The Humbled (The Lost Words: Volume 4)

by Igor Ljubuncic

  “My name is Brother Clemens,” the priest introduced himself. “I can assist you with your needs.”

  “Unfortunately, you cannot,” Ewan responded. He tried to keep his tone flat, but he knew he sounded ominous, even dangerous.

  The brother sensed the peril, even though he did not understand it. He inclined his head. “As you wish. Please wait here.”

  Leaning on the smooth rod of transparent glass, he waited. It was a deadly thing, he knew, not quite sure how he knew it. But the instinctive magic inside him that had so far guided him across the world was feeding him ancient truths as it saw fit, suddenly, abruptly, sometimes with clear memories, other times with premonition and bad feelings. Not my memories, he reasoned. But maybe they were his after all.

  Several children raced across the street between the shacks, fighting with wooden sticks. A repairman was putting fresh roofing on one of the houses, naked to the waist, his skin browned by the sun. Yet more people were coming and going. It felt busy. But not like Eybalen or Shurbalen. There was unspoken urgency to their movement and actions, a higher cause that united them in spirit and body. They probably didn’t quite yet understand what was happening.

  There would be a terrible war soon.

  Ewan noticed a new presence to his left. He turned and saw a small group walking in his direction. In the front, a stocky man led, a wicked ax held firmly in his right hand, just below the head. He seemed quite determined to put it to good use if he had to. Brother Clemens and a large boy walked just behind. Ewan scowled. That lad was…wrong somehow. But soon, he put him out of his mind.

  The last person drew all his attention. There was a man like no other, neither young nor old, neither well built nor scrawny, with a sure, graceful gait. His face was serene, perfectly symmetrical, unremarkable, and yet inspiring. Perfect somehow. Even beauty must have its flaws, Ewan reasoned, but the man’s visage was just right. Looking upon him, Ewan felt calmness imbue him. His spirit rose. He was cheerful suddenly. His doubts and worry about the future of the realms melted away, leaving behind a pristine crystal drop of innocence. The other man radiated order and logic on a physical level.

  Now that is divine, he thought.

  Tanid willed himself to step forward. Fear choked him in a tight grip, made him weak, rigid. He almost stumbled. But he could not let anyone see him falter. That would kill the faith. He must be above human emotions.

  However, seeing the Special Child who had killed Damian was probably an exception.

  There he was, unchanged like that day near the Womb, a thin, poor youth you’d dismiss for a lowly servant on some estate. The most underwhelming appearance for someone who had killed a god. Worse, in his right hand, he was holding a bloodstaff.

  How can that be? Where did he get that weapon? Is he in league with Calemore? Or is he Calemore in disguise? Has he found me, and now he’s gloating, testing my resolve, torturing me? Or has he sent this boy to do his ugly task? Of course, the White Witch could not kill another deity, because that would prevent him from becoming one. Maybe this child was a Pum’be.

  However, if the lad was intent on murder, he kept it well hidden behind a simple expression of wonder, the lethal clawed end of the rod pointed skyward. There was no immediate threat, and Ludevit was silent. Still, Tanid was ready to shove Pasha in front of him if that youth showed any sign of aggression.

  He was not really sure how to fight someone like this Special Child. He was not really sure of the extent of his abilities. But that boy was dangerous, extremely dangerous. And he was wielding the most powerful weapon invented in the whole of human history.

  So what now? Do I turn away and run? Better to run and live another day than perish to foolish pride here. His death would mean a total defeat of the realms at the hands of the White Witch. Without him, faith would wither and die, and all of humanity would be left without hope. Animals with tools.

  What does he want? Why is he here? Where did he get that weapon? Questions rumbled though his head like a wild herd of nosehorns. With each step, he was coming close to a horrible truth, not really certain his magic would protect him. Even Pasha and Ludevit might not be enough, not against one of their own. Tanid had no idea what this other Child could do. What are his skills?

  Then, there was the temptation. A deep, throbbing, exciting human temptation. To somehow recruit this lad into his growing band of followers. To make him a mighty defender of the one god. With the bloodstaff in his hands, the victory against Calemore would be almost certain. But then, what was Calemore’s weapon doing in the boy’s hand? Maybe he has killed the witch, just like he’s killed Damian? Maybe this boy is a destroyer of faith?

  Tanid stepped closer. There was no going back now.

  “Greetings, son,” he said.

  Ewan blinked. He had floated in a sort of sweet trance, his emotions a soft, warm mush of eggs and oil. Now they came back. Just the good ones. The rest remained drowning in that creamy bliss, raising an occasional arm or leg in treacly agony.

  Ewan rubbed his hand up and down the glass rod. He tried to focus his thoughts on the perfect man in front of him. That strange instinct inside him was coming to life again, trying to speak to him across the chasm of thousands of years and countless lives, telling him a story of ancient battles, of love and war, of the gods and goddesses.

  Somehow, he knew. He understood. If a curious bystander had asked him to frame his cognizance into words, he could not. They were slippery, elusive, misty. Like trying to scoop up a waterfall rainbow in your hand. But you knew it was there.

  “Greetings, Father,” he offered in return, almost instinctively. Damian was his father, in a way, but so was this man. This god.

  Brother Clemens was watching him carefully, looking upset. That man with the moustache also seemed disturbed. The big boy roughly his age was staring at the ground, as if embarrassed to be there.

  “We must talk. Alone,” Tanid said. He looked at the axman. “It’s safe.” Back at Ewan. “Follow me, son.”

  Into the heart of that town they went, past houses made from fresh timber maybe days ago, sap drying on shaved logs, past shrines and prayerhouses and open kitchens. The flood of human traffic was insane. Groups of men, usually a score strong, were getting ready to depart, loading wagons with dry goods, blankets, and improvised weapons. Another memory floated into his mind. That one fatal day in the Safe Territories, when his friend Ayrton had left with the Outsiders to fight a holy war.

  Not much different from what was happening now.

  For every follower preparing to leave, more were coming, arriving, eyes alight with hope. There were women and children in the lot, and some looked like refugees, haggard, poor, and with threadbare smocks as their only possessions, but you could feel the fire of prayer in their hearts, sustaining them.

  “These men are leaving north,” the god was saying. “They will join the other nations in a fight against the White Witch.”

  Ewan nodded solemnly. “I have come to join the war.”

  The god looked at him from the corner of his eye. Even so, that gaze was piercing. “You will fight against the witch?” It wasn’t really a question.

  Ewan waited until the fizzle of ancient truths in his head cooled to dark-orange sparks. “All the other deities are dead, are they not? I felt them die.”

  The god closed his eyes for a second. “I am the last one. I am the one god left.”

  Ewan smiled weakly. “What is your name, Father?”

  “Tanid,” the deity replied.

  “I used to be a young brother in a monastery to God Lar, near Chergo, in the Territories. That was a long time ago.” Ewan tried to remember the faces of the other boys he had spent his childhood with, but they eluded him. “I have read about you, though. You were the god of weather.”

  “I still am,” Tanid confessed. “But now everything else, too.” The god smacked his lips, trying to say something. It was such a human expression, it shocked Ewan. “Please tell me, son…”


  “Ewan.”

  “Where did you find that weapon?”

  Ewan sighed. “At the bottom of a lake. Deep in the Oth Danesh land. In their one named city.”

  Tanid bobbed his head slightly. “I thought Calemore had it.”

  Ewan shrugged. “He probably does still. There is more than a single example.” He wasn’t sure how he knew that, but he was certain of it. Ever since reading The Pains of Memory, new dark secrets were coming into his conscience, like old bubbles of air trapped in a muddy bottom, stirred free by his actions.

  “That weapon is called the bloodstaff.” The god was looking at him again, perhaps slightly apprehensively now. “Do you know how to use it?”

  Ewan rolled the rod, staring at its distorted, hollow tube. “I believe so.”

  They reached a barn. For normal people, it would have been just a farm building, old and beaten by the weather. For Ewan, it was a powerful beacon of that beautiful, calm energy that Tanid emanated, an anchor of faith for this town and its inhabitants.

  “I will be marching north myself soon,” Tanid spoke. “Soon, the whole of the realms will converge in a great battle against Calemore and conclude the war that was initiated thousands of years ago. I would be honored if you joined me, Ewan.”

  Ewan stared at the barn. “I am a Special Child,” he said.

  Tanid laid a gentle hand on his left shoulder. “Yes, you are. Do you know what your abilities are?”

  Ewan remembered knives shattering against his skin. He realized he had not sipped water or pretended to eat for weeks now, ever since leaving Naman and Raida. “I feel no pain, no cold, no heat. I cannot be hurt, it seems. It is as if I’m spectating someone’s life rather than living it myself.”

  “That is a valuable gift, Ewan. You would be a great asset.”

  “What can you tell me about my kind? About me? Why do I have these abilities?” His desire to learn about his cursed heritage had withered in the time he had spent among the Oth Danesh, but now it was flaring again, like a forest fire. He wanted to know the secret of his being. He wanted to know why he was doomed to experience a life robbed of feeling. Why he was still trapped in a young, gangly body, why he wasn’t afflicted by sleep, exhaustion, and the weather. Why he was forced to remain so alone.

  Tanid was silent for a while, a hand pressed to his chin, thinking. “There are no easy answers to what you’re asking. I will tell what I know of your creation, of the ancient war. But some secrets are hidden even from me.” He paused. “You will join us?”

  Ewan looked away, toward the horizon, where puffy clouds were bleeding into the landline. Somewhere to the north, hundreds or thousands of miles away, he would meet this White Witch and defeat him. He now understood his grim purpose: to be the last chapter in an old, sad story. But while the realms would have their happy ending, he was not really sure what he would do.

  What then? What would he do? Become the invincible dockworker?

  “I will join,” he said.

  Tanid could hardly hear himself over the fluttery drumming of his heart. He was terrified, giddy, two lumps of nausea jiggling in the hollows under his jaw, threatening to make him gag. He was watching this dreadful Child, wondering what he might do, what kind of untold damage he could wreak with the bloodstaff in his hands.

  It seemed Ewan was inclined to fight against the witch, but the realization did not make Tanid happy—only certain the war was inevitable. Before, he could have delayed the march north, always weighed down by his fear of confrontation against Calemore’s magic. Now, there was nothing left. He knew he had to leave this place. He had to lead the army of his followers into a bloody clash. In that place inside his head where even the gods had no control over time and fate, he knew that his destiny toward the war had been sealed.

  Immense relief, immense terror mingled into a soup of emotions. With Ludevit, Pasha, and now Ewan at his side, he was like a champion of old, marching to battle with his magical weapons, his magical heroes and scapegoats, willing to sacrifice them for the greater good, for his own. But there was no other way.

  “You must not call me by my name in public,” he said. “They know me as Gavril the holy man.”

  “Gavril,” Ewan repeated.

  Tanid scanned the busy crowds around him. His two Special Children were standing some distance away, the burly boy as awkward and clumsy as always, refusing to meet people’s eyes. He was much like Ewan, it seemed, impervious to fire and steel. But this Ewan lad seemed at ease with his magic. He looked like someone who had killed before and did not regret it. Pasha could well learn from him, but maybe it was too soon for that yet. He would have to make sure his Children would cooperate and work together in battle. Ludevit would anticipate dangers, Pasha would physically protect him, and Ewan would use the bloodstaff to decimate the Naum forces.

  It sounded like a sure victory, but somehow, he was still terribly afraid. He did not want to meet Calemore in open combat. He feared that confrontation; he feared the conclusion to their ancient strife. One way or another, the war Simon and Damian had started would end. Tanid hoped he would live. He wanted to live. He was not going to let go of this exciting new life easily. Not like in the city. This was a human life. The vulnerability, the doubt, they were a curse. But they were also intoxicating.

  Only after he won, what then? Where would he go? Walk through the world among his people, answering their prayers? Maybe he deserved more? Maybe he would find a companion and make her into a goddess? He had never been too fond of love like some of his kin, but he understood solitude. He understood the need for someone to reflect your pain, your doubts, your thrills.

  Survival is easy, he thought. What happens after?

  But there were things that even gods couldn’t answer. Like the meaning of their own existence.

  “It is time for prayer,” he told Ewan, pushing the darkness in his mind away. “Do you pray, Ewan?”

  The boy shrugged. “Not recently. I have not felt the need.”

  Tanid steered him back toward his other Special Children, and they met halfway. Brother Clemens was coming toward the barn, getting ready for his ceremony. The entire town was converging here to bask in faith. Tanid could already feel the fresh blossom of prayer in his veins.

  “You should pray. Every soul counts.”

  Ewan seemed to consider it. Then he shrugged again. “So be it.”

  Soon, the entire town was chanting, making Tanid that much stronger, except for some of the pilgrims already on the road, heading to war. As a bird flew, one could see dozens of convoys clogging the roads, joining others. King Sergei’s troops were there too, plodding toward northern Athesia. It seemed the Parusite leader had heeded his advice after all. Or maybe, he was sending troops for war against the Athesian empress. For the thousandth time, Tanid wished he had someone who could foretell the future. But all he could do was nourish doubts.

  CHAPTER 19

  Nigella had never considered herself overly social. But for once in her life, she longed for an honest talk with another adult. Sheldon was just too young.

  The four Naum soldiers guarding her did not speak Continental, and all they could offer were nods and grunts and reserved smiles as they watched her work. She was not quite comfortable with their stares, but she knew she would not be harmed. These men probably did not even dare conceive illicit thoughts in their heads.

  Nigella was kneeling on the hill’s slope, the grass tickling her legs. She was collecting herbs, the one thing Calemore’s soldiers could not provide for her. She had no idea how to describe the subtle differences between cat’s-ears, hawk’s-beards, and dandelions to men who had probably never seen these flowers before. Nor would she trust men trained to kill people with such a task.

  She had seen very few Naum women, and she trusted them even less. While she was more or less certain of what the soldiers were meant to do, she did not know if the women would obey the same rules. Mothers were extremely protective and possessive, and they might decide Sheld
on was being fed way too generously while their own babies had rations. The children could also be troublesome and cruel, and she did not want her son mingling with them. No, Sheldon was better off staying close.

  All the time, Naum soldiers would bring her fresh goods, fruit, vegetables, even wine. She lacked for nothing, except spices and the special commodities of her craft. Which gave her an excuse to leave her cabin and walk the nearby hills, watching the countryside transform.

  Two months since the Naum forces had swept the land, the prospect of the foreign invasion did not look very promising. Marlheim had stopped burning, and a sizable body of noncombatants had moved in, taking over the burnt houses and scorched fields. But they knew nothing about Caytorean weather and plants, and their crops were failing. The winter would be lean, and that worried Nigella.

  What if they decided her little hoard was just too delicious to ignore?

  Almost daily, a new caravan would arrive into Marlheim, and another would leave, mostly men on foot, marching somewhere south. They carried weapons, and she could not mistake their intent. But she saw many families take to the road, taking their meager possessions with them. They did not look like the proud army of a mighty conqueror.

  The town had hardly recovered from the attack. Shops and stables stood empty. The streets were littered with roof tiles, shards of pottery, broken masonry, and cinders. At least the bodies of dead men and horses had been cleared away, probably because the stench had been unbearable, even for these foreigners. Most of the Naum folk still slept under their wagons, while their shaggy oxen pissed and shat in the gutters nearby. Dogs were everywhere, hunting rats, chasing livestock from one improvised pen to another.

  Outside the city’s perimeter, men were busy cutting trees down, building new houses, but they struggled. Nigella imagined they had done carpentry before, but not with the type of timber that grew in Caytor. The same went for all their other work. They fished in the streams, they herded goats and other hairy animals, they tried to till the cracked soil, but their effort was slow and awkward. Women were there, too, hard at work like their husbands. She had never been good at human affairs, but she could tell intimacy, even from a remote hilltop.