia…”

  The safety fluttered away like a startled bird, and dread settled in, cold like the night outside. Her muscles tensed, her body went rigid, and phantoms of pain arced through her gut and arm. Something was very wrong. She worked her mouth to form words.

  “What is it, Jarman?”

  The wizard didn’t speak for a while. “King Sergei found out your mother was behind his son’s kidnapping and death. He…ordered Lady Lisa to be executed for treason. Amalia, your mother is dead. I’m truly sorry.”

  Amalia let her head slump against the cushion. She closed her eyes so she couldn’t see her maid weeping. Numbness, there was nothing else in her soul. Her reasoning was telling her this was wrong. She should be sad. She should be furious. Something other than this stupor. But she couldn’t bring herself to feel anything. Not this night.

  I will get them all, she promised. I will show them.

  CHAPTER 41

  Ewan lurched forward as the wet rope snapped in his hand. He fell onto his knees, and his crippled left arm sank into the brown slush. He rose, feeling no pain, no weariness, no cold. His brief reacquaintance with humanity was gone again, and his senses deprived him of any weakness.

  He stared at his left hand. Two fingers gone. He had heard soldiers talking about ghost feelings in missing limbs, as if they were still there. Nothing of that sort in his case. All he had was a hand that wriggled funny.

  “I need another rope,” he declared loudly.

  A teamster on his left reached into the back of his cart and tossed him a fresh coil. It was thin and frayed and eaten by weather and mites, so it would probably last only a few miles, like the last one, but it would have to do.

  When Ewan was done tying the rope to the wagon, the other man and his ox were gone down the road, joining the slow, miserable exodus of the people of the realms.

  He yanked on the rope to make sure his knot was sound, braced it over his shoulder, and started pulling again. The rope protested, the wagon protested, but then it groaned forward, freeing its wheels from the mire some would call snow. Well, maybe it had been snow, but not after tens of thousands of feet, hooves, and paws had churned it into a brown-stained butter.

  Ahead of him, the road twisted, wriggled through an abandoned village, and then loped over a hilltop. Most of the Athesians and pilgrims had already gone to the other side, but there were still a few hundred people struggling. A half-size contingent of Parusite cavalry was trampling through the sodden fields, keeping rear guard, eyes turning around nervously, seeking the enemy. But the forested stretch of the hills to the north was empty.

  Ewan kept marching, sinking deep, sliding, but not giving up. He was hauling two wagons of injured soldiers, tied together, with twenty-seven men loaded into the tiny space. Amalia’s troops had even attached stret
chers on the outside, strapped some wounded there, too, and then bundled them in blankets so they would not freeze.

  The two oxen had been butchered for meat, so Ewan had volunteered to replace them. At the moment, no one was complaining about his superhuman strength. They were all glad there was someone moving them farther away from the Naum army.

  He followed the half-frozen ruts, stepping around discarded gear. The bodies of those too weak to travel had been pushed away, some covered in snow and mud. The tail of the fleeing column consisted mostly of dwindling supplies and the wounded. Ewan had the moans of the dying and the caw of hungry birds for company.

  The seven odd thatched houses that made the settlement in front of him should have been empty, he thought, frowning. But he saw pale smoke rising and a huddle of men standing at the roadside, not really bothered by the flow of dejected, demoralized countryfolk and soldiers streaming past.

  The rope snapped again. He stumbled again, but did not lose his footing. He glanced around. There were no more wagons behind him. His was the last one. All the others were gone ahead, and he was certain they wouldn’t bother stopping. There was a lone, limping soldier in a long coat making stubborn progress south, using his sword as a prop, a raven hopping behind him, mocking him. Ewan thought about calling the man over so he could ride in one of the wagons, but they were already too crowded and too heavy.

  “I will return shortly,” he told the delirious passengers and trotted toward the village, right hand holding the bloodstaff, tied over his back to keep it from wobbling. Several soldiers, it seemed, were warming their hands over a pitiful fire. Ewan thought he saw a child hiding behind someone’s leg.

  If he were like any other man, Ewan would try to be cautious. But he couldn’t bother with that anymore. He didn’t care about discipline or danger.

  “Fellows, I need some help. Do you have a spare rope or maybe a chain?”

  One, with a face swathed in filthy rags, looked up from the tiny fire. “What for?”

  Ewan pointed behind him. “Need something to lug those wagons. I’ve got wounded people there.”

  “What’s that on your back?” another ugly mien asked him.

  “Never mind that. Will you help?”

  “He wants help,” a third mouth grunted derisively.

  “Gotta pay us. That’s right. This is a trading post now.”

  Ewan sighed. He did not want to point out to these half madmen, half deserters what would happen to their little business endeavor once Calemore’s troops arrived. But he had no goodness left in his heart. He couldn’t care about everyone. He could not save everyone.

  Ignoring them, he poked his head into the nearest house. Small, dark, entirely empty. He realized he wouldn’t find anything worth using in this hamlet. Maybe he could push the wagons? But no, that would be silly. They would steer wildly. He raked his hair, frosted with dirty ice. Abandon the wounded? Why shouldn’t he? After all, everyone else had.

  He heard a soft, mucky rattle, and a small, scruffy dog pattered over, but then it stopped halfway, wrinkled its nose, and fled. The scrawny child rushed from behind a tree of legs and chased after the animal. Ewan did not want to contemplate what a little girl was doing among these so-called traders. He had seen too much death in the past several months, and he just couldn’t make himself care any further. It was impossible.

  Ewan walked back to his two wagons, already anchored hard in the gelid mush. He didn’t have a smart answer for the Athesians. Leave them now? Let them be killed by frost, hunger, or the northern warriors?

  By now, the limping soldier had circled the village and was trying to climb the hill, the black bird still chasing him. On the other side, the land stretched into a ripple of fields all the way to Roalas. Apparently, King Sergei had arrayed all of his strength awaiting the invincible, mythical enemy. The remnants of the unified army of the realms, with its scattering of Gavril’s followers, Sasha’s Red Caps, Amalia’s colorful bastard army, and the king’s own legions. They had been so successful campaigning through Athesia the previous year; now, they were fleeing unceremoniously, ruined, exhausted, without hope.

  Ewan wondered about his destiny. He had come north to stop Calemore. Only he hadn’t really done that. Not at all.

  The witch had almost killed him. That was such a sobering, humbling experience it had almost broken him. Ewan had meant to use the bloodstaff against the Naum force and check its advance. Maybe even destroy Calemore. But it didn’t work. The witch knew when Ewan used the weapon, and always retaliated with precision and brutality. Now, Ewan was almost afraid to use the bloodstaff, because he knew it would not stem the Naum progress. At best, it would decimate a handful of enemy soldiers. At worst, it would get him killed.

  He did not relish ending up dead just yet. His invincibility might be a sterile experience, but he still cherished what life he had, and he did not want to trade it in. He felt there was something else, something more he could do to redeem his soul. Something that would add meaning to his existence. Something that might sweeten the terrible pain of abandonment, of the time spent in the Abyss, the loneliness, the self-loathing.

  I can’t use the bloodstaff, he mused, and that means Calemore wins. Just like that.

  It couldn’t be all that was left for him. To witness defeat and destruction of all that he knew.

  It couldn’t be just that.

  But he didn’t even have a god to pray to anymore. No one to give him any hope, even a false one. Tanid was a coward.

  Ewan still vividly remembered how the deity had hidden in the trench while the White Witch pummeled ruby death around them. He remembered a more recent attack by Calemore’s men. He had found Gavril hiding in the cellar of an old house in yet another village, waiting for the storm of death to cease, while Jarman and Lucas risked their lives fighting against the witch. Their magic was strong and unique, it seemed, but alone, they couldn’t stop the enemy tide. They could not stop Calemore on their own.

  Anytime there was magic used against him, the witch would retaliate with the bloodstaff. He would fire back, killing hundreds, confident that Ewan could not kill him with his own copy. The weapon was useless against Calemore. Maybe Ewan had overheard that from the Sirtai wizards or the cowardly god, or maybe the knowledge had just erupted in his head after reading The Pains of Memory, or maybe it was a relic from some ancient time, lodged in his being. It didn’t matter.

  Ewan was useless.

  But that was a sorry end to his misery. He refused to accept that.

  There must be something more, the reason why I exist, the reason why I can’t feel.

  His disappointment made him bitter. So he had withdrawn from the rest of the humans, trying to do some little good with his muscles. He let the princess and the former empress and Jarman and that craven god sort out their own problems. He didn’t want any part of that. He didn’t want to be their tool. He did not want to be the outlet for their scheming.

  The only person who seemed genuine in his actions and intentions was Jarman’s silent blue-tattooed companion. But if he shared any sympathy with Ewan, he kept it to himself.

  He stood in front of the wagon, staring at the soldiers, the handful of those still awake. They stared back, eyes wide and glazed with fear. He had nothing to offer them. This burden was just too much.

  Then, he sensed a presence, even before the army scouts raised a cry.

  You could hardly see the horizon line. It was blurred with mist, snow, and clouds the color of pure gloom.

  Across the broken line of the land and through the dapple of trees, the enemy army began coalescing, tainting the landscape. Ewan knew the foe suffered just as much as they did, maybe even more. The Naum folk had to walk though the ruins and refuse left by the Athesians and Parusites. The enemy had even less food. But they didn’t seem to mind the cold, and they had superior numbers to compensate for any tactical losses.

  The patrols shouted and whistled and bugled their warnings, then turned about, heading away f
rom the menace. The hilltop became a swarm of slipping hooves and cursing men. Soon enough, those supposed to defend the last knuckle of supply carts were mostly gone. No one cared about the stragglers anymore. It would be a waste of good, healthy lives. Whoever remained behind was meant to die, it seemed.

  Ewan scanned the fields. Maybe a few walking dead there. His own two wagons, the fools in the village, but that was all. The filthy stretch of the tortured terrain was abandoned. The people of the realms were hurrying away, trying to save their hides.

  What do I do now? he thought. Turn tail and run? He could sprint until he overtook Sasha’s vanguard, and be in Roalas days before everyone else. He could leave all this madness. But the ghost of a memory of a dear friend echoed in his mind. Ayrton would never run.

  Maybe he could just lug one of the carts, save half the wounded? His conscience growled with displeasure. Adjusting the bloodstaff strap, he reached for the broken cart trace and tried to pull on it. But it was slick with mud, and his fingers—those he had left—slipped. Well, there was no other option. He raised his fist up and punched through the wood. The trace splintered, and almost shattered, but its shape still remained intact. Pushing his hand into the hole, he hauled.

  He fell and sprayed icy mud, but he made the two wagons move. The injured men started goading him, whispering encouragement. Teeth ground together, he made another step, and another, and he crossed the hamlet and started uphill. The little dog was barking at him from a very safe distance.

  Ewan led the two wagons off-road, where the footing was more solid. Naked shrubbery tore at his clothes, snagged at the bloodstaff. The vegetation had no respect for the magical weapon. He slammed his boots into the gray crust, kicked his toes into the gravel and rock. And started slipping. No matter how hard he pummeled at the frozen earth, he just didn’t have enough traction to move the human loads on those narrow, slick wheel rims up a wet snowbank.

  Ewan looked across the valley, toward the enemy. It would take the Naum fighters several hours to reach his position, but at his undignified crawl, they would reach him eventually. He could not outpace them, not with the injured soldiers.