The Humbled (The Lost Words: Volume 4) (33 page)

“I am honored, Your Highness,” Yuri said. He realized he was being dismissed. He rose, bowed curtly, and marched out, his men following.

Sergei felt warmth on his left cheek. He turned his head and saw Genrik looking at him. “Yes?”

Genrik offered a thin smile. “I am pleased to see you like this, Your Highness. There is pain in your heart, but you are the leader of our nation once again. Parus needs a strong king.”

“Perhaps it does. Perhaps it does.”

Later, he summoned Lady Lisa. She arrived into the court room shadowed by two Red Caps. Sergei wondered what motivated her now. Fear? Hope? Did she believe Amalia could somehow prevail and regain the throne? Did she dread reliving the experience of her child dying again? The cold weight in his
chest was a reminder of his own loss, and he would not wish it on anyone, even his enemies.
I regret to inform you that your son has been killed
.

No.

He dismissed everyone, including the high scribe. He wanted no one else to hear this.

She was watching him with a patient, passive expression on her face. He had to admire her courage. After all she had been through, he could never detect rancor in her eyes, nor any evil in her words and acts. She bore her captivity well, unafraid, resolved, at peace with her decisions. He envied her.

“You have called for me, Your Highness?”

Any other day, he would have loved to debate the future of Athesia with her, to hear her perspective on the recent developments in Eracia, to talk about Amalia or the High Council, to figure out what he should do with the clergy, but other things troubled him. The fact that Badanese ships would not sail north. Gavril’s story. Stupid, silly omens.

“Do you recall the day your husband defeated my father’s army?”

“Yes, I do.”

His heart was fluttering, he realized. “What happened? What truly happened?”

She made a small, ladylike shrug. “My husband defeated the Parusite forces, Your Highness.”

Sergei leaned forward. “I want details.”

The former empress-mother waited until he reclined, as if he was some unruly boy. “I do not have much to tell. It was a quick, brutal battle, veiled in morning mist and rain. I watched from the city battlements, and all I saw was the Parusite cavalry ranks being mowed down. Adam won.”

He inhaled sharply through his nostrils. From the first time since he’d met her, he felt like she was lying to him. Explicitly lying. “I find that rather improbable. Something else happened.”

Lady Lisa was silent again, thinking. The corner of her lip twitched. “You must have heard the stories.”

“I have,” Sergei responded, trying to keep his budding anger down. “But I do not want rumors and bards’ follies and soldiers’ secondhand gossip. I want to know what happened that day. How was my father’s army defeated so quickly?”

“I do not know the full extent of the truth, Your Highness.” That twitch again. “It was a confusing day, full of terror and excitement and wonder. Many people would swear they witnessed a miracle that day, but as time passed, you could not tell truth from fiction. Now, all that remains is the legend. The question is, do you want to believe that? Is that the answer you sought these past twenty years?”

“I want the truth,” he insisted, not quite sure if he really wanted to hear.

“The truth can be difficult to comprehend sometimes.” A long, long pause. “Do you believe in magic, Your Highness?”

Do you believe in magic, Your Highness…

There it was. Just as he had feared.
So what now?
“I will ask you something else instead, my lady. A priest named Gavril is massing his congregation not far from Keron. You must have heard. He’s asked me to lead my troops north to face an ancient enemy coming to destroy the realms.” Amalia’s mother was looking at him without blinking. “He’s also asked me to make
peace
. What would you advise me?”

“You know my stance on the matter, Your Highness. You can continue waging war against your opponents”—her voice faltered slightly at the last word—“or you can focus on doing
something meaningful. Giving people hope. Creating a legacy that will outlast you.”

“Either way, I will be remembered.” He pursed his lips. “Some will name their children in my honor. Others will swear I was the greatest hero to have ever lived. Many others will probably curse my late mother.”

She shook her head, unconvinced.
And what about Vlad?
The unspoken thought floated between them.
How will you justify his death? You cannot. Your only salvation is peace, a courageous peace with your foes. Just like Emperor Adam did
.

“Everyone wants me to make peace. For one reason or another. I understand your motives. But I am not sure I can trust this man Gavril. So what would you have me do?” He didn’t want it to sound like a request, but his tone was sharp.
A plea, a polite, respectful plea
.

Lady Lisa squirmed, took a deep breath. Sergei wished he could know what she was thinking, how her mind worked. He craved to understand how this magnificent woman operated.

“Ancient enemy, coming to destroy the realms?” she repeated.

He waited.

“You must not disregard that possibility,” she said at last. A tingle crept down his spine. The patriarchs would probably condemn him for heresy, but he was beginning to suspect something he had seen a long time ago but never really bothered to acknowledge, blinded by the fear of his sire, the relief over his death, and countless generations of stern Parusite upbringing that left no room for doubt. He was beginning to understand there was more to the realms than just the plight of greedy humans fighting over land and rivers. It wasn’t about belief either. Something else, and in the recent weeks, a strange feeling nagged at him, made him uneasy. But
it had been elusive, at the corner of his eye, teasing, slippery, misty.

Meeting with Gavril had upset him. Seeing those pilgrims head north worried him. Now, talking to this woman, who did not presume to speak for gods or armies, it all fell into place. He was no longer just entertaining suspicion. He was certain. Magic was not just a fragment of ancient tales. And if magic could exist, why not old, ancient enemies from faraway lands?

Sergei didn’t have all the details, and he wasn’t really sure he would comprehend the whole story, but he was beginning to realize that his reign would not end in ruling over Athesians and flirting with the High Council and whoever called himself the monarch in Somar now. There was something else to consider now. Something bigger than his vendetta, his mistrust of his lords and the clergy.

Emperor Adam, you bastard
.

Make peace with Amalia? Well, he could do it for himself. Or the people of the realms. Or maybe to prevent the realms from being obliterated by an ancient myth. The last bit made it easier. He almost felt relief against the backdrop of the terror rising in his soul.

Do you believe in magic, Your Highness? I do now
, he thought. “Thank you, my lady, as always, it’s been a pleasure. I am most grateful for your advice. You may leave if you wish.”

She inclined her head. “Good luck, Sergei,” she said, omitting his title, surprising him. “You will need it.” Her feet shuffling on the marble, she left.

He remained in the seat, trying to grasp the enormity of the world’s secrets and silently cursing the Eracian man who had started all this mess twenty years ago.

CHAPTER 23

I
nto the city, the soldiers went, walking on their two feet, armed and ready, frightened yet eager, spears gripped in callused hands, shields carried overhead to protect from arrows and stones. Out of the city, the soldiers came, limping, dragging themselves, many of those borne on stretchers.

It had been a month since the ill-fated attempt to infiltrate Somar. The night mission into the market area had failed miserably. To add insult to injury, the Kataji chieftain had then lured the Eracians into another trap, opening the gates for them, making them believe all was well.

Throughout the dun night and a bleak dawn, Bart had listened with utmost dismay to the shrieks coming from the city, the screams of death and agony as his soldiers were forced into narrow streets, pinned down with a heavy barrage of arrows, and then made to burn and suffocate in the deliberate fires set by the nomads. In the morning, he had watched the decimated battalions retreat, defeated in spirit and body.

The fighting had continued unabated ever since.

The Eracians were trying to force their way into Somar day and night. Fresh troops were streaming into the killing zone, all too aware most of them would not come out unscathed. Yesterday’s forces would then return, for a brief sleep and some
cold gruel, before going back into the slaughterhouse. The siege walls looked like an old tapestry, eaten by worms. Entire sections had been reduced to rubble by the trebuchet bombardment. Other parts had been sapped by Major Kilian’s engineers. Still, the bulk of it stood, and it swarmed with rotting bodies and bled black blood down its pocked sides.

His army was holding a small section near the gate, finally captured after a week of deadly engagements against the tribesmen. For the past three weeks, the soldiers had been trying to break through the nomad lines to gain a new foothold deeper in the city. But every inch of ground was contested to the death. There was just no point surrendering or taking captives.

The Eracians were fighting the nomads door to door, in cellars, in gutters, in narrow alleys between burned-down buildings, anywhere a man could stand and swing a blade, standing on top of wounded comrades, right in that hot, squelchy, wet red mess if need be. When the swords became too blunted to cut through leather and flesh, when the spear shafts snapped, men fought with their bare hands, clawing and spitting and punching, wrestling with the nomads, trying to kill them with shards of stone or street cobbles or pieces of rusted drains. Anything that would make the other side bleed and hurt.

Inside well-barricaded houses, they found dead women and children, or they found starved women and children, and sometimes, the Eracian mothers and daughters joined them in the fight against the nomads. Smoke stung their eyes and made the air oily and hard to breathe. Roofs would collapse, burying men alive, and the other squad members would have to stop fighting and dig them out. Horses shied away from the narrow, packed streets, shied away from the screams and the blood and the flames. Even humans had difficulty moving through the ruins.

But the destruction in Somar was only a part of Bart’s problems.

Every hour that passed, he wondered what was happening to the Eracian women, what might have happened to his wife. Was Sonya still alive? Or had the Kataji chieftain executed her out of spite? The longer the battle continued, the more desperate the situation would become. Worst of all, Bart knew he could not stop now. The killing would go on until one party was totally defeated.

Below the observation post, a fresh unit was marching to its death. Close to a hundred men, he reckoned, their uniforms clean, their weapons sharp and unbloodied. The men walked hunched, stiff, faces slack with abject terror, eyes glazed and staring nowhere, their gait that of the condemned before the gallows. Their captain was leading boldly, trying to cheer them up with hoarse battle cries and too much spit. All he got in return were pasty, dull rictuses of cold fear. Elation and courage were absent in the company’s collective spirit. The banner rippled in the wind, rattling everyone’s nerves.

With every step, they came face-to-face with more death. The endless stream of injured was not helping to make them bold and ready for the mayhem ahead. Normally in battle, soldiers got killed by sword or arrow, sometimes trampled by iron hooves. But they still looked human. Coming out of the city were all sorts of shapes, men burned to a crisp, with their skin like a sheet of wet scabbing, men mashed to a pulp by rubble. It sure did not inspire the new units.

Bart was standing alone on the high platform, because he did not want to interfere with his officers. He had exercised enough military leadership by sending his men to their deaths. Twice. Once when he had ordered the infiltration mission, the second time when he’d hurled them toward the city’s open gates
and into a deathly trap. He did not feel like contributing more misery. Faas, Ulrich, and Velten could cope well on their own.

Fifty paces away, inside a post much like his own, the three men were watching the progress of the fighting, giving orders to their adjutants, who then relayed them to the signalers. In turn, these men waved tiny red and yellow flags on top of large poles. In distant parts of the siege camp, units reacted to the command.

Ideally, the three men would be sharing three different posts all around the city, coordinating an attack from all directions. But all of the fighting was focused on the west bank of the Kerabon.

There was
another
of Bart’s problems.

He had almost fifteen thousand men sitting in trenches and improvised forts north and east of the city, facing away from the fighting, awaiting the arrival of some foreign invader bent on destruction. So far, it had not arrived, but he was forced to keep a huge chunk of his army prepared instead of committing all able bodies to the liberation of Somar.