The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2)

by Igor Ljubuncic

  Their progress across the valley’s muddy western entrance was slow. The ground sucked on the horses’ hooves, turning a canter into a hobble. When they didn’t sink in dirty slush, they walked over polished patches of ancient ice refusing to melt. Animals skidded and fell on their sides, jostling the ranks like kegs on the back of a cart. James watched with dismay. Any moment, the pirates might turn around and careen into the snailing van. But then, the Lynxes reached the rocky center of the valley unchallenged, the pirates being too busy with the annoyance attack, just as planned. Then, the master-at-arms veered left and pounced. The infantry followed, a mass of men knee-deep in mud, plowing forward, exhausted and terrified.

  James could hear the screams from his position uphill, sounds carrying up the valley floor with uncanny clarity. Everyone thought it would be too risky for him to fight in the fray, but he was allowed to lead the skirmish units. James wanted to protest, but then he knew the importance of being a general in the army.

  Xavier moved forward, leading the Wolves in support of the Lynxes. James’s own unit, the Foxes, lingered behind. But almost like driftwood, it was slowly being pulled toward the battle. James hated the wait. Rob was smoking, enjoying himself. He did not seem too concerned. For a posh urbanite, he was rather casual about combat in the countryside.

  Then again, James realized, the Caytorean elite had been waiting for deliverance for quite some time. They had suffered humiliation time after time, for two generations now. Liberating their country of invaders was a blessing. Even if they forgot it was another foreigner leading their armies.

  It took a while for James to realize that the battle was not going well.

  The pirates had left the valley and were now spilling toward the bait unit and the exhausted archers, most of whom had depleted their quivers. Colonel Gilles did not have enough troops to stop their advance and was slowly retreating. The battle was going exactly the opposite from what they had planned. Instead of retreating into the valley, toward the flanking force, the Oth Danesh were trying to break through north, where his force was the weakest. If the pirates managed to get into the forest, they would be impervious to cavalry attacks. They could march away undefeated and emerge on the other side, threatening Belian and Yick Town. And farther still, Shurbalen.

  James had to make a decision, fast.

  “Form on me!” he shouted. “We must cut off their escape!” He lowered the visor on his helmet. And then, without waiting, he trotted forward. The Foxes followed, one thousand and seven hundred strong.

  “Protect the emperor!” someone yelled.

  And then, they rode in silence, focused on the blotch of enemy troops charging against Gilles, ignoring the weak fire from the archers on their left flank. The Lynxes were struggling to keep up, heavy armor weighing them down in the muddy soil. Horns were blaring frantically, and the army was reacting to the sudden change in the fighting, but Hector and Xavier would never get to the pirates in time. It was up to James to stop them. He felt a knot of panic burgeon in the pit of his stomach. But then, he bunched his muscles so hard he could hardly breathe and pushed the fear away.

  James watched the landscape blur past him. Suddenly, a wall of human flesh rose before him. He slowed down just a little, edging his horse sideways, and crashed into the mass of pirates, hacking with his sword. He had never mastered the use of the lance, so he fought at close range only. Around him, more experienced men lowered their twenty-foot shafts and slammed into the enemy.

  Timothy joined his lord on his left side, holding a large shield, protecting him. Rob was there, too, fighting with zeal, his coat soaked in other people’s blood.

  “For Athesia! For Caytor!” James howled. And then, chaos enveloped him.

  The emperor of Athesia sat on the wet ground, watching the fires burn. There were so many of them, and they stank. Human flesh and hair had an awful stench.

  The battle was over. His army counted less than seven thousand men capable of fighting. The rest were piled unceremoniously at the valley’s mouth, awaiting burial, or screaming in agony in the infirmary tents not far away. Of the enemy force, there was not a soul left. The pirates had been eradicated to the last man. His first real conquest was complete.

  Someone would no doubt write a pretty ballad of his feat today. There was no shortage of bards and whores to spin rumors. One thing was certain, there was no Caytorean who doubted his ferocity or dedication anymore. He might be an Eracian fighting for Athesia with the bulk of their fellow countrymen under his banners, but he was their leader.

  Rob would remind him now that his father had done almost the same thing once. He had taken a bunch of ragged troops and forged them into an unstoppable killing machine. But more importantly, he had won their hearts and made them his forever.

  With a hand shaking from exhaustion, James reached down and picked up a slice of bacon from his dinner platter. A skin of diluted wine rested at his side, untouched. Not far away, Rob was lying on his back, smoking. James could see the snaky tendril of smoke rising in an almost perfect column above his head before it curled and dissipated. They should have changed their blood-soaked uniforms and gone into their warm tents, but no man felt the chill right now. They were too excited to care. Their bodies were like leaden weights, but their hearts hammered with the pure thrill of being alive.

  Regroup, lick the wounds, and head back home. That was the plan. He had lost so many men in this war, but he had created the future cadre of his empire. They would be needed again, soon. But he did not want to think about his half-sister or King Sergei right now.

  Warlord Xavier approached, limned in an orange nimbus. “Sir, sorry to disturb you.”

  James groaned wearily. “What is it?”

  Xavier hesitated. “There’s another army approaching.”

  A wave of desperation washed over James, but he suppressed it. In the middle of the night? he thought. The Parusites and their allies were crazy. The drinking and whoring would have to be postponed, it seemed.

  He rose. Timothy showed up suddenly, carrying his belt and sword. The lad had fought well today, once again. James would have to figure out how to reward him for his valor.

  Standing up, James noticed the camp was stirring around him. Men were rubbing their faces with snow and cold water, trying to banish sleep and drink stupor. Sergeants were barking orders, rallying exhausted men to arms.

  Walking on wooden legs, James followed Xavier. The rest of his high-ranking officers were already assembled, discussing tactics for the upcoming battle. Master Hector had taken a wound to his arm, but he had poured some wine and vinegar on the gash, smeared pig grease on it, wrapped it in linen, and went about being a leathery and tough son of a bitch.

  “How did you miss them!” Colonel Perry was shouting at a scout.

  “Sir, that’s impossible. That unit wasn’t there yesterday. We keep track of all the Parusite forces. Duke Kiril hasn’t moved from his position.”

  Perry pointed angrily toward the unseen enemy force. “Explain that!”

  The scout opened his mouth twice before he spoke. “They must have sneaked up on us, sir.”

  James rubbed his cheeks, crusty flakes of dried ash peeling away. “How many?”

  Master Hector spat. “About five thousand, at least. Marching north at a steady pace. They will get here at dawn.”

  James clenched his fists, weary tendons screaming. “Pirates?”

  The scout shook his head. “No, sir. Regular troops, mostly infantry.”

  Had King Sergei bested him even before they had officially declared war on one another? Had he made his units silently shadow James, studying his strategy, watching him make his blunders and mistakes, enjoying seeing him kill off his force slowly, waiting for the ideal moment to strike? He had gotten rid of the pirates for him, and now, with a third of his original strength, he was easy prey. That was so bloody convenient. James felt anger surge through his veins, making him alert.

  But it did not make much sense. Why would
the Parusites risk marching at night? They would be too tired to fight in the morning. If the king wanted to negotiate, why send such a large force, then? Or rather, if he planned on fighting, why send such a small force? And why hadn’t Duke Kiril joined the march?

  “We form up, and we wait,” James muttered. There was little else they could do.

  It was the longest night in his life. They huddled under blankets, shivering, the fervor of the battle fading away, leaving depleted, hungry, chilled bodies and dejected spirits in its wake. Men dozed standing or kneeling, helmeted heads clanking against the shields and backplates of their fellow soldiers.

  His colonels had arranged his forces in a defensive circle, archers on the inside, his own force in the center of it. When it came to famous last stands, they wanted one worthy of songs. But most of all, they wanted to live through this battle, and that meant negating the enemy’s strength and experience.

  The Wolves held the right flank, the Lynxes the left. They were now doing the exact same thing the pirates had done only yesterday. The bitter irony of that stung.

  The piss puddles frosted over just before dawn. A fog came and clouded the world. The death pyres had burned down, leaving behind a gagging miasma that made everyone sniff and breathe in short, rapid hisses. Everyone had been pressed into the battle line, even the wounded.

  The world changed colors, turning gray, then soft gray, and then pale green until eventually brown emerged. There was no idle chitchat. The men were conserving every ounce of their strength for the coming battle. Whatever sun came up, it made the scenery brighter, but its glow was hidden in silver, deathly mist.

  “Rider approaching!” a lookout shouted.

  The line rasped as men tightened their callused grips on spears and sword hilts. Hundreds of bows groaned as they were pulled taut.

  Rob looked at James and nodded. Good luck, friend, his eyes said.

  James squinted into the morning haze, trying to figure out the contours and shapes. The fog made everything soft and bungled the distances. It would make any fight very awkward and messy. His only consolation was that his enemy would have a harder time.

  Before James, three rows of spearmen knelt, protecting him. The world ahead was a wall of yew wood stakes and white, woolly rectangular patches that revealed nothing. Somewhere out there was a huge enemy regiment, plodding forward.

  He could hear horses neighing, responding to their owners’ mood, but the sound came from everywhere. He could hear hooves thudding. Voices. But no screams, no shouts yet. James ignored the subtle need to vomit his exhaustion and just stared.

  The fog parted suddenly, a stone’s throw away, to reveal someone on a horse. Then, several more men. His men. He frowned. What is going on? A squad of his scouts was escorting a lone horseman deep into his lines, crossbows lowered and aimed at him. The man was carrying a banner with a gray flag. Whoever he was, he wanted to parley, it seemed. It made no sense.

  James tried to decipher the man’s denomination, but there was nothing special about his uniform or colors. He could belong to any random unit in any of the large armies of the realms. He wore old leathers, threadbare and assaulted by the weather, the original colors long washed away. He looked gaunt, too, just like his animal. There was a short sword at his hip, but the man made sure he kept both his hands on the staff of the banner he was carrying.

  “What is this?” James called.

  “This man wants to negotiate with you, sir.”

  “Who are you?” The emperor addressed the question to the rider, still not leaving his protective nest of spears. He wasn’t a coward, but he had seen his share of cowardly assassination attempts to know better.

  “I am Sergeant Lothar of the Fourth Legion. I speak on behalf of Commander Nicholas. He is waiting for your command, sir, Your Highness.”

  Your Highness? James was confused. Commander Nicholas? James felt a hand touch his shoulder. He twitched, but then he realized it was Rob. “What?”

  “The Fourth Legion belongs to your half sister’s army,” he said quietly.

  “Your Highness,” the rider continued, “Roalas has fallen. Empress Amalia is dead. We were sent to Caytor to fight you if necessary, but those orders no longer hold. We are your men now, sir, Your Highness. Commander Nicholas asks that you let him come here and swear fealty to you. The Fourth Legion is at your disposal, sir.”

  James tried to envision the map of the terrain in his head. His eighteen victories had led him south, mostly south, and he had avoided getting too close to Athesia for the fear of being caught in a vise between the king’s troops there and the pirates. But somewhere in the strip of land there, a whole legion of Athesian forces had lain in wait for months, ready to defend the realm against new invasions from the east, including Amalia’s own half brother, even as the Parusites slowly tightened their grip on their country. That was ridiculous, he thought. But befitting Amalia’s erratic rule. It was no small wonder the city had fallen.

  He thought he should feel sad, but he felt nothing. He still wasn’t sure what to think. However, he realized he would have to handle the difficult question of what he must do next much sooner than he would have liked.

  “A trap?” James asked his friend.

  Rob pursed his lips. “Not likely. Sounds too crazy.”

  Within minutes, Warlord Xavier was there, too. “Bloody good news,” was all he said.

  James felt twin spots of a headache heat up above his ears. He needed sleep. He needed to let his mind rest. He sighed. “Tell Commander Nicholas he can come here. With a small retinue.”

  The rider nodded eagerly, obviously relieved. “We also have some refugees from the city, sir, Your Highness. We bring them too?”

  Well, they are my people now, James thought. “After your commander swears fealty.”

  And with that, the Athesian emissary turned and went back. The fog swallowed him. James’s force did not break formation. They waited. It was only several hours later that they could put their weapons down.

  James did not know what to think of his augmented force counting five thousand soldiers more than it had only the night before. He wasn’t sure how to feel about the seemingly endless train of women and children trailing after the Fourth Legion. Everyone seemed to be in shock. Soldiers from the two realms fighting for the same emperor mingled, but the conversations were stilted, weird, forced. No one really understood the future any better now. But they were all glad no one would have to die today.

  James stood like a scarecrow, unmoving, ignoring his pain and nausea, staring west. His father’s dream, ruined. A half sister he had never known, dead.

  Well, he still had a lot to do, he realized.

  EPILOGUE

  Amalia watched her half brother with part fascination, part hatred. He stood for all that she had lost. A stranger, born to some other woman her father may have loved once. He had come to usurp all she had ever had, her realm, her people, the memory she had of her own dad.

  The emperor was talking to some of his officers, discussing battle plans. One of them, a tall fellow by the name of Gilles, reminded her of Gerald. He did not look like him, but he had the same mannerisms, same posture. She wondered what had befallen him.

  He was not among the refugees who had fled Roalas that night.

  Gerald had stayed and fought, she was sure. But she would not accept his death until she saw his body. For her, Gerald lived. He was a rebel general leading the city’s underground forces against the invaders. Or he was a prisoner in one of the cells. No. She would not accept that. She banished the bad thoughts with a visible shake of her head.

  There was no point imagining things, envisioning dark scenarios, lamenting in misery, agonizing over what could have happened if she had only acted a little differently. She had to focus on hope, and her hope came from hatred and love. Father had always taught her to seize the moment, so she did. Her life wasn’t worth much right now, a nameless washerwoman who had to endure the pinches and slaps of drunken soldiers
. It would be so easy to give up. But doing that would mean she would betray Gerald’s love and trust in her. She was better than that.

  And she hated her half brother, hated his easy success.

  Once, she had doubted the truth of his existence and heritage. But she no longer had any doubts. This man was her father’s son. Just like her. Only, he had made victories where her leadership had only caused disaster. The harsh truth galled and burned and wouldn’t let her sleep at night.

  She would have to meet him. For a brotherly chat or a stab in the guts, she wasn’t sure. But not yet.

  With her short hair and the street cat ear, she didn’t look like an empress. If she were to tell anyone, no one would believe her anyway. The simple realization she was just another face in a crowd had appalled her at first, but now she was glad for her invisibility. Still, it was a shock to learn how few people had seen, really seen, their empress or cared what she looked like. They had glimpsed Empress Amalia, but few could tell who Amalia was.

  Trying to pose as one of the city’s rich would only earn her trouble. Refugees had very little to cling to, except an occasional act of mercy and a lot of abuse. Agatha had blended quite well early on. She had found herself a seemingly decent, good-looking officer and availed herself to his mattress. The man was rough, and she could always hear the woman’s sobs after he dismissed her, but in the morning, he would bring her extra flour and butter and other little perks and made sure no one bothered her.

  Amalia had refused to make herself a whore, so she kept a very low profile, ignoring pretty much everyone. There was always the tiniest risk someone might actually recognize her and betray her presence to James in order to curry favor. Since she had no idea what he might to do her, but knowing what she would have done in the same situation, she kept her mouth shut, her eyes cast down, and her stance humble.