“With me,” he muttered. Three Parusite men, all metal and fur, jogged after him. They ran through the ranks, heading toward the killing zone. Ranks parted to let them pass. Sergei’s men did not like the Sirtai—but they sure feared them.
The forest of men shifted, and then, Princess Sasha was there, in front of him.
She was saddled, armored, her chest and back plate covered in maroon leather, her gloves the color of old blood. The Red Caps were milling, getting ready for the fight. The survivors were all lean, scarred women, disillusioned about the glory of the war to the bone. Many had fingers and ears missing, and others leaned on their spears, pained by half-healed injuries.
Jarman halted, trying to catch his breath. His throat was on fire. He wanted to vomit again. “Your Highness!”
She turned her head, saw him, and her features contorted with distaste. She said nothing.
“I need help, Your Highness. I must rescue Ewan, but I need you to hold the enemy at bay. Please.” He wanted to sound important, but his voice was cracking with a breathless chill.
An officer at her side hawked and spat. Someone else muttered, “Freak.” The women hated the boy and his magic. They hated him and Lucas, too. The Parusites were all hostile.
“If he dies, we will lose this war,” he hissed desperately.
“You may not have faith, wizard, but we do,” another nameless face snarled.
Jarman remembered what Lucas had told him only days ago, the way he had spoken to Amalia. He was not yet ready for his first tattoo. He let the frustration subside.
“Please. We do not have much time. Please.”
The princess shrugged, an awkward motion in her armor. “Troops, advance.”
Jarman slouched with relief. The fact the Red Caps commander had planned to fight back all along did not matter. He was not going to let Ewan die over pride. He nodded his thanks at Sergei’s sister, and then he was pushing through the noisy crowd again.
The closer he got to the actual fighting, the worse it got. Men running back, throwing weapons, defeated in spirit even if their bodies were whole. Others, limping slowly to temporary safety. The northern army was crushing the foremost fortifications, flowing over the trenches and barricades like ants. To the east, the second host was starting to cross the Telore in a thousand small wooden rafts. They did not seem to hurry. Lucas’s magical blows had ceased. His friend must have been channeling all his power on protecting him—and Ewan.
Maybe just the boy.
Jarman pushed forward against the tide, feeling crazy. The snow had become brown pulp, and you could not tell blood and soil apart. He tripped on discarded gear, walked over bodies. Mutilated corpses, arms, and legs scattered. This had to be the work of the bloodstaff.
He saw Ewan hunching behind a rock, head lolling with pain. He was even pastier than usual, and his clothes were smeared in blood. It was hard telling if it belonged to him, because he still had not shed the rags he’d worn during the butchery some weeks back. Jarman felt a knot of pity for the lad.
Then, he saw the gash in his leg, and he remembered the pain earlier.
Ignoring the threat from Calemore’s weapon somewhere to the north or east, he dashed the last stretch across the churned battlefield and dropped to his knees near the Special Child. Ewan only looked at him lazily, eyes glazed with shock.
“Jarman…”
“Where are your wounds?” Jarman panted.
Ewan pointed at his legs, then at his bleeding shoulder. The second wound didn’t look serious. Jarman took a few deep breaths to steady his breathing, then started working his magic. He was so tired, and he had to stop twice to rest. But he managed to close the red maw. He scooped up some snow and wiped the red mess away. Sure enough, his healing was sound. The boy might limp for a while, but he would survive this injury.
“We cannot win this war. The witch is too powerful,” Ewan mumbled.
Jarman rubbed his forehead. “Let me use the bloodstaff.”
Ewan’s weary eyes lit up with mistrust, but then the glare faded. “It’s terrible.”
Jarman wondered about the price of vengeance. He thought about Sergei and his son. He thought about Amalia and her mother. His own reason why he was risking his life in this awful war.
Something snapped, like a twig. He saw a puff of snow to his left, then another. A piece of rock shattered, shards flying. As always, it took him a moment to realize it was the bloodstaff firing. The White Witch must have found them somehow. Or he was just shooting at the last position he had seen Ewan. But he thought he was most likely reacting to magic.
Then, it hit him.
Calemore could probably sense Special Children. And he seemed keen on killing them.
Had Rob been a Special Child, then?
There was no time for investigation now. He had to get Ewan to safety. He had to somehow make the witch stop his attack, before Lucas and he lost the last ounces of their strength. Once that happened, they would all die, torn apart by silent red crystals.
“…was a god,” Ewan was saying, his voice low.
“What?” Jarman snapped, his voice shrill. The pellets were raking the ground, kicking up clouds of dirt and stone and ice. His eyes scanned the scene. Hundreds of bodies, hacked apart, thrown in lurid poses. Even some of the low barracks had been hammered down by the bloodstaff. Dead men, animals, broken lives everywhere. Ewan was still talking.
“Gavril is dead,” the boy whispered.
That does not surprise me, Jarman thought, his father’s education slithering into his conscience. “Give me the bloodstaff, please.”
A red arrow exploded a few paces away, shattered against an invisible bubble of magic protecting him.
“Can you fight?” Jarman asked, his fingers inching toward the slender glass rod.
Ewan blinked slowly. “I don’t want to do this killing anymore.”
Jarman grimaced. “You must. Otherwise we all die.”
Ewan closed his eyes. “Let us die.”
“No, please. Think of the people and their families. Think of all the innocent souls. Your friends.”
The boy’s blood-spattered lids snapped open, oily vigor shining in his eyes once again. He looked at his hands, lingering on the crippled one, as if seeing them for the first time. “I will use my hands. Calemore will not know then.”
Jarman’s hand closed on the ancient weapon. A tingle went down his spine. “May I?”
Ewan swallowed. “Yes. But you will give it back, wizard. This magic does not belong to the Sirtai.”
Jarman lifted the bloodstaff. It was surprisingly light and yet heavy at the same time. Just right. There was still a quarter of the blood left inside the hollow rod.
Noise behind him. Jarman spun, lowering the staff. He saw the standards of the Parusite army and the Red Caps rippling in the wind, moving forward. Not two bow shots away, the Naum white host was churning south. The shuffle of boots and the groan of leather and metal were growing in intensity, becoming a gravely susurration. He could feel the rhythm in his gut.
Princess Sasha was doing her best to protect him. He should not squander her generosity. There was no time for selfishness now.
He turned north and pressed the black dots as he had seen Ewan do. He expected the weapon to twitch, like a crossbow, but nothing happened. No sound, no movement, just a steady stream of crimson death flowing toward the enemy. He realized he was aiming too high, above the heads of the front ranks. He lowered the bloodstaff, and soon enough, a pink haze engulfed the enemy. He spent the weapon in seconds.
Ewan grabbed his robe, trying to stand up. The boy clambered up, nursing his injured leg. Jarman ignored the boy, staring at the red pulp, at the mushy horror he had created. Calemore was probably still firing at them, but he didn’t notice. A wave of friendly troops swept past, and the enemy was gone from sight.
Ewan stumbled forward, trying to get pulled into the stream of soldiers. Jarman held him back. “No. Not now. You must rest first. You must recuper
ate. We have to get back.”
Red death rained around them. Soldiers tumbled like broken dolls, missing limbs and heads. Few screamed, if they had time to scream. They died as if wiped away from existence. The storm moved along the front of the Parusite van. Sasha was drawing the fire away. She had bought them some precious time. Maybe Calemore could only sense magic when it was used.
He started retreating, Ewan staggering, eyes still riveted north. The boy was tense, and far too strong to stop. Jarman could only hope he would follow.
His hopes crumbled as Calemore aimed his weapon back in their direction once again. They were running now, left and right, trying to dodge the red pellets. The world turned white and gray, a cloud of debris choking him. He hoped Lucas would have enough skill and stamina to keep shielding them. Jarman had nothing left. Nothing.
His feet landed in a hole, and he fell flat on his face. Something jabbed at his stomach. Turning around, he saw a piece of tack with a rusty buckle sticking through his robe. No blood, but he had almost impaled himself. The witch was still firing at them. The pellets were bursting closer and closer still. Soon, they would be exposed.
I should have listened to the boy, he thought. That weapon is a curse.
Ewan hobbled on, not looking back. He was still in shock. Jarman scrambled, legs and hands pumping, his palms burning from scraping the icy ground. The bloodstaff rested in the filthy snow, pristine and perfect. He collected the weapon in his raw hand and moved forward. The ground shook, shards flying again.
I can’t protect you any longer, friend. He felt the thought in his head.
Jarman squared his shoulders, waiting for a red pellet to pulverize his rib cage.
“Wizard, here!” someone shouted. Jarman looked through the flurry of rubble and dirt and saw that half Sirtai coming his way. The scarlet storm subsided. Was this man shielding them?
Jarman fell onto his knees, panting. Ewan was standing, looking back, confused.
The other man swept past the boy and knelt at his side. “My name is Adelbert. I will help you.”
Jarman snorted mucus onto the ground, gasping for fresh air. “Thank you.” A hand closed on the bloodstaff just above his. He frowned. Looking up, he saw a curious grin on the mongrel’s face.
“That is—” he tried to say with what little breath he had, his body too slow to react.
Adelbert flew sideways. Hot blood splashed Jarman in the face. Ewan lowered his right hand. It was dripping red.
Calemore’s attack intensified.
Jarman looked at the half Sirtai lying dead in the snow. He saw Ewan’s chest rising and falling erratically. The boy was staring north. “We have to flee,” he told the Special Child.
“It cannot end this way,” Ewan spoke. “It cannot.” He looked at Jarman. “Keep the weapon safe. If I return, promise to return it to me. Please, wizard. Please, Jarman.”
Jarman licked his lips and regretted it. They tasted like salt and metal and human life. He wiped the gore away. “I swear it. On my honor.” Ewan probably had not heard it. He looked like an enraged animal, and he started walking back toward danger and death, his gait lopsided with agony.
The red pellets stayed with Jarman.
Oh, I see.
He was running again, but now, he had a whole village in front of him, low, squat towers bristling with stakes, sheds that housed soldiers and horses alike, low walls of stone and wood. Like a mouse, he bent low and scurried into the maze, and the destruction around him stopped. Calemore fired for a while longer, but the attack eventually ceased.
Jarman bent down and puked. Every fiber in his body burned. His vision was flashing black, and he thought he would pass out. But he did not, the anguish in his throat and belly keeping him away, his stomach heaving like some feral thing was kicking inside it.
As he recovered, he noticed terrified soldiers watching him. Athesians, Parusites, boys with fuzz on their cheeks, and older men with long beards that kept some of the winter cold at bay. They must be amazed by the weapon, he thought. No, it was the red mess on his face, arms, and robe.
The battle continued, but he heard it only as one unending groan, the roar of a dying beast, a thunder that belched acid and bile. Gripping the bloodstaff with the same intensity as the self-loathing gripping his soul, he made his way back to Lucas.
They’d won that day. Or rather, they hadn’t lost.
Calemore must have lost too many troops to continue his campaign into the night, so he had retreated to his lines, probably confident that his subsequent attacks would be successful. He had no reason to worry. He had no reason to rush. He could not be stopped.
The realms would be defeated, Jarman realized.
He ached all over. He could hardly walk. But he made himself do it. He owed that much to the mourning king.
Princess Sasha had died defending him, after all. Bought him time. Saved Ewan and him from death. All it had taken was one simple plea. True chivalry and gallantry. There was some grim lesson in that, he thought, something his upbringing at the Temple of Justice could never have taught him.
Despite all the chaos and the screams from tens of thousands of wounded, the Parusites were staging a large funeral procession for the king’s sister. She would be carried into Roalas and interred next to her nephew.
As he dragged his feet across the cold ground, he saw Ewan sitting on an empty crate, an itchy blanket thrown over his shoulders, not because he seemed cold underneath but to hide the layers of bloody mush covering him. The boy was staring at his feet, and he paid no attention to the noise, to the men walking around him, keeping a safe distance. He was gripping the bloodstaff once again.
Jarman felt his soul tug him toward the boy. He wanted to talk to him. But what could he tell a child who had just killed countless thousands with his bare hands, then limped back to the garrison, dripping red, shunned and hated by his comrades probably as much as by the foe?
Nothing.
“We are invited to see the king,” Lucas said.
Jarman nodded. He did not relish the meeting. “Thank you.”
Lucas sniffed, his only exhibit of emotion. “Amalia wishes to see you, too.”
They passed another group getting ready to bury their favorite. Gavril had been assassinated. So many deaths in one day, Jarman thought. What did it mean for these pilgrims? Would their faith die with their leader? What did they expect from their gods and goddesses? Compassion? Pity? Relief?
“We will lose.” Jarman choked on his own words.
“Perhaps,” Lucas admitted.
“There seems to be no way we can defeat the witch.”
“We will surely not stop trying,” Lucas offered, unyielding.
Jarman just wanted to sleep. To shut his eyes, to banish the pain for a while. But he had to see a girl who had lost her realm and her mother, and the king who had lost his father, his son, and now, his sister. What could he tell them that would make their pain go away?
Again, nothing.
CHAPTER 48
Once upon a time, Mali would have dreaded the notion of walking this deep into enemy territory. Not anymore.
The northern army had ravaged Caytor, too. Almost every village and road post stood abandoned, the people and animals long gone. Her little squad was forced to hunt wild game in the forest, because there was nothing left in the frozen fields and musty basements.
They headed north first, toward Bassac, then struck west, following a long stretch of cobbles and gravel, now hiding under fresh snow, aimed straight as an arrow toward Pain Daye. She had secured several maps for her scouts. Some of the charts dated back to the time she had been a young girl starting her career in the military. Others had been drawn more recently, but they all showed the same line crossing the Caytorean heartland.
This was her first time in the enemy land, and it was nothing like she had expected. The terrain looked the same as back home: same hills, same copses of trees, same houses. The snow hid the details, but she guessed no one could rea
lly tell Eracia and Caytor apart. Blessedly, it also masked most of the destruction left by the northern host.
Mali met no living soul for almost three weeks. Then, they sighted bandits. Thin, starved men who tried to attack them. But the sorry horde had no horses, so she just spurred forward without incident. Another gang moved on to intercept them not three days later, but once they saw sharp swords and solid breastplates, they wheeled back and headed away, searching for easier prey.
The weather was fair for a while, except for the wind, keening like an old woman in mourning, blasting across the ground in a white haze, making the snow smooth like polished tin. Then it started exposing the bodies, lumps of blue flesh, too hard even for birds and foxes to nibble on.
Most of them did not seem hurt. They had just died of exposure or hunger, lain down and taken a final sleep. Their faces reminded her of Eracia. These Caytoreans were just like the peasants back home. Women and older folk, very few men. Poor and very much fucked when wars started.
She found dead dogs and dead sheep, but all that remained of their carcasses were ivory bones, picked clean. The refugees had scavenged the meat and the skin. At least they had not eaten their fellow countrymen, she thought with some relief.
A fair number of northerners had died, too. She could identify them by their snowshoes and their thick furs, which hadn’t kept them alive on their march. They must have died of disease or exhaustion, but she wouldn’t let anyone inspect the bodies too closely. She feared ill humors, and ever since the Crap Charge, she was rather wary of infections.
There were no living foes, neither troops nor supply caravans. She was grateful for that.
They spent their time riding in silence, then walking to rest their horses, heads covered in woolen scarves and hunched down to keep the wind from sneaking down their napes. They only spoke when they stopped to eat, which was not often enough. Bjaras tried to learn their language, but he struggled. He could mumble only a few sorry words, and she was in no mood to learn his. He sure did communicate his desire well enough, but Mali refused to bed him. She had made a promise to Gordon.
The Humbled (The Lost Words: Volume 4) Page 49