The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3) (51 page)

CHAPTER 37

“T
hey are coming,” Bad Luck Ludevit announced suddenly.

Tanid tensed. Fear, mixed with anticipation. Strange that a god should fear his creations. But that was the way things were.

“Are you ready, my son?” he asked Pasha.

The boy nodded. He looked bashful, afraid, like he always did, but Tanid knew he would obey. There was something simple and primal about violence. He could almost understand why Damian had chosen to bless humanity with it.

Tanid slid back into the background, behind the farmhouse. Ludevit ambled toward a snowed-in shed and hunkered down, gripping an ax in his hand. While Pasha fought because he was told, this man almost seemed to like it. Maybe it was money, maybe survival, maybe the pent-up wrath of years of rejection and now, finally, unbridled power.

It was snowing in earnest, a year’s-end mantle, the kind people prayed would be short and light. Tanid could feel the collective magic of thousands of mouths scattered across the south of Athesia whispering the same words, the same pleas.

The world was clouded, high above and up close, a solid white fog that just made little snowflakes appear before your
eyes suddenly. The end of the barn was a blur. But Tanid knew there were other people there, his followers, men of faith.

Two, three, seven black forms materialized maybe ten paces away. Men wearing thick leathers, black armor, short capes, their faces covered in chain hoods. They were walking briskly but not running, kicking snow. One was armed with a crossbow; the rest were toting long swords.

One of Calemore’s hunting parties, Tanid reckoned.

Or maybe just bandits.

With Pasha’s invincibility, Ludevit’s premonition, and the strength of prayer behind him, Tanid no longer felt as scared as before.

Bad Luck Ludevit charged from behind his shelter, chopping. The moon-shaped blade arced and sliced into the extended arm of the leftmost man, cutting through cleanly. The man howled, and his words were silenced by the snow.

Tanid stood behind Pasha, watching. New shapes formed around him, young men armed with all kinds of blades, spears, short swords, cleavers. Not an army of soldiers, but a force of believers. Silently, they rushed the attackers.

The crossbowman knelt, without hurry or fear, and scanned the wooly terrain around him. He was seeking someone. He was looking for him, Tanid knew. The killer spotted the clumsy boy and the cloaked figure behind him. He took aim and fired.

The bolt slammed into Pasha’s chest and shattered. The boy yelped, but he was unhurt.

My Special Children
, Tanid exulted.

With a snarl, the crossbowman tossed his weapon away, drew a knife, and charged. Tanid pushed Pasha in the back. The boy lurched forward and brought his arms up defensively against the slashing knife. But the assassin merely tried to roll
around and get to Tanid. Pasha swung his fist and rammed it against the man’s shoulder. Normally, an armored soldier would not have noticed the punch. But the man spun around as if smacked with a sledgehammer and fell hard, barely moving.

Pasha turned toward Tanid, his peasant’s face lit with horror. The god smiled encouragingly. “You did well, my son. You did very well.”

The battle was ebbing now. The attacking force was reduced to just two men. The air was full of meaty grunts, dull clangs of iron, surprisingly little screaming, and lots of puffy flakes. One of the killers turned around and began to run. Ludevit rushed after him, hopping through the drift, staggering.

He must not get away
, Tanid thought. The second survivor was on his knees now, trying to surrender. A flurry of spears fell on him, stabbing him through.

Tanid was watching the shape vanish in the gloom. He could not let the last killer escape. That meant using magic, but he had no choice. He released a tendril of his power, and it hamstrung the man through both knees. The howl pierced the blizzard sharply, startling everyone. Ludevit reached the fallen figure, and his ax fell once, twice.

It was over.

Spatters of blood were quickly covered in fresh snow, and it was as if the battle had never taken place. There was no shouting or cheering, just some ragged screams from the wounded. The defenders quickly dragged their comrades into the barn.

Tanid went inside, followed by his two Special Children. The shed was warm, stacked high with the summer-harvest straw. The living space was small but cozy, and tightly crowded with fifty-odd faces, the beginnings of his army.

The Army of One God.

After arriving in Athesia, Tanid had gathered enough courage to begin spreading the faith with the local people. He would attend the prayers, visit monasteries, talk to peasants and soldiers. He was ever wary of the priests, but he knew he could not hide forever. With Bad Luck Ludevit and Pasha at his side, he had hoped he would have time to discover and defeat any plot against him.

Not an easy thing convincing people of his divinity, making their belief stronger, but slowly, he had made his powers more known, his influence better felt. Small things, like healing a woman’s leg or a baby’s lungs, delaying frost so the villagers could gather another bag of onions from their narrow land parcel. People prayed, and he listened. Oh, he knew he was risking revealing his location to Calemore’s hunters, but it just could not be helped. Without doing anything, he would certainly be found and killed one day. This way, he could at least await his assassins with the power of belief coursing through his veins. He gave to the people, and they gave back.

Rumors had started to spread about a strange man who brought luck wherever he went, and how his touch cured disease and bad humors. Folks began talking about their prayers being answered by the gods, their faith rekindled and bolstered. Tanid made sure to praise the deities, but one in particular, himself. Not an easy task, not with the brothers and sisters watching him take over their sermons, but slowly, he was gaining trust with the populace.

Tanid had not intended to garner followers, but they just came one day, a knot of poor boys with zeal in their eyes. And so his small cadre had grown.

With winter cloaking the world, and the year turning, he had almost a hundred souls in his service, young and old, born in Athesia and Parus, and even one fellow from Caytor,
all convinced that he was somehow gifted and blessed. While most men in the realms would be wary of anyone with magic, these people loved him.

The rafters were hung with smoked meat, far from the reach of animals. Bales of straw were covered in blankets, and men rested or slept on them, gambling, talking. There was no fire inside the barn, but a pair of boat lamps were nailed to the wooden beams supporting the roof.

On one of the itchy pallets, a wounded man was lying, his legs twitching, his face the color of flour and glistening with sweat. A knot of other defenders was clustered around him, the snow on their leather and wool clothes melting and dripping down.

Tanid gently squeezed past the gathered men, past the smell of sweat and excited breathing. Men reacted nervously when a hand tried to push them aside, but when they saw him, they softened instantly and stepped away deferentially, something akin to awe clouding their features.

The god knelt by the injured follower. The man had a length of broken spear lodged in his thigh, close to the joint. Black blood was seeping through the layers of his clothes, coloring the straw in dark ribbons.

Tanid smiled softly and placed a soft hand on the man’s cool brow. “You fought bravely, Son. I am proud of you.”

“Can you help me, Father?” the lad whispered, his voice thin with oncoming death.

All around, men watched expectantly. There was silence in the barn, and all those busy tossing dice or chewing on salted beef stood up and came closer, gathering around. Several other soldiers needed medical attention, but they mostly sported lighter wounds, small gashes and bruises. Even they stood now in the crowd, waiting.

Waiting for the miracle.

Tanid placed his other palm on the ruined leg. The hot blood was a sharp contrast to the man’s clammy skin. Tanid felt life streaming round his fingers. The wound was fatal, and without his assistance, the soldier would die very soon.

He needed magic, and that meant announcing his presence to Calemore’s animals. But it was a sacrifice he had to make.

Tanid closed his eyes and let his power trickle into the wound, sealing the torn arteries. The soldier only moaned softly as he was healed.

“Take the spear out,” Tanid said.

Someone closed his gloved hands on the broken shaft and pulled it out with a sucking sound. Around, men blinked instinctively, expecting a nasty spurt, but no fresh blood poured out.

Tanid sighed when he was done. The toll on his magic wasn’t great; he was hardly tired. His power was getting greater every day.

“You will be well, Son. Soon, you will be able to walk again.”

“Praise the gods,” someone muttered. Everyone else repeated the words.

A solid heat of faith washed over Tanid. He felt invigorated, elated, grateful for the human passion and dedication. Looking at those faces around him, he knew they loved him even more now. Hesitant hands reached out, touching him, patting his back. They all wanted to be part of the miracle.

Tanid retreated to a quieter corner of the barn and sat on a bale. Ludevit was cleaning his ax, trying to dislodge a tangled length of sinew from the blade. Pasha had that dazed look he’d worn ever since being sold, but the boy was obedient, loyal, and he understood his sacrifice.

The barn door slid open. A square of bright light outlined the silhouette of a newcomer, wrapped in a flutter of snowflakes, before the door closed. Tanid saw it was Holy Brother Clemens.

The farm was located maybe a mile from Keron, a middling Athesian town. It had been damaged extensively in the war, but it had given the Parusite king a great opportunity to rebuild with many new shrines and monasteries. A once-godless place had become a well of faith. It had become the recruiting grounds for his army. No Special Children there, but it was full of fervent, zealous followers, and their strength compensated for their lack of magical skills.

Tanid had never expected the clergy to join his side. Well, they did believe in the gods and goddesses, most of them, but they were also quite knowledgeable in history and did not take kindly to any manifestation of magic. For them, someone with godlike powers was going to be a threat first, a miracle second. Worse yet, they might actually believe him, or discover his true identity, and he was not sure how the people of this age would handle the terrible realization of a god in their midst.

Clemens was different from the other priests. He was more open-minded, which must have brought him into his fold. Fed by rumors of a great healer, he had wandered from his small house of prayer in Keron to find Tanid and his budding force of disciples.

Rather than feeling suspicious or bashful around Tanid, Clemens was glad to aid him. He acted as his representative, searching for other men of faith. His religious status lent him credence and trust among the local population. The holy brother organized foraging parties and traded for goods in the town, making Tanid’s war effort that much easier.

The priest also organized the soldiers. Half the force was abroad at all times, scouting, patrolling the area, watching the
roads, recruiting among the villages, spreading rumors of faith. Day by day, Tanid was growing stronger. He never forgot how vulnerable he was to knives and arrows and poisons, but every morning made him that much more resistant to the White Witch.

A soldier cursed and gasped as one of his comrades tried to set a broken bone. Two more men were lying on the pallets now, recuperating from the fight. Blessedly, no man had died. The defenders had set a successful ambush of Calemore’s killers.

There would be many more, better organized, better prepared, and they would not be so easily surprised. But that was in the future, the elusive future. Perhaps he would never find his prophets; perhaps he would never learn what the distant time had in store for him. Maybe he would have to defeat Cale-more by cunning only. He was learning, adapting, growing. Humanity looked so much less frightening now that he was part of it.

Clemens shrugged off his heavy coat and placed it on one of the bales. He had just returned from Keron, this time without fresh recruits. “Your Holiness,” the priest said, addressing his god, “I had no success. The blizzard forced the people into their homes, and the houses of prayer were almost empty today. But there were some souls there, asking the god of weather to be merciful.”

Tanid could lift the storm, make it pass Keron. No, not yet. He was not strong enough to attempt that. There were more important things still, and evading Calemore for a while longer was one of them. Then, there was the delicate matter of approaching the king.

Could he do that? Could he petition the Parusite ruler and ask him for soldiers? He knew that the patriarchs were trying
to build their order with troops, which suited him just fine. But he had to somehow convince the king to make those men available to him for his needs. For the war of faith and life that loomed above the Old Land. Only, how could he convince people who did not even remember the name of the White Witch of the great threat he posed?

The holy brother was rubbing his arms fiercely, trying to warm them. A young boy handed him a platter of hard rye bread and a boiled egg. The priest blessed the child, then sat down to eat at Tanid’s side. Almost like in the ancient times. When men and gods stood and fought together.

Tanid nodded, indicating he was pleased with the report, then climbed the ladder to the barn loft. The roof was sagging with snow, but holding. There, among the rafters, there were tiny pigeonholes that let the air stream in so the straw would not mold and rot. The holes had tiny tin hats that kept the draft from closing them, small windows that let Tanid glimpse outside.

He crouched low and watched the men outside pile the dead bodies. There would be no burial in this storm. They would wait until temperatures rose before they could hack the ground with spades. Not a dignified way to treat dead bodies, but it could not be helped. It was snowing heavily, and the world ended in a white wall.