The Humbled (The Lost Words: Volume 4) (25 page)

“They will attack tonight,” Faas promised. It was going to be a long, sleepless night for everyone.

Soon, the meeting was over. Nervous officers rushed to follow up on their orders. The rather dull day was becoming a hot, white chaos. He could hear the growing din outside. He wasn’t certain how the nomads would interpret the arrival of the Barrin people. Would they be alarmed by so many civilians? Would they bolster their defenses? Well, the time for doubts and wavering was over.

“You certainly have changed, Nephew,” Lord Karsten said, remaining in the lodge.

Bart glanced at one of the servants collecting wine cups. “Yes, I have.”

His uncle almost smiled. “Well, a refreshing change, by all means.”

“Are you certain about this enemy, Uncle?”

The man patted his wheeled contraption, callused hands running over wet metal rims. “This threat is real, Bartholomew. I have no idea where this enemy comes from. I am just as surprised as you are. But the world is vast, beyond the measure of our maps.” He wrinkled his nose at the charts and drawings covering the tables. “We all know there are many nations in faraway lands. It is up to us to protect the realm against this new threat. Just as Vergil did in his time.”

Bart felt uncomfortable staring down at his uncle, so he sat down. “I will have to ask the Parusites for assistance. But this does not bode well for Eracia. What will happen if our people are forced to cross into the Safe Territories? Will the king construe that as an invasion? Will he treat our plea for help seriously? Will he ever bother responding? I hardly believe your report, and you’re here. He might think I’ve gone insane.”

Lord Karsten rolled himself closer and placed one of his strong hands on Bart’s knee. “Two years ago, if someone had told me my spineless nephew, the lowest member of the Privy Council, would rise to become the viceroy of the realm, I would have laughed in their faces. Yet, you are here, proving miracles can happen.”

“Thank you for the compliment, Uncle.”

The old man bahed. “Stop sopping. You do not need my sympathy. You have women for that.”

“Sonya is in the city,” Bart said, trying to keep his voice flat.

“So, you finally have the chance get rid of her.”

Bart sighed. “I will be one to decide the fate of my marriage, not some Kataji chieftain.”

Lord Karsten slanted his head. “I hear you have a son. A bastard. To some Caytorean floozy, no less. It seems you have had quite a bit of time on your hands recently. But I guess that shame is a less pressing matter now.”

Bart bristled. He looked at the remaining help. “Out, please.” The lodge was soon empty apart from the two of them. “There’s nothing shameful about what I’ve done. Frankly, I’m long past caring what you or Mother may think.”

“What made you change so much, Bartholomew?”

He shrugged. He didn’t really know. It probably did not matter. “I just got tired of the humiliation.” He just frightfully
hoped he was acting for the benefit of the realm and its people and not his own petty, selfish ideas. “I am a busy man, Uncle. You are welcome to stay, or you may evacuate to Paroth with the noncombatants.” A blithe jibe. “However, I must warn you, do not ever dispute me in public, or I will remove your authority and forbid you from joining the staff meetings. Your gold and your affliction do not make you into a holy man.” He frowned. “Is there any gold left at all?”

Lord Karsten grinned, hiding his fury. “The gold is safe with us.”

Bart stepped behind his uncle and turned his chair toward the exit. “Excellent. I will need finances to keep this war going properly. Thank you for your time, Uncle. We will talk later. Try to keep out of the deep puddles.” He propelled the old man out.

Standing in the doorway, he watched the wheelchair roll away, feeling satisfaction in his limbs.
Have I gone truly mad?
he wondered.
But can a madman ever know he’s mad?
It did not matter. Eracia was at war, and he had to fight for the nation’s freedom. Complications, new problems, nothing mattered. Nothing would stop him now.

He stood there, people around frowning and wondering what their provisional ruler had on his mind. If they could glimpse inside, they would see him thinking about Sonya, standing on the parapet, her face a mask of disdain.

That would not do. There was his one true motivation.

He had finally reached a decision.

CHAPTER 17

T
here was a loud noise, the sound of a heavy wooden door slamming into a wall, and Sonya woke, her mind sharp and alert. In that instant between reality and dream, before her body could obey, she knew she had been discovered.

It’s over
, she thought, and a strange calmness gripped her.
I die with dignity, like a queen
.

“Get up. The general wants you,” a male voice rasped.

Sonya opened her eyes, blinked away the sleep mist, made sure there were no tears in them, and looked sideways. There was a Kataji warrior blocking the doorway, the smooth leather of his uniform shining in the torchlight seeping from the corridor. The yellow light only accentuated his animallike features, the sharp creases in his whiskered face, the tufts of pelt randomly sewn to his jerkin, the weapons belt studded with knives.

She was having such a beautiful dream. Now, things would get difficult. And painful. She was already bracing for pain. Against her volition, her stomach muscles hardened, her breath getting shorter, with a panicky wheeze riding on top of it. Gently, she slid the thin linen sheet off her body. The soldier was
watching her shamelessly, enjoying her curves. Her nightgown did not provide much in the way of modesty.

“I must dress first. You will wait outside,” she said, sitting up.

“Come now,” the soldier grunted.

Sonya rose. The soldier let her pass, watching her carefully, then followed. There were two more men in the corridor near her, both holding torches. Another stood farther away, with a drawn blade. The nomad warriors smelled of musty hide and old sweat, and it wasn’t a soothing scent for her fluttering stomach.

The torchbearers and their armed comrade turned and led, left and right, boots shuffling, sword sheaths scraping against mortar or clinking against an odd piece of furniture. She expected to find more of these beasts around, sleeping, but their filthy mats and pelts were empty.

I’m not the only one roused from sleep
, she mused.

Unsurprisingly, her escort led her toward the throne room. However, what did surprise her was the commotion.

There were almost a hundred souls present, in various states of discomfort and pain. Round the perimeter, the tribesmen stood guard, holding swords and spears. Closer to the dais, a huddle of women waited, looking utterly miserable. Their panic was obvious. Sonya discerned a large number of her noble friends and enemies there, which confirmed her suspicion. Pacmad had unveiled their plot.

The Father of the Bear stood near the throne chair, ogling the lot with half a sneer on his face. He looked smug and irate at the same time. She had been around him long enough to recognize the barely bridled violence pulsating through his limbs, the almost imperceptible twitch of his fingers as he longed to release his wrath.

He heard the footsteps of his warriors and glanced her way. Saw her. “Bring her here.”

Sonya made sure she did not waver, whimper, or stumble as she approached the other Eracian women. Some were watching her, hope and terror lined in their features. Others just stood there, numb, shocked.

“Are you going to tell me?” Pacmad asked her suddenly.

Sonya stood next to Richelle. She had not expected to see the baroness there. Apparently, giving birth to Pacmad’s daughter did not grant her enough immunity against treason, it seemed. Sonya would have been glad if not for a very selfish regard for her own fate. She had to concentrate. Stupor would not do now.

“I am not sure what I should tell you, Pacmad,” she said bravely.

He stepped off the dais and approached her. She braced herself for the blow. But he just stood there, unnervingly silent, staring at her, judging her, weighing, waiting for her to lose self-control.

“You will tell me about the Eracian raid,” he spoke.

Sonya went cold. “I do not understand.”

Pacmad grinned wide. “You will.” He nodded at one of his soldiers. The man barked a short order in their native tongue. From across the hall, Kataji warriors started ushering a new audience into the chamber. Unlike the women, the newcomers hardly walked on their own. They dragged their feet; they shuffled and hobbled; others had to be almost carried inside, with a nomad fighter on each side. Soon, they entered the pool of lamplight and candles, and she could discern more details. Bruised, battered, wet men, with crumpled clothes, spattered in mud and dirt, their faces swollen from a beating. Some were manacled, others walked more or less on their own, but they all
dripped on the cold white marble, and the flecks of their blood mingled with the red veins in the flagstones.

“Now you understand,” the chieftain said, pleased.

Raid? A night raid?
She had plotted an uprising against the Kataji for months now, carefully orchestrating the bits and pieces, planning the city’s rebellion to the last detail. Now, when it supposedly was happening, she stood paralyzed, helpless, unprepared.

The warriors deposited the prisoners before the women, unceremoniously dumping them on the floor. Some remained upright, but most sagged to their knees. Sonya realized some of the men were wounded, with knife and sword cuts on their arms and legs. One of the Eracians begged for water, but no one paid him any heed. Lady Fidelma began to cry.

Pacmad looked at the enemy soldiers and nodded, satisfied. He turned his piercing blue eyes back at her. “Now, tell me about the raid.”

Sonya swallowed hard. “Honestly, I do not know anything about this.” She did not need to pretend. She really did not.

The general sniffed. Once again, Sonya bunched her muscles, waiting for his fist to plow into her belly, and again, Pacmad kept his meaty hands at his sides, looking utterly smug, enjoying the moment immensely. Then, he spun quickly and slapped Richelle, hard. The baroness barely had time to wail before she collapsed. Once on the ground, near the wounded men’s feet, she began to sob. Sonya dared herself to look. The woman was holding her face, dark-red blood slithering round her fingers like tiny snakes.

It was happening too fast, Sonya thought. She had to gain control of the situation. She had to. Otherwise, Pacmad would render impossible damage on everyone present, including her. Losing her life would be almost too easy, she realized. But what
if he spared her and then threw her into a dark underground cell? What if he denied her all the perks, all the freedom she had? What if he took away the grudging trust he had given her? The horror of that prospect almost made her vomit.

Seeing Richelle bleed was a lovely occasion, but not right now. As a queen, she had a duty toward all of her subjects, even hated whores like the baroness. She suspected Pacmad wanted her to seem happy about it, wanted to expose her ambitions, alienate her from the rest of the women, strike strife and discord among them. That seemed like the best way to undo their plot. Make one of them betray the rest. Which was why Sonya must not let her emotions show.

Instead of gloating, Sonya went down on one knee and brushed matted hair from the woman’s swelling face. Drool and sticky threads of blood ran from Richelle’s lips and nose to the marble. The baroness held her eyes shut tightly and was sobbing quietly. Ignoring her disgust, Sonya gently wiped the woman’s cheek with her sleeve, then dabbed her lower lips.

“Stay there,” she whispered.

“Stand up,” Pacmad ordered.

Sonya let go of the other woman and straightened, all too aware this monster and his men were watching her, her nightgown too thin to hide her body. She kept her mouth shut, uncertain what the general might do.

“Tell me about the raid,” he repeated.

Sonya licked her lips quickly. “I do not know anything about the raid, I swear.”

Pacmad scanned the crowd of frightened women. His mongrel eyes rested on Lady Miranda, a lowly merchant from Paroth, if Sonya’s memory served her well. She had found herself visiting Somar at the wrong time. “Benis, Cowden, rape her.”

Miranda only managed to squeal in weak, stunned protest as the warriors came forward and dragged her to the floor. The other women began crying loudly. Sonya kept her face hard, passive, and pushed her tears deep into her soul. There was no rule that said you could not weep later, much later. It was almost dignified.

The captive Eracians began stirring, trying to struggle free, cursing and spitting. Not all of them. Some were just too tired beyond caring, others injured and dying, others yet too terrified. Sonya could not blame them.

“Leave her be, you scum,” one of the Eracians hissed. He got pierced through the gut with a spear. Laughing, the nomads left him on the floor, feebly kicking with his bare feet, spreading blood in curious shapes with his toes.

“Please stop,” someone spoke. It was her own voice. Oh, what a fool she was.