The Humbled (The Lost Words: Volume 4) (56 page)

Calemore was standing at a crossroads—what used to be a crossroads, the old sign pointing south and east floating in a shit-colored rain puddle. Huddling at his side were five miserable elders, their drenched furs sagging heavy on their shoulders. He did not care about the slap of icy drops in his face. He was too focused on what had to be done.

Originally, he had planned to drive south until he clove the realms in two. But now, there were so many succulent prizes around him, within his reach, just days away. At his right, he had the Eracian border forts, half a dozen of them, hiding behind the next crinkle of soil and stunted trees. Farther south, the road snaked through a hill pass, leading toward Talmath. And while he knew the old haven of the gods was a home to ordinary settlers now, he longed to send his troops there to destroy every last trace of faith from the land. But that would mean diverting some of his efforts away from the main campaign.

Then he had the Hebane and the Telore. If he could somehow master their winding courses, he could ferry tens of thousands of troops south, ahead of his foe, cutting them off, encircling them, preventing any further escape. His forces could then take Roalas and float all the way to the seashore and maybe even capture some of the coastal cities in Caytor. Then he could handle the rest at his leisure.

But did he dare send tens of thousands of people who couldn’t swim down raging, overflowing rivers? It wasn’t the human sacrifice that galled him so much; it was the risk.

His eastern army had finally overcome its difficulties and was moving to join him. They were plowing across central Caytor, trying to salvage the last of the crops and
livestock left by the fleeing population. The winter would not be pleasant, but if there was one thing the Naum soldiers did well, it was to embrace the snow and blizzards. The army would converge on the other side of the Telore, so they could make even better use of the river to speed their travel. Again, he wasn’t certain if he dared risk the bulk of his troops to drowning.

He really should visit Nigella.

“Take your coats off,” he ordered the elders.

Without reluctance, they obeyed, tossing them over to their warriors. Good. He wanted them to embrace the rain, to learn how to cope with it. This land would become their new home, and they had to master the elements.

“The rain has crippled our progress,” Calemore stated. “But I want you to devise a plan how to move the troops forward regardless. The enemy expects us to remain dug in until the storms pass. I want to surprise them.”

His mind strayed back to the last few days, the skirmishes, the exchange of magical power.

Well, his assassination attempt on the second bloodstaff wielder had failed.

Just as he was about to pulverize that man, enemy wizards had raised a powerful defensive shield that prevented him from reaching them. It was his fault. He should have noticed their presence earlier, when he had murdered Nigella’s former lover. He should have realized they had magic back then, and focused his efforts on defeating them first.

But the knowledge there was another bloodstaff out there had dulled his wit, made him reckless. So he may have turned a few Special Children into red mush, but there would be no more opportunity for a surprise attack like that. Not anymore. Not easily. The wizards kept guard day and night, and all he
could do was direct the magical pellets against the human army, but then, they fought back with their crafty, powerful spells.

He had not expected the people of the Wild Islands to be involved.

It meant his campaign would have to last awhile longer. Once he conquered the realms, he would deal with the island people.
Ah, they call themselves Sirtai nowadays
.

In fact, his attack against that scrawny-looking man and the rest of the god’s servants was a big mistake. Only in retrospect did he realize the foolishness of his deed. He could have accidentally killed the surviving deity and thus unmade all his efforts in becoming one himself. There was no real way of knowing what plain identity the god might have assumed, and he was probably using his own magic to make himself even less visible.

At least he had killed a few of them. And now, they could no longer use the bloodstaff. They were afraid, and they knew he would fire back viciously whenever they tried to use it. Likewise, the Sirtai wizards would try to kill him with their own magic if he used the weapon. So no one used it, but he had bigger numbers, and that meant victory for him.

Calemore realized he should focus on trying to devise a plan to dispose of the wizards. Or at least render their powers useless, allowing him to use the bloodstaff without any worry. Once the islanders were incapacitated, the god would be helpless. The humans were insignificant.

No, they are not
, a hidden corner of his brain whispered urgently.
Do not underestimate them. Do not dismiss their urgent need to stay alive and fight off death at all costs. They will try anything to outwit you, and they will not be burdened by the cockiness of immortality
.

Maybe he should have killed that girl Amalia when he had the chance. He should have killed all the other rulers, crippled the nations, caused chaos in their ranks. But it was so unnatural for him to reason war in that manner. How could any one human be so different from the rest? Or more valuable?

Then he remembered his bespectacled lover, and his doubts soared.

He had to make sure the Special Children were ineffective, that the god remained confused and isolated, and that human leaders could not make any decisions. He had to make sure the wizards did not kill him with their alien magic and that the enemy could not use the bloodstaff. That was all. His troops would do the rest. If he used them wisely.

Logic, passion, which one to choose?

The events of the last few days decided it for him. He would push south, and the people of Eracia and the Safe Territories would consider themselves lucky for being spared. For now.

“Elder Buan, I want your men ready for a night attack.”

The clan head bowed, but there was doubt in his eyes. Calemore had never expected that. But these men were exhausted, starved, maybe even afraid, and the rain was sapping their resolve.

Well, the killing would toughen them up.

The clan spent the entire evening getting ready. They had no dinner, because there was no food left with the front units. Then, Elder Buan moved his eighty thousand men south through fields that looked more like a lake with clumps of grass than a field of green soaked in rain. Of course, the torrents never stopped hissing. The landscape looked like it was a boiling pan of oil.

Through the night, the Buan marched using their snowshoes. They didn’t work quite as well as on a powdery white carpet, but at least the men managed to drag their feet forward instead of sinking to their knees. Close to dawn, the army reached the god’s position, the slowest of the units to flee the wrath of Naum.

Calemore stood some distance from his troops. He knew the defenders might hurl magic back, and he did not want to be near the carnage. He wanted a clear field of vision so he could direct his powers back at the Sirtai and maybe destroy them. He also had to look for the deity and his own tricks to make sure he did not accidentally kill him. Then, there were those gifted freaks, but he believed he had killed most of them.

As always, his eyes scanned the land without seeing, trying to sense the second bloodstaff. It was there, but its presence was muffled by the stifling choke of the beating hearts of the weak, dirty mixed lot of Athesians, Parusites, and other nations of the realm.

There were no fires in the enemy camp, and everything looked still. Only tents, brown like the mud they were slowly sinking in, with a rare animal coughing its sick neigh or bray into the wet morning rustle. Gasua was somewhere out there, behind the screen of rain and autumn chill, and he thought he could see the faintest outline of Bakler Hills just beyond.

Calemore put aside all his problems and doubts now. No more idle thoughts about Nigella quivering beneath him, no more thoughts about the scarcity of tools and food and horses, no more regrets about past blunders, useless questions about his enemy, no more considerations of the weather, the readiness of his clans, the delay in progress, the complications, the involvement of magic in his campaign.

He emptied his mind and prepared for the battle.

Silently, the Buan squelched forward. Never was there a slower charge, Calemore thought bitterly. Almost like cretins on stilts, the Naum soldiers moved against the people of the realms, the rain hiding away the grunts and curses. The enemy woke up and tried to raise an alarm, but it sounded like the yawn of a dying man.

He felt the tingle of magic before he could see it. From a different camp, not the one he was assailing, a solid ball of compressed power rose in an arc and landed square in the van of his force, scattering men aside. He smiled, even as his guts recoiled at the foreign feel of the wild islander magic.

They were so desperate they risked his wrath again.

It was almost an unspoken rule, but he leveled the bloodstaff against the distant target and let loose a steady stream of pellets. A few moments later, another clump of magic sped in his direction, this one landing in the pond of muck not far from him. His troops kept surging on, closing the gap in their midst, flowing over the rent like ants.

Calemore responded again. A boring duel, all in all, he figured. His enemy could not see the destruction, and he couldn’t see the torn corpses caused by the blood pellets either. They lobbed their magic across the battlefield, more a statement of intentions and abilities than any real contribution to the death toll. But Calemore’s troops did not need help. They had numbers to compensate for the hunger, the lack of gear and cohesion, the foul weather.

They tried their luck again, and the magical clout came almost near enough to worry him. He raised a shield around him and watched the debris fly and hammer against an invisible pane. Trees, mud, rock, almost like there was a raging windstorm out there. He fired back, emptying the weapon. Then, casually, he waded through the mire until he reached the corpse
of one of the Naum soldiers killed by the wizards. He bent down, touched a finger to a white cheek. Still warm, freshly dead. He drained the hot blood and filled the rod.

The enemy attacks had stopped. They must have figured out they couldn’t win this way. Or they might have drained their magical strength. Calemore felt slightly worked out himself, but he had plenty more left to challenge the enemy if they tried playing unfairly. The only thing he worried about, really, was the bloodstaff. Men drained of magic eventually, but that weapon could fire as long as there was death about. But it would seem that its wielder was a coward and did not dare use it.

His troops were now pushing into the enemy camp. As always, the foe would fight for a while, try to stall, but the other, more distant camps were already trying to pack and get away. They would retreat another few lethargic miles in this foul weather and hope that the Naum forces would lag behind for a few more hours. Well, true, he could not mount a serious, crippling attack without several days of careful preparations, and he wished the bloody rain would stop soon, but he could wear them down, even if it cost him five times more casualties.

Calemore had not studied the enemy culture much, but he thought the rabble trying to stave off the Buan were Parusites. They were usually more organized than the rest. And they were staunch believers, so their death was even more valuable.

He realized there would be no more magical fighting today. He started west, where the sky was still bruised and sulky with the livid gray of a retreating night. He walked into the rain, climbed a knoll with half its trees lying down and rotting. Not much scenery, but at least he could see the flow of troops. The Naum bulge, the bucking sickle of the Parusite camp, the
retreat of the troops farther south. But they seemed to have divided their forces. Maybe they were trying to confuse him? Should he pursue south, after the larger contingent, or handle those fleeing toward Gasua?

It could be a diversion, but then he remembered the Eracian army that used to prick his backside for so long. Well, if he let them be, they would straddle the roads once his army rumbled past, and they would endanger the supplies and families following after.

Calemore raised his hand. Lavea dropped from the sky and landed on his forearm. Tough bird, and it didn’t tire when its wings got wet. Rain or snow, it laughed at the puny humans dragging their feet below.

He magicked a message for the Tirri and Nishose elders. It might take them a day to get moving, but he wanted them to besiege Gasua. Meanwhile, the rest of the force would keep pursuing the god’s army. As they had been doing for the last several weeks. Day after day, he would keep attacking, and they would keep retreating farther south, until they eventually ran out of land. Then, they would all die.

He spread his arms wide, and the tough flier took off.

The details of the landscape around him were scant, but he relished what he could see. Mayhem and desperation so real you could cup them in your palm. Even as a painter, his eyes struggled to grasp the full color and emotion of the battle unfolding before him.

Shrill notes rose into the sky. The enemy was trying to communicate, sounding its call of panic and misery. The Buan were in bad shape, too, but he had dozens of other clans, and another elder would prepare his forces for the march the next day. Their challenge might be different. They might have to fight for a river crossing, or just plod through mud until they
dropped from exhaustion, or maybe they would storm another encampment. It did not matter. Nothing would stop him.

Every day, he was nearing his victory. The people of the realms were dying, and their god was getting weaker. He wished he could observe the dynamics between the leaders of these nations, taste their terror, see how they made decisions given their limited knowledge, power, and experience. He wanted to know if he could somehow corrupt their magic wielders, to know if there were any more Special Children left around. Sometimes he wondered if the enemy might not be springing a trap of its own, just as elaborate as his plans. But it could not be. No man was that astute.