Forget Me Not, Read online

  Forget Me Not

  By Juliann Whicker

  Copyright © 2016 by Juliann Whicker

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Glossary

  Elsyria- Elven people near annihilation from the century war

  Barabbas- Barbarian, warlike people ruled by the Unseen Emperor

  Cimarron- Barbass spice known for aphrodisiacal qualities

  Balthaar- General of the Emperor’s army, former viceroy

  Hatia- Elven maiden, mad, Lady Perr, The Wind Spinner

  Maltha- Green-skinned Rasha

  Hortham-Blue-skinned Rasha

  High Precept-Elsyrian chief

  Targen-Bashai high priest

  Rasha – Elsyrian soldiers

  Bashai- Emperor’s High Priests

  Olbase- soldier’s recovery station

  A Century Before:

  Maltha secured his shield to his back before he turned away from the laughing Dwarven, the men he’d fought with against the Barabbas, the Barbarians ruled by the Unseen Emperor whose cruelty was legendary. He had no smiles for them, partook of no wine, not when he was preparing to walk among the shadowed, the dead, to lay souls to rest and make quite certain none of the fallen were merely injured.

  The Rasha served other nations, other causes as part of their training. The body of Elsyrian warriors did not fight in wars and in armies, but trained with other races. Even a green-skinned Elsyrian must be trained who would rather have been weaving clouds with small magics, or growing life-giving fruits with his hands.

  The scent of death carried to him on the wind, the scent that he tightened his jaw against, ignoring the cawing of the pale crows as they fought over what had been life hours before. The sun was fading from the sky, spilling golden light over the plains littered with fallen Dwarven and Barbarian. He accepted the beauty as he accepted the death, chanting beneath his breath the words to give the earth rest, the souls peace.

  His concentration was broken by a sound other than the crows and the wind rustling the tall grasses. He heard her before he saw her.

  She sang in Barabbas to the tune of an Elsyrian lullaby. He frowned as he followed the sound over the gentle crest of a hill and saw her dancing in a silver dress. She held her arms wide as she spun, nearly floating over the corpse-strewn ground. Her skin, blue-tinged, made her look nearly like one of the dead barbarians, but her eyes glistened and her song filled the air with an electric buzzing that crawled over his skin.

  It was the song of despair, aching, brokenness. Maltha looked around, searching the plains for any living soul, but the girl seemed alone. Horribly alone. He strode through the trampled grass, deftly avoiding the fallen, Dwarven and Barabbas alike. She didn’t notice the bodies underfoot but leapt from one broken body to another, spinning, spinning, spinning.

  It wasn’t until he was quite close that he saw her throat, her torso wrapped in a scarf soaked in her own silver blood. Her face remained unmarred, perfectly whole, the face of a high-born Elsyrian maiden, a girl Maltha had known, Hatia, House of Perr. He went to her, calling her name in as many languages as he could remember, catching hold of her hands, trying to maintain eye contact, but she couldn’t see him, didn’t know him, had been lost for too long in the grip of the Bashai.

  There was no question of who had tortured her. The marks burned into her flesh were the twisted dark magics of the Unseen Emperors high priests. They had broken her mind, taken her memory, burned into her soul the worst wrong you could inflict on any Elsyrian. The Emperor had never harmed an Elsyrian in this way before. He had not been capable of such atrocity. Taking her, breaking her, releasing her into a camp where some few dozen Rasha practiced their arts, was his threat, his promise.

  The Elsyrians went to war for the first time in memory. Thus began the fury.

  Chapter 1

  Balthaar raised his sword, the dull blade reflecting the lowering sun’s rays along the chipped edge. The sun showed the etched glyphs in the metal, marks that Balthaar barely understood in spite of the fact that he’d learned the basics when he’d been Viceroy a hundred years before, in Bashai training. Balthaar had painstakingly etched every one of the marks over his century of service. The sword was more than a weapon of steel and iron. It sang in his hand when he raised it, sang a song of blood and death that shattered the ranks before him without a single stroke.

  The ranks of the Rasha parted before his sword, fell in spite of the marks on their own swords. For a century Balthaar had fought the Elsyrians, pushing back into their borders, taking one immortal life at a time, ever since the great fury, when the Elsyrians had fought in earnest a short time after Balthaar had quit his post as Viceroy and fled to the anonymous ranks of the Emperor’s army.

  Balthaar had not remained anonymous for long.

  After the final shriek before darkness fell, the armies withdrew through the clouds of dust and the scent of death to tents while medics took to the field with lanterns, to walk among the bodies in search of the wounded. The Barbarians hadn’t always sought their wounded, but after a century of battle, you tended to pick up more than etchings on swords from your opponent.

  Balthaar stopped abruptly in the doorway of his tent. He smelled Bashai. The peculiar scent, dried herbs and dried blood was something he’d never forget. The shadowy figure became even more ominous when Balthaar lit the lamp and saw the painted face of Targen, high priest of the Emperor.

  The streaks of red and black around his dark eyes couldn’t disguise the face he knew as well as his own.

  “Son of the Empire,” Targen said in a voice as dry and sharp as a whip.

  Balthaar forced himself to sheath his sword, his weary arm quick in spite of the day spent battling the fiercest Rasha.

  He bowed, ignoring the prickling at the base of his skull. One did not receive the head of the Bashai without the fear that had been carefully embedded into his bones during his earliest memories. Balthaar had been in line as priest, but had chosen war without permission from Bashai or the unseen Emperor.

  Targen had spent many hours tooling Balthaar into a weapon leaving Balthaar scars from the whips and knives the Emperor’s priests used to instill loyalty into his subjects.

  “Balthaar,” the priest said, his voice smooth and certain in spite of his age. There were perhaps a dozen priests who aged as slowly as Balthaar. The gift of longevity came from the Emperor, his blessing which could be revoked at any time. Balthaar had lived long enough that the gift felt bitter after burying so many comrades.

  “Targen,” Balthaar said, unbuckling his greaves. “What brings you to the front lines?”

  “The Emperor,” he said in a deceptively soft voice.

  Balthaar barely flicked a glance at him. “What service may I perform? Eternally may he reign.”

  The red streaked eyebrows lowered as the priest leaned forward, frowning at the general. “You have become accustomed to acting instead of thinking. You are not my first choice, but I understand the Emperor’s decision. You are the only blessed who chose war. As such, you are the one who will go to the heart of Elsyria an ambassador at the Elven Lord’s request.”

  Balthaar continued stripping off his armor expressionlessly while his mind raced. The army was fighting hard on this front against Elven and the small Dagmar resistance. If luck held, this, the last army between the Emperor and Elsyria would be defeated by the end o
f autumn. With winter to move the armies and organize supplies, the invasion of Elsyrian mainland could begin the following spring.

  Taking the general out of the war during this, the final great battle would only draw out the fighting, leading to more casualties beneath another leader, however experienced. Balthaar swallowed his protests as he focused on the shoulder straps that held his breast plate. After he undid them, he set the breast plate on the shelf and removed his padded vest. Argument was futile. He dipped a cloth in the basin and washed his face, scrubbing the war paint into streaks, his shoulder and chest, the old tattoos faded but still visible, the marks of the Viceroy, the blessed, those intended as priests of the Emperor.

  “No words?” Targen asked after the silence held too long in the old patched and repatched tent of the General of Barabbas.

  “I am honored by the privilege extended by his holiness. May he reign forever. It has been a very long time since I’ve used words in place of weapons.”

  Targen smiled slightly. “I am certain that you will do your part as ambassador with as much devotion and enthusiasm as you have played the part of general.” The words carried the bite of resentment, Targen acknowledging in his way Balthaar’s betrayal of the Bashai.

  The Barabbas general was being delivered like a lamb to the slaughter according to the Emperor’s will. He had served the Emperor’s army for a hundred years, but now that victory approached, he was being removed, cast aside, sent to die ignominiously amidst his long-fought foes. It was Balthaar’s execution, an order he’d waited a century for.

  Balthaar smiled at Targen and felt a flicker of satisfaction at the fear in the high priest’s eyes. It was something, to be considered a threat to the Unseen Emperor.

  Chapter 2

  The ship rose and fell as it crossed the wide bay. A brisk wind filled the white sails and pushed the vessel through the waves that slapped the hull. The winter rains would obscure the surrounding vista in the next few months, but for now, a few days before the autumn solstice, the sun shone on the verdant greenery along the coast of Elsyria, home of Elves and magic.

  General Balthaar stood at attention at the starboard, staring stonily at the dense forests that lined the shore. Elsyria couldn’t be more unlike his own homeland, Barabbas. Although he hadn’t been back for years, he considered the desert home. It left little to the imagination, revealing red rocks and brown swells so that you could see the horizon until it met the sky. Here trees crowded claustrophobically, masking the inhabitants of the cursed realm.

  Two of those Elsyrian soldiers, the Rasha, shared the ship with Balthaar as his guide and escort but aloof from the Barbarian.

  Balthaar shifted, missing the weight of his sword between his shoulders. Ambassadors, even pretend ones, did not carry such weapons. As such, he was allowed no more than a sliver of bronze tucked away in his boot. Balthaar tried to dismiss the shame, being taken from the ranks of his men to negotiate in the unlikely event that he wasn’t executed by the Elsyrian High Lord.

  He’d led the Barabbas armies fearlessly against the Elven magic that could confuse, terrify and distract its opponent. Those small things were the difference between conquering and being conquered. Balthaar’s hands tightened on the bulwark as he considered his men under the command of Soren, his second-in-command. The man was fearless, driven, as well as strategically adept, but could he push back the fear without Balthaar? Surely one man could not make such a difference, however, before Balthaar had taken command, the Emperor’s army had gained no traction against Elsyria.

  The two Elsyrians shifted their stances when the boat tilted to one side. The one with green-tinted skin became gray faced as he fought down nausea valiantly. Balthaar had seen thousands of sick and dying Rasha over the hundred years of his service. Green-skinned tended to have weaker stomachs than their blue-skinned companions.

  As an ambassador, Balthaar would be seeking peace and trust between the two races. As a general, he would strike while the man was weak.

  “The emperor’s will be my own,” he whispered, a prayer of sorts before he walked across the ship, dodging a seaman carrying a coil of rope on his path to the sick Rasha.

  “Ambassador,” the blue-tinted Rasha said with a hint of a bow, his silver eyebrow rising as he looked over Balthaar.

  “Noble warrior,” Balthaar said with his own slightly more respectful nod. “I have noticed that your friend requires some assistance. I have,” Balthaar struggled to keep his voice smooth and silky, the voice of an ambassador instead of the bellow of a general, “a blend of herbs that should soothe his ailment.” He took out the small packet of valerian and charcoal while holding onto a smile to cover his discomfort. Facing two Rasha without armor or weapon was enough to make the bravest barbarian shrink.

  “Blessings,” the blue-skinned man said, bowing and taking the packet without a smile. Of course the smile of a Rasha would be more of a threat than the smooth mask of indifference.

  Balthaar bowed again and turned back towards his place on the boat. The wind shifted as he stood at the prow, the wind carrying a flavor he could almost taste as he raised his face to the wind and leaned back, his calloused hands gripping the wood. He closed his eyes and the flavor of cimarron, slightly sweet with a musky undertone matched the warmth of the wind, blowing south from the deserts of Barabbas. Balthaar sighed and shook the bittersweet longing out of his heart. He hadn’t been back to the Emperor’s city for years, not for a hundred years. Odd how he could still remember the scent of cimarron, still remember the exact shade of her eyes.

  Chapter 3

  In the High City of Elsyria, Hatia Locentia Duramdive of the house of Perr, or as she was called beneath whispered breaths The Wind Spinner, walked the gardens around the ancient lake with its knotted, knobby trees half submerged along the shore. The beds were weed-filled, the paths overgrown, but Wind Spinner didn’t notice such trivialities. She greeted the crumbling statues like old friends.

  “Arden, how charming to see you. What’s that? You heard that Barbarians are enslaving Elsyrians and teaching them their own lore? What an interesting idea. Nonsense. As for barbarians building schools, perhaps we can hope for them civilizing themselves and us along with them.”

  The old, crumbling statue of Arden the prophet gazed over her head silently as she chattered. Her voice began strong but faded as she gazed above the stone statue to the branches above his head, heavy with pears. Insects chased delectable notes floating through the air. She smiled blissfully as she lost herself between the scent of the sun and the flowers.

  She started as someone jerked on her arm. She looked at the sandy-haired tall Elsyrian with pale apricot skin, trying to remember who he was.

  “Head Precept requests your presence, lady,” he said twisting his hands beneath the fine lace at his cuffs. He tried not to stare at her in her two different kinds of shoes, a scarf wrapped around her torso and secured with twine while her pants were frayed at the hem above her pale blue calves. He wouldn’t call her Wind Spinner to her face, not when he had a respectable position as the High Precept’s errand boy, but everyone knew the mad tenant of Perr Hall. However lovely she was with amethyst eyes and wisps of white hair, her eyes were always a bit too wide, her hands too anxious, fluttering instead of still and steady.

  She bowed elaborately to the statues, green scarf fluttering before she smiled and followed the boy through the overgrown and untenanted lower garden towards the more populated green spaces.

  The war had decreased the numbers of Elsyrians so substantially that there wasn’t the manpower to maintain the many gardens and buildings in High City. Everywhere you looked was crumbling stone, untended gardens, and a sense of abandonment.

  Lady Perr followed him down the wide marble steps, its pale golden veins sparkling under the sun. The city’s beauty made her pause, hesitating as she felt something that brought her hand to her heart. For a moment she remembered a different world with white blossoms richer, heavier than the scent of cimarron.
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  She shook her head and focused on the blossoms beside her. The errand boy forgotten, she left the path, wandering towards the flowers, purple-blue buds that dangled like miniature grapes but smelled like sweetness and clear blue sky. The color was close to her own eyes, purple-blue rare for an Elsyrian. She knelt among the flowers, trailing her fingers over the blossoms until a shadow threw the blue into a deeper hue.

  The High Precept stood above her, his aura of power that had burnt a long time and was coming near its end.

  “Hatia,” he said, his voice of wisdom, age, and a slightly creaky door.

  She stood to her full height, looking him in his pale green eyes before she bowed, hands outstretched as she performed the proper obeisance.

  “How may I serve the people?” she asked, her voice thin, like a note played on an improperly cured reed pipe.

  He turned, still spry enough and began walking, catching hold of her arm to keep her at his side instead of wandering along with her mind. His skin felt papery but unwrinkled, his grip still strong and firm in spite of his antiquity.

  “The people call you as host to the ambassador of Barabbas,” he said holding tightly to her arm so that when she tried to run she only tugged him a few steps. “It’s a high honor,” he reminded her sternly as she gazed at him like a deer staring down a hunter.

  “Barabbas and Elsyria are at war,” she said unsteadily, as though she weren’t certain.

  “Aye. For the past hundred years, blood has stained our countries,” the High Precept acknowledged with a frown. “Too long for a war no matter how noble it seemed at the beginning.”

  “A hundred years?” Lady Perr whispered. She bit her lips until a trail of silver blood welled up on her mouth. She wiped it away on the back of her hand, the silver smear against her skin. “War is an ugly thing,” she said slowly. “But I don’t understand why such an honor should be bestowed to the humble house of Perr,” she added looking up at the High Precept through her pale lashes.