The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) (37 page)

Sergei put the wooden cup down. It was time for morning prayer. His son was already waiting, dressed in a simple white robe, talking to Brother Ivan.

The boy had done well, the king thought. Archduke Bogomir was extremely pleased with his performance. Vlad was not squeamish around blood. And he had not hurled his forces into the fray needlessly. In the several smaller skirmishes Vlad’s forces had been engaged in, despite the quick assurance of victory, his son had taken care committing the units, avoiding unnecessary risks and casualties. Smart leadership and careful thinking.

“Good morning, Prince.” Sergei used the formal greeting on purpose.

“Good morning, sire,” the boy responded, somber and grave.

“Your Highness,” Brother Ivan said, bowing slightly.

They did not talk during the service. Men knelt and prayed. Duke Oleg was squinting hard as always, tears running down his cheeks as he mouthed silent words of submission and love to his deity. Sasha was nowhere around. She must have been praying in her own camp. Hopefully.

Finished with the prayers, Vlad retired to change and don his battle armor. Sergei was already wearing light, supple leathers. He had no intention fighting any battle today, but he had to be prepared and look the part.

Sergei went back to his tent and read the reports again. Timur was brewing hot coffee with cinnamon and pepper. Giorgi was making copies of his latest orders. And there was a placating letter for the High Council of Trade, too.

Soon, Vlad was back, trailed by a horde of younger nobles. He already had a thick knot of hardcore followers, barons, baronets, and knights who sought his company and favor. Older nobles liked him a lot, too, but they were more distant and aloof about their affection, possibly even worried that too much attention for the prince-heir might anger the king. Captain Speinbate avoided his son like the plague ever since that night with the captives.

The king squinted back at Kiril’s list of captives. Several thousand Athesians had laid down their weapons and surrendered to him on the promise they would be treated fairly. So far, they had been treated fairly, just as their rank and class and wealth required.

Sergei still struggled with custom, undecided what to do with all of them. Common men, poor and without honor, except maybe a few officers. They had no families who could ransom them back, even if they wanted. He might just kill them to save himself the hassle of keeping them chained and fed and guarded, and no one would begrudge him for that. After all the Athesians had done, they deserved no mercy. They were godless people, every one of them. He had every right to kill them all.

Back home, when two lords went to war, every armed man knew his fate in advance. As a knight, if you lost a battle, you yielded honorably and were ransomed for gold. If you were lowborn, you died. These Athesians had no concept of honor, though. No one was sacred. In a way, it had made his decision to send nameless assassins against their commanders somewhat easier. That and eighteen years of bitter pragmatism that callused his soul.

One day, this war would end. And then, he would have the other two realms to reckon with, men with as little love of gods and honor as their mongrel neighbors. So, he hesitated, stayed his hand, and weighed his options, wrote the future chapters of history about himself in the back of his mind. He did not want to be portrayed as a mindless, bloodthirsty butcher.

After a while, he put the reports down. He went outside, let the cool morning breeze soothe his preoccupied mind.

“Your Highness,” Under-Patriarch Evgeny called. He was without his ferret now, and he already sweated profusely, dark, wet stains growing under his armpits.

“Your Holiness,” Sergei offered in return.

“I must know what you plan to do with the Athesian captives,” the priest said.

Sergei looked around. Ipatiy and Valentin waited nearby, looking half alert and half bored, but they were not paying any attention to him right now. Duke Kiril was talking to a messenger, distracted. Good. Evgeny seemed disturbingly keen about the prisoners. He probably saw them as new leverage, mostly because Sergei had not been indulging to his needs so far.

“They should be killed,” the under-patriarch added evenly.

Timur came out, bearing a small, round silver tray with a big wooden cup on it. The sharp aroma of coffee filled the air.

“Another cup for His Holiness?” the king said. Evgeny waved his hand. “Killing the Athesians will not serve any purpose.”

“Dealing death is a sin,” Evgeny preached. “But the lack of faith is the greatest sin of all, for without gods and religion, we are lawless animals. The world has no place for unbelievers and pagans. So when you kill a heathen, do you answer for his death or for serving your gods?”

Sergei was annoyed by the riddle, mostly because he was in no mood for more banter with the fat man. His son shuffled close, his eyes keen.

“Your Highness, if I may,” Vlad asked meekly and knelt for a blessing from Evgeny. The clergyman put his pudgy, beringed hand on the boy’s brow and murmured a quick prayer.

“What did you have in mind, my prince?” the priest asked, even as his hand rested on the heir’s forehead. It was a meaningful gesture of power and subservience, mixed. Sergei felt a flash of anger run through his chest. He hated when the fat man tried to manipulate his son.

Vlad rose, dusting his knees. “We should not kill the Athesian prisoners, Your Holiness. They are more valuable to us alive.”

Sergei arched a brow. He had not expected his son to be so forward about defying the clergy; the boy was strict and pious, but then he was a man grown now and a war leader. “Go on.”

“We could use them for farming, sire.”

It was such a simple notion, and it made perfect sense. Ransoming them back would be a futile attempt. They could be sold to slavery in the Far South, but there would be little profit. No one cared for poor, illiterate, scarred soldiers. Defeated, they were worth less than the bread crumbs they were fed. Unless they made all those bread crumbs.

Around him stretched mile upon mile of checkered fields, corn and wheat and barley and hemp. Without farmers, the harvest would rot. If he could press the considerable workforce of prisoners to work in the fields, he would make sure his army did not starve in the winter, if the siege lasted that long. It was a superb idea. He would be able to free his craftsmen and soldiers to more important duties. And he would not need to decide what to do with the lives of the enemy captives.

The world watched him, judged him. High on the scarred city walls, the Athesians watched and judged him. They saw trains of people come and go, unharmed, and it left them thinking. Around him, in the tents and shacks of army camps, the clergy watched him. Was he a man of religion? Or was he a man of war and profit? Genrik watched him, an old, honorable man whose word was pure truth. He would write the history books, and he would judge his liege without fear or bias.

Evgeny was not pleased, he noticed. But he did not argue with the prince-heir. He just nodded gruffly and waded away, as if the little conversation had not taken place.

“You will make a plan,” Sergei said softly.

“Yes, sire,” the boy agreed.

Duke Kiril came. “Your Highness, some Athesians want to petition you.”

Sergei arched his brows. “Who are they?”

The head Talker shrugged. “Mayors from smaller towns up north. They wish to know if you will grant them safety and protection if they swear fealty to you, Your Highness.”

Already?
That was good news. The rumors of his justice were spreading. Good. “My son will hear them.”

Vlad nodded, eager and undaunted by this new challenge. Kiril bowed and turned to leave on some other pressing duty.

Sergei stopped him. “A word with you.”

“Your Highness?”

Sergei put a friendly hand on the man’s shoulder, tugging him closer. “In your reports, I noticed you mentioned the deaths of the high-ranking officers and their deputies, except the commander of the City Guard.”

“He’s not a threat, according to my agents, Your Highness. He leads the city guard. They are mostly green troops, untrained in the art of war. They have no skill or knowledge to oppose us.”

“Perhaps that is so, but the city still stands.” He pointed bluntly. “Why was he not listed?”

Duke Kiril looked a little uncomfortable. “Your Highness, we might need the city guard for after Roalas is taken. They know the city better than any other.”

Yes, and if it comes to street fighting, they know the city better than any other
, Sergei thought sourly. Kiril’s men had done sloppy work. Perhaps the city was led by a mere watchman, but one who was intelligent and resourceful and unafraid. The man had razed the bridges, dammed the river, let all the people enter the city, and stalled his attack.

He still had no news from the city. The fact Roalas kept fighting meant Amalia was still most likely alive, but he did not know whether the Pum’be had tried for her yet. They had all been given orders to coordinate their attacks, but you could not really know with those sneaky dwarfs. They always did what they thought was the best way of killing people, a reputation well deserved.

The defenders were busy this morning, lobbing rocks at the siege lines. They did have impressive artillery, with a range twice that of his own catapults. This put his units at risk and forced him to stay back a further five hundred paces. Worse yet, once his siege machines were finally assembled, they would have to be moved forward, within the range of the city weapons. It would make for a precarious bombardment campaign.

Clusters of rock, tiles, rubble, and broken masonry were sailing high into the air from the siege walls, peppering the ravaged countryside in a random fashion. Most fell short of their mark, but some grazed the outskirts of his camped forces. There were few casualties, but it was a spiteful act of defiance. Sergei wished he had known more about Commander Gerald.

The king also kept thinking about the legend of his own father’s demise. The story said Adam the Godless had devastated Vlad’s army with magic. It was obviously a wild tale, spun from the dark abyss of defeat and desperation, because nothing remotely similar had happened yet. If Amalia had magical weapons, she would have used them by now. Sergei knew he was risking everything with this war, but he was also so much more of a man and a leader than his father had ever been.

Suddenly, a flock of birds exploded from the walls, flying high. No, not birds. Birds could not fly that fast. The ascent was unnatural. Rocks. More rocks. The cluster of tiny dots rose higher and higher and further beyond any previous shot.

“Take cover,” he yelled and ran away from the raining scree.

His men responded quickly, without doubting or questioning their king. Men grabbed shields and rushed to his side. Valentin and Ipatiy jostled into him, waving the large pavises.

“Protect my son,” he hissed. Vlad was just standing, staring, neck craned high. His squire was kneeling, pleading, holding a big shield. The prince ignored him.

The cluster of tiny dots had finally peaked and was coming down, growing bigger. Seconds later, there was a rattle of dull thuds as stones thundered into the Parusite camp. Men groaned and cursed. Then, it was quiet, as if nothing had happened.

Sergei dusted himself, looking around. No one seemed hurt, although there had been a few close calls. A tent canopy was torn by one of the hits. It could have been worse. Then, he realized that his enemy had used a different kind of artillery. Not rocks. Severed human heads.

He picked up one of the squashed melon-like things, the features ruined by rot and impact. It would be impossible to identify who it had belonged to. He tossed the head away. Around him, dukes and soldiers alike were examining the perverted munitions, staring at the misshapen faces of their former friends and lieges. Some of the heads maintained their former dignity, looking almost normal. Others looked like eggs trodden upon, twisted and broken. There was no blood, only a faint smell of death. The Parusite veterans stood in quiet awe, watching the morbid display. Few had the courage to grab a head by the hair and examine it up close. Sergei could not really blame them. Mutilation of corpses was desecration. It was against the gods’ rules.

The fat priest was back, trailed by a dozen of his kind, men in colorful robes. He headed for the king, slow and lumbering like a battering ram.

“And you would spare their lives?” Evgeny ranted.

“Quiet,” Sergei snapped. He was in no mood for litanies.

“Your Highness,” one of the northern barons called. The noble was actually holding a head and would not let it go.

Sergei did not like the pasty look on the man’s face. “What is it?” He approached the man. He did not know of any of his kin or high lords being killed or taken prisoner, but dread punched a cold knot in his belly.

Mutely, the young baron handed the head over. The king turned it around, trying to decipher who the victim was. Bones jutted through the blackened skin, the skull was bent and warped like a boil, but there was no mistaking the alien features.

It was one of his Pum’be assassins.

Sergei swallowed. The Athesians had managed to kill one of the world’s most legendary killers. This meant Empress Amalia really was still alive. The attempt on her life was unsuccessful.

There was a remote chance the dwarf may have died after murdering her, but he doubted it somehow. Athesian resolve was too stiff for a nation that had just lost its ruler. They may have suffered a crippling blow, but they were not defeated. Sergei stared at the stunted trophy, wondering. How could they have managed to kill this thing?

Vlad shuffled close. His face was unafraid, merely curious. He stared at the severed head for a while, then looked back at the city, admiring the deep arc it had trailed in the sky.

Around him, no one spoke. Those who knew who Pum’be were kept quiet and waited for their king to speak first. Those who had never seen the mysterious killers watched the snake of emotions wriggle across Sergei’s face and wondered what could be so terrifying.