The Humbled (The Lost Words: Volume 4)

by Igor Ljubuncic

  Which meant he had to carefully prepare for the last push. He wanted to encircle the city from the south. He wanted to coordinate the next stage of his campaign smartly. The eastern army would attack the coastal cities in Caytor. The western army would split into two elements, one circling back against Eracia, and the second sweeping through the Safe Territories and Parus. He might need to transfer forces between the two bodies, because his western host had suffered terrible losses. He had to know how he should do that so there would be no ugly surprises, like more ancient magical weapons suddenly coming into enemy hands, or Special Children putting up resistance against him. He also had to avoid any conflict with the Sirtai until the war against the faith was complete.

  Most of all, he wanted magical reassurances.

  That was why he had come back to Nigella. That and… well, he did miss her.

  The woman should provide him all he needed, he knew. And it was time to start grooming her son for greatness.

  Chance kills more than careful planning. He remembered the ancient saying as he approached the cabin door. Someone very wise had uttered those words during the war against the gods, but he could not tell who it had been. Probably a human.

  He rapped gently on the wood. Nigella cracked the door open, staring at him. She did not seem surprised. He raised a brow. She smirked, trying to hide her teeth.

  “I was expecting you,” she said.

  Immediately, Calemore felt a change about her. She was still a frightened little mouse, full of inhibitions and complexes, but somehow, she seemed to have mustered some courage. Standing half an inch taller, her gaze lingering on him a bit longer, her eyes breaking contact a moment too late. Nothing too explicit. If he were not so keen on seeing her again, he might have missed it himself. But he liked this. His body tensed, and he realized he had not bedded anyone in a very long time. Hardly even seen any women, in fact.

  “Good, then you know what I want,” he responded.

  Sheldon was inside, playing on the cot. “Hello, Master Calemore,” he mumbled, not looking up from his toys.

  Calemore inclined his head. “Send your boy out.”

  Nigella brushed a lock of hair from her forehead. She licked her lips nervously.

  He sniffed, not entirely pleased with her newfound disobedience. Not when it might interfere with his lust. “Send him out. He will be safe with my troops.”

  She looked at her son. “Shel, darling, go play with the guards. And here”—she reached for a wrapped parcel lying on the table—“don’t forget the bread. The soldiers will surely want to eat.”

  Sheldon accepted the bundle like it was a precious sculpture. “Can I have some, Mom?”

  Nigella shook her head. “No, Son. We talked about this. You will have your supper later.”

  Calemore frowned. She looked nervous all of a sudden. But then, it must be his presence. She had not seen him in a long while either, and she must be feeling confused and excited. He watched the lad walk out, strutting awkwardly. He waited for a moment longer. Then he slammed the door shut and latched it.

  He turned back. He was pleased to see Nigella undressing already. His breathing quickened. Muscles taut, he stepped toward her, gripped her shoulders, and guided her to her small bed.

  Calemore watched his human plaything prepare a pie for him. She was clothed again, a pity, but he could still guess the curves under her skirt. Whenever she reached for a jar of spices, the skirt hiked up and down, crinkled, teased, hinting at the soft flesh underneath. Despite fierce lovemaking twice already, he was feeling hungry again. But he had to focus. He had many other things to do before leaving for Roalas. Fucking and apple pies were secondary, if more pleasing.

  He tried to suppress his emotions, but he could not. He had missed her. He liked being here in this shithole, enjoyed watching her, savored the smell of sweat on the tangled sheet beneath his arm, liked how she worked the lids on and off her jars with mechanical dedication.

  “How goes your war?” she asked, eyes focused on the pastry.

  “You know the answer to that,” he chided without rancor.

  The woman turned briefly, flashed him a full-toothed smile. “Yes.”

  Calemore leaned against the boards behind him. “I presume you have read everything in the book, and you know what those riddles mean?” He wanted to hear her tell him everything, but he liked the suspense. To be on the side with the least knowledge, least power, it was exhilarating, for a moment or two.

  Nigella nodded, pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose with a flour-smeared finger. “Yes. All of them. I have mastered The Book of Lost Words, Calemore. I feel so proud.”

  “Then you know what I must do,” he goaded her.

  Nigella salted the dough first. Then she answered. “Yes.”

  Calemore stretched. “Tell me.”

  She pushed her tongue against her teeth. “First, you must eat the pie.”

  Calemore realized he was laughing, a rattle of soft hissing escaping through his nostrils. The woman was bantering him! Defying him! Trying to be saucy! A kind of thing that had gotten kings tortured and killed. He had sent men to their graves over much, much less. But now, there was no fury in his heart. In fact, he was blissfully content, even amused. Having human slaves was boring. He liked her attempt at trying to even out the scale of power, to be equal to him in wit. She would never succeed, but just her effort was worth it.

  Letting her be on her own had been a very good thing, it seemed. Nigella had learned how to cope with danger, to communicate with his soldiers, men from a strange and terrible nation that did not speak her language. She had been forced to endure uncertainty and fear, and she had been free of his bias and demands and pressure, allowing her to study the book of prophecies with a clear mind. He was not disappointed. In just one early afternoon, she had proved herself worthy of being his lover, of being at his side after the war against the gods was finished.

  He liked that very much. She could have been just a toy. But she had grown to accept him, his legacy, the role he planned for her. Few humans would have the strength to do the same, and his little mouse did have it. The old Nigella had been fun, but now, he was genuinely excited.

  “All right, I will eat the pie,” he ceded, trying to sound vexed.

  Nigella seemed to ignore him, and she continued preparing the pie. A pleasant scent of apples hit his nostrils. He slumped onto the mattress and waited, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sound of her culinary work.

  An hour breezed by. Finally, Nigella took the clay pan off the coals using a pair of black tongs. Calemore sat up. The pie was sizzling with brown juices. She removed the lid, beat it against the brick enclosure of her little stove to remove the coal dust, covered the pie with a piece of cloth, and let it cool for a while. He was getting rather hungry.

  With a marksman’s concentration, Nigella cut into the pie and placed a huge slice on his platter. She put it on the table and waited, face contorted with devotion and tension. She was waiting for him to approve of her baking, he knew.

  Well, it was his time to delay. As if he didn’t care for the apple pie, he sat down in the chair, naked, and sniffed the slice. Then, carefully, he began eating.

  It was delicious.

  The pie had all sorts of winter spices he had not seen her add before, and they added extra flavor to the fruit. He let the taste slide off his tongue, truly enjoying himself. “Excellent.”

  Nigella sat at the table beside him, smiling. “Do you want me to tell you about my reading now?”

  He ran a tongue over his teeth, chasing crumbs. “Go ahead.”

  She removed her spectacles and blinked once to adjust to the marred view of the world. Calemore almost felt inclined to fix her sight, but he would not do that unless she asked. She had to learn to stand up for herself in every way.

  “I know that you want Sheldon to be the ruler of the realms.”

  Calemore nodded, biting into the pie. “Tell me something I do not know.”
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br />   Nigella touched the book, lying just near the plate. “To win, you must kill the man who feels nothing.”

  He paused chewing. “Riddles again?”

  She looked afraid for a moment. “No. He is a Special Child.”

  Calemore relaxed and resumed eating. That made sense. It must be one of the freaks serving the surviving god. Maybe even that scrawny lad with the bloodstaff. He would just have to make sure to find him and dispose of him.

  “Where do I find him? And why him?”

  “Because he is Damian’s son, too, and he will take your place if you don’t kill him.”

  There, a mortal warning, just like I expected. “How will I know this Special Child?”

  “Seek the loneliest man among your enemies; that’s what the book says. It does not identify him by name.” Nigella shrugged apologetically. “I don’t know.”

  Calemore rubbed his upper lip. He picked a sliver of apple rind from between his teeth. Not as helpful as he had hoped, but good enough. There was a critical threat to his campaign, and it was one of Damian’s monsters. It was just like his father to keep annoying him from his grave. Once he killed this man, his victory would be certain. It was a good thing to have come here, he realized. Nigella’s words were precious. Finally, she was giving him real, valuable information he needed.

  She had earned his respect in every way.

  “What else?”

  “The book also says you will be blinded twice, once by a god, once by a woman.”

  Calemore grinned. He thought he could well figure this one out. He would—

  He felt a jolt in his stomach.

  It was as if somehow had honed surprise to divine perfection and stabbed him with it.

  He had not experienced dietary discomfort in all the thousands of years of his life.

  Nigella frowned, looking worried. “What?”

  Calemore put the fork down. “I don’t know.” Another jolt. He looked at the woman, at her expression of fear. No. Not fear. Something else. He rose suddenly, feeling dread on his skin. Then, his legs buckled, and he collapsed. What was happening?

  There was a numb feeling in his legs, in his arms, spreading through his gut. His sex desire fled him, leaving behind nothing. He looked up and saw Nigella leaning over him, her homely face hovering above him. She was holding her spectacles from falling, her mouth was open, and her teeth showed. That expression still contorted her cheeks. No fear there whatsoever. No surprise. Contentment? Resignation? Determination?

  “You once asked me what I want,” she said, her voice distant. “I know now what it is. I only want the best for my son. I will not let you ruin my son.”

  Calemore tried to speak, but he could barely move his jaw. He tried to summon anger, tried to blast this little place apart with magic, but there was nothing left. Just cold numbness, making its way like a slug, crawling up toward his chest, his throat.

  “The book knows everything. Even how to kill someone like you,” she added.

  The sense of betrayal and indignation almost made him scream. But the poison in his blood left him immobile, and the world started to lose color and shape. Nigella began to fade from his sight, replaced by anguish forged in the Abyss itself.

  “You will never have my son.”

  Darkness.

  Nigella waited for a few moments, until she was certain the White Witch was dead. Then, she let herself shudder. A whimper of relief fled her lips. Trembling, she sat down on the chair. For just a moment, to steady her nerves.

  Sweaty all over, she stood and walked to the door. Sheldon was playing, waving his sword at invisible foes, oblivious to the sight of men sprawled in the snow around him. They would come around in several hours, unless they froze to death, but she had no desire to kill these men who had served Calemore. It wasn’t their choice.

  “Shel, sweetie, come inside,” she called. The boy had done his part well. She had worried he might try the bread, but he was a good boy, and he listened to his mother. In the worst case, he would have fallen asleep like the soldiers, and he would have woken without any ill consequences. But she loathed the idea of having to drag him behind her like a sack of potatoes. “Come.”

  He lowered his wooden blade, made a mean face at his unseen foes, and hopped back to the cabin.

  “Don’t touch the pie. Do not touch Master Calemore,” she warned, already packing. Gold, food, winter clothing. That was all she needed.

  “Why is Master Calemore dozing on the ground?” he asked.

  “He is tired, Shel. Come here. Help me.” Nigella stuffed another satchel of coins into the bottom of the pack. Luckily, the Naum soldiers had not argued with her instructions. They had brought her everything she had demanded and Sheldon had translated.

  Her son kept staring at the body, and she had to keep him busy. Within half an hour, they were packed. They had a pair of mules tied to a post behind the cabin. The animals would carry the provisions. There was the danger of bandits, but she believed she would be safe within Calemore’s newly conquered territory. His soldiers would not accost her, and that would be enough until she got to the coast. Then, the gold should do its charm.

  It was still terribly, terribly risky, but she had no better ideas. Staying here would be meaningless. She had to get away from the witch’s domain, from his troops, from all this madness.

  Sheldon pulled the last strap on his bag. “Done, Mom, before you.”

  “I’m glad,” she said absent-mindedly. She was wondering whether to take her herbs. Would she need them ever again in her life? Maybe. Just a few.

  Soon, they were fully packed. The boy went around and loaded the mules. She paid the little cabin one last glance. Nothing of value was there, nothing that meant anything to her, that would make her hesitate or stay. As an afterthought, she tossed a blanket over the prone figure on the floor and stuffed his white clothes under the mattress. Maybe she should torch the place? No. Best if it all remained intact. The soldiers would never dare enter and interfere with their master. That would give her a lot of time to get far away from Marlheim.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw she had left The Book of Lost Words on the table, near the poisoned pie.

  That vile thing. She should burn it. Or just leave it behind. But then, someone might find it and take it and read it. And what then?

  She grabbed the book and exited the cabin.

  CHAPTER 50

  Time to kill more people. Again, Ewan thought.

  He shifted his weight, and winced slightly at the pain in his injured leg. Nothing else hurt, just the parts of his sorry existence damaged by the blood pellets. He couldn’t feel the winter’s grip, the kiss of the wind, or smell the urine and poor cooking and the metallic stench of fresh blood. The world evaded him by a hairbreadth, except for the pain in his body. It was slowly receding, like any old wound, but when you didn’t feel anything else, the agony was monumental.

  Worse, he had to summon the courage to do it all over again.

  He would level the bloodstaff at Calemore’s troops and rain death into their ranks. The witch would respond with his own attack, and Jarman and Lucas would try to shield him. They might distract the enemy with their own blasts of magic. Sooner or later, Ewan knew his luck would run out, and one of the pellets would kill him. He did not relish that. Life might not give him much, but he did not welcome death, not after all this torment. Not after having spent twenty years in the Abyss, among the gods. He wasn’t even sure what being dead might mean. An eternity among lost souls? Silent nothingness?

  He realized the White Witch was keen on killing whoever wielded the bloodstaff. He must fear the weapon. Ewan could have given it to someone else and just used his brute strength to decimate the northerners. But he did not want to be the man who killed like that. He did not want to live with those memories. He did not want to wade through all the sea of blood and hatred.

  I once thought I was a monster. I am now a much bigger monster than I’ve ever imagined.

&nbs
p; His soul begged him not to give up. Not just his cause or the fight itself. All of it. Not to give up the weapon either. If Ayrton were in possession of that terrible thing, he would never hand the burden over to someone else. He would never stoop to such cowardice.

  He felt shame at having wanted to die after his injury. A moment of weakness. He would not let himself fail like that ever again. And he was done running and hiding. He would defend the people of the realms as best as he could, and that was all he had to offer the world. That was his legacy. A sad and maybe meaningless one, but it was his.

  He swallowed.

  The northern army had not attacked them for a while now. They should bless the respite, but there was no joy left in people’s hearts. Half the defenders had died; many others were wounded or starving or freezing. The king was doing his best to prevent crime and mutiny, keeping a watchful eye on Amalia and fighting his own sorrow. Two old enemies, eying each other over the corpses of their families. All the while the city supplies dwindled, more people died from disease, and the northern army kept threatening annihilation.

  Both sides spent time preparing for the next engagement, digging frantically, mending tools and weapons, beefing up their gear and blades. For the people of the realms hunkering around Roalas, it was the one and only pastime. For the enemy, it was yet another day in a senseless madness. They would soon march south and trample all in their path.

  Scouts reported lots of activity that morning. It seemed the enemy was getting ready to try crossing the river at four points, one almost five miles south of the city. King Sergei was diverting his already-worn defenses to try to cover the rear, too. But there just weren’t enough soldiers or weapons to maintain an effective perimeter. Even women were forced to defend the walls now, and not everyone had a spear. Ordinary soldiers got promoted three or four ranks just so the armies could maintain their structure.