The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2)

by Igor Ljubuncic

  Damian kicked his way through the cloudberries growing at the edge of the forest and stepped into the clearing, leading his horse by the reins. Following him were four soldiers, looking tired and edgy, unnerved by the magic of this place.

  Four? The others must be hiding in the woods. Calemore embraced his magic and watched his father approach. The aged avatar looked frail, but the witch knew it was deception only. Now, of all times, he must be utterly careful around Damian.

  Damian raised his eyes from the ground and explored the clearing. He saw the fire, saw the horses, saw the tents and the saddlebags and the small pile of firewood and the dozen little things that made the camp. He saw the tall man in white clothes, almost invisible against the snow and nodded in silent greeting. Then, he glimpsed Elia, and his hand dropped the reins.

  Elia, the god mouthed silently, Calemore saw. He noticed the twitch of emotion, the glistening of tears in the corner of the fool’s eyes. He looked devastated, elated, overwhelmed. Perhaps Damian was not in league with Elia. He had to be careful now.

  Free, Damian’s horse tried to trot away. One of the hirelings ran after the animal. Calemore watched like a predator, looking for any sign of danger.

  “Welcome, Damian. You sure took your time,” he said quietly, a false smile plastered on his lips.

  Damian recovered. “Calemore,” he croaked. “This old body is failing. Luckily, I will not be needing it much longer.”

  Calemore spared a glance at Elia. “Indeed.” She was still sitting on that rock. However, she was watching Damian with a long, steady gaze. It was obvious she could not recognize the elderly features, but she could sense the essence of her murderer hiding behind them. Was that shock, the witch wondered. Was that revulsion? What could she possibly be feeling?

  With slow, unsteady steps, the one called Lord Erik came close to the goddess. He knelt before her and wiped his tears. “I saw you. Nineteen years ago. Through the eyes of another man. You…live.”

  “Hello, Damian,” Elia said coldly.

  “I don’t know how this is possible. But…” He frowned. “You are not a goddess anymore.”

  Elia rose, shedding her blankets, walking away from him. “No, I am not.”

  Calemore was expecting a trap any moment. But the exchange of emotions seemed genuine. Damian was such a wretched, broken thing. Who would have believed he had created some of the most wondrous things in the world?

  “She is a goddess,” the witch asserted.

  Elia snorted softly. “A lie can’t become the truth, even after being repeated a thousand times.”

  Calemore pointed angrily at the cairn. Damian turned his head. He seemed surprised to find the pile of stones there. Then, he pushed himself up to his feet, groaning, and walked to the Womb.

  The Book of Lost Words claimed that gods and goddesses could not create others of their kind. Not without birth. And it was true. Even the gods had to wonder how they had come to be, what higher truth created them.

  But the book never mentioned you could trade one soul for another.

  For every god and goddess to have lived, there was a stone in this pile. When a god came to being, the Womb produced forth a stone, and it would shine with the essence of that deity. Fiery colors, shiny glimmers, oily rainbows of light, the stones glowed with divine life. And when a god died, the fire and warmth in its stone went away, too.

  Now, the Womb was just a heap of opaque stones, pebbles as ordinary as lumps on a river shoal that peasant boys would bounce off the water. All dark and muted gray, except two.

  One for Damian. And one for Elia.

  Calemore watched the bright sparks fill one of the rocks, golden and greenish. That must be Elia, he thought. The other was just barely lit with faint traces of red and pink, the fragments of presence that Damian had stolen into this world. A better part of his soul and powers was still locked in the Abyss. But enough of him lived in the human dimension for what he must do.

  Once Damian killed Elia, he would be the only deity left. And then, the magic of his imprisonment would evaporate. Free, he would then be able to burn a new soul into the essence of one of these rocks and make it become a god.

  Make Calemore what he had always wanted to be.

  That would only work if all the living gods agreed. Which had always meant they must all die, since they would never acknowledge the White Witch as one of their own. Damian would be free; Calemore would become a god. And then, they could finally resolve all their father-and-son issues.

  Once Calemore murdered Damian, he would become the one god. All the powers of belief and prayer would channel into him. And then, he could turn his magic and cunning to making the human world into his playground. He had ruled nations before. It didn’t excite him anymore. He wanted something grander, something far more elaborate. He would make humans experience the pain of life on a scale never felt before. He would make them pay for making Damian choose them over him.

  His father had given his passion to insect-like creatures who lived for several decades and died with humiliation on their lips and regrets in their hearts, bedridden, frail, and stinking of old piss. That was not fair. That could not be.

  He would teach them humility.

  But first, Elia had to die.

  The inkling of a doubt, the whisper of a second thought, as flimsy as morning mist, rolled through his mind. What if Elia hadn’t lied to him and truly believed she wasn’t a goddess anymore? But that could not be. They had hunted them all down. Only two stones glowed still. One for Elia. One for his father’s damned soul.

  “Let’s get this over with,” he spat, anger rising in his veins. But then he remembered himself and calmed down. Bursting with magic, ready to strike at any sign of trouble, Calemore walked to the hide tent he shared with Elia and reached for the bloodstaff. He might need the weapon today.

  Damian looked miserable. His face was pale, lines deep and drawn, his eyes glazed with black agony. “This is wrong, Calemore. Elia is no longer a goddess. How can this be?” he muttered faintly.

  “Here.” Calemore tossed a knife at his father. The old avatar caught it clumsily, then worked enough willpower to grip his bony fingers around the wire hilt. “Do it,” Calemore whispered, his heart hammering.

  Elia was standing some distance away, watching them. She did not move. One of Damian’s soldiers pushed her forward with a rough shove. Calemore whipped a deadly glance at him. Withering before that look, the soldier retreated, muttering apologies.

  With regal bearing, Elia stepped into the circle of ground untouched by time and weather. She was hiding her terror well, the witch noted. She was much stronger than Damian.

  He was ready to kill Lord Erik if he tried to double-cross him. Calemore knew his plan was dangerous. The moment Elia died, the old man’s figure would quickly harness all the godly power. Damian could then decide to unleash his magic against Calemore and try to defeat him rather than hold to his promise. Luckily, Calemore’s strength matched that of his father. The arrogant fool.

  It was a grave risk. But Damian’s host body would still be mortal and vulnerable. A single blow to the heart would send the soul back into the Abyss, and this time, he would go there dead, and no one would rescue him for all eternity. Damian also knew that all too well. Still, torn with madness, there was really no knowing what would happen. Either he would make Calemore into a god and die, or he would just die. The White Witch dreaded the god’s decision. He had gone too far to lose it all. After so many years of waiting and dreaming. But there was no going back.

  “What will you do now, Damian?” Elia asked, her voice trembling.

  Calemore’s finger brushed over the black marks at the center of the crystal rod.

  Damian seemed oblivious of his son’s presence. He was watching his former love, his face awash with shifting emotions, part hatred, part admiration, childish joy, and white rage all mixed together. He looked insane.

  “I’m sorry, my love.”

  Elia smiled mirthles
sly. “Are you really, Damian?”

  The god nodded eagerly, tears running down his face. “Yes, I am. I am sorry.”

  She reached and gently touched the arm holding the knife. Damian flinched. “Then end this. You need not destroy humanity over foolish pride and resentment. I bear you no ill will for what happened back then. I have forgiven you. It is time you forgave yourself.”

  Damian steeled himself. “I must be free of my prison.”

  “Will you surrender your world to this madman? You don’t have to do that.”

  “I made this world. I made the people what they are. I can do with them as I please.”

  Elia withdrew her touch. “Yes, you can. You hold the destiny of this world in your hands. Do the honorable thing. Let the past go. I died back then. It’s over.”

  Damian shook his head, fighting his inner demons. His lips curled into a snarl. “If I had known you lived, I wouldn’t have done all those things, Elia. It could have been different. We…you and I…But you chose Simon. Why?”

  Elia blinked sadly. “I didn’t choose Simon. You chose yourself over everyone else.”

  The old god was gripping the knife so hard his hand trembled. “I must flee the Abyss. I must. I must be free again. This is my world, and I must rule it. I was robbed of my destiny once; I will not be denied my rightful place again. This world is my creation.”

  Calemore was getting tired of watching them. “Do it, Damian. Stop wasting time.”

  “And if you kill me, what then?” Elia asked, ignoring the witch. “Will that make you happy?”

  Damian spun suddenly, facing his son. “She’s not a goddess anymore. That cannot be.”

  Calemore gritted his teeth. “There’s only way to find out. Kill her.”

  Elia picked up the glowing stone and held it in front of her. The stone that was meant to be hers. “I don’t know why I still live in this world, Damian. I don’t know how I came back or why I am no longer a goddess. But I do know that this stone is not mine. I am not a goddess anymore.”

  Damian lowered his hand. He seemed defeated.

  Calemore leveled the bloodstaff at Damian. He could not kill Elia, he dared not ruin his one chance at divinity, but Lord Erik’s body was meaningless in the grand scheme of things. Any willing host would do.

  The knife went up. With deathly resignation on his face, Damian reached and pulled Elia closer to him. His eyes were puffy and red from crying.

  “I love you, Elia,” he wept.

  She shook her head. “You only ever loved yourself.”

  “I am sorry, my love,” he pleaded.

  “I forgive you,” Elia whispered.

  Damian plunged the knife into her sternum. She gasped with surprise, and a small wail escaped her lips. Then, something like bliss twisted her lovely features, and she closed her eyes. Elia died in Damian’s arms. The stone she held fell from his fingers and tumbled onto the ground.

  It still shone as brightly as before.

  Damian fell onto the ground and shrieked in misery.

  Calemore watched the shining golden-green pebble, hypnotized, contemplating. There is one deity left alive still, he realized with dread, one he could not sense, one he did not know about. Then he turned and ran, fleeing from the Womb.

  Ewan reached the mysterious place tugging at his soul on a young spring day, snow thawing and running, the ground brown and mushy. This wasn’t the City of Gods as he’d thought, but rather a place several leagues to the south. He had no idea what it signified, but its power was a hot beacon, drawing him near.

  The clearing had the look of recent human presence. There was an old ring of fire, a battered tent, horse dung, and scattered traveling gear, rummaged through by squirrels and other forest animals. In the center of the glade was a mound of stones. Near it, a man sat on the ground, hands between his knees. He looked like he might be sleeping.

  Ewan suddenly realized who the man was.

  What he was.

  Carefully, he walked to the Womb, anger and wonder mixing in his stomach. The urgent need was gone from his bones now, replaced with a leaden emptiness that left him sad.

  He approached Damian. The god was not sleeping. He was trailing lines in the mud with his fingers, retracing old shapes over and over again. Not shapes, letters. A name.

  By his feet lay the body of a woman. She had been dead for some time, he realized, but even in her final rest, she looked divine. Her features were clean, youthful, serene, the kind of face you would instantly love. A black stain was crusted on the front of her dress, a knife buried to the hilt there.

  Damian’s clothes were smeared in blood and dirt. His lips were cracked. He looked so miserable, Ewan could almost take pity on him. But then he saw those eyes and knew.

  “You,” Ewan said simply; it was an accusation.

  Slowly, heavily, Damian lifted his head and stared at the youth. Realization dawned on his creased features. “My son. We meet again. Did you come to help me?”

  Ewan wanted to lash out. Instead, he shook his head. “I came to judge you.”

  Damian nodded knowingly. “Why, Son? Why must you hate me?”

  Ewan grimaced. “I do not hate you. I despise you. I stopped you once, and I will stop you again.”

  Damian tried to wipe an old, dried tear from his grubby cheek. “You always envied me. My children. How sad.”

  “This world has no place for your madness,” Ewan spoke.

  The old god rolled to the side, toward the body. “I loved her, you know,” he said, his voice breaking. He stroked the woman’s hair. “I really loved her. But I was weak, and I had to do it. I had to. I had no choice.” He reached for a shining rock half buried in mud and plucked it free with a sucking sound. Holding it close to his chest, he looked up at Ewan. “Help me, Son. We must chase down the other god. Once I’m free, I will bring her back to life. It will be all right. She will learn to love me. She will.”

  Ewan knelt by Damian’s side, watching his crazy tantrum with growing anger. He had never thought he would feel such a powerful emotion, but it was there, boiling inside him, a white torrent of unbridled feeling. No, keep your fury aside, the spirit of his friend Ayrton echoed in his soul.

  He subsided, feeling ashamed. There was nothing for him to gain here. Nothing that would make his life easier. He had to go to the Oth Danesh and seek his answers with them.

  Before that, he had to make justice. Not for himself. For Ayrton and every other good person in this world.

  Ewan pulled the knife from the goddess’s mortal wound and laid the blade against Damian’s throat. “If you really loved her, would you die for her? Would you sacrifice your own life so that she could live?”

  Damian was silent for a moment. He was thinking. “My son, don’t do this. Listen to me.”

  “Answer me,” Ewan insisted. He pressed the knife close against the old, blotched skin.

  “I cannot. I must escape the Abyss. Once I’m whole, I will make it all right again. But I must live.”

  “In that case, you do not deserve to live,” Ewan declared and cut the god’s neck. Life oozed away from the old frame. The pinkish bloom that shimmered inside the other translucent pebble on a pile of simple gray stones vanished. The lump turned just as plain as the rest.

  Ewan tossed the knife away.

  He spent the evening digging a grave for the dead goddess. He laid her to rest under a pine tree and placed a wreath of snowdrops, the only flower in bloom that he could find, on the mound of freshly turned earth. He didn’t really know what to say. So he said nothing.

  The Special Child was just about to leave, but then he hesitated. He could not leave yet.

  It was almost midnight before he dug the second grave next to the first and laid the body of the grandfatherly man who had been Damian’s host. Perhaps it was a meaningless symbol, but that’s what made all the difference. It was what Ayrton would do.

  With the moon glowering at him from above in a clear, inky violet sky, Ewan struck south, t
oward the far lands of the Oth Danesh. The journey would be long and lonely, but he was used to both. Ewan hoped he would find answers for himself one day.

  South.

  CHAPTER 58

  “Your Highness, I implore you,” Bart wailed. “Please listen. Empress Amalia is willing to negotiate.”

  Sergei’s face was stern, all wrinkles and shadows of fatigue. “I know she is. She knows she cannot win this war and is now trying to save her neck. But it will not be. The attack will continue. Now, Count, go away. You are dismissed.”

  The audience around the Parusite king consisted of recently freed noblemen and high-ranking officials from both Eracia and Caytor. They had come to ask the king to halt his campaign and let talks take place instead. Sympathy for their captor, the king thought. He had heard that happened quite often. Your mind tried to reason out the constant risk of death by taking a side, and there was only one side for hostages.

  Sergei knew he held the fate of the realms in his palm. His decision would shape the coming year, and maybe the coming decade.

  As a man who had accepted the terrible cost of this war, Sergei could not look back.

  Sergei wondered what his father might have thought when he’d led the nation to shame, riding at the head of the cavalry column, thundering across frozen fields toward a city that was the seat of ungodliness. The price was so terribly high for himself, his firstborn. But if he surrendered now, Parus would vanish from the realms. It would become an irrelevant nest of religious fools fighting for their scrap of desert rock. That must not happen.

  The king flicked his fingers. The guards stepped forward and cleared the house. Bart spared the large hovel a last glance as he was pushed out into the cold, his withering hope and glowing anger mixing into a swirling, boiling pressure point in the center of his forehead. Sasha was poised over a map, holding a large wooden ruler, measuring, her lips moving with silent calculations. Captain Speinbate had earned his place in the hovel, having been injured in the last attack. His golden teeth gleamed in the lamplight. Archdukes Nikolai and Oleg were discussing the engagement of the north flank, arguing in a restrained, polite manner. Genrik was there, too, of course, ready to etch history in black, merciless ink.