The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) (24 page)

CHAPTER 15

S
ergei watched with pride. Almost the entire Parusite order of battle was arranged on the south bank of the Telore River, the serpentine line that divided the two realms. All of them pressed together, a cauldron of road dust and glistening weapons. Within a few days, they would launch the attack. In the west, Sasha’s female forces awaited command. In the east, the Oth Danesh were ready to raid the shores. Time for revenge was nearing.

Parus ended where Athesia started in a vast expanse of wild grass and short trees and narrow strips of wheat and barley. The Telore was a shimmering silver snake wriggling through the lush fields. Tiny, isolated fishing villages and forgotten trade posts that bent knee to no king and paid no taxes dotted both shores, now under siege by his troops. No one was allowed to travel and spread word of the impeding invasion. Several thousand special troops and scouts were deployed deep into enemy territory, hunting Athesian patrols and border units. The attack would be a bloody surprise.

Two large, flat barges were ferrying troops and animals to the far side, skimming sluggishly on the lazy water like gigantic bugs. Hundreds of smaller boats and cogs fluttered around, just recently pressed into royal service. Men cursed as their wagons skidded on wet land and mud sucked at their boots. The screech of ducks hiding in the rushes was unbearable.

Black smoke billowed upriver, a mile away. But those weren’t fires of destruction; those were fires of labor. The place was called Bridgen, and unsurprisingly, it had a bridge, the only one for two days in either direction. Securing both the town and the crossing had been a simple thing, but the simple wooden construction hadn’t been built for tens of thousands of armored men and warhorses and carts loaded with iron and rope. His engineers were busy trying to strengthen the pillars even as his troops deployed inside enemy territory, building small, defensible outposts surrounded by dykes and spikes. All of the smiths that could be found in nearby hamlets had been conscripted. They worked alongside Parusite men, hammering day and night, building props and tools and joints for bridge support.

A delegation of frightened village mayors and elders from both sides of the river had petitioned to see him, pleading that he spare their sons and daughters and not burn their homes. They had been surprised to learn that he intended nothing sinister, just a secure passage north and half their supplies and tools. He even gave them letters of credit for their effort.
Come to Sigurd, and I shall pay you back
, the paper notes said. Athesians and Parusites, they came together and regarded him as a stranger. One of the elders from the far side had even called him “my king” until he realized he spoke to the wrong ruler. It was almost amusing.

At Sergei’s side, Count Pavel looked smug and dejected at the same time. After years of being neglected, he now expected to be paid in full, but the villagers simply had no gold.

The crossing was proceeding as a large transport should; it was a controlled chaos, slow and messy and riddled with incidents. There had been some forty broken legs and arms, a bagful of fingers lost when soldiers tried to pry loose stuck wheels and entangled chains, several men drowned, and a soldier died from heatstroke. A dozen soldiers, Borei mercenaries, and some locals had been caught stealing pigs and were hanged with the first light. Another sell-sword had tried kidnapping a maid from a village and was caught, flogged, and forced to pay her father for the damages and apologize. A bored youth had been throwing rocks at the meandering convoy and got shot in the stomach by an equally bored soldier with a crossbow. He hadn’t died, but his fate did not inspire his family to trust the foreigners.

Sergei expected at least two more days of this chaos. He had already chosen a spot for camp and would cross among the last units. Yuri’s men and newly acquired troops were ranging ahead, as they were most familiar with the region.

Vlad the Younger had joined his father earlier that morning. Sergei had spoken to Archduke Bogomir about his son earlier. The boy was performing well. While he still needed a few more years of combat experience to become a real leader, he had a natural streak for command. He was easygoing and charming. Soldiers listened to him. Most importantly, he made careful, balanced decisions. It was probably the most important trait in the future king and the nation’s ruler.

His son stood some distance away, shoulders pushed back, trying to swagger among older nobles. He was the youngest commander by far, with Count Stanislov, the closest to him in age, a whole five years older. Vlad never missed an opportunity to emulate his seniors, mimicking their mannerisms and style. Unconsciously, he alternated between a noble, a proud prince, a soon-to-be-father, and a child still not quite sure what he was doing here.

Taking him along had been a bold move. The boy might be a little young for bloodshed, but he was learning golden lessons of military leadership and the untold, inglorious hardship of logistics. Sergei made sure other nobles in his command reported to his son daily, telling him of any unusual activities, updating him on their supplies and water levels and other crucial details. Sergei was hoping Vlad would grasp the lethal importance of the noncombat elements of war. Fortunately, he had, with even more zeal and attention than Sergei could have hoped for.

Vlad was not a big man yet. The padded leather armor hung from his frame like an oversized coat. But he was already gaining weight. Lugging his battle gear around, riding for many hours a day, laboring under the cruel sun, he was turning into more of a man by the day. His face was sunblasted and harsh, a far cry from the milky complexion he had sported back home.

Sergei remembered his very first excursion into danger. Vlad the Fifth had taken him hunting desert wolves at the age of ten. It had not been a pleasant experience. There had been discomfort and pain and nausea. There had been endless hours of riding across arid plains and broken hills, hours following trails down steep ravines. There had been fever and sun blisters and humiliation. And at the end of all that, he had been forced to skin dead animals.

Sasha had never balked. She had always been more vicious than he.

Lord Vasiliy had been far more aware of the trauma these gestures of violence could cause, even if the victim were the future king of the realm. He had taught both Sergei and Sasha the art of war, but they had both spent hundreds of hours of combat practice and horse riding before ever going on their first raid. Even then, Vasiliy had kept Sergei away from the blood and torture. Only a year short of being crowned the king had the regent finally let him take life. By then, Sergei had been ready for it.

His son was almost of that age now. In a little more than a year, he would be old enough to rule the realm if something befell his father. Young Vlad was a skilled fighter. He had earned his honor among men in both the practice yard and in real action. Like Sergei, he was deft with sword and javelin and knew how to survive in the desert. But Vlad had not yet killed anyone.

Sergei planned for Vlad’s troops to participate in mopping actions after the major frays. They would hunt down survivors and round up prisoners. They would fight the last pockets of resistance, with the prince-heir in command. His son would taste real combat in small doses first. It would give him time to appreciate the horror of war, give him time to learn how to respond to his fears. Archduke Bogomir would always be close by, guiding and helping the prince, protecting him if need be. His son would make his first kill before this war ended.

This was a critical lesson. The boy could not become a king if he did not know what it meant to take life. But he would learn mercy and justice, too. He would have to face the ultimate danger and stand up to it. He would send his men to their death. And he would learn when to fight and when to hold his ground and wait for a better opportunity. He would learn comradeship and the intimacy of soldiers that transcended bloodlines and ranks. He would know raw survival and bone-deep fear and disgust and loathing. It had to be done.

“Sire,” the boy called.

“Yes, Vlad?” Sergei answered.

“I wish to consult with you, sire,” his son said.

Sire, not father, Sergei thought. It would not be appropriate for Vlad to call him father now, here, around soldiers. They were brothers-in-arms now.

Sergei doffed his cracked leather gloves. “Speak.”

The prince rubbed his spotless chin. “I have consulted with Dukes Bogomir and Vsevolod. If you let me lead the first assault, I would be honored.”

And he was wondering about who would lead the charge, he thought sourly. Sergei did not like this idea. The Borei would keep to the rear, along with Vlad’s forces. They would not engage until near the Athesian capital. He did not want to waste olifaunts on secondhand units they might encounter soon. And his son would need his time to learn war.

“That was not my idea,” the king said reluctantly. The dukes must have thought he would be impressed. They were trying to earn favors through his son. Well, not quite. “You will protect the rear of our attack for now. When we reach Roalas, we will think of a new strategy.”

The boy opened his mouth, as if he intended to disagree, but he would not do that. Never in public. The king’s word was law. He nodded. “Yes, sire.”

Captain Speinbate watched the exchange with mild if respectful amusement. He was enamored with the official father-son business. The Borei were not really formal, and they tended to share wives among family members. They did not consider incest much of a problem, either. The priests hated them. One day, he would pay the price of having them around, Sergei knew.

There was more than one reason to keep the mercenary in the back. Sergei was not really sure how their monstrous things would perform in combat. He did not want to have his first attack ruined because of gigantic grass eaters. And despite lavish promises of glory and power, he did not know if the Borei could be trusted. They fought purely for gold, after all.

A dull-faced woman stood behind the captain, staring stupidly at the cauldron of men and banners converging toward the riverbank. She looked pale and sickly and maybe even drugged. The Borei were sick bastards, Sergei knew.

Moments later, a rider arrived at a brisk trot. A wall of soldiers closed on him. “Your Highness, a messenger for you,” the sergeant of the guard called.

Sergei beckoned they let him pass. Dismounted and disarmed, the dusty courier shuffled over, walking the slow, pained gait of a man who had spent the best half of the day riding hard.

“Your Highness,” he saluted, “I bring news from Archduke Vasiliy.”

Sergei flicked his fingers impatiently. The man handed over a horn tube. The king tapped on the tube bottom, goading the paper roll out like a snail coming out of its shell, broke the wax seal, spread the message, and read, squinting in the fading sunlight.

News from home.

The steward of the Crown reported good weather and rich fields and peace. Queen Vera was managing things just fine in his absence. Sergei was pleased to note that. His daughter-in-law Natasha was well, and her baby was healthy, the midwives said. She was due shortly after the Autumn Festival, a good omen. Vlad was not going to be around when the child was born. Well, it made no difference; men needed to be around when babies were made, not when they arrived into the world.

His other three sons and his daughter were doing well, too. Boris could read now. Galina was showing interest in falcons. Gosha still suffered from the clubfoot, so they had to break his legs again and splice them. He might never become a good runner, but he would be a decent knight on a horse.

Suddenly, Sergei wondered if his father had traveled this same road eighteen years earlier. Had he camped at this very bank and conferred with his soldiers? Had he cared about Sasha and him back home, with their mother? Had he written letters to Queen Olga, how he loved her or missed her? Had he killed the Caytorean villagers outright or shown them mercy like he did? It was a strange cycle, and he felt uneasy for a moment.

This very road. Across the bridge crossing, Gerassim’s Stride ended. It became the South Route, the name unchanged since Athesian takeover of western Caytor. Some scholars and priests in Sigurd had suggested he rename the road to Vlad’s Pilgrimage, but he had refused to dishonor his father’s memory with a painful symbolic reminder of his failure. It remained Gerassim’s Stride. His youngest was called Gerassim.

“Rest for the night. You earned it,” he told the messenger. “You will leave tomorrow at dawn.” He wanted to write a letter to Vera.

“Thank you, Your Highness,” the man said, obviously glad for the respite. But he would be disappointed to learn he would have no drinks or whores or gambling. The fun had been left behind some time ago.

“Will you join me for the evening prayers, sire?” Vlad asked, breaking his reverie.

“My lord.” Duke Kiril joined them, winded. He bowed his head ever so slightly. “I have great news for you, my king. We have captured several more Athesian scouts. They are being interrogated as we speak.”

A wild idea struck him. Sergei turned toward his son. “Perhaps later,” he told the boy. “We have more important matters to take care of. Follow me.” Now, here was a lesson to be learned.

Kiril frowned. He had not expected his lord to want to see the Talkers in action, but he really didn’t have any choice. Vlad stepped in behind his father. Ipatiy wavered, then followed, keeping distance from his liege’s son. Sergei had no clue why the two disliked each other, but he never really pressed the subject. Matvey and Gennadiy stayed behind to set the tent for the war council. Without an invitation or a word, Captain Speinbate also joined the procession.

The camp was deployed in a cross formation so that no sudden enemy attack could drive a wedge into an exposed flank without facing retaliation from at least two directions. Weaker auxiliary units and followers were placed by the riverside, and they were slowly trickling over to the far bank, almost like a muddy spillover.