Calemore blinked meaningfully, as if reading his mind. “Any knowledge of her whereabouts?”
Damian clenched his fists. He had no idea where his former love hid. She was untraceable. Even the best rangers in the realms were unable to locate her. After months of easy hunting, the one remaining deity was nowhere to be found. She hid well, from magic and treason alike.
“I will find her,” Lord Erik said, but he sensed there was something wrong.
“I have already found her,” Calemore said, confirming Damian’s greatest dread.
“If you’ve killed her—” he snarled.
“I haven’t killed her, you old fool. But we will see what has to be done.” Calemore flexed his fingers. “So tempting. But then, it’s best if you do it, Father. You’re already experienced in that area.” He smirked.
Damian felt warm blood trickle down his palms. His fingernails bit deeply into the paper-dry skin of his hands. Even after ages of madness, he still felt a pang of guilt in his stomach whenever he thought about Elia. She had betrayed him, but he still loved her. He hoped that she would not have to die to make his escape happen. He wished he could pray, but gods had no one and nothing to believe in but their own consciousness. Morbidly, they were like people without faith.
“I will bring Elia to the Womb,” Calemore continued. “You make sure you get there.”
So, the hunt is over, Damian thought dryly. He would be free from his prison soon. But he felt no joy, only a dull, hollow, dreadful feeling of a dark end that suffused him with panic. What would he do when he finally fled the Abyss? What would he do with this world? Destroy it? Rebuild it? Let it be?
Then he remembered Calemore. His son would be around, too. The thought of murdering Calemore felt odd, but right. Like a sculptor forced to destroy his best piece of art. You dreaded the idea, but you cherished the intimacy and the knowledge you could do it all over again if necessary. Denying everyone else the beauty of your finest work.
Calemore frowned, looking annoyed. “Did you hear me?”
Damian remembered the ever-present chill in his limbs. This body was dying, hanging on with the last threads of stubbornness. “Yes, I heard you. I will dismiss the gang tomorrow.”
“Oh, keep them,” the Witch mocked. This is a dangerous land. You still have a month’s worth of ride till you get to the Womb. I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.”
Lord Erik felt there was something wrong. He had a gut feeling that his mission was not finished yet. There was more to it than just a list of dead gods and goddesses. A ghostly feeling of unease echoed in his belly. But it was too faint, too weak. Maybe just a trace of expectation. Maybe an ancient memory from the First Age. Maybe the icy realization that he would see Elia again.
The two men stared at each other. There was no love there, no trust. Lord Erik deflated first. “Do you still sculpt, Son?”
The White Watch almost looked bashful for a moment. “I mostly paint these days. It gives me peace.”
Damian smiled softly, sadly. “I wanted you to be a free spirit,” he admitted.
Calemore grinned, his face taut, his eyes narrow. “I don’t know whether to thank you or curse you for the cravings and emotions you gave me. Sometimes, I have these wild, vivid dreams.”
“What are they about?”
“It’s one dream, really, in a hundred colors. I dream of the day when I become a god.”
Damian nodded. And I dream of human love, the betrayed deity thought.
The White Witch was somber, his face stern, cold. “Get to the Womb as soon as you can.” And he was gone, vanished. Calemore used magic wildly, never caring about what it cost. He was vain and arrogant. But his son had never tasted utter defeat, never been raped with betrayal. That was a lesson he would yet learn, Damian promised himself. Now, he had to make sure the rest of his life as the one god of the world was not riddled with unbearable guilt and remorse.
Oh, how he loathed his Special Children. They had let him down, every one of them. From poor farmers and orphaned altar boys to the rich, greedy nobles and heroic army commanders. When their moment of glory had struck, they had crumbled like old caterpillar husks. If only his son Ewan had joined him, he could have been free by now, fed by the infinite force of the dead. He could have fled the Abyss, never having to keep his promise to Calemore. But he was ever a beggar.
Human years had dulled his resolve, nagging like a missing tooth, a hollow, wet feeling of futility that just grew stronger every summer. Nothing made a difference anymore, it seemed, except the raw scar burning inside his soul. He had not expected revenge to taste like ashes.
He walked back, acutely aware of the pain in his limbs. If his host died, it would take many years before Calemore could find a new volunteer. If he chose to. Calemore could well decide he would take the world by force. He could keep Damian trapped in the Abyss forever, an itching yet impotent presence and a reminder of failure. Damian only hoped the man’s sense of urgency, now that he was outside Naum, was as unbearable as his own.
Back in the camp, his men were getting ready for the night. Luke, one of his soldiers, had drawn the first watch. Disinterested, Lord Erik headed for his own tent. Inside, he buried his face in the musty pillow and cried quietly. He knew he was going to kill the woman he loved for the second time, and there was nothing he could do to prevent it.
CHAPTER 28
“How long, Son?” Sergei asked, the rain beating in rhythm with his heart.
“Three to four months, Your Majesty,” Vlad said.
Sergei whistled silently. Three to four months. That was a bloody long time. It would mean camping in front of Roalas’s gates into the winter. Static camps were a trap for disease and disorder. Although morale was very high at the moment, it was dropping, and some soldiers had defected. Just as he had feared, many grumbled about their liege duties. They wanted to go home, to their wives and children, to work the fields and administer their fiefs. His one year of grace was oozing away.
The worst were the tens of thousands of camp followers and sutlers, who saw little interest in pride and slaughter and only cared about their craft and purses and the hide on their backs. Even a masterpiece victory could not change their mentality overnight. Mingled among them were free riders, sell-swords, opportunists, deserters, hirelings, soldiers of fortune, whores, and other misbegotten souls who cared even less.
Captain Speinbate was there in the tent with Vlad, Sergei, and Master Engineer Koldan. He had brought along one of his men, Blue-eyed Geert, which was the strangest of names, since he had eyes dark as coal. While the Parusites had some experience in laying sieges, the Borei were masters of the trade, and Geert was their champion. They had besieged and attacked virtually every single keep, castle, and fasthold south of Mardoan in the past thirty years, and no one knew ballistics better than they. And when all else failed, they would get their olifaunts to tear out the castle gates with huge chains.
Vlad had sketched a daring idea for taking Roalas. But it required heavy siege equipment, which they did not have yet. Day after day, his son was proving himself more and more of a man, smart and resourceful and balanced. Not only did he handle petitions with skill and diplomacy, the Talkers were now actually milking useful information from the city, and now, he was planning how to break the siege with minimal casualties. Sergei was immensely proud.
Geert nodded, confirming his son’s estimate.
Sergei was proud, but he grimaced no less. The siege would stretch into the winter, and winter meant food scarcity. Offended by the pirate activities in their realm, the Caytoreans had stopped sending trade convoys, despite ample profit. Their countryside was infested with the Oth Danesh. A blessing had turned into a tumor.
The siege camp broiled with tension and chaos. Despite Sasha’s and his best efforts, there was no stopping the Red Caps from mingling with ordinary soldiers. But it wasn’t just ordinary human passion or boredom. Female soldiers did not take lightly to the Parusite customs anymore. They hel
d themselves in high regard and would draw swords and spit at their male comrades when they took liberties. Others yet used the men as a weapon in their private feuds. His knights were running out like hungry puppies, their dingleberries hanging out.
Despite their low discipline and a fetish for prostitutes, Captain Speinbate managed decent control over the Borei, but it was not perfect. Olifaunts needed tons of food, and they shat little mountains. His men kept mostly apart, but there was no avoiding the inevitable clash of cultures, which usually ended up with someone being stabbed in the gut. The mercenaries had ridiculous demands, and he had refused them all, but it just couldn’t be stopped. At first, it was the bear fighting. Then, after he’d forbidden it, they had tried snake baiting and dog pits. And an ever more colorful repertoire of gambling and danger thrills.
Today was not a good day. In a tent nearby, Sasha was arbitrating a rape case. The three Borei claimed the Red Cap had come to their camp on her own volition. The woman claimed she had been abducted, thrown into a sack of potatoes, and smuggled away. It was hard to know who was telling the truth, because in the fury of her defense, she had emasculated half a dozen soldiers.
Count Anton, the sheriff of Natha Plains, had lost his right ring finger in a cockfight, and he, too, demanded justice. Captain Speinbate was willing to appease him, but he didn’t really know which one of the hundreds of his men to blame for the incident. After all, the count had not worn any gloves and insisted on handling the bird himself. Sergei was going to fine him a huge sum of money as an example to all, but first, he wanted the Borei leader to sweat a little.
An olifaunt had panicked and trampled some men. In retaliation, the Parusite soldiers had killed the beast. Both sides demanded compensation. Meanwhile, Sergei counted losses. Those huge animals were of great strategic value. Losing even one was a shame. But he could not let the lack of discipline go unpunished. So, he let his lords bicker and argue with the mercenaries.
But all of his problems around Roalas paled in comparison to the Oth Danesh. They were like vultures. His right flank was on fire. The Parusites were almost waging an open war against their allies, trying to subdue their wasteful, dangerous rampage. The threat of a Caytorean retaliation was growing by the day. Soon, they would lose their patience, unite, and strike back. And Sergei would lose his eastern front. A rumor of five thousand Athesian soldiers hiding in Caytor did nothing to relieve his stress.
The priests had promised him a quick victory; that seemed to be an empty promise.
“The timber supply is the biggest problem,” Vlad continued. “We will need at least four thousand fifty-year-old saplings. And there’s none to be had around here.”
Giorgi laid down some papers on the table near the king, then quietly withdrew.
Sergei nodded, temporarily distracted. “Caytor?”
The prince-heir rubbed his head. One of his clerks handed him a report. He read it briefly. “Unfortunately, we may need to ask the Eracians for wood. This could slow down the progress even further.”
Geert nodded in silent agreement.
Sergei cracked his knuckles. His son was taking matters very seriously. When he had asked him to devise a plan to conquer the city, the boy had taken the seemingly impossible task and created a daring, mind-boggling solution. It would take a very long time, but it would work.
To keep the project secret, it had to be done far from the prying eyes of the city defenders. Vlad intended the actual labor to be done in secrecy two miles south of the main camp, in a smaller bivouac with better access to the South Route. This also meant relocating a handful of troops away from the capital so they could protect the other post.
The king sipped some lukewarm wine diluted with water. He was hungry. “What about the animals?”
Vlad rolled his eyes, thinking. “At least two hundred oxen, sire.”
“Your Highness,” Archduke Bogomir interrupted. He gave his son-in-law a small nod.
“Yes, Bogomir?” Sergei flicked his fingers. One of the servants came forward, carrying a tray of salted pork and goat cheese. Timur was ill today, so he had to do without lizard meat.
“The Oth Danesh overlord of the seas is here, as you requested. And there’s an Eracian count to visit you. He claims he’s an official emissary to Monarch Leopold. He wishes to meet.”
Sergei frowned. “An Eracian managed to come all the way here unchallenged?”
Bogomir snorted. “No, Your Highness. He is escorted by several Red Caps.”
Sergei took a deep breath. Sasha had not told him anything of this. This was interesting. But maybe this sour day could turn lucky. Just when he needed an Eracian to discuss wood supplies, one had presented himself most fortuitously.
He snapped his fingers. “I will see them both together. Bring that pirate bastard here. And I want the Eracian noble present, too. I want to see how he will react to what I intend to do.”
Vlad sensed a change in his father’s demeanor. His face turned into a smirk.
Master Koldan excused himself and left the war council tent. The servants all withdrew as a pair of guards took their places at the back of the tent, the sagging ceiling almost touching their helmets. Captain Speinbate and Geert moved to leave.
“Stay,” the king ordered.
The Borei leader squirmed. He was hoping there would be no torture; he hadn’t eaten his dinner yet. But then, if he had to puke, it would better be done on an empty stomach, he reasoned sourly.
To Sergei’s displeasure, his guards ushered the Eracian lord in first. He was nothing like Sergei expected.
The man was drenched from the rain; he had obviously not tried to dainty-walk his way in. His face was tanned, and his hair was bleached by the sun. He was sporting a shaggy beard that had never seen any grooming. He bore himself like a commoner.
Is this a deliberate slight or pure neglect, Sergei thought sourly. Was he going to waste his time talking to a minor lordling who seemed to have forgotten the basic rules of etiquette? What could he expect from someone who looked like a beggar? A beggar’s worth, it seemed.
When he spoke, though, his voice was crystal and sure. “Count Bartholomew of Barrin, the emissary to His Majesty Monarch Leopold in Somar, the supreme ruler of Eracia, Your Highness,” he said and bowed.
Everything about this man was unusual. Sergei still wondered about having been insulted. But if this were a deliberate attempt to anger him, it was a refreshing change from the stiff, gloomy formality that surrounded him.
The king of Parus was silent for a moment. “Welcome,” he said at last. “My servants will see to your needs. If you require food or a bath, please just ask. You are my guest.” There were no servants in sight; this was a not-so-subtle hint that the man should have cared more for his appearance.
Bart just smiled, seemingly oblivious of the counter-insult. “Thank you, Your Highness. I’ve had the privilege to enjoy the Parusite hospitality for the last three weeks while waiting for your admittance.” It sounded sarcastic and dead serious at the same time. The man might be furious, but he kept it well hidden.
Three weeks? Sergei would have to talk to Sasha about this. In fact, why not right now? He waved his hand. The adjutant glided forward, silent, formal, face like stone. He whispered into Giorgi’s ear.
The man scurried away, out of the tent.
“What do you want to talk to—” he started, but was interrupted when the pirate leader entered. Sergei felt his anger rise. His need for drama was not being met. First, the Eracian count, and now this untimely interruption. He had planned on seeing the pirate leader, but his men could have done a better job of coordinating the meetings. It was Bogomir’s fault, he thought.
The tent was not a place you would use to awe your foes and allies. It was large and spacious, but the extra weight of the rain had made it much smaller. The lamps hanging from sturdy crossbar rafters didn’t emit enough light to banish the austere gloom of a place used for war preparations. The floor was muddy, the sides crowded with tab
les and chairs. A stack of waterproof horn-and-hide tubes, filled with all kinds of maps, was lined against one of the drenched flaps, almost like firewood. Then, there was a load of suits of armors, weapons, and a coal-fed brazier that Timur used to prepare Sergei’s snacks on. Not a throne room, no.
The Oth Danesh leader was a thin, scrawny man, with knotted muscles and dark skin covered almost entirely in black-blue tattoos displaying sea motifs. He was escorted by several other pirate shipmasters, or underlords, as they called them, and a handful of Talkers disguised as plain sentries. All of the pirates were bare chested, despite the chill. Must be bravado, Sergei noted.
“Greetings, Kingship,” the man rasped.
“Overlord Ro’man, the captain of the seas,” Sergei hissed sweetly. He nodded meaningfully.
At his cue, the Talkers drew blackjacks filled with lead pellets and attacked the man’s retinue. The pirates went down in a flurry of groans and cracked bones. The overlord reached for his saber, but Vlad was faster. His son held a sword pointed at the man’s neck, the sharp tip hovering just an inch away. The two guards at the back were kneeling, holding aimed crossbows.
“What is this, Kingship!” the man roared.
Silence. Sergei reached for the swath of documents Giorgi had brought earlier and stared at them, not really reading. One of the papers had a wet corner, the ink smudged.
“You have disobeyed my direct orders,” Sergei lectured after a while, his eyes on Count Bart. The Eracian was watching the scene intently, frozen like a statue. The king approached the Oth Danesh even as the Talkers disarmed him and bound his wrists behind his back. “You will have cost me years of diplomacy. You’ve jeopardized this war by your stupid games.”
The overlord licked his torn lip and spat blood. “We seize as we please!”
The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) Page 32
