The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2)

by Igor Ljubuncic

  The king also kept thinking about the legend of his own father’s demise. The story said Adam the Godless had devastated Vlad’s army with magic. It was obviously a wild tale, spun from the dark abyss of defeat and desperation, because nothing remotely similar had happened yet. If Amalia had magical weapons, she would have used them by now. Sergei knew he was risking everything with this war, but he was also so much more of a man and a leader than his father had ever been.

  Suddenly, a flock of birds exploded from the walls, flying high. No, not birds. Birds could not fly that fast. The ascent was unnatural. Rocks. More rocks. The cluster of tiny dots rose higher and higher and further beyond any previous shot.

  “Take cover,” he yelled and ran away from the raining scree.

  His men responded quickly, without doubting or questioning their king. Men grabbed shields and rushed to his side. Valentin and Ipatiy jostled into him, waving the large pavises.

  “Protect my son,” he hissed. Vlad was just standing, staring, neck craned high. His squire was kneeling, pleading, holding a big shield. The prince ignored him.

  The cluster of tiny dots had finally peaked and was coming down, growing bigger. Seconds later, there was a rattle of dull thuds as stones thundered into the Parusite camp. Men groaned and cursed. Then, it was quiet, as if nothing had happened.

  Sergei dusted himself, looking around. No one seemed hurt, although there had been a few close calls. A tent canopy was torn by one of the hits. It could have been worse. Then, he realized that his enemy had used a different kind of artillery. Not rocks. Severed human heads.

  He picked up one of the squashed melon-like things, the features ruined by rot and impact. It would be impossible to identify who it had belonged to. He tossed the head away. Around him, dukes and soldiers alike were examining the perverted munitions, staring at the misshapen faces of their former friends and lieges. Some of the heads maintained their former dignity, looking almost normal. Others looked like eggs trodden upon, twisted and broken. There was no blood, only a faint smell of death. The Parusite veterans stood in quiet awe, watching the morbid display. Few had the courage to grab a head by the hair and examine it up close. Sergei could not really blame them. Mutilation of corpses was desecration. It was against the gods’ rules.

  The fat priest was back, trailed by a dozen of his kind, men in colorful robes. He headed for the king, slow and lumbering like a battering ram.

  “And you would spare their lives?” Evgeny ranted.

  “Quiet,” Sergei snapped. He was in no mood for litanies.

  “Your Highness,” one of the northern barons called. The noble was actually holding a head and would not let it go.

  Sergei did not like the pasty look on the man’s face. “What is it?” He approached the man. He did not know of any of his kin or high lords being killed or taken prisoner, but dread punched a cold knot in his belly.

  Mutely, the young baron handed the head over. The king turned it around, trying to decipher who the victim was. Bones jutted through the blackened skin, the skull was bent and warped like a boil, but there was no mistaking the alien features.

  It was one of his Pum’be assassins.

  Sergei swallowed. The Athesians had managed to kill one of the world’s most legendary killers. This meant Empress Amalia really was still alive. The attempt on her life was unsuccessful.

  There was a remote chance the dwarf may have died after murdering her, but he doubted it somehow. Athesian resolve was too stiff for a nation that had just lost its ruler. They may have suffered a crippling blow, but they were not defeated. Sergei stared at the stunted trophy, wondering. How could they have managed to kill this thing?

  Vlad shuffled close. His face was unafraid, merely curious. He stared at the severed head for a while, then looked back at the city, admiring the deep arc it had trailed in the sky.

  Around him, no one spoke. Those who knew who Pum’be were kept quiet and waited for their king to speak first. Those who had never seen the mysterious killers watched the snake of emotions wriggle across Sergei’s face and wondered what could be so terrifying.

  Sergei noticed there was a piece of paper stuck in the desiccated mouth. He put the head down and carefully pried the jaws open. He would not put it beyond Athesians to springload a poison needle into a corpse. But he could not let anyone see the little note before him.

  He uncurled the message and read. Written in big, crude letters of someone used to wielding a sword rather than a pen, it read: Better luck next time. Sergei folded the paper. He wanted to crush it in his palm, but no. He would keep the evidence. Other Pum’be would surely want to know who had murdered their brother. They might even try to avenge him, for free.

  “Put this head in a jar of vinegar,” he instructed no one in particular, his voice thin and coarse. He cleared his throat.

  There were no volunteers; no one wanted to do it. But then, rank decided the faith of a simple knight. Wearing gloves to keep the touch of death from his skin, the soldier collected the head. He grabbed it by the brushlike hair and walked away in a hobble, keeping it as far away from his body as possible. Then, he accidentally struck the head against the side of a wagon. A tooth fell out. Sergei winced. Someone chuckled.

  Sergei realized he was clenching his fists hard. They were white, and they trembled. His chipped nails were digging into the hard calluses on his palms. He took a deep breath and let go. No. He would not let fear grip him. This war would be over soon, with a crushing Parusite victory.

  “Prince Vlad,” he croaked.

  “Sire.” The boy was at his side. His young face showed no emotion.

  “You are now officially promoted as the head of the Talkers.”

  Two steps away, Duke Kiril paled, but said nothing. He could see the murderous rage on the king’s face.

  “I want you to find anything and everything there is to know about Commander Gerald of the City Guard in Roalas. I want to know how that man thinks. I want to know where he sleeps and who he fucks.”

  His son nodded. “Yes, sire.”

  “I want you to devise a plan on how to infiltrate the city. You have two days.”

  If Kiril’s incompetent spies could not have informed him about Commander Gerald, there might be other nasty surprises inside Roalas. He could not forget the legends of nasty magic cutting down the entire Parusite army. No, that was nonsense. Something like that could never happen.

  There was only somber, grim determination on the boy’s face. “Consider it done, sire.” Vlad wasted no time. He summoned his lackeys and led them away. Archduke Bogomir muttered a quick excuse and followed the prince.

  Across the field, through the veil of smoke and soot, Roalas cackled like a toothless crone.

  CHAPTER 24

  James snarled and threw the sword down in disgust. Sweat dripped from his nose, irritating him.

  “That’s a splendid tantrum you just had,” Sergeant Hector said. “If you were a child of seven, I’d spank your bottom with a cane. As it were, you’re a grown man. So, I’ll pretend you didn’t let go of that blade just because you took some beating. Get back here.”

  James bent down, his exhausted muscles screaming, and picked up the sword in his callused, wet palm. He lunged. And got his ass kicked again.

  Half the mansion was watching the morning session, lords and ladies, merchants, bankers, squires, idle servants, and a crowd of soldiers in the livery of a hundred different employers. They were watching the future emperor being humiliated and defeated by a man twice his age. Timothy was standing with a pained look on his face, sharing in his master’s defeat, taunted by other squires his age.

  James took a deep breath, then attacked. He swung the sword to the left, feinting, then rushed hard, shoulder first. He butted into the grizzled sergeant, pushing him back. A crowd gasped in appreciation and surprise. Black-and-yellow uniforms, white tabards, red surcoats with gold cloth lines, silk shirts, and silk gowns, the colors swirled, dizzying him.

  “Enough
,” the master-of-arms shouted suddenly, sidestepping.

  James lurched and halted his strike, frustrated. Every day, his fighting lessons were becoming harder. And this was just the beginning, the old man promised. After he mastered single combat, he would learn how to fight in a team, then lead a team, then ride a horse and wield lance and axe, and finally make his baby steps in becoming an army commander.

  You wanna be an emperor, Hector mocked, you gotta learn to lead. Men will not follow a coward.

  He was no coward, but he knew little about military warfare, it seemed. Hunting bandits in the woods was one thing. Clobbering professional soldiers in full armor, with a thousand the likes of him all around you, well, that was quite another.

  The exercise was over. Timothy came forward, holding a towel. James took it and wiped grime off his face, dust, dirt, sticky sweat, a drop of blood from a bitten lip. Suddenly, he could not stand all this attention around him. Without a word, James retreated to his chambers, anger boiling in his veins. He skipped the lessons with Master Angus and got reprimanded at dinnertime. In the morning, his whole body one big livid bruise, he rose early and pored over the books, studying Sirtai poetry. He couldn’t really see the point. For all the pain and humiliation, sword practice was more fun. Focused and lethal, and something he knew.

  They all wanted him to be something he wasn’t. Still, of all his mentors and tutors, only Master Hector was honest about his teachings. He did not try to be nice about it. And it wasn’t just about wielding the blade with grace or precision. It was about discipline and understanding the risks. He had to become a great swordsman so he could avoid fights.

  Kings don’t fight, the sinewy bastard ranted as they danced, breathless. They let others do it. I killed my first man in the Night of Red Lilies, when I was nine. When was your first kill?

  The tough sergeant had a difficult task ahead of him. He had to make James into an army leader. But the problem was, in the past eighteen years, no Caytorean had had any good reason to participate in real war, well, thanks to his father, really. In fact, almost every soldier in the realms had never seen any real battle.

  Before becoming the head of the academy, Hector had been a mercenary for some years, helping nations resolve their disputes through gold and blood. And then, he had served in the ranks of several rich councillors, hunting Feorans, slowly climbing the ladder of favor and experience. The old man claimed he knew what real battle was all about, and it was nothing like what any of the young men thought or imagined. And for James to become Athesia’s ruler, the sergeant said, he had to feel it. Otherwise, he would just become a soft, rich puppet like the rest of them.

  He put the book of crazy verses away. Sirtai poetry was strange. Anyway, he would have to meet Master Angus, soon, and tell him all about it.

  Another day sluiced past, wrapped in history and alchemy. He really didn’t want to know any more about lead and copper, but he listened. He was frustrated, mostly because nothing came of Nigella’s prophecy. Nothing changed. He had no friends or partners, and no one was killing people in his name. And for all the talk about sex, well…the talking was easy.

  Then, it all changed one night.

  James did not know what his benefactors had in mind, but it sure was not a midnight picnic. Timothy was the one who stepped into his chamber, bleary-eyed and looking frightened. The boy told James that Councillor Otis was waiting outside. James dressed in silence and put on his sword belt.

  He looked at his squire. “You stay here.”

  In the corridor, a silent press of men in black uniforms waited, silent, grim, faces like stone. Without a word, they led James to the stables. Not the posh stalls where they kept palfreys and mares for riding and parties, the smelly stalls at the back, where soldiers kept their heavy chargers and scout horses.

  They mounted quickly and left Pain Daye. James asked no questions. There had to be a good reason why Otis had waited for nightfall for their excursion outside the mansion, escorted by a dozen heavily armed private guards.

  The night was clammy and sticky, with a soft mist like an old bandage gauze. The moon reflected murkily in ponds teeming with frogs. The hooves thundered on the cobbled road leading east.

  James was thinking hard and fast. So far, he had steered clear from the dirty personal vendettas and businesslike backstabbing. He had refused to participate in the private wars of power waged by the councillors. But now, he felt, his moment had come. A moment of truth and reckoning. He could think of no other reason why they would spirit him away, under the cover of darkness. If they wanted him dead, there were simpler ways.

  Or were there?

  Their destination was a tiny gorge about two miles from the main road, hidden from view. This same road led to Pasey. Was Nigella sleeping right now? Had she predicted this moment and not told him? What was the road called, James tried to recall. The Pain Road, such an ominous name.

  Several people were congregated there in the silver shadow of a clump of sagging trees, waiting for them. Whoever had set up the late-night meeting had aimed for drama. Several cressets were stuck in a circle, their flames straight in the wet, dead air. Their sickly yellow illumination did nothing to ease the darkness. Or the feeling in James’s gut.

  As the column slowed and approached, James started noticing details. Two men, still mounted, barely seen outside the jaundiced gloom. A man leaning against a tree, whetting a long knife. Those standing, wrapped in cloaks. Those kneeling, their hands bound and sacks thrown over their heads. It looked like an execution waiting to happen. The weak light would not let him see the faces clearly. Perhaps it was intended.

  “We are here, Your Highness,” Otis said, breaking the silence. His voice boomed into the night.

  “And what is here?” James rose to the bait.

  “This man is a traitor,” Otis spoke, pointing at one of the kneeling figures.

  James did not speak. He was thinking. For all practical purposes, he was surrounded by close to two dozen armed men. He had no idea where their allegiances lay. But they were not his men, that was for sure. They were all strangers.

  He dismounted slowly. The horse he rode seemed to pick on his nervousness and tried to buck. James stroked its neck, calming his own heart along with that of the beast. The animal whinnied softly.

  “Who did he betray?” James asked, wondering if this were where he would die.

  “You, Your Highness,” the councillor said. The story went on. James listened very carefully.

  Guild Master Sebastian was the man behind Vere, the impostor from Eybalen, one of so many. He had also hired assassins to kill James, but the attempts had been foiled by Otis and Melville. The list was short and severe. The man deserved death. And then, Otis was quiet again.

  But why bring him here, James wondered. Why kidnap him? It sounded complicated and risky. They could have murdered him in his bed, plain and simple. It was an unnecessary risk to smuggle the man from Eybalen, where he probably had his hirelings and allies.

  Perhaps the councillors did not want their war of power to spill into the streets of their cities. Leaving a bloody corpse entangled in linen sheets for the personal valet to discover could have been the easiest solution, but also a definite declaration of intentions.

  Unless they wanted to teach James a lesson, which was why he was here.

  “What now?” the future emperor asked. His heart hammered in his chest.

  “You may want the pleasure of killing him personally, Your Highness,” the councillor suggested.

  The man leaning against the tree offered his long knife. James could see a pair of shiny eyes and a strong chin covered in whiskers. He didn’t like that face. Blood thumping in his ears, James reached and removed the sack from the man’s head. A terrified yet proud face stared at him.

  Guild Master Sebastian had been roughed up. The left side of his face was swollen. There was a cut above his left temple. Dirt and blood clung to his sweaty hair. He was squinting in the weak torchlight, trying to
focus on James. His facial muscles twitched with unbridled emotion.

  James stared back, unblinking, trying to decipher the man’s expression. Underneath the mask of pure white fear was a boiling pan of raw anger. Guild Master Sebastian knew he was going to die, but he would go down howling his defiance.

  Carefully, James accepted the extended blade. He tested the weight of cold steel in his hand. It almost felt like back when he had been the deputy bailiff. After a long day of chasing the criminals, there was justice to be done. Except, it didn’t feel right this time. It felt forced, staged, wrong.

  James hefted the thing up, staring down the smooth edge, looking at Sebastian. He could just thrust the knife into the man’s chest and be done with it. But that would be murder. Nigella’s advice kept running through his head like a feisty little hamster, all fur and fat and sheer energy. He needed a friend. He needed a partner. And he needed a butcher. So far, he had none.

  Sebastian’s face had calmed, become a mask of cold resolution. Whatever the man was, he was not a coward. Even faced with humiliating death, the guild master, if the captive was really who Otis claimed him to be, was serene and composed. He did not whine, weep, or beg.

  It touched James in a strange way. In a world of deception and twisted mind games, that simple bubble of raw, unspoken honesty felt like a jewel. He could not imagine Otis staring down a sword blade in such a manner. He could not imagine any one of his would-be friends and confidants doing that. The way they saw it, courage was a commodity to be had alongside expensive wine and falcons.

  The night was dank. Fingers of sweat ran down the side of his face.

  “Leave us,” James whispered.

  Otis frowned. “Beg your pardon, Your Highness?”

  James swallowed, building up his own resolution. “I want a private word with Guild Master Sebastian. Everyone leave us. Now.”