The Humbled (The Lost Words: Volume 4) (46 page)

Admittedly, it would begin with a few lows. He was going to beg the Parusite king for help. He was not really sure there would be any Caytor left come the next autumn. But it did not really matter. He had found Lady Rheanna when so many others had failed. He had secured her cooperation. As a woman who had tamed Adam’s son, she was a great catch. One day, he might even get her into his bed. There would be time for that.

Going back to see Guild Master Sebastian, he started formulating the letter for King Sergei, telling him that the idea of a new empress in Athesia had died earlier that night. He hoped the man would be smart enough to grasp the hint.

CHAPTER 32

S
he could see the Eracian flags just underneath her window. Kogan’s Park teemed with her fellow countrymen, moving in tight ranks. Most of the trees had been cut down or burnt. Still the sight brought a tear to her eye. It was so touching, so beautiful.

Sonya would stand for hours watching the battle unfold. Every day, it ended with the Kataji still holding the palace. But every day, Bart’s men got that much closer. Inch by inch, they retook the lost alleys and houses. Sometimes they razed them to the ground, sometimes they torched them, but they would not let the nomad scum hold them.

A fresh battalion of Eracians was marching toward the Alley of Kings. On the scorched rooftop of Lothar’s Theater, a handful of archers was goat footing from one end of the building to the other, trying to get within range so they could rain death on the tribesmen still holding the far end of the large palace square. It was almost impossible to see the stonework underneath the thick layer of dead bodies, broken carts, and just random debris.

Farther away, Eracian engineers were busy trying to rebuild a bridge over the Kerabon so they could cross to the still-unconquered part of the city. There was a strong pocket in the
northeastern sector, and it prevented the brave soldiers of the realm from converging on the palace and freeing her. She could see tiny boats floating on the slow-moving arm of the river, and what looked like water lilies, but she knew those were bloated corpses of horses and men. Then, a gust of wind would shift the columns of black smoke from the fires, and it would block her view.

Bart, my love, I am waiting for you
, she thought. She had been waiting for days now. Her husband’s troops had advanced less than a quarter of a mile in the last week. At their current pace, it could take them many more weeks before they finally gained a foothold inside the palace. The waiting was agony. And now, after so long, she was starting to lose her composure.

Arrows filled the air, were loaded again, then more arrows. She did not know where the shooters were, but the hail never stopped. Muffled screams and curses floated up to her chamber and vibrated through the shit-stained windowpanes.

In the Street of Heroes, angry Eracians were hacking at the foundation of a large, respectable house, trying to bring it down. Must have been a horde of those filthy nomads lurked inside. But the ax blows did not seem to do much damage. Near the palace, most of the buildings had thick stone walls, and they did not burn or collapse that easily.

There, she saw one of Pacmad’s men dash out of a window and hurl something down. A rock maybe. The attackers—no, defenders, these brave men were defending the realm—fired at him, but the shafts just bounced off the walls. On the nearby rooftop, which had gaping holes from trebuchet hits, several more Eracians were trying to get closer, but the other establishment was a whole story higher, and they did not have ladders or grapnel hooks.

That house must go down
, Sonya goaded. She imagined its yellow bricks crashing down in a cloud of dust, choking the street corner. She willed it to collapse and bury those nomads alive.

One of the rooftop fighters slipped, slithered down the uneven tiles, kicked a few down on his comrades below. He managed to stop his deadly slide with his boots in the rain funnel. His fellows tossed him a rope, dragged him back up. They crawled forward. Tried to loop their rope round the chimney of the nomad-infested corner house. Missed. And kept missing. Each time, Sonya gritted her teeth, clenched her fists, urged them on.

They succeeded finally. By now, Sonya was sweating, exhausted, sharing their pain and danger. Tottering with armor on their bodies, the Eracians crossed over, a whole squad. Then, they just stood there, undecided. At the ground level, someone was gesturing wildly. Through the window? Get in there through the window? She wasn’t sure, and neither were the soldiers.

Mercifully, it wasn’t raining, so at least they could count on dry, sure footing. She took each death personally. It was her duty as the nation’s queen.

The soldiers started peeling the roof tiles off, exposing the grid of old wooden rafters. They might get in there by cutting a hole in the ceiling of the upper floor, then sneaking inside and killing the barricaded mongrels. A few paces below, the Eracians aimed their crossbows at the windows, making sure the nomads could not fire at them. It was going to be a slow, costly take-over, she reasoned. If only the defenders could collapse that building somehow.

Something changed. The men on the roof stopped peeling the tiles. The men in the street began waving their hands. Back, back. Get back. She frowned. Why, after all that risk? Yes, she
could see the anger in the posture of those soldiers. Grudgingly, they obeyed and aped back down the rope to the other house. She noticed they were no longer paying attention to the nomad shelter. They were watching in the direction of the Street of Heroes, following its curve.

A large body of Eracians was coming over. She frowned again. Their uniforms did not match. They looked too colorful, almost like the nomads.

Then, she saw it.

A huge gray thing, twice the height of a horse, with a flopping nose, like a snake, huge bleached teeth, and tattered ears that flapped nervously. There was a man seated on the massive round bulk of that monster, and she gaped stupidly at the sheer weight of its body, at its fat legs that stood thicker than a common man.

What was that?
Bart, darling, what kind of wild, wonderful tricks did you bring along?

“My goodness,” Fidelma gasped, plastering her ugly face against the window. Other women joined her, and soon, a whole roomful of whores was doing its best to look and sound shocked, surprised, and delighted. Stupid bitches.

“That is an unholy thing,” Richelle said, not to be bested by her peers.

Unholy
, Sonya thought. The whore wouldn’t be able to tell a temple even if she was being raped inside one.

Whatever the gray beast was, the Eracians did not seem afraid of it. On the contrary, a ragged cheer exploded through their ranks. She burned to know more, but she was satisfied with what she saw. The nation’s fathers and sons had that lumbering monster to their aid.

The beast shimmered. No, it was armor.
That thing is wearing armor!
she realized. Now that it was somewhat closer,
she could clearly see large pads of steel on its head, the sides of its body, the front of its forelegs.

Ignoring the sluts around her, she watched. Several men brought a long length of chain and snaked it through the bottom-floor window and out of the nearby doorframe. She believed she saw one of the soldiers tie the other end to the huge gray animal. Yes, the monster edged backward, and the chain went taut. Like a crowd of ants, the Eracians skittered away.

She watched with elation as the yellow bricks began to crumble and fall, and the whole section of a wall crashed down. The door and the window were no more. Those nomads were frantic now, trying to fire at the monster, but the Eracians kept them pinned down. With a shield above their heads, several fighters dashed forward and tied the chain again. The monster pulled. More rubble toppled.

And then, the entire house groaned and fell forward. It slammed into the opposite side of the street, and a belch of thick dust rose in swirly billows, obscuring her view. She could hear the masonry wailing in agony, and the Eracians shouting, cheering.

“Amazing,” Verina supplied, giving words to everyone’s feelings. “We are victorious.”

We are still here, slut, and you’d better keep your mouth shut
, Sonya snarled.

The street was blocked now, but that monster quickly cleared the mess. Soon enough, the Eracians streamed through, joining their comrades for a bitter fight in the park. The remaining trees offered only glimpses of the combat, teasing, annoying.

The war was not over yet, Sonya thought. She had to keep her hopes down, be patient. She had to endure this madness for a little while longer. No matter that the Kataji had not
bothered to bring any food in the last two days, no matter that the slop buckets were overflowing. The women were all filthy and haggard and smelled like shit, but it was a small price to pay for freedom. Luckily for all of them, Sonya had ordered them to keep some of the daily rations aside well in advance, knowing a situation like this might arise, and they all had a tiny cup of water to wet their throats and some hard bread to settle their stomachs, but no one bothered to thank her. No, they took it all for granted, stupid whores.

Sonya would have lashed out at them, but she remembered Richelle’s threat. No reason drawing attention to herself. Not now. Besides, her throat was sore from too little drinking, and she did not want to waste her strength on trifles. Standing by the window was costly enough on her waning reserves, but it was worth it. She had to witness the glory of her realm. It was her duty.

The door to their chamber banged open with a kick. The bitches startled. Sonya maintained her composure and just turned around slowly, trying to wet her cracked lips.

One of the Kataji tribesmen was standing there, sweaty, dirty, a drawn sword in his hand.

The end?
Sonya wondered, feeling sad.

He tossed a water bag inside, and it sloshed noisily onto the carpet, but luckily, it did not open and spill. “Drink quickly. And then get out here. Now.”

No, not the end yet
, she reasoned. You did not feed your victims before gutting them. As befitting her station, she walked over, ignoring the click in her little toe, and lifted the skin. It was quite heavy, and her arms trembled. She needed more than old bread rinds to keep in shape, it seemed.

With selflessness that would have disgusted her only a year back, she handed the bag around and drank last. By then,
the skin smelled of spit and unwashed mouths, but she drank eagerly, feeling a wisp of strength coursing back through her veins. Much better. One of the babies started crying.
Must be Richelle’s
, she thought, swallowing the lukewarm water.

“Now, out. Get out here.” The soldier waved them into the corridor.

Hesitantly, the women flocked out of the chamber. There was cold, pasty fear on their faces. All but Sonya. She was calm, composed, regal.

“What is happening?” one of the sluts blurted.

Sonya was convinced the Kataji would not bother responding, but he did. “General Pacmad is moving you out of this shit palace,” the warrior growled.

Hesitantly, the women filed out of the smelly chamber into the corridor. They were all afraid, not quite sure what would happen now. Pacmad might decide to kill them all, because he was losing the city, and this could be his one last act of defiance. But Sonya did not share their sentiment. She still held the waterskin in her hands, a token of hope. And anguish. She realized her captivity was not over yet. She would have to endure this agony for some time longer. It was as if the chieftain was doing this on purpose to torment her.

They must be taking us north, into that last pocket of solid Kataji defense
, Sonya wondered. They would probably exit the palace from the east, sneak around the park, and then head into the neighborhoods under enemy control. Bart’s men were probably going to free the throne later that day. After seeing the gray monsters in action, she had no doubts.

“Faster,” the nomad snapped. “Or I will smash your fuckin’ teeth!” He led on without looking back. The women followed, because they were too terrified to do anything else.

Sonya found herself at the end of the column, with Baroness Richelle just ahead. Surprisingly, it was not her daughter making all that noise. The woman was glancing back now and then, as if she expected Sonya to radiate encouragement at her.

Just to imagine that whore had the nerve to threaten her, she thought.
Just look at her, frightened to her bones, all scared shitless now, but in a quiet corner of a room, she had no problem plotting and spitting poison
.

There were torches burning in the corridors, giving off foul smoke. Some of the women coughed too dramatically. Most of the nomad rubbish had been cleared away, probably to give more fighting space for the warriors. But apart from their little snotty line, there was no one else around. Sonya imagined she heard boots thudding against cold stone, the shuffle of leather, the groan of wood and the jangle of armor, men cursing in Kataji and Continental, the unmistakable clatter of violence. No screaming, though. Or maybe it was the chaos from before, still echoing in her temples.