The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2)

by Igor Ljubuncic

  A number of soldiers, wearing padded leather, swords, and crossbows, were suddenly there, blocking exits. The thousand guests had become prisoners.

  “Dignitaries from other realms are free to go,” Amalia added. “Tomorrow is the Spring Festival, and I expect all of you to turn out in your best outfits and dresses. We shall have the coronation, followed by a lavish dinner party. Now, we shall see my dear father interred.”

  Stephan grinned. He was a hostage now, and he had to piss like hell. But at least he was going to win his wager. Athesia was not going to crumble just yet.

  CHAPTER 2

  King Sergei liked mornings in the desert. A perfect display of reds and pinks stretched across arid hills and plains, masking the harshness with a cloth of serene beauty. And they were cold, the crystal air tingling with icy purity, rubbing into the skin like a mint salve.

  It was the Spring Festival. Preparations for the celebrations were under way in Sigurd, three miles to the south of his position, with hordes of servants working day and night to festoon the city walls with banners. Around him, in his vicinity, a different kind of preparation was under way.

  Parus was getting ready for war.

  Eighteen years after orphaning him and his sister, the godless murderer Adam had died. But his death could not clean the slate of revenge so easily. Only war could lay Sergei’s demons to rest.

  His father had died in combat, like a true Parusite hero. And his mother had killed herself, smothered with grief, as befitting a noble lady of her status. Archduke Vasiliy had assumed the rule as the regent until Sergei turned sixteen, when he had taken the crown.

  In a way, Vasiliy was almost like a father to him. The old man had cared for him more than a steward should, offering help and advice, but never imposing. And he had never taken the stick to Sergei’s back, never taught him pain like his sire used to. No one had ever asked Sergei how he had felt about his parents’ deaths. They all assumed he was the brave prince and must bear the pain stoically. And he did, he did bear the pain.

  Had they asked him, he would have told them how relieved he was that he must never fear the beatings again. They would have heard a child tell them a story of terror, of the constant expectation of pain, regardless of what he’d done, good or bad. He was his father’s son, and he was going to avenge King Vlad’s honorable death, but he had listened to his mother, too. He was not going to repeat his father’s mistakes.

  And then, he had also listened to Vasiliy. The regent had faced a dreadful reign. With almost the entire army of Parus slaughtered in battle, the land had been left without able sons to defend it. Roaming hordes of bandits had attacked the realm like packs of rabid wolves, burning villages, raping women, and stealing children. Women had wandered the empty streets of Sigurd, hunting for husbands among the crippled and poor, because there were so few males left. And there had been no help from the gods.

  But Parus had survived. And the young prince had listened carefully, learning about the art of dominion from Vasiliy, and he remembered his mother’s soft-spoken advice. When he was crowned, he swore that Parus would never suffer defeat again.

  The gods must have heard his plea, for they had granted him ten summers of bounty. Rain fell every year, bringing nourishment to the cracked earth. Harvest came in twice every year, and the warehouses burst with goods. With enough food for everyone, Sergei could turn his attention to rebuilding the decimated army and defending the realm’s borders.

  He had never learned the gory details of his father’s death, but he had studied what he could for many years. He had paid Eracian and Caytorean bards to travel to Sigurd and sing their side of the story. He studied the art of warfare and made sure he knew everything about his father’s butcher. Unlike King Vlad the Fifth, he had never dismissed his foe’s tricks, no matter how ungodly or cowardly. He had learned everything he could.

  One of the most important lessons had been the inclusion of women in military ranks. At first, it had seen unfathomable to let women bear arms, but with few men left and the realm buckling under the onslaught of desert raiders, he had established the first women’s corps as a secret, experimental force. It was a hard truth for a Parusite man to admit, but the women had saved the kingdom.

  He had hurled them into the maw of death, thinking they would never return. But they did. They came back victorious, with zeal and tears of joy in their eyes and eternal praise for their king. What his mother failed to achieve in her many years of rule, he had managed in one simple move—emancipating the Parusite women.

  With female conscription given a royal blessing, the army ranks had swelled with volunteers, countless thousands of women seeking redemption from their cruel, meaningless lives. Scarred, abandoned, battered, bloodthirsty, men-hating, they poured from every hole and cranny in Parus and swore fealty to their king. Within just a few short years, the army had reached its old numbers. The bandit raids dwindled, then stopped completely. But then the vengeful Parusite legions raided the Red Desert and brought back trains of captured slaves. With her borders cleansed, the trade to distant lands bloomed. The royal coffers were soon overflowing with gold.

  Archduke Vasiliy had watched Sergei grow from a confused, frightened child into a strong, powerful man. At the age of fourteen, he had been married, and his queen, Vera, bore him four sons and a daughter. The strength of his bloodline was another testament to the will of the gods.

  As the ashes of destruction cooled, the Safe Territories were repopulated again. It was mostly pilgrims, outcasts, farmers, and former clergy who came to the blasted land and resettled the razed towns. The Parusites came in their numbers, bolstered by their religious conviction and a royal decree. To help rebuild the ravaged nation, Sergei had lowered the age of consent by three years and allowed the settlers to marry more than one wife. It had worked well.

  Now, almost a decade since the Settlement started, the southern half of the Territories were in Parusite hands, rich, arable lands that yielded even more goods and made Parus stronger than ever before.

  Most importantly, his settlers were more than just farmers. Most were highly trained soldiers, some retired, others still young and deft with a blade, sent to live in the Territories, but ready to take arms and go to war at any moment. Eracia and Athesia hardly knew they had tens of thousands of highly motivated, well-trained Parusites as neighbors.

  He was grateful for the blessings from the gods. Only four days earlier, he had sent another four carts loaded with white marble to the Territories; they were going to Jaruka, to be used in the rebuilding of the Grand Monastery. The work was far from being done. It had taken seven years, and would probably take as many more before the temple was fully restored.

  King Sergei was the most beloved king of Parus in many generations. He was smart and benevolent. The country was rich and strong. When his father had marched into war, he had led fifty thousand men into battle. Sergei had three times as many, not counting the women and the settlers. And he had other surprises awaiting the godless Athesians.

  A fleet of more than seventy ships was assembling in Sigurd’s port, carrying thirteen thousand dreadful pirates from Oth Danesh. Soon, they would set sail north, land south of Eybalen, and then march toward Athesia from the east. Other fleets would follow them.

  “We are ready, Your Highness,” Duke Gregory said.

  Sergei turned. Behind him, ten paces away, stood Archduke Vasiliy, once the regent of the Crown, and several of his most trusted lieges. They were all wearing light battle gear. Further still, behind the rows of sand-colored tents, an army of forty thousand Borei mercenaries milled, raising a cloud of dust that obscured the view of the capital, even in the sweet, clear desert morning.

  The Borei were terribly expensive, but Parus was rich. With trade flowing and the roads clean of bandits, Parus was gushing with gold. Rains fell and sweetened the land, and favorable winds made sure the sails were always full. Sigurd, Corama, Dusaban, and other ports all teemed with cargo ships, sailing to near and far l
ands, carrying people and goods. Parus had become the most powerful nation in the realms, and it was only a matter of time before the world bent its gangrenous knee and acknowledged its new master.

  Sergei had learned a lot from his father. He had learned about pain. But mostly, he had learned about blind pride. And his mother had armed him with humility and female introspection that few men shared. Archduke Vasiliy had taught him patience. And his nemesis, Adam the Godless, had taught him the price of failure.

  His eldest son, Vlad, would travel with him. This was a tremendous opportunity to teach his son the art of war. While the boy had skill and prowess, he had never fought in a real battle, never shed blood of an enemy soldier. The experience would toughen him, make him an even better successor to the Parusite throne.

  It was a risk taking the prince-heir to war, but Sergei had no fears for his line. He had other sons. Vlad’s young wife was pregnant anyhow, bearing him a future heir. The last thing his son needed was to be around her now. Besides, Archduke Vasiliy, despite his vehement protests, was staying home.

  Princess Sasha, Sergei’s twin and the commander of the Red Caps, was also going to war. She was the fierce leader of the women’s corps. And even though her deviant nature made Sergei ashamed and probably angered the gods, he trusted her with his life. But he never lost hope and prayed for her, every morning and every night.

  Her army would march north into the Territories, meet the settlers, and then the joined force would attack from the west. His own force, spearheaded by the Borei, would strike from the south. The three-pronged attack would crush the Athesian resistance. And still, he had more surprises for Amalia, Adam’s daughter.

  Sergei had not been invited to the man’s funeral. No Parusite had. In a way, it had been a deliberate affront against Parus. But he carefully nourished the anger, knowing that sweet revenge was near. Yesterday, fools and sycophants from the realms had stood honor guard to the worm food called Adam, in a vague hope that his daughter would keep feeding them with peace. Grudgingly, Sergei had to admit the man’s mastery of diplomacy. He had kept the rabid animals called Eracia and Caytor at bay for two decades. It had not been an easy task. He had given the two nations hope. And he had made them fat and rich. He was their savior, even though they hated him for it.

  Sergei could not help but wonder, in the tiniest hour of the darkest nights, when he woke shivering from nightmares, ghosts of pain flickering across his shoulder blades, that Adam was his mirror. A perverted, sick image of his glory and goodness. But he was a man who had fought, against all odds, like the scruffiest mongrel, and won against the bigger beasts.

  This Amalia was a feeble child, roughly half his age, a girl raised in the warmth and safety of the court, a soft, slim thing that would break under the slightest pressure. Once, he may have thought her weak, because she was a woman, but he had long since lost the ancient Parusite belief that women were stupid things used for breeding and cooking. He was a far cry from his sire, Vlad the Fifth.

  Amalia may try to be her father’s daughter, but she was still only a white-skinned lady of the court. She had never tasted the blood of her foes, never chased brigands across a sunblasted desert, never had to drink blood and piss to survive.

  The Parusites had never laid their blades down in the last eighteen years; the Athesians had never lifted theirs. Her veterans were old, decrepit fools basking in the legend of a dead man.

  Even if Adam had lived, Sergei would still have marched into war. But now, the odds of a quick, merciless victory looked even better.

  Captain Speinbate, the Borei commander, was walking toward him. Buying mercenaries with gold was easy, but he had bonded the man with more than just his weight in coins. He had promised him lands, a title, even a marriage into one of the noble families, if he carried out his duty. It was not going to be easy, maybe even fatal, but the Borei had taken his chances.

  “My lord,” the man said, thumping a fist against his chest, “my troops will be ready to march in two days. But we must first observe the rituals.”

  The man was obviously referring to the festival, Sergei thought. “That is good, that is good,” he murmured.

  Something made a noise. It was part screech, part hoot, a sound like air escaping taut-pursed lips, only a hundred times louder. Sergei craned to see what it was. Behind the rows of tents, a mouse-colored thing the size of a house reared, flapping its snakelike trunk. It had huge insect-nibbled ears and two tusks like Gowashi sabers. There was quite a bit of commotion around that thing. People with shepherd’s crooks were goading the thing away.

  “Remind me, what do you call that?” Sergei asked.

  “Olifaunt,” the mercenary said and grinned, his mouth studded with false gold-capped teeth.

  The king rubbed his chin. “Dangerous in battle?”

  The southerner clicked his metal teeth. “Very. Even our own troops fear them.”

  Sergei nodded. “Just make sure they trample Athesians.”

  Someone chortled. It sounded like a pig’s grunt. The king looked around and had to lower his gaze to meet the owner of that wordless comment. It was the last of Sergei’s secret weapons. Half the size, twice the fury, they said. Pum’be were expensive little devils, but they always got the job done, they said. If they could not, they killed themselves.

  Each cost a little fortune. Together, the eleven assassins were worth the same as the entire Borei contingent. But Sergei had never balked at their exorbitant price. Parus was rich. He could pay them.

  Pum’be needed no talking to, no preparations. They knew what they had to do. Tomorrow, they would march off alone, a huddle of dwarfs wrapped in dark cloaks of wool. They would head north ahead of the main force, with one simple goal: to kill every army commander in Athesia and bring him the head of Empress Amalia doused in tar.

  Vengeance will be mine, Sergei swore. After eighteen years, he would make his enemies suffer. Revenge was best served cold, they said. But no, he had an ever better saying. Revenge was best served forgotten. That was just a small part of his grand plan.

  He turned and headed toward his horse and the small retinue. Tomorrow, they would wage war. But today, he had the Spring Festival celebrations to attend to. It was considered very bad luck for the king to miss the festival.

  CHAPTER 3

  The White Witch of Naum had hardly expected to find his father here, a forgotten place deep inside Caytor, inside an inn the shape and smell of a week-old dog turd. It had a low, sloping, overhanging roof covered with rotten thatch. A sickly looking donkey was chewing on the property.

  He entered the stinking lodge, ignoring the beady, bloodshot eyes of the rabble infesting the place, and headed for the rough-hewn bench at the back of the dark, rank hall. Damian was slouching like a straw puppet, almost falling off the bench, one hand wrapped lethargically round a rusty pewter cup. His hair was a wild mat of grease, almost like the hide of a skinned animal. His shaggy beard sagged with spilled suds and half-rotten crumbs.

  “You look like vomit,” the witch said.

  Damian lifted his eyes and stared. “You.”

  The witch nodded. He sat by the stinking human form. “It’s been a while. What do you call yourself these days?”

  “Erik,” Damian offered. “Lord Erik.” He drank whatever was in the cup.

  The witch raised his hand. An ugly maid shuffled his way. Her face was splotched with birthmarks, and she had a trace of a mustache above her upper lip. “Your finest wine,” he mocked. She grunted and retraced her steps. “What are you doing here?”

  “Diluting my agony,” Damian replied.

  The witch nodded thoughtfully. He had spent the better part of the last century, ever since the Veil of Sundering had finally been weakened enough for him to get through, scheming toward this moment. He had wasted years pulling strings, weaving magic, and mostly waiting. By the time he returned to the realms, he had expected to find Damian in a more stately shape. “Then I guess your plan has not really gone…as planned.�
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  Damian sneered. He slid up the bench. “Not quite. If you can’t trust your own children, who can you?”

  “I guess you will have to try again. Time is of no consequence. But then, you’ve had fifty human years to get this sorry affair done. You’ve got me worried.”

  “It’s more than just wasted time, Calemore. It’s more than just that.” Damian smacked the table with the cup. Some of the patrons looked their way.

  The White Witch scowled. “What is it?”

  Damian wiped off some foam with the back of his hand. “Some of the gods have escaped. My people did not manage to hunt them all down. We cannot go to the Womb yet.”

  Calemore said nothing for a while, simply staring at the ugly manifestation of a deity before him. He could hardly believe it was the same god who had created him. “Then you will have to mop up and resume your hunt. They all must die.”

  “Don’t you understand? It’s over! They all betrayed me, again!”

  “We had an agreement,” Calemore stated coldly. The servant girl plopped an identical-looking pewter cup on the table and walked away.

  “The agreement is off,” Damian hissed.

  “I see.” The witch raised the cup and stared into it. The foamy liquid inside was brown and murky. A dead fly floated on the surface. He downed it in one go. “The taste of old piss.”

  “The innkeeper has just pissed into the barrel this morning,” Damian offered.

  The White Witch put the cup down and drew a short, slender knife from a sheath at his hip. He pressed the needle-sharp point again Damian’s gut. “Tell me,” he spoke in a low, dangerous voice, “in your sorry state, with no followers and all that, how long do you think it will take you to find another host body once I murder this one? And no one to help you sneak out of the Abyss this time, eh?”