The Humbled (The Lost Words: Volume 4)

by Igor Ljubuncic

  Some distance away, the situation was very much different. Rooftops were on fire, old tiles cracking and bursting from the heat, shooting shrapnel high into the air like roasted corn. A thick press of Kataji veterans was hulking behind their barricades, keeping the Eracians at bay. For weeks now, the stalemate had reigned supreme, the only thing changing being the mass of dead bodies on both sides, although the carnage on the Eracian side looked much worse.

  She had a great view of some of the battles, unimpeded by oaks and villas and tall buildings. She had seen the deadly engagements, raging in every little side lane, in parks, anywhere. She had seen the Eracians worm through shattered doors and windows into houses, fighting against the nomads hiding inside. She had seen the brave sons of her nation descend into dark cellars, where sharpened blades waited for them. Men had run through whipping flames, skittered down streets slick with blood and spilled sewage, crawled across steep roofs and fallen to their deaths on the hard stone below. The Kataji would throw fire bombs at the attackers, then retreat. Sometimes, the Eracians would burn their opponents inside houses, and sometimes, they found themselves trapped within an oven.

  Pacmad had his warriors raze rows of buildings to prevent the fires from spreading. His device had more or less worked, because the destruction was limited to just where he wanted it to be. Those passageways running through neighborhoods also let his troops move with impunity, whereas the Eracians had to fight around every deadly obstacle. Even now, she could see a horde of Kataji goat-hopping through a lane of fresh rubble, trying to sneak up on an Eracian pocket. Sonya wished she could shout and warn them, but they were just too far away. And it would be dangerous for her.

  She had no solid information, but she had heard of a few women putting up spontaneous resistance in a few districts, without much success. The organized insurrection had never happened, stifled before it had even started. Pacmad had simply severed her strings, quartered the city into small combat zones, made it impossible for her women to get together and act against the invader. Maybe he had planned it all along, and he had known nothing of her scheme. Or maybe he had discovered her treachery and let it be, tormenting her and leading her to a magnificent failure.

  Sonya had no idea how long the fighting would continue and how it would end. The way it was going, the entire city would be destroyed, and pretty much everyone would die. If the Kataji began losing, they would probably kill all the citizens out of pure spite.

  Shortage of food and growing disease would become threats all too soon. With so much death and filth lying about in the streets, rats and pigeons would soon start spreading the poison. There was no regular supply between districts, and Sonya feared most women had to do with what little provisions they had stored away. The only thing that gladdened her was that the nomads were also suffering from their imposed curfew.

  Her nose was almost touching the thick glass, and her breath misted the pane, making the details blurry. It was stifling hot inside the monarchical chamber, but she did not want to crack open the window, because the stench outside was horrendous.

  Outside the city, she could see the outline of siege machines and tall towers, and tiny people standing on those platforms, watching the battle unravel, a mirror image of her own impotent fury. She wondered if her brave husband was there, if he might not be watching the carnage unfold before his eyes just like she did. Did he ever think about her? Did he base his decisions on her fate, her safety? How far was he going with this siege and this killing?

  She turned back toward the room, waiting until her eyes adjusted, a purple glare fading away. The women really had nothing to do, so they just sat around, talked, dozed. That slut Richelle was breastfeeding her little shite. How much milk could one little toddler slurp? It should be suckling and shitting at the same time, Sonya reasoned. Verina was talking to Lady Zoya, and Sonya did not like that. The viscountess was worrying her. Zoya was rather meaningless, and still…

  Once, she had thought Richelle would be her greatest rival, but now, she was beginning to suspect Verina might be the chief one. Difficult situations really brought out the best and worst in people. This war was a perfect rite of passage for all of them, a test of personality, courage, and perseverance. Of all the women sharing her chamber, Verina stood out as an elegant, brave lady. Bitch.

  Aileen was not there, of course. Not her.

  Pacmad was keeping that whore to himself. He had locked up all the rest of them like animals and no longer bothered visiting. Maybe he was too busy. Fighting or rutting.

  Sonya’s privileges were gone now, her illusion of mastering the general fast eroding. She could no longer indulge in food and expensive clothing, and she no longer had her own maid. Her hair was a ruin, and her toenails were beginning to snag the carpet when she walked barefoot. She had begged the lone servant lady that brought them food and drinks every day for a soft file, but the peasant had just stuttered a silly apology and left.

  They could not walk outside. They could not bathe. At least after Leopold’s death, she had been imprisoned all alone, without all these sows and harlots to pollute her breathing space. Not getting raped and beaten had its perks, but in a way, this was worse. She was being robbed of her manipulative power, of her intellect, of her ability to withstand danger and pain. It was being mellowed by this fat, ugly assembly of Eracia’s surviving ladies.

  Whatever Pacmad had planned, he had done it well. The guild mistresses were locked up elsewhere. Merchant ladies, in yet another room. The Father of the Bear had separated them so they could not plot, could not discuss the war effort. Those with knowledge did not sleep in the same room as those with power and initiative.

  Sonya considered trying to rally these sluts to her cause. But she could not really trust them. They would always be scheming, trying to best her, so when the war ended, they would be ahead of her. Besides, she was beginning to panic. It was a slow, silent scream building up at the back of her throat, a grain of dust that chafed. She did not really know how she might react if the Kataji won the battle for Somar. What if Bart failed to liberate the city? What if the Eracians were defeated and no salvation came to her?

  Now that she could finally feel hope, the fear of losing it was maddening. She wasn’t certain she could endure another month or year being locked in here with all these women, wrapped in uncertainty and constant danger, denied pleasure and power, and bereft of any real influence and wealth. What if Pacmad decided to give her to his soldiers? Or just keep her hostage forever?

  No, she must never lose hope. She was the queen. It was her duty.

  In a way, these women looked up to her. She was their leader. She gave them strength. They expected her to be confident and self-assured, to soothe their minds, to wash away their fears. She had to look after her subjects. It would be easier if they weren’t all such conniving bitches.

  Sonya noticed Richelle was looking at her, a faint smile on her lips. Then, the baroness plucked her girl from her teat and handed the child to Lady Charissa, a blobby, ungraceful woman. Sonya just hated how her thin black hair curled and how she had pale sideburns down the sides of her thick jowls.

  That smile still on her lips, Richelle rose from the floor, dusting herself, smoothing the wrinkles in her skirt, and walked over toward Sonya. The other women glanced about, then continued their idle, worried chatter.

  “May I have a word with you?” the slut said. Well, she had finally pried her daughter off the teat. It was as if she were there all the time, almost like a leech.

  The intimacy of their time together had made most women drop titles when talking to other hostages, Sonya noted. At the moment, she did not mind too much. She pointed toward the corner of the chamber, the closest thing to privacy they would get in this prison.

  “Please.” Ever since Sonya had stepped in to keep Pacmad from beating her, Richelle was being nice to her, very timid, very respectful.

  “I need to ask you something,” the baroness said, her voice brittle.

  I
mmediately, Sonya did not like this. “Yes?” Her voice was too sharp, too loud. One of the hens raised her head, looked behind. Sonya frowned at her, and she snapped her stupid head back toward the crowd.

  “I know…Bart is leading the nation now,” the whore whispered.

  Easy, easy, do not panic. Sonya realized she was holding her breath. Carefully, she expelled it, took another one, expanded her chest, let herself think. This must be some kind of a plot. Maybe Pacmad was trying to fuddle her mind, make her confess things. Maybe the baroness was acting alone. Either way, Sonya must not let show her fear, must not looked worried or even concerned.

  But how did Richelle know? Who had betrayed her? Was it Janice? Bibi? Some other clerk?

  “Bart is the viceroy,” the whore insisted.

  Sonya was still thinking, knowing her silence was not helping. What should she do now? Feign ignorance? Shock? Surprise? Play along? This bitch certainly wanted something. Otherwise she would not have broached the subject.

  “Bartholomew of Barrin?” Sonya said at length.

  Richelle nodded, that smile so annoying. “Yes, the count.”

  Sonya imagined pulling out her hairpin and stabbing the girl in her jugular. That should do it. But then, she would have a hard time explaining the woman’s death to Pacmad, and her situation was perilous as it was.

  Now, if Richelle knew, who else might?

  All of a sudden, all those ugly faces around her looked even more suspicious.

  She realized her heart was thumping hard. She could almost see the tight fabric of her dress fluttering with the bursts of her blood. “That is fortunate.”

  “I am really grateful for what you did that night,” Richelle spoke, “which is why I have not told the general about the identity of the Eracian leader. I think it would be prudent of you, once the war is over, to favor those who helped and supported you during your captivity. Reward those who showed loyalty to Your Majesty.”

  Sonya liked the ring of it. If only she could bask in it. Alas, she was choking with terror, a black veil pressing on her nose and lips, making it impossible to gulp air, like that thing she had once done with Lord Elton. That smug, soft smile on Richelle’s lips was making her livid. Am I being threatened? Blackmailed! She was furious, furious. Mostly because she had never expected Richelle to turn against her. I should have let Pacmad beat her bloody. I should have never interfered. This is my payment for being merciful.

  “Most certainly,” Sonya said. Lying was easy. Promises were just words, empty words, ethereal, meaningless. They meant nothing. In fact, Richelle was just being a stupid whore, presuming she could coerce her into obedience. How silly of her. Did she not understand all her threats would become insignificant the moment Bart retook Somar? Did she not realize that?

  “I will be honored if certain lands and titles could pass on to my family. Nothing much. Just the repossessed assets of the traitors and the deceased, my lady. A small, humble share.”

  “Most certainly,” Sonya repeated, trying to mimic that smile. This sow was beyond stupid. She was being suicidal. Did she not realize how fragile her position was? She should be trying her best to make Sonya like her. Instead, she was openly telling her plan.

  There had to be something else. So what else did the slut know?

  “You will not mind writing and signing a document affirming our little…agreement?”

  Documents were just paper. They could burn. Water would wash off the ink. They got lost, torn away. New documents could easily be written, forged, stamped with any manner of seals and names.

  “Richelle, darling, is all this necessary?”

  “I just want a happy future for my baby,” the baroness admitted, her composure cracking a little.

  Sonya touched her shoulder. “Of course, she will be taken care of.” Oh yes. All Kataji bastards would be taken care of. You need years and years of practice before you can attempt to subdue someone like me, bitch.

  Richelle nodded. “Thank you, my lady.”

  Improper. Sonya withdrew her hand. She almost felt relief. She had expected the little whore to concoct a masterful scheme that would leave Sonya indebted till her death. Not this pitiful begging. She was almost disappointed.

  Then, she saw the woman’s face change. There was fresh smugness there. Sonya realized it wasn’t quite over yet.

  “My lady, if the faithful and loyal subjects do not get their reward after the war is concluded, there might be some difficulties.”

  Oh, there it was; there it was, the clout.

  “Certain other truths might get exposed.”

  Sonya wondered what it could be. What? Deaths she had plotted? Affairs with other nobles and rich merchants? What else?

  It looked as if Richelle could read her mind. Her eyes dropped down to Sonya’s belly, then up again. Sonya tried not to swallow. How could she know? She could not. The baroness was just bluffing. Hinting. Sonya made a perplexed face, hoping it looked genuine enough.

  “There is no reason for that to happen.”

  Richelle reached up with her own hand and touched a cold finger to Sonya’s cheek, a brazen, disrespectful gesture. “My lady.” She walked back to her bastard child as if nothing had happened.

  Sonya remained standing, realized she was not acting naturally, making other women notice her, so she stepped back toward the windows and stared out at the destruction and smoke.

  She had underestimated these whores. Women were usually frightful and insecure, but they were not stupid. They paid attention to little details, saw the gaps and inconsistency in truths and facts, figured out the missing parts on their own. Sometimes, their emotions took them down wild, stray paths, but not when it came to basic feminine affairs. Then, they could be sharper than a well-honed sword.

  For the past year and a half, she had copulated with Pacmad. No one could doubt the potency of his seed, because he had managed to sire dozens of little bastards in that time. Meanwhile, Sonya’s belly remained flat, except for the lazy fat of her captivity she just couldn’t get rid of. It did not take a master of coin to figure out the problem. Pacmad’s tiny cock worked, all right. Sonya’s womb did not.

  In her defense, she could claim rape usually didn’t get the best results, and many women mistreated that way did not conceive. In the palace, most of the captives were younger women, and slowly, Pacmad was making them pregnant with his nomad bastards. However, there wasn’t any lady her age without a child.

  The general had no care for older, ugly women, so he had mostly left them alone. In a way, their ugliness had spared them and their children, leaving only the virile and beautiful to suffer the humiliation, the beatings, the rapes. Them—and Sonya.

  In Caytor, it was quite customary for rich women to pursue their careers rather than motherhood. But in Eracia, they all still believed women should whelp babies to strengthen families and secure the wealth. Her own lack of offspring had been a constant rumor at court for many years now, but then, she had always had Bart. People would snigger behind both their backs but blame him. Now, there was no more doubt left. Men might ignore it. Not the ladies, though.

  I’m not old, but I am definitely not young anymore, she thought, bitterness nipping at her tongue. She glanced at the roomful of whores. She was older than everyone present. She was the only married woman without a child in this lot, excluding Pacmad’s bastards, the only one who had run out of excuses for not being a proud mother still.

  Not evidence, but enough to start a powerful, lethal rumor.

  She glanced back. Richelle was holding her girl, unconcerned, silent, smug. Bitch. Sonya almost admired her audacity, but the time for mercy and pleasantries was over. She would not make the same mistake again. Ever.

  Well, she had always feared Pacmad would find out about her. Now, she had much bigger worries. What would happen if the court learned she was barren? Bart could legally disown her then. She could be robbed of her status as the queen. That would be a disaster. After all she had done for her nation.


  Smile, you bitch, smile. You will get what you deserve. A large share, even.

  She looked out of the window again, waiting for her husband to free her.

  CHAPTER 25

  Peace. It was right there in front of her.

  Amalia sat on a palfrey, adorned with silver trappings. Her would-be court flanked her left and right, all of them on foot to emphasize her status. Master Hector was there, leathery, chewy, but clean and with a new uniform. Jarman and Lucas. She was glad for the blue-faced wizard. He was an impressive addition to her retinue. Xavier was standing right next to her. All of the Athesian legions’ commanders shared her side.

  There were more soldiers behind her, including three bannermen, half a dozen officers, and Agatha, who had insisted on standing with her empress, a brave but painful sacrifice on her behalf. If all went well, her maid would give birth about a month after the Autumn Festival.

  On the opposite side of the field, the Parusite delegation waited. No horses there. Princess Sasha was wearing a maroon leather uniform, trousers, sword, and all, and she stood on her own feet, like her small, humble retinue of fighters.

  Victors did not need pedestals, it seemed.

  “Everything is in order,” Toby, her new head of the imperial guard, said.

  “Then there’s no point waiting any longer. Proceed.” She spurred the palfrey forward.

  The Parusites took the hint and moved, too. Halfway between the two parties, there was an awning, stretched between four stout poles, with a single large table placed in the shadow of the canvas. Half a dozen clerks were waiting with ledgers and drinks. A circle of soldiers of both nationalities guarded the perimeter.

  Amalia did not dare look behind her. Ecol was there, with its thousands of people, soldiers and refugees. The northernmost town of her shrinking empire. The last town really ever since Bassac had been evacuated.