Ewan did not pay too much attention to the dealings among the Parusites, the Athesians, the Borei, and others, but it seemed the mercenaries were rather loyal to the king. Amalia’s Caytoreans had almost all left, heading home to their country. Gavril’s pilgrims remained, but their zeal was gone, replaced with the dejected stupor of men without cause and faith.
Ewan still could not tell how the god’s death had affected people. They just did not seem to know. They had never really known.
All faith had been was to make the gods and goddesses stronger. Their own blood tax.
Ewan felt like he shared in all their terror, and it seeped through his pores and burrowed through his veins, formed into a black diamond two hands below his heart, making him queasy just by breathing. He almost retched at the image of hot, steaming organs spilling from bodies, and his hands raking through the pulp like it was river water.
A distant bugle wept a forlorn note into the gray world. Somewhere, a unit was moving to engage. It was beginning.
Ewan tried to breathe, but he couldn’t. His chest would not expand. He tightened his grip on the bloodstaff, wiggled the fingers on both his hands, what few he had left.
Jarman looked at him and nodded. The wizard had lost weight, and he looked haggard. But like him, the Sirtai was not giving up, fighting a war for the greater good, for the people of the realms. This wasn’t their war, and yet, they had made it theirs. Through all the selfishness, they’d made sacrifices.
The troops began to stir, a huge monster flexing its hundreds of gangrenous joints, each a different color, a different shade, a different state of rot. Ewan let the sights blur past him in a nauseating display of color and chaos. The Parusite regiments moved; the Athesians manned their siege engines. Inside the city, the cripples, children, and women lit fires and dipped their arrows in the flames.
Ewan took a deep breath and stepped into a long, elaborate ditch. Calemore knew when he was firing the weapon, so at least he would use thick layers of earth to protect him and help him scurry about unseen. Soldiers on all sides stepped back. They all knew what was coming.
He dragged his injured leg into the trench, placing it down gingerly. The soil was iced brown cake. His foot slipped, twisted, and he bit off a lump of pain.
Then, another kind of pain made him double over. It lasted for a moment and was gone.
His middle hurt, as if someone had kicked him, a memory of pain from when he used to be human. He had no idea what it signified, but he had never seen anything good happen after his guts clenched.
There were no more gods left to die. So who had? Was it his turn now? Time for the monster to be finally destroyed? Same and yet different, his belly throbbed with the lingering shock of that brief lance of agony.
He waited until he saw the host on the near side of the bank move. It took them a while, like it always did. The huge army never rushed, and their formations uncoiled like a big, fat snake, utterly confident in its sheer size. Soon, though, the huge white mass of troops was marching toward the defenders. Not a particularly coordinated attack, but it had numbers to compensate for every tactical failure.
Ewan aimed the bloodstaff. And fired.
He did not want to watch the death he caused. He closed his eyes and waited a few moments while the magical rod spewed red horror at the enemy. Not waiting for Calemore’s own volley, he dashed left, limping and jumping as best as he could. The Sirtai were shielding him, he hoped. He could not hear any concussion from their magical explosions, so they must be focusing all their strength in defending him.
No return fire from Calemore either.
That worried him.
But he was not going to give up. He leveled the weapon at the Naum forces. His whole body gave off an involuntary twitch. His hands spasmed, and he dropped the bloodstaff against the ditch wall. His knees buckled, and he sank into the cold mush. There was pain in his gut again, his old, familiar companion, his only friend. Like earlier, the pain reminded him of all those times the gods had perished. The sensation gripped him, making him nauseated, like he had eaten too much honey.
The White Witch had not attacked him yet. Maybe this was his new strategy? Magic?
The hurting became dull, spread through his limbs, leaving him weak. Then, it began to fade, leaving behind a warm, itchy feeling. Soon, the tingling disappeared, leaving him whole and strong and strangely rejuvenated.
Almost like fog slithering through a forest, understanding licked his mind.
Images started to coalesce, and he saw the witch in a distant place, curled on the floor of a small cabin. He had never seen him, but he knew it was him. Words came on top of those fuzzy pictures, spoken in all languages, but he had no problem deciphering them.
It took him a few moments to grasp the enormity of what he had just experienced.
Swallowing a lump, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes, he gripped the bloodstaff and climbed out of the ditch, into the filthy snow, facing the hundreds of thousands of soldiers coming his way. He thought he could hear the defenders behind him screaming defiance or calling him back. It no longer mattered.
Arms spread wide, he walked toward the Naum troops.
The wind and the noise wrapped around him.
He raised the bloodstaff.
And shouted.
“Thank you for everything,” Ewan whispered, extending his hand.
The Sirtai wizard hesitated. Slowly, he reached forward. Ewan could not feel the warmth of his skin. There was just the feel of ridged, paperlike texture, soft underneath.
“Are you certain?”
Ewan nodded. “Yes, I am certain. It’s the only way.”
Jarman pursed his lips, thoughtful. “It sounds incredible.”
Ewan smiled weakly. “It is incredible, but the war is over. There will be no more bloodshed.”
Lucas came over. He looked just as tired, but his blue tattoos hid some of his exhaustion. “I would very much like to study you, god child.”
Ewan looked behind him. Several Naum elders were waiting patiently. “Maybe in the future, one day. Now, I must save these people. Save the realms. Save everyone.”
“Roalas is still in chaos. I believe the king may want to see you, despite his aversion toward magic.” Jarman smoothed his robes nervously.
Ewan stared at the city walls. No one inside wanted to believe the incredible story. No one was willing to put aside the grim terror that had held them for so long. Daring to hope, only to have their dreams shattered, that was even worse.
The northern hosts had halted their advance, but their presence still sullied the fields north and east of Roalas, a huge sprawl of men dressed in white furs, stretching into the hazy, snowy horizon. You didn’t have to be any sort of military expert to assess their strength, their invincibility. Cautiously optimistic almost to the point of paranoid denial, the Parusites and Athesians were waiting for that massive presence to disappear before they’d let themselves exhale with relief. No one would say anything. No one would smile. Until the Naum forces marched away.
Finally, he shook his head. “It’s best if I just leave. King Sergei will not understand.”
Jarman grimaced uncomfortably. “You wish no recognition for your effort?”
Ewan sighed. “What would be the point?”
“You are absolutely convinced the White Witch is dead?” the young wizard repeated.
And all the gods, too. “Yes, he died.”
“Farewell,” Lucas said.
Ewan nodded and walked away. He left behind him the field littered with the dead, heaps of broken gear, and human suffering. He knew that life in Athesia would be hard for many months, maybe years to come. The little affairs between the kings and emperors and lords remained. They would keep fighting and bickering, maybe follow with a war of their own. Selfishness could always drink more blood.
He wanted no part in that. He didn’t want to walk among men who eyed him with distrust and fear, who hated him for just being different. He did
not want to tread anywhere his presence would invoke terse silence or make mothers send their children inside. He did not want to be a monster, an abomination, a creature of sin.
His feet crunched toward the leaders of the Naum tribes. They spoke an ancient language, unheard in the realms for countless generations, but his mind translated the words perfectly. The elders feared him, too. All of them. In their hearts, the legend of a man who carried the bloodstaff went back thousands of years, and nothing Ewan could do would change it.
But they listened to him. They obeyed.
Stopping a host their size with nothing more than his appearance spoke greatly of what Calemore had achieved during his seclusion in the north. It saddened him to learn these men had traveled so far from their homes just to participate in meaningless carnage so their leader could become a deity. They had left everything behind and come south. They had no idea how to plow and till the fields of Athesia and Caytor. They knew nothing about husbandry. They were sick and weak and hungry, and many of their women and children had died during the journey, left behind, lost, or killed.
Still, their society was huge and remained largely intact. There was hope for them.
Ewan knew he had to provide that hope. Take them away from this madness, isolate them.
They are not my people, he thought. But then, I am the only one who can help them now. I am the only one who can stop this war.
The elders cast their gazes to the ground. Their behavior reminded him of the Oth Danesh. The same ingrained fear, the same animal instincts rooted in through the random viciousness of their ruler.
I could send them back north, Ewan figured. They would obey. They would follow the roads north until the roads ran out. Then they would walk through the wilderness until they reached their far, secluded land. Their return would be murderous. The realms had been picked clean, villages burned and abandoned, fields left fallow or trampled dead. The Naum folk would not find any food or supplies along the way, and moving such a large army would lead to more conflicts, more killing against whoever they met.
He could do it. Remain the monster that he was. Or he could try to redeem his blood-drenched soul. His clothes were dark brown, stained with old death he hadn’t bothered cleaning, because he wanted a reminder of what he had done.
Ewan looked back one last time, toward Roalas. Jarman and Lucas were standing in the snow, watching him. A sizable body of the Parusite heavy cavalry, led by one of their dukes, was keeping a safe distance from the Naum people. Ewan wondered what they were trying to prove. That they hadn’t just been saved from total defeat? Maybe they were making sure no angry mob would storm toward the northerners and cause more grief. It didn’t really matter.
Behind the rider, there were still more troops, soldiers collecting rubbish, dragging the corpses away and picking them clean, folding old, filthy tents, taking them back into the city barracks. On the walls, hundreds lined the crenelations, staring dumbly. Maybe one of them was the king. Amalia might be there somewhere, too. He did not care about any of them.
He knew what he had to do. Best if he set about it.
“Follow me.” He motioned to the elders. Bent forward, cradling the bloodstaff in his whole hand, he began furrowing through the snow, heading west, into the Safe Territories, the new home of the Naum people.
CHAPTER 51
Sergei sat on Adam’s throne, staring toward the entrance. Apart from the old, seemingly immortal adviser at his side, and several royal guards, the vast hall was empty and cold. He had not bothered with fires, and the winter’s bite was seeping through the thick masonry.
Sergei wondered how Theo could endure standing in one place for so long, so patiently. He must have tendons made from iron. No matter how long he was required to wait on the king, he did so without complaining.
“When she enters, I must ask you not to speak. Not one word,” Sergei muttered, not looking at the adviser.
Theo swallowed noisily, wetting his mouth. “Yes, Your Highness.”
Sergei reached for the gilt goblet resting on the floor, by the throne. He groaned as he pushed his ribs against the armrest, feeling blood gush into his head. The goblet was empty. Well, perhaps it was for the best. Servants watched him warily, uncomfortable.
Sergei didn’t care.
It had been several weeks since some unassuming youth named Ewan had ended the war. One day, they were all losing, and the next, the Naum forces had halted their offensive and were waiting to be taken away to the Safe Territories. At first, Sergei had been surprised, shocked, but now he just pondered the outcome.
What did it matter where that army was going, as long as it no longer sowed destruction? The Safe Territories had been a homeland for his settlers in the past two decades, but even they had not been able to restore faith to all the holy places. Most of the cities remained in ruins, and the Territories were a shadow of their past glory. Now, with half his troops dead or dying, he didn’t have the privilege of sending anyone there. He would need all of the people in the south, to make sure the realm did not starve.
The priests might lament all they wanted, and maybe it was blasphemy, but he did not care. He could not bring himself to summon empathy for the plight of the patriarchs. Their battle was over. The realms had fought their war of religion—and lost.
Instead, they had been saved by magic.
Not that long ago, every Parusite would regard even the slightest rumor of magic with distrust. They would openly dislike the Sirtai, and the priests would hunt down anyone who showed magical skills. Now, even the more fanatic soldiers loudly blessed a scrawny boy possessed of almost indestructible power. Everything their nation had been built upon, churned into mud, like the wet, bloody snow under their feet.
It was good that Ewan was taking the Naum people to the Safe Territories. It was the only sensible option. Going back north would have meant that huge host trampling the realms dead a second time, ruining what little was left. Going into no-man’s-land was the best choice. Faith would have to survive. It would have to endure in people’s hearts.
Roalas was coming to terms with its near ruin. Soldiers were busy hunting down criminals, subduing riots, and securing the food stores. No matter how grim the situation, men would always find ways to profit, and he would not stand for it.
The mixed armies were recuperating, licking their wounds. Almost every house, every bed in the city had someone wounded lying there, resting or festering. The unity he had hoped to achieve, the unity Emperor Adam had tried to bring to the realms, was happening because of a great, costly tragedy. People were too tired to worry about who followed who, for once. Not that Sergei had any illusions about the future. Once the terror of the war faded, the nations would remember their mistrust and fear of one another. The Athesians would not forgive him the execution of Lady Lisa. The Parusites would not forget the death of their prince.
Spring would be grim, the next autumn and winter even more so. Sergei’s head hurt when he tried to grasp the enormity of losses and damages. He had lost an entire cadre of skilled warriors, and thousands of farmers and craftsmen across Athesia had died fleeing the northern menace. There would be a great shortage of labor and experience, and he feared hunger and banditry.
But somehow, this sorry little place would live on. It would seem that Athesia was a special place. It had been invaded and pillaged so many times in the recent years, and yet, it clung to life, stubbornly, like a weed. Despite all the misery and suffering, Roalas would survive. And the land and people around it would follow its lead, crippled and weak, yet alive.
Once, he would have cherished the challenge. He would have embraced the responsibility.
He no longer cared.
His heart had no more room for grief. Losing his father, his son, and now his sister was simply too much. Athesia was the bane of his family. He was tired of all this tragedy. He sorely missed his wife, his remaining children. He wanted to go home, to leave this madness behind.
Which was why the upco
ming meeting was critical.
The door of the hall opened. Giorgi stepped in. “Your Highness?”
Sergei took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves. “Bring her in.”
Several armed men in the livery of his house guard stepped in first, holding ornamental halberds. Following in their wake was a slim woman in a silver-white dress. The cursed daughter of the cursed former emperor of this sorry place.
Amalia.
She had surrendered to him. She was his vassal. Officially, she was the governess of Athesia, and that meant she might run this place, if he let her.
She walked with a dutiful, slow step, surrounded by those men. Her face was stern, her gaze locked somewhere above his head. But he could not see any defiance, any rancor. Just grimness. Maybe the same kind of expression that wrinkled his own features.
“Your Highness,” she said, bowing.
Sergei waited, watching her. This was the first time he was seeing his enemy. This was the first time he had come face-to-face with the woman who had caused him so much pain. Just a silly girl. “Lady Amalia.”
“You have called for me.” Her voice was steady. He had to admire that.
Sergei flicked a quick glance at Theo. The old man was staring at the former empress, but his lips were pressed shut. “Were you there when my sister died?” he asked.
Amalia hesitated. “No, Your Highness. She led the troops into battle. I didn’t see her fall.”
Sergei shifted his weight. “Were you in any way involved in the death of my son, Prince-Heir Vlad?”
The girl lowered her eyes, and their gazes locked. Her eyes looked moist now. “No, Your Highness.”
He rubbed his chin. He remembered the day he had walked into this chamber, facing the old adviser, telling him, in that slow, melancholic voice, that his son had been killed. His chest tightened, air coming in a reedy whisper up his throat. He remembered Lisa’s execution. She had been dignified to the very end, unafraid, and she insisted on convincing him that her daughter had not been involved in Vlad’s murder. Amalia’s hands were clean, she had not been involved, the woman had pleaded, even as she stared unblinking, unflinching at the headsman’s sword.
The Humbled (The Lost Words: Volume 4) Page 52
