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

Only now they weren’t dappled in gray or green or dusty brown. They were white, white as milk. It was winter, and snow came to Pakin just as merrily as any other place.

You couldn’t really know where the world ended and where it started with that snow. The land and sky met in a hazy white line, too soft to discern, so you felt like you stood inside a giant white ball and waited for it to lurch and make you fall. Pakin dizziness, they called it, and always laughed when newcomers fell for it their first winter.

Normally, Dejan and Bill would stand guard by the tiny gate leading into their prison, reciting the same stories and experiences, lying somewhat and making up things as they went, with what little flexibility their unimaginative minds allowed. No one really cared. It was that or thinking, and neither wanted too much time inside his own head.

In winter, it was too cold to brace the half-day shift standing frozen in place. So they paced around the outpost, retracing steps with alarming accuracy. They counted away the piss stops, jaundice-yellow spots in the snow crust that surrounded them. They would sometimes pause north of the camp and stare as far as the land would allow them, guessing where the end of the world was.

Why post a camp there, no one knew. Why guard when no one ever came, no one knew. It really didn’t matter. For all Dejan cared, the outpost had been built for him.

He felt it strange there were only twenty-odd souls in Pakin. He could not believe there were so few troublemakers in the army. But then, he guessed only people like him got here. He had ten years, six more left. Bill had started with four for theft, but still had more than two left, despite having been at the outpost for as long as Dejan. Bill used to get in trouble until he realized he would die at Pakin if he kept at it.

They stood like that today, staring at the brilliant pearly expanse surrounding them, the wooden square their only reference point, their anchor in a soft insanity. They weren’t talking much. It was the first hour of their watch, so they had to oil their souls for words.

Dejan sensed a presence behind him and turned. The sergeant was standing on his watch platform, making sure they had begun their shift. Dejan lifted his spear in half salute. Ignoring him, the sergeant simply climbed down the ladder and vanished from sight. He would check on them a few more times, and then ring a bell to let them know their duty was done.

Then Dejan saw another pair come around the outpost’s west corner and begin their endless circles. More would join soon. He squinted against the blinding glimmer of old snow and tried to identify the other two soldiers—the one they called Brick, for having stoved a friend’s head with a piece of baked clay, and Blu, an old man, walking with a stoop and a hobble from his bad back. He had been at Pakin the longest, even longer than the sergeant. No one knew what his crime might have been, but he had a frightening glint in his eye. No one messed with the frail man, and newcomers were quick to accept the facts from the veterans.

Dejan turned back north, toward the nothingness. Bill was breathing slowly, deeply, one of his permanently blocked nostrils chirping, mist veiling from under his shawl, an old, filthy thing crusted with snot.

Dejan wanted to say something, but whatever it was that rose to the top of his mind sank back into the tarry muddle. He blinked. He rubbed his eyes, let the purple dots dissipate, stared. No, he was not mistaken.

“Bill?” he whispered, his throat dry from not talking since the previous evening.

“What?” Bill said.

“See there?” Dejan pointed with his spear, the most unused weapon in the history of Eracia.

His friend squinted hard, even leaned forward. “What?”

“Something’s there,” Dejan insisted. It looked just as white as the landscape, but there were other colors, too, gray and maybe some black, small dots that stood out like fire against the bleached surrounding. Yes, definitely. Something was there. And getting bigger.

Coming toward them.

Impossible.

“Ain’t nothing north,” Bill stated, assured.

Dejan wanted to agree, but his eyes were not lying to him. “Look!”

It took several minutes before Bill saw it too, something tall, thin coming toward them. “What the fuck?” he sputtered into his shawl.

Dejan hated Pakin for being what it was, the most boring pit in the whole world, but he had also come to appreciate its dead certainty, the unchanging routine that was, all in all, immensely reassuring. You knew, if you followed the rules, that you would see yourself outlive your penalty, unless you were buggered for life, and go back to civilization. You hated the place with every grain of your being, but you liked its sterile, austere boredom, because it had no disease and no dangers. You could count on Pakin to yield no nasty surprises, to keep you safe until your time came to go home.

Which meant an apparition from the north was not good news.

Fear started clenching its jaws, making his stomach rumble. Suddenly, he felt like shitting. But you couldn’t shit on your watch line, no. Piss was fine, but not shit. You’d have to wade deeper into the snow. Only, his legs would not obey.

He saw Bill’s lip quiver with fear, too. Dejan cast a quick glance behind him and saw three more pairs of soldiers standing there, like statues, staring north, just like him, rolling the same thoughts. Some noticed him and looked back, their eyes filled with fear. Dejan knew what they were thinking.

There was nothing north of Pakin. ’Twas the end of the world.

So what the fuck was that thing coming from there?

Time passed. The thing grew larger. It became a man on a horse. A man, dressed all in white, riding a white horse. There was silver and black, leather and pins on the reins and saddle. Dejan watched with fascination and icy terror as the man approached. All around, the entire meager contingent of Pakin had come out to witness the impossible.

The snow rustled as the horse plodded on. Dejan could hear the jangle of metal. He could see steam pouring from the animal’s nostrils. He could see the rider, grinning. He allowed himself an icy breath of relief. This was just a man, riding a horse. Just a man.

But coming from where?

“My, my, what a lovely audience,” the rider said, breaking the endless silence.

Dejan felt a drop of hot piss inch down his left leg before it got soaked up in his woolen breeches. The sound of that voice was terrifying. Clear, loud, beautiful, and impossible.

More resourceful, more imaginative men would have organized some kind of defense. Smarter people would have realized the danger of a lone figure coming from the empty reaches north of the outpost and taken their chances fleeing south with what little water and bread they had. But Pakin had its special share of thinkers, and all they did was gawk like idiots as the man in white came into their midst.

“Anyone got a tongue here?” the rider asked. “Anyone not a moron?”

Dejan looked at Bill. His friend was shivering with terror. Dejan spared a quick glance at his colleagues. They all just stood, petrified, their half-exposed faces twisted with deep, primal fear. Blu, that evil glint gone. Brick, Shawn, even the sergeant, scared shitless.

“You,” the rider said, pointing at him.

“Me?” Dejan heard himself say.

“Oh, you can speak. Yes, you, bird neck.”

Dejan rubbed his hand down the shaft of his unused spear. Almost instinctively, he let it clatter away. “Me?”

The rider groaned. “A whole army camp of cretins. What a remarkable sight. I truly hope things are a little better further south. What’s this outstanding place called?”

“Pakin,” Dejan answered dutifully.

“Excellent. This would be…Eracia?”

Dejan nodded. Bill’s breath was wheezing, sharp and quick, through his snotty nostrils.

The rider removed an exquisite leather glove and stroked the thick neck of his white beast. The horse made a soft rumbling sound of appreciation. “Good. Well then, it’s been fun. Now I must be on my way.” And with that, the rider moved on, leaving hoofprints in the pristine snow flanking the outpost from its east side.

“Sir!” Dejan realized he had shouted. Why had he done that? Why?

The man in white stopped. Dejan could see his white cloak lined in white fur, the powerful neck, the silver hair. He could see the man square his shoulders. And then, he tugged on the reins and turned his powerful steed around. Dejan felt more warmth spread down his leg. “Yes?”

“There isn’t nothing north of here,” the soldier turned rapist turned prisoner croaked.

The man in white smiled. “Isn’t there? So where do you think I come from?”

Dejan braved his fate. “Where do you come from, sir?”

The rider opened his mouth as if to laugh, but then he let out only a soft sigh between his perfect pearly teeth. “I doubt you would have heard of Naum. You haven’t? Of course.”

Dejan knew he would never face anything more interesting, more exhilarating, more frightening during his stay at Pakin, or for however long he lived. He had to ask. “Who are you, sir?”

The rider grinned almost sympathetically. “I am the ruler of this land. And I’m back.”

And then he was gone, riding south.

CHAPTER 1

E
mperor Adam was dead.

The most ferocious ruler in all of the realms was dead. Perversely, in sharp contrast to the birth of his violent, war-drenched tyranny, he had died peacefully, in his sleep. Eighteen years of a dangerous, unpredictable rule had ground to a halt.

His death took everyone by surprise. And now, there was only one question they all asked: what next?

Councillor Stephan leaned on the balcony rail, staring at the early morning landscape of western Caytor. Former western Caytor, he corrected himself. This land was Athesia now, had been for nigh twenty years. Most of the people who lived here had been born as the free citizens of the godless empire.

Two paces away, an Eracian nobleman called Vincent shared the same pose, looking contemplatively at the brown-and-green hills, tiny details blurred by the river mist of what promised to be an exceptionally hot spring day.

Officially, the two men were enemies, although the kind of enemies that you may want to invite to a social occasion and then insult in the politest of ways. There had not been a major conflict between Eracia and Caytor in two generations, not counting the fiasco with the Feorans. The sons and daughters of the two realms mostly had Adam the Butcher to thank for the cool, aloof peace that existed. For the last eighteen years, Athesia had been the new border that separated former foes. Adam’s crazy military campaign had robbed Caytor of a sizable chunk of its best land and halved the armies of both realms, but out of this embarrassing defeat, a new hope had been born.

For the Caytorean nobility, Emperor Adam had been the best thing that could have happened to their ailing, dying country. Infested with the Feoran rabble, Caytor had been edging away from a powerful, prosperous realm built on trade toward a poor, chaotic anarchy based on religion and animalism. And then, all of a sudden, like the fire of the gods, Adam had cleansed the Feoran curse away, giving the rest of the land back to the High Council of Trade. Western Caytor was a small price to pay.

The Eracians probably did not like Adam much. He was one of their own, really. He had been the antihero, a simple man of simple birth who had proved to be smarter than their best generals and more popular than even the Eracian monarch. Half the Eracian soldiers had fled their army and joined his ranks. It had been an insult of the highest order. Still, like the Caytoreans, the Eracians were forever indebted to this strange emperor. Adam had spared their country the wrath of the Feoran plague and created a powerful buffer between Eracia and Caytor. Now, they could no longer bicker with their neighbors.

“The man is dead,” Vincent said, breaking the silence.

Councillor Stephan turned to regard the man. He was an old, proud Eracian noble, old enough to have been a green officer in one of the last border skirmishes between their two countries, old enough to have seen the world change.

“He was a strange man,” Stephan agreed carefully.

Duke Vincent turned to face him. “Our armies are still building up their numbers to what they were before the Great Desertion.”

“And we are still rebuilding all that was lost in the twenty years of the Feoran infestation.” Stephan leaned back. “Still, we have not lost a soldier to an Eracian blade in two decades. That must mean something.”

The other man nodded somberly. Stephan noted a hint of fear in those pale and unforgiving eyes. Yes, that was it. Fear. Emperor Adam may have been a thorn in both their sides, but he had brought a brutal stability to the Realms. He had been such a convenient target for the envy and frustration in their two countries. For all that they blamed and hated him, he had turned out to be their best ally.

A strange beast he was, Emperor Adam, Stephan pondered. Such duality. He had never tried to thaw his angry, cold stance toward the other two realms, let alone his outright animosity toward Parus. And yet, he had allowed free trade and passage. At the same time, he had never tried to insinuate his presence into the courts and guild houses of his neighbors. He had never asked for any favors, no political marriages, nothing. He had ruled in a simple, bleak, almost depressing manner. And yet, somehow, he had managed to make the Realms better, safer than they had ever been.