The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2)

by Igor Ljubuncic

  Because wars are a serious affair won in blood, Sergei thought. He said nothing.

  “Have you ever given this Empress Amalia’s father much thought? Adam the Godless, he was called, was he not? The man who defeated your father and almost ruined our nation. Why did your father, blessed be his soul, ride against this Adam?”

  Sergei had not expected to debate history with the underpatriarch. The question made him uncomfortable. “Because he was a godless man.”

  That annoying smirk again. “Ah, but this Adam fought the Feorans. You see, on one hand, Emperor Adam was a man without a faith, a grave sin, no doubt. But then, he waged war against the Feorans, who sought to destroy the Safe Territories. They burned the holy cities and razed the temples and killed our people. They were religious, like we are, maybe even more so, and yet they struck at the core of our existence. They swept across the realms while the Caytoreans and Eracians stood back and watched. Sure, they tried and failed; you cannot begrudge them for that. And yet, it was Adam, who had no love for the gods, who stopped them.”

  Sergei was silent.

  “So if you had to choose, who would you prefer, a godless man who fights for the gods and goddesses or a pious enemy who seeks to destroy you? Perhaps the gods loved this Adam so much they granted him a victory over your father. No, don’t be angry, Your Highness. The truth is absolute, and it’s how the gods choose to share it with us. Perhaps the gods loved Adam, despite his sins.”

  The king bunched his fists. “You gave your blessing for this campaign.”

  Evgeny arched his brows. “But of course. This is a holy war. We are fighting infidels. We are fighting an enemy who has sought to destroy us. The gods are pleased. After we win, we will bring faith back to the lost people of Athesia. We will build many new shrines. And let us not forget the rich lands that will be taken and doled out when the fighting is over.”

  Sergei aahed mutely. Is that what all this is about? A bargain over acres of yet unconquered land?

  “Why then am I facing hardship if my cause is just and the gods are pleased?”

  The priest wagged one of his stubby fingers. “That is for you to find out in your prayers, Your Highness.”

  The king raked his wet hair, thinking. He could not let doubt muddle his thinking. Vlad the Fifth had failed because he had fatally blundered in every aspect of his campaign. He had miscalculated the odds. He had rushed madly to war, without regard for the lives of his own men, and lost. Sometimes, when he lay alone in his bed, thinking, Sergei knew this was the simple, harsh truth of his father’s death.

  But if the gods loved Adam, would they let him defeat his daughter?

  Perhaps they would, but they were testing his resolve. Still, deep down, the answer to this siege was not a religious one. It would be won by superior strategy and execution. It would be a reckoning of numbers, skill, and courage.

  Evgeny left, armored with the free hand of the camp’s resources. Sergei watched him wobble away, annoyed. He was never quite sure what the priests wanted. But they always wanted something. More concessions, more power. As servants of the gods, they had special privileges, but he felt they sometimes abused their honor and responsibility. The thought pained him.

  In the last campaign, assassins had murdered all of the clergy in the Parusite camp. Some said it was the work of the king’s own killers. Some said the nobles had had the priests butchered because they had threatened the campaign with their own greed. For every rumor that blamed his father’s troops, there were ten that spoke of Adam or Feorans sending their evil murderers to hurt the faith. Friendly or foreign, the assassins had turned the Parusite army that much more secular overnight. He dared not think the same thoughts, but he knew that one timely death would make the clergy humble and docile again.

  Sergei shook his head.

  His mind filled with Amalia. The girl lived, unscathed, undefeated. He was almost tempted to choose the easy way and blame the gods and his own lack of piety. But he chose the hard truth of logic. This war would suffer no pathetic efforts and lucky shots. If he wanted to win, he had to prove he was a better leader than Adam’s offspring.

  The king looked at his own son. The boy was all business, stern and serious. To think his wife would be giving birth any day now. But there was no fresh news from home. The roads were soggy with rain, and it could be weeks before riders arrived. Sergei hoped the child would be a boy.

  Vlad never talked about his wife and the child. Perhaps he was still too young to comprehend the enormity of his heritage. Sergei recalled when Vlad had been born. It was one moment of red, screeching joy and several months of slow shock.

  He looked away. A soldier was aiming high with his crossbow, trying to shoot down a messenger bird flying from the city. Or maybe it was just a bird. You could not know, but whoever killed one and brought the rolled paper tube to their officer got paid three gold coins. Naturally, the Borei had tried to fake messages by the dozens, birds or no birds, and even some of the braver Parusites had attempted their luck at forging documents until one of them lost an arm on the chopping block.

  Suddenly, there was a long whistle. Then another. Men around him stirred, hands reaching down to their swords.

  “City gates opening!” the sentry in the squat watchtower not a stone’s throw away shouted, pointing.

  So soon? They want to fight again? Sergei could not believe the tenacity of his enemies. The battlefield was still littered with corpses from both sides, and they seemed eager to litter it some more. He turned and picked up a looking-glass tube from a field desk, climbed onto a sturdy chair, and lifted the piece to his eye. He put it down, wiped the raindrops off the lens, and tried again. After a few moments, he located the city gates. A handful of people were exiting. A woman and several small children. It looked strange.

  “Your Highness?” Duke Vsevolod asked.

  Everywhere, soldiers were scrambling, as only men shamefully defeated and craving for redemption could. Armor jangled and spear butts clacked as the Parusites rushed to form a defensive wall against a possible assault.

  Sergei said nothing. He was watching the scene. The woman and the children shuffled forward slowly. Ahead of them loomed the Inferno.

  “Should we intercept them?” the duke insisted, never so eager as today.

  “Let’s see what happens,” the king said.

  Another group of people emerged from Roalas, a handful of soldiers, mounted, armed with crossbows and long swords. They encircled the woman and the children and led them into the maze of destruction.

  The Parusite troops stood watching, fascinated, callused arms slipping on worn wooden spears. A light rain was drizzling, making everyone squint. Dusk was settling in, turning the world gray and soft. There might be a mist tonight. He would have to triple the sentries again to prevent any Athesians from sneaking into his camp. But then, he had no doubt his dukes would kill themselves before they let something like that happen again.

  Ten minutes later, the party exited the slums unchallenged. The soldiers turned and cantered back into the city. The woman stood there, facing the wall of soldiers in front of her. She glanced back, contemplating running back into the false safety of the ruins.

  A handful of Parusite knights were mounting their horses, donning armor, preparing to ride.

  Sergei waved his arm, annoyed. “Vsevolod, tell your men to stand down,” he hissed. What had just happened here? Had that bitch empress expelled someone from her city? Or was this a ruse? Could this woman be an assassin? Maybe the four children and the baby were just a decoy? It was obvious the city guards cared for her; after all, they had just escorted her unharmed through those ruins. But then, if the Parusites decided to strike, she would die. It felt odd.

  Around him, men itched for action. He could smell their curiosity and their rage. After the terrible defeat, they needed something to restore their pride, even if it meant riding down an unarmed woman and her children. If those were her children. But he could not imagine anyone being s
o evil as to use babies as bait. But then, this was a war. Things must be desperate in Roalas. And most importantly, Amalia was Adam’s daughter.

  Sergei looked around, dozens of faces, locked with wonder and a deep desire to please. He could hardly count on any one of them for objective advice. Except his son.

  “Prince-Heir,” he called. “What do you say?”

  As always, the boy took his time thinking. Then he said, “Intercept.”

  Sergei nodded. Vsevolod whistled, and a party of heavily armed knights galloped away. The woman saw them and started running back toward the slums. One of her children remained behind, crying. In the eerie silence broken only by the thud of hooves, that noise made Sergei’s blood curdle.

  Sergei lifted the looking glass once again. The knights thundered past the keening child. In the ruined suburbs, the woman and her kids had taken shelter in one of the razed houses. Not two buildings away, a ragged party of starved bandits was approaching. She had not noticed them.

  The foremost rider slowed down and stopped near the woman’s hideout. He drew his sword and stared down the gang of looters. They scattered away, melting back into the ruins. A second man dismounted and approached the woman. She tried to crawl away. He bent down, grabbed her arm, and talked for a while. She shook her head twice, then nodded once.

  A few moments later, two other horsemen returned to the main camp. “Your Highness, that woman claims to be the widow of late Commander Driscoll of the Athesian Ninth Legion.”

  This was rather interesting, Sergei thought. Amalia was pruning bad roots quickly and ruthlessly. He had not believed she had the guts for something like this. Or she might not have the privilege of waiting and honing her justice like he did.

  Driscoll’s widow might be a useful political asset. But then, what could she possibly help him achieve? She was the wife of a traitor. If anything, she was a symbol of failure and defeat. Worse, she might even scare away other collaborators, not that any had remained now. But she might also help rally troops and sway other Athesians against their cruel empress. He really didn’t know what to do.

  Captain Speinbate coughed. Sergei turned. Typically, the mercenary had crawled out of his hiding, incensed by the smell of pillage. The Borei was grinning, his gold-capped teeth shining. Sergei imagined his gauntlet connecting with that insolent leer, but he kept his face passive.

  “Your Highness, I could do with another lady in my camp,” Speinbate offered boldly.

  “Hardly a befitting price considering your conduct in the last battle, don’t you think?” Sergei said quietly.

  The captain squirmed, obviously surprised. After three days without the king’s wrath descending upon them, the man believed himself free of guilt for the night attack. Apparently, the Parusite ruler took time brewing his anger. He stepped away, muttering under his breath.

  Sergei noted Genrik watching him, holding his stylus of unshakable truth, waiting. Whatever Sergei decided today, it would go into the history books. Sergei weighed his options carefully. The war chronicler was a stern and pious man. He would not take lightly to a woman and her babies being murdered by his soldiers, or a mercenary captain taking her for a sex slave, no matter who she served.

  “No,” he said. “Let her pass. If she chooses to stay with us, she will take up a craft and help with the war effort. If she has no skills, she must pay for her own food and clothes. If she wants to go to either Caytor or Eracia, she will have an escort to the border.”

  Vlad seemed to approve of his father’s decision. His nobles all agreed, too. At this point, they would eat their own feces and call them cream if he ordered them. Sergei deliberately avoided looking at Genrik, pretending he was not there.

  Half an hour later, the woman and her children were seated in the back of a supply wagon, heading east, escorted by two riders. Sergei was glad for her departure. Her presence would annoy him. It would remind him of his failure.

  “I will pray alone,” the king declared and left, his squires trailing after him.

  The night settled. Sergei headed for his tent, his mind aswirl with uncertainty and bad thoughts. When he entered, Timur waited for him with a plateful of honeyed lizard tails. The king grinned weakly, yet warmly. Well, not all things were bad, after all.

  CHAPTER 37

  After a long day of teaching, Elia loved to spend the last hours of the day on the porch outside their home, sipping lemonade and eating fruit with Ayrton. The season was ebbing, leaves shriveling and turning yellow on the tree branches. Days were getting shorter. Soon, it would be too cold to sit like this outside.

  Ayrton was at her side, enjoying the cool afternoon. He must be tired from training the local militia, but it made him feel good knowing the city watch was that much better, that much more adept at tracing criminals and handling them without fuss. Tamora may not be a big town, but its clear waters drew all kinds of barges, and all kinds of types stepped off the ship decks and onto its slick docks.

  Besides, it kept him occupied, made him stay sharp, and allowed him to indulge in the one thing he really knew best, how to fight and stay alive. But now, it was no longer a fight of survival, it was honor. Life couldn’t be any better for Ayrton.

  News from the realms came like the smell of fish on an afternoon breeze, distant, pale, mixed with others. It was hard to really know what was happening in the world they had left behind. Whenever the local locals chatted, Ayrton tried to avoid perking his ears and listening. This time around, he had no place in the wars between the kings and monarchs and emperors and clergy. Elia was glad he had found the peace within himself.

  Still, he was worried, she knew, ever so slightly, the soldierly instinct burning low like banked coals. He would never fully get rid of the guilt and anger etched in his personality. Whenever the fishermen and innkeepers raised their voices for a bit of gossip, whenever they turned to worldly affairs of war, Ayrton would be that much more attentive, the creases around his eyes going taut. He tried to hide it, and he could fool most, but not her.

  Tamora was an independent city, like a hundred others this side of Lia Lake, answering to no ruler. It had mountains to protect it from the uncharted lands beyond and from the tribes of the Red Desert. To the north, Tamora lived in peace with its nomadic neighbors, relying on trade and good relations rather than cold steel and violence. But no place within a thousand miles of the realms was truly free of their fatalistic grip. When they stirred, the ripples carried far, the worst bits bobbing on the top.

  Her knowledge of human affairs was mixed with the wonder and naivety of another age, but she believed she understood the fear and greed and mistrust that motivated humans. And she knew that Ayrton carried the weight of that knowledge for both of them.

  So, she did her best to make him feel safe and sane.

  Elia was telling him about her children. She loved them fiercely like her own. And every day, she had a wealth of stories, how the kids struggled with letters and notes and songs, how they basked in glee when she praised their good work. She noticed Ayrton seemed distracted. She frowned. Usually, he listened raptly. She touched his arm. He did not stir.

  Elia’s words trailed off.

  Ayrton was no longer listening to her. Her love was staring intently north and west, looking at a stranger standing at the top of the small rise just outside their small stead.

  Elia shielded her eyes from the sun and looked. At the crest of the rise, a figure stood, tall, proud, dressed in white, all shiny and bright. There was no mistaking that silhouette, the posture, the cocky stance that said I own the world, but mostly, the pure white clothes, tip to toe.

  “Oh no,” she whispered, her breath catching in her throat as a memory thousands of years old assailed her. Impossible. Here? Now? Why?

  “What’s wrong?” Ayrton said, rising. He must have sensed her terror. Visitors rarely came by their ranch, but when they did, she was usually calm and trusting and would greet them warmly. Only this time, her stomach cramped into a cold, tight knot.
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  Elia felt her lower lip tremble. She searched for words. Instead, she moaned in a desperate plea. Her fingers scratched Ayrton’s forearm. “Please, no,” she cried.

  Ayrton carefully pried her fingers away, ignoring the pain. Elia was stronger than she looked. He watched the stranger start down the dusty trail that led to their home. The man was pacing slowly, surely, as if he had every right to trespass. Something long dangled at his hip. The man was armed.

  “Elia, go inside,” Ayrton said.

  “No, no! Ayrton, please no. We must run,” she whispered. Tears were running down her cheeks.

  Ayrton took a deep breath, trying to calm down. Living with a former goddess meant there were very few things that could really surprise him. But that did not mean he relished the truth.

  “Who is that man? That thing?” he corrected himself.

  Elia composed herself. She wiped her tears with the back of her hand. “That’s Damian’s son.”

  Ayrton swallowed. Damian, the Father of Evil, the man who had killed her once. The simple enormity of that statement made the world around him spin. He felt lost in a torrent of history, a meaningless speck that floated on currents stirred in a different age.

  “What does he want?” he growled.

  Elia rubbed her eyes. “Nothing good,” she croaked.

  Without a word, he went into the house and came back holding his sword, an old, sharp blade he had put aside eighteen years ago, but never forgot to oil or sharpen.

  When she saw the sword, Elia turned hysterical. She collapsed onto her knees, crying again. “My love, no. You cannot fight him. We must run,” Elia whimpered. But her wet eyes were telling a different story. It’s a folly. We cannot run. Not from him.

  Ayrton knelt down beside her and smiled weakly. He understood. But he was not a man to go down without a fight. Not when all he ever truly cared for was at stake.