The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3) (72 page)

CHAPTER 53

B
art watched two kinds of preparations. The Eracians were setting up for the celebration of the Spring Festival, and they were tightening the blockade around Somar.

Not that long ago, he had watched another city endure a siege. But in Roalas, he had been a mere spectator, bitter, impotent. Now, he was leading the Southern Army; he was leading the nation. Until a new monarch was chosen, of course.

He had a strange feeling facing the capital from outside its walls, watching the sappers erect a picket wall that would keep the nomads from trying to sneak out or counterattack, watching the engineers assembling a trebuchet. And just behind the front line, there was a festivity coming to life. Army tents, normally filthy and gray and bleached by the sun and rain, were wreathed with bunting. A thousand flags flapped in the wind, rapping and whipping. Decorative shields proudly denoting the units had been placed outside command huts.

Hundreds of civilians were already mingling among the soldiers, mostly women liberated from the yoke of the nomad occupation. They had left their villages and joined the celebration, probably because they felt safer around so many armed men and possibly because they found their quiet, desolate hamlets too gloomy to spend the turn of the season. The winter may be dying,
and the spring would be born later that evening, but their husbands and sons were lost forever. Still, a few boys and younger men had found their way into the crowd, pretending to be older and tougher than they were, secretly hoping to be spotted and recruited. For them, the glory of a military campaign was fresh and shiny.

Merchants were driving their carts, trying to peddle charms, gifts, new weapons, although most had the look of dented swords taken from dead bodies. Then, there was that midget pair, walking their pony and selling brandy from two casks slung over the animal’s back.

The fields outside Somar were littered with nomad corpses. For the past seven weeks, Bart had pushed hard toward the capital. Commander Faas had used every opportunity to hammer the enemy, to drill his soldiers in real combat, to grease the rusty axles of his war machines, to instill some semblance of manhood and professionalism in his amateurish lot.

Since, the ranks had swelled with mercenaries and opportunists, although none were as practiced as Junner’s men. The army that had left Ubalar was now a mongrel force of Eracian soldiers and soldiers of fortune who sought plunder and revenge. No one really knew where all those hired swords came from, but whenever there was fighting and suffering, they suddenly showed up. They smiled and joined the ranks, and no one refused them, because the army needed every bit of help it could get.

Sacred had been only the first target. Bart had led the Southern Army upriver, cleaning villages of enemy presence one by one, stubbornly, tenaciously. He made sure the survivors were sent back home with their hands missing and a lone guide to feed them. But if he had expected his reputation to spread quickly and the nomads to surrender more willingly, nothing of the sort happened. Neither did they fight any more ferociously. It was as if his acts of savagery did not count.

Oh, but they did count.

The army loved him. He had become their favorite nob. He was not just another aristocrat afraid of his own shadow. He was solemn and brutal, and they respected him.

After freeing the town of Menbace, they had more or less marched uncontested toward the capital’s outskirts, where the Kataji had tried to mount a series of quick strikes designed to take his forces unaware. But the ambushes had not really worked out, and now the nomads were holed up in Somar, waiting for the Eracians to bloody their noses against the thick outer walls.

Strange feeling, watching Somar from the trampled fields outside. But there was not an ounce of hesitation in his heart. Only one silly question.

Was Sonya still alive and in the city?

The commotion in the camp was great. Some soldiers were already drunk, and Junner was trying to swindle them. Lately, he was selling donkeys, calling them horses. Sober men had learned to avoid the smiling mahout like the plague, but their inebriated friends were not that lucky.

Almost thirty thousand souls breathed behind the sharp fortifications, and he was not sure how many volunteers, recruits, whores, hucksters, and other chance followers entered the camp and became part of the seething, sweaty mass every day. Women went to and fro, carrying baskets of bread and clothes. Soldiers were carrying spears and bows into the trenches. The carpenters were the busiest, shaving timber for construction, sharpening stakes, setting up stages for evening plays, and working on the siege weaponry.

Bart unglued his boot from the churned brown mush that had become of the large, open field outside Somar’s East Gate and began walking toward the rear of the camp. He passed
a team of men finishing another battering ram. Their master tipped his head toward him.

His own private section of the siege town was set on the bank of the Marock, not far from where it joined the Kerabon. The three wheat mills were idle now, and Junner was using one of them as a brothel. The miller’s widow had gladly leased the stone building in return for some extra gold.

The command area was protected by four lines of stakes. Both of the bridges had a company of crossbowmen permanently stationed at each end. The men were bored, but Bart was taking no chances with the nomads. The Borei ingenuity was fueling his paranoia toward his enemy. If these men could be so tricky, he was willing to believe the Kataji could be just as resourceful. After all, they had fooled the monarch and taken over the city. They had shown guile and restraint in the early negotiations, putting aside their three-century-old hatred until they could unleash it with the best effect. That spoke of leadership and cunning, and he would not lose this war to cockiness.

The memory of King Sergei’s son being kidnapped during festivities much like these reverberated in his head.

As always, the officers were busy planning, coordinating, arguing. To Bart’s chagrin, his staff was augmented by a small number of nobles and guild masters who had recently arrived from Paroth and Ubalar. While they risked their lives so close to the front, they certainly could not have left the governance of the entire army and the future of Somar in the viceroy’s hands. Their greed and fear of his total control outweighed the danger the Kataji force posed. Bart tried his best to avoid them, leaving Faas and Ulrich to handle their requests.

Now the snows had thawed, the roads were clogged again. You could see a steady, slow trickle of wagons rumbling east and west and south. Some commerce had flourished since he
had cleared the land of the nomads. It was time to revitalize Eracia, and Bart did not doubt the Parusites, the Caytoreans, and even the Athesians would gladly cooperate. Not all travelers were merchants, though. There were refugees there, and people fleeing the rumor of a great clash, and soldiers on the march, joining the siege around Somar.

Half a day north of his position, the Eracian Northern Army was completing its own deployment. It had arrived later than his southern force, but that did not matter. He had summoned Commander Velten to join him for consultations so they could plan the attack on Somar together.

There were tens of thousands of Eracian women locked in the capital. No one wanted to risk their lives if they could help it.

Maybe Sonya was there, too.

How does that make me feel?
he wondered.
Mostly empty
.

Bart did not know anything about this Father of the Bear chieftain. He was not sure how far he would go to defend Somar, how viciously he would fight, whether he would retaliate against the citizens. He did not know if and how the city women might help. As much as he was loath to prolong this unfortunate nomad infestation, he needed time to think his actions through. Decide what he wanted to do. For all he knew, the liberation of Somar meant a confrontation with Sonya, and he did not really relish that.

That made him ponder some more. Was she still alive? Did he care? What would he do when he met her next time? Would he take her back? How would he react to the news of her death? Would he weep over her grave? They both must have changed in this war—if she still lived, that was. In fact, that was the crucial question. Was Sonya among the living? And if she were, what then?

What would he do with Constance?

That was the question the mightiest man in the realm, the viceroy of Eracia, could not answer.

He spotted his mistress.
Well, she’s only a mistress if I’m still married
. Constance was standing outside a tent, enjoying the breeze on her skin. Two Borei warriors stood guard at her side, a personal gesture from Junner.

Bart looked at her. The Caytorean woman was every bit as reserved as she had been when he’d met her the first time, always thinking three steps ahead, always trying to manipulate. Only now, there was a tan of profound worry on her face, a sheen of consternation. She had worn that half-sullen, half-distrusting expression since the day she told him she was pregnant. For as long as he avoided giving her any reassurances about the fate of her unborn baby, she kept her distance.

The only reason Bart had not acknowledged the child was that he knew he would be utterly and completely lost if he did. He could not let a Caytorean girl hold him hostage by her whims and desires.

Then, there was a very deep, very egoistic primal emotion in his chest, one of pride and ownership. That child in her belly was his. A son, or maybe a daughter, who would continue the lineage of his family. The count of Barrin and the viceroy of Eracia would not die alone. That was a comforting thought. Only, it frightened him just as much.

If he admitted the child was his, he would effectively surrender Eracia to Caytor, to the High Council. That would be just as bad as letting the nomads roam freely all over his country. Although their two realms had not warred much in the past few decades, they were still old enemies. As a nation’s ruler, he had a responsibility and duty to preserve Eracian wealth and power. He had to make sure the realm remained in the hands of its nobility, its strongest families.

But you killed off half of them
, his conscience screamed. He ignored it.

Rumors were flying, but no one dared utter any accusations out loud. Even among the nobles, there was a stiff silence. They watched him like vultures, circling, waiting for their moment, but as long as he kept his composure, they stayed away. Margravine Diora, whose husband he had seen drowned in a tub, and whose daughter was kept imprisoned in the capital, was one of his chief foes among the Eracians. He did not like Countesses Anniken and Ernsta either. The new master of coin, Lorcan was also giving him sour looks, as if the nation’s sorry state was somehow his fault.

When the surviving members of the woe council deigned to leave Roalas and head back home, together with the dozens of other dignitaries, the situation would only get more complicated. He would never be able to escape the image of the lowly clerk on the Privy Council who had immensely profited from others’ deaths, but that was a distant worry for now.

At the moment, he had to make sure Constance did not outmaneuver him.

She had not publicly declared whose child she was carrying, although the allegations were obvious. She had been sharing his side and bed for a long while now, and that made him the chief suspect. No one wanted to remind Bart his poor harpy of a wife might be in the city, held and raped by the Kataji.

What would he do if Sonya turned out to be alive?

Introduce her to Constance?

The girl had not noticed him yet. Her hand trailed absentmindedly over the round, melon-sized bulge of her belly. The layers of cloth hid the evidence somewhat, but only blind men would not be aware of her situation. Junner’s men were there to protect Constance, and that meant keeping away anyone who
might want to spy, ask rude questions, blackmail, threaten, or harm her.

If Sonya’s dead, I am a widower, a free man, but that leaves me with a Caytorean woman who will not trust me until I pledge myself to her. I am a means to her ends
.

No matter how he tried to twist the reality, it always came out dripping poison. He could not see any simple, elegant way of making things right. Fighting the war was almost a blessing. A simple task really.

To make the officers’ lot more presentable, the soldiers had spread hundreds of rugs over the beaten grass and squelchy earth. They were soaked through, but your feet did not sink ankle-deep in muddy porridge when you tried to walk.

Bart began stomping, trying to shed the layers of dirt from his boots. One of the Borei nodded lazily at him, indicating all was well. Constance turned and flashed a quick, lukewarm smile. Bart had not seen her twitch a sincere muscle in months. Nor had they lain together since. That was another weapon that women wielded like sword masters.

As the viceroy, he could only suffer in silence. He could not afford scandals with camp followers or other noblewomen. He did not doubt some might be willing to spread their legs for the sake of the realm and a whole lot of gold, the exact same reasons the Caytorean girl was there. If only he knew her story, her reasons.

Major Paul exited the commanders’ shack and saluted smartly. Bart had promoted him for all his efforts and staunch loyalty; the man deserved that much. He hoped the letter he had sent home would not be lost in some rainstorm or tossed down the side of the road by the mail rider, who might decide he was better off swigging liquor in a roadside inn than braving the weather and bandits.

The viceroy returned the salute. Major Kilian exited next, carrying a rolled order in his hands. A handful of adjutants followed, two of them arguing. They went quiet when they saw him, and a flutter of hands went up in greeting. Bart was pleased the military treated him as one of their own. From what he had been reading on Emperor Adam, this was a good sign.

He approached the young woman who was carrying his heir. “How are you?”