The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) (68 page)

CHAPTER 42

S
ergei sat in the tent, alone.

It was midday, but inside, no lamp was lit, and a gray darkness pervaded the space. Rain was hammering on the canvas, making the folds sag, turning the king’s war chamber that much smaller. But for all he was concerned, wildfire could have been raging outside. It made little difference to him.

On the table before him rested a wooden cup of wine, untouched, a silver-hilt poniard, and a letter from Sigurd, freshly arrived that morning by a swift messenger, a man dead tired and caked in brown mud from tip to toe. It read the bittersweet yet happy news of the premature birth of his grandson, a whole four weeks before the Autumn Festival.

So much for lucky omens.

Despite his small size, the prince seemed to have been born fully developed, with fingernails and eyelids and even tiny blond brows. And he was breathing well, a critical sign. Now, it was up to the gods to keep him safe and healthy.

If only the boy’s father could enjoy the news. But Vlad was a hostage in the hands of his enemies, hopefully alive and well. The Athesian terms were written in another letter, but that one he had burned in the fire the moment he had finished reading it.

Sergei wondered if all of what was happening to him was a great test from the gods. Or just an unlucky coincidence. Well, not entirely. For all he knew, his grandson might be dead by now, stricken by winter fever. Lord Vasiliy, gods bless him, had waited almost a week before sending out the letter, but there was just no knowing with babies. They were such fragile, vulnerable things.

And his son?

A man grown by all accounts, but still a child. He wondered how the boy fared in the hands of his captors. Were they treating him well? Was he granted the privileges of his station? There was no knowing with those faithless bastards. They had no honor, no respect for birthright and class. They treated commoners and nobles alike. It was disgusting.

Amalia’s terms had been simple.
Go back to your lands, and your son will live
. As simple as that. She had even baited him with favorable trade agreements and other terms. Vlad had written that letter, but the Athesians may have forced him.

The truth was, he really did not have any choice. He could not stop now even if his entire family was in the hands of his foes. Sergei had committed his nation to war. There was no going back. Half a year ago, things had looked rather simple. But his endeavor had turned into a wild, uncontrollable beast. It feasted on blood and could not be sated.

There was an old saying, “Wars begin when you will, but they do not end when you please.” Well, he had started this war. And he was going to end it.

But first, there was justice to be had.

Sergei stood up, grabbed the cup, and downed the wine in one go. He picked up the knife, turning it around, staring at the spotless metal. He put the weapon down. The poniard would not do, he decided. He went into a corner, where a large cache of his weapons was stashed, rack upon rack of swords and shields, plates of armor, crossbows, and even a double-headed ax. He was in no habit of naming his blades like the fathers of his nation had done before him, but there was no mistaking the purpose of the all-black greatsword that his squires dutifully lugged around. It was not a battlefield weapon, at least not designed for a medium-built rider like himself, but it looked like the right tool for what he was about to do.

“Giorgi!” he shouted.

The scribe entered the tent, soaking wet. “Your Highness?”

Sergei put the sword on the table. “Summon them.”

One by one, his war council filed in, dukes and archdukes and most of the counts. They looked miserable. For the past three hours, he had left them waiting for him in the thundering rain. In the darkness of the tent, it was hard gauging their expressions, but their eyes were wide open and shiny with fear.

A king is as good as the men he commands
, Sergei thought. He ruled by their grace. If they chose so, they might depose him. There might be some bloodshed, but he would cease being their king if they decided he was unworthy of his reign. And he would not be the first king to die by the hands of his nobles.
I left them in the rain like mongrels, and they obeyed. Why? Because none of them has the guts to be the first to object. No one wants to be the tragic hero who will redeem the others. So they wait, eternally wait, for someone to tell them what to do. That’s what being king is all about. You make the first decision
.

All of these men had failed him. Two weeks ago, during the festival, his son had been kidnapped right under their noses. Not the first, not the second, not the third ring of sentries had noticed anything. Not the personal bodyguards, not the squires, not the spies and informants in the city, no one. They had let the prince-heir be taken into the city. In the end, a lowly servant had discovered his son was missing.

Sergei had not panicked. He had roused the camp, for fear of infiltrators and assassins. He had readied his troops for another surprise attack. But the first day oozed away uneventfully. The defenders on the curtain walls never cheered or taunted or fired extra shots. In fact, they had looked surprised and alarmed by the stirring along the Parusite siege lines.

In a moment of mad despair, the king had hoped his son might have just gotten lost during the celebrations, wandered away somewhere, dozed off in a pile of pelts, or fell into the hands of some woman. But his son never drank or whored.

On the morrow, the letter arrived.

A company of riders exited the city gates with the gray flag of truce extended on a tall banner, weaved through the Inferno quickly, and tossed a rolled bundle at the first wary guard they found.
“Deliver this to your king,”
they said and rode back.

He had read the letter, retreated to his tent, and stayed there, thinking. He had replayed his entire life three times over in his head. Memories long buried in the deep recesses of his mind burned bright with every detail. Terrified lords had begged to see him, but Sergei would not allow anyone to speak to him save Sasha. He had caged himself in the tent—and he let his mind race.

He recalled all he knew about his father’s defeat, about his father’s greedy and foolish choices. He recalled the abuse he had suffered at his hands as a child. He thought about his sister. His eldest son, now a captive in Roalas. All his other children, his wife, Vasiliy, everyone who mattered to him in life. He wondered how they perceived him now, hiding inside a drenched, gloomy pavilion, avoiding the terrible decision he must make.

Save the nation and sacrifice his son.

Sergei tried imagining a thousand ways of resolving this conflict. He acted out hundreds of conversations with Amalia and her cursed commander, Gerald, he thought about peace deals with Caytor and Eracia, he practiced hostage negotiations. Every time, the outcome was the same. He was leading Parus to glory or utter destruction. If he retreated, the nation would descend into civil war. His plunder-hungry dukes would tear the realm apart, fighting over scraps like street dogs. His reign would become meaningless.

War was a simple thing in the books. You had the belligerents, and you had motives. It sounded so simple, so logical. People clashed and died. Some won; others lost. In between, you had politics and scheming weaved, but no book ever told you about emotions. No book taught you about self-doubt, selfish love, hatred, fear, confusion, hasty decisions and bitter regrets, sheer stubborn pride, the mistrust of your lieges, the envy of your family, the scars and ghosts of your past, fate.

“My lords, you have all failed me,” he said simply.

Archduke Bogomir squirmed uncomfortably. The man looked like a ghost, wrecked with shame. He had lost weight, and his cheeks were sunken in his face. As the father-in-law, he bore the personal responsibility for Vlad’s safety.

Sergei lifted the big executioner’s sword and approached him. “You failed me,” he said.

“Your Highness, I am at your mercy,” Bogomir wailed and went down on one knee.

The king lifted the big weapon, thinking. Slowly, he let the blade fall to the ground. Killing Bogomir would accomplish nothing. He left the archduke kneeling and approached Duke Yuri. The man looked genuinely terrified. Sergei said nothing and stepped to the right.

There was something in Kiril’s face that had annoyed him since the day he took the command of the Talkers from him. None of his generals was a coward, but Kiril came close. Sergei did not like cowards.

“I want you to volunteer. I want you all to volunteer,” Sergei spoke, staring woodenly at Kiril, never quite blinking. “My son’s project must be finished. I want those siege engines completed. The city’s gate must be stormed and razed. I want it done before the year’s end.”

Bogomir was the first to swear. “I will lead the attack, sire.”

Duke Kiril swallowed. “What about your son, Your Highness?”

Sergei smirked sadly. “The prince-heir was taken hostage. He is a soldier of the realm, and he knows his duty, like you all should. This war is not about raping and stealing pennies from Athesian peasants. It is not about drowning infidels in faith and avenging old grudges. This war is about the glory of our nation. No one is above the nation.”

The implied threat registered with his nobles. They understood. If any one of them balked at his plans, they would die, plain and simple. Their birth and titles and wealth and even old favors no longer protected them. With Vlad the Younger in his enemies’ hands, the king no longer cared about honor and courtesy.

“We should start killing Athesian hostages,” Duke Yuri spoke unwisely, bringing attention to himself.

Again, the king smirked. It was with contempt this time. The idea was carnal and pleasing, but futile. The thousands of enemy soldiers, almost all worthless common men in any other situation, were laboring day and night building permanent siege camps around Roalas. The Parusite army could not survive the winter in cloth tents. They needed wooden barracks and fires to ward off the freezing cold that would soon envelop them.

The land around Roalas was coming to life again, with dozens of new villages and smaller camps springing to life. The vast army of followers had long abandoned the cruel comfort of noise, danger, mud, and stench of the front lines and settled on the deserted Athesian farms and fields. Soldiers, too, were growing unhappy with their lodging and were building makeshift houses from the Inferno’s rubble, where they stored their weapons and gear and horses. The siege lines were becoming a siege city. It was inevitable.

Athesians were coming back, encouraged by rumors of a benevolent invader king who spared their lives in return for fealty and faith. Praising his name and praying to the gods was a small price to pay to go back to your home. Roalas was becoming an isolated blister of defiance.

Ships were ferrying grain from Sigurd to make sure the army would be well supplied in the winter. The Caytoreans no longer traded this far west, but the Eracians still rubbed their palms with fat profit now that no one else contested their convoys. Travelers, refugees, and soldiers of fortune were flocking to Athesia. They all wanted to parley with the Parusite king or serve under him. Amalia’s rule was becoming irrelevant.

Eighteen years was hardly enough time to establish a national identity. He heard that the former Eracian and Caytorean nationalists were slowly remembering their ancient feuds. In the north, past the Red Cap lines, the Athesian countryside burned with banditry. Driscoll’s and Edgar’s men were sowing terror in their own realm, undoing two decades of Adam’s rule.

It all made sense. It was all a logical conclusion to the sad illusion called Athesia.
So why am I not winning this war
, Sergei thought, ignoring Yuri for the moment. The pirates were still causing trouble. The High Council was going to declare war soon. He had to admit his mistake and resolve this problem once and for all.

“Kiril, you will take your men and ride east. I want you to come back when the last of the Oth Danesh have been killed, or don’t come back at all. Or, if you prefer, you can be the first men to storm the curtain walls of that cursed city.”

“Your Highness,” the duke whispered, stunned.

“Yuri, I hear your men are working in the fields.” Some of the soldiers had put down their weapons and picked up scythes. They tried to bring in what little crop was still left in the rain-battered soil. “If they’re so eager to play in muck, they can work on clearing the Inferno. Starting tomorrow, they will carve a path wide enough for four olifaunts to ride abreast, all the way to the city gates. I don’t care about the casualties. I want that rats’ nest cleared.”

“It shall be done, Your Highness,” Yuri said. There was nothing else he could do.

“I expect you all to volunteer to some rather brave and dangerous missions. Take the rest of this day to think how you can redeem yourself. Dismissed.”

Silently, they filed away. No one spoke, not even after they had left the dark tent.

“Bring in my sister,” Sergei barked as he put the sword on the table. Giorgi nodded and exited.

Blessedly, Sasha came alone, without that wretched priestess who followed her everywhere. She was dressed in combat gear.

“Brother,” she said with soft, unexpected sympathy as she entered.

Sergei watched her without speaking for a while. “Will they kill Vlad?” he asked simply. Sasha was a woman, just like Amalia. Only she could really understand the other woman’s psyche. A man’s reasoning would not do here.

Sasha was never gentle, and he appreciated her honesty. “Most likely,” she said. She was not going to spare him the pain. Right now, he needed every bit of truth she could give him. “If that woman realizes her war is lost, she will murder him.”

Sergei went back to the small table and picked up the letter. Vasiliy had promised to send a fresh rider every day with news of the boy’s health. He was also sending two wagons full of birds, so they could try sending messages by wing. In bad weather, the chances of birds making it back to the capital were not high, but they would make the trip much faster than horsemen. Sergei was going to do the same; he had instructed Giorgi to find all local birdsmen and hire them.