The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) (60 page)

Sergei nodded. He had almost forgotten about the turn of the season. Back home, farmers would bring in the harvest and donate a tenth to the temples and shrines. Rich people would find stray souls and orphans and host them for dinner. Pious men would fast through the night and eat their share of lamb with the first light. The city walls and shops would be festooned with vines and flowers and banners.

Out here, the best they could hope for was to spit-roast stolen goats and have the Borei cage bears entertain them. But the holy man was right. The celebrations must be held, no matter how recent and grim the loss of the last battle.

It would be a great logistics nightmare, sapping the strength and focus of his soldiers. They would be turned into common workers for a week, cutting trees, decorating tents, clearing the mounds of rubbish and shit, scouring the blood off weapons and surcoats. Many would choose to pray on their knees throughout the night, but many more still would drink themselves inane. The festival was going to be a dangerous night of partying, especially with the Borei mixed among them. Their supplies would take a hit, with animals butchered until a river of blood flowed through the camp. Yet another obstacle of war, it seemed.

“The camp forces are at your disposal, Your Holiness,” Sergei said and gestured toward the sprawling city of canvas behind him where thousands of smiths, tanners, woodworkers, cooks, and many other helpers labored around the clock, counting away the days of their conscription. The one year of mercy was oozing fast.

Evgeny rubbed his chin as if he had not heard the king. “This night attack…This must be an act of the gods,” he offered in a somber, slow tone.

Sergei was not quite sure if the man was trying to upset him on purpose. “All things are,” he said.

Evgeny smirked for a moment; then the expression was gone. “Surely. But have you ever wondered why your destiny is tested so?” The priest spoke in a barely audible whisper.

Because wars are a serious affair won in blood
, Sergei thought. He said nothing.

“Have you ever given this Empress Amalia’s father much thought? Adam the Godless, he was called, was he not? The man who defeated your father and almost ruined our nation. Why did your father, blessed be his soul, ride against this Adam?”

Sergei had not expected to debate history with the underpatriarch. The question made him uncomfortable. “Because he was a godless man.”

That annoying smirk again. “Ah, but this Adam fought the Feorans. You see, on one hand, Emperor Adam was a man without a faith, a grave sin, no doubt. But then, he waged war against the Feorans, who sought to destroy the Safe Territories. They burned the holy cities and razed the temples and killed our people. They were religious, like we are, maybe even more so, and yet they struck at the core of our existence. They swept across the realms while the Caytoreans and Eracians stood back and watched. Sure, they tried and failed; you cannot begrudge them for that. And yet, it was Adam, who had no love for the gods, who stopped them.”

Sergei was silent.

“So if you had to choose, who would you prefer, a godless man who fights for the gods and goddesses or a pious enemy who seeks to destroy you? Perhaps the gods loved this Adam so much they granted him a victory over your father. No, don’t be angry, Your Highness. The truth is absolute, and it’s how the gods choose to share it with us. Perhaps the gods loved Adam, despite his sins.”

The king bunched his fists. “You gave your blessing for this campaign.”

Evgeny arched his brows. “But of course. This is a holy war. We are fighting infidels. We are fighting an enemy who has sought to destroy us. The gods are pleased. After we win, we will bring faith back to the lost people of Athesia. We will build many new shrines. And let us not forget the rich lands that will be taken and doled out when the fighting is over.”

Sergei aahed mutely.
Is that what all this is about? A bargain over acres of yet unconquered land?

“Why then am I facing hardship if my cause is just and the gods are pleased?”

The priest wagged one of his stubby fingers. “That is for you to find out in your prayers, Your Highness.”

The king raked his wet hair, thinking. He could not let doubt muddle his thinking. Vlad the Fifth had failed because he had fatally blundered in every aspect of his campaign. He had miscalculated the odds. He had rushed madly to war, without regard for the lives of his own men, and lost. Sometimes, when he lay alone in his bed, thinking, Sergei knew this was the simple, harsh truth of his father’s death.

But if the gods loved Adam, would they let him defeat his daughter?

Perhaps they would, but they were testing his resolve. Still, deep down, the answer to this siege was not a religious one. It would be won by superior strategy and execution. It would be a reckoning of numbers, skill, and courage.

Evgeny left, armored with the free hand of the camp’s resources. Sergei watched him wobble away, annoyed. He was never quite sure what the priests wanted. But they always wanted something. More concessions, more power. As servants of the gods, they had special privileges, but he felt they sometimes abused their honor and responsibility. The thought pained him.

In the last campaign, assassins had murdered all of the clergy in the Parusite camp. Some said it was the work of the king’s own killers. Some said the nobles had had the priests butchered because they had threatened the campaign with their own greed. For every rumor that blamed his father’s troops, there were ten that spoke of Adam or Feorans sending their evil murderers to hurt the faith. Friendly or foreign, the assassins had turned the Parusite army that much more secular overnight. He dared not think the same thoughts, but he knew that one timely death would make the clergy humble and docile again.

Sergei shook his head.

His mind filled with Amalia. The girl lived, unscathed, undefeated. He was almost tempted to choose the easy way and blame the gods and his own lack of piety. But he chose the hard truth of logic. This war would suffer no pathetic efforts and lucky shots. If he wanted to win, he had to prove he was a better leader than Adam’s offspring.

The king looked at his own son. The boy was all business, stern and serious. To think his wife would be giving birth any day now. But there was no fresh news from home. The roads were soggy with rain, and it could be weeks before riders arrived. Sergei hoped the child would be a boy.

Vlad never talked about his wife and the child. Perhaps he was still too young to comprehend the enormity of his heritage. Sergei recalled when Vlad had been born. It was one moment of red, screeching joy and several months of slow shock.

He looked away. A soldier was aiming high with his crossbow, trying to shoot down a messenger bird flying from the city. Or maybe it was just a bird. You could not know, but whoever killed one and brought the rolled paper tube to their officer got paid three gold coins. Naturally, the Borei had tried to fake messages by the dozens, birds or no birds, and even some of the braver Parusites had attempted their luck at forging documents until one of them lost an arm on the chopping block.

Suddenly, there was a long whistle. Then another. Men around him stirred, hands reaching down to their swords.

“City gates opening!” the sentry in the squat watchtower not a stone’s throw away shouted, pointing.

So soon? They want to fight again?
Sergei could not believe the tenacity of his enemies. The battlefield was still littered with corpses from both sides, and they seemed eager to litter it some more. He turned and picked up a looking-glass tube from a field desk, climbed onto a sturdy chair, and lifted the piece to his eye. He put it down, wiped the raindrops off the lens, and tried again. After a few moments, he located the city gates. A handful of people were exiting. A woman and several small children. It looked strange.

“Your Highness?” Duke Vsevolod asked.

Everywhere, soldiers were scrambling, as only men shamefully defeated and craving for redemption could. Armor jangled and spear butts clacked as the Parusites rushed to form a defensive wall against a possible assault.

Sergei said nothing. He was watching the scene. The woman and the children shuffled forward slowly. Ahead of them loomed the Inferno.

“Should we intercept them?” the duke insisted, never so eager as today.

“Let’s see what happens,” the king said.

Another group of people emerged from Roalas, a handful of soldiers, mounted, armed with crossbows and long swords. They encircled the woman and the children and led them into the maze of destruction.

The Parusite troops stood watching, fascinated, callused arms slipping on worn wooden spears. A light rain was drizzling, making everyone squint. Dusk was settling in, turning the world gray and soft. There might be a mist tonight. He would have to triple the sentries again to prevent any Athesians from sneaking into his camp. But then, he had no doubt his dukes would kill themselves before they let something like that happen again.

Ten minutes later, the party exited the slums unchallenged. The soldiers turned and cantered back into the city. The woman stood there, facing the wall of soldiers in front of her. She glanced back, contemplating running back into the false safety of the ruins.

A handful of Parusite knights were mounting their horses, donning armor, preparing to ride.

Sergei waved his arm, annoyed. “Vsevolod, tell your men to stand down,” he hissed. What had just happened here? Had that bitch empress expelled someone from her city? Or was this a ruse? Could this woman be an assassin? Maybe the four children and the baby were just a decoy? It was obvious the city guards cared for her; after all, they had just escorted her unharmed through those ruins. But then, if the Parusites decided to strike, she would die. It felt odd.

Around him, men itched for action. He could smell their curiosity and their rage. After the terrible defeat, they needed something to restore their pride, even if it meant riding down an unarmed woman and her children. If those were her children. But he could not imagine anyone being so evil as to use babies as bait. But then, this was a war. Things must be desperate in Roalas. And most importantly, Amalia was Adam’s daughter.

Sergei looked around, dozens of faces, locked with wonder and a deep desire to please. He could hardly count on any one of them for objective advice. Except his son.

“Prince-Heir,” he called. “What do you say?”

As always, the boy took his time thinking. Then he said, “Intercept.”

Sergei nodded. Vsevolod whistled, and a party of heavily armed knights galloped away. The woman saw them and started running back toward the slums. One of her children remained behind, crying. In the eerie silence broken only by the thud of hooves, that noise made Sergei’s blood curdle.

Sergei lifted the looking glass once again. The knights thundered past the keening child. In the ruined suburbs, the woman and her kids had taken shelter in one of the razed houses. Not two buildings away, a ragged party of starved bandits was approaching. She had not noticed them.

The foremost rider slowed down and stopped near the woman’s hideout. He drew his sword and stared down the gang of looters. They scattered away, melting back into the ruins. A second man dismounted and approached the woman. She tried to crawl away. He bent down, grabbed her arm, and talked for a while. She shook her head twice, then nodded once.

A few moments later, two other horsemen returned to the main camp. “Your Highness, that woman claims to be the widow of late Commander Driscoll of the Athesian Ninth Legion.”

This was rather interesting, Sergei thought. Amalia was pruning bad roots quickly and ruthlessly. He had not believed she had the guts for something like this. Or she might not have the privilege of waiting and honing her justice like he did.

Driscoll’s widow might be a useful political asset. But then, what could she possibly help him achieve? She was the wife of a traitor. If anything, she was a symbol of failure and defeat. Worse, she might even scare away other collaborators, not that any had remained now. But she might also help rally troops and sway other Athesians against their cruel empress. He really didn’t know what to do.

Captain Speinbate coughed. Sergei turned. Typically, the mercenary had crawled out of his hiding, incensed by the smell of pillage. The Borei was grinning, his gold-capped teeth shining. Sergei imagined his gauntlet connecting with that insolent leer, but he kept his face passive.

“Your Highness, I could do with another lady in my camp,” Speinbate offered boldly.

“Hardly a befitting price considering your conduct in the last battle, don’t you think?” Sergei said quietly.

The captain squirmed, obviously surprised. After three days without the king’s wrath descending upon them, the man believed himself free of guilt for the night attack. Apparently, the Parusite ruler took time brewing his anger. He stepped away, muttering under his breath.

Sergei noted Genrik watching him, holding his stylus of unshakable truth, waiting. Whatever Sergei decided today, it would go into the history books. Sergei weighed his options carefully. The war chronicler was a stern and pious man. He would not take lightly to a woman and her babies being murdered by his soldiers, or a mercenary captain taking her for a sex slave, no matter who she served.

“No,” he said. “Let her pass. If she chooses to stay with us, she will take up a craft and help with the war effort. If she has no skills, she must pay for her own food and clothes. If she wants to go to either Caytor or Eracia, she will have an escort to the border.”

Vlad seemed to approve of his father’s decision. His nobles all agreed, too. At this point, they would eat their own feces and call them cream if he ordered them. Sergei deliberately avoided looking at Genrik, pretending he was not there.

Half an hour later, the woman and her children were seated in the back of a supply wagon, heading east, escorted by two riders. Sergei was glad for her departure. Her presence would annoy him. It would remind him of his failure.

“I will pray alone,” the king declared and left, his squires trailing after him.