And then, the door closed on the count.
“Let me talk to His Highness,” Duke Vincent growled, trying to push through the crowd.
Luckily for him, more sensible people held him back. Bart stood aside, not interfering.
In this strange, surreal moment, in the pitch black of a midwinter night, the lifelong adversaries shared a common goal. Caytoreans, Eracians, standing together in a hostile camp, concerned with what their host was going to do more than their fickle fate right now. Yes, they had been freed, alive and unharmed. Wasn’t that what they had all wanted?
Freed from one captivity—into another. It was not what they had all wanted.
They understood all too well the implications of the fall of Athesia and the deep gap that would be filled with the masses of Parusite troops, well trained, hardened, righteous, and feeling invincible. Bart had come to avert this war. Instead, he was watching helplessly. The night sky above him was purple, cloudless. It would turn out to be a lovely day, he thought.
The Parusite camp was quiet, despite the preparations for battle. Men went quietly about it, donning leather gloves before touching frosted armor, greasing their noses and cheeks and ears, padding themselves in wool and fur before slipping on heavy coats of mail.
The sound of chaos yawning, stirring.
“This will not go down well,” Count Derrick of Elfast said.
Bart had never liked the man, but the familiar face was a welcome respite in the cruel world of mistrust. He saw others, too, the lords and ladies. Some had taken their captivity roughly; some had compensated by putting on weight or drinking.
“What happens now?” some posh Caytorean said.
Duke Vincent snarled and retreated. Another Caytorean stood nearby. Bart thought he heard him mention some money to the grizzled aristocrat.
Bart looked around. So many people clustered, almost the entire Privy Council, a smattering of Leopold’s cousins, men who preceded Bart in rank and would now try to take over and ruin his hard work. Quite a few women, mostly Caytorean ladies, chatting loudly. The count realized the dignitaries from the two realms were talking to one another with far too much intimacy and ease than he would have expected, which made him worried even more than he’d let Commander Gerald and his friends know. He could only imagine the political damage this captivity had bred.
So what happens next?
“We wait,” Bart whispered.
“What’s happening?” Gerald asked the frightened messenger as he walked toward the battlements. The man was trying to keep up, but he was already winded from his earlier run. The horns would not stop screaming.
Soldiers shuffled by, lugging buckets of pitch and oil, hauling big swaths of hay. Crossbowmen were leaning against the crenelations, waiting. For them, there was little else to do. After a thousand steps and walkways, Gerald climbed to the top of the curtain wall above the South Gate. One of the officers handed him a looking glass, but there was really no need. He could see the lumbering machines with his naked eye.
They were simple, unimpressive—just huge, wide ramps with a sheltered bottom where dozens of oxen could pull on the huge wheels. They moved slowly, but they had started their journey under the cover of darkness and would get near the city soon. Rivers of Parusite soldiers moved behind them, waiting.
“Get Master Reese here, right now!” he ordered the messenger. The man saluted and sped away.
“What are those things, sir?” an officer asked. His voice trembled. He looked young.
“Loading ramps with a shallow incline.” But good enough for ten soldiers to walk abreast. He could see the risk already. The enemy need not bother trying to tear down the gates with large chains pulled by those enormous beasts. Or send sappers to mine under the foundations. Or have waves of humans crash like bloody waves against the city defenses. They just needed to bring those things in contact with the curtain wall and have the horde of soldiers climb comfortably. Much better than ladders, much more effective than towers.
They lumbered on. It would take them maybe another two hours before they got to the city. They would probably be exposed to artillery fire for almost half that time. But they looked sturdy, made of large logs, covered in tar and hides and even metal plating, anything that would fend off missiles and fire.
Gerald looked around him. Soldiers were watching anxiously, cursing or laughing with fear. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, he thought miserably.
He thought of Amalia. He wanted to be with her now, to protect her. The best he could do was make sure the Parusites never breached the defenses. So, he stayed put and began barking orders.
“People stay indoors. No one is to leave. Every able-bodied man who can wield as much as a knife is to report to Deputy Commander Edwin for the gate defense. Get me all the archers here. When those things get into range, aim for the animals.”
The enemy was not going to make it easier for them, that was for sure. They did their old trick and moved the entire siege line inward, constricting the ring. Artillery engines started singing, and soon a rain of debris was whistling above their heads, crashing into rooftops. The fat walls held, but it was unnerving to try to endure the noise. The Fuckers returned fire, deadly, precise, bringing down catapults in a cloud of splinters and rope. The rain became a drizzle, and then, the enemy foot moved forward, all of it, all at once, clawing at the walls like starved monsters. The Borei were once again trying to dislodge the gates.
The defenders gave them all they got. Men threw down rocks, caltrops, old glass, feces, and when they ran out of ammunition, they spat. The air reeked of burned flesh and hair. The stench of oil and blood was nauseating. For a while, the city stood, endured. And then, the loading ramps came into range.
The chief engineer guided the firing with almost magical accuracy. Every single shot crashed into those huge things. Bits and pieces flew off, fell down on the heads of the soldiers and animals below. But the machines plowed on, relentlessly, through the snow, following the clear swath of land through the charred refugee city. The Athesians rose in cheers when they destroyed one of the monsters. It collapsed sideways, mashing the human carpet into pulp. The screaming drowned all other noises. But the remaining four platforms moved on.
Then, they were so close you could almost touch them.
The platforms slammed into the wall. They were of perfect height so that the soldiers stepping off the ramp could just hop down onto the walkways and engage the defenders.
The Athesians pressed close, spears and crossbows leveled. Gerald had nothing but mad admiration for the first wave of soldiers who came into view. The first row fell dead almost instantly. The second, the third, the fourth, but then the soldiers were reloading their crossbows, and the Parusites were inching closer, shields held tight, swords raised just to swat away the spears. And then, almost like a mudslide, the Parusites spilled onto the battlements. Gerald drew his own blade and charged.
One hour later, the city walls were in the enemy hands. Moments after that, the gates burst, and the city streets turned red.
He was parched. The one thing he really wanted was a drink of clear, cold water.
Gerald had never imagined a siege breaking to be so clean, so orderly. He had expected burning buildings, people running in the streets, air so acrid with smoke and ashes that your eyes burned. Instead, the enemy troops were moving through the alleys and up the roads slowly, methodically, fighting the Athesians for every corner, every doorway. Steel clanged, men groaned and hissed and grunted and died crying for their mothers, but the city remained without the epic destruction the books always told you about.
He was tired, but he could not put the sword down yet. Shoulder to shoulder, they moved crablike and backward, retreating down the corridor, a handful of ragged defenders beaten, humiliated, wounded. Gerald could not remember how he had gotten back to the palace, but this fight was the last stand.
“Put your sword down, Athesian. Stand down. You don’t want to die,” one of the Parusit
es teased.
“Do you trust that man?” Gerald asked the comrade on his left.
“No, sir,” the man said. It was Sergeant Liam.
Strange, Gerald thought. They had fought together on the Night of Surprises, and now they found themselves in the same situation. The knot of defenders inched back. Only five paces away, the Parusites followed them, shields lowered, swords and spears extended, waiting.
“Stand down, Athesian!” the man roared.
Behind Gerald, someone slipped in a pool of blood and fell down, cursing. His friends lifted him up, and they sidestepped the pile of corpses. The corridor forked. And down both ways, more enemy soldiers were coming in a tight formation, weapons lowered. There was nowhere else to go.
“Surrender, boys, your last chance!” the Parusite taunted.
Gerald knew they could not break through the enemy ranks. There were just too many for a few exhausted soldiers. Most of all, he knew he did not want to die today. He wanted to live so he could see Amalia again. Deep inside, he knew he might hang for leading the resistance against the Parusite king. He wasn’t sure what had happened to Amalia, either. Was she dead? Had she managed to escape? In a way, he had failed her. If I’d been near her, I might have saved her, a romantic fool would have said in a book. But he knew better. Had he not stood on the battlements, shrieking orders, the city would have fallen sooner; more people would have died. Or maybe more had died because he had prolonged the fighting unnecessarily, sacrificing lives for the sake of illusion. All regrets bubbled up when one faced failure.
I tried. But I could have run. Amalia and I could have fled on our own, alone. But that’s not what real life did to commanders. He knew what his dad would have done. He knew what Adam would have done. And now he faced a choice.
With the sword in hand, he would die. But if he surrendered, he might yet see Amalia. It was a stupid, foolish idea, but it was his grain of sanity in a sea of madness. He lowered his weapon. His troops did the same.
The shouting Parusite stepped closer. “I lied, Athesian,” he said, grinning. A man behind him discharged his crossbow into him. The bolt sunk deep in the hollow of his neck, slicing through armor with ease. Then, the grinning soldier pierced him in the chest with his spear.
Gerald noticed the man had two front teeth missing. Such a useless, annoying detail, he thought as he collapsed. The enemy soldier retrieved his spear in a gush of dark blood and stabbed again. Gerald closed his eyes and dreamed of Amalia.
Vlad listened to the battle unravel around him like a man blind. He could hear the scraping of steel on stone and wood; he could hear boots thundering. People screamed and howled. Doors slammed with force; glass shattered. He knew his father was leading the attack and succeeding. He had not expected any less. Soon, it would be over, and he would rejoin the army.
The door to his chamber burst open. Two men staggered in. They were filthy and sweating and wore uniforms spattered with blood. Vlad thought they might even be his father’s troops, but they looked at him with cold contempt.
The prince-heir wanted to say something smart. But he never got the chance. One of the soldiers wrestled his arms behind him and held him hard. Vlad began to struggle, but the man was too strong. The other guy stepped in front of Vlad, drew a short knife, and started stabbing him in the chest.
Vlad let out a long, breathless wail, thrashing with fury and indignation. How dare they assault the heir to the Parusite king, he thought. There was no honor in that! How could they? His thoughts sluiced away, leaving behind pain, dark, red, feverish.
And still the man stabbed, short, quick thrusts, his face taut with concentration and passion. Blood drops smeared his skin. Blood everywhere, on their filthy uniforms already smeared in gore, on the expensive carpet, on the chair and table. So much blood.
When the prince-heir stopped thrashing and his eyes glazed over, the stabber retrieved his blade and cleaned it on his sleeve. The other man let the body fall. It crumpled like a doll, small and lifeless. All of the royal glory was gone, and only a boy who never got to see his own child was there, dead in a pool of hot blood.
“Let’s go,” the stabber said, wiping his cheeks.
They left the chamber.
I don’t need this, Amalia thought and threw her wig away. She would not face her attackers hiding under a rag of old hair and glue. She would stand proud and defiant. Her rule might be over, but her fight was not. Only, she did not want to admit she was scared. Where’s Gerald? she thought, her gut clenching with cold fear. Where’s my mother? was the second thought.
Agatha stood by her side, loyal, confused, lost. The poor maid had been weeping for hours, but now her tears had dried, and her face was red and swollen.
The Parusite soldiers were outside the study. She could hear them laughing as they went from door to door, poking, searching, stealing. They are looking for me, she knew with certainty. And then, one of them entered her office.
“Well, well, what do we have here?” he said ceremoniously. “Two lovely birds. Where’s your bitch empress, girls?”
Amalia wanted to shout her name and title, but she said nothing. Agatha was too dazed to notice. Amalia swallowed, trying to put fractured pieces of her frightened mind together. He does not know who I am. He does not need to know. Instinctively, she reached to her scalp. It’s my hair. No empress would wear her hair so short. And the scar.
The man was not amused by their silence. “Where’s the empress? Tell me!” He stepped closer. Amalia pulled Agatha with her, behind her. “No matter. We’ll find the whore. Now, since I’m here, and you two are here, we might as well play a little.”
Would they dare rape me if they knew who I was? Amalia wondered.
“Our lord king wouldn’t let us have any fun in the camp. Imagine that. Almost a year without a cunt, a man can go mad like that. Now, be nice, and I promise you, you’ll keep your faces all nice and with teeth and no scars.”
He shuffled closer still. Amalia looked for a weapon, but she had none. How foolish of her. She wondered what had befallen her bodyguards. Oh, if only she had the bloodstaff, she could have destroyed the lot of them in a blink of an eye. Where’s Gerald?
“You, shorthair!” He pointed at Amalia. “You got a nice mouth. I’ll let you kiss me when I fuck you. And your friend is way ugly. You gonna face the other way around, you hear!”
His fat fingers gripped her arms like a vise, pushed her toward a table, bent her down like a twig. She tried to kick, but he was heavy and strong.
“Don’t fight me, bitch, or I’m gonna cut you. We gonna have some fun, and you just enjoy it, as if you never sucked no royal cock round here.”
Amalia felt panic choke her, but then it was his arm, round her neck, twisting. She tried to punch him, she wriggled her knees, but it as if she was slapping a bull with a mosquito swat. He was leering and breathing in her face.
“Ah, you bitch!” he shouted suddenly and let go. He rubbed his cheek, and his hand came away bloody. “You cut me. Oh, I’m gonna beat you dead.”
At his right, Agatha stood holding a bread knife, shaking, weeping.
The soldier cracked his knuckles and stepped away from Amalia. Air rushed into her lungs. Rage suffused her instantly, turning to molten fire in her bones. The man was wearing a thick belt, studded with pouches and a large sword, and on his left hip, a knife. Without hesitation, she drew it and stabbed him in the neck, just below the jawline.
Whatever he tried to say next came in a torrent of syrupy blood. He staggered, tried another step, and landed facedown. His breath gurgled. He wasn’t dead yet, but he soon would be.
Amalia let the knife drop and vomited on the dying soldier. When she straightened, she saw Jerrica standing in the doorway. Her right arm was limp by her side. “Your Highness, we must go.”
Where is Gerald? Amalia wanted to say, but she couldn’t find her voice. Instead, she nodded dumbly and followed the female bodyguard into a corridor littered with corpses, friend and foe alike. Agath
a followed, clutching to her bread knife fiercely.
King Sergei entered the imperial hall, such as it was, flanked by his dukes. Two figures stood waiting for him. He recognized the old man, but not the somber lady standing at his side.
“Greetings, Your Highness,” Theo said in his slow voice.
Sergei looked around the empty room. “Where’s Amalia? Where’s my son?”
The old adviser put his hands in front of him, clasped, calm, resigned. “I do not know of Empress Amalia’s whereabouts. She might be dead or fled. I regret to inform you that your son has been killed.”
Time stopped.
Sergei felt triumph and excitement leave him, replaced by a dark void. The royal price.
Time resumed, and in an instant, his sword flashed out, leveled just below the old man’s chin. “Where is he?”
Unperturbed, Theodore pointed to the side, where a body lay, wrapped in bloody linen sheets.
Sergei knelt by the prone form and unwrapped the covering. It was Vlad all right, peaceful. He blinked hard. He must not cry. He must not. But someone else was. Archduke Bogomir was on his knees, wailing like a child, trying to cut his own wrist with a knife. His comrades rushed to disarm him and drag him away.
Slowly, the king rose, his heart empty. He looked back at the old man and then brought his sword up again until the tip touched the wizened skin at his gullet. It made no sense that an ulcerous fossil like this thing would live for so long, but his son be robbed of life so early. He wanted to curse the gods, but he wasn’t really sure if they had played a part in his son’s death. Maybe it was all his fault.
From the corner of his eye, now hazy with tears, he saw a slender hand reach up, touch his lethal blade, and gently push down. He turned his head. That woman.
The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) Page 65
