The Humbled (The Lost Words: Volume 4)

by Igor Ljubuncic

  Lumbering like a sloth, the rear guard was inching toward the battlefield. Gordon’s men guarded the flanks, weapons drawn. It was such a slow, agonizing procession. The horses and wheels got bogged down, and men had to help free them. Lydia’s women rushed ahead, bearing stretchers, and they started rescuing wounded soldiers from the miry fields, loading them onto the already heavy, bulging carts.

  “It will take them at least an hour to get here, another hour to cross,” Alexa estimated.

  “As long as it takes,” Mali hissed. At her side, Bjaras was frowning toward the bridge, mouthing silent words in his own, foreign tongue. Her skin pricked. “What do you see, handsome?”

  A horn sounded. Finley was starting to retreat. Then, three short notes.

  Enemy sighted.

  She could see the crossbowmen on the far side waving urgently. She did her best to see what was happening. The willows obscured the view somewhat, but the fields of Athesia and the road to Bassac looked empty. Still deserted.

  Bjaras muttered something loudly and moved forward. One of the soldiers tried to stop him, but he shrugged her off and loped toward the bridge. The engineers were still busy checking the massive construction and had reached the second half. From the north, the first companies of Finley’s Third started arriving, clogging the wet, busy crossing ever more. They looked tired and bloody, and they dragged limping brothers-in-arms behind them.

  “Where the fuck is that new enemy?”

  Then, just as she had expected, she saw movement on the far bank. No white uniforms this time. Gray and muddy uniforms, as men started rising from their hiding places up and down the riverside. They had spent the better part of the day half submerged in the cold muck, obscured by the wild green growth.

  Mali raked her hair. What now? She needed her soldiers on the other side. If she stayed here, she’d never cross. But if she waited for Finley to fully regroup, the enemy would fortify its positions on the east side, and it would be dark. Bjaras was walking up the bridge, waving his hands urgently. The Eracian sappers were watching him with distrust, some hanging from their ropes over the sides.

  The rear convoy was still a good half hour away. Damn. She had no options.

  “Lieutenant Cody, what do your men say?”

  The engineer whistled sharply, making her skull tingle. The sappers waved back. “Safe to cross. No more than five hundred at any one time. No more than twenty carts.”

  She took a few deep breaths to steady her nerves. “Girls, get ready. We are crossing over.”

  Alexa spat again. “That’s not a smart idea.”

  “Do you have a better suggestion? Meagan, take your riders first. Go!”

  “Yes, sir!” The noblewoman spurred her mount, and the cavalry rushed onto the narrow span, the iron-shod hooves hammering against the planks in a hollow, painful cadence. The engineers moved to the side to let them pass. One of the men lost his footing, slipped, and fell into the river. He began a slow swim downstream.

  Bjaras was standing in the middle of the road, waving. Mali’s blood curdled. What was he trying to warn them against? What did he know? Too late now. On the east bank, the muddy northerners were hunched over, spears raised, waiting for Meagan. Mali almost looked away as the two sides clashed. She thought she could hear the piercing screams of women and horses even this far.

  With panic pushed deep down into the belly, her companies started crossing. A light jog, four abreast, eyes scanning everywhere for new dangers, for a sudden volley of arrows. Nothing like being pinned down by a barrage in the middle of a bridge.

  She was getting worried about the northerners on her own side, the ones that had retreated. Would they regroup now and strike again? But no one reported any new fighting. In the confusion of the battle, Finley’s men merged with her girls, and the bridge became very narrow and tight.

  It was her turn to join the mayhem. An engineer signaled for the next batch. She climbed into the wet saddle with a groan and moved forward. Gordon’s men were getting closer. She saw her captain, and he gave her a short wave. She waved back and nudged the beast onto the groaning timber boards.

  The noise intensified all of a sudden. She could hear the wind moaning around the old, moldy ropes. She could hear the river belching lazily. The screams from the far side, the hush of a thousand sore throats from Finley’s men approaching the river. A rippling banner marked the colonel’s unit, and he was nearing the crossing. Arrows still whizzed, almost like an afterthought, and there was a thunderstorm of screams coming from all directions.

  The bridge felt fragile and narrow, and it swayed. It bucked. It groaned. Bjaras was waiting for her, and he was still panicking in his voice. She did not understand. No one did. The sappers were still watching the supports, inspecting the cracks and the ropes, and while concerned, their faces did not contort with immediate danger.

  Her troops were spilling onto the far bank, directly into the cauldron of killing. The pace slowed, and she was getting really nervous. But so far, the Eracians were moving forward. Good, good. It meant her girls had gained a solid foothold on the far bank, and there was still hope.

  Bjaras put a hand on her reins. He was almost yammering in panic. But she could not tell a bloody word of what he meant. It didn’t sound good. It could not be good. He was pointing back toward the west shore. Urgently.

  I am ignoring my own instincts, she realized. I brought him here to tell me something. He is telling me something. Why didn’t those northerners flee across the bridge?

  Fuck.

  “Theresa! Theresa!” she shouted as best as she could.

  The major halted, turned around. “Sir?”

  Mali shook her head. “We are going back. Get everyone to turn around, and we march west. We’ll figure out how to cross the river later, elsewhere. This is bad.” Mali raised her arm and made a circle motion above her. “Turn around. Back. Back! Relay the order. Finley, hold at all costs!”

  The shuffling was impossible, but no one fell. The bridge protested with a low, deep moan. One of the ropes thrummed. Going back was easier. It was faster. There was no one waiting to poke you with a sword, for a change.

  I’m stupid, stupid. What was I thinking?

  Gordon’s men were waiting in the mud, looking confused. Frightened drays were whining, adding to the chaos. Mali waited until the press of footmen around her eased a bit. Bjaras was following. He was still talking, but he looked relieved.

  “Thank you, my northe—”

  There was a sudden noise, and the bridge opened below her feet.

  CHAPTER 37

  What a glorious morning, Bart thought, the cold rain notwithstanding.

  “Your signature here, please,” Commander Velten said, pointing with a gloved hand.

  Margravine-Soon-to-Be-Duchess Diora hesitated for a moment, but then she added her name to the long list of signatories. Her aide heated a pencil of wax over a candle, pressed it against the bottom of the page, and the lady knuckled her ring into the red blob.

  There, it was done.

  Bart had just become the monarch of Eracia.

  Frankly, he had thought his struggle would be harder, longer, messier, bloodier.

  Instead, he had achieved the title of the nation’s ruler with just a tiny bit of intimidation, some careful plotting by Sonya’s mother, and a whole lot of bribes and promotions. People had not really opposed him, it seemed. They had just wanted their share.

  Everyone was there. Army commanders, Countesses Ernsta and Anniken, the spiteful master of coin, other leeches, worms, parasites, and sycophants, everyone who thought they could profit from this change. Well, Eracia was a proud realm once again.

  Somar would be fully liberated in a matter of hours. His troops were conducting a mopping action against the last isolated pockets of nomads, mostly those cut off from their main units, so they did not know about the retreat or plain refused to budge from their defensive positions, and now, they simply awaited their deaths. A steady stream of Kataji and ot
her tribesmen was fleeing west under the watchful eye of the Eracian forces.

  A leaden sheet of icy rain made the world dark and blurred, but it had also put out the fires. You would never know a heavy pall of smoke had hung above the city until only yesterday, stalking the rooftops and streets. For the past few days, the Kataji had held in the northern quarters, burning all they could, trying to stop the inevitable defeat. But Bart’s army was invincible, it seemed, and he felt like he could do anything.

  He would do anything, in fact.

  Those around him felt it, too, and quickly tucked away their morality for better, less gloomy days. Being rich and noble was better than bleeding your freshly cut throat into a gutter. There might be people with scruples and principles in the camp around Somar, but not too many and not with too large reserves of scruples and principles. Ultimately, being pragmatic was a defining characteristic in a member of the court. Besides, gold had its own spiritual value.

  Bart knew he could have lashed out at his old foes and rivals. But spite was a poor quality for the victor. He had to be benevolent; he had to be optimistic. His actions would shape the future of Eracia, and it was best if they all started with reconciliation and national unity. They might have had their differences once, but it was only because they all cared about the realm in their own special ways. An act of loyalty, really.

  “Well done, congratulations, Your Majesty,” Countess Anniken offered, her thin lips stretched into a big smile. She bowed respectfully.

  Following her lead, the rest did the same. Men stepped forward, and Bart shook their hands. He could well afford to be magnanimous.

  Not to be bested by anyone, Lord Karsten wheeled himself forward, rolling the rims of his wheelchair over unsuspecting toes. But he was like a hammer-driven wedge, and no one could halt his persistent approach.

  “Nephew, I am so glad,” he beamed. Then, in a hushed voice, “I am so proud of you, Bart. This is a glorious day for all of us.”

  Bart mounted a soft smirk onto his face. “Thank you, Uncle.” Then he remembered his other duties, no less important. “You will all excuse me, ladies and gentlemen. Please await the last confirmation from the army that it is safe to enter Somar.”

  Their eyes, slightly glazed with greed, followed him out of the command lodge. Four soldiers held a large oiled tarp above him so the rain would not touch him. It was so wide, even the wild splash of drops in the mud couldn’t reach his leather boots.

  His monarchical retinue followed. Alke and Edgar were now royal servants, and they looked like they could climb walls on pride alone. His small band of soldiers would become an honor guard, hopping up the ladder of promotions like a band of cheerful monkeys. At the moment, they still lacked in gilt and velvet, and their rusty armor and wet uniforms had taken a beating in the furious rain, but nothing could spoil their moment of glory.

  He led toward the cabin where Constance resided, a short dash through the storm. It was surrounded by more men, Borei and Eracians alike. Just as he had planned.

  Greetings, smiles, messengers. One of the notes caught Bart’s attention. “Colonel.”

  Paul frowned, not expecting to be singled out among the audience.

  Bart handed him a square of oiled paper. “Paul, your wife and son are fine. They are in Ubalar, well taken care of. Once we complete our victory, you have my leave to visit them.”

  The man was still frowning furiously, trying to keep the slap of rain away, but his relief was obvious. His brows drooped; the etched lines round his eyes softened. “Thank you, Your Majesty. I am truly grateful.”

  Bart patted the man’s shoulder. “And so am I.” He stepped into the small shack.

  His mistress was sitting in a chair, hands folded in her lap, her eyes red from too much crying. In the left far corner, near the window, Junner stood, holding Adam. They were watching the rivulets of water sliding down the pane. The boy looked delighted. So maybe babies could see after all.

  Occasional silent lightning lit up the sky, turning it silver. But you could not hear the thunder anywhere, just the rush of water gnawing at the timber, lapping against glass, plinking against tin and slate.

  “Lord Count,” the Borei greeted. Adam turned and waved erratically.

  Bart smiled. He was beginning to develop a liking for his son.

  Constance bobbed in her chair, trying to rise, but she remained seated. “Bart,” she said weakly.

  He nodded at her. “Have you considered my proposal?” he asked.

  She bit her lip, and fresh tears coursed down her cheeks. “You know I cannot—”

  Bart lifted a finger. “Now. No. Please, no more crying. You must decide. Right now.”

  Constance swallowed. It took her a few moments before she found courage to speak again. “Yes. I will do it.”

  He clapped his hands lightly. “Excellent. Then all is well. We sorted that out.”

  “You are taking my son away from me,” she whispered, without malevolence or anger in her tone, just pure sadness.

  “He is my son. He is a young prince now. He cannot be a bastard. He cannot be the child of a Caytorean girl fleeing from her home.” Bart shrugged. “He belongs at court, where he will be loved and raised properly.”

  Constance was staring at nothing. “You are a monster.”

  Bart refused to let dark thoughts cloud his mind. “Adam is my son. I will love him and take care of him. He will never want for anything. In a way, you will be there, too. I cannot forget you, Constance, and I will not forget you. Dear, you shaped my life in your own special way. But your goals and desires go against everything I have tried to build in the past several months. Eracia is more important than your personal ambitions. This sacrifice must be made.”

  “You are all the same,” she murmured.

  Bart leaned forward. “What?”

  She gritted her teeth. “You are all the same. But when it comes to responsibility, you always blame the woman. You are filthy animals, all of you!” Her hands bunched into small fists over the small curve of her belly.

  “Do not be so bitter.” He ignored her remark. It was a shadow of her past, and he was no longer interested. “You are an attractive, smart young woman. You will find yourself a husband who will cherish and respect you. But I cannot be that man. I am sorry.”

  “I hope you die,” she spat.

  He inclined his head. “Does that mean you do not want my gold?”

  She hesitated, sucked her breath in. Maybe he was humiliating her on purpose, but he had offered her a fairly lucrative deal. He knew losing one’s child could never compare to money, but she would get a huge sum of gold and a letter of credit to start fresh. She would have to leave Eracia, but she would go back to Caytor pretending to be a young Somar girl, and Bart’s document would vouch for her family ties. If she had a dark past back home, she would not need to struggle with it ever again. He was being rather fair.

  Or, she could refuse. In which case, she would leave the camp empty-handed. He knew she knew that, but he had to let her make her own choice. Still, he had never expected her to refuse his money.

  “I hate you,” she said weakly and started crying again. “I hate you.”

  Bart pursed his lips. “I understand. But you will realize this has to be done. Imagine what would happen if someone learned I had sired a bastard to a Caytorean woman? What would happen then? Would there be a war between our realms? Would people try to assassinate you? Did you really think you could become my wife? You are not an Eracian! You can pretend as much as you like, but you would never have become a lady of the court in Somar. As to our predicament, well, you came to me, remember? You sought me out among all those other men. You betrayed that lad Ewan. You let me fuck you, and you let that child grow inside you. You chose to have him, and I am glad for it. But it is all you, Constance. All you.”

  He realized he was getting flustered.

  She sighed. “It is all my fault. Of course. Silly me.”

  He was not certain if she was
being sarcastic. But it did not matter anymore.

  Constance brushed her hair away. “Can I hug him one last time?”

  Bart shook his head. “No, I’m sorry.” He waved at Junner, and the mercenary walked over. Bart extended his hands, and the boy sidled over, pumping with his little feet against his coat. Despite his tiny size, he fretted with a great deal of force.

  “Who will be his mother now?” she asked, her eyes moist again.

  Bart blinked rapidly. “It is not important. He will be well taken care of.” He paused. “Good-bye, Constance. You must leave today. You will have an armed guard whichever direction you choose to go. It’s war everywhere, so I would suggest you head to Parus, and maybe cross over into Athesia via Bridgen, and then find your way to one of the coastal cities.”

  Constance did not see him. Her eyes were locked on Adam. “I love you, Son.”

  Bart felt his chest tighten. It wasn’t easy for him. He turned around so the baby would not make any sudden gestures toward his mother. There was no need to make matters worse.

  “Lord Count, a little hat for the young prince!” Junner said cheerfully, handing over a thick woolen sock. He reached over the boy’s overlarge head.

  “Wait, let me do it,” Bart said. Gently, he pushed the hat over Adam’s fuzz and covered his ears. Then, without a backward glance, he stepped out of the cabin and left his crying mistress behind for good.

  It was midday, and the rain had respectfully stopped so the victors could march into the liberated city gallantly, chins raised high. Commander Faas reported no more enemy troops in the city. The tail of the defeated Kataji beast was being harried by the auxiliary units over the western plains, fleeing the battlefield.

  One year and a half after taking Somar, the nomads had been defeated. It had cost Bart sixteen thousand souls, but he had won. He had restored pride to his nation. For the first time in centuries, Eracia had something to boast of.

  I would not call myself Vergil, Bart reasoned. I will let others decide that.

  He was mildly surprised by the success of his campaign. He had not really believed he would be able to unite the nation under his banner and make the southern and northern armies cooperate. He had not believed he would have the charisma and audacity to rein in the aristocrats and keep them focused on freeing the city rather than fighting their own personal wars of greed. And truth to be told, the casualties were rather low.