The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2)

by Igor Ljubuncic

  But he was ready for the trick, and he flailed hard with his arms, countering his descent. The big man plunged in a rush of bubbles. He pulled the knife immediately and started sawing at the ropes. Ewan did one simple thing; he grabbed the man’s ankle.

  The pirate realized what Ewan was trying to do, so he stopped cutting the rope and swung at him. The knife blade sliced over Ewan’s forearm and did nothing. It just slid off, as if he were made of stone. Ewan pushed closer. The pirate tried again and again. His panic mounted as they sank deeper, his motions turning rapid and erratic. The knife raked against Ewan’s belly, but it sounded like a piece of metal clinking against granite.

  The murky water turned dark. Ewan glanced up and could no longer see the surface. His enemy was flailing, his mouth open in agony, tiny bubbles of air pouring out. Then, there was blood coming out from his nose. And then, there was stillness.

  Ewan pried the knife from unresisting fingers and worked on cutting his own ropes. They were thick and crusted with old salt, taking a long time to sever. No human would ever stand a chance of surviving the ordeal. You would have to remain utterly calm, retain your coordination and strength in almost total darkness, even as the numbing cold gripped your muscles and a terrible pressure mauled your lungs.

  Luckily for him, he was not human.

  And he was free. The anchor continued its lazy drop. Ewan started ascending. He didn’t know how much time had passed, but it must have been minutes. By now, a lucky human would be out of air and trying to reach the surface as soon as possible. Which would be a fatal mistake. Ewan had heard the stories about pearl hunters who would sometimes forget this crucial fact and come out coughing blood, their ears ruptured. He swam past the dead pirate, who kept sinking down. The Oth Danesh would never get to see their comrade again.

  The surface rippled above him, pierced by shafts of light, so enticing. The shark was swimming in circles, outlined as a black silhouette against the glare of the sun. When Ewan came near, it moved away. Its primitive senses told it Ewan was not on the menu.

  Ewan surfaced. He didn’t even bother to gasp for air. He just breathed normally. Not that he needed to, he recalled with bitter sadness and familiarity. Almost five minutes underwater, he guessed. No man could manage half that, let alone while fighting for dear life.

  The pirates stopped cheering when they realized it was him. Their leering faces turned somber and worried. Very worried. Some scrawny land-loving child had just defeated their champion, even against all the trickery.

  Ewan climbed the ladder and stepped onto the deck, shaking water ceremoniously. He threw the chipped blade onto the planks. He smiled. “My winnings,” he said simply.

  Silence. Utter silence.

  The shipmaster nodded. The quartermaster handed him a single bag of gold. Carefully, slowly, Ewan sat down on the deck and counted the pieces, one by one.

  “Ninety-eight,” he said dryly. “Two missing. And another ninety-three for my bet.”

  They handed him another bag. He counted again, made a mistake, counted over. Someone dared a curse, but his comrades quieted him.

  “Let’s go back to the shore.” Ewan commanded the situation now. “You come with me,” he told the shipmaster. There were no jeers or taunts as they climbed down into the boat.

  The raiding party soon learned the bitter truth when they saw Ewan returning. Their cheerful, aggressive mood turned sour when they realized something fundamentally wrong had just happened. Like a bunch of confused sheep, they stood and stared.

  The shipmaster jumped off the boat early, wading toward the shore ahead of the rest. He conferred with one of the pirates. They spoke in a hush, with lots of nervous gestures. “Horses,” Ewan managed to overhear.

  Constance was shivering. Ewan hugged her gently. He watched the pirates around him, looking for any signs of treachery. He would not put it past these savages to try one last dirty trick. If they could not hurt him, they might try to hurt Constance. It was terrible, terrible bad luck to forgo a treaty, but some might be too drunk or too desperate to appreciate the gravity of their oaths. Or they might not be superstitious enough.

  But there was no nasty surprise, only bitter awe and true fear. The Oth Danesh were afraid, he realized. He had just bested their champion and humiliated their shipmaster in front of his crew. He had robbed them of their wealth and dignity. And not once did he show any fear.

  “Your horse, as agreed,” the shipmaster murmured.

  Ewan shook his head. “That’s no horse. That’s a pony.”

  The shipmaster growled, “What’s the difference, landman?”

  The boy smiled. “About three feet shoulder height and five hundred pounds.”

  The shipmaster spat in disgust. “I give you another horse.”

  “No, I want something else instead,” Ewan said and pointed.

  The woman he had seen being led before. What else could he do? Let her die or become a slave?

  The shipmaster was livid with anger. “No. She got golden hair. She’s worth lot of money!”

  “All right, I’ll buy her off you,” Ewan suggested. “How much?”

  Slowly, the pirate realized he was being manipulated and possibly humiliated once again. He opened his mouth, but then he quickly closed it and let his mind work. “Y’know, landman, you’re a tricky one. Smart head, strong body. I could use a man like you. What do you say? You join me, we raid these shores together? I give you half my hoard, eh?”

  Ewan decided to be cruel. “Why do you think I would settle for half when I can have it all?”

  The other man just swallowed and said nothing. A vein was pulsating on his temple. There was temptation again. What would happen if he asked his men to strike? Would they obey? Worse, would they win?

  “Bring the children over. And that woman.”

  The raiders obeyed. Ewan dug into one of the bags and produced a handful of gold.

  “Listen to me, children,” he spoke to the bleary-eyed crowd. “You take the gold now and run far, far away. And if anyone comes after you, you show them the gold, and you say the Sleeper landman protects you.” Ewan had no doubt the rumor would spread like wildfire. It would not save the children from Caytorean brigands or other monsters, but it would keep the pirates away.

  Their tiny hands accepted the gold, and they stared dumbly at the shiny coins. But they did not move.

  Ewan felt his chest constrict with despair. Could these children survive on their own? What would they do? Where would they go? What would they eat? He saw himself eighteen years ago, outside Chergo, contemplating the horrors of the world.

  “Run now, kids. Run!” he shouted.

  They scattered.

  “If any one of you ever comes after these children, I’ll know. I’ll find you and hunt you down. And I will curse your families for seven generations,” he warned.

  Moaning with outrage, the pirates around him made warding signs.

  “Miss?” he finally addressed the woman.

  She had been roughed up, but she looked lucid enough. She seemed to understand what was happening. “Thank you,” she sobbed.

  “Do you have anywhere to go?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Take me with you, sir,” she pleaded.

  Ewan swallowed. He looked at Constance, but she hardly registered anything. She had withdrawn into her private bubble of safety and would not come out. First Constance, now this woman. But what could he do?

  “Fifty gold,” the shipmaster dared at last.

  Ewan smiled. “I’ll give you twenty and spare your lives. Fair deal?” He threw the coins down deliberately, forcing them to scoop them up from the wet sand. Like a pack of crows, the pirates flocked toward the gold, scuffling, cursing.

  “You are a warrior, landman,” the shipmaster admitted.

  Ewan felt no sympathy, but he relented. “I’ll remember that.” He offered the tiniest sliver of dignity. “If ever I need sea voyage, I’ll ask for Shipmaster…?”

  “Underlord
Calad of Cape Brown,” the man said. He seemed utterly relieved.

  “By this, I find our treaty sealed,” Ewan said. The shipmaster sighed. His nightmare was over.

  Ewan helped the battered woman mount. Then, he helped Constance onto the other horse. He secured the bags with the gold one to each saddle, so if they lost one of the animals, they would not lose everything.

  “Thank you, sir,” the woman whispered again, trembling. She seemed to be in a mixed state of stupor and terror.

  “It’s all right,” he said, watching her carefully. “What is your name, if I may ask?”

  “Doris. Councillor Doris of Monard. The Caytorean High Council of Trade owes you a great debt.” She swayed in the saddle. Tears rolled down her eyes. “You saved my life.”

  Ewan nodded. “I’m Ewan. Just Ewan.” I’m a monster and a savior, he thought stupidly. What am I going to do now?

  Doris leaned forward against the pommel, torn with exhaustion. She mumbled something that sounded like “children,” but he could not quite understand. He looked around. A hundred hostile eyes glared at him, baleful and hating and glazed with fear and wonder.

  They rode off.

  CHAPTER 27

  Damian sat on the cold ground, staring at the fire. There was something special about fire. Even gods never got bored watching one burn. The dance of the flames, the sinuous movement of sparks as they rose and faded, the soothing caress of heat and light. It resonated with some deep emotion inside him.

  Around, his seven mercenaries shared a quiet evening meal after a long day of riding, skinning rodents and lining strips of bacon and onion on a grille that covered the blaze. Their journey was coming to an end. Only one deity was left alive. One divine soul separated Damian from his final, complete release.

  He was glad for the mercenaries’ company, simple men with a simple creed in life. They excelled at what they did, they loved money, and they asked no questions. They were the finest trackers in the realms, and even gods were not beyond their reach. Of course, Calemore’s magic and influence played their part. Otherwise, the hunt would have taken years rather than months. With tens of thousands of informants and servants across the land, the White Witch commanded every secret and rumor that transpired between the Twilight Sea, in the Far West, and the Broken Isles, between Naum and Lerim Sah, thousands of leagues to the south.

  Damian shifted his weight. His bones hurt. The Possession Magic slowed down the aging process significantly, but it could not cheat death, only delay it. He had taken over Lord Erik more than four decades ago. By all rights, the man should have been dead by now. If the hunt were not over soon, he would need a new host.

  Finding a volunteer would be hard. It had to be someone greedy enough to give up his mortal existence in return for a vague promise of greatness in his afterlife. It had to be someone willing to believe in the ghost of a truth of an ancient god imprisoned in the Abyss. Religion was quickly dying in the realms, its final throes spurred by the destruction of the Movement. Few people knew about the ancient times. Fewer still would let their body become a husk infested by a foreign soul. Not after Davar’s failure. But Davar had never really understood the purpose of Damian’s mission. He had followed blindly, motivated by fear. He never should have trusted him.

  Damian had seriously miscalculated when he created the idea of Feor. He had hoped the destruction of the old gods would allow him to flee the Abyss on his own and make death his own servant. Instead, he had become weaker than ever before, ever more at the mercy of his son’s magic. He did not relish risking another possession. Nor would this world be ready for another religious uprising anytime soon.

  Lord Erik stood up, groaning. His old frame quivered with a deep inner hurt that no amount of rest would heal. But there was no going back. His soldiers looked up, expecting instructions, and when none came, they went back to munching on bacon and roasted squirrel meat. Damian envied their simplistic views on life.

  Their master went for a walk outside the camp, leaving the warmth of the fire behind. His feet crunched on dry, dead foliage. Above him, naked trees whispered in the evening wind. Autumn was coming. It was only a matter of days before the roads became impassable with hail and mud. He had to finish his end of this bargain soon.

  His mind swirled with doubt and agony. He dreaded the last encounter with the one surviving god. Or rather, goddess. She was all that stood between him and his complete release from the Abyss.

  In a way, the entire First Age had been a tragedy. He had been banished to his prison convinced he had murdered the woman he loved. He had spent an eternity wallowing in pain and misery and regret. Rage had made him kill his love, and sorrow had made him hate the world without her. All for nothing. But there was no going back. After an eon of loathing, he could no longer stop. He was committed with blind, rabid frenzy to the idea of his revenge.

  Damian stopped and looked behind him. The camp was a distant orange glow. He had walked away too far without noticing. Around him, the dusky world rustled and cracked, copper and yellow leaves flying in erratic swirls. The poplar and wild chestnut forest looked eerie, surreal. The first stars glittered in the bruised sky. Fat clouds chased the sun behind the ragged black hills in the distance. There would be a rainstorm tomorrow.

  Their campsite was a remnant of an ancient abandoned village. Blocks of stone overgrown with moss and grass marked the relics. The ground was uneven, mounded. Maybe this very spot was a cemetery. A long time ago, some forgotten people had lived here, convinced in the rightness of their puny, meaningless lives. They had died and left their bones to rot. No one cared about them anymore.

  Pretty much like him. Even if he escaped from the Abyss, what could he do? He could envision having the world under his heel, shivering in terror, doing his bidding. But it would be nothing more than a selfish, egoistic moment of satisfaction. Even without him, his humans managed just fine. They butchered one another; they cheated and lied; they did things the gods could not have even imagined. His return would be like creating a mascot for their deepest desires and darkest feelings. He would be nothing more than a figurine they could worship. But his lust for revenge was burning in him. His brothers and sisters had wronged him for being better than they. They had betrayed him.

  Damian cast his eyes on the ruins. Many centuries ago, this place had belonged to Tanid, the god of weather. Those hills out there, they always whispered with winds. The ridges always wept, always moaned, cold mountain air shivering through their ravines and their scarred cheeks. They used to call them the Singing Heights. Now, they only had shaggy goats and incest-loving clans to hear the never-ending lament. Beyond, a godless, empty land stretched all the way to the Twilight Sea.

  Even the gods had their limits.

  “How’s the hunt going?” Calemore asked, appearing behind one of the poplars. He was chewing on an apple, grinning.

  Damian suppressed his jolt of fear and surprise. Then, he snorted loudly. “It will soon be over.” How could he have missed his son’s approach?

  The White Witch nodded. “Who’s left?” When Lord Erik did not answer, he chuckled.

  Lord Erik turned away. He could not bear the sight of his son. Calemore kicked the apple core away and approached. He was wearing white leathers that shone in the setting darkness. His cheerful mood angered Damian.

  Damian remembered the first days of the aftermath of the war. He remembered the chaos and the confusion and the towering pillars of dust and smoke that rose from ruined cities. He remembered the fields of bodies, rippling with birds feasting on soft, rotting flesh. He remembered the rain that would never stop falling, black like tar. He remembered years of winter crawling over the blasted land, the sky that would not show its face behind the ashen blanket that covered everything. He remembered the corpses, bloated, rotting, mountains of them. He remembered the treachery.

  Calemore had escaped far north with his human allies and walled himself behind a screen of magic, beyond the reach of the ordinary world. It wa
s self-imprisonment as much as survival. But he had promised to return and help.

  His proud, arrogant son had done more than just raise a big shield to keep intruders away. He had outdone himself. For countless centuries, he had been cut off from the rest of the world, fermenting in his secluded empire, plotting his return. When finally the spells had worn off enough to let him reach forth with small tendrils of his magic, he had started probing the Abyss, to let Damian’s presence wisp out.

  They’d had an agreement: The White Witch would make sure Damian’s soul escaped, just a little at first, enough to grasp a hold in the human world. Then, Damian would work to destroy his treacherous comrades and make Calemore’s one true wish become a reality. And then, Damian would finally flee the Abyss and be free once again.

  Well, he had never really intended to make Calemore his equal. Which was why he had started making his own plans. And then, he had almost succeeded in fully escaping his prison on his own. And he had almost outsmarted Calemore. Almost.

  But he was betrayed again. By his very own blood.

  He needed Calemore still. Without his son, he would not be able to get entirely free.

  “I may need a new body,” Lord Erik said into the darkness. He cursed himself for saying it. But this body was weak and almost worn-out.

  “What’s wrong with this one?” Calemore commented.

  “It’s almost a hundred years old,” the grandfatherly avatar chided, keeping his emotions in check.

  The White Witch threw his head back, as if he’d remembered something. “One goddess left, you must be excited. After all this time, it will be almost like a family reunion!”

  Damian gritted his teeth. “I told you, she’s not—”

  “Relax!” The White Witch cut him off, raising his hands defensively. “Do you want to be released from that ethereal shithole or not?”

  It was not really a question, Damian knew. Calemore would not stop now. If his own hunger for revenge was maniacal, it was nothing compared to his son’s mad desire. The only chance Damian had of saving Elia was to obey the Witch now. If she could be saved. He dared not admit what choices he would make to escape the Abyss.