The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3) (56 page)

“James,” Amalia said in a quiet voice, “we stand together.”

Her scarred ear filled his vision. He closed his eyes. “Yes, we do.”

“Your Highness! Your Highness!” someone called.

His bodyguards stiffened, seeking new threats. James twitched with fear. But he should be safe here, Jarman said, right?

“Your Highness!” the voice persisted.

A man stepped close. It was a messenger from the Third Legion. He glimpsed Rob’s body and blanched. Then, he recovered, looking straight ahead.

“Uh, sir, the Red Caps are on the march. Moving against Ecol. Got news right now, sir. We have four days, maybe five.”

Jarman raised his hand before James could speak. “Send an envoy to parley. This war must not be.”

Like a bubble of hot air expanding in yellow mud, the emperor felt anger replacing his hesitation, his terror. The kind of impotent anger you embraced like a long-lost love and crushed close. This was better, this emotion, simpler, more pliant. He could master this anger.

King Sergei wants peace?
he thought sourly. Apparently not. He recalled Jarman and Rob trying to convince him, and he almost felt betrayed by their silly, naïve compromise. Everyone wanted to make him do something, always different from what he wanted. He was Adam’s son, but no one would allow him to do as his father did. Enough. He was tired of all the preaching. Maybe magic was more important than Athesians killing Parusites, but that meant nothing to villagers and townsfolk who looked up to him for their protection and survival.

“That’s foolish of them,” Commander Nicholas observed. “We outnumber them.”

The messenger spat in the snow. “No, sir. Fresh troops. Some say Princess Sasha is leading them.”

Jarman was almost quivering with anxiety. “Your Highness, please be sensible.”

James looked at his half sister. Her face was blank.
Your choice
, her eyes said. He was grateful for that much. His one and only ally, the least likely candidate, the woman who was his kin, the woman he had tried to kill just a few days ago. But she knew far more than she shared with the world about her defeat against the Parusites, her encounter with this magical monster called Calemore. Yet, she deferred to him, let him decide.

Emperor Adam had always been merciful—he recalled Rob’s words—when his enemies talked reason. But when they resorted to violence, he would crush them utterly and without any pity.

“Prepare the legions. We are going to fuck those Red Caps.”

A genuine cheer of relief exploded around him. Finally, something good, something they could all understand. In the flurry of activity, Rob’s body was quickly forgotten, the blood that was his and the pellet that had killed him turning to red ice.

CHAPTER 41

M
ali exited the army headquarters with her teeth gritted. She took a deep breath to calm herself, then kicked the shield leaned against the wall, but not too hard so she did not injure her foot. The soldier standing guard looked at her with a worried expression, then trained his eyes straight forward. He did not want to draw the wrath of a really pissed-off colonel.

Dwick still stank from the fires and butchery, a nauseating combination of pig blood and ashes.

Her breath wreathing from the corners of her mouth, she stalked across the yard toward the Third’s provisional barracks. The snow under her feet was black and slick, stomped thin like a tin sheet. Strange, how those white flakes and human flesh behaved the same when beaten. The longer you pummeled them, the darker they turned.

When empty of swine, the warehouses could host a whole lot of soldiers. The entrance was adorned with her new banner, a red flag with a pair of breasts in gold thread. A silly, stupid motif that made men hoot and whistle like idiots, but she could appreciate the irony. Then, you had the heads of several notable Ram’arush warriors hanging frozen from thin ropes, almost like chimes. Well, in a town made for slaughter, it was a fitting decoration.

Dwick had fallen eventually, after four assaults.

Mali was down three hundred and fifty soldiers and two of her majors. There would be no forming of the Fourth Independent Battalion, she knew, because all the reinforcement would go into beefing up her decimated ranks. Half the troops were still recovering or slowly dying from their wounds, that much more experienced and that much more crippled.

The town had become a sorry lodging for the two divisions and her forces, divided into barracks and makeshift hospitals that reeked just as badly as the pigsties. Well, at least the latter were now empty and the army had enough salted pork to last till the summer. One thing that would not be in shortage.

To their credit, the nomads had held the town fiercely, fighting to the last man. Not only had they not tried to retreat or surrender, they had mounted raids against the attackers, sometimes even in the middle of the night. They had matched the Eracians in ferocity and bravery and outclassed them in skill, using the abattoir and empty houses to stage deadly traps and ambushes and lure the attackers to their deaths.

Winfred and Finley persisted on launching assaults, ignoring strategy and focusing on brute strength. Maybe they did not care about their men, or they could afford it. Mali hated this first campaign. It smacked of ill choices, amateurish decisions, and a lot of bad luck.

She entered the warehouse, saluted in return to the handful of sentries and junior officers she saw, and ducked into her command stall, a sorry partition of wooden boards that marked her space in the large building. There was no ceiling; the rafters stretched seven paces above her head.

Alexa was sitting in a chair, one muddy leg propped against the rough table leg, eating cracklings from a bowl in her lap. Meagan was there, too, staring at a map, holding a wooden
ruler in her hand, a ledger of notes at her side. The girl had grown bolder in the recent fights, but she still acted somewhat reserved and skittish.

“Stupid men,” Mali snarled as she entered, slamming the thin door behind her. The entire structure creaked.

Alexa snorted. “C’mon, you’re not a girl anymore. You can’t be surprised by their stupidity anymore.”

Mali sighed wearily. “Winfred thinks we should stay and secure Dwick.”

Her friend spat a half-eaten crackling. “What? Why?”

Mali brushed a sprinkle of snowflakes from her shoulders. “He thinks leaving men behind, in a town full of women, could cause only trouble. This way, we stay and secure the town, garner sympathy from the locals, and maybe recruit a few into our ranks.”

Meagan shrugged. “That’s not such a bad idea, sir.”

Mali reminded herself the noblewoman did not really know her true identity. The girl was too young to bear twenty years of grudge in her soul. “Not a bad idea. But I’m sure not going to let the likes of those two cocks get all the glory while we do the mopping duty. No, we’re not staying here.”

Meagan nodded. “As you say, sir.”

Noble born, not the gutsy type, yet she was a widow, seeking to avenge her husband. In a way, she was fiercer than most men Mali knew. She should not dismiss the woman’s soft manners for weakness.

“So, we will be marching on Somar, then?” Alexa spoke, munching noisily.

Mali doffed her mittens, pulling hard. The leather protested, making her grumble. She pulled up an empty wickerwork chair and plopped down. Without asking, she buried her hand in the crackling bowl and scooped up a handful of greasy snacks.

“No. We will be marching north.”

Alexa frowned. “Why?”

Mali sighed again. “As it turns out, while we were busy assailing this cursed place, another nomad army slipped behind us. They might be headed for the Barrin lands. Most likely, their task is to pester us and draw the army away from the capital.”

“We had scouts out there!” Alexa exclaimed.

Mali grimaced. “No, Finley did. Seems the enemy traveled in bad weather and often at night, and they might have even braved the border with Athesia. A risky move. Seems like they are Namsue.”

“How many?” Alexa moved the bowl away.

“Probably as many as eight thousand, maybe more.”
More than us
, she didn’t have to add.

“We will be going alone?” her friend asked.

Mali wiped her hands with a napkin. “Finley will be coming, too. But that still means the enemy might have almost a third more troops than us. Not sure what Velten is trying to achieve, but if he wants to get rid of Finley, there are less bloody ways.”

“Can we expect any help from Lord Karsten?”

Mali dug a nail between her teeth, fishing out a crumb. “Well, if we can trust Winfred and Finley’s sources, he’s recruited some more men. So at least the estate will not be undefended. But the news is a few weeks old, so we can’t really know.”

“When do we march?” Alexa stood up by Meagan, looking down at the drawing of the realms. Her fingers traced the valleys, the forested land, the dots that stood for villages and towns.

“In two days. We will leave all the wounded here. The enemy has at least three days’ head start. However, Winfred
thinks they will not rush north too fast, because they want us to follow them. So we can expect them to harry us and lay ambushes. They will probably want to destroy us to make sure their progress north is unchallenged. If I were a Namsue chieftain, I would do the same, really. The least favorable thing he could do is wear his troops down in bad weather and the cold, get bogged down besieging Lord Karsten, and then get buggered from the rear.”

“We could just leave them to starve. Cut off their supply routes and let them die from the cold.” Alexa reached for the pitcher of wine and poured herself a cup.

Mali felt tempted to drink, to hammer herself silly, but no. She was going to meet Gordon later on, and she wanted to be clearheaded for a change. The man had been trying a rather nasty trick with her lately, and she was not sure she would be able to fend him off if she lost her wits.

Alexa’s plan was not bad. The only problem was, the same snowstorms and frost would affect her girls, too. The winter still had some two months’ worth left in it, if not longer. True, there were no more black toe and ear accidents, but that did not mean the troops would relish dragging their feet through thigh-high drifts, avoiding bogs, sleeping in huddles, shivering, munching down cold, frozen lumps of old, musty bread and stringy meat.

Mali wished she had more soldiers, more cavalry, better armor. She wished she had more influence. But all she had was a bunch of women with a killing agenda and a dreadful future ahead.

For a moment, she wondered how her son was faring. What kind of choices did he face? Was his wife being nice to him? Did he have to fight his enemies? But the information was scant, almost all traffic cut dead by the winter and by war.

It was not the time for distractions. She put James out of her mind.

“Meagan, I have a task for you. I want you to appropriate one hundred extra horses.”

The officer frowned. “Appropriate?”

Alexa grinned and patted her lightly on the shoulder. “Steal, lass.”

Meagan seemed shocked by the notion. “Why? How?” The girl reached for her own wine.

The commander of the Third Independent Battalion tapped the tabletop. “I want to make sure we have a proper cavalry for this campaign. Some beasts will surely die from the cold or in battle, and we need reserves. Salted horse meat might come in useful, too.”

Alexa stepped in. “How do you do it? In the past, we usually fucked someone.”

Meagan sputtered. “Sir, with all due respect—”

“That usually does the trick,” Mali said smoothly. “But I don’t care how you do it, as long as you get the horses. You can take them from Winfred’s units. But do not mess with Finley’s troops. They will be coming with us.” She put on a somber face. “One more thing. I need your recommendations for promotions. We need two new majors to replace Abigail and Sophie. Please write your reports. You can nominate your own captains or some from the other two companies.”

“Sure thing,” Alexa agreed.

Mali reached for the bowl, but stopped herself. She found the idea of nibbling cracklings, sipping wine, and ignoring the world for a while extremely alluring, but she knew she could not afford any of those. Yes, she had to see Captain Gordon. She rose, nodded informally at her two surviving officers, and left the tiny stall.

Her lover was waiting in her quarters. She found Gordon standing in the middle of the room, naked, with only a pair of stout woolen socks on his legs, all the way up his shins.

He looked ridiculous.

“You know I get cold feet,” he said defensively.

Mali burst out laughing. There was something utterly sweet and idiotic about naked men in socks.

“How was your day?” he asked, sounding ever so slightly offended. Gordon’s skirmishers had been busy securing provisions, which meant they were going into houses and taverns in Dwick and nearby villages now under Eracian control, trying to buy, pilfer, or gamble goods off the locals. Since almost all of them were widowed women, they usually dawdled quite a lot. Mali thought sending women might help the survivors gain more trust, but the small folk had to get used to seeing Eracian men in their midst again. Besides, Gordon’s men were very good at what they did, it seemed.