The Humbled (The Lost Words: Volume 4) (11 page)

Done with his inspection, the Naum leader moved back to his previous spot. Right then, Sheldon cracked the door open and peered outside, his bright, innocent face alight with curiosity.

“Sheldon, inside!” Nigella snapped, her heart skipping a beat.

Ruddy stopped and turned. He saw the boy.

Nigella heard a whimper stretch thin. She realized it was her own.

The warrior sensed her terror and quickly distanced himself from the boy. When her keening tapered out, he repeated that gesture, hands up, hands clasped. “Calemore,” he
grated. Nigella nodded dumbly, feeling defeated and dejected suddenly.

“Mom, who are these men?” Sheldon asked.

“I told you to stay inside,” she berated without much conviction, exhausted.

“Are these men with Master Calemore?” the boy insisted.

“Go inside!” she begged.

Tiny face scrunched with hurt, Sheldon retreated to the dark interior of her home.

Ruddy was looking at her, she realized. Nigella made herself look at him. He was nodding.
Everything is all right
, the gesture said.

“Thank you,” she said, even though she knew he would not understand.

He waited for a while longer. Apparently, his task was done. When he realized she didn’t need or want anything else, he waved his hand, and the soldiers began their journey back to the ruined town.

“Calemore,” he offered as a way of farewell. She didn’t bother responding.

Nigella watched him go. He glanced one last time behind his massive shoulder and then kept plowing away, without turning.

Soon, reality floated back on a wind that smelled like soot and smoke and burned human flesh. She was back in the world where an enemy army was trampling the land dead just a few quick miles away from her serene little farmstead. Marlheim kept bleeding, the human rats kept engorging on its torn intestines, and large columns of soldiers, women, and children kept snaking past, going deeper into Caytor.

She had little love for the people of the realm. They had given her mostly disappointment and scorn in her youth.
Caytor might have been her birthplace, but it had never been her
home
. Still, the carnage in Marlheim was wrong, immensely wrong, no matter how grateful she felt for being alive and safe.

Sheldon would never be able to go back to his press shop. His friends and his master were probably dead, killed by the Naum invaders. The world around them had changed, had become alien and harsh and dreadful. Infested by these foreign people. Could she trust them? What would she do when she felt like hearing Continental again? Talk to Calemore? Would he become her life, her whole life?

Quite often, in her darkest moments, she had yearned for revenge, yearned for justice. Now that she had them in a sick, perverted way, they tasted just like ashes on her tongue, bitter and oily. Deep down, she had craved for pain and suffering upon the Caytoreans, hoping that would somehow undo the wrongs inflicted on her. She had expected the reversal of evil would liberate her.

First, there was Rob’s death. Now this. And looming above it all, the bleak hint of a future where Calemore ruled everything. Rob’s demise had freed her in a way, given her determination, if not the satisfaction she had once dreamed of. She had grown more resolute in her decision to steer her destiny the way she wanted it. Now, this sudden destruction of Marlheim was a great setback to her ambition, threatening to crush her, make her small and weak again.

No, she could not let death be her beacon.

Nigella wiped the salty streaks off her face, blew her nose on the edge of her sleeve. She stared at the colorful display of foods on the ground before her, a month’s supply. She would not starve or lack any comfort, she thought. As long as she ignored the destruction around her.

Her focused desire to see Rob die was just a blunt, morose ghost of a feeling when it came to seeing so many other nameless Caytoreans perish in this white madness. Not what she had imagined. Not at all. And why? Why did they have to die? What was the White Witch planning?

So far, the book would not tell her.

She had to know. Somehow, she had to unravel the future. She had to learn what Calemore planned, and steer herself away from that dreadful vision. Steer
him
away from it. Despite everything she had witnessed, she still believed they could be together. He might be cruel toward the world, but he did like her, and maybe even respected her. That meant something. That gave her hope, hope to keep trying. Maybe she could save him from himself. Maybe then she would redeem her own soul.

Her taste in and choice of men had always been awful. But so had been her struggle with their disappointments. This time, she would not cave in. She would not retreat and surrender. She would not run and hide and cower again. She needed to be strong and brave so she could build a sane life for the two of them. And for Sheldon.

Nigella rose, dusted herself off, and headed back into her shelter, leaving the goods on the dust trail outside. Sheldon would be delighted to lug things about. In the last few days, she had forbidden him to venture away from the cottage, and he was bursting with pent-up energy. Nigella had better things to do.
The Book of Lost Words
was there, waiting to be read.

CHAPTER 8

“T
here,” Sergeant Angelica said and pointed.

For a one-eyed woman, Angelica was fairly keen sighted, Mali thought, squinting toward the horizon. Or maybe her own age and years spent staring at long lines of thin manuscript had dulled hers. Yes, she could see the thin trail of dust behind her army column.

The Barrin plains were coming to life with early summer crops, turning ever so slightly yellow under the beating sun. Rich, fertile land, and it stretched for more than a week in each direction. Normally, the fields would swarm with people, farmers hard at work, wagons going about. Ever since the passage of those strange white legions, the countryside was deserted. The crops would continue to grow, then wither and die with the autumn rains. There were no people to bring the harvest in. The smart ones had fled; the fools stayed and burned.

The northern force did not seem interested in conquering, or if it did, its destination was so far ahead they didn’t mind wreaking havoc now and then, mostly now. Villages stood empty, abandoned, torched to the ground. Roads were cluttered with discarded rubbish, human bodies, animal carcasses, and broken tools, left behind in the wake of the huge invading
army. Even blind people could easily follow the enemy. At a respectable distance, of course.

The Eracians were trailing their superior foe, a generous week behind. It gave her troops no time to help anyone, but it was enough to arrive at the scene of destruction long after the fires had burned out. The stench of rot and the buzz of flies were big downsides to shadowing your opponent from a hundred miles away. Still, Mali could afford the discomfort. Better that than death.

She dreaded thinking what would happen—or had happened—at the estate itself. She wanted to believe Lord Karsten had ordered a quick retreat of all the surviving men and women and gone south, out of the deadly path of the invaders. She did not relish finding the army command ruined so soon after its birth last year, but as long as people lived, things could be rebuilt.

“What are they doing there?” Major Nolene asked.

Alexa loosened her hair, then collected it in a new bun and pinned it with a piece of wood. “Well, we won’t know until we ask.”

Mali took a deep breath, thinking. After their brief, bittersweet victory at the Emorok Hills, the Eracian forces had withdrawn as far south as they could, fleeing that massive wall of men. Luckily, her smaller body of men—and women—could move that much faster, and soon they had outdistanced the unknown threat. Then, to her surprise, the enemy had veered to the east, heading toward Barrin and Elfast.

People with more brains than she would have gladly welcomed the chance for their escape and then marched back home, somewhat shamed but very much alive. However, she couldn’t do that.

So she had ordered the enemy trailed.

Once again, they were chasing a foe, and they knew nothing of its intentions.

Colonel Alan had openly cursed her in front of her staff and called her mad. She had silently endured his tirade, then thanked him for joining her in the effort. After all, they were both patriots, trying to save their country. He had fumed endlessly, his long, drooping moustache twitching, but the detachment of Commander Velten’s army marched side by side with her girls now.

Mali had to know what this army was doing in Eracia. Why was it not heading south toward Somar? Why was it leading toward Barrin, and farther, into Athesia? Were they in league with Adam’s daughter? Moving against her son? Were they some strange allies of the nomads? Well, that could explain their presence, as well as the attempt by the Namsue to draw the Eracians so far north. But none of it made any sense really. Who, in the name of the Abyss, were these people?

And why did they lug their women and children along?

Soon after regrouping and moving after the white army, her troops had discovered another clump of madness. They had found entire convoys of women and children, wagons loaded with poultry and livestock, moving after the enemy force. Refugees normally fled armies, but this lot was doing its best to keep up pace after the foe, trudging loyally in the wake of its destruction. Worse yet, the stream seemed endless, and soon, they discovered many more of these tiny groups and large columns traveling south and east, mostly unarmed.

That was the most bizarre part. You would expect troops to protect their logistics trains. You would expect outriders and formations of horsed bowmen moving around the supply wagons, keeping them safe from bandits or enemy units.
But apparently, this enemy did not care about any of that. It seemed certain there would be no one left behind to interfere.

They probably had not counted on the Third Independent Battalion being there.

Which made Mali even more suspicious. If her wild speculations were true, then it would mean the Namsue flight and this invasion were totally uncoordinated. Just by pure luck, her own forces happened to be there, and they had chosen to follow the enemy. So who were these people? Where were they coming from?

The only way to find out was to intercept and, as Alexa said, ask.

So far, Finley, Alan, and she had agreed not to harry these convoys. They had only watched them, counted their strength, and observed their behavior. There wasn’t anything spectacular or extraordinary about the enemy. Apart from strange clothing and using sleds as well as wagons to travel the grassy expanse, they looked every bit like the locals. You might almost mistake them for Eracian pilgrims, which made the situation all the more difficult.

One of the convoys was moving about a league away from her screening force, following another farm road. A ruined village was staring at them some distance from the dust trail, baring its black teeth. There was a weird pattern of fire-blasted streaks running through the barley fields. They were coming toward a bridge, still intact. This far north, the Kerabon was a narrow body of water and fairly calm.

Mali was biting on a grass stalk, chewing it, pondering. That lone, unprotected convoy unnerved her. She knew there were dozens more everywhere around, mindlessly plodding southeast. She had no idea if they had spotted her, and if they had, they didn’t seem to care or understand the danger.

“Yes, proceed,” she ordered suddenly, biting through the stalk and her indecision. She spat the leaf, her saliva coming out frothy and green. “Meagan,” she continued, “you will send a hundred girls hard east. They will cross the river near Quickpelt and then wait on the other bank. The rest, you strike for the left flank—I repeat, left flank. All the way around them. If they try to flee, Gordon, you box them in.”

Alexa pointed toward the bridge. “What if they get there first?”

Alan sniffed, drawing attention to his taciturn face. He was beating a dusty glove against his thigh, almost as if flagellating himself free of old fury. “You do not think it prudent to involve my men, Colonel?” he berated.

“It’s women and children in that convoy. I don’t want any incidents.”

He frowned, and she thought the shiny skin on his scalp might tear, but it endured, glossy and taut. He was not pleased, but he still bore her a lot of respect since that battle against the Namsue. Well, a lot could be said against men, all the time, but they had their qualities. They might be quick to judge, but they were easy to buy with valor and honor.

“Move out,” she said when she realized there would be no more arguing.

The troops spread about, raising their own dust cloud to match the enemy convoy’s. They had to know they were being watched by now, she thought. But the enemy kept moving at the same leisurely, stubborn pace.

Mali resigned herself to wait, propping one leg against a field rock, watching, contemplating, seeking traps. But the land gave away nothing out of the ordinary. Barley fields rippled—those that had not been crushed underfoot or licked
with flame—birds and insects sang, and the wind added its own whispering tune.