The Humbled (The Lost Words: Volume 4) (19 page)

He had ordered his western army to wait at the imagined border between Eracia and Athesia, because the eastern force was severely lagging behind schedule, and it would take
several more weeks before it reached Pain Mave. The terrain in northern Caytor was more rugged, more difficult for travel, less bountiful. His troops were making slow progress, often having to spend half the daylight foraging.

In the west, there were some complications, too. A large number of supply convoys was being delayed for some reason, probably lost or gone down the wrong road. He had instructed the soldiers not to destroy any bridges, to allow for a smooth advance. Even so, the women and children and craftsmen might be facing all kinds of difficulties, from weather to food supplies. Although, from what he had seen, Eracia was quite bountiful, with days and days of rich harvest everywhere.

The sky groaned, rumbled, belched. The world turned brilliant white with the flicker of knives in orange and purple clouds, seething, moving low and fast. Rain came in gusts, slanted by the wind, stabbing at people’s squinted, delighted faces. Calemore bit deeper into the apple, his lip brushing the slick seeds in the core.

He was hoping the killing in the north of Eracia and Caytor would flush the surviving god out of his hiding. But no. The rat had holed himself up somewhere, probably farther south, maybe in those would-be holy Safe Territories, trying to build his strength. Well, his opponent was getting stronger. All of Calemore’s attempts to locate him and kill him had failed so far.

But he would find him and make sure he died.

He threw the core away. Deftly, he rose and dusted his white leathers from crushed grass and dirt, walked out from under the safe, dry cover of the hornbeam into the rainy world. Cold drops slapped him, slicking his hair to his forehead.

The world was covered in a veil of muddy brownish fog up to knee height, almost like a morning haze. The summer
rain pounded the dry earth, raising wet billows. Men were dashing about, covering victuals and weapons with tarps, herding livestock back into pens. Large armies had always had one great weakness, and that was roadside supply. They never had enough to support themselves for a long time, so they had to lug animals along and scavenge anything they could find. At the moment, the shaggy milk-giving goats were probably more valuable than the spearmen.

His nation had gotten used to seeing him around once again. The awe was subdued somewhat, still present and hot in their veins, but it had been replaced with a healthy dose of practical military life. You could not be a good smith if you spent most of the time bowing to your master. Someone had to make those tools.

His white boots had grown a second skin, brown and runny like carob syrup. He frowned and kept on walking, crossing the massive encampment. Guard dogs slunk away when he came near, whining in fear.

He was thinking about Nigella too much lately. He was missing her ugly face, her firm body, her pies, and her intrigue. He wanted to spend a day in her small, humble home, chatting, fucking her, trying to piece together snippets of the future that he could use against the remaining god. But even someone like him had only so much time. When he became a god, it might get easier.

Only somehow, it did not feel like it anymore. His eternal dream was spoiled.

By a woman with buckteeth, spectacles, and delicious pies.

Calemore plowed on, ignoring any signs of servitude around him. He was inspecting the force, trying to figure out if the Naum army was truly ready for the massive campaign that awaited it. So far, they had only encountered light opposition,
but now, they would be marching south through the realm of Athesia. That foolish cunt Amalia had a few thousand troops at her disposal. The pious Parusite ruler and his kin fielded some more, although the bulk of his army was in their southern kingdom. The Caytorean lords could put up a valiant effort with their private troops.

Not large numbers, by any means, but they were much better organized, they knew the land well, and they had spent the past two years fighting, gaining valuable experience. His troops would crush them all, but there was the subtle, maddening matter of timing. The attacks had to be swift and precise. Otherwise, the enemy might simply decide to retreat, all too aware of the odds against them. That would mean chasing a smaller, nimbler enemy and tens of thousands of refugees across the realms, a futile, exhausting task. Or the enemy might try to starve the Naum men.

Sweeping through Caytor, the eastern army would trample most of that realm. The western army would destroy Amalia and Sergei and then plunge into the Territories. By then, Calemore hoped the surviving deity would be already too weak to resume his war, or maybe even dead. But if needed, his forces would march on farther south, into the scalding land of Parus. He did not relish that, as his troops would suffer there. And the Parusite king had the healthy backing of his vassals, which would make the fighting even more protracted.

He would be forced to leave pockets of enemy troops behind, like the worthless, broken Eracia and the coastal cities in Caytor that would be spared in the first wave, but they could be sorted out later, once he defeated the one remaining god.

Almost like the ancient war.

Almost identical.

He just worried about food supplies, really. His army was superior. The people of the realms were too few, too fragmented to oppose it. Only he needed quick victories, to ensure that the Naum families could claim the land as their own and start tilling it.

Nigella’s advice would be invaluable now. She might tell him how to proceed. But all her riddles and answers had given him little insight into the battles waiting ahead. He felt it would come down to brute force and nothing more. It would be slow, costly, messy, but inevitable. Well, he had one weapon that would make all the difference.

The only reason he had not yet used the bloodstaff against the nations of these realms was his lack of knowledge about the god and his whereabouts. He could not afford to expose himself through rash actions. He had waited for so long.

Patience, he had to be patient.

He paused, watching the world through a gray curtain of watery arrows. He saw several elders walking toward him, oiled cloaks bundled over their heads. Like his own clothes, their uniforms had lost their pristine color, turned brown and mucky by the storm. Raindrops were splattering wildly, jumping like grasshoppers.

They approached him and knelt down, knees sinking in the squelchy mud. “We await your mercy.”

“Report,” he said. On the horizon, plum-colored clouds lined with silver fire were raging, pulsing with light.

“Snomack and Buan tell their own families have not reached the camp site. We sent a scout party north to inspect, but it has not returned either. Nine days now.”

Calemore licked lukewarm water from his lips. Two more clans lost, it seemed. Or delayed. Or maybe ambushed. But that was highly unlikely. Every time his troops had come up
against the Eracians, the enemy had fled like mice. That entire Barrin estate had just run away south, leaving all their possessions behind. There were no enemy forces north of his position.

But the string of reports was becoming more than just sundry losses. At first, he had valued the occasional missing convoy as the expected, inevitable waste of a gigantic military machine. For all he knew, they might have found a desirable tract of land and remained there. He could not really blame the women and children for losing the sense of purpose after thousands of miles of hard travel to a foreign land. Yet, he needed them. He needed their skill with thread and needle, with seeds, with pottery. And the men needed their families, to reassure them in this quest. Naum was his, in mind and body, but men were men, Damian’s feeble creations, and ultimately, they had tiny hearts and little loyalty except to their animalistic desires and fears.

The missing people were having an effect on the army. There was a sense of confusion, and doubt could never be good for war. Then, there was a genuine shortage of goods. Soldiers traveled mostly with battle gear. His troops clamored about the lack of axle grease, buttons, grinding stones, and leather. Some of the formations no longer had butter or eggs, and there was competition and stealing.

Once, Calemore might instill discipline with an exhibition of grisly executions over the tiniest infractions, but he no longer could summon the joy for terror like he once did. A certain woman had numbed his appetite for horror, made it feel trifling and petty. He just could not see a point in murdering human flesh for power. It almost felt pointless. Nigella had truly corrupted his mind.

For countless centuries, a sharp, clear, fanatic purpose had been his one motivation. Now, he entertained doubt in his
mind. Perversely, he liked it, liked the imperfect feel of it. He relished discovering new emotions inside of him, but it bothered him that he would suffer the same turmoils and agonies like these human insects.

Damian destroyed the world over one woman’s scorn. Now, I am ruining my own ideals, because I have taken a fancy for apple pies
.

That just wasn’t right.

For a moment, Calemore considered using his magic to go northwest and prowl the field, searching for the missing parties. But he had to use his skill sparingly. Until he knew for certain the extent of his enemy’s tricks and power, he had to avoid wasting his magic. The surviving god might have Special Children, or he might be growing in strength. It was really hard to know, but the fact he had lived through quite a few assassination attempts spoke of a worthy opponent. No matter how slim the chances, Calemore had to proceed with caution.

“Send more scouts. Make sure you do not engage any locals if you find them. Avoid combat at all cost, and return at once with reports.” The sky rumbled in approval.

The storm wasn’t showing any signs of abating. The air was turning cool, and there were rivers coursing through the grass, the downpour too strong for the earth to soak it all in. Bits of rotten fruit and garbage floated on the brown rain snakes, eddying away from the camp’s gentle slope. The weather might bog his men down, but at least it would clean their site.

Calemore snorted. Even plans devised over the course of centuries had a tendency to take an unexpected turn. He had never quite considered his men might clamor about lard, nails, or whetstones. Perhaps he should not. He was the leader of a nation. Such trifles should not concern him. He just had to imagine the flow of the army south, see the great clash, watch
the enemy god’s power drain as faith died. Once again, he blamed Nigella, her simple, modest life. She had enamored him with appreciation for details, for small things, as if they mattered.

The big problem was horses. His nation lacked them, sorely. There were slow, fat dray beasts, good for pulling wagons, but they would not stand riders on their backs, and they didn’t like anything that wasn’t a steady plod in a straight line. Which meant his scouts had to go on foot. It made them much slower than the continental people, and if spotted, they could hardly run away. Hundreds of men were busy trying to catch and tame anything with four legs, from wild ponies to mules and mill asses, but Naum would not be having cavalry anytime soon.

The Eracians had fled their homes with what they could carry along, and often butchered or burned whatever was left behind, including dogs, sheep, even horses. Calemore was almost shocked by the display of savagery by the humans. They built their lives with so much hard work and pain, and then, they were willing to destroy all that just so someone else could not lay their hands on their abandoned treasures. Now and then, his troops would capture a stable full of healthy animals or find houses intact with cellars stocked high. But the enemy was using all it could to make the conquest more difficult.

Travel was hard for the Naum men. Calemore had used magic twice to repair sapped bridges and had forbidden his troops from damaging any form of transportation. His massive army would need boats and ferries to move south, anything that would make the campaign faster, easier. He had put out wild, errant fires on a dozen occasions so the captured towns would not turn to ashes. But he could not be everywhere, and the wind cared nothing for his strict orders.

Nigella, he wanted to see Nigella. She was five hundred miles away, and he had to nourish his magic. Maybe, after the western army reached its destination, and the eastern force resumed the march south, then he would magic himself to Marlheim.

This war should have been a simple, worry-free affair. His army was larger than anything the realms could muster, more disciplined despite the harsh journey through an unknown land. He had vast magic, he had the bloodstaff, and he had to defeat only one sorry god, who might have some feeble allies in this land. Only somehow, he was rather concerned. Not afraid, no. He would never let himself stoop that low. Fear was for these puny humans. He was troubled. That was it.

His taste for victory, his desire for revenge, his confidence in the Naum nation, all were marred, flawed, chipped, and cracking, bland, pale, uninviting. Corrupted by his strange, inexplicable obsession with an ugly woman.

Ridiculous.

And yet, he knew that he would find peace in her cottage. He knew she would try to manipulate him, and insinuate her silly female dreams, and she would try to piece together hidden truths from the pages of that book, and he would be frustrated and angry and left without any solid answers. But that seemed like the best option now.

He wasn’t sure if he should hate himself or his dead father for this weakness. But whatever he was, no matter how perfect he was, there was a gaping hole in him somewhere, and it yearned for human attention.

The rain kept falling. The senior elder was reporting on the camp strength and readiness, listing away problems and shortages, the number of men taken ill, and other boring details. He simply wasn’t in the mood to listen to them.

He just turned away and walked on, eyes squinted against the wet whip, churning mud with boots turned irrecoverably shit colored. All this felt wrong. Futile. He was beginning to nourish a yeasty, moldy thought that ancient vengeance wasn’t quite as satisfying as he had expected it to be, but he didn’t dare ponder on that idea too long.