The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2)

by Igor Ljubuncic

  Calemore nodded, unfazed, utterly convinced in his millennia-old plan. “Something like that.”

  Elia snorted passionately. “Damian is a fool to have ever listened to you.”

  Calemore made a sad face. “My father had his heart broken by a woman. He does not think clearly. It’s so lonely in the Abyss, and all he wants is his revenge. It has driven him mad. He’s lost any sense of purpose. Like the rest of you, he’s an echo of an age long past.”

  Elia would not back down. “Listen to yourself. You’ve spent the known human history hiding behind magical barriers in a faraway land, playing god to a secluded race, and you speak of ghosts and relics? His obsession is no crazier than yours.”

  The White Witch grimaced. “I was destined to rule the human race. I will not be robbed of that privilege.”

  Elia was silent for a moment. “You were born to indulge the whim of a god who couldn’t love. So he made you into what you are, a perfect killing machine without a soul. I pity you.”

  Calemore raised his hand, and she blinked hard and turned her face away, to soften the clout. But he didn’t hit her. It would be pointless now. Doubt plagued him. Something was wrong. Elia was behaving too much like a human. She was a goddess still, but something in her behavior didn’t quite fit. Immortals took more…grand views of things. They did not linger on emotions and petty regrets. No matter, he thought. Soon, it would all be over, and he could focus on bringing righteous rage to the undeserving humans of this world.

  In the morning, they got their milk. After they left the village, Calemore tossed it away. His dreams had grown more potent now that they were approaching the Womb. He had to focus; he had to concentrate. One small misstep, and he would ruin an age of planning. He had to be careful. And wary. Elia was definitely planning something vile. It wasn’t like her old self, but perhaps her years mingling with humans had taught her a trick or three.

  He wasn’t sure if he’d dislike killing his father. Damian had been a companion to his hatred for so long, he almost felt like a twin soul. But the future had no place for a god burdened with remorse over lost love. You could not shape the destiny of civilization like that.

  The village road quickly became the treacherous goat trail again, twisting everywhere, making their ascent slow. Everywhere, there were thorny bushes of plants that respected no frost or hail and just kept growing. Horses could not simply cut through the briar and climb straight for the top.

  Elia rode in silence, her eternal face covered in a hood. Calemore watched her, waited to see if she had anything to say, but the goddess would not even look at him. She was absorbed in her thoughts. Might be the nearing death troubling her, might be the encounter with Damian.

  After a while, he gave up and rode ahead, scanning for other humans. He would not put it past Damian to try some nasty trick this close to the goal.

  With the wind making eerie noises as it bent the pines into the hill, they moved slowly toward the Womb.

  CHAPTER 51

  Ewan finished his prayer and walked away from the small altar. In the last several days, he had an urge to be close to Lar. He didn’t know quite why, but for a change, he felt better after praying.

  That priest called Roman followed him. From what Ewan had heard, the man was in the king’s own service. While most clergymen spent their time apart, Brother Roman mingled with the troops, always waiting for a sin to present itself. He never wasted a moment trying to instill more zeal into people’s souls.

  “Young master,” he called.

  “Yes, Your Holiness?” Ewan said.

  “I heard you pray,” Roman said. “You have very accurate inflections. You sing beautifully. Have you ever served in a temple?”

  Ewan was somewhat reluctant to divulge pieces of his past. He had already told Count Bart more than he ought to. It would put Doris and Constance at risk if it turned out he wasn’t just an exiled Caytorean.

  “I was an acolyte once,” he mumbled.

  “Strange that. I heard the Caytorean elite does not think fondly of religion.”

  “Some do,” Ewan said in the most vague fashion he could muster. “There’s solace in prayer.”

  “Absolutely,” the brother chirped.

  Ewan felt a sudden urge. “Tell me, Your Holiness, do you ever doubt your faith?”

  Roman frowned, as if he had heard a paradox. “No, never.”

  He envied the Parusites. For a long time, he had shared their fierce conviction, the absolute certainty in the unshakable truths of the gods. But now that he knew what his creators were like, the image of divinity was eroded. He still believed in the core principles of humanity they had shaped, but his prayers were no longer to the gods, they were for the gods.

  Ewan shrugged. “Sometimes, I feel my god has abandoned me.”

  The brother waved his hand dismissively, but it was obvious he was displeased. Ewan’s morose tone was putting down his cheerful mood. Whatever he had intended to say had evaporated.

  “You must pray harder,” he suggested and headed away.

  Ewan was relieved. He was in no mood for priestly company.

  Snow whirled erratically around him. The flakes were falling slowly, but then, just before touching the earth, the wind would pick them up in a drunken dance. It was bone-deep cold for everyone except him. He walked like a stranger, sensing the world without feeling it. When you needed no food, nor shelter, nor sleep, your emotions seemed to die, too.

  Day after day, he woke up in the siege camp and wondered why he was staying here still. Why didn’t he just leave? There was nothing else he could do to help Doris; there was nothing he could do to help Constance. The gut-wrenching urgency that pulled him west was still there, subdued, suppressed, but he could not ignore it. And still, somehow, he wouldn’t acknowledge it. Maybe he was afraid to discover the truth. The last time he had followed his instincts, he had spent close to twenty years locked in an ethereal prison with mad souls shrieking around him. This time, he might find himself lost forever.

  Even if he stayed in the physical world, he’d made a promise. He would not be a free man. The Oth Danesh wanted him. You must go, you must go, his soul screamed. What am I waiting for? He got no answers.

  Most of all, he felt lonely. He didn’t really have any friends. Except Ayrton, he had never had a friend. He wished he could talk to someone. But Constance avoided him lately, Doris was sliding away into remorse, and the Eracian count was too busy scheming. That left him with the common sort, soldiers and camp followers and blacksmiths, the same ilk who had shared their meals and stories with him in the ports. He liked the familiarity, but he yearned for intimacy.

  He must be mad, he thought. Why would he stay here? There was nothing for him here. A life, the kind normal people yearned for, belonged to normal people. He was a monster, and a poor one at that. He was a shy acolyte, an orphan, the collective sorrow of the gods imprinted on his soul. But he could not forget that one day in the inn with Constance.

  Ewan walked slowly, kicking snow, plowing his own route toward the barracks where they slept. The log houses were half buried in snow and chimney soot. The siege camp was going nowhere.

  To the side, a bored sentry dog was loping through the drift, oblivious to the plight of humans around him. Running away from the animal was a child or maybe a short man, wrapped in fur, panting heavily with excitement. When the dog sensed Ewan, it slunk away with its tail tucked between its legs.

  Even dogs shied away from his company.

  He wasn’t quite sure if he loved Constance. He didn’t quite know what love was. Vicky had taught him that much. But beneath the thick layers of mistrust and secrecy that wrapped Constance’s fragile form, there was something that called to him. There was longing there, a deep hurt, a sorrowful quality that resonated to his own timbre. Or maybe he was only being a foolish child, yet again.

  But he was entitled to love. He had saved her life, nursed her while she recovered from the beating, offered her shelter against the cruel
world that had left her to die in an alley. Still, no matter how hard he tried, she would not open her heart to him. He guessed a lot, but didn’t know a lot more. So he hoped. And gambled the world against it.

  This whole war affair was a terrible distraction, he knew. He could have reached his goal months back. But then what? Spend his life contemplating eternal misery every waking moment? Save the world so he could remain lonely in it?

  Saving someone’s children felt noble, personal. The world, it was just a background to that sadness.

  Corporal Kacey waved at him from her post. He waved back. Other soldiers muttered their greetings, breaths misting. He was liked by the military. His rather cool demeanor in the face of the fierce cold and impeding war made them respect him. But it did not win him any friends.

  He wanted to talk to Constance. He poked his head into the new hut he shared with his two female followers. The Parusites had taken down most of the tents and built wooden houses, which were much warmer. Ewan was grateful. He could not care less about the winter, but the women did.

  Constance wasn’t there. Neither was Doris. Ewan frowned.

  He asked one of the guards after Count Bartholomew. Constance was often with the older man, talking to him, chatting, flirting. It hurt him, but he never said anything. What could he say? What could he offer her instead?

  “Gone,” the man spat when he returned. “Care for a game of dice?”

  Ewan patted the man on the shoulder. “Thanks, Ruddy, but no.”

  His steps took him into the maze of parked wagons encircling their small clearing. Half a year of siege had transformed the haphazard battle lines into a prosperous town. The Parusite king was not keen on killing civilians, so they were flocking to him. They cared little for what their lord was called, but if he could provide them with food and protect them, they were ready to serve.

  Some time back, he would only see armed men patrolling the camp. Now, it was a mix of craftsmen, women with children, peddlers, all sorts, come from every corner of the torn land. Bart’s spot belonged to a secluded part where few Athesian refugees came by, but it was still crammed to the boot with provisions and supplies.

  Ewan wandered between the carts, caressing frozen coverings, knocking on fat barrels full of cabbages. Even the ice could not stop the smell. Soon, he was lost, straddled by silent sentinels all around.

  Then, he heard the sound.

  It was a whimper, but there was no pain there. Curious, he moved down a narrow corridor, rounded one corner, another, followed a new lane of snowed-in wagons. Discarded bits of tack, old saddles, and blankets were piled high, peeking through the white crust.

  He came around the fourth corner and saw them. Bart was wearing a thick fur cloak. And so was Constance. But the pelts were piled around their waists, and their naked legs stuck out. The girl was leaning against one of the carts, and the count was moving behind her, thrusting with his hips.

  She saw him first and yelped in surprise.

  Bart cursed and hurried to pull his trousers back up.

  Ewan smiled softly and walked away.

  Half an hour later, he was ready to leave. For the sake of appearances, he had dressed well, taken food supplies and snow boots and weapons. No one had argued with him. A sullen bunch stood and watched him, uncertain.

  Count Bart came to him first. “I’m sorry, Ewan.”

  Ewan pulled on a backpack strap, maybe too forcefully. “What are you sorry about?”

  “I should have told you,” the man admitted.

  No, I should have known, he thought. It had been obvious. It was just his stupid head that had refused to accept the truth. He wanted to be angry with the Eracian, but he knew his reaction was childish and sullen and bitter. Bart hadn’t done anything wrong. Ewan remembered something Ayrton had once told him: “The only difference between a fool and a smart man is in knowing how stupid they are.” That was all.

  “So you are leaving now?” The count stated the obvious.

  “I told you, my business has nothing to do with this war. Or you.”

  Bart nodded slowly. “All right. Best of luck to you.” They shook hands.

  “Take care of her,” Ewan said.

  The Eracian looked thoughtful for a moment. “I will.”

  Ewan waved at the frozen crowd of soldiers and started toward the far end of the camp. Constance caught up with him barely fifty steps away. She seemed to have been crying.

  “Ewan, please,” she pleaded.

  “Did I ever mean anything to you?” he asked softly.

  She rubbed at a corner of her eye with a pale hand. “You did. Of course.”

  Ewan let his backpack drop. “What?”

  Constance opened her mouth, then closed it. Finally, she spoke. “You saved my life.”

  The boy who had seen the gods lament their life’s choices felt every bit as miserable as they had been. “So you used me. Will you tell me the truth, at least? I deserve that much.”

  She hesitated. “That night, when you found me in that alley,” she said after a long pause, “I was…I loved this man, a wealthy man. But he didn’t want me to be his wife or bear his children. So he warned me that if I didn’t leave the city, he would send his thugs after me. I didn’t believe him. But then, they attacked me, and you saved my life.”

  Ewan bunched his fists. “You could have stayed in Shurbalen. Why did you follow me? What can you possibly find here, in the middle of this war?” Why fuel my hope?

  Constance reached out with her hand, but let it fall down before she touched him. “I was frightened, terrified, lost. I didn’t know what to do. But I knew I had to get away from Eybalen, as far as I could. I will be forever grateful for what you did. I tried to repay…”

  “Repay?” he snapped, but kept his tone low. “Repay. With sex?”

  She shrugged. “I thought you liked it. Ewan, I’m sorry, but I need a man who can take care of me. I need security. I need to know I will always have a roof above my head and a bed and all those things that women need. Count Bart can provide those.”

  Ewan had nothing to say. Constance was right. He never should have gotten involved. And now that he had, he’d better learn to cope with the price of failure. He wasn’t a handsome and charming and rich noble. He wasn’t an unsung hero from fairy tales. He was just a monster with a dreadful task ahead of him.

  “Enjoy your life,” he said, lifted the backpack, and left.

  There was only one other person he wanted to talk to. It was Doris. He found her talking to a stone-faced clerk. Refugee trains had stopped coming in the last several weeks. The roads were virtually impassable. Still, once in a while, Doris would muster hope, go to the outer camp, and try her dwindling luck. He, too, kept convincing her to persist coming here, despite the pain. She had to do it for her own sake, for his sake, so he could believe in the impossible task he had set for himself.

  “My lady,” he called.

  She turned around, saw him, and smiled.

  Doris is a pretty woman and a good person, he thought. If he were not some ageless monster, he would be even older than her. But she probably thought of him as nothing more than a scrawny boy.

  “I am leaving,” he announced flatly.

  Her smile withered. “You cannot travel in this weather,” she pleaded, confused.

  Ewan offered his own smile in return. “I must.” He felt sadness wrap his chest. “We will meet again. I still have my promise to keep.” Even to his own ears, the notion sounded ridiculous. The children were mostly likely dead or lost or fostered in one of the hundreds nameless camps scattered through the realm. But you didn’t break your oath just because the odds were against you. Still, he would not give up until Toraan showed up and told him otherwise. It was a slim chance, but he knew Ayrton would never have given up.

  Doris bravely kept her tears at bay. She shrugged helplessly. Then, almost on impulse, she leaned forward and kissed him on his cheek.

  “You will grow into a great man,” she whispered,
her own skin cold and smooth.

  “We will meet again,” he promised.

  “Where are you going?” she asked, blinking rapidly.

  Ewan pointed in the general direction of the City of Gods. “Somewhere out there, answers await me. Answers to who I am. Answers to what my destiny is. I need to know.” He sighed. “What will you do?”

  She brushed away snow from his shoulder. “I will wait until the blizzards pass, and then I will head back to Caytor. My…It’s pointless. I cannot do any good here. I’m just a ghost in this madness. But I know that I must not give up.”

  Ewan didn’t need to remind her that half her realm was infested with foreign armies and bandits. Councillors were staying at their estates, safely barricaded, while war and crime roamed free through the countryside. Those undecided lingered and waited for an opportunity to present itself. Others were flocking to the aid of this new would-be Athesian emperor. This siege might end, but the fighting would continue for a long time.

  “This Parusite king has brought misery to my home, to my family. He will pay for that,” she swore in a barely audible whisper. But there it was, anger, determination, a desire to live.

  Ewan knew there was nothing else to say. He hugged her and walked away. The Parusite guards at the very edge of the siege camp intercepted him. One was riding a horse, probably an officer, and three men were afoot, miserable and looking for a confrontation. The horseman looked unarmed, but his fellows waved long spears.

  “Where to, lad?” the officer growled.

  “I am leaving the camp,” Ewan said softly.

  “Got any papers?”

  Ewan spread his empty hands. The Parusites allowed free travel and trade, but that did not mean uncontrolled travel or trade. Every man coming and going in the vicinity of Roalas had to present the correct documents. They weren’t difficult to obtain, but they were a must. King Sergei wanted to make sure spies and enemy troops did not just drift in and out of his lines like fresh snow.