The Humbled (The Lost Words: Volume 4) (24 page)

He rose. Saving his disgnity was the blare of a horn outside, a single long note. “I must leave,” he said almost nonchalantly. Well, his plan had fallen apart, so going back to the reality of a siege was a simple task. He would have been rather cross if that
sentry had sounded the horn in a different scenario, the one where Constance gave herself to him once more.

Frustrated, his sex vibrating against his trousers, Bart stepped out. Lanford raised a brow. “Sir, we have an Eracian force approaching from the north. But I thought you didn’t want to get disturbed.”

Bart frowned against the lukewarm drizzle. “Let’s go.”

With the nomad presence reduced to a small pocket around Somar and some blisters of resistance in the west, traffic and news were flowing once again between the two parts of the realm. Almost weekly, a convoy would arrive at the siege lines, usually reinforcements sent by his uncle. Sometimes, they were footmen, sometimes fresh cavalry, still too inexperienced to hold formations. At other times, artisans, whores, and mercenaries came, ready to profess their trades. No matter how dire the situation was, the world had an endless supply of paid swords to offer.

Bart waited with Faas, Ulrich, and Velten. Junner’s men were never too far. They could smell opportunity like mosquitoes could smell blood. The drizzle soon stopped, came back again for a short spell, and then ceased again, leaving a wet summer smell in the air. The dust had settled at least, making distances seem shorter, and every detail was that much clearer.

A large body of men was approaching, it seemed, trying its best to raise a veil of dirt and failing, which belittled its size. The force flowed like a slow, muddy tide, spilling over the plains, engulfing the siege lines. He had expected to see soldiers in the lot, but there were mostly civilians, grubby, dirty, too many of them. He frowned.

Straight ahead, a smaller snake was leading into the camp, surrounded by local sentries on horseback. The van consisted of mounted men, followed by at least a dozen chariots and
twice as many wagons. Bart could clearly see the emblem of House Barrin painted on the sides and fluttering on flag posts carried by the riders.

It seemed Uncle Karsten had come to visit the battle lines. But then, why all the small folk? Strange, alarming, and annoying. Bart suppressed a terrible urge to go forward and meet the new delegation halfway.

The camp grew noisier as the force got closer: rumor, gossip, speculations, stories, logistical chaos as supply officers began their preparations. For them, each new arrival was a disturbance in a well-paced, well-oiled machine, and they did not like having to rearrange everything all over again. The carriages drew to a halt. He saw an army of liveried servants dismount, open the door, place a wedge-shaped wooden ramp just below. A moment later, the seated form of his uncle rolled out.

Just behind, Lady Elizabeth exited the second coach, her dainty, frail hand resting on the elbow of her trusted Deirdre. Bart watched with growing apprehension as Karsten pushed himself over wet ground, arms as thick as a lumberjack’s propelling him forward, faster than most men would walk.

Major Maurice was approaching, his own pace quite hasty. Bart was liking this less and less, and he wished he had left the greeting ceremony to his subordinates. But now, he had to play the brave role of the viceroy.

“Trouble, Lord Count?” Junner said, showing up suddenly.

“Please, not now,” Bart snapped.

The Borei chuckled, unfazed. “We will talk later, friend.”

Maurice stepped close and saluted, handing a rolled message to his superior. He nodded at Bart, his chin wobbly with sympathy he could not quite give. “Your Majesty,” the major was saying, his tone brittle. “Dire news. I do not think there’s an easy way to report this. The Barrin and Elfast estates have
been overrun by an unknown enemy force arriving in huge numbers from the north under white banners. They do not appear to be affiliated with any known faction, and they seem bent on total destruction. Lord Karsten has tactfully led a retreat south.”

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, and 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.