Damian was sober all of a sudden, his face taut with genuine fear. “Boy, don’t do anything foolish.”
“As an immortal, I may shrug off the long years of waiting, waiting for you to complete your task, but then, I may not.”
“Son, relax,” Damian whispered.
The witch pressed the tip harder, drawing a blob of blood. “You will go back into the Abyss, trapped for ages before you find another weak soul that will accept you. And without my help, you will never succeed.”
Damian growled. “It’s all gone wrong. What’s done is done.”
“Fine. Clean up, and resume your hunt. I don’t care for your past failures. I want the gods dead!”
“It’s not that simple,” the god croaked. Suddenly, he seemed old, very old, ancient beyond sorrow and pain. His body sagged, pushing involuntarily against the knife. Calemore inched the blade away before the fool impaled himself.
The witch smiled. “It’s her, isn’t it?”
Damian’s eyes were moist with tears. “Yes. She’s alive.”
“Then, she must die too.” Calemore felt a burst of pleasure course through his veins.
“No, no. I killed her. She must have been Remade. She doesn’t count.” The forgotten god was almost panicking. “I don’t know how that can be. You don’t understand, Calemore. She’s nothing. She’s not important anymore.”
“Perhaps,” the White Witch said. “But we won’t know for sure until the moment comes.”
Damian paled. “No, not again.”
Calemore nodded. “We made a deal. It cannot be undone.” He snorted. “To think of it, it’s really absurd that you will be condemning her to death twice. Such irony. Even you could not have planned something so bizarre and stupid.”
“Son, I beg you. She makes no difference. She’s no longer a goddess.” He said it without much conviction. Dead gods were dead. They could not come back. But then, how did Elia live? He had no answer. Sometimes, even gods had no answers.
The witch nodded. “She really means that much to you, doesn’t she?”
Damian was crying, the broken thing. “Yes. Leave her alone.”
Calemore sighed. “It’s simple. If she’s a goddess still, then you know what you have to do. If she isn’t, she’s harmless, but then, if you care about her, you will make sure nothing happens to her.”
Damian charged, a low growl in his throat, but the witch had expected the attack. The knife came up, pricking the old man’s throat. “You bastard.”
“In theory, I never had a mother, so I guess the definition is a little tricky,” Calemore hissed in a slimy voice. “You are mine. You belong to me. You owe me. If you value your own hide as much as I hope you do, you will do everything I say. And maybe, when the moment comes, if Elia turns out to be unneeded, I will let her live. You have nothing to lose. But, if you cross me, you have everything to lose.”
Damian sobbed. “Leave her alone.”
“Just make sure you kill all the other gods first.”
“I will,” Damian whispered.
Calemore removed the knife. “Good. So we’re back to what you ought to have done eighteen bloody years ago. But no matter. Time is not that important. I think I’ll find something interesting to do in these realms. Maybe stir a war.”
Damian ran a hand through his hair. Something black and shiny skittered over his hand.
“And I want my things back,” the witch said.
The god thumped a bundle on the table. Frowning, Calemore unwrapped the greasy sheets. “That’s it? Where’s the rest of it?”
“I don’t have them any longer.”
“What a pathetic little thing you are. Where’s the rest of it?”
“I gave it to a human. He is the self-proclaimed ruler of a new realm. He’s called Adam.”
“One of your failing Special Children, I presume?” The White Witch laughed softly.
“No, just a godless human. The best kind.”
“Since when do you care for humans?” Calemore mocked. Damian sighed. “Davar was supposed to get rid of the gods, but then this Adam came all of a sudden and started interfering. At first I thought I ought to kill him, but then I learned he was a godless man, just who I needed. So, I gave him the book and the staff, hoping he would use them to carve a new future for the realms.” He smiled sadly. “I even set him against my followers back home, just so Davar would have a chance to complete his task. I was so close. But how was I to know Elia still lived? She ruined my plans.” The god thumped his head against the wall behind him. “I left. I just left.”
Calemore grimaced. “So, you gave my things to some human and ran. What has he done with them?”
Damian shrugged. “Nothing. He just made peace. He betrayed me, too.”
The White Witch snorted. “What a worthless little shit. I want it all back.”
“Go fuck yourself. You get them back on your own.”
Calemore ignored the insult. There would be enough time for payback later. “I sure will.” He placed a copper coin on the table. “You gave my things to some human mongrel just like that. Think of the damage he could have caused. What if he’d turned pious? What if he learned of the future? You’re stupid and foolish. Now, come with me, old man.”
Outside, a light rain was pattering.
“There, it will clean some of the shit off your face. Like this,” Calemore said. He raised his arms and stared up into the leaden sky, blinking when an odd drop hit his eyes. “I have not tasted rain in thousands of years. It feels wonderful.”
Damian stood like a scarecrow, hunched, weak, devoid of any will to live. He was shattered. All the time he had wasted nourishing his hatred and brewing his revenge, all for nothing. In the end, his own children had failed him. And the love of his life, the woman he had killed, was alive. All for nothing.
Was there any hope left? What could he do now? If he approached Elia in the guise of an old man, would she recognize him? Could she love him again? Did she hate him? He had asked himself these questions every day for the past eighteen years and never once mustered the courage to seek answers.
Despair choked him. His human body fought him, desperately trying to live, fighting his red-hot desire to crumble to dust and simply vanish. Worst of all, deep down in the core of his being, he knew he was too cowardly to end it all. He wanted his old glory back. He wanted to see his foes dead, every last one of them. And he was willing to bet Elia’s life against it all.
It shamed him to admit it, but he was willing to make her die twice.
“I will need help,” he croaked.
The White Witch sniggered. “Of course. You always did. I saved you from destruction so many times I lost count. You will get money, soldiers, assassins, everything you need. Just make sure all the remaining gods are dead. This one time, make sure you succeed. Meanwhile, I’ll take care of this Adam.”
“Do not hurt Elia,” Damian warned.
“Don’t presume to threaten me, old man. You really should have chosen a different avatar. You can hardly walk.”
“This old face is so trustworthy. You never understood that.”
Calemore pursed his lips. “Perhaps. However, my not-so-trustworthy face has seen me rule Naum for countless generations, while you have managed to lose a war, get yourself imprisoned in the Abyss, lose another war, fail in your mission to wipe out the gods, and get betrayed by just about anyone who’s ever known you.”
“I’ll take care of it. Just make sure you keep your hands off Elia.”
The witch clasped his hands in an apologetic manner. “We will see about that. The choice is entirely yours. This used to be your world once. It’s your choice what you make of it. I could finish the job, but it’s only fair that you keep to your end of the bargain.”
Damian’s face turned hard. “No. The gods will die, as I have promised you. Give me your knife.”
Calemore handed over the stiletto. Damian leaned forward, grappled his filthy mane, curled it into a rope, and with a sin
gle cut, sliced off most of it. He dropped the filthy hair to the ground. When he raised his head, some of the old fire burned in his eyes.
“One day, you will tell me the entire story,” Calemore said sweetly. “Now, what do you need?”
“Soap first.”
CHAPTER 4
“She did what!” Monarch Leopold shrieked. He rose angrily from his chair and punched the air.
Count Bartholomew winced. He was not happy to be the man to deliver bad news. But, as the lowest-ranking adviser in the monarch’s Privy Council, the grim task fell to him. Besides, there was no one else around, which was part of the news.
The Eracian ruler started pacing around the Council Chamber, the eyes of the men assembled watching him carefully with trepidation. He stopped suddenly, as if seeing the masters of coin and trade, attending the meeting that Bart had just interrupted, for the first time. The two lords were seated behind the big table, staring at a swath of papers, not quite sure what to make of Bart’s interruption or his message. Monarch Leopold waved them out.
“If she wants war, she’ll get war!” he shouted.
“Your Majesty, I believe she wants to avoid war,” Bart offered quietly. His eyes rolled toward the chandelier above, then toward the empty balconies surrounding the chamber.
“Avoid war? How?” The monarch slammed his fist against the mahogany surface. “How? By abducting every single Eracian noble who came to pay respects at her father’s funeral? They were her guests! And she broke the code! I could have been there!” It was part pride, part luck, part mistrust that had stayed the monarch from traveling to Roalas. He had shipped half his court instead, a lukewarm gesture of goodwill that only barely countered the insult of his absence.
The count swallowed. “She has also taken hostage all of the Caytorean dignitaries.”
“I don’t care! I don’t care! Half the realm’s leaders are there. Who does she think she is, that bitch!”
Bart raked his hair. There was sweat dewing on his temples. He never liked talking to the ruler when he was angry. Leopold was not a very reasonable man when white fury wrapped him.
“Your Majesty,” Margrave Philip, the chief spy, interjected. The man had remained sitting behind the table, holding a silver pen, rolling it between his fingers. “It would be prudent to learn more about Empress Amalia’s intentions before we make any decisions. We know for a fact that she has not harmed anyone. All her guests are being treated with care and respect.”
“Oh, I see. So we should be polite as well? Maybe we should wage a polite war?” He whammed the table again. “Summon Commander Raymond, now!”
Konrad, the royal aide, nodded curtly and rushed out of the chamber, glad to leave the scene.
War talk again, Bartholomew thought and swallowed. He did not want to remind the monarch that trade with Caytor had tripled in the last eighteen years, mostly because of Adam. The man had crippled Eracia, but he had given her a clean wound to nurse.
Snubbed pride was a deep hurt, but Bart was a pragmatic man. He saw beyond the fanfare and heroic songs. He counted wars in the lost gold and unnecessary wagonloads of bodies. The last two decades had been the least bloody in known Eracian history. The Free Roads Agreement was the best thing to have happened between Somar and Eybalen in quite a long time.
They had to be very careful around Amalia. She may be a diplomatic pirate, but then again, nothing Adam’s blood had ever done was orthodox.
“Your Majesty,” he said, “we really need to understand what she intends to do. Our trade convoys have not been touched.”
Long caravans of goods continued flowing into Athesia and Caytor, unabated, safe in their passage, and untouched by the diplomatic storm in Roalas. It was the legacy of the strange duality of Athesian rule. Even when the monarch had dispatched killers to dispose of Adam, the man would just blithely ignore the attempts, never once harming the economic relations between the countries. He simply looked beyond the petty bickering and political schemes and let all their countries thrive. Or perhaps he knew things that none of them did. His daughter seemed to follow the same path.
“It’s called the Butcher’s Slice,” the monarch said in a chiding tone. “You know that one?” Both men shook their heads. “Bless my nanny for telling me the best stories.” The monarch paced around the room in a nervous, erratic gait. Bart had to pivot on his heels to follow him.
“It’s a story about a butcher in a little town called Elsborne, who used to deliver pork cuts to his customers. They would always get the whole cut. But then, one day, he sheared a slice off every chop he delivered. And when the customers asked him why he’d done that, he told them an innocent tale about how his business was struggling. Then, the next time he delivered his goods, the cuts were smaller once more. And he spun another tale about how one of his sties had burned down and he needed the extra money to rebuild it. The third time he said nothing. By now, the customers were complaining, but no one really wanted to do anything about the tiny slice missing. After all, the hassle was hardly worth the thin strip of meat. Right. By the time the cuts were so tiny they could hardly feed their families, the butcher had grown rich, having sold the extras to hundreds of new customers. When they finally mustered nerve to confront him, he had fled town.”
Bart frowned. He was not sure what the moral of the story was. It was just a nanny’s story.
“Don’t you get it? She’s doing the Butcher’s Slice trick! She’s changing the political situation one slice at the time. For now, she has taken my nobles hostage, but she has not harmed them in any way. It’s a small gesture of aggression, but not big enough to justify war. After all, nothing has really changed, has it? My trade convoys travel freely. No one has been hurt. Soon, she may impose new road taxes, just an extra copper, nothing more. Or she may execute one of the guests. We will gradually get used to the new reality, one change at a time, never quite big enough as to stir an immediate response. She’s testing my resolve and intelligence. And I won’t let her best me.”
The count drank a glass of wine. Monarch Leopold had a point, but it was still a wild speculation.
“We ought to be careful, Your Majesty,” Bart hazarded. He wished the full Royal Council was in assembly so they could dissuade their ruler from any rash, hasty decision. But half its members were prisoners now.
“An act of war is an act of war! There’s no middle ground. We must react with full force.”
Margrave Philip spoke. “Your Majesty, going to a total war against Athesia will not benefit our national interests. By the time we engage the foe, it will be summer, time for harvest. We will starve the people. Furthermore, our armies are hardly ready for a sustained campaign.”
“What do you suggest then? That we exchange blows with Athesia through a series of reciprocal border skirmishes? We’ve done that before with Caytor, for countless generations. It hasn’t made much difference.”
No, Bart thought, but people tend to forget what kind of wars the two realms waged before the skirmishes came into fashion. People forgot the horror of the all-out campaigns of death the two nations had fought, the years of famine and devastation, the despair and near-total destruction. They forgot the Widows’ Winter. They forgot the Leprous War.
The truth was, the Eracian regiments were rather weak. They could still muster only about two-thirds of the war force they had had before the Great Desertion. The troops were badly trained. The morale was not that high. Many great army commanders had defected to Athesia in the last war, leaving Eracia leaderless. Worst of all, they had no idea how strong Empress Amalia’s forces were.
Then there were the rumors of terrible secret weapons that Athesians wielded, invisible crossbows that could kill an armored man a thousand paces away. No one really believed those to be true, but no one was quite ready to put hearsay to the test. Least of all Bart. It was a gamble he was not willing to play, yet. He hoped the monarch would listen to reason. Not likely, considering he had banned songs about Adam’s military legend years ag
o. Bart still remembered the sad, drunken one-armed bard who was foolish enough to sing about the Red Death, the famous defeat of the Parusite armies by Adam. The wanton poet had lost his tongue that night.
The margrave coughed. “Our best course of action is to wait. We could start mobilizing the divisions, in Baran and Yovarc, but nothing too grand. We should send agents into Athesia, see how much information they can glean.”
Bart did not want to say anything. This was how the last war had started—innocent mobilization.
Leopold waved his hand, his face contorted in derision. “Ah, your useless ring of spies, Philip. What have they ever learned?”
The nobleman swallowed the insult. “It’s worth a try, Your Majesty.”
Bart went over to a side table and unfurled a map of southeastern Eracia, staring at it without seeing any details. He just wanted something to do with his hands. He was no military man. His knowledge of army garrisons was quite limited. Commander Raymond would arrive soon, but the man was likely to side with the monarch.
“There have been rumors of Parus stirring, too. They might be getting ready for war,” the chief spy said after a lengthy pause. “Again.” He joined Bart in the corner. His lips moved as he traced the old border lines, counting leagues.
“What do they want now?” The monarch seemed annoyed.
There was a loud yet polite knock on the chamber’s doors.
Leopold’s head whipped sideways. He looked like a hawk. “What now!”
The double doors parted. One of the guards let Chief Steward Kai enter. The old man bowed slightly. “I apologize for the intrusion, Your Majesty, but your son inquires if you would be so kind to play with him now?”
The monarch groaned angrily. “In so many words, did he? Not now, Kai, damn it. I’m busy.” He made a rude gesture of dismissal. “Begone. And I don’t want to be disturbed. If Commander Raymond deigns to get here, send him in. Close the doors.”
The steward bowed, deeper this time. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”
The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) Page 4
