At the friendly hilltop, the last carts and horsemen were gathering, soon to vanish forever. Ewan realized he would just have to force them to help him. Either they would lug the wounded or they wouldn’t travel at all. He let go of the trace.
“I will not abandon you. I will return.”
Free of burden, he dashed like a snow cat, easily catching up with the Athesians and Parusites. They were watching him with a pained look, marveling at his tenacity and stupidity. And there was a healthy dose of fear there, too.
“You will help me with the wounded, right now,” he snapped, breath deep and clear.
“Fuck yourself, cripple,” one of the horsemen spat back and wheeled his horse south.
Before he knew it, Ewan was gripping the bloodstaff, aimed at the soldier. But he knew it would be foolish. Calemore couldn’t spot him while he pretended to be just another miserable refugee. However, if he used the weapon, the magic would give him away.
“Help or die,” Ewan warned.
“Those men are already dead, you fool. You’d kill us all for nothing!”
Ewan flicked a quick look down the slope. Maybe he was trying to save an ideal rather than human lives. Maybe. Giving up now meant giving up his last shred of humanity. No.
“They won’t be left behind.” He was tempted to press the button and pulverize them. That wouldn’t save his twenty-seven injured, though. And he would add more death and grief to the land drenched with misery.
There was a wind of angry protest from the men around him. So what should he do? Kill one man, and the rest would obey? What if they did not?
“You will help him,” a deep voice rumbled, silencing all argument.
Ewan saw Lucas standing some distance away, eyes locked on the huge tide lapping toward them.
No one argued. With almost enthusiastic urgency, a dozen riders rushed after Ewan. They tied their nervous hobs to the carts and began hauling. By the time they reached the flat ground, the Naum force was only a mile away. The air vibrated with the buzz of metal and leather and death.
“Keep going.” The soldiers and the teamsters were taking the wounded out from the two wagons, moving them elsewhere. Dumping them unceremoniously alongside old gear and sacks of rotten barley, sliding them up into the saddle behind other men, tying them so they wouldn’t fall off. Some might not make it, but no one cared right now. The Naum force was almost upon them.
Ewan was watching the enemy, trying to keep calm. But if he wanted to save these people, there would have to be bloodshed. He couldn’t use the bloodstaff, so it would have to be personal. He would have to wade into that human mass and start killing people with his bare hands.
“It’s never easy,” Lucas preached in a calm voice, just nearby. “Ask yourself why you’re doing this. Then, it might become easier.”
“Thank you,” Ewan mumbled.
“Thank you. For reminding me what we’re all about.”
Ewan glanced at the Anada wizard. “Will you fight?”
Lucas nodded once. “I will shield you and distract Calemore.”
Ewan realized the Sirtai might know more about him than he should. But there was no time for questions. No time for making his heart flutter with hope. His journey of knowledge had ended long ago. He had all the pieces, but not the answer to his pain, or his legacy.
Behind him, the last of the refugee convoy was fleeing hurriedly away. The sky was alive with birds, cheering the bloodshed, welcoming a feast.
Ewan took a deep breath. He might die today. His magic might fail him. He never knew. Maybe Calemore would spot him and cut him down with his own bloodstaff. Maybe his agony would end today. But no matter the consequence, he would do his best to save those people.
Almost lazily, he stepped down the way he had come, knee-deep in old snow. The Naum force was churning forward, and he could see faces in that huge, quivering mass. Thin, gaunt, filthy, with huge eyes beaded with fear, just like those of the people of the realms.
What made one lot more valuable than the other? Nothing really. Just chance.
The enemy didn’t really pay him any attention. He was just one scrawny lad, marching willingly toward death. Somewhere to his left, a column of earth exploded, and a rustle of screams shook the Naum ranks. Must be Lucas, engaging Calemore, baiting him.
Ewan didn’t move as the enemy spearman tried to stab him. The leaf-shaped head stopped dead against his skin, then raked up and over his shoulder. The soldier gasped in astonishment before colliding with him. Ewan almost wept. But he had to do it.
He punched the man’s face, caving it in.
More spears jabbed at him, and soon, he was surrounded in curses and growls and shouts in a foreign language, and everyone was doing their best to slay him. It was as if ants were crawling over his skin, and he couldn’t really tell what they were doing. Swords, axes, spears, lashing, breaking, bending against his stonelike body. The Naum troops were hacking madly at him, at their own white fear. There was no retreat. These men could only march forward, or be trampled by those coming behind.
I am doing this to save the people of the realms, he told himself. He was red all over, red like a newborn baby, caked in hot human pulp, blinded by the blood dripping down his face. He punched left and right, killed people with a single blow, leaving a pile all around him. Before long, he had to wade through a mound of corpses to get away, to reach a new spot where he could do some more killing.
There was no end to the enemy force. Nor to his strength.
He kept on punching, tearing, hoping the madness would end soon.
One way or another.
CHAPTER 42
Keep an eye on her, Jarman told himself.
Amalia’s reaction to her mother’s death was strange. Reserved, almost emotionless. He could remember his own anguish when his third mother had died, and so he was worried about Amalia. Quite a bit.
“Keep an eye on her,” he told Timothy, the young lieutenant who used to be James’s squire. The boy had not lost his innocence, but he had been well fattened in battle hardship. A man was emerging from his youthful countenance, one with few words and many strong deeds. Someone useful to have around.
Timothy nodded. “Yes, sir.” He understood what was at stake.
If Amalia decided to retaliate, the brittle alliance between the Parusites and Athesians would shatter. It wasn’t enough that they all might die soon, trampled by the unstoppable Naum army; they did not need a bloody conflict among themselves a handful of miles from Roalas. It might be Sergei’s rule now, but it was Amalia’s city, her people.
This close to the capital of Athesia, news traveled much faster. They had ample reports about what was happening in the city. Sergei was beefing up the defenses. Any boy strong enough to hold a sword was given a uniform and asked to join the soldiers manning the walls. The streets had been cleared, the people sent south. No matter what the Athesians felt about their new ruler, he was taking his responsibility seriously. He was protecting his new subjects like he would his own nation, and he was sending convoys of women and children south to Parus.
Which was why the people of Roalas had not rebelled against him over Lady Lisa’s execution. That, or the greater fear of the huge white army swarming across the land held them docile and obedient.
But that did not mean Amalia might not decide to take revenge. It might be a stupid act of defiance, one last suicidal attempt at righting wrongs that could not be remedied. She might choose to strike against the Parusites or just flee. Maybe try to kill the princess with her own hands. Either way, the fragile unity would break. That would mean more chaos, more dying.
Even without the former empress exacting her payback for her mother’s death, the situation was lousy. Since Xavier’s death, half the Caytorean troops had deserted, led by one Colonel Gilles. Master Hector had tried to stop him, and the scuffle had left more than eighty dead. A fair share of Athesians had also taken to other roads, away from the fighting. Even some of Gavril’s men had abandoned t
he holy pilgrimage.
The people of Athesia tried to mingle with the troops and pilgrims, trying to secure protection or earn an odd coin for some hard work, but mostly, they were just a burden, slowing everyone down, draining the resources. Still, out of some odd sense of responsibility or maybe fear of mutiny among the local legions, the king’s sister was marching them on, toward Roalas, toward some temporary safety.
Jarman laid a gentle hand on Timothy’s shoulder. Months ago, he would have been appalled by his own gesture. Now, he had learned the importance of these friendly pats and handshakes. He couldn’t let his temple education ruin his work. After all, he had come here to avenge his third mother.
Would that ever happen?
Most likely not.
So what should he do? Flee like that coward Gilles?
The lieutenant nodded and walked away from the makeshift command tent. He did not venture too far. A cook was burning small black sausages over a fire, and a long line of junior officers was waiting for its share. Several Red Caps and soldiers in the service of Duke Yuri were making sure there was no jostling or thievery.
Jarman spared the sorry day camp another quick glance before ducking back into the second tent, the one where Amalia and Lucas waited for him.
Adam’s daughter was sitting in a simple canvas chair, staring at the red-hot brazier below her feet, eyes glazed with images only she could see. Her maid was feeding her daughter, a pale breast peeking out from under thick woolen blankets. His life slave and tutor and friend was standing, watching the entrance, face unreadable in the stifling murk.
Amalia couldn’t see the princess anymore. Sasha had dismissed her, and for all she was concerned, Amalia was just traveling south with the rest of them before taking her role in Roalas. She didn’t bother investigating the death of the warlord, or the rumors of an assassination attempt against Amalia. Sasha had one objective, and that was bringing as much of her army back to the capital. Everything else was secondary now.
For Amalia, that meant no closure for her mother’s death. She could not confront the princess or maybe even discuss it with her. Who knew, perhaps that would actually help defuse the situation. Instead, left alone to her festering, Amalia was breeding her rancor, her guilt, and her desire for violence. Jarman was worried.
His plan had not only fallen apart, it threatened to transform into an ugly, dangerous monstrosity.
They were losing the war, and he might never get his own vengeance. Like Lucas had said, the war was not going to be won with the bloodstaff.
But how then?
Scouts reported Calemore almost two days behind. He was regrouping after a deadly fight. Apparently, that lad Ewan had magic.
He was a Special Child, then.
Jarman wanted to cling to that. Jarman wanted to hope. But nothing seemed to matter. Gavril was behaving like a frightened animal. The troops only followed orders because they feared being killed for disobedience. Every day, more and more Caytoreans fled to their realm.
Now, no one could predict what would happen when Amalia finally returned to Roalas.
“You should eat, Jarman,” Agatha chided.
Jarman rubbed a hand down his cheek. He had grown thinner lately. He was using magic, and that bled his strength worse than the cold and a meager diet. He was straining his own life-force. He was constantly tired, constantly weak.
He smiled. His finger touched the platter of rye bread and a block of pig lard, studded with spruce seeds. Well, he was still considered important enough, it seemed.
“I want to talk to Amalia, please.”
The once empress glanced up sharply, sniffed. The girl was recovering from a mild illness, on top of everything. Being wet and cold wasn’t good for anyone’s health. “Agatha stays. She is not going out there into the cold, into that chaos, with all those animals.”
“Lucas will protect—” he began.
“She stays.” Another sniff.
Jarman sat down opposite Adam’s daughter, the warmth from the red coals in the rusty brazier seeping into his shins even through the layers of tweed. It was a pleasant sensation. He thought he should be somewhat apprehensive of Amalia’s sickness, but the exposure to the filth of the realms had numbed him to his former strict insistence on hygiene.
“I am worried about you, Amalia,” he admitted, trying to ignore the maid.
Amalia squared her jaw. “Are you? Well, use your magic and kill Sasha. That will make me better.”
Jarman grimaced at the thin, wet wall of the tent. Just another stretch of fabric away, the princess was discussing war affairs with Sergei’s dukes, Captain Speinbate, and the scattering of Athesian legion commanders still left with the army.
“You need to look at the broader picture,” he said.
“You are a hypocrite,” she accused, venom dripping from her voice, eyes blurred with tears.
He tried to keep his face straight, angry at her words. He had come to the realms to avenge a woman who wasn’t even his own mother, twenty years after the deed. He had put aside his fury until the right moment, and wanted her to understand his motivation.
“My nation does not exist anymore. Athesia has been reduced to a sorry column of starving people, a handful of soldiers still deluded with the glory of my father’s victories, and mercenaries who try to blackmail me at every turn, not that I exist anymore. Once you solve all these problems for me, Jarman, I will look at the broader picture.”
“From what I heard, your mother did commission the death of the king’s heir.”
Amalia snarled at him. “I know what happened.”
“But that does not mean—”
“Amalia,” Lucas spoke, his voice deep.
Everyone turned to look at him. Even Agatha’s girl stirred.
The blue-faced Anada was silent for a moment. “Nothing can change death. Nothing can change how you feel about it. How you feel about your nation. Princess Sasha may have dismissed you from her service, but you still have a duty toward your people, and titles make no difference.”
Amalia wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “You may ignore reality, wizard, but I cannot.”
Lucas didn’t move or even blink. “Do you think your father would have given up now?”
Jarman saw the girl change. Her face turned hard, locked with emotion and deep thought. She opened her mouth, but then bit her response back. A frown crept onto her features, twisting her youthful, exhausted beauty.
“So what do you recommend, Lucas?” she asked in a hushed tone.
“If you think the royal house of Parus has done you an injustice, then you should seek your vengeance. But not now. Not today. Let us end this war first. Let us win against Calemore. For all your self-pity, you are still a leader of these people. They look up to you for support. You cannot abandon them now for your own little vendetta. If we somehow defeat the White Witch, you will have your chance for justice against the princess, or the king. Just remember it is your family that robbed King Sergei of both his father and his son.”
Amalia leaned forward on her knees, staring into the fire again. She seemed to be on the verge of tears. “So what do I do now?”
“Talk to Master Guilliam. He claims to have devised a new weapon based on his earlier models. If we get to Roalas safely, he will be able to modify the existing siege machines to fire much more effective, more lethal loads. Master Hector is still loyal to you. Harness that to your advantage. Princess Sasha is the provisional ruler, but she is not liked by the common troops or by the people. Make sure you regain your old popularity, so that the king and his sister never think again of sidelining you, for the fear of rebellion.”
Amalia was afraid, Jarman realized. “They might just decide to fight again, and I will be defeated. Again.”
Lucas shook his head. “Not after this war. The Parusites have lost huge numbers. The king’s lords will have to return to their own country within the next year. Athesia will be left with its own people, its own troops. Sergei will no
t be able to hold this new princedom without your help. So, it is you who must decide the future of Athesia. Will you ruin everything over the death of your mother? Did King Sergei ruin Athesia over the death of his son? Or did he give this land another chance? Gave you another chance? He rose above it. Is he a better person than you?”
Jarman realized his silent, formidable friend had been doing much more than hurling magic against the Naum troops. He had been studying politics, trying to predict the actions of the local rulers. Jarman wished he had done the same, feeling slightly ashamed. He had focused too hard on his frustration and the magical piece of this war, neglecting the people. Perhaps he needed many more years away from the Temple of Justice before he could handle the ordinary continental people.
The former empress sniffed again. “Thank you, Lucas.”
The wizard nodded solemnly. “You will excuse us. Jarman and I must talk.”
Jarman realized Lucas had just done all the hard work for him, and there was nothing else he could add. Feeling somewhat embarrassed, he edged out of the tent, back into the winter cold. Sasha’s officers and Sergei’s nobles were milling, their meeting ended.
The camp was seething with activity, mostly because it was too cold for men to be idle. He could see one of the olifaunts lumbering down a narrow lane dug between two rows of old, patched tents, its gray hide wrapped in blankets. Too many olifaunts had succumbed to the cold, but at least they had provided everyone with ample meat—for an appropriate payment to the owners, of course.
Fires were coming alive, almost like glowworms in a summer forest, a blessing after so many weeks of rain and storms and endless marches. Sergei was sending food, timber, healers, iron, trying to help the retreating army as much as he could. Wounded soldiers were being taken away in carts, civilians shuffled away so they wouldn’t drain the resources or distract the troops. Even the whores were herded south, because they, too, were a burden and caused fighting and strife among the troops. King Sergei might have defeated Amalia, maybe even humiliated her into submission, but he was serious and committed about defending his new scrap of territory.
The Humbled (The Lost Words: Volume 4) Page 44