The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3) (38 page)

Bart wanted to shout his indignation, but he knew it would do him no good whatsoever. The best he could do was smirk like the diplomat he was and weave the fabric of the future between their two realms. “Past dealings under a different monarch. Long forgotten.”

Sergei steepled his fingers. “You seem to keep coming back, Count Bartholomew. And every time, it’s something dire. When will I be rid of you for good?”

Bart put the letter of demands away. “Perhaps when I’m killed by an assassin when I march for Eracia, Your Highness.”

The king reached for the plate of black grapes, touched the fruit, but did not pluck any. “Four mysterious deaths. And now you are the Viceroy of Eracia. How very elegant.”

“I will be risking my life,” Bart answered, trying to sound restrained.

“You will be allowed to retain a small contingent of about four hundred Borei. Will that suffice?”

Bart started folding the leather-bound ledger he had brought with him. “I will require several olifaunts. They seem useful. The nomads might have never seen them, and they could be of use in battle.”

Sergei turned toward the door of their chamber. “This meeting remains private. You will not brag about this to anyone. You will avoid talking to my sister, my scribe, Adviser Theodore, and anyone else in my retinue. Do you understand? If you require anything, you will ask me directly. You have one week. I want you gone from Roalas by then.”

Bart rose and bowed. “Thank you, Your Highness. I appreciate it.”

Pain touched the man’s face. “Best of luck.”

Bart walked out of the chamber. He tried to keep his face impassive as he strolled past the clerks, the guards. He saw Amalia’s old adviser watching him intently. He went by, pretending he had not seen the man.

Bart wondered what he wanted to achieve, what his ultimate goal was. Defend the realm? Sure. He wanted to restore pride to Eracia. He wanted to see the nomads destroyed on the same scale Vergil had accomplished three centuries back. But there had to be more.

He had never wanted to be a margrave or a duke just for the sake of it, probably because Sonya wanted that. He had never tried to gain favor with the monarch by lying or groveling like so many of his peers had often done. All he had ever desired was respect, a tiny slice of it. A recognition of his character, of his deeds, from those who knew him and were supposed to love him.

And now that his realm was in shreds, now that none of it mattered, he found himself fighting harder than ever. He wanted to prove he could affect decisions, sway nations, be what everyone else had wanted him to be. To show that he could manipulate and threaten and grab power just as well as the rest of them. All the while, he despised every one of them more and more with every passing day. Those mercenaries must have been putting something in his drink, because he was no longer the same person.

Or perhaps the truth was simpler. Once he had tasted power, he did not want to let go.

Maybe Sonya was right. Everyone wants more power
.

The only question that remained unanswered was why. Some needed the intoxicating scent of control over people. Others demanded fear and humiliation. His wife was into it for the gloating and gold. He did not know his own motive.
To spite my father? To have a life my family would not let me have? To show everyone I’m not a coward? To get even with my presumably dead wife?

He might be a viceroy, but he was not any smarter for it.

Five days later, his small retinue had vacated the White Swan. Outside the city walls, a handsome force of Borei was waiting for him, led by no other than Junner. The mahout was grinning madly, because he had a new olifaunt now.

Not exactly a covert departure
, Bart thought, but it was hard hiding several hundred noisy, raucous, colorful mercenaries and their huge beasts. Olifaunts tended to stand out.

Constance rode in the carriage with him, her face worried. Bart had ordered Corporal Kacey into the coach with them so the girl would not be asking any silly questions and trying to convince him to stay. The Caytorean surely did not look
pleased to leave the comfort of the big city, but Bart had given her no chance to outwit him.

She could remain on her own or follow him. Despite his questionable marital status, she came along.

Kacey had argued with him, though. She had refused to leave Roalas without her Parusite friend, so he had been forced to demand the personal transfer of a single Red Cap into his command. Perhaps Princess Sasha had thought she could use the woman as a spy, so she had relented.

Bart was glad his personal troops felt free enough to talk to him about their problems and desires. He knew he had made significant progress in becoming more than just a stuck-up noble when someone like Kacey raised her voice to him.

The carriage rumbled to a stop. Bart smiled encouragingly at Constance. Her face was grim. She was obviously not glad to have joined a perilous journey that would bring her one step closer to Bart’s old life, but she kept silent.

Bart stepped out without waiting for his mistress. He walked toward Junner. The mercenary embraced him in a hearty hug, like a good friend.

“Lord Count does not forget his friends!” he hissed in Bart’s ear.

The count actually felt good about seeing the trickster. There was always something liberating about him, something that made you at ease with your decisions, your choices.

Bart kept smiling as he said, “Relay the suggestion that Duke Vincent must die after we leave.” That would leave the whore and the drunkard as prime suspects and remove any doubt as to his involvement. Bart knew he ought not to desert Daryl, but there was more at stake than a fragile, almost chance comradeship. King Sergei would then focus all his attention on them, and that would keep them busy and hamper their
efforts from interfering with his own work. A viceroy with no monarch to stand for. An interesting prospect.

Junner tapped him on the arm affectionately. “The suggestion will be forwarded.”

Bart tapped the man’s arm back. Just two friends, discussing women and war. “Are your men ready for travel?”

The mahout spread his arms. “We are fully stocked with food, weapons, and women. Got a whole wagon there. You see? Maybe you will want—”

Bart cut him off. “Let us not discuss trade right now.”

Junner made that face that meant he had merely postponed his idea. “How you travel, Lord Count? You join me up in the nest?”

Bart shook his head. “I will ride a horse.”

Junner aahed dramatically. “You will squash your gonads like that.”

“A necessary sacrifice,” Bart told him. Like the last time he traveled, he would be riding, because he could not stand the notion of sitting inside a coach all day like some soft nobleman. He was better than that. “Give the order to move.”

CHAPTER 28

M
y soldiers
, Mali thought with some dismay. Thirteen hundred women were arranged before her in a tight box, staring, waiting for some kind of an inspirational speech. Only Mali didn’t have one.

“Back to your training,” she barked.

The Third Independent Battalion broke into its companies. Alexa stood by her side, watching the units head for the practice ground. “What do you think, Colonel?” the ruddy-faced woman said with only a slight trace of mockery.

Mali smiled, despite her mood. Two months after Royce had helped her concoct the lie of her background as a famous Third officer, she had built the battalion to almost its full strength and whipped some semblance of order and discipline into its recruits.

It was amazing how many women had shown up at the Barrin estate, demanding to be enlisted. Suddenly, from all corners of Eracia that were still under their control, they had come, rich and poor, illiterate and well versed in books of history and poetry, ugly, beautiful, scarred, young, old, all kinds, some with pasts so dark they would stab at you with their knives if you asked. Mali had actually been forced to turn down some of the recruits, because she had too many. Almost a thousand women
awaited the order for the establishment of the Fourth Battalion, but that was mostly politics.

Mali only had utmost praise and regard for the red-haired captain who had practically given her her life back. He had falsified documents and orders, forged procurement lists, bribed several quartermasters to part with their wagons of armor and swords, and then hassled a few squads of his men over to her side so she could claim to have some command. Then, the women had started pouring in.

Two months later, Somar was still in nomad hands. The army had not yet left the estate, but the order to march ought to come any day now. The moment the commanders sorted out their bloody politics.

As the leader of an independent battalion, she enjoyed more freedom than other regiments and divisions, who were virtually enslaved to the general headquarters and the decisions of the high-command staff. For all she was concerned, she could have marched to war weeks ago, but it suited her to wait. Every day, her soldiers got that much better at learning how to kill. They grew tougher, leaner, more organized. Every day, the chances of a brutal rout in a first engagement lessened, being replaced by hard, ropy toughness.

Mali was hoping to march side by side with the Northern Army, its colonels. Well, there was another perk. As a stand-alone force, the battalion had its own command structure, so she was a colonel in her own right, although she commanded a force far smaller than a division. In fact, she had been promoted by two whole ranks, almost her old title. That gave her some leverage with the other officers, all men, who respected her age, her pair of tits, and her mongrel reputation as little as they could.

Yes, she would march with their bunch, but her patience was running out. The more time passed, the more the common
people lost faith in the army, the closer they came to having to fight a war through the winter. Not a pleasing prospect for those who had done it. Snow on the roof of your warm, cozy home and snow in a ditch you slept in were two different things.

There had been no doubt the army would see its feet sunk in slush, but Mali had hoped her troops would have gained some combat experience in less harsh conditions. Now, it seemed they would get to fight chilblain, black toes, frozen snot, and lung fever before they ever got to kill any tribesmen.

The slow manner the army was getting around its unenviable task maddened her. She could not really blame them. Organizing a force of some forty thousand was a daunting task. But for every day lost to confusion and supply problems, two were lost to bureaucracy, bickering, and the petty little fights between men who were already practicing their postwar speeches.

Two months, a bloody long time to let your enemy entrench its position while you lost all credit with the populace. Two months, an awfully short time to prepare for a deadly war.

Mali tried to keep her head out of the noble affairs. Lord Karsten had his own agenda, and he made sure to equate cooperation with the support he provided. The army was having a tough time, as they had to please him before they could focus on getting the war fought and won.

There were many others, too. The last several weeks had given enough opportunity for any lords and ladies who fashioned themselves even remotely important in Eracia’s prosperity to arrive at the Barrin estate and share their own vision with the rest. Often, that meant selfish little notions that conflicted with everyone else’s equally stupid ideas. For the sake of national unity, they all plastered fake smiles on their dishonest faces,
but the underlying problem remained. Count Bart’s uncle often won, because he had the most money. That was a small consolation, as it made the war efforts move forward, a sluggish twitch through a bog of despair.

Mali had begun to feel the winter’s bite. The trees were bare of leaves, and the mornings were bitter cold, often with mist and rain clouding the world. The sun vanished from the horizon sooner, leaving less time for practical work. Both men and women spent more time inside the barracks, drinking, gambling, whoring. Whatever progress the army made during the day was lost overnight.

Practice, that was her one recipe for everything. Obstinate practice at getting things right and in perfect order. How to march without breaking the line, how to fire volleys of arrows at a fast rate and in rhythm with other units, how to signal different formations and tactics, how to sound and execute a safe retreat, how to rescue wounded, how to scale obstacles and sneak through the woods.

The Third Independent Battalion was perceived as the refuse pot of the whole army. Other colonels often tried to burden her with their worst units, the kind they did not want in their own regiments. They tried to send criminals and cripples and green boys as reinforcements, but she would not have them. Her ego screamed for a bigger command, but she refused to play by their ugly rules.

“As ready as they’ll ever be,” Mali muttered.

Alexa nodded knowingly. They had both seen fresh recruits before.

Mali wished she knew more about what was happening in the world, but word was scant, rumors too many. She had no way of communicating with James, and now it was too risky to try anything. Athesia was a cauldron of wild stories. Nothing
came from the south, only a trickle of refugees fleeing through the net of the tribesmen’s forts. What they brought along were lean strips of information, antiquated news and personal tragedies that did not help her understand the bigger picture. One thing that an army commander must have was situational awareness. Without it, you were blind and stupid.