The Humbled (The Lost Words: Volume 4) (64 page)

Several Naum soldiers were watching him, grinning, laughing, thoroughly entertained. Their breath misted and curled around their windburned cheeks. They did not look like evil invaders. They looked like simple men tasked with the duty of guarding some woman and her child, and they did
their best to pass the time. For a moment, Nigella was almost inclined to ignore the warning she had read in the book.

“Mom!” Sheldon called. “I need help.”

Nigella smiled weakly. She stepped into the snow, the cold seeping through her boots.

Sheldon straightened, adjusting the woolen cap on his head. “Are you crying, Mom?”

“No, it’s just the wind,” she mumbled. “I’m fine, Son.”

“Good,” he panted. “I need to get this ball rolling down the hill.”

She brushed some snow off the massive thing. “You need to compact the snow, Son. You need to make it denser and smaller.”

Sheldon bent down, scooped up a handful more powder, and slapped it back where she’d touched. “No, Mom. I want to make it big. I want it to be so big it can crush the houses in the city.”

Nigella sighed. Her boy didn’t deserve her pain. He should not know. He would not understand the message.

“Let me help you.” With her hands jabbed into the ball, it started moving, but soon, it was skidding rather than rolling, and new patches of snow just fell off it like old bark. She started patting the snow, her fingers freezing. Sheldon started doing the same, but soon he was vigorously punching the ball, causing more damage than good.

“Mom, maybe they can help?” he huffed.

She looked at the northern warriors. “All right.”

The boy turned and spoke in their language. A shiver crept down her spine. Even now, months after meeting these foreigners, she felt uneasy hearing their tongue, especially when Sheldon spoke it. Somehow, it did not feel natural to her. Children learned quickly. Nevertheless it was eerie.

The soldiers were almost too keen to join. Two remained guarding, but the rest put their swords and axes down and came over to help her son. She stood back and watched gruff, whiskered adults become children again as they put their shoulders into the ball and started rolling it again.

After a while, the ball was almost as tall as they, and they were struggling with the same concept as her son. One of them used his shield to smooth the ball, pressing against the snow and shaving off lumps. Another was clearing a path ahead, stomping the powder flat.

“We are going to roll it down the hill, Mom,” Sheldon shrieked, ecstatic.

“I’m glad,” she told him. The tears had frozen on her skin, making her smile wooden.

With a throaty cheer, the men and the boy nudged the ball toward the slope and then pushed it. Their voices followed it as it rolled once, twice, then broke in two, then stopped. The crumpled halves wobbled a little and then joined the vast sea of white in silence. Only tiny lumps continued on their journey toward Marlheim, leaving behind a hundred snaky trails.

Sheldon raised his hands and shouted, “Mom! That’s not fair!”

“You will do better next time, Son. Remember, smaller and denser.”

“But that’s no fun, Mom,” the boy lamented.

The soldiers grimaced their disappointment for a while, then walked back and picked up their weapons, becoming bored, uncomfortable sentries once again. Nigella’s mind drifted back to her evening’s reading, to the sleepless night that had followed.

Calemore would probably visit her any day now. She was convinced he had enjoyed a great success in his war and that his
worries were diminishing by the moment. No one could stop him. So he might decide to take a brief respite from the killing and return to her, to his lover, to his future queen. The book promised that. Of all the details that the book might conceal, it had chosen to show her that one.

A part of her soul still yearned for his company, for his touch, for his flattery. Another part, the one she couldn’t really control, demanded that borderline terror, that uncertainty, that feeling of self-worthlessness that he invoked in her. She would never admit it, but she couldn’t hide from her own feelings. She wanted to be loved and desired. She craved attention and approval, and she would like to wield the power and control that she had once only dreamed of as she had watched the rich councillors with bitter envy and fear.

Best if she fled. Glory and glamor were not for her. She was just a humble witch, a half-breed, and the best she should hope for was a quiet place to live her life and practice her craft. When little worms like her wriggled out of their dark holes, they got crushed mercilessly.

But Calemore liked her. He was the only man who had ever shown her true affection.

Last night’s reading had cleared her mind somewhat, but not enough. Even flight demanded courage—or extreme cowardice. And she wasn’t even that much of a coward.

So she waited, frozen. Like a little mouse stunned by the screech of a bird of prey.

Calemore would show up at her doorstep any day now. She must be ready. This time, he would want all the answers. He would brook no delays. He would have no more tolerance for her trouble deciphering the future. She had to be prepared.

Well, she knew. She knew everything. She knew what he wanted. More importantly, she knew what she wanted.

That knowledge was liberating, and frightening. To finally have a clear objective in her life other than raw survival. It was as if she were drowning in her magic, and the more she gasped for air, the more she made her situation desperate. She was floundering, breathless with knowledge that belonged in some other time, and she wasn’t certain how to cope.

The Book of Lost Words
was a dangerous artifact. It should not exist.

Sheldon had recovered from his failed attempt at utterly ruining Marlheim and was now busy fighting the Naum men with snowballs. Another soldier had joined his side, and they were hiding behind an old tree, throwing missiles at the four other troops. Men laughed and cursed and taunted each other, an unmistakable rhythm to their voice, even if she could not understand the words. Her son tried to emulate them, and she was almost happy.

The question of her identity, the question of what she wanted in life, the answers were clear now.

Nigella felt it was safe to leave her son with the soldiers.

Reluctantly, she went back into the cabin, toes tingling with soft numbness. She kicked the snow off, dusted herself clean, and stepped into her tiny, warm world. On the small table, the book of magic stared back.

She wanted to burn that thing so that no one would ever read it.

No one deserved its cryptic, ugly truths.

Her hand rose, reached for the unblemished cover, and trembled. She couldn’t. What would Calemore do when he learned she had destroyed this artifact of ancient power? Well, she knew exactly what he would do. She knew what he expected of her, what he wanted, how he perceived the future.
She could tell it all. She no longer needed the book. Not for him, not for herself.

If only life could be easier. If she were prettier, if she didn’t have her bastard heritage, if she had somehow avoided all those men who’d abused her and betrayed her. Nigella wanted to blame them, but it was her fault, too. She had allowed them to deceive her with their false promises, with their flattery, with their feigned affection for a homely mongrel living on the outskirts of society.

The White Witch of Naum was doing the same thing, really. Using her like a tool.

Only he was not going to discard her. She had hoped he would stay. She had hoped their fragile, mad relationship could flourish into something more meaningful. For the first time in her life, she was right. He was not going to abandon her. He planned for them to stay together, and she would be his partner, as equal as a human could be to an immortal.

To someone who aspired to become a god.

The lunacy of that idea almost made her kneel and weep, but she managed to stand, hand still hovering inches from the book. She should be grateful that she knew the future. Who else could claim such privilege, such power? She held the world’s fate in her hands. Of all the people, she had the knowledge to steer the lives of untold thousands toward destruction, or salvation.

The worst part was, she didn’t care. The world could burn as far as she was concerned.

If only it didn’t include Sheldon.

The future that Calemore sought was utterly simple. He intended to defeat the people of the realms, to kill them to the last, until religion crumbled and all the gods were killed. Then, he would become the one and only deity.

She could even tell him how he could achieve that. His triumph relied on a single soul. He just needed to kill a single soul, and he would never be stopped. Just one soul. That was all that stood in his path.

In the world that would be after his victory, the Naum people would settle the land of the old gods, returning after countless centuries of exile. Their loyalty to the White Witch would be vindicated, and they would usurp the land from their enemies. She was going to become his concubine, a queen, a lover, the one woman he could desire of all his subjects and slaves.

Nigella almost shed a tear at that thought.

As a god, he would not rule the people on his own. He would install a king in his name. But that could not be one of his Naum men. They had long lost their own free will, had become so deeply obedient to his wishes that he found their servitude dispiriting. He needed someone with a young, fresh mind, someone who would rule with passion.

Her son, Sheldon.

A tear rolled out of the corner of her eye and dripped onto the table.

At first, Sheldon would be trained in politics and military affairs and economics. He would become a skilled, intelligent ruler, and he would bring prosperity to the people. However, time and the dark shadow of his new god would begin to corrupt his soul, almost imperceptibly.

It might be the ultimate power, or boredom, or maybe the sense of invincibility. It might be the slow eroding of empathy, the hardening of his soul against the terror of Calemore’s vision, or maybe even his character. But Sheldon would steer away from what his mother had tried to teach him all these years.

More tears, and they coursed freely.

Sheldon would begin to indulge in little sins, in small, meaningless horrors. He would bed women for the sheer fun of it, then abandon them. He would begin to sponsor cruel games of violence, where soldiers would fight to the death in large arenas, surrounded by screaming, cheering crowds. He would taste human flesh. He would punish trivial crimes with atrocities. Her son would become a monster, and he would forget his own mother.

The book promised he would become a great prince. At the price of his humanity.

There was only one thing in this whole world that mattered to her. It was her son. And she would not allow anyone, not the gods, not their sons, or anyone, to harm him.

Perhaps she would never be beautiful or rich, and she didn’t care for any of that. As long as she had her boy, he was more important than all else. He was the only person she cared about. He was the reason why she lived and why she wasn’t fleeing this cursed cabin. Sheldon was her life. All she cared for was his safety and happiness. She would protect him with her own life.

She would not let him become a monster.

CHAPTER 46

“G
ods have mercy!” a Parusite officer shouted.

Gods?
Ewan thought sourly.
They won’t help you. Tanid’s a bloody coward
.

Tanid was watching the enemy mass with naked fear on his ageless face. Not the dignified leadership, nor the spiritual enlightenment he would expect from his creator. Ewan felt he had learned a lot about faith in the recent months.

“You must kill them,” the deity hissed.

“Must I?” Ewan said in a low, barely audible whisper.

Cries of despair washed over the line of Parusite troops as they glimpsed the massive enemy force building across the river. Their shoulders sagged. Some removed their helms; others dropped their swords. This wasn’t just the army that had chased them all the way from Ecol. This was a new host, coming from the east, huge, fresh, unbloodied.

“Please, Ewan! You must save us!” Gavril’s face was only inches away, free of blemishes of war, exhaustion, or guilt. No chilblains, no sunburned or windburned skin, no gashes, no wrinkles of fatigue. Many thousands had died in the realms, but so far, the effect on the one surviving god seemed entirely internal, entirely selfish.

Ewan looked around him. He was surrounded by men of faith: Sergei’s troops, Red Caps, some of the god’s pilgrims. They were all mumbling prayers and pleas to their gods and goddesses, utterly unaware of the weakling in their midst. Ewan almost considered telling them. But that would just make the humans more miserable. He doubted this god cared about anything except his own sorry life.

“Why don’t you save us?” Ewan growled, feeling anger coursing through his veins.

“I have no more power left,” Tanid whimpered. “I’ve used all my strength to create weather storms to slow down the Naum troops. I need more faith. I need more prayer.”