The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) (74 page)

“You should not have punched Timothy,” he whispered, taking James back to the first evening of their hunt.

James nodded grudgingly. “That was a bit harsh, true.”

Rob shook his head while trying to watch the forest. “No. It was misplaced. Timothy was only doing what was expected of him. It is your duty to explain to your help what you want. You may have appeared gruff and manly in front of the soldiers, but some of the fops didn’t like it. It was rude.”

James had not considered that. He wondered why Rob had not told him that outright. Probably not to undermine his confidence.

“And there’s one more thing. Being a man of the people is all nice, but soldiers expect their officers to be, well, higher than they. That’s why they are officers, you see. Perhaps all these fools around you will bless your farts as perfume, but the truth is, you should let Timothy help you. Let him clean your armor before sleep and help you don it in the morning, polish your sword, and all that. It’s expected.”

James felt that punch coming right back at him, cold and hard. “Thank you,” he said.

Rob scratched his neck. “And you shouldn’t be dismounting to check the trail either. I know you’re doing it here and now, because you’re the best, and you’re trying to teach these men, but do not ever do that when it’s for real. Emperors do not sniff grass and mud.”

Something snapped ahead, like a twig.

James reined in his horse, all thoughts of his less-than-spectacular progress fleeing. Rob’s rouncey neighed nervously. Bruce, the third man in their squad, frowned and pulled out his sword. Timothy drew his own blade.

Two men stepped from behind a tree about ten paces ahead of them. They were dressed in brown and green leathers and wool, blending well into the surrounding. They looked like Xavier’s men.

James grinned softly. “Party’s over.”

The two men said nothing. It was the first hint that something was wrong.

More men appeared from behind trees, roughly forming a semicircle around the four of them. James saw they were armed with short spears, swords, and one man even had a crossbow. They looked like any other soldier in Xavier’s rogue force of Rabbits and other furry creatures, but their faces were hard and unsmiling, and there was not a hint of recognition in their eyes.

Steel hissed as Robin drew his sword, grasping the reality before him. James slowly realized this band of men was not going to surrender. They did not play by the rules of their game, most likely because they were not part of it.

So, this was no longer a game.

He took a deep breath. His foes had tried a dozen assassination attempts on his life in the past several months. But it had always been a single killer, never a force of mercenaries. Well, this was only expected. Wondering which one of his would-be friends may have betrayed him, James unsheathed his own blade. No one moved. They were probably toying with him, confident in their numbers and a sure kill. They wanted him to make the first, desperate move.

But he wasn’t the first.

One of the men yelped and staggered, an arrow buried deep in his stomach. The crossbowman lifted his weapon and aimed at James, but another arrow felled him. It pierced his throat and spun him around.

James spurred his horse forward. Rob and Bruce followed. Timothy lagged, looking every bit as shocked as he usually did. James veered away from the spearmen, knowing an encounter between cavalry and sharp points was never pleasant for the rider. He charged toward a swordsman. The man lifted his own blade, but James had a longer reach. The tip of the sword caught the man below the jaw and tore into his face. Mutely, the man stumbled, half his face torn off. James reined in behind a tree, waited for his three comrades to catch up, then charged again.

Within seconds, it was over. His men quickly subdued the ambushers. Someone must have realized something was wrong, because the entire party of twenty-four men was there, Xavier, Sebastian, all the rest of them. There were nine corpses on the ground, another man was wailing softly, dragging his innards through the mat of dead leaves, and five men were kneeling in surrender, their arms raised.

James dismounted and almost fell. He felt light and shaky. His limbs burned with adrenaline. Timothy was at his side like the loyal squire he was, pale like a slug, but still heroically holding up his unbloodied weapon. Not bad.

Xavier slid off his horse and approached the emperor. “Are you all right, sir?”

James swallowed a lump of fluttering giddiness. He wanted to retch with excitement. “Your men?”

Xavier stared at the five prisoners for a long time. Something like panic crossed his eyes. That nervous blink scrunched his face. “These are not my men. I swear it.”

“Then whose?” Rob accused. He was leaning against a tree, breathing deeply, an angry look on his face.

The warlord squared his jaw. Blink, blink. He realized Rob was not questioning his personal loyalty, but an army leader whose men took bribes from the enemy was not going to hold his position for too long. “We shall find out.”

He approached the first man. “Who sent you?” The man said nothing. Xavier kicked him in the groin. Keening, the prisoner folded. Some distance away, the wounded man had dragged himself to a tree and was leaning against it. He was staring at his bloodied arms and sobbing. “Cut that noise. Blaine, finish him off.”

James tried to gesture, but the soldier was faster. He buried his blade in the man’s chest. “Keep them alive. I want answers.”

“We should call off the hunt, Your Highness,” Councillor Sebastian suggested. “It’s too dangerous. There could be other ambushers. We do not know who might be conspiring against you.”

It could be anyone, James realized. Until a few months back, Sebastian had been one of his most ardent opponents. Quickly, James scanned his company. But all he saw were worried and excited faces of men having had a sudden brush with death.

“We’re not going anywhere,” James said.

“Watch the perimeter,” Xavier ordered. Several soldiers remained to guard the five surviving ambushers, but the rest spread around, forming a defensive ring around the kill zone. Two scouts rode off to warn the other teams. The adventure had just turned into a deadly affair. They were no longer hunting fellow Deer and Rabbits. They were up against a real enemy.

“Who sent you?” Xavier repeated the question, advancing on the second man.

The attacker was pale, terrified. He muttered incomprehensibly before Xavier punched him in the side of the head.

James reached over and yanked the warlord back. His strength was returning, but with it, a cold sense of fear. “I don’t need you to beat them into a bloody pulp. I want them to tell us what they know and not because they might want the pain to stop.”
Are you trying to hide something, you bastard?

Xavier grinned madly. “You call this pain? Blaine, cut this man’s balls off.” He pointed.

Blaine was one of Xavier’s regulars, a silent, gruff veteran who did what he was told. The man grunted like some animal and knelt by the third prisoner, fumbling with his breeches. He reached behind and drew a short, wickedly curved blade. It was a skinning knife, used for dead animals and game. Carefully, Blaine placed the top of the knife below the man’s groin. The attacker whimpered.

“Please, no,” he pleaded.

James did not like this. But if he were going to lead a nation, he could not balk at the sight of torture. He had commissioned deaths for far less than an explicit attempt on his life. But it wasn’t just his life at stake. It was the future of Athesia.

“What’s your name?”

“Baldwin,” the attacker wept.

“Who sent you?” James pressed.

“Councillor Rudolph of Shurbalen,” he cried.

“That was quick,” Xavier said, his laughter a soft, hissing rattle. “Finish them.”

“No!” James shouted.
The name is meaningless
, he thought.
I will always have enemies, new ones and old ones. This will never end
. “Blaine, put that knife away. Put it away.”

“Your Highness?” The warlord looked displeased. That blink again.

James looked around. Sebastian was staring at him carefully. Rob looked tense; he probably expected Xavier to disobey him and then see what would happen. Timothy was standing behind him, not sure where to point his sword. The rest of the party, some rich men and nobles, some die-hard soldiers, watched the exchange of wills carefully. Even some of the men guarding the perimeter could not but help steal a backward glance.

A thunder of hooves interrupted the uneasy standoff. The rest of the hunting party was coalescing toward the ambush site. James was impressed by the clockwork discipline. Without a word, soldiers formed defensive ranks, armed swordsmen in the front, crossbowmen behind them, at least two men back-to-back. The forest was dark and the visibility broken by the trees, but this tactic was guaranteed to offer the best mutual protection.

“We will continue our hunt,” James stated plainly. “If this were a war, would I end it now just because someone tried to kill me? We ride on. I want double the number of scouts, and they ride crescents back and forth.”

“What about these scum?” Xavier growled.

“Gentlemen.” James heard himself speak ceremonially, a wild idea budding in his head. “We just got another prey. Only it’s not a game this time, it’s for real.” He looked down at his captives. “You have one hour. If you manage to flee, you keep your lives. That’s all you get. Or you can stay here and die right now.”

A blast of murmurs spread through his retinue. The fifth prisoner spat derisively. Blaine aimed a kick at his head, but Xavier stopped him.

The man curling on the ground and holding his crotch looked up. “Thank you, my lord,” he groaned.

Within seconds, the five survivors were all up and running deeper into the forest.

“One hour, then we hunt them down,” James repeated.

Rob saddled up. “You know, you are your father’s son,” he said simply.

James did the same. “I hope so.”

CHAPTER 46

A
malia stood outside the burned inn in the Street of Fortune, sniffing. Days of continuous rain had not wiped off the acrid smell of smoke. The charred remnants of the building stared at her accusingly.
You failed, Empress
, they said.

This was the seventh case of arson in the last week. The inn had belonged to an Eracian, an immigrant from the last war. Like so many, he had arrived in Roalas following the invading army and made the city his new home, lured and enamored by the prospect of justice and equality that her father had forged. For nearly two decades, he had lived in peace with his neighbors.

No longer, it seemed.

Amalia had to root out the phenomenon before it exploded into a civil war. If the people of Roalas turned against one another, her small empire would die without any aid from Parus. National unity was what made Athesia special, beyond religion, beyond birth, a place where every citizen of the realms could find their peace. Her dear father had emphasized the need for harmony as much as the necessity of violence.
“Animals need order and control. But now and then, they need a soft, loving pet on their head. And if you pet one, you must pet them all.”
She felt strange referring to her people as dogs that had to be leashed, whipped, or fondled, but deep down, she understood what he had been trying to tell her. She could see humanity fraying out around her like an old straw hat.

The only thing she could do was make sure everyone felt equal to their neighbor.

But there was no easy way she could calm the spirits down. If she tried to offer protection to the Eracians, the Caytoreans would turn against her. If she ignored the attacks, the locals would interpret that as an endorsement of their acts. Worst of all, she knew she would lose this internal battle the moment she started segregating her people into camps. The awareness of a unified Athesia was too young, too brittle to survive the crisis. Just a single generation of people had been born under her father’s rule. Not enough to sustain the dream of his empire.

She needed a diversion. The Night of Surprises had given her some respite, the Autumn Festival another few days, but the effect was wearing off. Hope was quickly being replaced by fear and hatred. With ever-shortening days and gloomy, livid rains hammering on rooftops, Roalas was becoming a pot of bleak despair and raw survival.

Amalia looked behind her, at her retinue. Jerrica was Caytorean by birth. Agatha, too. She counted. Her own court still held true and loyal to her father’s ideas. But that was not enough. No one cared where an empress’s maid might have been born.

The morning was without rain, but a low bank of heavy clouds hung above the city, drifting slowly. People moved in the street, quick, withdrawn, faces cast downward toward mud and cobbles and ominous thoughts. When they saw the empress, they scurried away, propelled by silent, common guilt.

“Do we have any information who might have done this?” she asked.

Harris, one of Luke’s adjutants stepped forward. The head of the Secret Guard had not deigned to come. Back at the palace, he and Gerald were busy plotting something, keeping her in the dark. Lately, she felt they were ignoring her. Decision after decision, they saw them through and only then bothered to inform her. She did not begrudge their deeds. She regretted the lack of trust.