The Humbled (The Lost Words: Volume 4) (66 page)

The ground shook. A huge column of boiling water and river silt shot skyward, obscuring his view. He dug his left hand into the snow and pulled himself away, trembling like a child. More explosions, more dust and snow swirling almost like a blizzard. He reached forward, jabbed his fingers into the frozen earth, and pulled again, panting, spitting, snot flying from his nose.

I need to get away
.

Like a cripple, he rolled over several times, dizzy, and lumped himself behind a rock. A blood trail marked his flight, but he wasn’t sure if Calemore could discern such details, wherever he was. At least he hoped not.

His leg needed fixing. Where was Jarman? He wanted to call for help, but there was no one around, just dead bodies. He looked behind him and saw the northern force moving. Soon enough, he would be surrounded by the enemy. They might not be able to kill him, but in his condition, neither could he kill them.

The magical attacks ceased. The Sirtai were probably exhausted. Calemore’s armies were moving slowly, inexorably, advancing. Soon, they would crush the people of the realms. No one could stop them. Not even he.

It’s over
, he figured.
I should never have used this cursed weapon
. If he had only used his muscles, he could have kept on killing the Naum soldiers without end. But he didn’t want to make that his legacy.

Your legacy is to die a nameless fool
.

He let out a long, shivering breath and slumped against the stone. The cold didn’t touch him. Only his ruined leg was on fire, and his shoulder burned. For a moment, he laughed, once, twice, the choked sobs of madness, then started crying. He didn’t want to admit it, but he was afraid.

CHAPTER 47

U
sing too much magic could kill you, Jarman knew.

You wouldn’t die right away, no, but it thinned your blood. And then you would succumb to simple diseases or the cold. That was why he ate so much red meat and drank goat’s blood after engagements with the Naum forces, but it never seemed enough.

Calemore had initiated a sudden strike half an hour earlier with his bloodstaff, surprising them all. After weeks of silent standoff as far as those terrible weapons were concerned, the White Witch had attacked, as if he didn’t care that the Sirtai might fight back. No one could guess what an immortal mind might concoct as his battle plan, but the witch was probably trying to kill Ewan.

Lucas and he had the boy shielded.

Jarman had readied to let loose a deadly volley against the witch. With luck, he might kill him.

Only, the enemy troops had suddenly surged forward, both massive camps at the same time, and even Jarman could see they would obliterate the defenders, totally, utterly, that very day. He had been forced to choose between hunting Calemore or killing his troops. Now, Lucas and he were busy trying to fend the huge tide off, to buy time, and each gout of magic
cost them more life. They were exhausted, trembling, and what little strength they had was oozing fast. Meanwhile, Calemore was free to sow destruction through the army ranks. Jarman hoped Ewan was fighting back with his own weapon.

Oh, he was so tired.

His friend was much stronger, but even the senior Anada had their limits. The tattooed wizard could fight for hours after Jarman slumped to the ground, weak and shivering and trying to keep bile down, but they just didn’t have enough power to stop the foe.

Jarman’s strength faltered. He dropped to one knee, dizzy.

The pain that lanced through his temples wasn’t his—it was Ewan’s.

“The boy is hurt,” Lucas rasped, even before Jarman could make his mouth form the words.

“I can’t hold the shield anymore,” Jarman whispered.

Lucas nodded grimly. His own magic was weakening. Their blasts were much smaller now, less accurate, landing in the water and on the near side of the river. Soon, they would have to stop and rest and let the people of the realms clash with the Naum invaders. They had probably butchered several thousand, but it did not seem to matter much. Not enough to change the course of the war.

“Help him,” Lucas spoke. He might be a life slave, but that was an order, from one wizard to another.

Jarman staggered upright, tottered over to a small backpack. Inside, he had strips of goat meat, several blood sausages. Like a madman ignoring the reality around him, he sunk his teeth into the soft, spiced flesh, munching loudly, sucking on the red fibers. He drank water, icy droplets running down his chin. He gulped honey from a glass jar, almost gagging on its sweetness.

“With me,” he muttered. Three Parusite men, all metal and fur, jogged after him. They ran through the ranks, heading toward the killing zone. Ranks parted to let them pass. Sergei’s men did not like the Sirtai—but they sure feared them.

The forest of men shifted, and then, Princess Sasha was there, in front of him.

She was saddled, armored, her chest and back plate covered in maroon leather, her gloves the color of old blood. The Red Caps were milling, getting ready for the fight. The survivors were all lean, scarred women, disillusioned about the glory of the war to the bone. Many had fingers and ears missing, and others leaned on their spears, pained by half-healed injuries.

Jarman halted, trying to catch his breath. His throat was on fire. He wanted to vomit again. “Your Highness!”

She turned her head, saw him, and her features contorted with distaste. She said nothing.

“I need help, Your Highness. I must rescue Ewan, but I need you to hold the enemy at bay. Please.” He wanted to sound important, but his voice was cracking with a breathless chill.

An officer at her side hawked and spat. Someone else muttered, “Freak.” The women hated the boy and his magic. They hated him and Lucas, too. The Parusites were all hostile.

“If he dies, we will lose this war,” he hissed desperately.

“You may not have faith, wizard, but we do,” another nameless face snarled.

Jarman remembered what Lucas had told him only days ago, the way he had spoken to Amalia. He was not yet ready for his first tattoo. He let the frustration subside.

“Please. We do not have much time. Please.”

The princess shrugged, an awkward motion in her armor. “Troops, advance.”

Jarman slouched with relief. The fact the Red Caps commander had planned to fight back all along did not matter. He was not going to let Ewan die over pride. He nodded his thanks at Sergei’s sister, and then he was pushing through the noisy crowd again.

The closer he got to the actual fighting, the worse it got. Men running back, throwing weapons, defeated in spirit even if their bodies were whole. Others, limping slowly to temporary safety. The northern army was crushing the foremost fortifications, flowing over the trenches and barricades like ants. To the east, the second host was starting to cross the Telore in a thousand small wooden rafts. They did not seem to hurry. Lucas’s magical blows had ceased. His friend must have been channeling all his power on protecting him—and Ewan.

Maybe just the boy.

Jarman pushed forward against the tide, feeling crazy. The snow had become brown pulp, and you could not tell blood and soil apart. He tripped on discarded gear, walked over bodies. Mutilated corpses, arms, and legs scattered. This had to be the work of the bloodstaff.

He saw Ewan hunching behind a rock, head lolling with pain. He was even pastier than usual, and his clothes were smeared in blood. It was hard telling if it belonged to him, because he still had not shed the rags he’d worn during the butchery some weeks back. Jarman felt a knot of pity for the lad.

Then, he saw the gash in his leg, and he remembered the pain earlier.

Ignoring the threat from Calemore’s weapon somewhere to the north or east, he dashed the last stretch across the churned battlefield and dropped to his knees near the Special Child. Ewan only looked at him lazily, eyes glazed with shock.

“Jarman…”

“Where are your wounds?” Jarman panted.

Ewan pointed at his legs, then at his bleeding shoulder. The second wound didn’t look serious. Jarman took a few deep breaths to steady his breathing, then started working his magic. He was so tired, and he had to stop twice to rest. But he managed to close the red maw. He scooped up some snow and wiped the red mess away. Sure enough, his healing was sound. The boy might limp for a while, but he would survive this injury.

“We cannot win this war. The witch is too powerful,” Ewan mumbled.

Jarman rubbed his forehead. “Let me use the bloodstaff.”

Ewan’s weary eyes lit up with mistrust, but then the glare faded. “It’s terrible.”

Jarman wondered about the price of vengeance. He thought about Sergei and his son. He thought about Amalia and her mother. His own reason why he was risking his life in this awful war.

Something snapped, like a twig. He saw a puff of snow to his left, then another. A piece of rock shattered, shards flying. As always, it took him a moment to realize it was the bloodstaff firing. The White Witch must have found them somehow. Or he was just shooting at the last position he had seen Ewan. But he thought he was most likely reacting to magic.

Then, it hit him.

Calemore could probably sense Special Children. And he seemed keen on killing them.

Had Rob been a Special Child, then?

There was no time for investigation now. He had to get Ewan to safety. He had to somehow make the witch stop his attack, before Lucas and he lost the last ounces of their strength.
Once that happened, they would all die, torn apart by silent red crystals.

“…was a god,” Ewan was saying, his voice low.

“What?” Jarman snapped, his voice shrill. The pellets were raking the ground, kicking up clouds of dirt and stone and ice. His eyes scanned the scene. Hundreds of bodies, hacked apart, thrown in lurid poses. Even some of the low barracks had been hammered down by the bloodstaff. Dead men, animals, broken lives everywhere. Ewan was still talking.

“Gavril is dead,” the boy whispered.

That does not surprise me
, Jarman thought, his father’s education slithering into his conscience. “Give me the bloodstaff, please.”

A red arrow exploded a few paces away, shattered against an invisible bubble of magic protecting him.

“Can you fight?” Jarman asked, his fingers inching toward the slender glass rod.

Ewan blinked slowly. “I don’t want to do this killing anymore.”

Jarman grimaced. “You must. Otherwise we all die.”

Ewan closed his eyes. “Let us die.”

“No, please. Think of the people and their families. Think of all the innocent souls. Your friends.”

The boy’s blood-spattered lids snapped open, oily vigor shining in his eyes once again. He looked at his hands, lingering on the crippled one, as if seeing them for the first time. “I will use my hands. Calemore will not know then.”

Jarman’s hand closed on the ancient weapon. A tingle went down his spine. “May I?”

Ewan swallowed. “Yes. But you will give it back, wizard. This magic does not belong to the Sirtai.”

Jarman lifted the bloodstaff. It was surprisingly light and yet heavy at the same time. Just right. There was still a quarter of the blood left inside the hollow rod.

Noise behind him. Jarman spun, lowering the staff. He saw the standards of the Parusite army and the Red Caps rippling in the wind, moving forward. Not two bow shots away, the Naum white host was churning south. The shuffle of boots and the groan of leather and metal were growing in intensity, becoming a gravely susurration. He could feel the rhythm in his gut.

Princess Sasha was doing her best to protect him. He should not squander her generosity. There was no time for selfishness now.

He turned north and pressed the black dots as he had seen Ewan do. He expected the weapon to twitch, like a crossbow, but nothing happened. No sound, no movement, just a steady stream of crimson death flowing toward the enemy. He realized he was aiming too high, above the heads of the front ranks. He lowered the bloodstaff, and soon enough, a pink haze engulfed the enemy. He spent the weapon in seconds.

Ewan grabbed his robe, trying to stand up. The boy clambered up, nursing his injured leg. Jarman ignored the boy, staring at the red pulp, at the mushy horror he had created. Calemore was probably still firing at them, but he didn’t notice. A wave of friendly troops swept past, and the enemy was gone from sight.

Ewan stumbled forward, trying to get pulled into the stream of soldiers. Jarman held him back. “No. Not now. You must rest first. You must recuperate. We have to get back.”

Red death rained around them. Soldiers tumbled like broken dolls, missing limbs and heads. Few screamed, if they had
time to scream. They died as if wiped away from existence. The storm moved along the front of the Parusite van. Sasha was drawing the fire away. She had bought them some precious time. Maybe Calemore could only sense magic when it was used.

He started retreating, Ewan staggering, eyes still riveted north. The boy was tense, and far too strong to stop. Jarman could only hope he would follow.

His hopes crumbled as Calemore aimed his weapon back in their direction once again. They were running now, left and right, trying to dodge the red pellets. The world turned white and gray, a cloud of debris choking him. He hoped Lucas would have enough skill and stamina to keep shielding them. Jarman had nothing left. Nothing.