The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) (95 page)

But it did not make much sense. Why would the Parusites risk marching at night? They would be too tired to fight in the morning. If the king wanted to negotiate, why send such a large force, then? Or rather, if he planned on fighting, why send such a
small
force? And why hadn’t Duke Kiril joined the march?

“We form up, and we wait,” James muttered. There was little else they could do.

It was the longest night in his life. They huddled under blankets, shivering, the fervor of the battle fading away, leaving depleted, hungry, chilled bodies and dejected spirits in its wake. Men dozed standing or kneeling, helmeted heads clanking against the shields and backplates of their fellow soldiers.

His colonels had arranged his forces in a defensive circle, archers on the inside, his own force in the center of it. When it came to famous last stands, they wanted one worthy of songs. But most of all, they wanted to live through this battle, and that meant negating the enemy’s strength and experience.

The Wolves held the right flank, the Lynxes the left. They were now doing the exact same thing the pirates had done only yesterday. The bitter irony of that stung.

The piss puddles frosted over just before dawn. A fog came and clouded the world. The death pyres had burned down, leaving behind a gagging miasma that made everyone sniff and breathe in short, rapid hisses. Everyone had been pressed into the battle line, even the wounded.

The world changed colors, turning gray, then soft gray, and then pale green until eventually brown emerged. There was no idle chitchat. The men were conserving every ounce of their strength for the coming battle. Whatever sun came up, it made the scenery brighter, but its glow was hidden in silver, deathly mist.

“Rider approaching!” a lookout shouted.

The line rasped as men tightened their callused grips on spears and sword hilts. Hundreds of bows groaned as they were pulled taut.

Rob looked at James and nodded.
Good luck, friend
, his eyes said.

James squinted into the morning haze, trying to figure out the contours and shapes. The fog made everything soft and bungled the distances. It would make any fight very awkward and messy. His only consolation was that his enemy would have a harder time.

Before James, three rows of spearmen knelt, protecting him. The world ahead was a wall of yew wood stakes and white, woolly rectangular patches that revealed nothing. Somewhere out there was a huge enemy regiment, plodding forward.

He could hear horses neighing, responding to their owners’ mood, but the sound came from everywhere. He could hear hooves thudding. Voices. But no screams, no shouts yet. James ignored the subtle need to vomit his exhaustion and just stared.

The fog parted suddenly, a stone’s throw away, to reveal someone on a horse. Then, several more men. His men. He frowned.
What is going on?
A squad of his scouts was escorting a lone horseman deep into his lines, crossbows lowered and aimed at him. The man was carrying a banner with a gray flag. Whoever he was, he wanted to parley, it seemed. It made no sense.

James tried to decipher the man’s denomination, but there was nothing special about his uniform or colors. He could belong to any random unit in any of the large armies of the realms. He wore old leathers, threadbare and assaulted by the weather, the original colors long washed away. He looked gaunt, too, just like his animal. There was a short sword at his hip, but the man made sure he kept both his hands on the staff of the banner he was carrying.

“What is this?” James called.

“This man wants to negotiate with you, sir.”

“Who are you?” The emperor addressed the question to the rider, still not leaving his protective nest of spears. He wasn’t a coward, but he had seen his share of cowardly assassination attempts to know better.

“I am Sergeant Lothar of the Fourth Legion. I speak on behalf of Commander Nicholas. He is waiting for your command, sir, Your Highness.”

Your Highness?
James was confused.
Commander Nicholas?
James felt a hand touch his shoulder. He twitched, but then he realized it was Rob. “What?”

“The Fourth Legion belongs to your half sister’s army,” he said quietly.

“Your Highness,” the rider continued, “Roalas has fallen. Empress Amalia is dead. We were sent to Caytor to fight you if necessary, but those orders no longer hold. We are your men now, sir, Your Highness. Commander Nicholas asks that you let him come here and swear fealty to you. The Fourth Legion is at your disposal, sir.”

James tried to envision the map of the terrain in his head. His eighteen victories had led him south, mostly south, and he had avoided getting too close to Athesia for the fear of being caught in a vise between the king’s troops there and the pirates. But somewhere in the strip of land there, a whole legion of Athesian forces had lain in wait for months, ready to defend the realm against new invasions from the east, including Amalia’s own half brother, even as the Parusites slowly tightened their grip on their country. That was ridiculous, he thought. But befitting Amalia’s erratic rule. It was no small wonder the city had fallen.

He thought he should feel sad, but he felt nothing. He still wasn’t sure what to think. However, he realized he would have to handle the difficult question of what he must do next much sooner than he would have liked.

“A trap?” James asked his friend.

Rob pursed his lips. “Not likely. Sounds too crazy.”

Within minutes, Warlord Xavier was there, too. “Bloody good news,” was all he said.

James felt twin spots of a headache heat up above his ears. He needed sleep. He needed to let his mind rest. He sighed. “Tell Commander Nicholas he can come here. With a small retinue.”

The rider nodded eagerly, obviously relieved. “We also have some refugees from the city, sir, Your Highness. We bring them too?”

Well, they are my people now
, James thought. “After your commander swears fealty.”

And with that, the Athesian emissary turned and went back. The fog swallowed him. James’s force did not break formation. They waited. It was only several hours later that they could put their weapons down.

James did not know what to think of his augmented force counting five thousand soldiers more than it had only the night before. He wasn’t sure how to feel about the seemingly endless train of women and children trailing after the Fourth Legion. Everyone seemed to be in shock. Soldiers from the two realms fighting for the same emperor mingled, but the conversations were stilted, weird, forced. No one really understood the future any better now. But they were all glad no one would have to die today.

James stood like a scarecrow, unmoving, ignoring his pain and nausea, staring west. His father’s dream, ruined. A half sister he had never known, dead.

Well, he still had a lot to do, he realized.

EPILOGUE

A
malia watched her half brother with part fascination, part hatred. He stood for all that she had lost. A stranger, born to some other woman her father may have loved once. He had come to usurp all she had ever had, her realm, her people, the memory she had of her own dad.

The emperor was talking to some of his officers, discussing battle plans. One of them, a tall fellow by the name of Gilles, reminded her of Gerald. He did not look like him, but he had the same mannerisms, same posture. She wondered what had befallen him.

He was not among the refugees who had fled Roalas that night.

Gerald had stayed and fought, she was sure. But she would not accept his death until she saw his body. For her, Gerald lived. He was a rebel general leading the city’s underground forces against the invaders. Or he was a prisoner in one of the cells. No. She would not accept that. She banished the bad thoughts with a visible shake of her head.

There was no point imagining things, envisioning dark scenarios, lamenting in misery, agonizing over what could have happened if she had only acted a little differently. She had to focus on hope, and her hope came from hatred and love. Father had always taught her to seize the moment, so she did. Her life wasn’t worth much right now, a nameless washerwoman who had to endure the pinches and slaps of drunken soldiers. It would be so easy to give up. But doing that would mean she would betray Gerald’s love and trust in her. She was better than that.

And she hated her half brother, hated his easy success.

Once, she had doubted the truth of his existence and heritage. But she no longer had any doubts. This man was her father’s son. Just like her. Only, he had made victories where her leadership had only caused disaster. The harsh truth galled and burned and wouldn’t let her sleep at night.

She would have to meet him. For a brotherly chat or a stab in the guts, she wasn’t sure. But not yet.

With her short hair and the street cat ear, she didn’t look like an empress. If she were to tell anyone, no one would believe her anyway. The simple realization she was just another face in a crowd had appalled her at first, but now she was glad for her invisibility. Still, it was a shock to learn how few people had seen, really seen, their empress or cared what she looked like. They had glimpsed
Empress
Amalia, but few could tell who Amalia was.

Trying to pose as one of the city’s rich would only earn her trouble. Refugees had very little to cling to, except an occasional act of mercy and a lot of abuse. Agatha had blended quite well early on. She had found herself a seemingly decent, good-looking officer and availed herself to his mattress. The man was rough, and she could always hear the woman’s sobs after he dismissed her, but in the morning, he would bring her extra flour and butter and other little perks and made sure no one bothered her.

Amalia had refused to make herself a whore, so she kept a very low profile, ignoring pretty much everyone. There was always the tiniest risk someone might actually recognize her and betray her presence to James in order to curry favor. Since she had no idea what he might to do her, but knowing what she would have done in the same situation, she kept her mouth shut, her eyes cast down, and her stance humble.

Jerrica had died of her wounds yesterday, having survived the entire march from Roalas. Amalia saved her tears for later, much later.

The morning was wet, the wind flapping the wash lines and an icy rain undoing her work. But she did it anyway, clumsy as she was. Agatha stood at her side, shivering, helping her. Amalia still hadn’t thanked her for saving her life back at the palace. But she would make it up to her one day, she promised herself.

James laughed suddenly, stealing her attention and fascination again. He was smiling, his face free of worry. Damn him. But there was nothing she could do now. Instead, she dipped her wrinkled imperial fingers into the bucket of cold water and watched her reflection ripple on the surface. For a moment she thought her face was smiling, too. But it was a rictus of anger. Gritting her teeth, checking her emotions, she pulled the wet shirt, squeezed it, and tried to hang it, the cold, wet fabric slapping her in the face.

This humiliation was a lesson, she knew. Her father had taught her about hardship and difficult choices and suffering. She hoped she would be strong enough to endure it.

Amalia dipped her fingers into the bucket again and fished out another shirt.

Tanid watched the Special Child walk away from the Womb. Then, he stepped out of his hiding, into the clearing, and approached the two mounds of freshly turned earth. Elia and Damian, buried side by side. Only Damian was wearing that alien human face, but it was still him.

The god of weather paced the burial spot, restless. He could feel newfound energy bubbling in his veins. Nineteen years ago, he had woken from his stupor to find himself struggling for survival against a brutal humanity. With some cunning and much luck, he had survived the first onslaught, long enough to gather his wits and try to adapt to a reality of treachery and violence.

The human faith in him had sustained him until he learned how to cope in this new age. People always looked up at the sky and wondered what the cloud front would bring, a hail to kill their crops or a salvation for their harvest. They prayed for mild winters and bountiful summers, they prayed for rains, they cursed frost and wind and fires, and they dreaded sea storms that crashed ships against rocks. His presence was with them at all times, and their belief empowered him.