Three of Swords (Empire Asunder Book 1)

by Michael Jason Brandt

  How difficult to believe that life hung in the balance, that in mere hours every aspect of her very existence might be utterly ruined. And there was nothing tangible she could do to affect events. She was a fragile leaf floating atop a raging river, and could only drift where the whimsical current carried her.

  Yet she was less concerned for herself than for the others who filled her life—her father, who had devoted his soul to the people of Asturia, only to see them rise against him in rejection of his life’s duty; and her brother, the stuttering adolescent who was equally terrified of inheriting the throne and girls his own age. Her love and respect for the two of them were boundless. Neither deserved to be in this impossibly tenuous position, and whatever possible punishments lay ahead for her paled in comparison to what they would suffer.

  Leti had not anticipated the enormity of the crowds. Every man, woman, and child of Cormona apparently had the same idea as she, making the streets hopelessly congested. She pushed through as quickly as she could, looking for any remaining watchmen who might help. But of course they had all been levied into the army, leaving no one to maintain control of the mindless mob.

  She heard the commotion building up behind her before she could see what it was. People began pushing harder than usual, and she was nearly knocked to the ground. The surprisingly strong hands of an elderly man reached out and saved her, allowing Leti to position herself on a piece of debris to get a view of the disturbance.

  Horsemen were approaching. No wonder the people were getting out of the way. Her first thought was that these were watchmen after all, coming to restore order to the streets. Then she saw the two men in front—one young and slender, the other old and mustached—and felt the breath leave her body. The crowd watched as they rode by, all thirty-four of them, atop powerful destriers of all colors and adorned in polished armor and bright blue-and-white tabards proudly depicting the mountain of Akenberg.

  She noted the prince’s gray-speckled steed, its magnificent proportions and the proud posture of both horse and rider. In fact, every one of the Akenbergers rode calmly and stiffly, as if on parade rather than pressing through a horde of disorderly spectators.

  Leti watched them go by, her mind torn with doubts and emotions. Not daring to get her hopes up, she tried telling herself that the group might be leaving Asturia—after all, their homeland had just started a war of its own. But she knew in her heart they were riding out to aid her father, even though he had distrusted them ever since their arrival.

  Most of the others on the street were cheering the horsemen, but Leti used the opportunity to press forward again. She missed seeing them pass through the gates, but she reached the wall and looked out in time to see them spread out and pick up speed. From a trot to a canter, then a gallop. Straight toward the center of the fighting.

  She located Lord Jacinto, her father’s aged white-bearded retainer, at the nearest watchtower.

  “Little Letitia, did you come through that mob by yourself?” he admonished. “Your father would not like to hear that.”

  “Then don’t tell him, Jacinto,” she retorted, having no time or inclination for idle conversation. Her mind was wholly focused on the confusing scene playing out before her.

  All her concentration was required to glean any useful information from the limited clues this distant vantage point offered. Jacinto informed her that Iago had already launched two probing attacks, intended to find weaknesses in the king’s forces. What the duke had learned from those was unclear, but evidently the fighting had begun in earnest all along the line. If her father had held back any units as reinforcements, they had clearly already been thrown in.

  The other observers in the tower worried about some unseen force coming out of nowhere to make a flanking maneuver to the side of or behind Anton’s army. The concerns stemmed more from fear and wild imagination than reality, yet Leti could not completely discount the possibility. As far as she could make out, the two sides were relatively deadlocked, as pieces of Iago’s army pressed forward then backed up to regroup, again and again. If the duke possessed these hypothetical extra forces everyone worried about, surely he would have used them by now. The bigger question was whether he needed them.

  Taking a moment to look at the sun, Leti was surprised to see it nearing its zenith. How could it be midday already, when she was just now getting a handle on the situation? She discovered that her sense of time was hopelessly warped. The seconds crept by, particularly when she saw the dust and clutter of combat get nearer her father’s standard. And yet on another level, time was racing. She found herself in no hurry for there to be an outcome to this battle, despite the horrible bloodshed occurring on the front lines. She was simply not ready for fate to decide her future.

  Given the extreme difficulty of understanding the ebb and flow just by watching, her group learned far more of value as the wounded straggled back. Most were too preoccupied—with screaming, crying, praying, or writhing—to bother. But a few soldiers did not appear to be too badly off to trouble for information. To Leti’s inexpert eye, some seemed hardly wounded at all, their demeanor at odds with their physical condition. Many of these were willing to talk, even if only to glorify their own role in the fighting, their first-hand accounts of dubious merit. The worst cases of wounded were carried, and their bearers contributed to the wealth of confused and contradictory information. Leti heard alternately that her father’s forces were winning, losing, retreating, and advancing.

  Then the worst news of all came back. The first time she heard, “The king is down! The king has fallen!” she waited calmly for the next report to nullify the rumor as more hysteria. Sadly, each subsequent account only confirmed the dire news.

  Not knowing whether her father was dead or merely wounded, she began to lose hope. She stopped watching the action’s confounding turmoil and started staring at the faces of the dirty, weary, often bloody stragglers. Her heart went out to them, for as awful as she felt right now, she could not even begin to imagine what they had just gone through. Seized by despair, she sat with her back to the stone wall, listening to the chatter and praying for Todos, the God of Death, to take the enemy and spare her kin. When she heard more shouts of defeat, she closed her eyes and tried hard not to cry, telling herself over and over to behave like a noblewoman ought.

  At last self-admonition pushed her back into composure. And she heard laughing, a sound so discordant it was difficult to take seriously. She focused on the laughter with urgent fascination.

  “Lord Bayona, what news?” she heard Jacinto call.

  “Victory!” came the booming reply, and she squeezed her fingers painfully hard into her palms.

  Thankfully, Jacinto pressed the other noble. “Lord, please join us up here. Tell us what you can. Have we truly won?”

  She heard more cheering, even before Bayona could be heard again, and quickly lost track of who was who. Victory? … Close… A near thing. Aye, victory! Hurrah! Leti felt the rope around her heart begin to loosen, not realizing she was holding her breath until she stopped.

  …stolen from the maw of defeat… We are saved!

  King Anton is wounded, though… No, he is dead… No, wounded…

  “It was Prince Nicolas!” someone shouted.

  Leti stood up.

  “Aye, the prince has delivered us!” another shouted agreement.

  She glanced at Lord Jacinto and was surprised to see him scowling at this latest group of soldiers. But they paid him no mind. “Who would have believed an Akenberger would save the day?” one laughed.

  Then she saw Lord Bayona, limping slightly, being escorted onto the platform of the watchtower with her and Jacinto. She immediately went to him. “Lord Bayona, please tell me of my father.”

  The old face looked at her for a second, trying to place her. She realized that most of her father’s courtiers were accustomed to seeing her in finery, whereas today she had opted for plain, comfortable clothing and tied back her long black tresses. Then reco
gnition dawned in his eyes. “Your pardon, Princess. The fighting has dulled my senses.”

  She waited impatiently. “It’s fine. Tell me of my father.”

  “Wounded. I’m not certain how badly. But bad enough to put the scare into the troops.”

  Leti felt the rope tighten around her heart once again. “And what is this I hear of Prince Nico…las?” she asked, nearly using his familiar name in her agitation.

  Bayona glanced at Jacinto. “Yes. I saw it myself, and I still don’t believe it.” He shook his head and took in a deep breath. “Iago hit us hard, over and over. Your father went down, and the panic began spreading through the ranks. The duke sensed his chance and pushed forward, and the Akenbergers hit him from the flank right at that moment. The timing could not have been better if it’d been planned.”

  “Was the duke killed? Or taken captive?”

  “I’m not certain, Princess. Not right away, I know that. The Feanans regrouped even after that first attack, and the melee continued for some time. I was hit…” His hand clutched his side at the reminder, “…and my men compelled me to retire, but I know the Akenberg company stayed with your father, where the fighting was heaviest. I suspect they paid a price for their actions—”

  “Haven’t we all?” Jacinto interjected.

  Bayona nodded. “We should wait to hear more reports. I’m starting to conjecture now. Your pardons, Princess.”

  “Yes, Lord, please see to your wound.”

  At least now she could look back out on the battlefield with a sense of optimism. The fighting had ended, and a long stream of combatants was making their way back toward the city. This would include the captured enemy, she knew, and was curious how many of them had managed to flee. From this vantage point, it did not appear that any of her father’s force had been dispatched in pursuit. But was it due to a lack of availability, command, or need? She particularly wondered whether the duke had escaped, and sincerely hoped not. She did not want there to be another battle. Ever.

  Unlike the earlier stragglers, the returning soldiers now retained some vestige of order. They were not moving in cohesive regiments any longer, only in companies and squads. She looked hard for any sign of her father’s Royal Guard, but had lost track of the standard and knew of no other means to distinguish between units.

  The troops approaching the walls now were part of the victorious few who had remained to the battle’s end. She pressed closer to the low wall that outlined the platform, even leaning over to get a better look at them.

  Expecting to see cheerful, smiling faces, Leti was surprised to see anything but. These men and women were just as dirty and tired as the wounded had been. In some cases, worse. Or so it appeared from up top. She needed to get closer.

  She ran down the tower steps and into the midst of the shuffling parade, discovering that her impressions had not been mistaken. These soldiers were not at all the happy victors she expected. Many clearly had wounds of their own; they had simply continued fighting despite them. All of them looked exhausted, and considering that it was now past midday and the fighting had started at dawn, she understood why. Leti felt exhausted herself, and all she had done was watch.

  One thing she had not realized from above was that much of the dirt she thought she saw on them was actually dried blood. Either it resisted wiping, or they did not realize it was there, or simply did not care. She moved a few steps back, out of their way, disappointed in herself for the revulsion she felt.

  “The prince!” someone called. “Two cheers for the prince!”

  There was an eruption of light cheers, if not as many as she might have hoped, and the sound brought some slight return of joy to her heart. The cavalry were coming into view. With a spasm of regret, she saw that fewer horses were coming back than had gone out. Fewer still had riders. Most of the troopers were walking beside their mounts; those who rode did so because of wounds that made walking difficult.

  The sight of some of her father’s guard flanking the Akenbergers brought a return of optimism. This show of appreciation confirmed that the reports had some truth to them.

  Leti strained her neck, trying to see the prince himself. Even at thirty paces, the troopers all looked the same—slow and weary, their polished armor tarnished by blood and grime. She settled instead for looking at the horses.

  There was the one with gray speckles, not in the forefront but near the center. It had no rider.

  As they got closer, she saw clearly that some of the horses carried bodies. Standing on her toes, Leti saw that the prince’s was one of them.

  Oh, no. Not Nico, too. But was he dead, or only wounded?

  Then she recognized the prince, alive and well. Helmet off, walking beside his horse, shoulder to shoulder with the other silent survivors and an increasing number of attendants flocking out to assist where they could.

  A press of onlookers pushed past, and she soon lost sight of Nico. Where had all these damnable people come from? She pressed forward as well, wanting to be a part of this momentous occasion, compelled by the sudden urge to thank the prince personally rather than simply joining the chorus of cheers that were steadily getting louder. Leti began to understand the curious confusion of the crowds during so many regal functions.

  Yet she was getting nowhere, and suddenly worried that the column would pass her by. This close, yet blocked out by a mob. Then one man pushed away his neighbor, creating a sliver of an opening for her to duck through. She found herself face-to-face with a limping soldier whispering into the ear of the bloody horse he led, more concerned about his steed’s wounds than his own.

  Leti stared at the procession until locating the prince, not far away. She moved toward him, a silly smile on her face, thinking of the right words to praise his bravery, curious how he would react at the sight of her. How things had changed since just that morn.

  But she stopped as soon as she saw his face. Instead of a smile, there was only the look of unmasked anguish and the flushed wetness of tears.

  Leti looked away from him to the body strapped onto the destrier, head lying softly on the mane, lifeless face to a cloudless sky. The dark beard and mustache were caked with dirt, but surprisingly little blood.

  She felt a hand grip her shoulder, firmly. “Princess,” a voice said into her ear. “You should not be down here. It is not safe.”

  She let Jacinto lead her back through the crowd, her thoughts a jumble of emotions. Exhilaration at the victory, anxiety about her father, remorse for the prince’s retainer.

  Behind her, the cheering grew louder.

  Chapter Eight

  Vilnia

  EIGHT DAYS had passed since the blizzard when the wolves attacked.

  Yohan had been aware of them for quite a while, their baying and barking having awakened him the last two nights. Their imminence was alarming, albeit without that same helpless dread that the storm had elicited. The slow, quiet accumulation of snow presented a strange new form of terror he had never before known. Weather was an uncontrollable enemy, whereas animals were an earthly danger vulnerable to preparation and blade. Yohan knew he would have his hands full protecting Princess Jenaleve, the supplies, and himself from a determined assault, but at least he would be able to fight back.

  For four days, the snows had shielded them from attack, even as it stranded them in this pitifully small mountain refuge. Yohan expanded the shelter provided by the overhang just enough to protect one fire and two humans from the worst of the weather. He had nearly gone through his store of collected wood in those days, and so was forced to gather more, a daily trip pulling him farther and farther afield. With the snow covering his tracks, he was thankful that the terrain made getting lost impossible. But the excursions had consumed more energy than he could spare, and he had no idea how long he would need to stretch their replenished but limited supply of food.

  Thankfully, as if deciding its job of stranding them was complete, the snow had slowly abated. Now every visible object in sight was covere
d in a deceptively peaceful blanket of soft white.

  Yohan’s thoughts were consistently drawn to the calendar. The patrol had started in late autumn, and although spring and summer were not true seasons on these peaks, winter certainly was. The only question was whether the year had any slight warming spells remaining, or whether the next change from the cool sunshine would take the form of more cold and snow. If the latter, Yohan and his companion had no hope of surviving the season.

  This was even assuming his companion turned the corner on her infection. He cleaned the wound multiple times each day, forced bowls of thin stewed meat down her throat, and kept her as warm and dry as possible. Every night, he pressed his body close to hers to conserve warmth, always fearing he would awaken the next morn hugging an icy corpse.

  There was very little else he could do. He had no medicine of any sort, and no advanced medical knowledge beyond the basic field aid that every soldier learned.

  Several times she had awakened, once even seeming lucid for a minute. But on each occasion her delirium quickly became apparent, and she had always quickly slipped back into unconsciousness. Somewhat to his relief, for her nonsensical words filled him with an unease that her condition was worsening rather than improving, whereas silence at least allowed him to be hopeful. Yet also to his immense regret, for although he had long prided himself on self-sufficiency—the product of growing up a foreigner in an unwelcoming environment—he had never before truly known loneliness such as this.

  Other than attending to her or searching for wood, he spent the days idly, allowing far too much opportunity for rumination. The slow progress of the piece of wood he was whittling from an image in his mind provided the only sense of purpose beyond simple survival. Headway was slowing as the knife dulled, but he did not mind that this task required time, for that he had in abundance.

  However, the proximity of the wolves caused regret for the degeneration of the blade as a weapon. The sword was not in much better shape, having functioned more as a poor substitute for an axe and shovel in recent days. No doubt that it could still draw blood, but no longer would it easily slice through thick hide the way it once did.