Sergeant Keith knelt by Gerald’s side. Bows twanged. A wave of Red Caps went down. “Are you all right, Commander?” he moaned, gulping air in panicked gasps.
Gerald nodded mutely. He rose. He felt weak and drained. He wiped the bile from his mouth and nose.
“Move, move,” Clive was barking, a visage of fury and resoluteness.
Their progress slowed as they hurled into a press of Parusites. The second echelon of enemy troops had had enough time to regroup. They fought with frenzy and skill, easily matching the Athesians. Within minutes, a hundred of his soldiers were dead or dying. Desperate men fired their crossbows at point-blank range, discharging weapons into friend and foe alike.
“We must keep going,” Gerald shouted, sanity coming back to him. He was becoming a real soldier. “Form up. Form, you whores!” he hollered at the top of his lungs.
At a snail’s pace, the force sobered up and pulled back, shoulder to shoulder, an impregnable wall. They veered away from the main section of the camp, heading toward the flanks, ever toward the flanks. Wary of a counterattack, the Parusites did not follow.
As soon as they were free, the Athesians broke into canter, rushing toward the exposed north side of the enemy garrison. Commander Driscoll was out there somewhere.
Gerald could sense everything around him. See, hear, smell. His mind was empty of any rational thoughts. And when they came, they came as filthy froth on an angry wave, deep, simple, primitive. He could smell blood, and it did not repulse him. He could hear screams, and they sounded hollow. The grisly scene was just a blur of colors and shapes. And then he saw one of his privates lag behind, dragging a corpse in her wake, pulling it by its hair.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
The woman looked at him as if he were mad. “Spoils of war,” she said stupidly.
“Soldier, let’s go,” he barked. She nodded, dropped her prize, and joined the main body.
More fighting. It was becoming easier now, but he was dead tired. Excitement was fading, being replaced with bone-deep fatigue. But he no longer thought about what would happen. He just felt he would live through this night somehow. More fighting. More death. Most of the victims were the green troops.
The survivors of the Sixth and Third fought with tears in their eyes. They hacked at their enemies long after they had died. Men collected noses and ears and breasts. It made such perfect sense there and then.
And suddenly, there was nothing, just the empty night. They had broken through the enemy ranks. A weak cheer broke among the survivors. But then, just as quickly, it died. In their frenzy, they had strayed too far from the center of the Red Caps garrison. They needed to go back and complete their task.
“We need to go back,” Gerald whispered. His throat was hoarse. He realized he was kneeling, breathing in big, hungry gasps, recovering from the mad dash. Around him, men and women lay on the ground, gasping for air, retching drily. No one attacked them. They were given a moment of respite.
In a blessed heartbeat of eerie silence, they were in the eye of the storm. In the darkness around them, death was rampaging, cackling madly. Fires were raging, whipping at the ebony sky. Red Caps soldiers were running around like ants, trying to tame the chaos. North of the camp, seen through the flicker of blaze and smoke, a swarm of riders was milling, preparing for a counterattack. The Parusites were finally coming to their senses. It would not be long before they fully recovered from the surprise attack and launched their own offensive.
Gerald stared. Some of the riders were male, wearing Athesian uniforms, haphazardly emblazoned with new coats of arms. Traitors. They came in small groups, conferred with the enemy, and then rode back into the night. Gerald looked farther north. There was another camp lurking in the gloom, coming to life, with a thousand pale yellow eyes.
Not a hundred paces away, one of the Athesian renegades dismounted. He had not seen the attackers. They were hidden from sight by the grass and thorny bushes and loose rock.
“Commander Edgar demands to know what’s going on,” he said.
A Parusite officer turned toward him. She was trying to coordinate her soldiers. “Tell him to get the fuck here! Stop masturbating in your fucking tents and come to help us.”
The Athesian just nodded, mounted, and rode away.
Gerald drank a trickle of water from a tiny skin at his waist. Edgar? Major Edgar? He was now the commander of the Fifth Legion? Had they turned coat, too? Two complete Athesian legions? It was a disaster. This meant there were no friendly forces left in Ecol or Bassac.
Lieutenant Clive crawled toward him. The old man was bleeding from a nasty gash above his ear. “Son, we don’t have much time. We gotta get moving.”
Gerald nodded. Within seconds, two squads of men left the force, heading north. Their goal was to break through the last of the enemy lines and try to reach any surviving Athesian forces. They would try to unite the pockets of resistance and march back to relieve the capital. But Gerald had not expected the Fifth to surrender to the enemy. His men would have to forge a path through yet another camp. He hoped they would make it.
Two legions turned bad, another lost in Caytor. Three other legions decimated. Two-thirds of the Athesian standing army were gone. And he had a bunch of defeated men and city watchmen who had never signed up for this kind of war.
“Commander, we need to move,” Clive pleaded. The man was nursing his side, but he would not give up. In fact, the longer they fought, the tougher the man became, it seemed. He didn’t have much strength to begin with, but he scraped his lot like a beggar child scooping honey from a jar.
“I’m going after Driscoll,” Gerald said.
“We’re done here, sir. We need to go back before they close ranks.”
They were down to just half their strength, many wounded, every one of them exhausted. But he could not give up.
“We march into the heart of the enemy camp and finish what we started here. Kill that traitor Driscoll. Anyone feels like quitting? You can crawl back to Roalas. I won’t hold it against you. You’ve done well here.”
It took some time before the whisper of his grim speech trickled to the rest of them. They were all staring at him with adoration and wonder. No one moved. They waited.
Old Beno had told him stories of war, but they paled compared to this moment of brotherhood. Deep in their hearts, they knew, if they survived this night, there would be no other memory as intimate as this, not family, not marriage or children, not even wild lovemaking. The entire philosophy of life tapered to pure survival, and it depended on the person standing next to you. It didn’t matter if you knew him or her; it didn’t matter if you hated one another in peacetime. Out here, alone, drowning in death, the man next to you was your hope, your savior, the focus of your strength. Nothing you did tonight would shame you. Neither tears, nor cries of anguish from your cracked lips, nor the shit in your pants. Whatever happened, your pain, your valor, your life would be remembered by those around you.
The Athesians regrouped, forming up into a tight knot, moving back into the seething mass of death. But it was easier now. You no longer paid attention to clobbered brains or spilled guts. You searched for your foes, and you killed them. It was as simple as that.
On the plains to their left, the Athesian diversion force was retreating, pursued by a massive wave of Red Caps. The enemy was racing the defenders to the half-open gates, trying to beat them to them and gain a foothold inside Roalas. No one had expected the ambush to turn into a victory, but now that they smelled it, they were incensed. From the walls, fiery hail and burning arrows poured on the Parusites, trying to slow them down. The Athesians dispersed into small groups and slithered into the rubble like snakes. The tidal force of the invaders slammed into the Inferno, crashing impotently. The attack was too big, too cumbersome.
More and more Parusites were visible, forming up into their organic units. Soon, they would notice the gnat amidst their ranks and swat it bloody. But Gerald lived the heartbeats o
f chance and cared nothing for his flesh. He just knew he would not die tonight.
Cavalry thundered ahead of them, streamers tied to lances, whipping in all colors. Parusites and Athesians mixed alike, forming up their divisions. The Ninth and the Fifth, they were all there. Group after group, they poured west, hurling into combat.
Gerald’s men waded into a forest of tents, hunting. Crossbows sang. Hammers thudded. It was a massacre. They killed men and women now, both the foreigners and their fellow countrymen. It made no difference. If you wore the Parusite colors, you died.
“Keep the right wing safe,” Lieutenant Clive ordered. The Fifth could attack them from the flank.
Big tents, officers’ tents. Gerald could smell the traitors. Driscoll.
Battle exploded in a sudden flutter of cries of dismay and surprise. Men and women cursed as they stumbled into their enemies. In the dark, it was hard to tell. But Gerald had only a handful of friends and a ton of foes. The Parusites had to be more careful.
He swung hard, slicing a man’s throat. With a mute groan, the traitor fell. He crouched, trying to avoid a spear. His leg gave way. He fell down. The spear raked his ribs. He kicked wildly at his attacker. She was fat and stubborn. Her head exploded like a trodden pear. The spatter blinded him. The crazy private from before leaned over him, panting.
“Can I take her?” she asked.
Gerald rose. His head swam.
“We need to retreat, sir!” someone shouted. Clive? It did not matter. He had to kill Driscoll. Arrows whizzed. Something hissed near his ear. He did not even flinch. He stumbled again and tasted hot, bloody mud in his mouth and nose.
Someone was dragging him to safety, away from the seething mob of Parusites. Spears stabbed at him like scorpion stings, many, angry, erratic. A squad of soldiers was leaning above him, protecting him, firing their crossbows.
“Get up, get up, get up!”
“You’re wounded, sir,” Sergeant Liam croaked.
Gerald gently touched his face. His fingers felt like clay. He wiped the gore from his skin. “I’m fine. Not mine. Where’s my sword?”
He had lost his father’s sword! But there was no emotion. It made no difference. Liam handed over his own weapon. Then, he picked an ax from a dead comrade and followed the commander.
Suddenly, General Driscoll was there in front of him, issuing orders to his captains. They seemed unaware of the bloodied pack of vengeful Athesians in their midst. Like vomit through broken teeth, the city defenders gushed into the clearing, screaming like animals.
Gerald was the first man to reach the traitor. Driscoll only scowled once before the sword hit him in the chest, weakly. He yelped in protest and fell down. The commander of the City Guard was on top of him, wheezing.
Driscoll stabbed Gerald in the side with a small dagger, once, twice. He pushed the attacker and wriggled away. A trickle of blood was oozing from a tiny rent in his armor.
“What the fuck? Gerald?”
“Fuck you,” Gerald moaned and collapsed.
Driscoll unsheathed his sword. And then, his head detached and rolled off his shoulders. The ungainly body folded unceremoniously. Lieutenant Clive collected the head and stuffed it in his backpack.
“C’mon, sir. With all due respect, we need to get the fuck out of here now!”
Gerald blinked hard. He was losing consciousness. “But Princess Sasha. We need to…”
The old man hoisted him up onto his shoulders. “Not tonight. Lads, protect the commander,” he growled. “Around me. Form a ring. We retreat. Fuck that shit. Come here.”
The clearing between the officers’ tents was swelling with Athesians. But the traitors did not seem eager to fight their countrymen. They shouted and waved their swords, but no one wanted to be the first man into the fray. The soldiers of the Ninth had just seen their leader’s head roll.
“We’ll get back to take you all,” Clive snarled. Gerald vomited down his nape.
“Let go of me,” he moaned.
“Shut up, son!” Clive was trotting now.
“I can’t breathe.”
The lieutenant let him slide off. Gerald ripped his mangled coat open, gasping for breath.
“Is it bad?” he asked.
“You’ll live if you stop fretting like a little whore.” The old man sagged to his knees. Young men lifted them both up, half carrying, half dragging them away. There was more blood and more death, and the Parusite camp seemed endless. Line after line of tents. Fires burning. Gerald watched it upside down, blood dripping into his eyes. The world was narrowing. Black fog was curling up, swallowing everything.
They could no longer see Roalas behind them. They lost direction. More men died. They were down to a hundred men. Fifty men.
“I won’t die tonight,” Gerald swore. And then, it was total, absolute darkness.
CHAPTER 32
Up on the battlements, amidst shards of rubble, buckets of tar, and running, sweating men, Empress Amalia and her mother stood and watched the battle unfold. A cool wind buffeted the merlons in sudden gusts, wheezing like an old man. Whenever a gust sneaked under her wig and caressed her short-cropped skull, Amalia shivered.
The waiting had been the hardest, the long hours of almost complete silence where the only sounds were the chirps of insects, the crunch of boots on gravel, and the distant buzz of the siege camps. She stood by her soldiers, staring into the darkness, guessing the location and strength of her forces. Someone coughed. Someone else sneezed. A few men exchanged a quick nervous joke.
Then, the Fuckers fired.
The salvo startled her, and she almost stumbled, but Lieutenant Edwin was there to keep her safe. His callused hand grabbed her forearm, steadying her. He flashed a brief smile and was gone. Into the night, streamers of fire and smoke rose high, white and deadly. She could not hear them crash, but she saw the heads scatter and roll like sparks under a smith’s hammer. And then, it was chaos.
Amalia stood on the south side, looking toward the king’s camp. She wanted to see those big, lumbering siege machines burn. The gate chains rattled as the portcullis was raised. A unified cry of fear and courage exploded as the mass of two thousand brave defenders ran into the night, against an enemy fifty times stronger. They rushed into the scorched remnants of the city outskirts, groping blindly. The only illumination was the weak glow of the incendiary artillery.
The empress felt tears well in the corners of her eyes, so she blinked hard, suppressing them. She had just sent five thousand men to their deaths. The fact they had all volunteered made the feeling no easier.
The empress-mother just watched, her face impassive. War was an old, bitter friend.
“Mom?” Amalia whispered as a soldier shuffled by, muttering apologies.
“Yes, dear?” Lisa stepped forward so she would not get in the way. Her daughter had insisted they watch the attack from the battlements, but Lisa felt they were just interfering. Soldiers were too busy bobbing and bowing and not swearing instead of focusing on their line of work. But Amalia had insisted. Maybe also because she had nearly met her death not far from here.
Her daughter was exhausted, with big black pockets under her eyes, thin and weak from the drugs and healing, but she would not cower in her chambers.
“Am I doing the right thing?”
The empress-mother looked around. No one was within earshot. The three female bodyguards lingered nearby, backs turned toward the fields so they would not get distracted, but they were too far to hear the conversation.
Lisa sighed. “I don’t know, dear. How does it feel?”
Amalia was silent for a moment. It pained her. The decision to approve this attack pained her. But she feared the alternative. Feared the surrender to her enemies, feared giving in to their demands, their slow war of attrition. If only she had the bloodstaff, or the book. Her father’s secrets mocked her from his grave.
But the worst part was the anger she felt toward Gerald. The man had defied her and volunteered for this suicid
al mission. She had called him a fool. And then he was gone and the words could not be undone, and there was only regret and the sad memory of a kiss.
“I wish it were easier. Does it get easier?”
“It never gets easier,” Lisa said.
The Fuckers thrummed again. Amalia winced.
Soldiers scurried left and right, carrying buckets of tar and bales of straw and lugging sacks full of severed heads. There was no shortage of those. You just had to go outside the city walls, wander into the burned suburbs, and cut the heads off corpses garbed in the Parusite colors.
Lieutenant Edwin and City Engineer Reese stood by one of the contraptions. The squat black thing looked like a midget cart with teeth. The two men were gesturing wildly, making arc-like motions. One of the soldiers was holding a tablet and scratching down numbers.
In the field below, the sound of battle intensified. The opposing forces clashed, hidden by the darkness. Only those fighting and dying knew friend from foe. Above, on top of the wall, it was just different shades of black and the endless cries of death.
“Get those heads to Unit Fifteen!” Edwin shouted. “Quick, now!”
Near Edwin, an old man with receding gray hair and a walking cane stood and watched the battle unfold. His name was Terry, a retired sergeant, one of her father’s soldiers. Instead of watching the field below, he was staring at her intently.
He fought by my father, Amalia thought and beckoned the man closer. His kind were her most precious weapon now. They might not all be able to fight anymore, but they could teach war. They had what no book or war manual or even days of training could ever give a young new recruit. It was the personal knowledge of combat.
They spared the men the long lessons of formation and discipline and focused on one thing, getting the men ready for their first kill, the shock of it, the pain of it, the thrill of it. The terror and the elation and the mind-numbing questions and regret and everything else that clouded your mind and made you vulnerable.
The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) Page 37
