After an eternity, Stasny gave him a sharp nudge in the ribs. “We’re moving,” he said. “Can you march?”
Anton nodded and opened his eyes, still not trusting himself to speak. He concentrated on the sergeant’s voice, shouting out the orders, same as always, and put one foot in front of the other. The cannonballs now flew overhead more often than not, and gradually, the awful sounds receded into the distance. Every few paces, Anton stepped over or around the results of the bombardment, but he kept his eyes straight ahead, while using his pike to feel his way along the ground. Not everyone he passed was dead, but he wasn’t able to help in any case.
He hoped that moving forward meant they were winning. They marched on, heavy smoke filling his nose with the acrid scent of burnt powder, while the sun still shone warm above. They topped a ridge before their way sloped down to the wide beach. Anton opened his eyes to see the guns that had beaten his regiment to a pulp. The captured pieces stood on the ridge, still too hot to touch, judging by the way troops milled around them. Their own crews had spiked some of them as they retreated. Imperial infantry ranged all across the beach, while small boats swarmed the water between the beach and four huge ships standing out a bit further.
“They’re getting away,” Anton said out of the corner of his mouth, though by now he had no wish to chase after anyone.
“What’s left of them,” Stasny said.
Anton was so grateful his comrade had survived, he wanted to throw himself at Stasny and cry all over him. He blinked, and stared out to sea.
Imperial musketeers fired at the small boats, though Anton couldn’t tell if they’d hit anyone. Before long, one of the big ships moved forward, then sideways, and smoke puffed out from its side in two rows. By now, Anton wasn’t able to see or hear very well, and he wondered if he’d entered one of his nightmares, as hundreds of musketeers crumpled onto the beach under those terrible guns.
Anton remembered the count worrying about the pirated merchantman firing on them. He hadn’t been able to picture it then, and didn’t want to see it now.
Someone called back the troops on the beach, and Anton’s group was ordered to stand down. He and all the others dropped their pike into the stringy grass and sat. Those with stronger stomachs pulled food and water out of their packs, while Anton concentrated on not being sick. He heard Stasny shouting at his side, but couldn’t hold his head up or respond. His head nearly hit the ground when someone grabbed him, then laid him down carefully. He opened his eyes to see someone looming over him, blocking out the sun.
“This is going to hurt,” a deep voice said.
Braeden
Braeden was happy to be called back to Trystan and the others. Spending one night camped on the road with all of those dead bodies was more than enough. He needed air. As he and Karil’s battalion came out, Trystan sent another group in to relieve them. Cavalry wasn’t necessary now, as long as someone blocked the road and held the high ground.
He found Trystan flanked by Kendryk—clearly relieved to see Braeden—and a man who had to be Lennart. It had been awhile since Braeden had met a man tall enough to look him in the eye. He sensed Lennart assessing him carefully as he delivered his report, but Braeden wasn’t worried. The mission had been an unqualified success. “Right after I sent the last message, Your Grace,” he said to Trystan, careful to address him correctly in front of the king, “An enemy envoy approached. There’s a Maladene colonel in charge there—a Tavio Sora—and he asked for a truce so they can retrieve the bodies of their dead. I told him I’d check with you, and send a reply before noon.”
Trystan scowled. “Let them rot a bit longer.”
“No,” Kendryk said. “Absolutely not. What does having all of those bodies lying on the road accomplish? We’re not barbarians.”
Color rose in Trystan’s cheeks. “As long as those bodies block the road, they can’t get past.”
“They can’t get past anyway,” Kendryk said. “Please, Duke. I don’t wish to order you to agree to a cease-fire, but I will if I have to.”
Braeden shifted, conscious of Lennart’s amused gaze. It was the worst kind of luck that Trystan and Kendryk were having their first real disagreement in front of the new fellow. Braeden agreed with Kendryk—he didn’t want anyone else to have to spend another night in there with the dead—but he’d as soon stay out of it.
“Then you will have to give the order,” Trystan said, his eyes sparking yellow. Braeden was uncomfortably reminded of Daciana Tomescu.
“If I may, I have an idea,” Lennart said. “We’ve discussed traveling around the mountains and surprising the enemy on the other side. I’d hate to do it as they’re burying their dead. We might surprise them, but it doesn’t seem right.” He looked at Braeden. “Do you know how long it’ll take us to go that way?”
“If we leave now, we’d get close by nightfall tomorrow, and attack the next morning. We’d have to leave the baggage and big guns behind, though.”
Lennart put a hand on Kendryk’s shoulder. “I understand why you want this done quickly. Those poor fellows in there—I don’t like it either. But if we attack day after tomorrow, they’ll only be there two more nights. No doubt we’ll add to the body count anyway.”
Kendryk looked unhappy. Braeden felt bad for him, but a truce would delay things and give the enemy time to regroup. Then he thought of something, and sent a page in search of Alona Brynner. When she appeared and had been presented to the king, Braeden asked. “What do you know about Tavio Sora? Seems he’s in charge on the other side.”
“Oh, him.” Brynner gave a disdainful laugh. “He’s Maladene, and as arrogant as they come. Competent enough I suppose, but never expects anything unexpected. Though I shouldn’t throw stones on that score,” She added with a sheepish grin.
“Do you reckon he’ll expect us to outflank him?”
“Gods no. He’ll expect you to send a messenger with terms he can’t agree to, and that you’ll go back and forth for several days.”
“Excellent,” Lennart said. “That’s our solution. We’ll send messages, and let the commander inside deal with the replies. Let him dawdle and delay while we come around the other side.”
It was nice to ride at the head of a large force once more. Between the Helvundala army, led by the clearly competent Geffrey Manier, Lennart’s Estenorians, and Trystan’s and Brynner’s combined forces, they numbered a good twelve thousand. You could do something with an army that size.
Kendryk insisted on riding at the head of the Terragand force with Trystan, but Braeden quietly put himself between them. He sensed that Trystan was still angry with Kendryk for pulling rank in front of the king, and Kendryk was embarrassed at being overridden, even though Lennart had done it tactfully, Braeden thought.
They hurried south along a road flanking the hills, a path familiar to Braeden since he’d taken it on his way to Birkenfels the first time. But it had been autumn then, and now it was spring, so it looked different enough he pretended not to remember it well. The problem with being in this part of Terragand, was that everything reminded him of Janna.
Lennart had insisted on leaving a substantial force behind to hold the gap indefinitely. “We might need it again, and we don’t want the enemy to have use of it,” he said. “And now it’s ours, it should be easy to hold onto.”
Braeden was glad; he never wanted to see the inside of that place again.
They traveled with only the cavalry and the infantry marching double-time. They’d be tired when they reached their destination, but would sleep through the night before surprising the enemy in the morning. The artillery and baggage followed, and would meet them a day later.
Braeden noticed that both Faris and Trystan deferred to Lennart, who took over the whole operation as if it were the most natural thing in the world. It was probably better that way, since Kendryk didn’t seem to mind either. Clearly, Lennart had a core of iron, and his ability was beyond question. Braeden liked having someone so strong in charge
again. He appreciated a good leader, and was glad to be on his side.
The attack went even better than expected, since Sora and his troops were demoralized by their many casualties, and distracted by the endless messages going back and forth. Lennart led the attack just after dawn, and it was over before the sun had risen above the tree tops. Most of the enemy troops simply surrendered, and soon Tavio Sora followed Alona Brynner into Lennart’s service.
As soon as it was over, Lennart called for Braeden and Trystan. “Your work here has been invaluable,” he said. “But now I have another mission for you.”
Teodora
“I was hoping you could help me,” Teodora said after taking a sip of wine. She had called Countess Biaram to her private study.
The countess took a long drink, nearly draining her glass.
Teodora raised an eyebrow, but supposed she didn’t blame her. It must take nerves of steel to deal with a bad-tempered empress every day.
“Excellent vintage,” the countess said, looking at the empty glass with longing. “The northern Cesiano riverlands, ‘21, if I’m not mistaken.”
“You’re right,” Teodora said, then took another small sip of hers. The countess would have to wait for a refill.
“How might I help you?”
“What kind of contacts do you have in Galladium?” Teodora asked. “I can no longer trust anything I hear from Natalya.”
“It’s been some time since her information has been reliable,” the countess said with a sniff. “We should have developed more diverse contacts in Allaux.”
Teodora ignored the implied scolding. “Please tell me you have someone else there.” She drained the contents of her glass before she realized it.
“I do,” the countess said, then refilled both their glasses, even though Teodora hadn’t asked. “But I’m afraid it’s become increasingly difficult for them to get close to the Maxima, since she and the king are no longer intimate.”
“I can’t say I blame her.” Teodora grimaced. “Though it’s annoying for us. I need someone who can give me detailed reports on Princess Gwynneth’s activities.”
“That will be difficult. What precisely do you need to find out?”
Teodora wasn’t sure how much to divulge, though as far as she knew, Countess Biaram was trustworthy. She took a deep breath. “I need your assurance that what I’m about to tell you will go no further. Not even Count Solteszy or Livilla must learn of what I’m planning.”
The countess beamed, apparently pleased to be taken into imperial confidence. “You have my word.”
Teodora dropped her voice, even though no one else was present. Someone might be listening at the door. “I must get rid of Princess Gwynneth, and all of her children, preferably.”
“Get rid of, as in, dead?” The countess didn’t look terribly shocked, though she took another long drink.
“Yes, dead.” It was a relief to finally say it out loud, since she’d been thinking about it forever. “I need to clear the way for Aksel Roussay to become King of Norovaea.” Instead of sending the next shipload of coin when it was due in the early spring, Arryk had sent a messenger with a small chest of silver accompanied by a vague, rambling note filled with excuses about why it was impossible to send the full amount. It was time to replace him with someone more reliable.
“I see.” The countess finished her glass again, with a remarkably steady hand. “Though I don’t wish to question you, I don’t understand why the children must also be killed. It’s one thing to assassinate a princess, and quite another … I’m sure you realize.”
“I do.” Secretly, Teodora relished the idea of getting rid of all of Kendryk’s offspring. They were likely to grow up as troublesome as their father. And even better, annihilating his family would be a fitting revenge for his escape, and everything else he’d done. “The problem is that, even with Gwynneth dead, the Duchess Maryna will be next in line for the Norovaean throne.”
“I understand that, but, she’s still a little girl, and it’s unlikely Kendryk will allow his heir to go to Norovaea alone. Perhaps he would agree to it if Aksel were to be regent until she comes of age.”
Teodora leaned back in her chair. Aksel holding all of the real power in Maryna’s name might be acceptable. But then Teodora realized she wouldn’t accept the possibility of Kendryk’s daughter becoming queen. She wanted nothing left of that family. “No, that won’t do,” she said. “I need Aksel to become king soon, and it must be certain.”
“What about Arryk? Do you have plans for him as well?” The countess wore a decidedly nasty grin.
“Arryk will take care of himself. Recently, he’s dismissed his ruling council, and replaced all of his advisers with—as far as I can tell—peasants and minor nobility from gods-know-where in the countryside. The Norovaea aristocracy is on the brink of revolt. It’s only a matter of time before they get rid of Arryk for good.” Teodora didn’t feel she needed to mention that she had already sent agents to Norovaea to help stir things up.
“So it’s likely they’ll depose him?”
“At worst.” Teodora shrugged. “If we’re lucky, they’ll kill him. But even if he’s deposed, they will next look to Gwynneth to replace him. And if she’s no longer alive …”
“Interesting. I’ll see what I can do. It’ll be difficult to get close to her, but my contact has proven himself resourceful in the past. I’ll get in touch, and report back to you as soon as I can.”
“It won’t take too long, will it?” There was no time to waste. If the way to the Norovaean throne was clear, she’d just as soon marry Elektra off to a heretic if she couldn’t get Aksel to convert. Then her untrustworthy child would be thousands of leagues away while, with any luck, Aksel turned out to be a tractable puppet.
“We will have to be patient, Your Highness.” The countess was smiling, probably pleased to be given such an interesting, sensitive task. “It will take time for messages to reach my source and return. But I should hope we’ll have information we can use before winter.”
Teodora could only hope Gwynneth would stay put in Allaux that long, though if she joined her husband in Terragand, she’d be far more vulnerable. Teodora decided to send Ensden a letter telling him to keep an eye out for the princess, and if she were spotted, make it clear that no one would be upset if she were killed accidentally. No one but Kendryk, that is.
Elektra
For the first few hours after being locked up, Elektra felt like a wayward little girl sent to her room without supper. But then supper came, borne by an unfamiliar servant, who smiled politely but refused to answer questions.
Elektra forced herself to eat, hoping her mother wouldn’t keep her here for long. Just in case, she opened her window and looked down. She was four floors up, and the walls stretched smooth on all sides, the neighboring windowsills nearly flush with them. Even if she’d been brave enough to climb, she doubted she could get a foothold. She looked up. The roof was much too high. Climbing either way was out of the question, but perhaps she would come up with something else.
The next morning, a different unfamiliar servant came with breakfast and water for washing. A little later, a maid came for the dirty dishes and the chamberpot. No one would speak to her.
Elektra needed help if she was to get out of here, but she couldn’t think who might pull it off. Mother Luca? Aksel? She hoped both of them would want to, but neither one of them had any power, or was familiar with the palace. There was only one other person, and Elektra wasn’t at all sure of her. She wasn’t certain that Livilla hadn’t betrayed her to her mother.
The very thought made her sick, and she struggled to keep despair at bay as the day wore on. She worried that her mother would order her troops into the field without her, since they’d been in Atlona for nearly a month by now. She had to come up with something, and by the time supper arrived, she was ready. As soon as the servant, an older man with a pale, stern face, put the tray down, she thrust the note at him. “You must deliver
this to the Maxima,” she said, using her most commanding tone. “You will, of course, be compensated for your trouble.”
A fleeting smile crossed the man’s face as he pushed Elektra’s hand aside. He shook his head and said, “I’m sorry, Your Grace, but I have orders. No messages.”
“Please,” Elektra whispered. “You must help me. What if the empress kills me?”
“I’m certain she means you no harm.” The man’s voice was gentler than his face. “But I’m sure you understand that I must follow orders.”
Elektra nodded, dropping the note to the floor. She cried herself to sleep that night with the hopelessness of it all. Most likely, no one else had any idea where she was. Her friends would wonder what had happened, but her mother would probably make some excuse for her, and they’d accept it.
She spent much of the next day praying to Vica. The goddess had helped her when Braeden was ready to kill her, and gave her the words she needed to save herself. Surely she could find words to persuade the servants to help her.
Several days of praying and pondering passed, but after nearly a week had gone by, her mother came to see her. The empress acted as if she were paying a normal social call, taking a seat at a little table, and beckoning Elektra to join her.
“You are well, I hope?” she asked, her tone friendly and conversational.
Elektra stared. “What do you think? I must get out of here, Mother. Please.” Tears came to her eyes and her voice wobbled, but Elektra let it happen. Appearing tough in front of her mother hadn’t helped her cause. Maybe tears would do it.
The Desolate Empire Series: Books 1-3 Page 124
