The Humbled (The Lost Words: Volume 4) (59 page)

“What’s that on your back?” another ugly mien asked him.

“Never mind that. Will you help?”

“He wants help,” a third mouth grunted derisively.

“Gotta pay us. That’s right. This is a trading post now.”

Ewan sighed. He did not want to point out to these half madmen, half deserters what would happen to their little business endeavor once Calemore’s troops arrived. But he had no goodness left in his heart. He couldn’t care about everyone. He could not save everyone.

Ignoring them, he poked his head into the nearest house. Small, dark, entirely empty. He realized he wouldn’t find anything worth using in this hamlet. Maybe he could push the wagons? But no, that would be silly. They would steer wildly. He raked his hair, frosted with dirty ice. Abandon the wounded? Why shouldn’t he? After all, everyone else had.

He heard a soft, mucky rattle, and a small, scruffy dog pattered over, but then it stopped halfway, wrinkled its nose, and fled. The scrawny child rushed from behind a tree of legs and chased after the animal. Ewan did not want to contemplate what a little girl was doing among these so-called traders. He had seen too much death in the past several months, and he just couldn’t make himself care any further. It was impossible.

Ewan walked back to his two wagons, already anchored hard in the gelid mush. He didn’t have a smart answer for the Athesians. Leave them now? Let them be killed by frost, hunger, or the northern warriors?

By now, the limping soldier had circled the village and was trying to climb the hill, the black bird still chasing him. On the other side, the land stretched into a ripple of fields all the way to Roalas. Apparently, King Sergei had arrayed all of his strength awaiting the invincible, mythical enemy. The remnants of the unified army of the realms, with its scattering of Gavril’s followers, Sasha’s Red Caps, Amalia’s colorful bastard army, and the king’s own legions. They had been so successful campaigning through Athesia the previous year; now, they were fleeing unceremoniously, ruined, exhausted, without hope.

Ewan wondered about his destiny. He had come north to stop Calemore. Only he hadn’t really done that. Not at all.

The witch had almost killed him. That was such a sobering, humbling experience it had almost broken him. Ewan had meant to use the bloodstaff against the Naum force and check
its advance. Maybe even destroy Calemore. But it didn’t work. The witch knew when Ewan used the weapon, and always retaliated with precision and brutality. Now, Ewan was almost afraid to use the bloodstaff, because he knew it would not stem the Naum progress. At best, it would decimate a handful of enemy soldiers. At worst, it would get him killed.

He did not relish ending up dead just yet. His invincibility might be a sterile experience, but he still cherished what life he had, and he did not want to trade it in. He felt there was something else, something more he could do to redeem his soul. Something that would add meaning to his existence. Something that might sweeten the terrible pain of abandonment, of the time spent in the Abyss, the loneliness, the self-loathing.

I can’t use the bloodstaff
, he mused,
and that means Calemore wins. Just like that
.

It couldn’t be all that was left for him. To witness defeat and destruction of all that he knew.

It couldn’t be just that.

But he didn’t even have a god to pray to anymore. No one to give him any hope, even a false one. Tanid was a coward.

Ewan still vividly remembered how the deity had hidden in the trench while the White Witch pummeled ruby death around them. He remembered a more recent attack by Calemore’s men. He had found Gavril hiding in the cellar of an old house in yet another village, waiting for the storm of death to cease, while Jarman and Lucas risked their lives fighting against the witch. Their magic was strong and unique, it seemed, but alone, they couldn’t stop the enemy tide. They could not stop Calemore on their own.

Anytime there was magic used against him, the witch would retaliate with the bloodstaff. He would fire back, killing hundreds, confident that Ewan could not kill him with his
own copy. The weapon was useless against Calemore. Maybe Ewan had overheard that from the Sirtai wizards or the cowardly god, or maybe the knowledge had just erupted in his head after reading
The Pains of Memory
, or maybe it was a relic from some ancient time, lodged in his being. It didn’t matter.

Ewan was useless.

But that was a sorry end to his misery. He refused to accept that.

There must be something more, the reason why I exist, the reason why I can’t feel
.

His disappointment made him bitter. So he had withdrawn from the rest of the humans, trying to do some little good with his muscles. He let the princess and the former empress and Jarman and that craven god sort out their own problems. He didn’t want any part of that. He didn’t want to be their tool. He did not want to be the outlet for their scheming.

The only person who seemed genuine in his actions and intentions was Jarman’s silent blue-tattooed companion. But if he shared any sympathy with Ewan, he kept it to himself.

He stood in front of the wagon, staring at the soldiers, the handful of those still awake. They stared back, eyes wide and glazed with fear. He had nothing to offer them. This burden was just too much.

Then, he sensed a presence, even before the army scouts raised a cry.

You could hardly see the horizon line. It was blurred with mist, snow, and clouds the color of pure gloom.

Across the broken line of the land and through the dapple of trees, the enemy army began coalescing, tainting the landscape. Ewan knew the foe suffered just as much as they did, maybe even more. The Naum folk had to walk though the ruins and refuse left by the Athesians and Parusites. The enemy
had even less food. But they didn’t seem to mind the cold, and they had superior numbers to compensate for any tactical losses.

The patrols shouted and whistled and bugled their warnings, then turned about, heading away from the menace. The hilltop became a swarm of slipping hooves and cursing men. Soon enough, those supposed to defend the last knuckle of supply carts were mostly gone. No one cared about the stragglers anymore. It would be a waste of good, healthy lives. Whoever remained behind was meant to die, it seemed.

Ewan scanned the fields. Maybe a few walking dead there. His own two wagons, the fools in the village, but that was all. The filthy stretch of the tortured terrain was abandoned. The people of the realms were hurrying away, trying to save their hides.

What do I do now?
he thought. Turn tail and run? He could sprint until he overtook Sasha’s vanguard, and be in Roalas days before everyone else. He could leave all this madness. But the ghost of a memory of a dear friend echoed in his mind. Ayrton would never run.

Maybe he could just lug one of the carts, save half the wounded? His conscience growled with displeasure. Adjusting the bloodstaff strap, he reached for the broken cart trace and tried to pull on it. But it was slick with mud, and his fingers—those he had left—slipped. Well, there was no other option. He raised his fist up and punched through the wood. The trace splintered, and almost shattered, but its shape still remained intact. Pushing his hand into the hole, he hauled.

He fell and sprayed icy mud, but he made the two wagons move. The injured men started goading him, whispering encouragement. Teeth ground together, he made another step,
and another, and he crossed the hamlet and started uphill. The little dog was barking at him from a very safe distance.

Ewan led the two wagons off-road, where the footing was more solid. Naked shrubbery tore at his clothes, snagged at the bloodstaff. The vegetation had no respect for the magical weapon. He slammed his boots into the gray crust, kicked his toes into the gravel and rock. And started slipping. No matter how hard he pummeled at the frozen earth, he just didn’t have enough traction to move the human loads on those narrow, slick wheel rims up a wet snowbank.

Ewan looked across the valley, toward the enemy. It would take the Naum fighters several hours to reach his position, but at his undignified crawl, they would reach him eventually. He could not outpace them, not with the injured soldiers.

At the friendly hilltop, the last carts and horsemen were gathering, soon to vanish forever. Ewan realized he would just have to force them to help him. Either they would lug the wounded or they wouldn’t travel at all. He let go of the trace.

“I will not abandon you. I will return.”

Free of burden, he dashed like a snow cat, easily catching up with the Athesians and Parusites. They were watching him with a pained look, marveling at his tenacity and stupidity. And there was a healthy dose of fear there, too.

“You will help me with the wounded, right now,” he snapped, breath deep and clear.

“Fuck yourself, cripple,” one of the horsemen spat back and wheeled his horse south.

Before he knew it, Ewan was gripping the bloodstaff, aimed at the soldier. But he knew it would be foolish. Calemore couldn’t spot him while he pretended to be just another miserable refugee. However, if he used the weapon, the magic would give him away.

“Help or die,” Ewan warned.

“Those men are already dead, you fool. You’d kill us all for nothing!”

Ewan flicked a quick look down the slope. Maybe he was trying to save an ideal rather than human lives. Maybe. Giving up now meant giving up his last shred of humanity. No.

“They won’t be left behind.” He was tempted to press the button and pulverize them. That wouldn’t save his twenty-seven injured, though. And he would add more death and grief to the land drenched with misery.

There was a wind of angry protest from the men around him. So what should he do? Kill one man, and the rest would obey? What if they did not?

“You will help him,” a deep voice rumbled, silencing all argument.

Ewan saw Lucas standing some distance away, eyes locked on the huge tide lapping toward them.

No one argued. With almost enthusiastic urgency, a dozen riders rushed after Ewan. They tied their nervous hobs to the carts and began hauling. By the time they reached the flat ground, the Naum force was only a mile away. The air vibrated with the buzz of metal and leather and death.

“Keep going.” The soldiers and the teamsters were taking the wounded out from the two wagons, moving them elsewhere. Dumping them unceremoniously alongside old gear and sacks of rotten barley, sliding them up into the saddle behind other men, tying them so they wouldn’t fall off. Some might not make it, but no one cared right now. The Naum force was almost upon them.

Ewan was watching the enemy, trying to keep calm. But if he wanted to save these people, there would have to be bloodshed. He couldn’t use the bloodstaff, so it would have to be
personal. He would have to wade into that human mass and start killing people with his bare hands.

“It’s never easy,” Lucas preached in a calm voice, just nearby. “Ask yourself why you’re doing this. Then, it might become
easier
.”

“Thank you,” Ewan mumbled.

“Thank you. For reminding me what we’re all about.”

Ewan glanced at the Anada wizard. “Will you fight?”

Lucas nodded once. “I will shield you and distract Calemore.”

Ewan realized the Sirtai might know more about him than he should. But there was no time for questions. No time for making his heart flutter with hope. His journey of knowledge had ended long ago. He had all the pieces, but not the answer to his pain, or his legacy.

Behind him, the last of the refugee convoy was fleeing hurriedly away. The sky was alive with birds, cheering the bloodshed, welcoming a feast.

Ewan took a deep breath. He might die today. His magic might fail him. He never knew. Maybe Calemore would spot him and cut him down with his own bloodstaff. Maybe his agony would end today. But no matter the consequence, he would do his best to save those people.

Almost lazily, he stepped down the way he had come, knee-deep in old snow. The Naum force was churning forward, and he could see faces in that huge, quivering mass. Thin, gaunt, filthy, with huge eyes beaded with fear, just like those of the people of the realms.

What made one lot more valuable than the other? Nothing really. Just chance.

The enemy didn’t really pay him any attention. He was just one scrawny lad, marching willingly toward death. Somewhere
to his left, a column of earth exploded, and a rustle of screams shook the Naum ranks. Must be Lucas, engaging Calemore, baiting him.

Ewan didn’t move as the enemy spearman tried to stab him. The leaf-shaped head stopped dead against his skin, then raked up and over his shoulder. The soldier gasped in astonishment before colliding with him. Ewan almost wept. But he had to do it.

He punched the man’s face, caving it in.

More spears jabbed at him, and soon, he was surrounded in curses and growls and shouts in a foreign language, and everyone was doing their best to slay him. It was as if ants were crawling over his skin, and he couldn’t really tell what they were doing. Swords, axes, spears, lashing, breaking, bending against his stonelike body. The Naum troops were hacking madly at him, at their own white fear. There was no retreat. These men could only march forward, or be trampled by those coming behind.

I am doing this to save the people of the realms
, he told himself. He was red all over, red like a newborn baby, caked in hot human pulp, blinded by the blood dripping down his face. He punched left and right, killed people with a single blow, leaving a pile all around him. Before long, he had to wade through a mound of corpses to get away, to reach a new spot where he could do some more killing.

There was no end to the enemy force. Nor to his strength.

He kept on punching, tearing, hoping the madness would end soon.

One way or another.