The Humbled (The Lost Words: Volume 4)

by Igor Ljubuncic

  He had lost a huge chunk of his troops, and many more spent their days and nights freezing in wet trenches, still awaiting the arrival of that strange, horrible invader, which never came. But the nomads had lost more, and finally decided to retreat once they realized they would all get killed if they remained in Somar. Once his commanders had figured how to make the best use of their soldiers, and how to fight inside the narrow, littered streets, the favors had turned. The Borei olifaunts had also come in quite handy. He could hear the songs in the army ranks, and the wonder of those gray beasts would be remembered for generations.

  “Are you ready, friend?” Junner asked.

  Bart looked at the mercenary. “No, not really.”

  Junner slapped him on the back, not too gently. “Don’t tell me a man like you is afraid of a woman!”

  “Not just any woman. She is my wife. Don’t laugh.”

  “You are too lenient with your women,” Junner chided in between snorts of laughter.

  “Perhaps,” Bart agreed, his heart thumping a steady, excited beat in his chest.

  “Ah, never mind me, Lord Count. You are doing fine.”

  Bart gazed toward the city gates. Hardly half a mile away. Behind him, the army had arrayed itself in long columns, displaying its colors. Well, the wind was too strong, so the banners were furled for now.

  “What if she’s dead? What if she’s alive?”

  “You know what to do,” Junner encouraged him. “We discussed this before. Lord Count, it’s like a game of cards, or any other game.”

  Bart gazed at the mahout. “And what will you do now? The war is over.”

  Junner wagged his finger. “Lord Count, war is never over. I hear you plan to chase those nomads all the way to their tribes. Extend Vergil’s Conquest. Then there’s the northern army we must heed. War is human nature, friend. It cannot end. When it ends, we all end.”

  Bart could not resist the man’s charm any longer. He smiled, some of the tension in his muscles melting. “You’re either a bloody genius or a complete fool.”

  The Borei shrugged humbly. “I am a man of profit, that’s all.”

  Bart rubbed his eye. “What about the rest of your forces? The ones still retained by King Sergei?”

  Junner pointed northeast, in the rough direction of that huge foreign army. “We are all friends now. We will fight together. It does not matter who pays for our services, does it?”

  “Well, I will be very glad to have you around. I still need to figure out how to beat you in a game of cards, or any other game, you cheating bastard.”

  Junner slapped him again, almost making him fall from the saddle. “Now, there’s the Lord Count I know.”

  Bart enjoyed it for a while. Then his mirth slipped away, and he turned serious. “Well, this is becoming embarrassing.” All those thousands of men, waiting for his signal.

  “You are the monarch, Lord Count. They wait as long as you wish.”

  “You know, I am no longer a count. My official title now is different. Your Majesty. That’s how you address me.”

  Junner snorted. “For me, you will always be Lord Count.”

  Bart shrugged. Deep down, that was still how he felt. But he would learn how to be the nation’s ruler. He would. Like he had learned so many other things in these past several years. Well, he had embarked on a mission of peace. He had finally brought peace. Most of the Eracian dignitaries taken hostage in Roalas were still alive. And he had forged a sort of a peace with the ruler in Athesia. It was no longer Empress Amalia, but it did not matter. King Sergei had loaned him his troops, and in a way, he was indebted to him. Which meant Eracia would be very favorable toward Parus in the years to come. All in all, he had done exactly as he had promised Leopold.

  “How’s Adam?” he asked.

  “Safe and warm with those baby women,” Junner told him.

  Prunella and Irma had found it in their hearts to love gold, too, it seemed. While they might never really like him, they would keep their old mouths shut and take the best care of his son. Bart was glad he could resolve everything so easily, so peacefully.

  Now, Sonya, the one part still left unresolved. The one part he dreaded.

  It surely would not be resolved if he stayed standing in the wet field outside the city.

  Fuck it, he yelled in the frightened confines of his soul and waved for the army to march forth.

  CHAPTER 38

  A loud crash startled her. Sonya woke from her fitful sleep, hungry, filthy, exhausted. Her little chamber was dark and smelled of mold, but at least she was on her own, without any other women to intrude on her peace, as little as she had these days.

  She stood up, her head almost touching the ceiling. At her feet, her chamber pot was full to the brimming. There were no servant ladies in this place.

  Another crash. She winced involuntarily. It was closer this time. Footsteps were creaking on the old wooden floor outside, but she had no idea who it was. No sounds of fighting, no screams, just frenetic steps of urgency.

  Sonya wished she could leave her tiny prison, but the door was locked on the outside.

  Almost a month back, Pacmad had taken them all out of the palace and led them, just as she had suspected, into the northern quarter. There, he had corralled them inside an abandoned orphanage, where its plenty of small rooms made for an excellent prison. She had been separated from the rest of the noblewomen. Once in a while, a soldier would bring her some food and water, but she had not seen any real sunlight or bathed since.

  The situation was dire. She knew it by the fact the general had not even bothered to investigate Richelle’s death. Sonya had not seen him for a long while now. She was not even sure he was alive or what he might do with the rest of them. The defeat of the Kataji invaders was imminent, but every moment stretched into an eternity. With nothing else to do, she spent her time thinking, talking to herself, trying to keep her sanity, trying to reason out the end of her captivity. What would happen once Somar was fully liberated? Would Pacmad take one last joy raping and then killing them all?

  The door to her chamber crashed open, splinters and dust flying. She yelped and sat down on her small wooden bed, cowering. A block of bright light assailed her almost-naked, shivering form, and she suddenly felt exposed, vulnerable.

  There was a Kataji warrior standing in the doorway, gripping a sledge in his muscled arms. “Out.”

  Her body was too weak from the lack of activity and bad food. She gingerly stepped into the hallway, a long, narrow corridor with dozens of cells on each side and small windows, buried near the ceiling, all along its length. Confused female ghosts were leaving their own chambers, looking just as disoriented and feeble as she felt. She recognized them as her peers, and her hatred flared, but it died away all too soon. She was too worried about her own self-preservation to care about these whores.

  Silently, the soldier led them away, just like one month back. Sonya glanced at her forearms, at the tiny, livid incisions she had left there with her nails, counting them again, the old ones pale and barely visible. Yes. Thirty days, more or less, she figured. Thirty cold meals, just one cycle of menstrual pain, and her belly was cramping again, so it could not be more than that. But she had read how women in captivity sometimes lost too much weight and stopped bleeding altogether, and her pain might be mere hunger. Well, she still had some dignity on her hips and chest, still looked like a woman. She still had her best weapons.

  She had to step over the body of a dead tribesman. He looked familiar. Yes, that was the man who had fed her the past several weeks. His face was caked with old black blood, and his arms looked broken. An empty key chain lay by his mangled fingers. What had happened there?

  The mess hall of the orphanage already had a whole bunch of other women in there. Strangely, the Kataji were feeding them, bowls of some hot gruel and wedges of rye bread. Most had musty, itchy blankets covering their shoulders.

  Sonya frowned. What did this mean? Did Pacmad intend to give them fals
e hope? Or did he plan something more sinister? And if he had time to feed his prisoners amid all this chaos, maybe the nomads were still not losing this war. The thought terrified her.

  Where was he?

  She found herself in a rough chair, staring at a bowl of oatmeal. Oh, she was hungry.

  Almost too casually, Pacmad strolled into the hall from a side entrance, shadowed by three soldiers, their swords drawn. The chieftain looked tired and dirty, like everyone else, but his face was calm, and he was in control of things, like he always was. He flicked his fingers. One of the warriors approached, and the general whispered in his ear. The man nodded and went into the kitchen.

  Sonya saw him and forgot all about the food. She pushed the chair back and stood up, leaning against the table until she was strong enough to stand.

  “Pacmad,” she called. On the far side of the bench, Verina stabbed her with a gaze of deep consternation.

  The Father of the Bear noticed her. His eyes clouded with disdain. “What do you want?”

  Sonya tried to bear herself regally. “I must talk to you, please.”

  Pacmad did not speak for a while. He waited until the soldier returned from the kitchen and handed him a wooden bowl brimming with the same gruel. “Talk.” He began spooning the breakfast dutifully.

  “Alone, please,” she pleaded.

  He waved her over. The three bodyguards stepped back. She shuffled close, and her broken toe clicked once, just to annoy her.

  “You should eat,” he chided.

  Sonya nodded weakly. Yes, the sensible thing would be to gobble her own ration as soon as she could, because she could not be certain there would be more food anytime soon. But she just could not eat, not just yet. She had to know first.

  “What will happen to us?” It was barely a whisper. And she braced for a punch or a backhand.

  Instead, he kept on chewing the white flakes, some of them sticking to his stubble. “Nothing. You will soon be freed by your countrymen.”

  Sonya reeled. She could not believe her ears. Why was he tormenting her still? Was he just trying to be mean and cruel and to derail her mind? To make her elated, and then see her cry hysterically? To flare her hopes up and then smother them in a vicious grip?

  But his face was as serious as she had ever seen. He was still the mongrel with his blue eyes, but he did not seem to be jesting. “Yes, you go free,” he repeated, his voice emotionless.

  Someone pushed past her. She almost fell. In that moment, she realized how pitiful she was. The old granite floor beneath her bare feet was icy cold, and the air in the hall was quite frigid, too, despite the kitchen heat and the press of bodies. She only had a simple dress on her body, and she had long forgotten what it felt like to be warm and comfortable. Her muscles were cramped and stiff from the cold, and she carried with a hunch that made the grumble in her stomach and the bite of the oncoming winter against her shoulders and legs somewhat easier to bear.

  “Why?” she asked, madness gripping her.

  “Your monarch saved you all. I get to leave the city unscathed, and you get to keep your miserable lives.” He pointed with his greasy hand. One of the Kataji warriors came close and draped a blanket round her arms. “Noble captives are always useful. You should eat. I promised you’d all be healthy. And I keep my promises.”

  Sonya pulled on the quilt, and it chafed against her skin. But soon enough, a fuzzy breath of warmth spread through her chest, and she almost wept. In a way, she felt disappointed. She had never really managed to break him. Pacmad had turned out to be too sly, too intelligent, even for her. The realization irritated her.

  Now, of all things, he would just leave, granted safe passage for sparing the lives of his captives. It was infuriating. After all the evil he had done, he would go home to his clan as a man who had killed the Eracian monarch and held its capital for so long. Somar was now in ruins, and thousands had died trying to free it. Pacmad would surely be sung a hero by his tribesmen. That was simply not fair.

  Sonya wished she had fury in her heart, she wished she could just lash out at him, until her voice turned hoarse, but all she felt was a cold, numb emptiness, a sense of defeat.

  Another form stepped into the hall. A woman, young, beautiful, dressed in an expensive gown, and with a mantle of white fur round her shoulders. Aileen.

  What was she doing there?

  “Hello, Sonya,” she greeted cheerfully. Her delicate hand reached and touched Pacmad’s neck, playing with his filthy locks.

  Sonya swallowed bile. What was happening?

  Pacmad looked over his shoulder and grunted appreciatively. He swallowed the last of the oatmeal and belched, then wiped his cheeks clean. “Don’t mind her.”

  Sonya wasn’t sure who the last sentence was meant for, her or the whore. Aileen was smiling as if there was nothing wrong in the world, blissfully ignoring the crowd of terrified women in front of her, not seeing the carnage and destruction outside the sooty windowpanes.

  “When are we leaving, honey?” Aileen purred.

  “Very soon,” the chieftain responded, cupping her chin with his greasy hand.

  “Where are you going?” Sonya blurted.

  Pacmad grinned wickedly, his eyes shining. “She is coming with me, back to my clan. She will be my new wife. Maybe my first wife.”

  What? Sonya thought. What! This little bitch? Sonya remembered how she used to drivel when Pacmad raped her, remembered all the crying and whining and fear. Now, she acted as if she had won herself the most dashing prince in all of the realms. Impossible. She would not let herself be one-upped by the likes of Aileen. Never.

  “Take me with you,” she whispered. She would show Pacmad that she could be just as beautiful and irresistible as Aileen if only he gave her a chance. She would edge the little bitch out until she was despised by everyone in the clan and not even the donkey keepers would fuck her. She would show them both that she was the most talented, most desirable woman in the world if she put her heart and mind to it. No more games.

  “Please, take me with you,” she repeated, and her voice sounded whiny. She could not be crying. That couldn’t be happening. And what was she doing on her knees?

  The general stared down at her for a moment as if she was mad. “No.”

  Sonya gripped his leg, holding tightly. “Please.”

  He kicked, and she fell. “Get off me, you crazy woman.”

  Aileen giggled behind her hand. “So pitiful.”

  Pacmad sneered. “Yes, she is. Don’t worry. I don’t want her.”

  Sonya wiped the tears in her eyes away. “Why? Why?”

  He leaned over her, and fresh fear poured over her. She had not felt his wrath for a very long time, and it sobered her. “You can’t bear any children. You’re useless! Aileen will birth many sons for me. Now, eat your fucking food.” With that, he left the hall, the young whore trailing at his heels. His bodyguards fell in line, and the hall went back to its business.

  Sonya slumped. There it was. The one battle she could never win.

  She rose to her feet, pretending not to see and hear the derision and hushed gossip around her, and went to eat her oatmeal.

  Some time later, Eracians entered the orphanage and greeted the women with brittle voices full of emotion. She was recognized and led away from the others. Sonya watched in a trance as the soldiers led her to back to the palace, through streets choked with rubbish, debris, and decomposing, bloated bodies. She wasn’t really sure she was in Somar still. When she stumbled, too weak to walk, the soldiers carried her, keeping her warm and shielded from the rain.

  At the palace, a host of servants awaited her, and they took care of her. She was given good food and wine and was bathed twice. A freckled girl spent time brushing her hair and clipping her nails. Then she was robed in a silk dress. Finally, they led her back to the throne hall and asked her to wait there. No one else was in the large chamber within.

  With her belly full, and her skin cleansed of filth and her soul of s
ome of the humiliation, her mind started racing once again. She began to wonder what would happen next. But after all she had lived through during her captivity, what could possibly be worse?

  She did not have to wait for long. Soon enough, a man stepped into the hall. Feet clacking against the red-veined marble, he walked forward, between the slender columns. There were no furnishings, no coats of armor, flags, paintings, or statues of past monarchs, but at least her countrymen had cleared the nomad refuse away. Sonya remembered copulating with Leopold in the private chambers behind the dais. The thought caught in her throat when she realized who the man approaching her was.

  Bart, her brave, loving husband.

  He had come to her.

  Then she saw another figure near the entrance. An older woman holding a bundle in her arms. She stayed back, though, allowing Sonya to soak in the visage of her savior in full.

  He had changed. He looked pretty much the same, except for his beard, which made him look older and wiser, but he carried with newfound pride she had never seen before. His gait was sure, his shoulders pulled back, his back straight. In the past, he would always seem troubled, preoccupied, weighted with the responsibility of his position at court, always worrying, an unbecoming, an unfashionable burden for someone like her. No more.

  He was watching her carefully. But he did not smile or say anything.

  “I missed you,” she said. She was being honest. She really was.

  Bart just pursed his lips. “I have been nominated the new monarch of Eracia. From this day on, the royal bloodline will be Barrin. You are the queen of our nation. Congratulations, Sonya, you’ve got even more power than you ever wanted. The highest title in the realms.”

  Sonya tried her best to keep her composure. “You…did that?”