The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3) (49 page)

Three months in a new world that meant nothing to him. So far, from everything he knew, he was expected, he was wanted, and he was feared.

Ewan’s fingers found a dead crab shell among the debris. He lifted it and stared at it up close, at its rust-brown plate turned black with death. He brushed away the tiny grains of silt, looked inside the little shell, all the meat long eaten.

He dropped the dead thing back onto the beach. “Tell me more,” he told Naman. Then he saw a commotion in one of the streets leading toward the waterfront. Some sort of a procession was inching forward, approaching him. A huddle of men and women, all with faces downcast, shuffling, muttering something that sounded like a chant in their foreign language, coming closer.

“What is that?” Ewan asked.

Naman’s face brightened. “A gift for you.”

The party soon overcrowded the busy shore, men and women filtering around beached boats as best as they could.
Ewan was surrounded, and he did not like the feeling. The crowd parted, and a small young girl half his height stepped through. Her little arms were holding a bundle.

Ewan reached tentatively and lifted the bundle from the girl’s outstretched hands. It was a cloth of some sort. A cloak, supple, soft, thin, made from good white leather. The garment was well made, with tiny stitching that was barely visible.

“What is this?” he asked. He knew it was a cloak, but he wanted to know what it signified.

“Made from albino children’s skin,” Naman offered smoothly.

“Children?” Ewan asked, his gut tightening.

“Yes,” Naman added, and a frown of doubt masked his chubby, oily face. There was that fear again, the fear of displeasing him. “In your honor. The winter begins tomorrow. The books mention how it would be a cold winter when you returned, and how you would need warmth.”

Ewan looked down at his simple tunic. He felt no cold. Why would they think he would need a cloak to warm him? Why would human skin provide any warmth? Or maybe this was another eerie symbol from his past life, the one he could not recall.

One day, he might master the language of the Oth Danesh; until then, he would suffer misinterpretations from his guide and tutor.

“I do not want that,” he stated simply.

Naman translated. There was an audible gasp in the crowd. The people shrunk back as if he had drawn a sword against them. Only the girl remained where she was. Someone began to cry.

“You dislike the work? We will cut the arms off all the seamstresses who worked—”

Ewan grabbed him by that fur trim and pulled him close. “I am not interested in human heads, human skin, or anything grotesque or morbid like this. Do you understand?”

Naman made a face that said he did understand, but could not comprehend his king’s wishes. “But it’s written in the books that you would demand this. We only live to obey. We are your faithful servants.”

Ewan put the garment back on the ground, by his feet. “No one is to be harmed over this.”

The magic wielder nodded eagerly. “No one.”

But the ritual did not seem to be done. Another person stepped from the crowd, a tall and muscled man, naked, his skin prickled with cold. His bare feet crunched over the detritus, and he winced. Then, he sloshed into the icy lake, stirring little ripples.

“We are only doing what you instructed us. We follow your code. We remember,” Naman said, almost desperate.

Ewan watched wordlessly as the man plodded deeper. Then, he began to swim toward the center of the lake. His strokes were long and efficient. He hardly tossed any water around him, and yet he moved with grace and speed. It was some time before his tiny figure stopped, roughly halfway across.

With one fluid motion, the man rolled over and dived, almost straight down. The leaden surface stirred for a while; then all was silent again. Time passed, but the swimmer did not emerge. The crowd watched with silent anticipation, with almost eager desire. Ewan alternated between studying them and waiting for the naked man to return. He wondered how long one could last in the frigid water.

A shape burst to the surface. Ewan felt relief, but then, after a few quick gulps of air, the man dived once again.

“What is he doing?”

“He who retrieves what was lost will be your champion,” Naman intoned.

“What was lost?” Ewan asked but got no answer.

This time, the man did not reappear. Soon, everyone realized no one could survive that long deep underwater in the icy lake. The meaningless sacrifice disturbed Ewan. He was liking this new life of his less and less.

“There will be no champion this winter,” Naman pronounced somewhat matter-of-factly, as if he had seen the same attempt year after year. Thinking about those severed, dried heads, Ewan realized the swimming ritual had been going on for a long while.

“This must stop. Everything. All of it,” Ewan spoke, keeping his despair down. “No more killing and dying in my honor. No one is forced to do anything. No one must be maimed in my name. No one is going to be forced into my bed. Do you understand, Naman?”

The fat man’s eyes sparkled curiously. “As you say. We may have misread the books.”

Ewan turned away from the lake. “Yes, you seem to have.”

Coming to this land had been a mistake. He was almost willing to leave everything behind and just march back to the realms. He would find himself some kind of living. Maybe he would seek out Doris in Monard.

“What about those babies I asked you to find?” he growled.

Naman’s horrified expression told him the news would be disappointing. “I need more time.”

So Ewan decided to stay. He could have gone right then and forgotten all about this crazy place, but his promise, his promise to Doris and himself, kept him standing at the shore
of the lake outside Kamar Doue, watching terrified people cower before him in the frosty cold.

I knew I was a monster
, he thought. But having so many people acknowledge that at the same time hurt.

Answers, he wanted answers. For now, he had stories and fear. Maybe
The Pains of Memory
would tell him something he so badly needed. Angrily, he pushed through the crowd and went back to his ugly palace. The men and women scrambled to move away from his path, then closed around him and followed. He did not look back to see if the fat magic wielder was coming. Of course he was.

With the flutter in his belly whispering,
North
, he paced toward his prison.

CHAPTER 36

W
hen you rode at the head of a column with olifaunts in it, news of your arrival preceded you, Bart realized.

Few people in Eracia had seen the huge gray animals before, with their long snouts and tusks and treelike legs, so they drew quite a bit of attention, a fair amount of wonder, a decent dose of panic, and a thousand questions. With the nation plunged into war, many of those were about a new army invading their homeland.

Not far from the truth, Bart knew, which was why he had all the possible banners of Eracia’s noble houses flown on tall staffs, so that no one could mistake his intent. Alke had worked day and night to sew the right colors and devices onto blank stretches of colored canvas. Swift riders were moving ahead of his little army to make sure there were no ugly surprises awaiting the viceroy of Eracia. They even had money in case they needed to bribe farmers, local guards, innkeepers, or town mayors.

Even so, his troupe looked like nothing Eracia had ever seen. A handful of soldiers, turned tough and hard by their experience and the harsh journey home, a large body of unruly, filthy mercenaries, not two alike, armed to the teeth and riding monsters.

There were several possible outcomes to his return. The two most obvious ones were a total acceptance of his mandate or total bloodshed resulting in a lot of death. The army might be sympathetic to his cause and call, or they might prefer to stay in the barracks, warm and safe, and let the nomad threat sort itself out. He did not know if minor lords may not have taken upon themselves to form their own little governments or baronies and rule without any regard to what was happening in Somar. After all, the monarch was dead.

He had no idea how many traitors he might find, how many might oppose him personally, how many might envy him or try to curry favor, if the army regiments would be stationed in their garrisons at all. They just might have decided organized banditry was much better than a glorious death in the name of some aristocrat on a throne somewhere.

Bart did not know what to expect, but he was not optimistic. Not after the last ruler of the realm had allowed the three hundred years of military dominance Eracia had exercised over its fickle neighbors to evaporate in one monumental failure.

Ubalar was a distant blotch ahead, misted over in cold. Closer still, there was another blotch.

The two divisions of Yovarc and Decar waited for him.

So much for optimism
, Bart mused.

He had four hundred men. They had ten thousand. Even someone as little skilled in war as himself could easily and accurately estimate the odds of his party surviving an encounter like that. Which meant he had to be brave and talk to the people in charge of the massive barricade blocking his passage into the city.

Junner was staring at the Eracian army with a predatory eye. To him, the ten thousand souls were ten thousand potential victims for gambling, shady deals, and other wicked
propositions he might have. There was no fear there, and Bart envied the man.

“I will go with my men only,” he emphasized for the second time. “You stay here and keep very still. No threatening maneuvers, no posturing, no dirty tricks.”

The Borei grinned. “We will be very still, Lord Count.”

Bart did not mind the man’s insistence on his old title. It was amusing in a way.

He looked at Constance. “You, too, stay here.”

She looked at Junner with mild fright. The mercenary wagged his eyebrows at her. “No, I will come with you. Please.” There was an edge to her voice. In fact, she had been behaving rather strangely this past month.

Bart watched her carefully. Her skin was pale, but her cheeks were flushed, and she was breathing through her scarf. She looked like a fragile child, and all that previous slyness somehow seemed to have vanished.

“All right,” he relented. “But keep quiet.”

With six soldiers for escort, he rode slowly toward the massive army rank. A small group, probably officers, had detached from the main body and advanced some distance up the road. Sort of a peaceful gesture of coming forward to meet him. Or to make him that much easier to cut down with bows.

“Halt there!” one of them called when Bart was about fifty paces away.

Bart pulled on the reins. His horse neighed, bucking, fighting him. The animal could sense his tension.

“Easy, easy,” he cooed.

It was hard to tell details from this distance, but he could see they were indeed all higher-ranking officers. In unison, the detail closed in on his small escort. Four men, two colonels, two majors. Bart did not know any of them.

On impulse, he reached up to scratch his beard, but stilled himself. Not a dignified gesture for the viceroy, and one that would disclose his restlessness. He had even asked Alke to trim the hair so he looked more presentable. After all, he was going to play the monarch. That also meant a sable coat with golden cuffs, a mantle of black wool and a heavy gold chain, an ornamental sword with a silvered scabbard at his hip, the kind of details that people expected from someone in his position.

“Greetings, Your Majesty,” the colonel on the left side spoke.

Your Majesty
, Bart thought, and all anxiety fled him instantly. He had expected a confrontation. Optimism tried to raise its slimy head, but he pushed it down.

“I am Colonel Ulrich of the First Division. This is my second-in-command, Major Kilian. My peer, Colonel Faas of the Fifth Division, with Major Maurice in attendance.”

Bart nodded solemnly, his mind racing. He kept his mouth shut and let the officers speak.

“We were informed of your arrival some time ago. I believe you will find our ranks in perfect order.”

The count of Barrin itched to ask,
Who informed you
, but he did not dare sound ignorant. He had passed a dozen smaller towns along the road. His olifaunts had stirred a flood of wild tales and gossip, so it only stood to logic a quick runner had galloped ahead of him. There might not be a monarch in Somar, but that did not mean that people stopped plotting and scheming.

Look on the bright side. Whoever informed them seems to like me
, he thought.

“Who leads the Southern Army?” he asked after a while.

The two colonels exchanged a pained look. It was the other one who spoke. “No one.”

“But we should not discuss war like this,” Ulrich added quickly. “Where are our manners? Please, Your Majesty. We want to formally welcome you and escort you to the city. Lord Jordie has made the necessary preparations.”

Bart nodded again. He looked behind him and waved. Junner waved back, and the mercenary force started moving.

Three hours later, he was warming his feet in front of a huge fire, a large cup of hot spiced wine in his hand. He was sipping slowly, his stomach irritable after his stressful encounter earlier. The other leather chairs creaked and groaned with the weight of the two colonels and the city’s steward. Like him, they were drinking, and like him, they tasted the wine carefully.