The Humbled (The Lost Words: Volume 4) (54 page)

He was not certain if she was being sarcastic. But it did not matter anymore.

Constance brushed her hair away. “Can I hug him one last time?”

Bart shook his head. “No, I’m sorry.” He waved at Junner, and the mercenary walked over. Bart extended his hands, and the boy sidled over, pumping with his little feet against his coat. Despite his tiny size, he fretted with a great deal of force.

“Who will be his mother now?” she asked, her eyes moist again.

Bart blinked rapidly. “It is not important. He will be well taken care of.” He paused. “Good-bye, Constance. You must leave today. You will have an armed guard whichever direction you choose to go. It’s war everywhere, so I would suggest you head to Parus, and maybe cross over into Athesia via Bridgen, and then find your way to one of the coastal cities.”

Constance did not see him. Her eyes were locked on Adam. “I love you, Son.”

Bart felt his chest tighten. It wasn’t easy for him. He turned around so the baby would not make any sudden gestures toward his mother. There was no need to make matters worse.

“Lord Count, a little hat for the young prince!” Junner said cheerfully, handing over a thick woolen sock. He reached over the boy’s overlarge head.

“Wait, let me do it,” Bart said. Gently, he pushed the hat over Adam’s fuzz and covered his ears. Then, without a
backward glance, he stepped out of the cabin and left his crying mistress behind for good.

It was midday, and the rain had respectfully stopped so the victors could march into the liberated city gallantly, chins raised high. Commander Faas reported no more enemy troops in the city. The tail of the defeated Kataji beast was being harried by the auxiliary units over the western plains, fleeing the battlefield.

One year and a half after taking Somar, the nomads had been defeated. It had cost Bart sixteen thousand souls, but he had won. He had restored pride to his nation. For the first time in centuries, Eracia had something to boast of.

I would not call myself Vergil
, Bart reasoned.
I will let others decide that
.

He was mildly surprised by the success of his campaign. He had not really believed he would be able to unite the nation under his banner and make the southern and northern armies cooperate. He had not believed he would have the charisma and audacity to rein in the aristocrats and keep them focused on freeing the city rather than fighting their own personal wars of greed. And truth to be told, the casualties were rather low.

He had lost a huge chunk of his troops, and many more spent their days and nights freezing in wet trenches, still awaiting the arrival of that strange, horrible invader, which never came. But the nomads had lost more, and finally decided to retreat once they realized they would all get killed if they remained in Somar. Once his commanders had figured how to make the best use of their soldiers, and how to fight inside the narrow, littered streets, the favors had turned. The Borei olifaunts had also come in quite handy. He could hear the songs
in the army ranks, and the wonder of those gray beasts would be remembered for generations.

“Are you ready, friend?” Junner asked.

Bart looked at the mercenary. “No, not really.”

Junner slapped him on the back, not too gently. “Don’t tell me a man like you is afraid of a woman!”

“Not just any woman. She is my wife. Don’t laugh.”

“You are too lenient with your women,” Junner chided in between snorts of laughter.

“Perhaps,” Bart agreed, his heart thumping a steady, excited beat in his chest.

“Ah, never mind me, Lord Count. You are doing fine.”

Bart gazed toward the city gates. Hardly half a mile away. Behind him, the army had arrayed itself in long columns, displaying its colors. Well, the wind was too strong, so the banners were furled for now.

“What if she’s dead? What if she’s alive?”

“You know what to do,” Junner encouraged him. “We discussed this before. Lord Count, it’s like a game of cards, or any other game.”

Bart gazed at the mahout. “And what will you do now? The war is over.”

Junner wagged his finger. “Lord Count, war is
never
over. I hear you plan to chase those nomads all the way to their tribes. Extend Vergil’s Conquest. Then there’s the northern army we must heed. War is human nature, friend. It cannot end. When it ends, we all end.”

Bart could not resist the man’s charm any longer. He smiled, some of the tension in his muscles melting. “You’re either a bloody genius or a complete fool.”

The Borei shrugged humbly. “I am a man of profit, that’s all.”

Bart rubbed his eye. “What about the rest of your forces? The ones still retained by King Sergei?”

Junner pointed northeast, in the rough direction of that huge foreign army. “We are all friends now. We will fight together. It does not matter who pays for our services, does it?”

“Well, I will be very glad to have you around. I still need to figure out how to beat you in a game of cards, or any other game, you cheating bastard.”

Junner slapped him again, almost making him fall from the saddle. “Now, there’s the Lord Count I know.”

Bart enjoyed it for a while. Then his mirth slipped away, and he turned serious. “Well, this is becoming embarrassing.” All those thousands of men, waiting for his signal.

“You are the monarch, Lord Count. They wait as long as you wish.”

“You know, I am no longer a count. My official title now is different. Your Majesty. That’s how you address me.”

Junner snorted. “For me, you will always be Lord Count.”

Bart shrugged. Deep down, that was still how he felt. But he would learn how to be the nation’s ruler. He would. Like he had learned so many other things in these past several years. Well, he had embarked on a mission of peace. He had finally brought peace. Most of the Eracian dignitaries taken hostage in Roalas were still alive. And he had forged a sort of a peace with the ruler in Athesia. It was no longer Empress Amalia, but it did not matter. King Sergei had loaned him his troops, and in a way, he was indebted to him. Which meant Eracia would be very favorable toward Parus in the years to come. All in all, he had done exactly as he had promised Leopold.

“How’s Adam?” he asked.

“Safe and warm with those baby women,” Junner told him.

Prunella and Irma had found it in their hearts to love gold, too, it seemed. While they might never really like him, they would keep their old mouths shut and take the best care of his son. Bart was glad he could resolve everything so easily, so
peacefully
.

Now, Sonya, the one part still left unresolved. The one part he dreaded.

It surely would not be resolved if he stayed standing in the wet field outside the city.

Fuck it
, he yelled in the frightened confines of his soul and waved for the army to march forth.

CHAPTER 38

A
loud crash startled her. Sonya woke from her fitful sleep, hungry, filthy, exhausted. Her little chamber was dark and smelled of mold, but at least she was on her own, without any other women to intrude on her peace, as little as she had these days.

She stood up, her head almost touching the ceiling. At her feet, her chamber pot was full to the brimming. There were no servant ladies in this place.

Another crash. She winced involuntarily. It was closer this time. Footsteps were creaking on the old wooden floor outside, but she had no idea who it was. No sounds of fighting, no screams, just frenetic steps of urgency.

Sonya wished she could leave her tiny prison, but the door was locked on the outside.

Almost a month back, Pacmad had taken them all out of the palace and led them, just as she had suspected, into the northern quarter. There, he had corralled them inside an abandoned orphanage, where its plenty of small rooms made for an excellent prison. She had been separated from the rest of the noblewomen. Once in a while, a soldier would bring her some food and water, but she had not seen any real sunlight or bathed since.

The situation was dire. She knew it by the fact the general had not even bothered to investigate Richelle’s death. Sonya had not seen him for a long while now. She was not even sure he was alive or what he might do with the rest of them. The defeat of the Kataji invaders was imminent, but every moment stretched into an eternity. With nothing else to do, she spent her time thinking, talking to herself, trying to keep her sanity, trying to reason out the end of her captivity. What would happen once Somar was fully liberated? Would Pacmad take one last joy raping and then killing them all?

The door to her chamber crashed open, splinters and dust flying. She yelped and sat down on her small wooden bed, cowering. A block of bright light assailed her almost-naked, shivering form, and she suddenly felt exposed, vulnerable.

There was a Kataji warrior standing in the doorway, gripping a sledge in his muscled arms. “Out.”

Her body was too weak from the lack of activity and bad food. She gingerly stepped into the hallway, a long, narrow corridor with dozens of cells on each side and small windows, buried near the ceiling, all along its length. Confused female ghosts were leaving their own chambers, looking just as disoriented and feeble as she felt. She recognized them as her peers, and her hatred flared, but it died away all too soon. She was too worried about her own self-preservation to care about these whores.

Silently, the soldier led them away, just like one month back. Sonya glanced at her forearms, at the tiny, livid incisions she had left there with her nails, counting them again, the old ones pale and barely visible. Yes. Thirty days, more or less, she figured. Thirty cold meals, just one cycle of menstrual pain, and her belly was cramping again, so it could not be more than that. But she had read how women in captivity sometimes lost
too much weight and stopped bleeding altogether, and her pain might be mere hunger. Well, she still had some dignity on her hips and chest, still looked like a woman. She still had her best weapons.

She had to step over the body of a dead tribesman. He looked familiar. Yes, that was the man who had fed her the past several weeks. His face was caked with old black blood, and his arms looked broken. An empty key chain lay by his mangled fingers. What had happened there?

The mess hall of the orphanage already had a whole bunch of other women in there. Strangely, the Kataji were feeding them, bowls of some hot gruel and wedges of rye bread. Most had musty, itchy blankets covering their shoulders.

Sonya frowned. What did this mean? Did Pacmad intend to give them false hope? Or did he plan something more sinister? And if he had time to feed his prisoners amid all this chaos, maybe the nomads were still not losing this war. The thought terrified her.

Where was he?

She found herself in a rough chair, staring at a bowl of oatmeal. Oh, she was hungry.

Almost too casually, Pacmad strolled into the hall from a side entrance, shadowed by three soldiers, their swords drawn. The chieftain looked tired and dirty, like everyone else, but his face was calm, and he was in control of things, like he always was. He flicked his fingers. One of the warriors approached, and the general whispered in his ear. The man nodded and went into the kitchen.

Sonya saw him and forgot all about the food. She pushed the chair back and stood up, leaning against the table until she was strong enough to stand.

“Pacmad,” she called. On the far side of the bench, Verina stabbed her with a gaze of deep consternation.

The Father of the Bear noticed her. His eyes clouded with disdain. “What do you want?”

Sonya tried to bear herself regally. “I must talk to you, please.”

Pacmad did not speak for a while. He waited until the soldier returned from the kitchen and handed him a wooden bowl brimming with the same gruel. “Talk.” He began spooning the breakfast dutifully.

“Alone, please,” she pleaded.

He waved her over. The three bodyguards stepped back. She shuffled close, and her broken toe clicked once, just to annoy her.

“You should eat,” he chided.

Sonya nodded weakly. Yes, the sensible thing would be to gobble her own ration as soon as she could, because she could not be certain there would be more food anytime soon. But she just could not eat, not just yet. She had to know first.

“What will happen to us?” It was barely a whisper. And she braced for a punch or a backhand.

Instead, he kept on chewing the white flakes, some of them sticking to his stubble. “Nothing. You will soon be freed by your countrymen.”

Sonya reeled. She could not believe her ears. Why was he tormenting her still? Was he just trying to be mean and cruel and to derail her mind? To make her elated, and then see her cry hysterically? To flare her hopes up and then smother them in a vicious grip?

But his face was as serious as she had ever seen. He was still the mongrel with his blue eyes, but he did not seem to be jesting. “Yes, you go free,” he repeated, his voice emotionless.

Someone pushed past her. She almost fell. In that moment, she realized how pitiful she was. The old granite floor beneath her
bare feet was icy cold, and the air in the hall was quite frigid, too, despite the kitchen heat and the press of bodies. She only had a simple dress on her body, and she had long forgotten what it felt like to be warm and comfortable. Her muscles were cramped and stiff from the cold, and she carried with a hunch that made the grumble in her stomach and the bite of the oncoming winter against her shoulders and legs somewhat easier to bear.