The Humbled (The Lost Words: Volume 4) (57 page)

Even a blind beggar could see the outcome.

Within a few weeks or months, or maybe years, the Naum army would win by the simple grace of attrition. Which brought him closer to the questions he couldn’t answer just yet. What would he do once he became a god, and what about Nigella?

He was also thinking more about Sheldon. Still a child, but with a sharp mind, and his mother’s blood. If properly raised, he could do wonders. Rarely did Calemore spend much thought to what role humans around him could fulfill. Normally, they were just fodder. If not for slaughter, then for some other mundane task. Sometimes he needed them to sow crops, sometimes to clean latrines, and sometimes to fear him.

But that concept was wearing off fast. He no longer relished fear and blind obedience. Boring, even disheartening. Only he was not really certain the Naum civilization could elect a free, unafraid mind from its midst. Its culture was lodged deep in reverence and unquestionable loyalty to his image. For countless generations, the nation had lived isolated behind the Veil, in the snow and the cold, and the only thing it had was its
immortal leader. They worshipped him and, in that, blunted their souls.

Not that he expected them to rebel, but even a small change of heart would take centuries. How could he steer them away from the very ideal he had created? With more force? That could not work. They had to figure it out on their own. But to rule them yet again as mindless drones, that would be torture.

Oh, how Nigella had poisoned his mind. Once he would have been content with just killing the remaining deity. Now, it was just inertia. A habit. He didn’t really care for that any longer. So there had to be something else. Something beyond revenge. Something that would motivate him once he won this war.

All his brilliant mind could summon was Nigella and her son.

Sheldon might be the answer to his problems.

He still had time before fighting
that
battle. So, he pushed the thought back into the black recesses of his soul and focused on simpler things, like exterminating the people of the realms.

CHAPTER 40

A
malia had burned to return to Roalas.

Well now she was, but not how she had imagined.

She wasn’t leading; she was fleeing.

For a month now, the enemy had been pushing south relentlessly. A seething mass of men and steel, slow and ungainly, rolling like an avalanche, like a collapsing mountain. There was never any grace or great order in Calemore’s tactics, never any deep planning. The White Witch was sacrificing his troops without regard to numbers, restraint, or finesse. He just marched forward, and there was nothing they could do to stop him.

Amalia had hoped Ewan would use the bloodstaff to kill the northerners. Only, when you had
two
such weapons, aimed at each other, it was best not to use them at all. Every time Ewan had hazarded firing the blood pellets at the enemy, Calemore would respond with his own magic, sowing death. Now, it seemed, the boy was simply afraid.

Princess Sasha had vehemently objected to the Sirtai using their own power, but after she lost almost half her forces, her resistance had melted away. She did not approve of magic, but the only sensible thing was to let the wizards be.

Gasua had fallen the previous week. Day and night, the northerners had sent their men to die, wave after wave, until the friendly lines had simply collapsed. Cold to the bone, without any food or sleep, the defenders had tottered away from the death, no longer caring. Many had deserted, and others just followed the big army, seeking hope and strength in numbers.

They were all exhausted. People counted themselves lucky if they could sleep four hours. That wasn’t enough, not for the body or the mind, and their senses were dulled, their patience short. She could not trust her own judgment, let alone that of the men around her.

Amalia pulled on the reins. Her horse neighed but then halted, stomping nervously. As the king’s vassal, she was entitled to a carriage, but she refused to ride inside a wooden box on wheels, deprived of any control. The saddle was a torture, but she kept her eye on the human animals around her, waited for her moment to strike back at her enemies. Lately, she had gained so many she could hardly count.

At the foot of the hill ridge running south, the small folk were winding through the canyon. They sounded much closer than they were. Amalia could hear the crunch of boots on gravel, the smack of hooves, the wet, racking coughs. Every now and then, a lone figure would veer away from the procession, walking like a drunk, and then simply fold down in the wet grass, never to rise again. No one bothered herding the strays back to the convoy. No one cared anymore. The strong would survive, and that was all that mattered.

Across the valley, a knot of bandits was watching the Athesians make their lethargic flight. Once the army and the refugees went away, they would scavenge the bodies, collect what was left behind. Animal carcasses, lost blankets and tack, a sack
of rotten food, it was all good plunder for them. They did not complain. Princess Sasha kept her riders close and would not chase them away. She needed every soldier ready to fight the northerners.

The enemy was maybe two miles away, following at the same sickly pace. They were just as malnourished and weak as her own people, but they counted a hundred times more. Looking back, she thought she could see the swarm of troops climbing over a low wooded crest. Athesian stragglers were maybe a bow’s shot ahead of the Naum army, already forgotten by their kin. To try to save them would mean more death, more losses. It would be madness.

Gavril was down there, among the men and women and children, preaching. He made sure they never forgot their gods and goddesses. Their bellies might be empty, their toes might be freezing, they might be shitting brown water, and the children might be dying of lung fever, but as long as they had faith in their hearts, they would live. So he promised them.

A goat bleated, a forlorn sound. They still had some livestock. But soon, they would have to start eating their own horses.

She nudged her small filly off the track so she would not impede the troops coming up behind her. Mostly footmen and footwomen, all insignias long worn-out. Everyone looked identical: pale, weak, dirty, muddy all over. Today, there was no rain after so many weeks of icy torrents, but the air was frigid, and breaths misted. There was no sun, either, to warm their skin, just a low, sullen cloud cover, and it licked at the higher hilltops, bleeding its fluff against naked treetops.

Amalia saw Jarman approaching. He was riding side by side with his blue-faced friend. The two Sirtai were miserable, but they still looked noble, dignified.

Well, we united everyone for the war against Calemore. It didn’t do us any good
, she wanted to say. But she was just too tired.

I am still here, still leading my nation
, she tried to convince herself.

A barefoot soldier shuffled past her, face slack, eyes closed in fitful sleep. He marched on, following the rest of the army. There was no cohesion any more. Athesians and Parusites and Caytoreans mixed freely, truly united in their misery. Only the Borei still managed to keep apart somewhat.

“You must keep moving,” Jarman chided weakly, joining her.

Amalia nodded. Her shoulders hurt fiercely. She had blisters on her backside. Her toenails were turning squishy white in her sodden socks. That could not be good.

“When does this end?”

The wizard inhaled slowly. “When we win,” he grated stubbornly.

She considered opening her mouth, but what would be the point? She resumed her slow march.

Later that day, they were intercepted, even as a needle-thin drizzle started, cladding the world in a silky hiss. A friendly force of almost thirteen thousand Parusite troops, coming from the south, fresh, clean, full of hope, zeal, and illusions of a quick victory. They also brought food and herbs and new weapons. Thunderous cheers exploded through the ranks, and it was almost enough to lift everyone’s spirits, even for just a moment. But they had seen this before, and so far, they were still fleeing the enemy, and their bellies were still empty.

Amalia had lost track of all the dukes and counts that King Sergei had sent north. Still, somehow, she had to admire his
dedication to this lost cause. He could have just left and ridden home to his warm home country and carefully prepared for the war, instead of sacrificing his best troops for the sake of these nonbelievers and their questionable loyalty. That was a lesson for her in how to be a leader.

The army still kept to its higher vantage point. The civilians bogged the lower passes, pushing, shouting, cursing, or just staring ahead with glassy, uncaring eyes. There was a scuffle near one of the open field kitchens, and as usual, men shoved the women and their babies aside, gobbling all the rations. Rape, that was the dessert. But even Princess Sasha could not afford to kill the offenders.

Uphill, there was more discipline, but not by a great measure. Soldiers moved in tight groups, Red Caps apart, Xavier’s men apart, her Athesians apart. There was little trust, and you could get knifed over a wrong look. If you stole bread, you could get killed. Some soldiers had whores, taken from the camp below. Women gave away their bodies in return for some gruel and protection. Amalia had found the Borei methods objectionable before, but now everyone practiced them without shame.

The filth stopped short of the higher-ranking officers, but it was always there, a stink you could not wash away. And even among the king’s nobles, there was no greater comfort. Sometimes they ate food just as cold, and they could not afford to shave their beards or cut their hair short. Amalia had wine and fire every now and then, and a thick ring of bodyguards to protect her from her own troops.

She sat on an old crate, eating thin cabbage soup with a wooden spoon. The taste was bland, but the warmth in her guts was a blessing. Jarman was chewing on an onion like it was
an apple. Lucas was standing, looking north at the enemy. He was probably using magic right that moment.

She saw the Caytorean warlord coming toward her, pushing through the crowd of her guards. His tabard had mold growing on it, but he did not seem to mind. “Your Excellence.”

Amalia sniffed. “Yes?”

Xavier forced a weak smile onto his whiskered cheeks. “A private word with you?”

Jarman grimaced, but then he unfolded his weary limbs and shuffled a short distance away. He could probably overhear everything—or react, if the man turned out to be a threat.

Xavier knelt in the muddy grass at her feet, groaning. His sword pushed into his ribs, and he had to lean sideways to free the scabbard from the muck. “How much longer will I have to wait?” he whispered, his foul breath hot on her cheek.

She had expected no more, no less. “Once the war is concluded.”

He shook his head, breathing through his nostrils. “No. That’s not good enough.” His gloved hand flopped onto her thigh.

Amalia froze. “You do realize if I scream that you will die?”

Xavier smacked his lips. “I’m no fool. But you think I’m some kind of a dog, don’t you? I stayed with you through all this shit. I expect some fucking loyalty in return. You promised me something. So I don’t get to be an emperor, fine. That Parusite bitch spoiled that, fine. But I still can be a proper noble, and your title sounds just right. Now, I’ve been waiting long enough.” His pig eyes were shiny with fury.

Amalia put the bowl away, trying to keep her hand from trembling. Jarman cast a quick glance at her, wondering if he should interfere. No, she was done being a coward.

“Listen to me, swine. Your persistence is admirable, but you should admit defeat. It’s over, warlord. If you want to leave, please do. This Naum enemy will be coming to Caytor all too soon. Your valuable experience will be needed there. Who knows, the High Council might grant you one of the titles you crave so badly.”

“We had our agreement.” He almost sounded offended.

“That was before…all this,” she explained, trying to sound calm and unafraid.

“You fucking whore,” he growled. His fingers squeezed harder. But then he let go, rose, and stormed away.

Amalia looked at Jarman. Captain Speinbate still had not killed this man. She was wondering what he was waiting for. Or maybe he was just too swamped with defeat and panic, like everyone else. Maybe the wizard had not paid him yet.

The evening was settling in. The drizzle stopped, and the cloud cover climbed higher, away from the quiet, dark camps. Amalia thought it was almost unnatural, because there was very little wind. But as soon as the clouds dissipated, a fierce cold settled in. The grass frosted over, became crunchy like glass. The air was sharp, like a blade, cutting invisibly at her cheeks, her throat, her fingers.

She huddled herself in a swath of musty blankets, alone in a tiny tent that was too low to stand in, her saddlebags a hard, painful pillow for her head and neck. Outside, soldiers walked in quick circles, trying to warm their limbs. Someone was crying. There was too much coughing. Horses snorted into the frigid night. Just as her mind began to roil, she wondered how Agatha was faring. Her maid was with Pete now all the time, with his troops, protected better than the princess herself.