The Humbled (The Lost Words: Volume 4) (48 page)

A hundred paces all around him, there was not a single thing left intact. Calemore had destroyed everything. If not for the safety of the trench, they would all have been dead. And that was still a viable option, it seemed.

More pellets, and they slammed into the ground to their left, leaving deep gouges, showering huge chunks of debris into the ditch, choking it closed. Another salvo, and the trench was blocked on the right side, too. The White Witch had cleared the killing zone of any obstacles and hideouts that Ewan and the rest could use. If they wanted to escape, they had to dash across a naked clearing.

He knows we are here. He is waiting for us
.

Ewan aimed in the general direction of the highest knoll to the north of his position and fired. A soundless torrent of rubies sped away. He was not really sure if his aim was good, but it did not matter really.

Not good at all. Calemore responded with his own deluge. Ewan flattened himself at the bottom of the ditch. Pellets hammered into the ground all around him, almost burying him alive in dirt. The other soldiers were doing the same thing, trying to keep low and still, even as death flailed maybe two feet above their prostrate bodies.

I have just given away our position
, Ewan figured.

“You must stop him!” Tanid shrieked.

He wants you
, Ewan knew. It was all about this god right here. The pain had become a dull ache up his entire left arm. He could not move the healthy remaining fingers. He could not flex his wrist or bend his elbow. That whole thing was a dead, hot weight.

The silent thunderstorm ceased suddenly.

“Ewan! Ewan!” someone was shouting. “Ewan!” Jarman.

“We are here,” he hissed. His mouth tasted like clay and blood.

Just behind the god, the Sirtai hopped into the trench. He was filthy and sweaty. “Are you hurt?”

Ewan flopped onto his back so he could breathe more easily. He let go of the bloodstaff once more and gingerly lifted his left hand by the shred of a sleeve. “Lost my fingers. Ludevit and Pasha are dead.”

Jarman nodded gravely. “Lucas has raised a defensive shield around us. We will be safe for now.”

Soon, dozens of soldiers were there, trying to get the survivors out of the trench. Ewan tried to stand, but he sagged, and they lifted him on a stretcher, the bloodstaff pressed close to his body. Apart from some mud on his clothes, Tanid was unhurt, and he stepped out on his own.

“Let me take a look,” Jarman spoke, coming closer. “Lower him.”

Ewan winced as the Sirtai wizard probed his hand. He was growing weaker by the moment. The feeling of vulnerability was strangely uplifting.
Human again
, he thought.
At least some parts of me
.

“I can stop the bleeding and seal the wounds, but your fingers are lost forever,” Jarman said.

Ewan nodded dumbly.

“Do you know the exact details of what happened?”

Ewan inhaled deeply through his nostrils, trying to stave off bile at the back of his throat. “Calemore attacked us all of a sudden. Without warning. Killed Ludevit right away. Got Pasha, and the lad bled to death. Got me.” Blackness clouded his vision, and he blinked. “I got up to see what was happening, must have shown my face to the witch. He cut us off, started blasting the ground.”

“Brace yourself,” Jarman warned.

It was too much. A white rod of anguish stabbed him through the shoulder, up his neck, and under his jaw. He could not find any breath to gasp, so he just moaned mutely into a chasm of black despair that gripped his face. But then, the agony eased.

“You still need urgent medical attention,” the Sirtai confessed. The stretcher jostled, and Ewan was in the air, feeling light and disembodied. “What? Speak up.”

Ewan realized the words he was telling had only happened inside his head. He was confessing about his supernatural strength, his immunity to fire and cold and sword blows, and how it had all changed just moments ago. He wanted to share his revelation with the wizard. He would certainly know more. The young man hailed from the same land as that famous investigator that had taken him to the Broken Isles. The Sirtai were wise people…

“Ewan, try to stay awake,” Jarman urged.

“If you hadn’t showed up,” Ewan mumbled. From the corner of his teary eye, and through the silver woolly mist descending on the world, he could see the remnants of the ditch now, far more shallow than it had been earlier that morning, all that mound chewed up, earth blown apart by the magical
pellets. With a little more time, Calemore would have cratered out enough land to hit the men hiding at the bottom.
And I have helped him pinpoint the digging. Fool
.

The sky opened up. It began to rain. Ewan was glad for each drop on his seething skin. Today, he had tasted his own death. After so long, he was so much more human than he had been in a long time. Maybe coming here was the answer to his legacy.

He passed out.

CHAPTER 34

T
he situation in Ecol was grim.

Ever since Calemore’s attack against Gavril and Ewan, there was a deep sense of helplessness among the soldiers and citizens alike. The common troops realized they could die any moment, anywhere, without prior warning. They could be going back to their barracks and suddenly find themselves missing an arm or a leg, or maybe dead in a red, hot puddle. That was no dignified way for men and women of the sword to die.

For Amalia, the personal hurt was even greater. Every night, she dreamed of Calemore coming to her, taking the bloodstaff away, ruining Athesia. She sometimes saw Adelbert watching her pee, smirking. She would wake up covered in sweat, stiff and tired, choking on despair.

Then, she would go out, to try to shake out the phantoms of gloom, and she would see that scrawny lad Ewan gripping the bloodstaff. And her hopes would return, focused down to a glowing obsession. She would stare at the glass rod until her eyes watered.

If she got hold of that weapon, she could defeat the northern army.

If she had the bloodstaff, she could destroy Princess Sasha and King Sergei and restore pride to her realm.

If she could somehow get her hands on the beautiful artifact of magic, she would be unstoppable.

Alas, even with his left hand maimed and wrapped in a mushroom of linen, the boy would not let go off the staff. He would cradle it, never relaxing his grip.

Amalia knew she had to be close to him, without raising too much suspicion. But her duties kept her away. She was too important, too precious to send on scouting missions, too valuable to squander on simple tasks. Jarman, Lucas, and Sasha would just not let her get close enough to the bloodstaff.

Ewan might die one day, just like he almost had nine days earlier. What then? Who would take the weapon then? Who would be its new owner?

Her thoughts drifted to her half brother and his Caytorean friend Rob, who had also perished in a haze of blood and muscle, like so many soldiers last week. She hoped Jarman’s magical shield still protected her against Calemore, and that he had enough strength to defend her both against the White Witch and human threats. Now, it seemed, he would have to extend his protection to Ewan and maybe Gavril, and she did not feel confident about it at all. After all, Calemore had almost killed James and her that snowy day. He might try again, and he would not miss this time. If only she could hold the Bloodstaff…

My name is Calemore. I’m also known as the White Witch of Naum
.

She was deeply suspicious of Gavril. There was something wrong about him. Then, where had Ewan found the bloodstaff? A
second
example no less. What did that mean? Maybe
that the same Lord Erik who had given the weapon and the book to her father had also known Ewan? But how could that be? Ewan was just a boy.

She felt confused, worried.

For the thousandth time, she wished she had read
The Book of Lost Words
.

The one weak, jaundiced light of happiness was the birth of Agatha’s son. Her maid was still recovering from the ordeal. She had a fever, but Jarman promised she would be all right soon. Amalia had begged the wizard to use his magic to stave off any infection, and the Sirtai had grudgingly agreed. Oblivious to the hazards of childbirth, Pete was strutting through the camp, chin raised, a silly grin on his lips. The man had changed completely, from a barely restrained brute to a responsible husband. Amalia was truly happy for Agatha. At least one of them had managed to get her life sorted out.

Pete’s joy also helped others cope. Captain Speinbate had given the young father a small present, a fertility idol of some sort, shaped like a tiny man with a gigantic phallus. Amalia guessed it was yet another crass Borei joke. Then, the goldtoothed mercenary had also begged Pete not to name his child in the first year, because it was bad luck.

Amalia had secured a small satchel of silver for her maid. She did not know when her funds would run out, and she wanted to make sure that Agatha was well-off, at least. The future flow of Caytorean money was uncertain now that Parus had taken over Athesia, and Amalia was not sure if Princess Sasha would be forthcoming with any help, at least not until the war ended and Amalia took her place in Roalas as her vassal.

If they won the war, that was.

With the bloodstaff, she could solve so many problems all at once. But it was no longer hers.

Amalia wondered how much she really knew about the history of the realms. She wondered how much her father had known and tried to tell her. All his teachings, all his warnings, they must have steered her toward this, only she had been too proud, too stupid to heed his advice. Now she had to fight on her own, unaware of so many crucial details and developments. What was Calemore really trying to achieve? What did Jarman know? Who was this Ewan? Or Gavril? Then she remembered Adelbert lurking in her chamber, and a shiver ran up her spine. She was just a silly girl who had once thought she could rein in the world to her liking.

She stared at Ewan.

The boy carried with a fresh dose of vulnerability she had not seen before. His calm, almost-timeless composure had cracked, and he no longer bore with that sad, frightening look of apathy on his young face. If anything, he seemed invigorated by losing two fingers. But maybe it was just shock. Or the effect of magic the bloodstaff had on its surviving victims. No one could really know how the weapon affected people.

The bloodstaff caught the weak light and threw it back at her in a flash, teasing her. She could see the gleam of wine-like blood trapped inside the crystal rod, the menacing wink of the claws at the top end. No matter where it was used, the weapon remained clean, unblemished, without scratches or spots.

She had to stop fantasizing about holding it. She had to focus on mundane things.

She was no longer the empress, no longer the owner of that thing. She had lost her privilege to decide the fate of the world.

What she had to do was make sure she survived her latest humiliation. Maybe the Parusites were willing to give her a
second chance, but she was not so sure about her own people, about Xavier and the rest of the Caytorean soldiers.

Her surrender was probably a blow to their ambitions and expectations. The warlord must have expected to marry an empress, and maybe he would be content with a governess, but she couldn’t really tell what he wanted. He was a man of violence, and he demanded power and fear. With Princess Sasha leading the realm now, his position was in jeopardy. And that made him extra dangerous.

Warlord Xavier had to die.

Amalia really wondered what would happen to his men—to James’s men. His plan of taking over Athesia and making a strong, powerful alliance was dead, much like the plan’s creator. Caytor would not gain anything from her surrender. Rheanna’s ambitions, even if they still existed, were just an idle threat to the might of the Parusite conquest. Amalia was not sure if she could trust any one of them, Master Hector, Sebastian, all the others. They were Caytoreans, and they had their own agenda.

She suspected whatever they decided to do, the swine-faced Xavier would lead them. She had to get rid of him, and that would probably cripple the rest. Just enough to make them acknowledge her and focus on the northern threat. That alone should be enough to unite all the nations.

Amalia planned to ask Jarman to make good on his promise any day now.

But what if the remaining Caytoreans rebelled, or tried to assassinate her? What if they just deserted? Or refused to fight? Her purge had left Xavier with the troops utterly loyal to him and his goals, so she was not sure how they might react to his death. But she had to be brave. She had to do something. Leaving things as they were would not help her.

Forget about politics
, she thought.
It’s no longer your domain. King Sergei will decide how to treat the High Council and what kind of demands to make
. Maybe offer them favorable trade deals if they forgot the Oth Danesh incident? Maybe ask them to send more troops to help fight the Naum forces?

He might decide to disband her legions and send the Caytoreans home. She would hate to leave loose ends. She wanted to have closure. To figure out what Guild Master Sebastian might try. To put an end to Rheanna’s claim. Then again, she might be reduced to a mere spectator, watching others more skilled in the art of diplomacy and intimidation make all the important moves.