The Desolate Empire Series: Books 1-3

by Christina Ochs

  “Traitor,” Gwynneth said under her breath. “You can get money in Zeelund, can’t you?”

  “Yes. Should be enough to hire ships if not buy them outright. I’ve sent a message to Arenberg for Classen to send as many as he can, but they’ll land in Zeelund, with no way to get word to send them here instead.”

  “I see,” Gwynneth said. “I’ll talk to the Zeelunders. If I can broker peace between Sanova and Estenor, I can get them to let you in.”

  “You did that?” He should have been surprised, but perhaps it was a measure of his trust in Gwynneth’s abilities that he wasn’t.

  Gwynneth nodded. “Lennart is to marry Raysa Sikora shortly. He plans to invade Kronland as soon as possible.”

  “He’s welcome to it.” Arryk shook his head. “I wish I’d never come.”

  “I’m glad you helped me, and I’m sorry it’s turned out so badly. I’ll try to help however I can.”

  “You can,” Arryk said eagerly. He’d been waiting for this opportunity. “I’ll abdicate straight away and you can rule Norovaea.”

  “I can’t.” She shook her head. “But Aksel will help. I made him get to work while I was visiting there and according to Classen’s letters, he’s doing well. You can rely on him.”

  “Not like you. You were born to it, Gwynn. Please.” Returning to Arenberg like this and being expected to rule was beyond imagining right now.

  “We’ll talk about it more later.” She disentangled herself from him. “Now I need to talk to the garrison and persuade them to let you cross the border before Mattila gets here.”

  Braeden

  They looked for two long hot days before Braeden found the right street. They had to dig through the rubble of another row of houses, but he recognized the way it curved. His heart pounded. He knew it was too late, but something inside him remained convinced of the possibility of a miracle. Perhaps it was because Senta had arrived and refused to believe the worst in spite of Reno and Trisa’s accounts.

  “I have prayed to the Mother,” she said, calm as could be. “She always answers my prayers.”

  Braeden had never believed in any such thing, but now he grasped at every possibility. He even offered up a few prayers himself. Not proper ones, but he reckoned if the gods paid attention as the priests claimed, they’d listen to him as well as anyone in front of an icon.

  Recognizing the street seemed like an answer to those prayers. The houses here were better-built than most and many walls still stood. So it took very little time to locate his own. He recognized the front step and what remained of the front window. There’d been a little bench built in, and though it was gone now, he saw where it had been. He’d sat there with Janna in that very spot.

  Everyone grew quiet, but set to work. Braeden stayed in front of everyone, helping lift stone and beam as they worked their way through the front of the house. No matter what they found, he needed to be first to see it. All of the interior walls had fallen, so if anyone still lived, they wouldn’t have been able to open the cellar door from the inside.

  Braeden knew the cellar was large and that he’d left Janna enough money to stock it. He hoped that even after a siege enough food remained to keep a few people alive for a few days. He tried not to think about what they would have done about water.

  After a few hours of work, they reached the kitchen. Braeden took a deep breath and worked harder. He’d spotted the blackened ring of the cellar door when Trisa breathlessly scrambled over the rubble to work next to him.

  “Don’t,” he said.

  “I found her for you the first time; I should be here now.”

  Braeden wanted to say Trisa was just a little girl, but since the battle and after what she’d seen here, there was nothing of the child left in her. Braeden looked into her dark eyes, calm and resolute, and realized she had grown up. So he nodded, and they worked together silently until they cleared all of the rubble from the door.

  The door opened smoothly. It was just about noon. The sun stood directly overhead and no other light was needed. Everyone stopped working and stood, holding their breath. There was complete silence from below and Braeden remembered to take a breath before going down the stairs.

  It was a relief almost, to see them, and realize they hadn’t been hurt. Even though his friends tried to protect him from them, Braeden still overheard the stories of the atrocities committed before the fire swept the city. Women raped dozens of times before being killed and small children thrown from windows, or heads smashed against stone. At least now he knew that hadn’t happened to his.

  Janna sat propped against a barrel, her head cocked to one side, her eyes wide open. She held a small bundle in one arm, and the other held Iryna against her side. Iryna’s eyes were closed, her thumb in her mouth. Braeden sat down on the floor, and pulled the bundle out of Janna’s stiff arms. He unwrapped it slowly, and kept unwrapping until he saw it was a boy. Then he wrapped it back up and put it back on Janna’s lap.

  He heard voices, but they seemed very far away. Someone was crying, but then that went away. It was quiet for a while and the light faded. There were footsteps on the stair behind him and someone took him by each elbow and made him stand.

  “It’s time to go, sir.” Franca’s voice was soft in his ear.

  “We’ll take them outside the city.” Barela’s voice was in his other ear. “Somewhere nice, and give them a proper burial tomorrow. But you must come now.”

  Braeden wanted to protest, but his voice refused to come and his limbs didn’t move. He let them drag him up the stairs. Someone brought Kazmir and he mounted him without realizing it. Somehow he got back to Barela’s tent and someone put him on a cot and tucked him in. He was shivering and sweating. Someone said something about a fever and Braeden tried to tell them he wasn’t sick.

  He tried to order his thoughts. He had endured worse surely, so long ago when all of his family had been killed. No, his sister had survived, he was certain of that. He remembered seeing her on the boat they’d put them on, huddled in a corner, crying. Braeden had wanted to comfort her but didn’t know what to say. That was probably how his friends felt right now.

  Surely this wasn’t as bad. He’d hardly known Janna five years, Iryna only a few and the little boy not at all. Braeden wondered what Janna had named him.

  They mostly left him alone. Someone came to mop his brow with a cool wet cloth and much later, poured something awful-tasting into his mouth. When he finally slept, it was to nightmares of screaming, yellow-haired men with wolf-eyes running at him out of a great wall of fire.

  Gwynneth

  Gwynneth was tired and dirty and hardly looked or felt like a princess, but there was no time. She had to get Arryk into Zeelund, or she really would be Queen of Norovaea in short order. She laughed to herself. It was what she’d always wanted. Since she’d been a little girl, she knew she’d be far better at ruling than Arryk, and plenty of others had hinted as much. Even after her marriage to Kendryk, she thought ruling Norovaea and Terragand jointly would be advantageous for both.

  But right now, she couldn’t do it. If she went to Norovaea, it would need her full attention for years to come. Its finances and military required a great deal of repair while she would have to face the monster she had just created—a peaceful Estenor and Sanova, their attention turned toward their richest neighbor in disarray. Without the distraction of Kronland, Estenor could gobble up Norovaea straight away. She had no choice now but to get Lennart into Kronland and keep him there until Terragand was Kendryk’s again.

  A strong Terragand would create a counterweight and make it impossible for Lennart to dominate the north. Gwynneth’s head ached. One problem just bred another. And now she had Arryk on her hands, a shadow of his former self. She was desperate to get to the children, but needed to see her brother safe first.

  She took Merton and a small escort and asked for the garrison commander. A stout, bluff Zeelunder, the captain in charge was surprised to see her. “Where did you come fr
om, Princess? The next lot we’re expecting is Mattila’s.”

  “I came from Terragand,” Gwynneth said, taking a proffered chair. “My brother needs help.”

  “I can see that,” the captain said, with some sympathy. “But I can’t let him in if I don’t want Mattila breathing down our necks.”

  “I understand. But if you don’t let him in, there will be bloodshed on your front door.”

  “I know. But I don’t want trouble with the empire, especially when they’re doing so well right now.”

  Gwynneth rolled the dice. “They won’t be much longer.” She told him of Lennart’s plan.

  “You don’t say?” The captain was suitably impressed. “Though that doesn’t do me much good if she’s standing in front of me a few days from now.”

  “Buy her off.” Gwynneth pulled out a large purse and threw it onto the table with a clank. “If she’s to chase my brother further, she’ll need ships and food. Give her this, minus a suitable fee for yourself of course. I’m sure she’ll be friendly.”

  The captain looked at her long. “It’s no wonder you persuaded King Lennart. Though I didn’t expect you to have money to throw around.”

  “I have a bit.” She had spent little of Queen Ottilya’s generous gift and had already asked Merton if he had enough money to get her to Floradias. Once there, she could sell the jewelry she had sewn into the children’s clothes. They could live off that for a while.

  She hoped this would be enough to put off Mattila, and if it wasn’t, she hoped they’d be far enough into Zeelund for it to no longer be her problem.

  The captain hesitated. “I should consult with the authorities.”

  “You are the authorities,” she said. “There is no time to delay. Mattila will be here soon. What do you say?”

  The captain took a deep breath. “All right,” he said. “Get your people together. Welcome to Zeelund.”

  Braeden

  Braeden awoke the next morning with a terrible headache, but got up all the same. The others trod carefully around him, like he was a bad-tempered stallion. But he wasn’t bad-tempered. Not at all. Not sad, either. He felt a dull ache in his head and one in his middle. He even ate something put in front of him.

  There was a buzz of activity around him and he had an idea it concerned him, but he wasn’t sure how. Barela found him, sitting outside his tent.

  “Time to go,” he said, offering a hand, which Braeden took, and pulled him to his feet.

  “Where?”

  “There’s a nice place further up the river with trees and some grass. Lieutenant Dura knows the words to say if you want it done the Sanovan way.”

  “Why not?” It made no difference to him. Dead was dead and the words spoken over the bodies wouldn’t bring them back.

  “Janna was Moraltan, but no one here knows …” Barela trailed off.

  “Oh, I doubt she cared about that. Sanovan is fine.”

  He got there somehow. A cart had gone ahead and waited for the rest of them. All of this had been arranged without him. A plain wooden box, big enough for the three of them, but not very big all the same, stood on the ground. Braeden had forgotten how small Janna was until he had seen her again in the cellar.

  Senta, weeping loudly, was putting flowers on the box. Where she had gotten them, Braeden couldn’t imagine. It was surprising enough they’d found a bit of green anywhere near the city. It was nice here. The air was sweet, with no hint of the pestilence and death of the city and surrounding camps. Leaves rustled, birds chirped and the wind blew softly through the grass.

  Braeden stood there while words were said in Sanovan, then someone sang a song he’d never heard before and suddenly the box disappeared, replaced by a brown pile of earth with wilted flowers on top. Someone steered him back to his horse. Maybe it was his imagination, but Kazmir moved slowly and sluggishly. Braeden hoped he was all right. He needed him to be strong to carry him far away from here.

  As they made their way back to camp, following Senta, still weeping in the cart, Braeden started thinking. The fog was clearing and a sharp pain threatened to overwhelm him, so he made plans to distract himself.

  By the time they reached Barela’s tent, Braeden had decided. “I can’t ever repay you for your kindness,” he began and Barela made a dismissive noise. “I will leave now and I don’t want to make trouble for any of you. So it’s best if I disappear quietly tonight when none of you know anything about it.”

  “What are you planning?” Barela was surprisingly calm.

  “I’m not sure yet. But whatever it is means I can’t go back to the hussars, ever.”

  “I see.” There was a long silence and Barela finally said. “If you have a plan that involves our mutual acquaintance, I would like to be involved.”

  “Are you sure? It’s treason. I doubt I’ll survive it.”

  “I don’t mind taking the risk either. It’s worth it to me. I used to admire her determination and ambition, and I understand that bloodshed is sometimes needed. But she’s a monster. Perhaps I’m too angry to be reasonable, but I’ve had enough.” His meaning was clear.

  “So if I need help from you, you’ll give it?” Braeden asked.

  “Gladly. But tell no one else here. We’ll say you are taking time off. There’s no need to skulk off in the middle of the night. Your comrades can report to Novitny, who I’m sure will understand. They can expect your return when you’re ready, or not, as the case may be.”

  “Yes, better they think I’m coming back,” Braeden said. “How can I reach you?”

  “I imagine I’ll join the empress in Atlona and meet you there. If you need to send any messages out of the ordinary, do it through Brytta Prosnytz. She’s friendly.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  “It’s not what you think. She can be relied upon.”

  Now he had a plan, it was easier to move. Barela’s servants packed his few things and the general gave him a heavy purse. “You helping with this is all the repayment I want,” he said.

  No one had sent for them, but the other hussars were there when he was ready to go.

  “You shouldn’t go alone,” Franca began.

  “No, I should.” His voice was rougher than he meant it to be. “Please, I need you to tell the prince I’ll be back before long. I’ll find you lot wherever you are.”

  Everyone exchanged glances, but it seemed they knew he wouldn’t be swayed. Perhaps this was a mistake. Looking at their faces, Braeden realized they were family too and he was throwing that away as well. He couldn’t think about the prince—his oldest friend—at all. It didn’t matter, since he didn’t see any way he could survive what he planned to do.

  Anton

  After the battle, Count Orland made his troops ride hard and fast. They needed to get far from the battlefield as quickly as possible. Anton was glad Skandar was young and in such good condition, because anyone unable to keep up was left behind.

  “I wanted to head to Tirovor and get to Galladium from there.” The count gathered his officers when they made camp in southern Fromenberg, still on high alert for those who might pursue them. “But I need to do something else first.”

  “The Sanova Hussars will be hot on our heels, no matter what you do,” one officer said.

  “I’m sure they’re expecting me to go to Tirovor.”

  “Most likely.”

  “But I won’t do that. I’m going to Olvisya.”

  “You’re changing sides?” another officer piped up.

  “No, though that’s not a bad idea. There’s a duty I’ve neglected too long and I need to do it before it’s too late.”

  Anton rolled his eyes, knowing that the count was talking about the whole princess thing again. Personally, he thought rescuing Prince Kendryk might be fun, though it seemed crazy too.

  “You can’t be serious,” the first officer said. By now, everyone knew about the count’s promise to Princess Gwynneth. Many officers had already placed bets on how long it would t
ake the count to forget about her. “I don’t see how you can pull it off.”

  “I’m sure I can,” the count said.

  “So what’s your plan then?”

  “Haven’t got one yet.” The count shrugged. “But pretending to change sides is a good idea. If the empress thinks I’ve gone over to her, she’ll let me into the city, or even into the fortress where the prince is held. Maybe even more.” The count smiled suggestively.

  “You’ll have to kill the empress,” Anton told the count later, when the others had gone.

  “Didn’t ask you.”

  Anton ignored this. “Even if you rescue the prince, how will you get yourself and all of your troops out of the city? It doesn’t seem like you can, unless you kill the empress and all her guards.”

  “Hmm, now that you mention it, wouldn’t that be something. Perhaps I should try that too.”

  “If it were that easy, someone would already have done it. You’ll need a really good plan.”

  “Of course I will.” The count threw a boot at Anton’s head. He ducked and it went over. “I’ll come up with something.”

  Anton was sure they shouldn’t just march into Olvisya without a plan and some inside help if they could get it, but he didn’t know what else they could do right now. He didn’t like the idea of running for Galladium either. He’d have to find a way to help the count. And he had to admit the prospect of getting close to the empress was tempting. She’d probably still see him as just a boy, a page of no consequence, and there was no telling when he might get his chance.

  Braeden

  Braeden took his time on the road to Atlona. It was crowded with soldiers and refugees and he needed time to put together a plan. Knowing he could count on Barela helped, but it wasn’t enough. There was perhaps a tiny hope that Teodora would enlist Braeden as a bodyguard again or request a private meeting as she had a few times in the past, but it was unlikely. Surely she would find it odd if he showed up at her palace alone, offering his services.