The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) (89 page)

In return for peace, Leopold could free his northern and western armies from guarding the frontier with the nomads and send them to threaten the Parusites. Thirty thousand men, strengthened by twice as many tribe warriors and sell-swords. After twenty years of humiliation, he had a mighty force that everyone would have to reckon with. He would not go down in the books as Adam the Conqueror, curse his soul, but he would be remembered as a monarch who revived the glory of his realm.

His court should be pleased with their ruler. Instead, they could only count the coin he owed them and fret over the filthy, disturbing presence of the nomads in Somar. True, he hated the sight of his paved streets polluted with these strangers and their strange ways. He didn’t like how the Alley of Kings festered with men wearing pelts and trinkets in their hair. Kogan’s Park was scarred with hoofprints and littered with horse dung, as the primitives had no notion of beauty. Every corner, every shop, every brothel had the clan people lined up, grinning, arguing, tinkering, trying to sell things, taking liberties with women. The cold didn’t stop them. They were used to harsh life in their hills.

A long time ago, Leopold knew, the nomads had wandered from the Red Desert across the Akan Mountains to the far reaches in the north. Then, some unknown chain of calamities forced them to settle down and become more or less like the realms. Except they didn’t have a notion of cities or law or order. They had roamed the lands for several generations, pillaging, stealing, until Vergil had brought down his hammer and crushed them. Since, they kept to their clans, warring between themselves mostly, keeping a safe and respectable distance from Eracian wrath.

The monarch hated to admit it, but while his armies were busy parading and lamenting the days gone past, when the sight of Eracia’s regiments was enough to cause grown men to shit themselves, the nomads spent their life in battle. They didn’t need much reason to shed blood. No two clans were alike.

Leopold’s invitation to spill blood on his behalf had somewhat united them, enough to put their feuds aside and ride forth to hear him out, curious after ten generations of silence. Now they served him, and he hoped that this alliance would lead to a new era of cooperation between Eracia and the tribes. Leopold did not intend to send only merchants with the spices and gold. He planned on sending teachers and books so they would tame these mongrels and make a peaceful nation of them.

To his chagrin, Leopold had not been privy to the negotiations with the Kataji. Margrave Philip, Konrad, Sonya, and Master of Coin Quade had done all of the work. He had been forced to stay in the capital and wait for war reports from Athesia.

And then, there was that letter from Amalia.

Leopold suspected Sonya had done most of the talking, the scheming bitch. She was crazy with her craving for a better title. But she had it right, no matter how much he despised her. Eracia could not remain on the sidelines. Leopold could not allow to be perceived as a gelded fool.

Once they had ensnared General Pacmad, it was a done deal. The other chieftains had hurried to join his side, not to be bested by their rival. The Kataji might be the strongest, but they sure weren’t the most fierce, they said.

He wanted this stupid ceremony to be over. It was just a show, anyway, staged to please his court and the tribesmen, nothing more. All the little details had been worked out in advance. And when the first snows thawed, the armies would march south and east. Except…

The letter from Amalia.

There was just that one doubt in his heart. The message seemed genuine, but it was months late. He had no fresh information of what was happening in Roalas. But was the empress so desperate to offer such generous terms? Then why had she locked up his emissaries as her hostages? Why go through all the trouble if she wanted peace and alliance with Eracia?

Well, she would have to negotiate with his forces when they showed up before her city’s gates.

“Our bargain is sealed, and it cannot be broken,” General Pacmad said, scattering his thoughts.

Leopold nodded and smiled amicably. “It cannot be broken,” he intoned. Well, time to focus on making the realms tremble before the might of the Eracian forces. It would not be easy.

“Your Majesty, I have one more gift for you,” the chieftain said, almost as an afterthought.

Leopold arched a brow and looked at Kai. The steward shrugged.
Strange
, the monarch thought. Kai was supposed to know everything about these tribesmen. Well, so be it. He was eager to get this charade over with. Then, he would have to endure an hour with his cretin son and finally be free to enjoy himself. He might like some music, but the city was empty of great performers in the winter. Perhaps a dance show, with women. He would make Kai attend to it.

One of Pacmad’s warriors handed him a hatchet. It was weighed down with a bear paw. Stupid mongrels and their primitive customs. The weapon was small and looked heavy. But it also looked wickedly sharp, and it gleamed in the midmorning light seeping through the frosted glass panes.

Then, Leopold saw the hatchet spin, flying, hitting him in the chest.

There was no pain, but then, there was no air. He heard someone scream. It was Diana. Kai was on his knees. The hall was in total chaos. The aristocrats were trying to flee. Behind them, the honor guard was pushing forward, trying to reach their monarch.

A few of his men had drawn their ornamental swords and were fighting the tribesmen. Through the open doors, a horde of soldiers in fur and wolf pelts and bearskin cloaks was running. Not his men.

What was going on?

Leopold tried to draw breath once again. It didn’t work. That stupid hatchet was buried in his rib cage, black blood seeping through his rich silk. Such a shame. He tried to stand up and collapsed. There was someone towering above him. It was General Pacmad.

“Eleven generations ago, your king raped the women of my family in their beds. Then, he made them cook him his meals. And then he left. Afterward, he came back and took away the bastard children to raise them as Eracians. There’s no greater insult to a Kataji warrior than to take him away from his clan. But we waited. For eleven generations, we waited.”

Leopold reached up with a red hand, but the chieftain smacked it away. Behind the mongrel, men were running, howling, dying.

“I must thank you for letting us get here. We don’t know how to conquer cities. But we know how to fight men, when they stand eye to eye with us and do not hide behind giant walls.” The Father of the Bear spat on the dying monarch. “I know you. You think us primitive. But I read books to my children every night. And we pray to the gods at dawn. You are a fool, Leopold of Eracia, and now we will rape your women and take away your sons.”

Gurgling, Leopold turned over, feeling the cold steps of his throne dais rub against his shoulders. From the awkward upside-down angle, he could see the battle unravel in clear, morbid detail. Countess Sonya was lying on the ground in torn clothes, a gang of tribesmen on top of her. If he could cackle, he would have.

Philip was kneeling, arms raised, that coward. He couldn’t see Diana. But she must have run away to try to save Ludwig. Well, he sure wouldn’t miss any one of them. They were all incompetent fools. His advisers, his nobles, his retarded offspring, every one of them. Finally, he would have peace, and no one would be able to annoy him anymore or try to blackmail him. He would have all the time for himself.

The sounds slowly faded away. And then the colors dimmed. Leopold closed his eyes. The world was shrinking to a tiny black dot, and he welcomed it.

CHAPTER 57

C
alemore was leaning against a tree, rolling a peel of apple skin between his teeth. It was now as thin as a butterfly’s wing, but he was too distracted to notice. Garnet sap, refusing to ice in the cold, was sticking to his white cloak, almost like leeches.

Elia was sitting on a rock not far away, seemingly lost in thought. She was cold and miserable, wrapped in blankets, but she bore it with stubborn resilience. Their horses were trying to weed some old, frozen grass from beneath the patches of dirty, crusted snow. Winter was slowly losing its grip, but it would be several weeks still before flowers burst from the ground.

The White Witch had brought the goddess here almost ten days back. There was nothing to do but wait. He spent his time hunting, exploring the vegetation, and watching his store of apples slowly dwindle. Elia tried to busy herself by tending to their small camp, but there was only so much you could do while awaiting your death. Damian was bound to arrive soon.
The sooner, the better
, Calemore mused with some bitterness.
Impatience finally gets you, so close to your goal
, he thought morbidly, counting the centuries gone past since the Sundering. And how he fretted like a human, watching every frost-hazed sunrise with childish anticipation. It annoyed him.

He pushed back from the tree and had to tug on his cloak to free it of the sappy mouths. He walked to the fire and placed another log there. The blackened pot with their lunch bubbled softly, chunks of greasy elk meat bobbing on the surface. Food fit for a common woodsman. Not a dignified way for someone like him to be spending his time, he admitted morosely.

Not fifty paces away, free of any snow or dirt, was the Womb, their goal. His goal. The cairn-like pile of stones might appear to be nothing more than a burial spot of some ancient warrior, until you noticed the snow line ending at a perfect distance from the monument.

Calemore flexed his fingers. He would have to wait.

And then, he heard the noise.

Whoever was coming didn’t bother concealing their approach. He could hear the jingle of the harness even if he could not hear the hooves clapping on the needle bed. He could hear the tiny branches snapping. Well, they must know he was there. The smoke from their fire was clearly visible for leagues around. Not that he worried about any human intruders.

Whatever it was that imbued this place, it triggered a natural aversion among humans. With the magical barriers down, there was nothing to protect the Womb from curious travelers. And yet, all roads went around the place, wriggling away as if nudged by an invisible wall. The elements had reclaimed their control of the City of Gods, but people knew better. They avoided this place.

Damian kicked his way through the cloudberries growing at the edge of the forest and stepped into the clearing, leading his horse by the reins. Following him were four soldiers, looking tired and edgy, unnerved by the magic of this place.

Four? The others must be hiding in the woods
. Calemore embraced his magic and watched his father approach. The aged avatar looked frail, but the witch knew it was deception only. Now, of all times, he must be utterly careful around Damian.

Damian raised his eyes from the ground and explored the clearing. He saw the fire, saw the horses, saw the tents and the saddlebags and the small pile of firewood and the dozen little things that made the camp. He saw the tall man in white clothes, almost invisible against the snow and nodded in silent greeting. Then, he glimpsed Elia, and his hand dropped the reins.

Elia
, the god mouthed silently, Calemore saw. He noticed the twitch of emotion, the glistening of tears in the corner of the fool’s eyes. He looked devastated, elated, overwhelmed. Perhaps Damian was not in league with Elia. He had to be careful now.

Free, Damian’s horse tried to trot away. One of the hirelings ran after the animal. Calemore watched like a predator, looking for any sign of danger.

“Welcome, Damian. You sure took your time,” he said quietly, a false smile plastered on his lips.

Damian recovered. “Calemore,” he croaked. “This old body is failing. Luckily, I will not be needing it much longer.”

Calemore spared a glance at Elia. “Indeed.” She was still sitting on that rock. However, she was watching Damian with a long, steady gaze. It was obvious she could not recognize the elderly features, but she could sense the essence of her murderer hiding behind them. Was that shock, the witch wondered. Was that revulsion? What could she possibly be feeling?

With slow, unsteady steps, the one called Lord Erik came close to the goddess. He knelt before her and wiped his tears. “I saw you. Nineteen years ago. Through the eyes of another man. You…live.”

“Hello, Damian,” Elia said coldly.

“I don’t know how this is possible. But…” He frowned. “You are not a goddess anymore.”

Elia rose, shedding her blankets, walking away from him. “No, I am not.”

Calemore was expecting a trap any moment. But the exchange of emotions seemed genuine. Damian was such a wretched, broken thing. Who would have believed he had created some of the most wondrous things in the world?

“She is a goddess,” the witch asserted.

Elia snorted softly. “A lie can’t become the truth, even after being repeated a thousand times.”

Calemore pointed angrily at the cairn. Damian turned his head. He seemed surprised to find the pile of stones there. Then, he pushed himself up to his feet, groaning, and walked to the Womb.