Sergei would have to be patient and listen carefully, indulge the man. For all his whining, the count was as important as every other man, no matter how low in rank or wealth. While his people held every league of land from the pebbled shores of Lia Lake all the way to the Velvet Sea, it was a huge stretch of land with no defined borders or natural defenses. With his troops pressing east, their northern and western flanks would remain exposed. He did not wish any displeased local lord welcoming Eracian spearmen or the hungry wild tribes behind his back.
But Pavel was the least of his worries. His biggest care was the order of battle. In a few weeks, they would be assaulting the walls of Roalas. The city would fall one day. And he would need to appoint one of his dukes or archdukes to rule the conquered land. He must make his choices carefully.
He wasn’t quite sure what to do yet. Should he prefer family over close friends and longtime allies? Should he give the city to the most distinguished warrior or the most powerful nobleman? Who would have the honor to lead the battle? Who would be charged with mopping up after the attack? There were hundreds of other aspects to this war, all dire.
His sister must also be given her due. After the war, the Eracians and Caytoreans would surely press their demands, maybe even seek to unsettle his new gains. They had hostages in Roalas. He wasn’t quite sure what to do with those.
On top of all that, Sergei did not plan to destroy Athesia. He wanted Amalia dead, but was not a fool to immerse himself in a childish obsession for personal revenge. He had his Pum’be for that. What he wanted was to topple the enemy who had disgraced his father and almost ruined his kingdom. And he intended to annex Athesian lands as a new duchy. But the Athesians would never bend knee if he started burning their villages and raping their women.
Sergei remembered all too well the stories and legends about Adam the Godless. He had taken Roalas without bloodshed. It was an important lesson.
“Giorgi, I will see the count first thing in the morning.” He rose and started pacing around his tent. Heads turned to regard him. “Tomorrow,” he began, “the war begins. Starting tomorrow morning, we march in silence, and we sleep in silence. No gambling and drinking in the night. I want double patrols and double guard. And keep the mercenaries away from our troops.”
Nikolai nodded.
“Yuri, you will assume command of all troops from the Wester and Sevorod ranges. They will report to you as organic armies. The counts maintain civil and administrative command, but you are in charge of the military.”
The duke tried to hide surprise from his icy blue eyes. He had obviously not expected this promotion, or the headache of managing a rabble of nobles and knights who hardly knew him. But Sergei counted on his patience to handle the dozens of small and mostly displeased lords who hailed from the two regions.
Yuri was a resourceful man. Supposedly, he ran successful trade with mountain tribes and the fishermen from Batha’n and made sure the brigands and desert people did not sneak onto his farms and villages and kidnap people and goats. He sent large coffers of tax money to Sigurd, even if his convoys took the longest to arrive. Stranded in the farthest corner of the realm, the man was forgotten in banquets and parties and celebrations, but he had a sinewy streak.
The promise didn’t have to be spoken aloud: Do well and you might see the duchy of Palotar grow to include the other two regions. You might even be given governance of the Territories. Sergei needed powerful men to consolidate his rule in the border regions. And if those borders snailed north and east, even more so.
Yuri was one of the older dukes, a rare survivor of the war. Secluded from the bustle of life’s tragedy in Parus in his remote province, Yuri had been spared the suicide march Vlad the Fifth had led north. But the rest of his nobles were just like their king, younger men with little combat experience.
In the small hours of the night, doubt niggled at Sergei’s soul, like a cur worrying a bone. He had seen people die; he had made people die, sent his troops to certain death and fought alongside them. But nothing so grand like this. He wasn’t quite sure what it would be like. He felt like Pyotr the Conqueror on his first march, a man who could never have known the greatness of his deeds.
“There will be no rape and no burning,” Sergei continued. There was a murmur of surprise among his lords. “We will take provisions and recruit locals if needs be, but they become my subjects. This is a royal decree. Any man caught in the act of pillaging will be put to death.”
Great campaigns had been lost when invading armies killed everyone and everything, leaving behind a scorched, desolate land that could feed no one, including themselves. He was not going to spend weeks raiding and then years rebuilding. His huge force would need lots of food in the coming winter. He planned on making good use of the subjugated Athesians. But they would not be so forthcoming if he butchered their families. When people had nothing to lose, they turned desperate. History books were filled with stories about nations turned into rabid beasts who burned their own houses and fields so they would not be used by the enemies and who sent children to war. If there was one thing he had learned from his nemesis, it was hope. Give your enemy hope, and they would hesitate. Adam had taught him well.
Sergei looked around the tent once more. He had these men for a year. War duty allowed him to command them away from their homes and families and fields for one whole year. Longer than that, they would want to go back, unless he paid them more and promised lands and titles. Half his army would dissolve by the next Spring Festival if he didn’t take Roalas sooner.
Back home, Vasiliy would have to do with reduced manpower for the autumn and winter. Still, the granaries were bursting, and the harvest promised to be good, and there was no shortage of food. Parus was strong and would survive the hardship of war. Next year, though, no miracle would convince his conscripts to remain in foreign lands.
Until just a decade ago, Parus had had no standing army. Sergei had soon learned a small professional force of soldiers for life was cheaper than masses of ill-trained levies. So he had shattered old habits once more and made his lords maintain static garrisons at all times. First, the Red Caps, next mandatory military service, like his neighbors did. But it stood to logic. If you wanted to live off war, you’d better be good at it. Fighting was a trade like any other.
But it would take another generation before Parus fielded large armies of pure soldiers. For now, it had to do with tradition, lots of tradition. He had a mighty hammer of elite troops, but the mainstay of his army were footmen, spearmen, people who fought for duty and not because they worked in the war business.
Holy Brother Ivan and Under-Patriarch Evgeny entered, fashionably late as befitting high clergy. The nobles rose and nodded curt yet polite greetings. Evgeny was a massive fat man, and he always sweated. Wrapped around his arm was his albino pet ferret, and he was feeding him fresh meat.
“My lords,” he declared joyfully, “I have prayed earlier for our beloved king, and my god has graced me with an answer to my prayers. Our campaign will be a swift and glorious one. Our enemies will not be able to stand the wrath of our great host. We will soon feast in the halls of Roalas.” Duke Oleg nodded vehemently.
Sergei said nothing. He wasn’t much of a believer in omens and godly secrets, maybe because his parents were. His firstborn took after his dead grandparents, it seemed. Well, Under-Patriarch Evgeny was a cunning man, with a loud and cheerful voice, and he could easily sway masses. But he was hoping to stake every unbeliever in Roalas after the war was done. Sergei did not like his zeal or his plans, but he appreciated the effect the man’s sermons had on soldiers’ morale. He feared the confrontation with the clergy once the spoils were divided, feared the price they would demand and refusing it. Ungodly or no, the Athesians were every bit as good for paying taxes and plowing the fields as any other man. But he would have to account for the slack and help the priests had given him over the years. Still, he postponed that fight for when it was due.
Timur brought
out fresh drinks for the under-patriarch and the brother. The ferret fidgeted in the man’s grasp, stealing everyone’s attention.
“I have inquired with Archduke Bogomir about the fifty apprentices he promised me,” Evgeny said. “He says he cannot spare the manpower now, it seems.”
“After the war, Your Holiness,” Sergei offered in a calm voice.
“But surely prayer is as important as sword fight?” the big man retorted.
The king was silent for a moment. This wasn’t the first time they’d argued about building up combat clergy, nor would it be the last. Sergei did not relish the idea. War and religion had always had balance in Parus. Changing that now would not be a good thing.
“Surely,” he said. “But first we must win the war.”
“Brother Roman has returned from the Red Caps camp, Your Highness,” the other priest interjected. “There is much sin going on there. The gods and goddesses will not be pleased.”
Sergei pursed his lips. “I shall talk to Princess Sasha,” he said. He was somewhat weary of these hinted threats and conflicting messages, praise and sin mixed. The clergy had grown bolder now they were away from Sigurd, maybe because they knew the common man depended on them so much more now.
Nikolai coughed. “With all due respect, Your Holiness, we must discuss the disposition of our troops. There’s a great war to be fought, against godless people. What can be holier than that?”
He had a point, the king thought. The conversation swerved back to horses and broken axles and discipline. Sergei leaned back and let them speak. He was tired.
A horn blazed once, twice. Bedtime.
“Dismissed,” Sergei said.
The dukes rose, bid him good night, and staggered out. Ivan and Evgeny lingered, but when they saw the lethargic, drawn look on their king’s face, they relented and left. Giorgi and Timur cleaned the place. Sergei wiped his face with a damp cloth that smelled of oranges and went to bed.
The night slowly settled; the camp went to sleep. Sergei lay awake, road dust and sweat oozing off his skin, mingling with the citrus smell. He was thinking. Was he destined for greatness? Was he making the same mistake as his father? How did one justify wars when asked? History books always had page after page of reasons, but in life, things seemed so whimsical, almost random. His war idea was eighteen years old, a childhood fantasy that had grown old with him, like him. He had made Parus rich and strong and modern. So, maybe that was enough? Maybe this vengeance was just a fancy?
No, he would not balk now. He would make Parus the dominant force in the realms, the largest and most feared of all. For many generations, Parus had always stood apart, drenched in its own struggles, while the Eracians and Caytoreans exchanged a lifetime of cowardly blows over pride and matters long forgotten. But now that stale balance had been shattered. The old world order was no more. His nemesis had created a new reality. Adam had broken the centuries of political stagnation in the realms. It was like in the ancient times, when Pyotr had ridden forth and turned his little clan into a nation. Now, it was his turn. For a fleeting moment, he remembered his father’s madness.
I will be just and fair and loved. I will bring peace to the realms. But peace must begin with war, it seemed.
CHAPTER 12
She awoke with a start.
Her eyes fleeted around the room, seeking danger, finding none. She slumped back into the clean bedsheets. The room was small, but airy and well lit. It smelled of old, crusted bandages and lemon, a perverted combination. A boy, roughly fifteen or so but with ancient eyes, sat in a chair near the foot of the bed, staring at her. He was the only dirty thing in the room.
He remained seated. He made no move, as if he did not want to startle her. “It’s all right. You are safe.” He spoke in a soft voice. “I saved you from the beating several days ago. My name is Ewan. Do you remember me?”
She looked at the boy, thinking, her mind racing. Could she trust him? Was he who he claimed to be? Just a nice boy who had saved her from certain death? The memory of that night was a vivid kaleidoscope of images in the back of her mind, painful and burning. Erratic scenes of that terrible ordeal strobed in rapid succession, mixing with white-hot pain and black panic. She remembered the leering faces of her assailants, their meaty fists, raw knuckles, and the shine of a ruby ring…Was that her blood or a real ruby? The faces. This boy, Ewan, was not one of them.
“You saved my life,” she said, her voice thin and coarse. It was part question, part statement.
Ewan grabbed a wooden cup from a small stand. He handed it over. “Drink this, please.”
She reached with her right hand. A lance of pain numbed her.
The boy smiled softly. “Your right arm is broken. Please use your left.”
Groaning, she propped herself up and drank carefully. The rim of the cup touched her lips. She reached with trembling hands and probed. All her teeth were there. But she had seen them flying like pearls.
“My teeth?”
Ewan slowly stood up. He raked his filthy hair. “After I found you, I took you to a healer. He…mended your wounds. You’re still weak, but you will be okay. You had several teeth missing. The man said he could reconstruct them with whale bone and silver.”
She stared at him, her eyes brimming. She kept her eyes lidded and watched him. He looked wild, disheveled, hardly the image of a hero any girl dreamed about. He wasn’t very tall or well built. He wasn’t that pretty, either. Just an ordinary lad, shy and confused.
But he’s saved your life, she thought. He paid for your teeth. She gasped involuntarily. Her breathing turned fast and shallow. “Why?”
Ewan was upset. He did not know how to handle the crying. For nine days, he had not left the room, not so much as to stretch his legs. He had sat by her side, waiting, ignoring the raw urgency boiling in his guts. And her teeth had cost him more than half his savings, but the sight of a beautiful girl with her mouth ruined left a deep hole in his soul. No matter. Money was of no importance. He could always wrestle a shark and earn more.
“Anyone would do that,” he muttered.
The girl lowered her eyes. Tears dripped on the gray cast on her forearm. Ewan stood, but didn’t move any further. He did not know what to do. It felt awkward and frustrating. She leaned back, closed her eyes, and sobbed some more. After a few moments, her breathing slowed down. She was asleep again. Ewan sighed deeply, sat back, and waited.
The mysterious girl woke again several hours later. It was almost sunset. He had lit a few lamps in the room so she would not be in the dark. He read a book on Eybalen fishing. The book was boring, but it was better than thinking.
Ewan looked up from his dreadful reading. “How are you?”
“My chest hurts,” she said.
“Your ribs were broken too. Luckily, there was no damage to your internal organs. The healer said that once you are strong enough to walk, we should leave the room and exercise outside. It will help your ribs heal back properly.” He coughed. “I put some onion salve there. It helps with the healing.” He blushed.
She patted her side gently. Beneath a simple white linen shirt, there was a swath of gauze wrapped around her middle, lumpy with coarsely cut onion slices. She reached farther down. Ewan winced. Her eyes went wide when she noticed she was wearing nappies. Her eyes watered again. Ewan understood that pained look. It said, What have I done to deserve this?
He was feeling extremely uncomfortable. He was running his hands up and down his filthy gray trousers. “I never looked,” he mumbled. “I closed my eyes. Honest.”
She nodded weakly. “Are we still in Eybalen?” she asked after a while.
Ewan nodded. “Yes, we’re in the harbor area. This is the Drunken Parrot Inn.”
The girl panicked for a moment. “I can’t go outside. Not here.”
“It’s okay,” he said. After the horrible beating she had suffered, it was no wonder she would be reluctant to walk the streets again. But she had to walk, had to breathe deeply, let her chest
expand and contract, let the ribs settle properly. “Whenever you’re ready. We can try small walks in here.”
Her arms trembled. “All right.”
He extended a hand. “Let me help you. Carefully. You’ve been in bed for nine days.” She froze. “Take your time,” he whispered encouragingly.
The girl listened. She sat for a while, flexing her arms and legs, working some of the feeling back into her weak, atrophied limbs.
Next, she put her legs down, over the edge of the bed, but did not rise. Even sitting perfectly straight must be an effort. Her back also probably hurt. For an hour, she sat there, staring at the sunset, bracing her nerve and strength. Ewan said nothing. He just waited, as patient as the chair he warmed.
“I will try to stand now,” she declared, but her voice trembled.
Ewan stood. She winced at his proximity. It was instinct, nothing more, but she recoiled as if burned.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he apologized lightning fast, before she could even open her mouth.
He let her lean on his arm as she slowly uncoiled. Ewan was not a large man, but she was really petite. She was such a small, fragile thing. It was a miracle that she had survived the beating. But they said the smallest kids were always the toughest fighters. Ewan wanted to know her name, but he did not dare ask yet. No names, she had said. When she was ready. There would be time. How could he demand anything of her yet? After all she had been through?
She let out a small gasp of victory as she managed to stand on her own. She was slightly shaky and weak, but she managed to stay upright, with only a light touch against Ewan’s arm. Instinctively, as she stood, she reached toward her belly. She looked at him. Ewan paled and averted his eyes.
He pressed his hands together, trying to contain the flood of pain that enveloped him. But he had to tell her. He could not be a coward now. He had to tell her. His palms were bloodless. His hands trembled with tension.
The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) Page 13
