The Humbled (The Lost Words: Volume 4)

  THE

  HUMBLED

  by

  IGOR LJUBUNCIC

  Book Four of The Lost Words

  Copyright © 2015 Igor Ljubuncic

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1512252689

  ISBN 13: 9781512252682

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015908143

  CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform

  North Charleston, South Carolina

  For my readers

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  You know the drill. Rolling credits: Erin, the CreateSpace editor, so my writing does not come across a total fiasco; Anton Kokarev of kanartist.ru for yet another kick-ass cover; and as always, my wife, who makes sure you get to read a less boring version of the original manuscript.

  PROLOGUE

  Calemore rubbed his eyebrow, stepped off a moss-grown stone, and walked toward the seething white mass that was his army. Camped about three weeks north of Marlheim, the eastern force was waiting for him. No, not just a force. A nation.

  The whole of Naum was coming against the realms, men, women, children, their livestock. The first wave was comprised mostly of fighting men, but there were would be thousands more coming in their wake, bringing all their belongings and tools and food and seeds for crops. Coming back to their rightful land. The few thousands of years of their exile did not really matter much.

  Naum was a colder place than the realms, and it was taking his folk time to realize that. Some still clung obstinately to their thick leathers and furs and sweated heavily in the early summer heat. Others had adapted to the climate, enjoying the sun, exploring the nature.

  One of the lookouts spotted him. Calemore was still too far to see clearly, but he knew his cloak gave him away. The lookout whistled, and the camp began transforming. It was as if a gust of wind whipped against forest-floor litter. It shifted, rippled, tiny branches and dried leaves flying.

  A collective breath of anticipation and well-practiced fear rolled through the human mass of his followers. Men abandoned their tasks and leisure and snapped to attention before their undisputed master, before their almost deity. Well, for them, he was a god. In every way that mattered.

  Calemore’s boots crunched over the summer grass in an unnamed valley in the far reaches of the realm called Caytor. He wondered if this region had ever seen a city official come to collect taxes or remind people of their allegiance. South, he had seen a few remote villages, but it was quiet and peaceful and wild in these northern reaches. Animals naturally shied away from humans, but here, they did not have that victim-like behavior like their kin that got them hunted and killed elsewhere. Calemore glimpsed a wolf staring at him from the fringe of a birch forest to the left, its shaggy head almost hidden among the ferns. There was a glint in those eyes, a glint he could admire. Their gazes locked. Calemore blinked. The wolf turned and fled, smart animal.

  As he came closer, the soldiers and craftsmen went prostrate. For a tiniest moment, he was surprised by their reaction. He had gotten so used to the nonchalant ignorance of the people of the realms that he had forgotten the abject terror he inspired in his followers.

  The fear spread around him in a wave as his troops stopped their lives to acknowledge his arrival. Calemore walked with the bloodstaff in his hand. Younger men had never seen that weapon, not since he had given it to Damian’s avatar all those years back, but the fathers and grandfathers in the lot sure remembered. He saw their faces contort, and their expressions pleased him.

  He plowed on, and men slithered from his path, almost like ants, crab walking backward on all fours. Calemore let his pale eyes wander over the massive camp, inspecting the order, the readiness. He had not intended to bring the people of Naum to the realms, but it seemed he had to replay the old war to the very last detail, unfortunately. His desire to become a god, the god, would not be achieved through peaceful means. He was being forced to exterminate the inhabitants of the Old Lands. He had wished to have their faith and fear, but some things just weren’t meant to happen.

  There were two armies of Naum marching, converging. This eastern force was going to strike into Caytor. The other one was advancing through Eracia. They would meet in the Safe Territories. By then, Calemore intended to see the one surviving deity killed. If not, the force would move farther south and destroy the third realm. A simple, brutal plan.

  In the last war, a similar initiative had failed him. This time, his chances were much better. His enemy was weak, fragmented. His enemy had no magical weapons, few or no Special Children, no recollection of the events of the old war. It would come down to simple brute strength, and for that task, his slave nation was most perfectly suited.

  He stopped where he deemed to be the center of this chaotic hive. He gestured, and the men slowly rose, their clothes and weapons and tools creaking and clanging. It sounded like a hill stretching its bones. Not a single pair of eyes in that crowd would meet his. He almost challenged them, but it would be pointless. Tradition was such a beautiful motivator.

  He waited until the news of his arrival spread and the leaders of the force were found. Soon enough, the throng parted to let the elders of the tribes come forward. They looked extremely apprehensive. They had not seen him for a few years now, ever since he’d left to complete his father’s treacherous affair, and they did not know what to expect. Even though they had prepared all their lives for the march south, the reality of being right there, right then stunned them.

  Calemore did not know their names. He did not have to. Whatever he ordered always got done, quickly, with precision, blindly followed. After spending his time with Nigella, he found the notion of such devotion boring. The emotional struggle and all the little doubts were so much more fun.

  The most senior elder knelt before him, bowing his head. “We await your mercy.”

  Calemore was not in the mood for rituals. “You are here. Good. Now, you must proceed south and destroy the people of the Old Land. Just kill them.” He raised his hand. “But you will not harm my plaything or her child.” Was that what Nigella was, a plaything? Wasn’t she?

  “How will we know her?” the elder whispered.

  Calemore grinned. “I have marked her, and her son. Not only will you keep her safe, you will provide her with whatever she needs. She will be allowed to do as she pleases and go where she pleases. You will give her anything she wants. If she asks you for the hide off your bones, you will give it to her.”

  The elder nodded. Around him, other tribe leaders imitated the gesture. It wasn’t much to ask of them. For someone who knew nothing about free choice, the sacrifice was meaningless. He felt disappointed. The taint of a bespectacled woman and her big teeth was coursing through his veins.

  His eyes roamed. “Have you agreed on the division of land?”

  “We have,” another elder replied. “We have marked the territory for our tribes.”

  “Good.” Calemore did not want his conquest to go sour when his followers decided to bicker over the ownership of captured villages and fields. They might be his nation, but they were still humans, brimming with jealousy, greed, and pettiness.

  He noticed an extended hand holding a small, bulging cloth satchel, slightly trembling from the weight of what was inside. Calemore accepted it, undid the knot, and pinched some of the contents between his fingers. It was fine-grained dust, made from the crushed stone of the dead magical barrier markers he had once erected to keep himself safe. A symbol of his strength, vanity, defeat, and patience. He upended the satchel, and the dust winnowed out, blown into the pale, hard faces of his elders. They squinted and wrinkled their noses, but said nothing.

  He had made so many mi
stakes in the war against the gods. He had made so many mistakes in the last century of human life, ever since the Veil of Sundering had come down. He had invested too much trust in his father, not wanting to believe Damian would be willing to risk his own freedom, his life, so he could defeat Calemore. That Feoran revolution; that Adam person; all of it; silly, stupid mistakes.

  This time, he would make sure there were no mistakes.

  A loud rumble scattered his thoughts. It took him a moment to realize what it was. Thunder. He glanced up. The summer sky was dappled with low clouds, some of them streaked with slate gray, scudding on high winds. He thought he saw a patch of brilliant white bloom inside one of those puffy sky turds. Soon enough, a mockery of a rain erupted, brief and hot. Thick drops slammed the earth, few, heavy, random, and then the rain stopped altogether. No honest Old Land farmer would bless that piss trickle.

  However, there was a gasp of delight and wonder in the crowd around him. Calemore remembered his first rain after thousands of years of isolation. None of his men had ever seen precipitation other than snow and ice. For them, this was almost a miracle. He let the cheers continue unabated, let them indulge in a moment of almost childish joy.

  I am getting too soft for my own good, he thought. Nigella was poisoning his mind, for sure. Then again, maybe softness was what he needed to win his campaign. His cruelty had not seen him victorious all those centuries back. Perhaps he needed guile and restraint more than he needed butchery. He stroked the smooth, cool length of fused rock-hard glass that made the rod that was the bloodstaff. On the other hand, he yearned to use the weapon in large-scale combat. He wanted to level towns and destroy entire armies with its magical power. He lusted for it. After so long, he deserved some revenge.

  His men were still marveling at the rain, holding their hands like supplicants, watching the drops shine and dry on their skin. Others were peering up close at the wet grass or slicked armor, staring like a cruel child might ogle an insect, wondering which of the many legs to pull out first.

  Calemore let the moment stretch a while longer. “I am heading south now. You will begin the march first thing come the dawn. Kill everyone.”

  “We will,” the senior agreed.

  The White Witch did not wait. He retraced his steps and left the camp. He walked for almost a mile, thinking about the war, about Nigella, about what he must do to become a god. He was so close to achieving his dream it was maddening.

  What then? he wondered. What would he do once he won?

  He really should not be fretting and worrying. It did not become him. He was beyond human doubt. His moment of weakness annoyed him. At that instant, he wished he were with Nigella, so he could tell her what he felt, share his thoughts with her. He wanted to see the expression on her ugly face when she tried to figure out a truth that was beyond her, to understand the enormity of his being. He wanted to know what she had read in the book, and he wanted to feel her body squirm under him.

  Most peasants and town clerks had similar passions, he figured. That was a disturbing notion.

  Gripping the bloodstaff hard for reassurance, he walked some more, until he got bored. Then he magicked himself to Marlheim, where he knew a hot apple pie and a willing female body would be waiting for him.

  CHAPTER 1

  Stephan had always considered himself a man with a hunch for bets. Most of the time, he knew a good deal when he saw it. Now, though, he was completely out of his depth.

  The High Council meeting was taking place in the office of the shipwrights guild rather than the official headquarters on Gunter’s Road. The main reason was the dispute between the dockworkers and the spice traders. It had all started when one of the laborers dropped a cask of saffron into the filthy water of the bay, to much dismay of everyone involved. The shipmaster had been furious, and had the worker whipped, but he had turned livid when the traders demanded he compensate their loss. It had soon bubbled into an insurance blister, and a fight broke out, fists flying, noses bleeding. The dockworkers were demanding protection and higher wages, shipowners refused to be accountable for lost profits when at anchor in large city ports, and the merchants wanted everyone to pay through their noses.

  But that discourse was long over.

  With the grumbling parties gone, the remaining councillors sat to discuss an even more delicate matter, one that involved pretty much everything.

  The fragile political situation in Caytor.

  Stephan was holding a letter in his hand, written by Master Sebastian. It informed the High Council of several worrying developments. There was open war between the Parusites and Athesians once again. Emperor James was dead. Lady Rheanna had been detained. It smelled like a disaster.

  Stephan had missed most of the intrigue while locked up in Roalas, but he had quickly caught up on all the little plots and schemes and secret deals hammered out during his captivity. He still marveled at the audacity and stupidity of some of his colleagues and wondered what they had intended—and still probably did intend—to achieve.

  He looked at the faces round the table, pale, calculating. They didn’t like this any better than he did. Most of them had seen at least one of their friends die championing the wrong side. Others had sponsored pretenders for the Athesian throne and were still licking their wounds. Stephan’s friend Robin had paid with his life for going over to James. For all practical purposes, the family estates of Councillors Otis and Melville now belonged to the miraculously resurrected Empress Amalia.

  Stephan was almost glad to have her at the helm of the crumbling rebel force. Almost. He clearly remembered her conduct during the siege, her obstinate reasoning, and he wondered if she still remained as hard and unyielding as before. One thing was certain: she would have no reason to be friendly toward Caytor, not after supporting her half brother and so many imposters.

  It was delicate. It was complicated. It didn’t smell of roses.

  “What do we do?” He asked the obvious, breaking the silence.

  The silence simply flowed back, like mud. No one spoke. They were thinking, more than they had ever done in their lives as politicians, investors, or moneylenders. They were gambling their realm and the best of their fortunes. The past two years had not been favorable to them in any way. Virtually every little deal regarding Athesia had gone sour. Stephan was starting to believe it was a cursed land.

  “We do nothing,” Councillor Lamprecht said, biting on his pipe.

  “Very easy for you to say that,” Vareck objected. The man had traveled from Shurbalen for this assembly. He had been one of the strong supporters of Emperor James and was still trying to figure out what he should do with the troops and money he had sent west.

  “A wise businessman knows when to cut his losses,” Lamprecht countered, unfazed.

  “Everything we do risks the peace with the Parusites,” Uwe of the cartographers guild said, his fingers busy turning a gilt goblet, the foot making a raspy noise on the hardwood tabletop.

  Councillor Doris sniffed, her face contorted with what looked like rage. Stephan did not blame her. She had lost her children to Parusite mercenaries. Ever since coming back, she had championed war against King Sergei. She simply would not relent, and she refused to go back to Monard.

  Stephan knew he was among equals, but he felt he had a slight advantage in his favor. None of his hostage comrades had tried to negotiate their freedom or secure the peace. He had been the only one to engage the Athesian hosts in some kind of talks. This gave him a better understanding of what the empress was all about, and so he thought he should lead. Well, a man must not complain if a dire situation led him to fortune.

  Only he did not express himself in so many words. His fellow councillors were difficult men and women, highly opinionated, arrogant, and very much displeased for having to count losses in their ledgers. “We should probably ask ourselves, what is it that we want?”

  “Trade going back to what it was.”

  “Athesian land becoming Caytor once again.
”

  “The Parusites must retreat to their own kingdom and stay there.”

  Stephan grimaced. “Unfortunately, I do not think it’s that simple. We should probably contend with the fact King Sergei will not relinquish Athesia. That territory was lost to us twenty years ago.” He snorted. “We haven’t really ruled Roalas for the past forty.”

  “Lord Orson tells me the king hasn’t accepted his claim for compensation,” Vareck said, waving his hand. “It does not bode well for any future negotiation. We should expect no leeway from the Parusites.”

  “They should be thankful we didn’t declare war after the Oth Danesh invasion!” Helmut shouted.

  “Well, most of Empress Amalia’s soldiers are Caytoreans, so as far as King Sergei is concerned, we probably did declare war.” This was Uwe again. Next to him, the head of the glaziers guild was writing something, not really interested.

  “What if the Parusites declare war against us?” Lamprecht suggested, knowing he was annoying his colleagues. But then, that was his style: cool, dismissive arrogance.

  “They cannot,” Desmond explained, almost sounding like a teacher. “The nobles have all returned home, and it will be months before the king may summon them again. King Sergei is heavily engaged with the Athesians, and he must not expose his western flank either. I heard he declined a peace offer by the Kataji, so they might decide to invade the Safe Territories, or worse.”

  “I would not worry about Eracians and the nomads right now,” Vareck said.

  “And I heard,” Desmond plowed on, “the king’s got rebellion in Pain Mave.”

  Councillor Evert snorted. “That place was ever a hotbed.”

  Stephan raised a hand. Too many people were talking, not listening to the others. A typical meeting, except they were discussing the fate of the realm.

  “If we go to war,” he spoke bluntly, grabbing their attention, “we need armies.”