The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2)

by Igor Ljubuncic

  “Go back to the provost’s office and get your papers. If he lets you go, you’ll go.”

  “What’s your trade?” one of the soldiers inquired.

  Ewan looked behind him; long lines of people stood waiting to get in and out of the sickle-shaped city encircling Roalas, despite the cold, despite the snow. Like snakes, convoys wriggled through the knee-deep fall, animals bleating and braying, men cursing, women trying to silence weeping, cold, exhausted children. A thousand smelly peat and dung fires burned everywhere, and people huddled around them for warmth, burnt gristles, and gossip. Ahead, just a stone’s throw away was white, untouched wilderness, and farther still, the City of Gods. Ewan was in no mood to waste yet another hour of his life delaying his journey.

  Not anymore.

  “I don’t have any trade,” Ewan stated. “I just want to leave.”

  “What’s in your bag? You stole our food? Are you an Athesian?” the soldier pressed on.

  “Quiet,” the officer barked. “Go back. Get your sheet signed. Now.”

  Ewan was not in a mood to argue. He stepped forward. The flat of a spear shaft slammed into his chest. It wasn’t a very forceful blow, but it would cow any half-drunk troublemaker into submission.

  He felt sorry for the soldiers. But there was black anger beating in his heart, and it wanted to get out. He reached out, grabbed the shaft, and moved it away from his chest. Then, he pressed hard and watched the boiled wooden rod splinter into a thousand slivers inside his grip. He tossed the broken end away.

  “He can leave,” the officer said after a long pause.

  “Thank you,” Ewan said.

  A hundred paces later, he left the brown stripe of a road and headed into the deep, untrodden snow. It kicked back, groaning, crunching, crystals as large as his palm snapping. He felt no cold, no pain, no fatigue. He started trotting. A hundred paces more, he tossed away the backpack. He wouldn’t need it anyway.

  He ran on.

  CHAPTER 52

  Councillor Stephan watched with a very smug smile as Duke Vincent wrote his promissory note worth a thousand gold coins. The old man was writing ferociously, pushing the pen so hard against the paper that he almost tore it.

  “There you go, sir,” the Eracian declared.

  The sizable audience that had gathered to witness the spectacle reacted with cheers and sighs. Stephan accepted the note and carefully examined it. He didn’t really care for the money, but he did care for pride and protocol.

  Although the note meant he was still a prisoner in Roalas.

  With nothing better to do than gossip and plot, especially now that the weather permitted few outdoor activities, the pack of hostages from the two realms had grown close together. Friendship was a strong word, but they shared a bond that would not break if they lived to see their families again. Stephan could only imagine the chaos that would ensue once this sad situation was resolved. They would go home, disarmed of prejudice, humbled in their understanding of what their peers and rivals and mortal enemies were thinking, the natural barrier that had divided the two nations for so many generations frayed like a beggar’s coat.

  And yet, there was so much opportunity for people of sharp mind and great ambitions. He had already charted the next decade of commerce in his head, knowing all the strengths and weaknesses that his four hundred partners had. Through necessity, he had learned all the dirty little secrets that he needed. Now, he just had to make sure he got home.

  At the moment, it didn’t seem like it was going to happen anytime soon. He hated being right. Duke Vincent had lost tens of thousands of gold coins in their bets. Stephan always won. So far, every single one of his predictions had turned out to be true.

  But he was worried.

  They could die.

  The New Year had freshly started, yet there was no Caytorean army relieving Keron. His second letter had mostly gone unanswered or been evaded with polite ambiguity.

  At least he got news from back home.

  Caytor looked like a piece of bread torn by starved orphans. It was a country as divided as small as you could carve the pieces. In the south, law had been replaced by anarchy. His friends had either fled to the big coastal cities or locked themselves up, waiting for deliverance. Private armies were too expensive to waste fighting pirates, it seemed. Especially if that meant provoking the ire of the Parusite king. But now, his real army was invading the realm, comprised of regular troops and war veterans, hunting their formal allies. Supposedly.

  To make things even worse, in the north, another alien entity was forming. Under the banner of this new Athesian emperor, opportunistic and easily bribed Caytoreans were betting their future on the rebirth of a military genius in the image of his father. James, son of Adam, had showed remarkable political prowess, but none of his sire’s cold-blooded cruelty. And one of Amalia’s legions was lost in the countryside, biding its time. His realm had become a willing whore, and it didn’t even ask for coin.

  Stephan wondered what he would do if he were free. Would he join this James? Would he bet his money on the lad’s success? He wasn’t quite sure. Adam the Butcher had saved Caytor from a slow, ulcerous death. Maybe his children could do the same thing. Or would they go at each other’s throats once this war with Parus was done?

  “A game of chess, perhaps?” Vincent offered, trying to save some of his dignity.

  Stephan bowed slightly. “Thank you, but no. I must attend to other matters.” With that, he rose and left the crowd of bored gamblers.

  You could almost convince yourself you weren’t a hostage, he thought, until you noted the guards in the corners and near doors, never quite threatening, never mingling, but there to make sure that Amalia’s orders were kept.

  Lady Mildred beckoned him to her circle of confidants, but he ignored her. He wasn’t in the mood for political pleasantries with any one of his Eracian acquaintances.

  The sentries let him exit the large hall. He headed for his quarters. Like so many penned animals, they had their private stalls, room after room, simple yet furnished with grace, but prison cells no less. Stephan could not complain too much about the comfort. He had books. He could fence if he wanted. The food and drink were decent enough, although the variety was shriveling with each new wintry day. But most importantly, he had a shred of privacy when he grew fed up with the closeness of his situation.

  “Stephan!” someone shouted.

  The councillor turned. Adrian, somewhat of a friend, was tottering down the corridor, using the wall for support. He was drunk. The captivity hadn’t done him well. He had grown fat, he was rarely sober, and his normally sour attitude had frothed into curdled milk. His red, sagging jowls stretched into a grotesque imitation of a smile as he labored toward Stephan.

  “Dear friend!” the man mumbled, staggering against the councillor, his foul breath preceding him.

  “What is it, Adrian? I’m busy.” He pushed the fat man off him.

  “Do you want to go outside and play in the snow?”

  Stephan grimaced. “No, we cannot go outside.”

  Adrian scowled. “All right, then. I will play on my own.” He tottered on.

  The councillor entered his own chamber and carefully locked the door behind him. He sat behind his desk and tossed Vincent’s note onto a pile of previous deeds. Then, he picked up another swath of paper and started going through the letters. He marked the names, marked the responses. Almost every day, he charted the map of political favor surrounding him. He carefully planned his moves knowing which people supported him, which opposed him, and which just waited to see what he would do.

  Being away for so long from the High Council had dulled his mind. He had to stay sharp and focused. His business was taking care of itself, for now, but like any fruit left on its own, it would begin to rot. The guilds and industries seemed to have managed to survive the chaos of Amalia’s revolution, but there was still too much risk, too much uncertainty.

  He placed Robin’s and Arnold’s lette
rs on the left side. The one written by Guild Master Curtis went on the right. Every time, he found new clues, new angles. Sometimes, he despaired, but he never let the anguish simmer for too long. This war would end, and when he returned to Eybalen, he would have to be ready for the new reality in which Councillor Stephan had not existed for a while now.

  There wasn’t much information, but he grasped every bit like it was his lifeline.

  Commander Gerald had visited him several times since their first talk, always asking, making new demands and adjustments, playing with fire with singed hands, manipulating. He was a little crude, but rather cunning for a city guard. But then, sometimes the lowliest peddlers had the best instincts for trade.

  They had not yet spoken in this New Year. Stephan was not looking forward to making more excuses. And there was probably so much more the commander might not be telling him. After all, he got his letters opened and read. Who knew if the Athesians hadn’t kept some of those to themselves, just to keep him in the dark and unbalanced? Maybe they had already struck more favorable deals with other councillors or bankers, people easier to intimidate or convince.

  He had to stay sharp. He had to stay in control. And he believed he had the right weapon.

  Prince-Heir Vlad.

  If he could convince Commander Gerald to hand over the king’s son to the High Council for proxy ransom, he would single-handedly win this war. No matter how undecided his comrades were over their support for this or that Athesian ruler or pretender, however you may call them, they didn’t like the prospect of having their fields and factories pillaged by the pirates. And they couldn’t like all the other foreign armies treading there, either. But division was their great weakness.

  Stephan knew the moment he had the prince-heir in safe custody in Eybalen, the war would stop immediately. And the High Council would then decide who remained in control of their lost lands to the west. With some certain amount of gratitude for Amalia, yes. If Amalia proved to be her father’s daughter, she would take the risk, knowing all too well the council would be free to turn on their word and betray her. But a true leader never feared chance.

  Stephan would then be able to get rid of her half brother impostor, if needed. He could ensure her survival. While many Caytoreans would gladly see Adam’s conquest annulled, they also clearly remembered the wars with Eracia, the never-ending border skirmishes, the sudden boom of commerce Adam’s peace had brought them. They also remembered the Feoran uprising and preferred a secular neighbor to religious fanatics. It was so easy he wanted to punch the wall.

  But Amalia had refused to see him again, and Commander Gerald was not so easily convinced. But with nothing better to do, Stephan kept trying.

  Worse yet, Stephan knew that even if he met with the empress, he must not divulge his quiet agreement with the commander. That much was obvious without any explicit threats. The High Council was not the only place they enjoyed the game of twists and intrigue and double bluffs and secrets. But every bit of information he pieced into the large, cracked puzzle he called Athesia, the more power he gained for his future work.

  Stephan had even briefly considered playing the captain of the city against Adam’s daughter, but quickly quenched that notion. Some men were too honest for that, and pure honesty bred utmost brutality.

  No matter. The empress was not wasting her time on his like anyway. If she ever deigned to see him one more time, he would rewind the clock of his captivity and tell her a different story. For now, he hoped the commander was doing his best to make this new, bold reality happen.

  It would be the greatest triumph anyone had scored in Eybalen in three generations.

  He finished shuffling through the letters. He was satisfied he had not missed any details. He stepped out of his chamber.

  “I need to speak to Commander Gerald,” he told the nearby guard. Without a word, the man left his post and went down the corridor. He casually stepped over the drunken form of Councillor Adrian, sleeping in his own vomit.

  To his dismay, it was one of the commander’s deputies who came to see him. Edwin, was it?

  “What do you want?” the man said without any pretense at courtesy.

  “I would like to speak to the commander, please,” Stephan insisted.

  “The commander is busy,” Edwin said.

  “I want to—” Stephan began, but a noise interrupted him. At first, it sounded like the wailing of a retarded child, but then another voice joined, and another. They became a chorus, muted, coming from everywhere.

  “Bloody me!” Edwin growled and ran away.

  Stephan stood staring after the retreating form when he figured out what the din was.

  War horns.

  Almost hypnotized, he made his way back into the large hall. All of the involuntary guests were gathered around large windows, staring outside.

  They could not see much, but they saw enough. Soldiers that normally dotted the boring walled world outside were a blur of faces and weapons, running urgently. Some seemed lost, others merely resigned, some sharp and alert. Despite the snow and ice on the parapets and walkways, the soldiers hurried, lugging ladders, rope, all kinds of tools. Something bad was going to happen, that much was clear. And the last two times the Athesians had sallied forth, they had not bothered to announce their coming.

  “The Parusites are attacking,” Duke Vincent almost shouted when he saw Stephan enter. He looked hopeful. He wanted his bet losses forgiven, even if it meant boulders the size of a small cow raining on his head.

  Stephan nodded, not liking this one bit. Too soon. His plans were not yet ripe.

  “Will the city fall?” he asked quietly, trying to pacify his growing fears.

  Vincent growled, his old eyes alight with excitement. “I want my thousand back.”

  The councillor extended his hand. Too soon. No. “Roalas will not fall today.”

  The duke snorted. “You will lose this time, Councillor. I just know it!”

  “Stephan, I’m scared,” Lady Silvia jostled into him, hugging his arm fiercely, breaking his duel with the duke. Gently, the councillor pushed her aside. He wasn’t in the mood for gushy games of affection. Not today.

  Stephan took a deep breath. He pulled the duke aside. He had kept the nuggets of truth and rumor that Commander Gerald fed him like gold, but now he felt he dared share just a flake, just a sliver. It was risky with the old man, but he had to say the words, to reassure himself as much as to get his spinning mind to slow down from its panic roll.

  “Empress Amalia has Prince Vlad locked somewhere. She broke all the Parusite siege weaponry the last time. The city stands, month after month, undefeated, unstarved. I guess we will hear a lot of bloodshed today, but Roalas will not be breached.” It was almost a litany. He hated himself for losing his composure. His estimate was a fool’s guess as any, but he did not relish becoming a Parusite hostage now. He still had plans he had to see through. If and when the Parusite ruler decided to act benevolent with his fresh share of Eracian and Caytorean dignitaries.

  Stephan wasn’t quite sure what he would do with a flock of potential enemies suddenly landing in his lap. He didn’t relish discovering what King Sergei might do.

  “This empire,” Vincent said, emphasizing the last word, “was built on a dream, and now the dream must die.”

  Stephan did not want to remind the old duke his own son might be fighting on the city walls right now.

  Too damn soon. If only they would listen to him.

  “Tell me, sir, what happens if the Parusites take this city?” Stephan asked.

  Vincent had no answer for him. His face convulsed with what might be deep concern. But he was too old and stubborn to contemplate another political mess right now. All he cared for was besting his Caytorean rival.

  “The bet,” he said tenaciously and extended his spotted hand.

  Stephan sighed. What could he do? He shook it. “I accept.” Almost a year ago, they had done something similar.

  Now we sta
nd back and watch and wait.

  There was nothing else to do, so they stood and watched a square corner of the gray world outside offer its share of halfhidden truths. The horns had stopped crying, and now there was a different sound, a deep thrum, rapid, repeated. Those were catapults firing rocks.

  Lady Silvia edged closer, almost casually this time. Stephan looked at her, then at Lady Mildred and Lady Caroline and half a dozen other women who had shared his bed in the past year. He regarded his colleagues and would-be friends. He had grown accustomed to seeing them every day, even if sometimes the sight repulsed him.

  He realized that today or maybe tomorrow or sometime soon, they might part ways, go back to their separate camps. He might be freed. Or he might be dead.

  So much thinking made his head hurt. He squeezed the thoughts out. He focused on being a spectator, a helpless breath of thrill and drama in a seething cauldron of frenzy.

  After a while, he got bored. No, not quite bored. Tired. The anticipation was draining him. The war would happen with or without the hopeful audience, and it would end regardless of what he had planned for this realm and his own ambitions. Stephan disentangled his arm from Lady Silvia’s and walked back to his study, trying to suppress the thud of despair and maybe fear in his chest. If the Parusites became victorious today, he would have a fresh note to write, so he’d better practice making it perfect. Besides, if they did come, he didn’t want to be found standing like another fool in a herd of fools, waiting for their inevitable destiny. He had better things to do.

  CHAPTER 53

  Sergei stood in a watchtower in the center of his camp and watched the attack wave swell toward the city.

  Midday was not the preferred time of day for siege assaults. Which is why he had ordered his troops to move at midday. Well, it was as much a necessity as it was a surprise.