The Desolate Empire Series: Books 1-3

by Christina Ochs

  “Not likely,” Braeden said.

  “Exactly. Let’s stop them in the morning. They’ve made camp for the night and we’ll deploy now, jump on them before it gets light.”

  “I like the sound of that.” Braeden was happy to get his regiment ready.

  It was a foggy, frosty night and the horses’ hooves crunched on the frozen mud of the road. They went as quickly as they could, with scouts well ahead to make sure the enemy hadn’t moved. When they were close, Braeden rode up with Novitny to take a look.

  “How many do you reckon?” Novitny asked.

  “Only one or two thousand foot, maybe a hundred cavalry. Don’t know what they hope to do with that.”

  “Wonder if they’re waiting for someone else.”

  “Hard to say. Best to take them out now if that’s the case.”

  “I agree.”

  Braeden held the glass and looked over the camp carefully. He stood on a small hill and torchlight flickered between the tents. He laughed. “It’s Bronson Falk, I’m sure of it.”

  “Falk? Of Helvundala? Isn’t he supposed to be up north somewhere?”

  “Yes, but I’d know his banner anywhere. I saw a bit of him back during the Landrus trial. He was one of the troublemakers at the time.”

  “I hate to trouble someone who might have given the empress a headache. That seems a poor reward.” Novitny chuckled.

  “It does. We should ride in and offer him a drink instead.” That was just talk. Braeden knew what they had to do.

  The hussars deployed near the camp and silently took out the pickets. This wouldn’t take long.

  Anton

  Anton left Kleeren early the next morning, riding Skandar and leading Cid, saddled and ready to go. He loaded two pistols and put them in his belt. His cloak covered them and it felt good to know they were there.

  Count Orland gave him a purse. “You’ll need to take a room at the inn in Mierzeck. If anyone gives you trouble, tell them your master is joining you in a few hours. Make sure the horses are fed, watered and rested.”

  Anton nodded, tension creating a knot in his stomach.

  “One more thing,” the count said.

  “What’s that?”

  “You’ll be able to see what’s going on in that cove from the spot I told you about. If anything happens to me, or if the ships don’t appear tomorrow night, take the horses to Floradias. They’ll let you into a garrison there. You can wait for me in case the ships are delayed, but you don’t have to. There’ll be enough money to get you back to Kronland or wherever you want to go.”

  “You’ll make it though, won’t you?” It was hard to hide how worried he was, since he was sure the count was doing something terribly dangerous.

  The count laughed his familiar laugh. “I plan to. Now off you go, and I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

  The weather along the coast was cold and rainy. Anton’s cloak was thick and warm, but he was still chilled and wet when he reached the fishing village of Mierzeck. He quickly found the inn, a weathered-looking building of gray clapboard. He didn’t like the look of the innkeep, so he told the man he was waiting for a party of four and let him catch a glimpse of the pistols at his belt.

  The fellow was rude anyway. “How do I know a scrap like you is good for the room and the feed for the horses? How do I know you ain’t stole fine beasts like that?”

  Anton narrowed his eyes. “Do I look like a horse-thief?” he said in a haughty tone he had learned from the count. “Perhaps this will put your mind at ease.” He spoke the Zeelund tongue well by now and could imitate the crisp, clipped accent of the Bonnenruck quality while laying a silver coin on the table.

  “That’ll do nicely, sir.” The innkeep snatched up the coin and it disappeared down a sleeve.

  “Good.” Anton hoped he sounded bored. “Now bring me something to eat and some beer. I’ll check on the horses later to make sure those incompetent louts of yours take proper care of them.”

  By the time he finished speaking, the innkeep was bowing and scraping and Anton had to hide a grin as he swept into the dining room. It was empty at this hour, but a grubby-looking serving girl brought him a pewter plate piled high with steaming meat and potatoes. She quickly returned with a tall tankard of dark beer. Anton had become accustomed to much better at Vrouw Melchor’s fine table in Bonnenruck, but he was hungry enough not to care.

  He made sure to leave the dining room before the regulars arrived since he didn’t want to answer too many questions. The fewer people who noticed him the better. He checked on the horses, doing his best to intimidate the stable lad, who was probably several years older than Anton, and went to his room early. It was amazing what fine clothes, a pile of coin, a brace of pistols and a bit of attitude could do.

  Anton worried he might not sleep well, anxious as he felt about the next day’s operation, but the journey had tired him. The bedding was warm and comfortable, if perhaps not entirely clean. Anton reckoned the slight musty scent wasn’t as bad as the smell of the horse blankets he used to sleep in. He hoped living in Bonnenruck hadn’t made him too soft and fell asleep with the count’s instructions running through his head.

  He visited the stables again the next morning, then had breakfast in the dining room. There was only one other guest eating the runny porridge and she was even less interested in talking to Anton than he was in talking to her. He knew from the stable-boy she was a courier working for a consortium of Bonnenruck merchants. She’d come in late last night, bearing dispatches from further down the coast, headed for Kleeren. Anton had noticed her fine horse.

  “That’s how they find out where their ships are,” the stable-boy said. “The couriers collect messages from the ship’s captains and relay them up the coast. Most of our out-of-town custom comes from them.” That was probably how the count had learned where the ships were.

  Anton kept to his room for the rest of the day, coming out again for one solitary meal in the late afternoon. As evening fell, he collected the horses. “It’s time for me to meet my master,” he told the stable-boy. “I doubt I’ll be back.” He gave him a handful of coppers. “If anyone asks, I was never here, and neither were these horses.” He’d gotten a similar agreement from the innkeep for a lot more coin.

  As darkness fell, the wind turned sharper, driving a cold drizzle straight into Anton’s face. He wondered how he would ever find his way. But after a while, his eyes adjusted and he noticed the overcast sky was quite light, the wind blowing clouds across an almost-full moon that peeked out from time to time.

  When he reached the bluffs overlooking the cove, he had a good view of the beach below, and the still-empty sea. He had wrapped the horse’s harnesses with rags so they didn’t jingle and he had a pocket full of sugar lumps to keep them happy.

  It was cold. Anton paced along the bluff, holding his cloak tight around him. After what felt like hours, there was noise and movement on the beach below. Four small boats were drawing up. He hadn’t seen them until they were close. Once on the beach, someone lit torches and built a small driftwood fire. Not long after that, Anton saw the ships. In spite of the stiff wind they were running at nearly full sail, although they began furling them as they came near the beach.

  Anton’s heart thudded in his dry mouth. He prayed the count was on one of those ships. It took a while longer, but a boat launched from the ship finally reached the beach. Several people climbed out and pulled it ashore and then someone else got out. Anton was sure he recognized the count’s hat and was even more certain when Cid nickered. “Shh,” Anton said, giving Cid another sugar lump and petting his nose.

  Anton got as close to the edge of the bluff as he dared and looked down. The wind carried snatches of conversation and made the torches flicker. If anyone had looked up they might have seen Anton silhouetted against the sky, but no one did.

  The talking seemed to go on forever, but Anton wasn’t cold anymore. He sweated under his wool doublet and heavy cloak. After a long time all of
the boats pushed back into the water and the count started along the beach. He headed to a path winding up the bluff to where Anton stood. Anton watched the boats row out toward the ships. The count disappeared under the bluff.

  Suddenly, one of the boats turned around and started back toward the beach. Anton fell to his stomach, flattened to the ground, then pulled out both pistols. He shouted over the edge, “Sir, watch the beach.”

  An instant later, light exploded from the boat.

  Arryk

  “Wait, what?” Arryk was still groggy. Magnus stood in his dark bedroom, a faint light coming through the open door. “It’s Bronson Falk, Your Highness. He’s dead.”

  Arryk rubbed his eyes, stumbled out of bed and into a dressing gown. Larisa stirred on the other side and a moment later, a lamp flared up as she came up beside him.

  “All right,” he said, “Tell me from the beginning. Has an accident befallen him?”

  “Not exactly.” Magnus looked grim. “We’re not sure of what he intended, but he had marched his entire force toward Kersenstadt. The Sanova Hussars fell upon their camp and utterly destroyed them. If there are any survivors, they haven’t come here.”

  “How did you find out?” Arryk hadn’t seen Prince Bronson in several days but that wasn’t unusual. He had quartered his troops some distance from the rest, so he wouldn’t have missed them when they marched out.

  “Someone in a nearby village saw what happened and thought we should know.”

  Arryk dropped into a chair. How could the only ally near him do this? Falk had few enough troops he had no hope of success at taking the city and should have known the Sanova Hussars would roam the countryside. Of course he’d be no match for them.

  “What are your orders, Your Highness?” Magnus shifted to another foot.

  “I want to see my staff at daybreak. In the meantime, see what other news can be gathered from the farms and villages. I need an exact account of what happened and the numbers involved. We must search for survivors, if there are any.”

  After Magnus left, Arryk slumped forward.

  Larisa stroked his hair. “You didn’t need him,” she said.

  “Yes, I did.” Arryk lifted his head and leaned into her hand. “He was an ass, but at least he had experience. I must gather the rest of my allies before they all disintegrate.”

  His staff was waiting for him when he reached the dining hall of the mansion he was staying in. From the look on everyone’s faces, they’d heard the news.

  Arryk tried to keep his face neutral, as if this weren’t a disaster. “First of all,” he said, sounding stern. “Were any of you aware that Prince Bronson might try such a feat? Did he speak with anyone?”

  A colonel spoke up. “Not to us, he didn’t. Falk’s Kronlanders kept to themselves. Not the friendliest. So we let them be. Never thought the old fellow would be such a fool. I wouldn’t want to take our whole cavalry against the Sanovans, let alone his few thousand ragtags.”

  Arryk wanted to think his horse were able to handle the hussars, but he also realized that probably wasn’t true. He needed to face Mattila before the hussars joined her, but it wasn’t wise to try it until he had more allies. Gwynneth had written that no immediate help would be forthcoming from Galladium, though there was another plan afoot. But that would take time and Arryk was running out of it.

  He swallowed, surprised at the dryness of his mouth. “Send messengers,” he said. “I need Seward Kurant to join us at once. I understand he’s trying to subdue Daciana Tomescu in the Podoska marches, but I don’t care about that. He’s needed here. I want Ruso Faris to garrison Birkenfels and bring every remaining soldier here. And I want Emilya Hohenwart here now.”

  “I’ll write up the orders,” Magnus said.

  “That’s all for now.” Arryk rose. “We’ll meet again when I have more information.” He left, feeling defeated already. Faris had written to him, stating he didn’t want to leave Terragand while Kersenstadt lay in enemy hands. Since it dominated the crossroads, Mattila could march across the border unopposed. Kurant couldn’t or wouldn’t get past Tomescu. And even if Emilya Hohenwart left Brandana today, it would take weeks for her to haul her guns down the muddy roads. Too much could happen in weeks, and none of it good.

  Gwynneth

  Gwynneth was glad the journey was over. She was a good sailor, but the Northern Sea in late winter was an unpleasant place for anyone. It was a relief to see the harbor of Tharvik appear out of the mist, all gold and white. Her appearance on the dock went unnoticed, since she traveled with no escort aside from her maid, Catrin. With her salt-stained cloak drawn close around her she looked like just another weary traveler.

  Catrin hailed the closest hired carriage and Gwynneth instructed the driver to take her to the nearest comfortable inn. She wanted to repair her looks as much as possible before appearing at the palace. It had been ten years since the king had last seen her, and she had been a fresh-faced young girl then. She didn’t want the contrast between then and now to appear too harsh.

  The coachman obliged by bringing her to a pretty inn well away from the harbor and its biting winds. The innkeep was a tall woman with blond braids wrapped around her head and a bright red apron. She needed only a glance at Gwynneth to detect quality, taking her straight to the best suite of rooms in the house. Money wasn’t a problem since Natalya had slipped a purse full of gold into Gwynneth’s baggage when she left Galladium.

  Aksel had made her an even larger present in Norovaea. “I’d give you everything I have if you can end the war somehow,” he’d said, smiling down at her. She made sure he and Norvel Classen reached an understanding before she left. Aksel finally agreed to attend to affairs of state for at least six hours each day. He could spend the remaining time in his laboratory.

  Classen was pleased at his aptitude. “I always thought it a shame he didn’t turn some of that prodigious brain toward the problems of the kingdom.” He looked livelier than he had in some time. Perhaps he would gain some of his weight back.

  Settled in front of a blazing fire, a warm quilt wrapped around her shoulders and sipping a hot drink while sleet lashed the windows, Gwynneth considered her next move. First, she needed to assess the limited wardrobe she’d brought to find something appropriate for court. She wanted something more dazzling than the dress she’d worn in Allaux and Arenberg on formal occasions. Perhaps she should arrange for a dressmaker before letting the king know she was here.

  Behind her, Catrin sighed loudly over an ironing board. “I don’t know, Your Grace. Everything got so damp; I’m not sure I can get the creases out.”

  “Do your best,” Gwynneth said, feeling relaxed. She wondered exactly what was in her drink. “I think I’ll need something new.”

  “Oh yes, I agree.” Catrin suddenly sounded much happier. She loved dress fittings because she often received Gwynneth’s cast-offs.

  “When you’re done there, ask the innkeep about good dressmakers; someone who understands the latest styles. I don’t want to be mistaken for a jumped-up Estenor peasant.”

  “Oh, you never could.” Catrin giggled at the idea.

  Gwynneth smiled to herself. She wondered if Lennart would find it amusing if she tried a rustic look. No, better to look grand and dignified. The last thing she wanted was to appear in need of charity. “Next, I must learn how the king spends his days. I want a private audience and need to know who can get me one.”

  “I’ll find out,” Catrin said.

  Gwynneth didn’t know how she would, since she barely spoke the language, but that had never seemed to keep Catrin from communicating before. “Oh, and be discreet. I’d prefer to not have this be an official visit, at least not until I’ve spoken with the king.”

  After a delicious early dinner, Gwynneth fell asleep in a bed with fluffy down-filled quilts above and below her. By the time she awoke and breakfasted, Catrin had arranged an appointment with a dressmaker and gone off to get the court gossip. Gwynneth was getting ready to go ou
t, when she returned, bundled up in Gwynneth’s plain traveling cloak.

  “Bad news, Your Grace,” she said without preamble.

  Gwynneth stopped pulling on her gloves. “What is it?”

  “The king isn’t here.”

  “What? Has he gone hunting?”

  “No. He’s gone to Sanova on a winter campaign.”

  “Unbelievable.” Gwynneth sank into a chair. “Fighting in this horrid weather? What is he thinking?”

  “That the Sanovans will like it even less.” Catrin smiled.

  “I suppose we must chase after him. Did you find out where in Sanova he is?”

  “He sailed for the Prinova Islands about a fortnight ago. They’ve received messages here that he landed successfully and secured a base there.”

  “How dreadful. That will be an unpleasant voyage and even worse once we get there. At least, we’ll be near Sanova should I need to go.”

  “When will we go? Should I book a passage?” Catrin never seemed to miss a beat.

  “I still need a dress. Nothing formal, but I want to look nice. We’ll plan to leave in three days. Ride with me to the dressmaker, and from there you can go to the harbor and find a ship for us. Something sturdy, with an experienced captain, one who knows how to find the king.”

  Arryk

  Arryk thought he would be less worried now that Larisa was his wife, but he felt worse. Maybe it was because he’d been unable to talk her out of leading the assault on Kersenstadt. After Prince Bronson’s failure, Arryk decided that getting Edric Maximus to infiltrate the city was the only way.

  “I won’t be in any danger,” Larisa said, laughing at him as she always did. “I won’t go in unless Edric Maximus sways the population and once I’m in, I’ll be safe behind those huge walls forever.”