The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) (17 page)

She was a smart girl, strong, intelligent, and proud, but her motives came from another world, a world of someone who had never missed a meal, or ten, never had to fight for scraps in a shit-filled gutter, never had to kill for food, never had to beg or let strangers abuse her for the sheer fun of it. Adam had done his best to instill the survival instincts into her, give her the edge of brutality that would help her survive when her moment came.

Without the filth and blood, it came off as petulance.

“Father was the most feared ruler in the realms,” Amalia moaned.

He was dear, he was. And it had nothing to do with him being the emperor
. “Your father was a hard man. But he was a just, merciful man. He knew the difference between right and wrong. He never hurt innocent people. He was the gentlest soul I’ve ever known.”

Amalia seemed surprised by her mother’s words. “What should I do, Mother?”

“Do not mistake kindness and generosity for weakness.”

“But if I relent, Caytor and Eracia will have won.”

“Won what, dear? The only victory is that you see Athesian people live in peace and prosperity. It’s not about what the High Council may think or what the monarch in Somar may do. It’s only about your people. They are your responsibility. You answer only to them. Who cares what the Caytoreans think. Let them hate you.”

It was such a simple thing for Lisa. When you’ve lived your life at the bottom of the cesspool for years, the floating turds on the top felt like delicatessen. Hate was meaningless. Hate could not hurt you or steal your food.

“Focus all your defenses on making Athesia strong. Make sure our borders are protected against military threat. Make sure you negotiate fair and favorable trade agreements from a position of power.”

“It’s too late now, Mother. I can’t let the hostages go. They will think I have been cowed by their schemes.”

Lisa smiled. Amalia was young and stubborn, as befitting a woman who had grown up feared and respected and loved without having to fight for it.

“Listen to your mother. Let the hostages go.”

The empress was quiet for a few moments. “I can’t do that.”

Lisa did not press. Her daughter had chosen to stake her claim in power and intimidation, just like her beloved Adam. She sighed.
So be it
. Lisa just hoped Amalia would be smart and strong enough to endure the emotional battle that lay before her. She would have to learn the price of ultimate sacrifice, of sending friends and loved ones to war, of seeing all she held dear totter on the brink of destruction.

Lisa could have been the empress, but she did not have the desire to rule. She could not do it. She had helped her husband create this nation, and that was enough for her. Now, it was her daughter’s journey. Amalia was rash and dangerous, but she was also brave. She was Adam’s blood.

But was that enough? It had to be.

CHAPTER 11

N
either Sergei nor his sister were leaving anything to chance. While their armies advanced each its own way, north and northeast, both his own force and the Red Caps maintained sizable patrols everywhere in between, making sure nothing and no one got past. From a strategic point of view, there was a handsome gap separating the two Parusite detachments, a weak spot in the middle, where enemy forces could sneak in and attack the exposed flanks. There was no news about any Athesian initiative, but King Sergei did not want his campaign to fail due to some foolish oversight.

A detachment of Red Caps had joined his ranks the week before. It was the third company of light riders to have reached him. He had sent four large and dozens of smaller patrols north and west. They scouted ahead of the main body, hunting for bandits and enemy troops. They were armed with crossbows and longbows and led tough hunting dogs with them, which could spring tirelessly for hours and run down anyone and anything.

Athesian land was just a few short days away. The land was changing, from arid to lush, from hard limestone that did not permit many plants to grow freely to large stretches of poplar and beech and tiny streams crossing the green hills.

With every league crossed, they were seeing more enemy troops, small bands of scouts and rangers and maybe even hunters, prowling the land. For all their complacence, the Athesians exhibited a fairly high level of border activity, maybe even paranoia. But this far from the grip of the throne, this could mean anything. Border outposts were normally manned by green troops, auxiliary units, and troublemakers. Far from law and order, they could be governing themselves, defiling the Parusite soil and taking liberties.

Sergei’s men were extra careful finding and hunting them down. A soldier who never came back home would arouse suspicion, but far less than one galloping back with a cry of a huge enemy host marching to war against his realm.

Whatever the case, the Athesians were unprepared for war. His eyes and ears reported the enemy had only a token force in the south. Even if they knew Parus was attacking, they had no time to mobilize their legions in time for any significant defense effort. He had prepared for this war for many years; they would have days. It was going to be a total rout. Sergei expected no opposition all the way to Roalas.

The evening was setting. His columns were slowing down for the night. Stretching for miles, the wagons full of soldiers, food, and equipment would take another two hours arriving. His vanguard would always set out first, covering one-third of the day’s miles before the tail of the army broke camp and followed. It was a logistic nightmare, and it slowed down their progress, but it was inevitable and fully under control. Food was almost always the problem with large armies, but Sergei had planned well and had entire regiments of foragers riding out, buying from local villages and farms.

The king traveled with the elite forces just after the vanguard, which gave him the optimal mix of daylight to travel and command the force and nighttime to rest. But first he prayed, with his son and several of his dukes and archdukes. Holy Brother Ivan presided over the ceremony that day. From the corner of his eye, Sergei watched Duke Oleg’s lips move rapidly, his face quivering with emotion, weeping.

Soon, the crowd dispersed. Sergei removed the sweaty tabard off his chest and threw it at Ipatiy, one of his squires. The boy deftly caught the filthy garb, never losing his stride. He was a not-so-distant cousin to Archduke Bogomir, Vlad’s tutor and father-in-law. He looked like a promising young man, but his son did not really like him or talk to him, although both were of the same age.

His sister’s newcome troops had settled not far from his position, a secluded pocket of women amidst a cauldron of men. There was no disorder, though. The Red Caps were respected and even feared. No life-happy Parusite soldier bothered his female colleagues.

Unlike his father, Sergei permitted soldiers a fair degree of freedom when it came to life’s simple vices. They could drink, gamble, and whore, within reason. Sergei realized the importance of these sinful gestures. It was good for morale and loyalty. He had made agreements with the clergy so they turned a blind eye to the soldiers’ behavior. The priests would get their reward in due time.

The night sky was turning oddly luminescent blue and a velvety shade of purple, almost romantic. It was cool and pleasant.

Half an hour later, fires were burning, thousands of them, men gathered for warmth, company, and money. His soldiers had two hours before the mandatory sleep time. Sentries had spread about the camp, far from the fire to preserve their night vision. Patrols walked the perimeter, taking no chances. Any soldier who strayed too far from his organic group had to identify himself by rank and unit. King Sergei would not allow spies and infiltrators to ruin his plan.

The noise of chaos settled like fine dust over the forest of tents, wagons, and thousands of soldiers and craftsmen gathered. An occasional odd noise spiked through the hum of the huge camp, a laugh, a curse, a yelp of surprise, an odd scream, dogs barking, the jangle of weapons. Smells spread, sweat, oil, old, musty leather, animals, and burnt meat. Insects buzzed, drawn by the sea of lights. The huge poplars rustled.

Behind the main camp’s location, across a curve of knolls barely worth their size, a nameless river gurgled, with that much more gurgle caused by thousands of soldiers taking a piss and washerwomen cleaning soiled clothes, preferably upstream. The sprawling support body had appropriated the sandy riverbank as their nighttime position, since it was easier for them to feed the huge herds of cattle, swine, and mules. Sergei would have liked his forces concentrated, but he knew the risk of having too many people pressed together, with bad hygiene for entertainment. At the moment, Sergei feared disease more than he feared enemy troops.

Again, as usual, the king spent his evening hours briefing the commanders of the vanguard and flank units about the next day’s maneuvers. Starting tomorrow, they would be covering less and less territory, shortening their march by one hour every day. He wanted to give his men enough time to rest. Longer camp time would also permit craftsmen to repair any damage to weapons and battle gear so his troops arrived fresh and ready. They also needed to be more careful now that they approached Athesia. Sergei did not want to stretch his forces too thin. Despite his best precautions, he feared a surprise attack by the foe. Adam’s daughter was a weak whelp, but even puppies could bite.

And then, there were all those stories about the legendary Athesian weapons that could kill thousands from vast distances.

There had been no scribes or bards present at the battlefield. Or if there had been, they had smartly let the Parusite troops charge and then fled when none came back. The few witnesses had told broken, confusing tales of invisible arrows killing everyone. Must be nonsense, Sergei thought, but there was always an inkling of truth even to the wildest folk stories. All those bodies had come home, bloated, purple, eaten by flies and worms, and with large, clean wounds as if made by fire and lance.

But he sure was not going to be cowed by empty legends of shame. It was easier to cope with the defeat by imagining magical foes rather than face reality. Vlad had believed himself invincible and got his entire army killed. Sergei had no such illusions. He simply believed in cold, hard steel.

Around him, his three squires and a small army of servants were setting up for the night, polishing his boots and armor, mending broken gear, lighting lamps, laying out paper and ink and leather maps for the meeting with his nobles. His best cook, Timur, was wearing a sour face while preparing a pair of black lizards for supper. Even after having been taken on half a dozen campaigns with his lord, the man disliked combat gear and dirty, noisy travels. But he made supreme meals, so Sergei took him anywhere he went. Lizard in honey was one of his favorites.

He had grown to like the little things since childhood. Most desert raids were kill-or-be-killed missions, a test of endurance and sheer will and survival instincts. They would ride out fat and proud and wearing gleaming armor and come back with half their weight lost to the merciless sun and to hunger and half their men buried in the shifting sands. With little to no food available, they had often resorted to eating snakes and rodents and whatever the arid desert would provide. Awful and scrawny, he had soon learned to like the lizards. Giddy with childish fear and the primal deliverance of his first kills in battle, the taste had transformed from bits of meat into a memory of power and thrill. It was an odd choice of food for a king, but he did not mind.

Messengers started arriving, delivering all kinds of news and reports. The last and final batch of lords from these northern reaches had joined his force. It only made sense; rather than having them march to Sigurd and then back again to their remote home ranges, Sergei had bidden them wait for his arrival. Like tiny streams joining a big fat river, they trickled and coalesced into a churning mass.

Most of these men were barons and baronets, minor lords, semi-exiled knights, people he hardly knew by face or name. But like the rest of them, they were united in their support for the king and would see the Parusite honor avenged after so many years. Tailing them were scores of free riders and coistrels, and hundreds of nomad bands and mercenaries, all eager for their share of war and pillage.

Sergei had avoided visiting cities and outposts. His force was too large for anyone to sustain for too long, even the rich and powerful dukes. Besides, he did not want rumor to spread. Keeping the army off the main arteries except for long, empty stretches of dusty roads wiggling north, he made swift and spartan progress. There were no banquets, no wild drinking parties, no dawdling. There would be plenty of time for that later.

Tomorrow, though, they would go back to the main road north—Gerassim’s Stride, it was called—until they reached the border.

The king sat down, stretching his muscles, sipping watered wine, and thinking. Giorgi, his adjutant, was writing in his log, detailing today’s doings. The evening meeting would be brief, just so everyone knew what was expected of them. He had considered hosting a dinner, but decided against it. They were all busy as it was.