Winter of the Wolf (The Desolate Empire Book 4)

by Christina Ochs

  “We will act soon,” Florian said. “But before we do, we need to know the numbers Teodora and Princess Viviane can command right now.”

  “About five hundred militia troops came when I called them up,” Elektra said, “and my mother brought Moraltan mercenaries.” She turned to her companion and asked in Moraltan, “how many came with you?”

  “About a thousand,” the man growled.

  Florian smiled. “That’s excellent. Any chance those Moraltans might be turned against Teodora?” He waited while Elektra translated.

  “Very likely.” Elektra turned back to him. “They fight for pay, and none feel friendly toward the empire.”

  “Perhaps you can help us with that,” Gwynneth said to Janos. “We don’t need your comrades to actively betray the empress, just not fight when we show up.” If he actually cared about Elektra, he might turn out to be helpful. Still, she didn’t care for the look of him.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” he said, looking away as soon as he’d spoken.

  “Well then,” Gwynneth said, turning to Braeden. “I know I’ve heard enough. Why don’t we take them to the house and complete our plans?” She smiled at Elektra. “We wanted to bring you here first to make sure of you and your companion. As I expected, you’ve convinced us of your sincerity.”

  Elektra’s face was so openly relieved, Gwynneth felt bad for her.

  “All right,” Florian said, “as long as Count Terris agrees?”

  Braeden nodded and said, “Take them outside and get ready to go.”

  Gwynneth hung back for a moment. “We’ll see you back there,” she said, then took Braeden’s hand and squeezed it. “That man looks dangerous. Please take no unnecessary risks.”

  Braeden offered a half-smile. “I’ll try not to. If all goes well, I’ll see you in Kronfels.”

  Braeden

  By the time Braeden left the barn, Florian had climbed into the driver’s seat of the sledge that would bear Gwynneth, while Elektra and her captor were three sledges behind. They’d brought three more sledges besides that, each of them holding four heavily armed peasants, including the drivers.

  Florian cracked the whip right away. He and Gwynneth would pull ahead as quickly as possible, returning to the house, while Braeden followed more slowly. Braeden planned to lead anyone who pursued them on a merry chase, and into an ambush he’d had Trisa set up, along with a third of Destler’s troops.

  Braeden hoped he might take out Elektra’s companion before that. He didn’t like the look of this Janos, and it was clear she was terrified of him. Without someone keeping her in line, there might still be hope for the girl, though Braeden was weary of giving her chances to prove herself. He decided this was the last time. If she made even the slightest treacherous move on her own, he wouldn’t hesitate to kill her.

  He took his time going back to his sledge, then waved at Elektra’s driver. In the dark, with snow swirling on the air, there was now only the barest outline of Gwynneth and Florian’s sledge, already far down the road.

  The snowy road was barely visible, but the drivers knew it well, and so did the horses. Braeden kept his eyes on Elektra in front of him, trying to judge how much trouble Janos might cause, while his ears strained for any sound of pursuit. But there was only the screech of wooden runners on packed snow, muffled hoofbeats, the jangle of harnesses and the occasional snort of a horse.

  Braeden checked his weapons for what felt like the hundredth time and tried to relax. By this time tomorrow, everything would be over, and Teodora might be dead. That was a pleasant thought, and Braeden let it occupy his mind for a time. He hoped he’d get to do the deed himself.

  After traveling a few leagues, there was no longer any sign of Florian or Gwynneth, and the front sledge suddenly turned onto a side road. The bridge would be only two leagues off. It was as good a place as any to make a stand, with no one able to attack from the woods around them.

  Once they’d made the turn, Braeden listened for any sound of pursuit, but heard none. It would be impossible for anyone to keep up with them unless they traveled by a fast horse, and hoofbeats made considerable noise on the packed snow. He decided it was time to get rid of Janos.

  He couldn’t see it, but Braeden heard running water in the distance. “Halt,” he shouted, his voice cracking the still air.

  The front sledge kept going a bit longer, but came to a stop in the middle of the small bridge. There wasn’t room for more, so Braeden’s sledge stopped at the approach, and Braeden leapt out.

  “What’s wrong?” Elektra asked, her voice small and frightened.

  “Not sure yet,” Braeden said, “but it’s best you and your friend get out right now.” It was dark, but Braeden’s eyes had adjusted, so he could see well enough for what he needed to do.

  “I’m not—” Elektra began, then turned to Janos. He growled something, and Braeden understood Moraltan well enough to realize he wouldn’t let her go without a fight. Even though they’d been checked for weapons, it hadn’t been a thorough search, so Braeden didn’t want to risk him sticking the archduchess with a small, concealed blade.

  “There’s a problem,” Braeden said, in Moraltan, coming around to Janos’ side of the sledge.

  “What’s that?”

  “We’re being followed,” Braeden said, and before Janos could reply, swung a fist straight at his face. It crashed into his nose, and Janos jerked back, but only for an instant.

  Braeden stepped back and drew his sword, pleased to see Elektra scrambling out the other side of the sledge.

  Janos came out of the sledge just as fast, and barreled toward Braeden, something in his hand. It wasn’t big, the kind of dagger that could fit in a boot, but from what Braeden had observed earlier, Janos looked like someone who knew his business. And Braeden knew from long experience that Teodora’s assassins were always skillful. So he took another big stride back, his sword at the ready.

  Janos kept coming, his night vision clearly as good as Braeden’s.

  Braeden stepped aside, and Janos crashed into the low stone wall at the side of the bridge, then caught himself and whirled around.

  Braeden was big and strong, with the larger weapon, but Janos was almost as big, and fast. Braeden took a swing and missed by a mile. Swearing under his breath, Braeden quickly parried, since he saw only a bulky outline coming at him.

  He swiped at Janos’ legs, but missed again. Might be he’d need help, though that would be embarrassing. He was clearly out of practice.

  So Braeden pushed Janos toward the others, who by now would have drawn their weapons. He prayed no one had followed them, though if they had, they ought to be here by now. Maybe Teodora would sacrifice this man, though Braeden couldn’t imagine she’d let Elektra get away so easily.

  For a moment, he kept Janos on the defensive, as he stumbled and slid down the arch of the bridge. The snow on the bridge had turned to ice and keeping your footing was hard enough, never mind doing it backwards.

  Braeden’s escort kept close as he slid after Janos, and among them he spotted a smaller figure that must have been Elektra. He wished she’d stay a little further from the action.

  Janos halted halfway down the bridge and Braeden ran right into him, bowling him over. Something burned on Braeden’s wrist; Janos must have caught him with that little dagger. It didn’t hurt much, so Braeden had to hope it wasn’t too bad. He hung onto his opponent and together they rolled off the bridge, into the deeper snow at the roadside.

  Something warm and wet coursed over Braeden’s hand. He needed to end this before Janos got lucky again. He was only a little smaller than Braeden, but a few years younger and at least as strong.

  They’d landed in the snow with Braeden on top, but Janos flipped him over with ease. Somehow, Braeden had lost his sword, and now his bloody hand scrambled for the pistol in his belt while Janos pushed him down, his forearm pressing against Braeden’s throat.

  Braeden hadn’t lost a wrestling match since he was fourtee
n, just a few months before he’d grown bigger than Prince Novitny, his best friend. Now it looked like this one would end in his death.

  Braeden gasped for air, but none came. The white of Janos’ teeth flashed in a smile and he raised his other arm high. Braeden stopped struggling and closed his eyes.

  Maryna

  Maryna slept better than she had in ages, even though it was only a few hours until morning. Two sweet old women with fluffy white hair and red aprons fussed over her while putting her to bed in a tiny room with a huge featherbed.

  Bright moonlight shone through the little window, but Maryna was exhausted, falling asleep before she could finish her prayers. She wanted to be sure the gods knew how grateful she was for Anton, and for Trystan being so brave and clever. She also asked them to heal him, since he’d been hurt while defending her. She fell asleep somewhere in the middle of all that, and woke to bright sunlight streaming across the bed.

  The room was warm, with one wall the back of a large stone chimney, so Maryna dressed more carefully than usual, and took time with her hair, brushing it until it shone, then pulling the front part back so it didn’t poof out around her face as it liked to.

  When she came out into the little living area, the old ladies fussed over her some more, then made her sit and eat huge quantities of bread, cheese and delicious strawberry preserves. Maryna hadn’t tasted food that good in a long time.

  She was still eating when Anton came. “Have you had breakfast?” she asked, unable to keep from beaming at him. “They keep shoving food at me and I can’t eat any more.”

  “I have,” he said with a small smile. He didn’t seem quite so happy, though he was probably tired from all of the effort of the previous day. “I have to go to the stable and check on Hansi, my mule. Do you want to come?”

  “Oh yes.” Maryna brushed crumbs from her lap and jumped up, smiling her thanks at the old ladies, who seemed flustered by Anton’s presence. She doubted that many men came to their house. “I’ll go get my cloak.”

  “It’s down the street here, behind this house,” Anton said once they’d gone outside, their feet crunching on the snow.

  Even after the short walk, Maryna was very cold and out of breath. She realized she hadn’t had much chance to walk anywhere since leaving the ship. She wanted to tell Anton that story, but perhaps not the bit with Count Vega. He might think she’d behaved terribly.

  The warm little stable held a few village cows, and four mules belonging to Anton and his troops. He let them into a stall and shut the door behind them. “This is Hansi,” he said, petting the nose of a tall, chocolate-colored mule. “He’s friendly, so you can pet him.”

  “He’s nice,” Maryna said, taking over stroking the long smooth nose. “Mine never liked me very much.”

  “Some mules are stupid,” Anton said with a grin. Then his face grew sober. “Why don’t we sit down here,” he said, dropping into a pile of straw, and patting the spot beside him.

  Maryna sank down next to him with a smile. She and Devyn had always had the best time with Anton, sitting on the straw in Skandar’s stall, talking about all sorts of things. She wondered what had happened to Skandar.

  Her smile fled when she met Anton’s eyes. “What is it?” she asked, suddenly uneasy.

  Anton took a deep breath, as though working himself up to something. “I hate to be the one to tell you this,” he said, “but it would be worse if you heard it from someone else.”

  Maryna’s heart pounded. “It’s my family, isn’t it?” She put her hands over her mouth. “Something’s happened.”

  The look in Anton’s eyes told her it was true.

  He took another breath, then quickly said, “It’s your father. Princess Viviane of Isenwald had him murdered on Teodora’s command.”

  “Murdered?” Maryna could hardly choke out the word. She’d feared his death in battle, or perhaps of disease. That someone had killed her kind, gentle father was more than she could take in.

  Anton nodded, his eyes soft. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “It seems an agent of Teodora’s made the princess all kinds of promises if she’d kill him. She did it in her own palace, then tried to accuse Braeden Terris of the deed. Of course no one believed her, and your mother and brother ...”

  Maryna heard Anton’s words, but they didn’t sink in. Her mind remained fixated on the one thought: her father was dead and she’d never see him again. She tried to breathe, but couldn’t pull any air into her lungs.

  She gasped, and Anton grabbed her hand. “Please, Your Grace. You must breathe more slowly.”

  “I ..I ...” Maryna pulled in another breath, but it wouldn’t come, so she managed a few, short, shallow ones. But that wasn’t good enough, and red and black spots danced at the edges of her vision, even as her head pounded and her ears rang.

  Still holding her hand, Anton put his other arm around her and laid her back on the straw. “Slow down,” he said, sounding very far away.

  “I can’t,” Maryna panted, though by lying down, blood rushed back to her head.

  “You can,” Anton said, “You must.” He stroked her hand and Maryna concentrated on that.

  His hand moved slowly over hers, and when she matched her breath to that, it was all right. She breathed slowly, slowly, focusing everything on doing only that. If she thought about any of the rest of it, she’d fall apart.

  “See? You’re all right,” Anton said after a long silence.

  “I’m not all right,” Maryna said trying not to move. She didn’t want to think what would happen if she did.

  “I know,” Anton said, squeezing her shoulder with the arm he still had around her. That did it.

  The tears came then, and in such a rush, Maryna knew she’d never be able to stop them again. Her father was gone forever. She’d never see him again, never talk to him again, learn no more from him.

  She dimly knew that she now ruled Terragand, but she didn’t want it. She would give it all up and become a hermit in the mountains because there was no point to any of this if her father was gone.

  She’d always understood that he’d die someday and then she would become princess, but that wasn’t supposed to happen until he was old and she was middle-aged. This wasn’t supposed to happen when she was only fourteen.

  She rolled onto her side, burying her face in Anton’s chest, and he pulled her close, one arm still tight around her shoulders, the other rubbing her back.

  Elektra

  Confusion swirled around Elektra. The people who’d come with Braeden should have protected him, but the fight had turned too quickly, and now none were close enough to help.

  Beside Elektra, a young man raised a pistol, then hesitated. It was too dark, and impossible to distinguish between the two figures struggling on the ground. Elektra wouldn’t let Rykter win this fight. If he killed Braeden he might well resist all of these other people, especially if her mother had sent reinforcements. Anyone able to kill Braeden would make short work of this huddle of peasants. What could they know of real fighting?

  Elektra watched the young man out of the corner of her eye. She was close enough to see something that looked like a hunting knife at his belt. While he still hesitated, the pistol raised, Elektra grabbed the knife’s handle, yanking it from its sheath.

  “Hey!” the young man shouted, but by then Elektra was moving.

  She forgot about the bridge’s icy surface, and her feet slipped out from under her. She screamed as she fell on her bottom hard, pain shooting through her spine, but with the steep incline, she slid down the rest of the bridge, landing right next to Braeden and Rykter.

  This close, she saw what was going on. Braeden lay on his back, covered in blood, while Rykter straddled him, pressing a thick forearm against Braeden’s neck, a skinny Cesiane dagger in his other hand. Braeden lay limp and quiet; perhaps he was already dead, but that didn’t matter. Elektra wouldn’t allow Rykter to survive this.

  Elektra struggled to her knees, bringing her eve
n closer. Biting down on her lip, hard enough to draw blood, hard enough so she couldn’t think about what she was doing, she drove the knife into Rykter’s back.

  She hadn’t chosen a good target, but maybe the gods guided her hand, because it went low, into a soft spot, at the edge of the leather cuirass he wore under his heavy doublet. She didn’t know if it had worked, so she pulled the knife out in case she needed to try again. If Rykter turned around, she’d need to act fast.

  But he didn’t turn around. He made an odd whimpering noise and fell forward, on top of Braeden.

  Elektra sat back in the snow, her gloved hand covered in blood. Then something cold pressed against her temple.

  “Put the knife down,” the young man with the pistol said, his voice shaking. “You’ve killed him.”

  “I think so,” Elektra said, laying the knife in the snow beside her. Even in the dark she saw blood everywhere. Her voice shook as badly as the young man’s, and she trembled all over, though she didn’t feel cold.

  “He’s dead all right.” Braeden’s voice sounded muffled, but only because Rykter still lay on top of him. By now, the others swarmed all around. They pulled the body off and helped Braeden sit up.

  Elektra’s teeth chattered. She’d killed someone. Stabbed a man in the back. Even if it was the horrid Rykter, she’d taken a life. It became difficult to get air into her lungs, and she clawed at the scarf wrapped around her neck.

  “Are you all right?” That was Braeden’s voice. He sounded far away, even though he was in her face, shouting at her.

  She wanted to say she wasn’t hurt, but her teeth chattered too hard, and her breath still wouldn’t come.

  “Hey!” Braeden’s voice cracked loudly while at the same instant a slap stung her cheek.

  Elektra shrieked, and sucked in a great gulp of air, able to breathe again.

  “Are you all right, Your Grace?” Braeden dropped into the snow next to her.