The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) (58 page)

CHAPTER 35

G
erald woke up with a scream. He catapulted into a sitting position, drenched in cold sweat. The scream thinned to a shrill moan.

“Hey, hey, it’s all right, it’s all right. You’re safe!” someone shouted.

Gerald blinked, looking around, disoriented. “Where am I?” he whispered.

The world slowly came back to him, the shapes, the colors, the smell. He was in a long room with plum-painted walls, lined with straw cots on both sides. It smelled of old bandages and vinegar. There was a handful of windows high up on the wall opposite him, thrown open. It was raining outside. A smiling man in a clean white shirt stood near a door, holding a pillow to his chest, watching him.

“The First barracks hospital,” the voice said, coalescing into the old bastard Clive.

“How long have I been here?” the commander of Roalas asked.

At his side, Lieutenant Clive chuckled. He was also lying in a bed, naked above the waist, barely covered in a rough woolen blanket. “Just three days, sir. You’re more exhausted than you are wounded.”

Gerald touched his side. A bandage was wrapped round his abdomen. The linen was clean.

“You’re a lucky bastard lad, sir. Them stab wounds fester like shit. You’re lucky I cauterized the wound with a glowing knife later that night.”

Gerald sighed and leaned back, resting his head against the cold wall. He took a deep breath. His body felt doughy, tingly with stupor. There was a warm presence of old pain below his ribs, but it didn’t feel debilitating.

“I got my kidneys poked, too,” Clive said, grinning.

Gerald noted the man had an ashen expression, beads of sweat dewing his pate. Infection fever.

The veteran noticed Gerald’s panicky look. He shrugged. “Don’t worry. I’ve lived through worse. You get a clove of garlic on your wound, and you have a young girl suck your cock every night.”

Gerald frowned. Then he relaxed and smiled. “How does the sucking help?” He played along.

Clive snorted. “It doesn’t, but it makes you happy.” He chuckled. Several other men abed joined in, laughing softly.

“Have you had any sucking yet, Lieutenant?”

The chuckle turned into a phlegmatic wheeze. “Not yet, but you must not lose hope.”

Gerald was thirsty. Almost absentmindedly, he reached for a wooden cup at the small stand beside his cot. It was filled with something soupy. He sipped the concoction. It tasted like lots of disgusting herbs, some poppy, and maybe a touch of wine.

“Yes, drink it. It’s good for you.”

A few moments later, Gerald felt warmth suffuse him. His arms stopped shaking. He relaxed completely and let his mind unwind. The terror of his nightmare sluiced away, leaving a long, crystal-clear recollection of images from the attack. He relived it twice until he was certain he wouldn’t waver when he opened his mouth.

His senses sharpening, the commander noticed a stub of a candle pooled in its own expensive beeswax slug by the cup. Looking around, he saw one decorate every stand. He frowned.

“Empress Amalia paid us all a visit after the battle. Came to you see you first, lad, but you were sleeping like a dead man. She wanted you shuffled to the manse, but the boys here protested. You fought as one of us, you get the best surgeons like us, not some soft-handed imperial healer who gets to wash bruised knees and concoct potions for flirty maids. Oh, the empress lit a candle for you and then left. For luck, I guess.”

In the long room, patients who were aware or conscious turned to look at him. They all seemed lightly injured. He was glad for that. He could not bear the sight of dying men now. But he knew he would have to come back and visit every one of the rooms in the hospital.

Gerald recognized only a few faces. Most of the wounded must belong to the other attack forces, he reasoned. Still, like one, they all stared at him like some kind of a hero from a tale, their faces slack with adoration. He could not bear it.

The captain of the city took a deep breath. “How many survived?” he asked quietly.

“Forty-two men and women,” Clive said. “But Commander Luke says we killed some three thousand alone. Other units killed another five thousand of those Parusite bastards. We did good. But you are the luckiest shithead that ever walked the city streets, sir. When we retreated, we lagged back with you and me on someone’s shoulders and my side pissing blood. So we were somewhere in the rubble, then they closed them gates on us. We were out there till noon before some smart lad on the walls spotted us. You, me, and half a dozen other young pups like you. I’m telling you, you got a lucky streak, sir.”

Gerald swallowed. “I owe you my life.”

Clive grunted. “Damn right you do, lad, sir. But I don’t want you to repay me with life. That’s fine. Just get me some girl to suck my cock!”

They both laughed, and most of the room joined in. Very soon, men were grimacing in pain as it racked their injured bodies. Clive hissed and guffawed at the same time, fighting tears.

“Oh, damn it. That was good.” He reached for the bandage wrapped above his ear and scratched gingerly.

Five thousand men, a legion, almost wiped out to the soul. But they had killed twice their number. It had to mean something. So many deaths had to mean something. Sadness crushed his chest. Then, he remembered why he had taken the men to their death in the first place.

“Where’s Driscoll’s head?”

Clive clicked his tongue. “Don’t worry, lad. I have it pickled in a jar, waiting for you. I’d be damned if we didn’t bring it back after all we was through. It’d be like paying for the raunchiest whore and then kissing her ear. Fuck that.”

Gerald could not bear it any longer. He pulled the itchy quilt off his naked form. “Where’s my uniform?”

“Don’t play the hero, lad. Stay here for another couple of nights. Let your injuries rest.”

If only he could. But the war waited on no one. Gerald stood up carefully, stretching. For a brief moment, his head swam, and he considered rocking back onto the cot, but then his blood flow sorted itself. His body felt like lead. There was a hot, numb sensation in his side, but it did not hurt much.

“I can’t. I must get back. There are things to be done.”

Clive gave him a long look and just nodded. There was no point arguing.

“Get to your bed!” the man with the pillow shouted, marching over.

“I cannot,” Gerald offered in return and locked his gaze with the man. A healer, most likely. The commander tried to pivot his torso left and right. His side tingled.

The pillowed warden saw the troubled look in Gerald’s eyes, and relented immediately. “Let me check you first.”

He made Gerald follow his fingers with his eyes, clap his hands, and stick his tongue out. Then, the man tapped Gerald’s chest and side with a wooden spoon. When the commander did not flinch from these light strokes, the healer nodded gruffly. Next, he carefully pulled the rim of the linen wrapping and stared at the wound. Gerald stole a peek of his own, smelling mustard and onions and vinegar. The cut looked like a displeased woman’s taut lips, pale red, tender flesh sewn shut with a neat silk thread stitching; it did not bleed or secrete pus.

The healer moaned. “Yes, you can leave, sir. You must have the bandages replaced once a day. Ask Master Radburne to inspect the wound and administer the poultices. If you get any fever, you must return here, sir.”

Gerald doubted he would have time for pleasantries. “I will.”

“What about me?” Clive teased.

“We are still looking for a volunteer to suck you, Lieutenant.”

The hall boomed with laughter. Defeated at his own game, the grizzled man slunk back to his boredom and fever. Gerald was deeply worried by the color of his skin, but saying anything would be meaningless.

“I will get your uniform, sir. Glad to see you’re well. Oh, and I will get you the sack with the head.”

The healer walked away, and Gerald waited, uncomfortable with the dozen pairs of eyes watching him with glassy adoration. Something had changed that night, and he wasn’t quite sure he was ready for that.

Half an hour later, Gerald exited the hospital.

In the small yard outside, less seriously injured soldiers were biding their time, gambling, throwing darts, stretching out, smoking, ignoring the drops of rain that slid off the awnings onto their game boards and cards. When Commander Gerald showed up, a wave of silence stretched across the yard. Everyone froze, and as one, they turned to look at him, their eyes glazed with respect and love.

Gerald swallowed a hard lump. He would ask for official numbers later. Now, he had to cope, keep his mind busy.

“Good job, everyone,” he said, his voice thin. He wanted it to sound grand and majestic, but there were no words that could sum up what he felt. But they knew.

Some men were crying. But it didn’t matter. They were brothers now, all of them.

“Commander!” a man called. Gerald turned. A short, stocky sergeant whose name he did not know watched him intently. “Sir, you are…There’s…I was told to summon a carriage when you leave.”

“I will walk. I don’t need transport.”

“You’re injured, sir,” the man argued. “And the empress wants to see you right away.”

Gerald shook his head. “It can wait.” He pointed at the two guards standing idly by the outer gates. “You two, with me.” There was one thing he had to before he could do anything else. The sack was heavy in his arm.

“We’re on guard duty, sir,” one of them babbled.

“Not anymore, you come with me. Get me more men.”

He limped out of the yard, the sergeant and a dozen healthy city guards behind him. The old man Clive stayed behind, shouting for his garlic and a suck.

Outside the hospital, it was even worse. A huge body of soldiers waited for him, pressing close against the rusty gates. They milled, because there was nothing else to do in between patrol shifts and wall guard duty. But they could at least be there and taste the magic of that battle and feel they were a part of it, too.

Men started saluting, a rippling wave of gestures. Gerald almost sat on the ground and burst into tears. But he raised his arm high in a steady, fluid motion and saluted back. He owed them that much.

It was drizzling, but it wasn’t cold. A late-morning fog veiled the city’s features, making them soft and serene. But as he walked the cobbled streets, he noticed the details of war and suffering everywhere. You might mistake it for normal life, but it wasn’t. People had a haunted look about them. They moved stiffly, burdened by the unspoken threat of destruction.

The army hospital was an old monastery, converted into a place of healing and dying and recuperation, separate from the training grounds. Hidden from view by an alley of oaks, the hospital lurked in the upscale part of the city, a place of its own among villas and manor houses and expensive inns and guild houses. Just a few paces away, behind the line of trees, the rich quarters began, but it was as if a whole different world existed there, separated by an invisible fence.

The First Legion was famous because it had been Adam’s prime force, established right after he had declared Athesia his empire. That legion no longer fought, having been retired to history with its veterans and heroes, but the heritage remained, the expensive barracks, the practice lot, big granite statues, and the respectable hospital. Emperor Adam had believed the realm’s soldiers should not have to rely on butchers with filthy hands and rusted tools for salvation, not after giving their lives away for their land and people.

Gerald wished the First still operated. He would have loved their experience and ferocity.

He stepped away from the masses of bored youth, street urchins, whores, and a mass of soldiers, into the wealthy district, and the world changed. This part of the city had yet to bear the scars of war. Rich people took longer to feel the burden of suffering.

The upper parts of Roalas were also home to the city’s officers and their families. The army pay was fairly good and allowed a rather decent life for the higher-ranking soldiers. Well, that was how things ran in Caytor and Eracia, too, ever since war had turned into a profession. Many of the legion commanders had homes in the capital. Very few took their wives and children away into local garrisons and remote outposts. Driscoll’s wife lived there, too.

He found the house soon, tightly jammed against a pair of similar lodges, the brick walls overgrown with creepers. It was guarded by one of his men, but he retreated the moment he saw the commander. His escort stayed back as he climbed the short flight of stairs and pounded on the door.

Widow Driscoll opened the door. And before he spoke, he knew that she knew.

Her eyes were puffy and swollen; she must have been crying one long, unstopping cry for a while now. She was cradling a baby in her arms, and there was a young girl tugging at her mother’s skirt, staring in pale wonder at the big, emaciated, pasty-skinned soldier at their doorstep.

“I’m Commander Gerald of the City Guard,” he stated coldly.

“I know why you’re here, Commander,” the woman said. “Your deputy was here before.”

Gerald mouthed a silent oh. “Who?”

She looked away. “Deputy Commander Edwin.”