The Forgotten (The Lost Words: Volume 3) (67 page)

“Most of the time, yes. When people fight their neighbor over a plot of land, or when someone kills another for gold. People wage wars, and often, they revolve around petty things, around small, insignificant, and selfish reasons.” Tanid hoped Pasha followed his train of thought. “But this is different. This is so much bigger than any one individual. We are fighting to save the faith, to save humanity.”

Pasha shrugged, a clumsy, boyish gesture at odds with his incredible abilities. “Feels wrong.”

“Those men we had to fight, they have only one purpose in life. They are paid to kill those who practice faith.”

“Like the Feorans?” the Special Child asked.

Tanid was surprised the boy knew anything about the war that occurred before he had been born. But maybe, at the border between Caytor and Parus, the stories survived the trickle of time.

“Yes, something like that,” he said carefully. He did not doubt the boy followed the gods and goddesses, but he was careful with his condemnation. The common people had been enamored by this new, violent deity. If only they had known it was Damian corrupting their souls again.

Only Parus had stood unaffected by the Feoran Movement. Tanid had no doubt the wild new religion would have eventually spread into Eracia, consumed most of the Old Land. Even so, Damian had come so close to victory, in the span of a few quick human years, while all of them had slumbered in the city, oblivious of the threat closing in on their throats. Never again.

“It is justifiable,” the god added. “We are protecting the faith.”
We are fighting the war that began in the ancient past
. Either way, the boy would not understand the truth. None of them would. Tanid alone had to bear the burden.

“I miss my family,” Pasha said, his voice squeaky.

Tanid was not sure how to console him. He could uplift the boy’s spirit when it came to his love for the gods and goddesses, but family was a strange concept to him. At least, family in the human sense, because all these men worshipping him now were his children.

And Damian’s too. His orphans. He must never forget that.

The clash with Calemore was inevitable. It would happen soon, within days, months, or years, an inconsequential breath of time that humans would count so meticulously. Tanid was glad for every moment of peace he won, as it gave him that much longer to prepare. After all, the White Witch had had an age to hone his hatred. Tanid had only come back to his senses a heartbeat earlier, when the barrier around their city had fallen.

I am using these humans, one of Damian’s creations, against Calemore, another creation of his. All the while, the Father of Evil lies dead, locked in the Abyss
. He had truly been Unmade, killed by that frightening Special Child. He had become like the gods he had sent to their deaths.

Until he returned.

One day, he might, alone or with the rest of them.

That would never happen, Tanid hoped, far from being confident as he had been during the speech earlier. They had all thought Elia dead, and then, she had come back, not even as a goddess. Why, no one knew. Damian, too, could be unleashed into the world again.

What had made the Abyss? Why had Elia been resurrected?

Once Tanid mastered those questions, he knew he would be truly invincible. Till then, he needed faith to sustain him, like flowers needed the sun’s light.

Pasha noticed His Holiness was no longer paying attention to him, so he shuffled away, dejected, sorrowful. Tanid did not try to stop him. What could he tell the boy? The world needed his sacrifice, and there was no place for soft sentiments. Calemore’s hordes would show no mercy when they swept over the Old Land.

Tanid wondered where he should marshal his forces. Maybe lead them to back to the Singing Heights and stand there. It was no longer his own land, and he doubted anyone even worshipped him there, but the place would augment his magic. The currents of air that wailed and shrieked through valleys and round jagged peaks, they gave him strength.

Or head farther north, past Athesia, into northern Eracia and Caytor, and await the arrival of Calemore’s armies there. He still pondered. Should he ask the Parusite king for help and cooperation? Would the man understand his need?

Humans fought their wars never thinking about the future. In a way, they were so lucky, blessed with their short spans of life and weak memories. They never got bored repeating their mistakes, fighting the same battles, believing the same ideals.

He stepped into the field of snow, walking past the frozen mounds of dead people. Spring was coming. In a few weeks, the snows would melt, and then the soldiers would be busy dragging the corpses away to a distant burial spot far from the camp.

Most of the bodies belonged to Calemore’s raiding parties, repelled, defeated, killed to the last man. With Ludevit’s magic at his side, he always had the early warning when the hunters
came. With thousands of followers, he no longer feared being discovered, no longer worried about fleeing. Even if the White Witch knew where he was, Tanid knew he would not dare assault him here, even if only because of the very remote chance something might go wrong. Tanid knew Damian’s son well enough. He had planned this war for so long, he would not let even one small mistake, one erratic moment spoil everything. So, he kept sending cheap humans to do his dirty work, and Tanid continued destroying them.

His small following had turned into a sizable host. The barn had become a house of religion, and the empty fields around it were dotted with houses. A city was coming to life outside of Keron, and it drew people of faith toward it, almost like a beacon. Still, it was a chaotic warren of buildings and huts and animal pens, without much order or discipline or quality. But it was a beginning. Almost like a birth. You could not really know what might come out from a squealing red mass covered in threads of mucus and some hair. Perhaps Keron would become a holy place, like the Safe Territories.

One thing was certain, he would have to move soon. The thawing of the snow would make the squalor just as deadly as the steel blades of a mercenary party. There was a limit to how quickly he could gather new followers just by staying here. He had to travel, send forth his men, preach in towns and villages, gather crowds, like the wind gathers leaves in its wake.

The Parusite king…Tanid kept wondering if he might get a blessing from the Parusite ruler. Would King Sergei listen, or insist on his little war? By now, he should have heard of the religious movement coming to life in Keron. So far, the king had kept quiet.

But it was a minute worry. Tanid was bothered by a much greater dilemma. How could he make himself more than he
was? A black whisper rose in the back of his mind.
You are just like Calemore, trying to be more than you are
.

His conscience squirmed.
Maybe not
.

He was the god, and that made all the difference.

In a week, a month, or maybe a year, the two of them would fight and decide the battle started in a different age. Saving humanity was out of the question, so it was all about who would control it. Tanid knew his kind had supposedly won the last war, but the aftermath smelled every bit like defeat. They had wanted to hurt Damian more than they had wanted to heal the world. Tanid would not repeat the same mistake. Not this time. There would be no banishment. No magical barriers. No postponed punishment. The only outcome that awaited the White Witch was a cold, certain death.

Tanid rounded the camp and went back to the fire, where Clemens was still preaching into the night. The power of his words was almost as strong as the prayer. Well, until he figured out the answers to the cardinal question of his own existence, he needed every bit of faith he could get.

So he joined the rapt crowd and shared in the magic of storytelling.

Every day, his followers learned a little more about the war that had begun in another era and was about to be concluded soon. They would need the conviction when the moment came. And so would he.

CHAPTER 50

S
pringtime had come to Athesia, and with it, the smell of wet earth and old, sour cabbage vats being emptied and cleaned. Days were getting longer, the nights shorter and warmer, and the snow patches were shrinking away, leaving a muddy brown earth behind. The roads were passable again, even if it meant soldiers cursing knee-deep in muck and ox piss.

The arrival of spring also heralded fresh, fiercer attacks from the Parusites.

Princess Sasha was relentless in her attempts to conquer Ecol. She was throwing her women against the forts, the ditches, the stakes. But if James and his legion commanders had hoped for a quick victory, she was proving them wrong. No senseless charges, no heroic deaths. Sasha’s Red Caps fought with skill and cunning.

Their forces were roughly matched, those of the Athesian defenders mostly concentrated around the town, with a solid reserve farther north and in Bassac to counter any raids, as well as make sure no stray army from Eracia or Caytor wandered into the realm unannounced. There was little likelihood of that happening, but James had nurtured a solid patina of paranoia since Rob’s death. He might not believe in a magical army
storming the realms from the north, but that did not mean he ought to expose his flanks and rear.

Sasha had more luxury of movement, so she shuffled her girls east and west, probing, searching for places where she might strike next, and James was forced to react. Her troops were well disciplined and used to warring in winter since the Siege of Roalas, so they did not suffer from all the mistakes his own troops were enduring.

However, almost routinely, the brunt of the attacks came against Ecol. James wished he was strong enough to retaliate, to take on the offensive, but that would not happen anytime soon. The rift between his paid Caytorean units and the Athesians was still deep. Amalia seemed wary of the men the councillors had provided him, expecting them to betray him and her any day. He thought he had gained their loyalty, but long months freezing in the snow had lessened their enthusiasm. They did not openly speak against him, but they were wondering when his imperial dream might finally come to life.

James desperately needed his wife around.

The spring heralded her return, too.

Guild Master Sebastian had written to him several days ago. Rheanna had sent a letter informing him she would be leaving the capital shortly after the New Year’s turn. Which probably meant she was nearing Pain Daye now. That meant he might see her in about three weeks. Just in time for the festival, as she had promised. Rheanna would know what to do, how to manipulate the soldiers. She would find a way to fire up their zeal, to rekindle their love for his charm and leadership.

In the cold, filthy trenches around Ecol, the spirits were low. Young men once enamored by his quest had found the notion of fungus growing in their loins too much to take. Many of the city fops had retreated to Caytor to await better times.
They had left their private armies behind so they would not be regarded as traitors, but they did not see a need to risk their own lives. James wondered if they were truly bound to him now that he had married a Caytorean woman. Probably not. They only answered to the High Council, and while it had pledged some support to his cause, their only loyalty was to their profits, as always.

Some remained, but they preferred to drink themselves insensible in Ecol’s taverns. Only a few shared in the killing, earning a lifetime of bravado and stories that would make Eybalen ladies swoon when they retold them. If they lived that long.

Despite James’s misgivings, Xavier seemed quite eager to shed Parusite blood. His fickle, murderous nature made James suspicious, but he never showed any signs of being bored or tired of the war business. Master Hector also seemed bent on staying at his side. The Athesians were truly loyal, at least, but they most likely followed his half sister rather than himself.

Ahead, in the field, the Red Caps wall was approaching, marching steadily.

James found the notion of killing women strange. Like him, most soldiers were not comfortable with the idea either. They might not object to cuffing their wives when they misspoke, or beating whores when they would not please them or when they caught them pilfering coins from their pockets; they had nothing against rape and hurting women in a small measure now and then, but the wholesale butchery shocked them. James believed Princess Sasha knew this and exploited the situation to her best advantage.

Captain Nolan spat in the puddle at his feet; it was foamed with urine. The night guards had found it too cumbersome to leave their posts. “That’s a tight formation.”

Warlord Xavier was blinking furiously. They all wished they had one of the Slicers for use, but the two examples Master Guilliam had built for them had been destroyed by a Parusite saboteur; she still swayed from the tree she had been hanged from, but that did not make things any better.

“Arrows?” the man wondered aloud.

“Too tight,” Colonel Gilles grumbled.

The Red Caps were advancing with large square shields raised above their heads, overlapping like scales. Only the front row held theirs forward. Their ranks seemed unbreakable.