The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) (5 page)

“Remind me, what do you call that?” Sergei asked.

“Olifaunt,” the mercenary said and grinned, his mouth studded with false gold-capped teeth.

The king rubbed his chin. “Dangerous in battle?”

The southerner clicked his metal teeth. “Very. Even our own troops fear them.”

Sergei nodded. “Just make sure they trample Athesians.”

Someone chortled. It sounded like a pig’s grunt. The king looked around and had to lower his gaze to meet the owner of that wordless comment. It was the last of Sergei’s secret weapons. Half the size, twice the fury, they said. Pum’be were expensive little devils, but they always got the job done, they said. If they could not, they killed themselves.

Each cost a little fortune. Together, the eleven assassins were worth the same as the entire Borei contingent. But Sergei had never balked at their exorbitant price. Parus was rich. He could pay them.

Pum’be needed no talking to, no preparations. They knew what they had to do. Tomorrow, they would march off alone, a huddle of dwarfs wrapped in dark cloaks of wool. They would head north ahead of the main force, with one simple goal: to kill every army commander in Athesia and bring him the head of Empress Amalia doused in tar.

Vengeance will be mine
, Sergei swore. After eighteen years, he would make his enemies suffer. Revenge was best served cold, they said. But no, he had an ever better saying. Revenge was best served forgotten. That was just a small part of his grand plan.

He turned and headed toward his horse and the small retinue. Tomorrow, they would wage war. But today, he had the Spring Festival celebrations to attend to. It was considered very bad luck for the king to miss the festival.

CHAPTER 3

T
he White Witch of Naum had hardly expected to find his father here, a forgotten place deep inside Caytor, inside an inn the shape and smell of a week-old dog turd. It had a low, sloping, overhanging roof covered with rotten thatch. A sickly looking donkey was chewing on the property.

He entered the stinking lodge, ignoring the beady, bloodshot eyes of the rabble infesting the place, and headed for the rough-hewn bench at the back of the dark, rank hall. Damian was slouching like a straw puppet, almost falling off the bench, one hand wrapped lethargically round a rusty pewter cup. His hair was a wild mat of grease, almost like the hide of a skinned animal. His shaggy beard sagged with spilled suds and half-rotten crumbs.

“You look like vomit,” the witch said.

Damian lifted his eyes and stared. “You.”

The witch nodded. He sat by the stinking human form. “It’s been a while. What do you call yourself these days?”

“Erik,” Damian offered. “Lord Erik.” He drank whatever was in the cup.

The witch raised his hand. An ugly maid shuffled his way. Her face was splotched with birthmarks, and she had a trace of a mustache above her upper lip. “Your finest wine,” he mocked. She grunted and retraced her steps. “What are you doing here?”

“Diluting my agony,” Damian replied.

The witch nodded thoughtfully. He had spent the better part of the last century, ever since the Veil of Sundering had finally been weakened enough for him to get through, scheming toward this moment. He had wasted years pulling strings, weaving magic, and mostly waiting. By the time he returned to the realms, he had expected to find Damian in a more stately shape. “Then I guess your plan has not really gone…as planned.”

Damian sneered. He slid up the bench. “Not quite. If you can’t trust your own children, who can you?”

“I guess you will have to try again. Time is of no consequence. But then, you’ve had fifty human years to get this sorry affair done. You’ve got me worried.”

“It’s more than just wasted time, Calemore. It’s more than just that.” Damian smacked the table with the cup. Some of the patrons looked their way.

The White Witch scowled. “What is it?”

Damian wiped off some foam with the back of his hand. “Some of the gods have escaped. My people did not manage to hunt them all down. We cannot go to the Womb yet.”

Calemore said nothing for a while, simply staring at the ugly manifestation of a deity before him. He could hardly believe it was the same god who had created him. “Then you will have to mop up and resume your hunt. They all must die.”

“Don’t you understand? It’s over! They all betrayed me, again!”

“We had an agreement,” Calemore stated coldly. The servant girl plopped an identical-looking pewter cup on the table and walked away.

“The agreement is off,” Damian hissed.

“I see.” The witch raised the cup and stared into it. The foamy liquid inside was brown and murky. A dead fly floated on the surface. He downed it in one go. “The taste of old piss.”

“The innkeeper has just pissed into the barrel this morning,” Damian offered.

The White Witch put the cup down and drew a short, slender knife from a sheath at his hip. He pressed the needle-sharp point again Damian’s gut. “Tell me,” he spoke in a low, dangerous voice, “in your sorry state, with no followers and all that, how long do you think it will take you to find another host body once I murder this one? And no one to help you sneak out of the Abyss this time, eh?”

Damian was sober all of a sudden, his face taut with genuine fear. “Boy, don’t do anything foolish.”

“As an immortal, I may shrug off the long years of waiting, waiting for you to complete your task, but then, I may not.”

“Son, relax,” Damian whispered.

The witch pressed the tip harder, drawing a blob of blood. “You will go back into the Abyss, trapped for ages before you find another weak soul that will accept you. And without my help, you will never succeed.”

Damian growled. “It’s all gone wrong. What’s done is done.”

“Fine. Clean up, and resume your hunt. I don’t care for your past failures. I want the gods dead!”

“It’s not that simple,” the god croaked. Suddenly, he seemed old, very old, ancient beyond sorrow and pain. His body sagged, pushing involuntarily against the knife. Calemore inched the blade away before the fool impaled himself.

The witch smiled. “It’s her, isn’t it?”

Damian’s eyes were moist with tears. “Yes. She’s alive.”

“Then, she must die too.” Calemore felt a burst of pleasure course through his veins.

“No, no. I killed her. She must have been Remade. She doesn’t count.” The forgotten god was almost panicking. “I don’t know how that can be. You don’t understand, Calemore. She’s nothing. She’s not important anymore.”

“Perhaps,” the White Witch said. “But we won’t know for sure until the moment comes.”

Damian paled. “No, not again.”

Calemore nodded. “We made a deal. It cannot be undone.” He snorted. “To think of it, it’s really absurd that you will be condemning her to death twice. Such irony. Even you could not have planned something so bizarre and stupid.”

“Son, I beg you. She makes no difference. She’s no longer a goddess.” He said it without much conviction. Dead gods were dead. They could not come back. But then, how did Elia live? He had no answer. Sometimes, even gods had no answers.

The witch nodded. “She really means that much to you, doesn’t she?”

Damian was crying, the broken thing. “Yes. Leave her alone.”

Calemore sighed. “It’s simple. If she’s a goddess still, then you know what you have to do. If she isn’t, she’s harmless, but then, if you care about her, you will make sure nothing happens to her.”

Damian charged, a low growl in his throat, but the witch had expected the attack. The knife came up, pricking the old man’s throat. “You bastard.”

“In theory, I never had a mother, so I guess the definition is a little tricky,” Calemore hissed in a slimy voice. “You are mine. You belong to me. You owe me. If you value your own hide as much as I hope you do, you will do everything I say. And maybe, when the moment comes, if Elia turns out to be unneeded, I will let her live. You have nothing to lose. But, if you cross me, you have
everything
to lose.”

Damian sobbed. “Leave her alone.”

“Just make sure you kill all the other gods first.”

“I will,” Damian whispered.

Calemore removed the knife. “Good. So we’re back to what you ought to have done eighteen bloody years ago. But no matter. Time is not that important. I think I’ll find something interesting to do in these realms. Maybe stir a war.”

Damian ran a hand through his hair. Something black and shiny skittered over his hand.

“And I want my things back,” the witch said.

The god thumped a bundle on the table. Frowning, Calemore unwrapped the greasy sheets. “That’s it? Where’s the rest of it?”

“I don’t have them any longer.”

“What a pathetic little thing you are. Where’s the rest of it?”

“I gave it to a human. He is the self-proclaimed ruler of a new realm. He’s called Adam.”

“One of your failing Special Children, I presume?” The White Witch laughed softly.

“No, just a godless human. The best kind.”

“Since when do you care for humans?” Calemore mocked. Damian sighed. “Davar was supposed to get rid of the gods, but then this Adam came all of a sudden and started interfering. At first I thought I ought to kill him, but then I learned he was a godless man, just who I needed. So, I gave him the book and the staff, hoping he would use them to carve a new future for the realms.” He smiled sadly. “I even set him against my followers back home, just so Davar would have a chance to complete his task. I was so close. But how was I to know Elia still lived? She ruined my plans.” The god thumped his head against the wall behind him. “I left. I just left.”

Calemore grimaced. “So, you gave my things to some human and ran. What has he done with them?”

Damian shrugged. “Nothing. He just made peace. He betrayed me, too.”

The White Witch snorted. “What a worthless little shit. I want it all back.”

“Go fuck yourself. You get them back on your own.”

Calemore ignored the insult. There would be enough time for payback later. “I sure will.” He placed a copper coin on the table. “You gave my things to some human mongrel just like that. Think of the damage he could have caused. What if he’d turned pious? What if he learned of the future? You’re stupid and foolish. Now, come with me, old man.”

Outside, a light rain was pattering.

“There, it will clean some of the shit off your face. Like this,” Calemore said. He raised his arms and stared up into the leaden sky, blinking when an odd drop hit his eyes. “I have not tasted rain in thousands of years. It feels wonderful.”

Damian stood like a scarecrow, hunched, weak, devoid of any will to live. He was shattered. All the time he had wasted nourishing his hatred and brewing his revenge, all for nothing. In the end, his own children had failed him. And the love of his life, the woman he had killed, was alive. All for nothing.

Was there any hope left? What could he do now? If he approached Elia in the guise of an old man, would she recognize him? Could she love him again? Did she hate him? He had asked himself these questions every day for the past eighteen years and never once mustered the courage to seek answers.

Despair choked him. His human body fought him, desperately trying to live, fighting his red-hot desire to crumble to dust and simply vanish. Worst of all, deep down in the core of his being, he knew he was too cowardly to end it all. He wanted his old glory back. He wanted to see his foes dead, every last one of them. And he was willing to bet Elia’s life against it all.

It shamed him to admit it, but he was willing to make her die twice.

“I will need help,” he croaked.

The White Witch sniggered. “Of course. You always did. I saved you from destruction so many times I lost count. You will get money, soldiers, assassins, everything you need. Just make sure all the remaining gods are dead. This one time, make sure you succeed. Meanwhile, I’ll take care of this Adam.”

“Do not hurt Elia,” Damian warned.

“Don’t presume to threaten me, old man. You really should have chosen a different avatar. You can hardly walk.”

“This old face is so trustworthy. You never understood that.”

Calemore pursed his lips. “Perhaps. However, my not-so-trustworthy face has seen me rule Naum for countless generations, while you have managed to lose a war, get yourself imprisoned in the Abyss, lose another war, fail in your mission to wipe out the gods, and get betrayed by just about anyone who’s ever known you.”

“I’ll take care of it. Just make sure you keep your hands off Elia.”

The witch clasped his hands in an apologetic manner. “We will see about that. The choice is entirely yours. This used to be your world once. It’s your choice what you make of it. I could finish the job, but it’s only fair that you keep to your end of the bargain.”

Damian’s face turned hard. “No. The gods will die, as I have promised you. Give me your knife.”

Calemore handed over the stiletto. Damian leaned forward, grappled his filthy mane, curled it into a rope, and with a single cut, sliced off most of it. He dropped the filthy hair to the ground. When he raised his head, some of the old fire burned in his eyes.

“One day, you will tell me the entire story,” Calemore said sweetly. “Now, what do you need?”