The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2)

by Igor Ljubuncic

  “You’re injured, sir,” the man argued. “And the empress wants to see you right away.”

  Gerald shook his head. “It can wait.” He pointed at the two guards standing idly by the outer gates. “You two, with me.” There was one thing he had to before he could do anything else. The sack was heavy in his arm.

  “We’re on guard duty, sir,” one of them babbled.

  “Not anymore, you come with me. Get me more men.”

  He limped out of the yard, the sergeant and a dozen healthy city guards behind him. The old man Clive stayed behind, shouting for his garlic and a suck.

  Outside the hospital, it was even worse. A huge body of soldiers waited for him, pressing close against the rusty gates. They milled, because there was nothing else to do in between patrol shifts and wall guard duty. But they could at least be there and taste the magic of that battle and feel they were a part of it, too.

  Men started saluting, a rippling wave of gestures. Gerald almost sat on the ground and burst into tears. But he raised his arm high in a steady, fluid motion and saluted back. He owed them that much.

  It was drizzling, but it wasn’t cold. A late-morning fog veiled the city’s features, making them soft and serene. But as he walked the cobbled streets, he noticed the details of war and suffering everywhere. You might mistake it for normal life, but it wasn’t. People had a haunted look about them. They moved stiffly, burdened by the unspoken threat of destruction.

  The army hospital was an old monastery, converted into a place of healing and dying and recuperation, separate from the training grounds. Hidden from view by an alley of oaks, the hospital lurked in the upscale part of the city, a place of its own among villas and manor houses and expensive inns and guild houses. Just a few paces away, behind the line of trees, the rich quarters began, but it was as if a whole different world existed there, separated by an invisible fence.

  The First Legion was famous because it had been Adam’s prime force, established right after he had declared Athesia his empire. That legion no longer fought, having been retired to history with its veterans and heroes, but the heritage remained, the expensive barracks, the practice lot, big granite statues, and the respectable hospital. Emperor Adam had believed the realm’s soldiers should not have to rely on butchers with filthy hands and rusted tools for salvation, not after giving their lives away for their land and people.

  Gerald wished the First still operated. He would have loved their experience and ferocity.

  He stepped away from the masses of bored youth, street urchins, whores, and a mass of soldiers, into the wealthy district, and the world changed. This part of the city had yet to bear the scars of war. Rich people took longer to feel the burden of suffering.

  The upper parts of Roalas were also home to the city’s officers and their families. The army pay was fairly good and allowed a rather decent life for the higher-ranking soldiers. Well, that was how things ran in Caytor and Eracia, too, ever since war had turned into a profession. Many of the legion commanders had homes in the capital. Very few took their wives and children away into local garrisons and remote outposts. Driscoll’s wife lived there, too.

  He found the house soon, tightly jammed against a pair of similar lodges, the brick walls overgrown with creepers. It was guarded by one of his men, but he retreated the moment he saw the commander. His escort stayed back as he climbed the short flight of stairs and pounded on the door.

  Widow Driscoll opened the door. And before he spoke, he knew that she knew.

  Her eyes were puffy and swollen; she must have been crying one long, unstopping cry for a while now. She was cradling a baby in her arms, and there was a young girl tugging at her mother’s skirt, staring in pale wonder at the big, emaciated, pasty-skinned soldier at their doorstep.

  “I’m Commander Gerald of the City Guard,” he stated coldly.

  “I know why you’re here, Commander,” the woman said. “Your deputy was here before.”

  Gerald mouthed a silent oh. “Who?”

  She looked away. “Deputy Commander Edwin.”

  Gerald studied her. And he understood suddenly, anger rising in his check. “What Edwin did was wrong. But it does not deny your husband’s crimes. He was a traitor and died for that.” He handed her the wet sack containing Driscoll’s decomposing head. She didn’t reach for it. He let the sack drop. It was cruel doing this in front of the girl, but it had to be done. Every citizen in Roalas had to understand the price of treason.

  Margaret—that was her name, he remembered vaguely—shuddered with emotion and carefully suppressed a fresh wave of tears. Her lips were pursed thin, bloodless. Muscles twitched in her cheeks. She boiled with rage and indignation and humiliation. Gerald doubted her late husband had consulted her about his change of allegiance. But whether she had been a part of that or not, she was part of his legacy now.

  “You have until sunset to leave Roalas,” he stated. “If you stay, you and your children will be executed as traitors.”

  Margaret slapped him. “Go to the Abyss!”

  He let her be. “You have until sunset,” he repeated and walked away.

  Clustered in row after row of cheap wooden buildings and old warehouses converted into training grounds, the city army district was almost a neighborhood itself, big, chaotic, cluttered with smithies and tanneries and shops that sold charms and greasy food and hawked cheap flesh.

  Gerald found Edwin talking to a number of sergeants near the archery range. He was pointing toward the pincushion targets fifty paces away, explaining. Since the war against Athesia had become a siege, the need for skilled marksmen had risen. They needed more and more archers to take shots at Parusite rescue parties and sappers lurking near the walls. The need for sword and spear would mercifully never come.

  “Edwin,” Gerald called, approaching in a steady pace, a wall of men behind him.

  Edwin turned around, smiling. “Commander! Good to see you!”

  “Did you visit Widow Driscoll while I was in the hospital?” he asked, never slowing down.

  The other man frowned, confused by this abrupt approach. “Sure did. I gave her a visit.”

  Gerald was just a pace away. “Did you molest her?”

  The deputy seemed annoyed now. “What do you mean?”

  Gerald stepped close. He could smell the man’s breath. “Did you rape her?”

  Edwin missed the cue completely. “Well, I gave her a lesson in trea—”

  He never finished the sentence. Gerald punched him hard in the face. He didn’t have much strength, but the blow connected well. He ignored the flare of pain going up his side as he pulled taut tender tissue. His knuckles sunk in the hollow below Edwin’s ear. Edwin grunted and fell.

  “Fucking shit!” Edwin moaned, holding his jaw. He spat blood. “What the fuck?”

  “You are under arrest for the abuse of your authority as a city official and a military officer and for assaulting a civilian. You will be tried for your crime. As of this moment, you are suspended from your duty as deputy commander.”

  Edwin tried to rise, but he staggered, dizzy from the blow. “What are you doing?” he slurred.

  Gerald just shook his head. “Enough talking. Arrest him.”

  His escort stepped forward. They lifted the unprotesting officer from the ground. He was bleeding from the mouth in a long trickle. He looked like a cretin unable to control his saliva. Outrage and confusion danced on his face.

  At that moment, Edwin tried striking back, a feeble, predictable attempt. Gerald was ready. He simply stepped back. One of his soldiers jabbed Edwin in the side of his head, upsetting his balance, making his weak punch fly off mark. It wasn’t just defense; it was a derogatory gesture, too. And a hint that said, plenty more of that, if you want.

  “Fuck man, after all we’ve been through,” Edwin hissed.

  “You should know the law better than anyone else. You let me down,” Gerald spoke softly as four soldiers led Edwin away. He struggled, but he didn’t try re
sisting too much. He looked angry and shocked at the same time. But he did know that if he tried fighting, he would taste a torrent of mailed fists in his ribs and face. Since three nights ago, Gerald was almost a living legend. The soldiers would do anything for him.

  All around, sergeants and their trainees watched in stunned silence. Gerald said nothing. It was plain, simple justice. No one was above the law. Edwin would be tried and stripped of his rank. He might even get banished from the city, but it was a risk. Gerald would have to carefully decide how to treat the man. Letting him loose would be a mistake.

  “Get back to your training,” Gerald said and left. Now, the court business.

  He headed for the Imperial Manse.

  CHAPTER 36

  Sergei needed a scapegoat. Someone, anyone.

  The problem was, there was not a single nobleman under his banner who could be praised for their conduct in the disaster three nights ago. As one, the Parusite war leaders had failed in their command.

  They milled around him like guilty hounds, tails tucked low, faces locked with an incriminating grimace of quiet fear, and their minds burdened with a dilemma—whether to stay visible and remind the king of their collective failure or hide until his anger passed. But they did not know what to do. They waited for some kind of a hint from him, yet his expression remained stony and blank. And that worried them even more.

  Immediately after the battle, his lords had taken punitive measures against picket sentries and tower guards for failing to alert of the impending attack. Count Pavel had ordered his soldiers whipped. Yuri was considering the pillory for his footmen, right there in front of everyone, with rain and cold and the city’s keen archers in sight. The creative list of punishments ran as long as the wisdom of a wrongdoer. But it was a useless, meaningless act.

  Standing out in the bad weather, shadowing their ruler, they waited for his wrath, condemnation, forgiveness, any thing. And they talked, because it was better than the grim silence.

  Even his son looked ashamed of the night’s failure. His spies had given him no early warning of the attack, another surprise by the sorely underestimated commander of the City Guard. Oleg wore a grim expression on his face. Kiril looked worried. Bogomir looked annoyed; his troops had taken the biggest toll in the fighting. Captain Speinbate was wisely keeping his distance. Rumor had it that his troops had descended on the dead without regard to the color on the tabards and the sigils on the shields. They had looted whatever they could, gold teeth and rings, taking whole fingers when the task of scavenging proved too difficult. Sergei didn’t recall their prowess in the heat of the battle, more sneaking and mopping, hardly worth the coin he paid them. And this boded ill for their role in the breaking of the siege.

  The one sane man among this surly, panicky lot was the Eracian count. He could smell trouble and spent his time reading books in his tent. But the man had earned a notch of respect when he had offered his troops in the camp’s defense. “I may be a neutral party in this fight, but I’m your guest, and I want to repay the hospitality,” Bart had said. The handful of foreign troops could hardly make a difference, but the statement was appreciated.

  Other than that, things didn’t look quite as shiny as only a week earlier. This was no easy victory he had been promised by the priests.

  Seven thousand dead, another four thousand wounded, twelve hundred horses butchered or missing, four hundred fifty wagons of supplies torched, countless thousands of tents destroyed, tons of tools and weapons mangled or lost. Worst of all, the Athesian saboteurs had managed to burn two of his large siege engines. He had almost nothing to use against the city walls now. Rebuilding the catapults in bad weather would be almost impossible, with timber and rope soaked in rain and the roads churned into brown pulp. And he still had no idea of the damage his sister’s troops had suffered.

  Then, to make things worse, he had lost both of the Athesian turncoats. One had been slain, and the other had decided to defect, again. Commander Edgar of the Fifth had seen his friend Driscoll die in battle and suddenly realized he was better off as a brigand, roaming the unoccupied northern Athesia. The bastard had taken away all of his troops. A large part of the Ninth had also vanished overnight, dispersed.

  His spies reported some of them going back to Roalas, pretending nothing had happened, others forming mercenary and brigand units, others yet disbanding and going across the border into Eracia and Caytor, pretending to be refugees. It was a mess worth ten thousand soldiers, half of which were an unknown element in this war, fighting for no side but their own greed and whim.

  The Athesians had dealt him a terrible blow. It was a mortifying display of skill and cunning he had not expected, with multiple diversions and tricks, all of which had worked. The smaller enemy had engaged his forces on three fronts at once and came out victorious. And they had lost only a handful of men, so he was told. A disgrace.

  His old doubts crept back, making him wonder if this entire undertaking was not just too grand, too ambitious. Sasha was adamant in their superiority, but he didn’t feel so confident. There were simply too many problems. The Red Caps and his troops continued bickering. The Oth Danesh continued being pests. The new overlord of the seas was cooperative, but even he lacked the authority to enforce the new decree. Southern Caytor remained a ghost country, ravaged by raiding parties. Even his disciplinary executions did little to quench that mob. The risk of war with Caytor was huge; he might yet be forced to order his own men to fight the pirates and put an end to their barbarism. The weather was bad, the supplies scarce, and the risk of disease great.

  On top of all that, he had a military defeat to swallow. A handful of city guards with no real battle experience had sallied forth and bloodied his elite troops. Their combat tactics were ruthless and disgraceful and sacrilegious. But they had fought like desert lions. He had never expected such fierce resistance and determination.

  Sergei paced slowly near the charred ruins of a siege engine, letting his anger sink into the earth through his feet. He didn’t feel like talking to or berating anyone. The last three days had been a swirling mess of confusion and exhaustion, the acrid soot of burned bodies and canvas replaced by a cold, whipping rain and an endless moan of the wounded, a thousand reports and even more excuses, silent, tense meetings with people who knew their wrongs and awaited the wrath of their ruler with grim resolution. But Sergei had done nothing, making them fret even more. He wanted his mind to be calm and lucid before he delivered justice. And he still had not decided who to blame.

  A scapegoat, he needed one desperately.

  He was tired, just tired. But he could not just let things sort themselves out. Not when the future of the realms hung upon his decisions.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Under-Patriarch Evgeny striding toward him, wobbling the way only grossly fat people could. The man had lost his albino pet in the fray. The ferret had mostly likely fled somewhere quiet, or it had gotten trampled underfoot.

  “Your Highness,” the priest called.

  Sergei sighed. He could avoid everyone, but not the clergy.

  Unlike his usual jovial self, the fat man looked weak and tired, just like himself. No small wonder, the brothers had been busy administering to the dead, and their task hardly seemed over. Most of the bodies had been recovered and named, but many still remained out there, bloating inside rusty armor, with birds pecking their soft, rotten flesh.

  “A word with you, if I may, Your Highness,” the fat man said.

  Sergei looked around. The remnants of a huge siege tower was as private as a front line could be. It would have to do. He motioned for Ipatiy to move away, out of earshot.

  “Yes, Your Holiness?”

  Evgeny clasped his pudgy hands beneath his generous paunch. “We must discuss several things.”

  Sergei knew what this was going to be about. Combat clergy again. He was in no mood to listen to the under-patriarch preach about how the situation would have been saved if only he’d had his holy army to d
efend the siege lines.

  Instead, Evgeny was almost docile when he asked about the Autumn Festival. “The holy days are almost upon us. We must have proper arrangements made in time. Despite the war, we must appease the gods.”

  Sergei nodded. He had almost forgotten about the turn of the season. Back home, farmers would bring in the harvest and donate a tenth to the temples and shrines. Rich people would find stray souls and orphans and host them for dinner. Pious men would fast through the night and eat their share of lamb with the first light. The city walls and shops would be festooned with vines and flowers and banners.

  Out here, the best they could hope for was to spit-roast stolen goats and have the Borei cage bears entertain them. But the holy man was right. The celebrations must be held, no matter how recent and grim the loss of the last battle.

  It would be a great logistics nightmare, sapping the strength and focus of his soldiers. They would be turned into common workers for a week, cutting trees, decorating tents, clearing the mounds of rubbish and shit, scouring the blood off weapons and surcoats. Many would choose to pray on their knees throughout the night, but many more still would drink themselves inane. The festival was going to be a dangerous night of partying, especially with the Borei mixed among them. Their supplies would take a hit, with animals butchered until a river of blood flowed through the camp. Yet another obstacle of war, it seemed.

  “The camp forces are at your disposal, Your Holiness,” Sergei said and gestured toward the sprawling city of canvas behind him where thousands of smiths, tanners, woodworkers, cooks, and many other helpers labored around the clock, counting away the days of their conscription. The one year of mercy was oozing fast.

  Evgeny rubbed his chin as if he had not heard the king. “This night attack…This must be an act of the gods,” he offered in a somber, slow tone.

  Sergei was not quite sure if the man was trying to upset him on purpose. “All things are,” he said.

  Evgeny smirked for a moment; then the expression was gone. “Surely. But have you ever wondered why your destiny is tested so?” The priest spoke in a barely audible whisper.