Empire Asunder BoxSet

by Michael Jason Brandt

  “Do you think he wants to congratulate me, Renard?”

  It had not been meant as a joke, but even as he voiced the thought, he heard its absurdity.

  Renard’s laugh was even deeper and gruffer than his speaking voice. He made three grunting sounds and then rubbed an eye as if he had laughed himself to tears. “Nay, I expect he’s got some meaningless mission for you. Time to go back to your duties as a prince. I don’t envy you, Boy.

  “Now then, if you need me, I’ll be in the tavern.”

  2

  Sky’s Pass

  Captain Marek stuffed two small balls of wax into his ears. The sound of practice swords outside his tent—nearly as distracting as this frigid mountain air—made concentration difficult. The wax helped—but the cold, sadly, could not be as easily banished as the noise. So he wrapped his cloak tighter and huddled closer to the flame of the lantern that illuminated his portable desk.

  The company would be arriving at the final watchtower on the morrow, and he had some important decisions to make before then—namely, which soldiers to keep for the slow return trip and which to leave behind. Just before the force of forty set out a tenday earlier, last-minute orders had informed Marek that every tower in the Stormeres—most abandoned for centuries—were to be reoccupied with as close to full contingents as possible. His superiors did not explain why. Orders were orders, and it was not his place to question them.

  That did not mean he did not think about the reasons, however. He presumed they were preparing for war, and the thought filled him with dread. Vilnia had not been strong since before the empire’s unification, which could not have come at a better time for the impoverished eastern kingdom. While their neighbor and rival Gothenberg prospered from the incessant outflows of its active iron mines, Vilnia’s own copper and tin had all but depleted. Even poor Nurosterlend to the north had endless forests of alder and fir with which to feed the empire’s rapacious appetite for hardwood. Most of those Marek encountered believed the strength of an army lay in its people, which the Vilnians could truly claim to be exceptional. But he knew that real strength derived from the land and the natural resources it provided, and in this his homeland had been sorely deprived. The once-happy, thriving population was already migrating away in greater numbers than Northgate admitted. He had served on the borders long enough to witness the lopsided flow with his own eyes.

  Marek loved his homeland, and particularly the village east of Northgate where he grew up. He loved his fellow Vilnians, that resourceful race who had found a way to tame mountain and steppe. And he particularly loved the army to which three tenyears of life had been devoted. But love for these things did not require blind acceptance that they were incapable of wrong or immune to catastrophe. And so Marek worried that war at this time—whether with Gothenberg or Nurosterlend—had the potential to bring ruin on everything he knew. He wondered what was happening to Eberhart’s peace that these changes were afoot.

  And so the captain prepared another list of ten names with which to fortify the watchtower at Sky’s Pass, the easternmost fortification in the province and the only remaining structure along the ancient central route through the Stormere Mountains. It was a waste of strength, if truth be told. Sky’s Pass had always been too vulnerable to storms and animal attacks to function as an effective trade route, even if the barbaric tribes beyond the mountains had been worthwhile trading partners. They had the numbers but not the inclination for commerce. A violent, raiding culture—sometimes resulting in bloody skirmishes with the empire itself, giving patrols such as Marek’s an inherent danger—and unending blood feuds prevented any form of organization or cooperation. Their foolish bickering made the Twelve Kingdoms appear a model of civility, and so even the most patient of rulers had long since abandoned commerce in light of the risk and expense of traveling through the mountains.

  The region was effectively worthless, which made Marek ponder the value of wasting good soldiers to man the old fortifications. Everyone knew the real enemy was to the south. When peace within the empire eroded, war between the kingdoms was inevitable. Most likely, the men and women he left behind here would miss any real fighting entirely. For that reason, he leaned toward dispatching the rawest recruits, with only one or two veterans to keep discipline in check.

  Marek had done exactly that at the last fort, Westsky, three days earlier. Corporal Bates was an easy choice to command that detachment. The youth was not exactly grizzled—having only recently reached a soldier’s age—but learned quickly. Despite his low birth, Bates was a natural leader with a promising future. All he lacked was experience, and even an inconsequential command such as Westsky would provide some. If men like Bates were the future of Vilnia, the kingdom was in capable hands.

  Now, with this final detachment, his company would be at half strength for their return march to Halfsummit. He worried less about the trip than what would happen when they got back. His was not the only company depleted by these new orders. If real fighting broke out, Marek wondered whether Vilnia would even have a full army to field. A kingdom needed more than stationary defenses to conduct a war.

  There was a particularly loud crash followed by raucous cheering, emphatic enough to pierce through the waxy blockage. He shoved the balls in farther and returned to his list.

  His distracted mind remained unaware of the visitor to his tent until a waving arm caught his attention. He hurriedly cleared his ears of the wax and stood up to face the newcomer.

  “Captain, I have been calling you for over a minute. Are you really that oblivious?”

  It sounded like an exaggeration, but he was not about to challenge the statement. “Your pardon, My Princess.”

  “Commander,” she corrected.

  Marek winced. In his embarrassment, he had referred to her by the way he thought of her, not by the ludicrous rank her father had bestowed on his only child. “Your pardon, Commander.”

  She frowned. There was an awkward silence, during which he wondered whether she would continue the rebuke. He would bear it in stony silence, but really wished she would get to her reason for interrupting him. Although her rank ostensibly put her in charge of this patrol, he was the one burdened with every real decision. At least she had had the sense to defer to his experience and judgment, so far.

  Another crash and cheer erupted outside the tent. Commander Jenaleve appeared distracted by it.

  “What are they doing?” she asked. “Playing games? Gambling their wages away? I thought soldiers played cards for that.”

  “Aye, Commander, they do. But today they decided to hold a tournament amongst themselves. Resolving long arguments about who’s the best swordsman.”

  “Truly?” She lifted an eyebrow, and even his old cold heart fluttered. The commander possessed a stunning pale beauty, that much could not be argued. Why she had chosen a martial life for herself he would never understand.

  He nodded. “Aye, Commander. Unofficial, of course. But even among recruit ranks such distinctions are important.”

  He thought she might frown, or lecture him on the frivolity of such competitions. Instead, she seemed thoughtful. It occurred to him that she had trained as a swordmaiden, and was probably pondering how she would fare in such a contest. At all costs, he had to arrest that line of thinking, which could only lead to trouble.

  “Of course, the competition is only between them. They would bristle at the interference of officers.”

  This was not entirely true. Two of the friendlier soldiers, Jarek and Redjack, had hinted that Marek himself was welcome to join them. And there was a time when he would have happily accepted. But since his elevation to captain, there had been very little opportunity to keep up with his swordplay, and experience alone did not compensate for age’s cruel slowing of the reflexes.

  “It’s harmless fun, so I allow it.” He hesitated, unsure of her attitude. He had noticed during his limited exposure to her that she often wanted to feel in charge, even if she really was not. Someti
mes he had to humor her. “Unless you prefer otherwise—”

  “No,” she replied immediately, sounding more disappointed than angry. “It’s fine. Do you have the deployments for the morrow?”

  The sudden change of subject momentarily caught him by surprise. “Not yet, Commander. I was working on that when you came in.” Marek closed his mouth and silently cursed himself. That had sounded more like a reproach than intended.

  Thankfully, she ignored it. “Very well. I apologize for taking you from it. I want this to go smoothly—and quickly. I am anxious to return.”

  “Aye, Commander. So am I.” Although for different reasons, I suspect. No doubt she missed the luxuries of noble life, whereas he wanted only to be where he was useful.

  He felt her staring at him, trying to read his expression. Her arms were crossed over her light chain coat, but the curves beneath were all too obvious. He did not like being alone with those curves for such an extended time. It was…distracting. If her presence had this effect on a grizzled veteran like himself, what must it be doing to the younger men? He had no doubt more than a few of them had taken a serious fancy to the new commander. No doubt some of the comelier ones like Martin or Haden had concocted plans to seduce her. Or possibly Yohan, although the quiet Oster kept to himself and seldom caused trouble. In any case, Marek hoped they all had the good sense to hold back their urges until the patrol was over. But then good sense was never a soldier’s strong suit.

  “Captain?”

  “Aye, Commander?”

  “I asked who you thought would win.”

  “Win, Commander? Win what?”

  “This competition.” To his surprise, she sounded more curious than irritated.

  “Oh.” He considered. “If I was a betting man…correction, if I was still a betting man, I would probably lay coin on Sisko.”

  “I’m still learning names… Refresh my memory.”

  “The one who’s a head taller than everyone else. He’s a little too cautious, but technically sound. And that reach is a huge advantage.”

  “What about the Yoshi?”

  “Kenzo? He fights like a force of nature, but his people eschew the shield. That’s a weakness against disciplined opponents, and we have several of those.”

  “Such as?” She sat down in one of the two folding field chairs. As he took the other, he decided he enjoyed this side of her. She was engaged, curious, and visibly more relaxed than he had ever seen. Like this, she could almost be taken for just another officer.

  “Well, I already mentioned Sisko. There are a few others. The Oster, Yohan, fights well...but can be a bit unfocused. Disinterested. Too inconsistent to win a tournament, in my judgment. Then there is Huk—the huge one. He may look like a giant brute, but has surprising skill. And speed when he needs it.”

  “What about the one with the beard?”

  “Redjack? He’s more of a crossbowman. Says he likes to avoid melee because too much can go wrong too fast.”

  “And the maidens?”

  “Jilda and Frissa? They can hold their own…but nay.”

  Marek saw the commander frown and wondered if his prospects would have been better served to lie a little. But he had established a reputation for honesty and integrity, and would not sacrifice those qualities on the altar of lust.

  She sat quietly for a moment, and he was afraid his thoughts had somehow been betrayed. When at last she spoke, it was in a far quieter voice, almost a whisper that he could barely hear over the din of clashing wood.

  “Captain, I lack your experience, but… I am worried about this patrol. That is the reason why I came.”

  He nodded, keeping his voice steady, wanting to portray the illusion of confidence. One burden of command that he had long since adopted. “It’s these mountains. And this wind. And the coming snows.”

  She leaned forward. “So it’s nothing? Just my imagination?” She was seeking to be reassured, and he could give her what she wanted to hear. He could lean closer as he did so. Possibly even take her hand, tell her it trembled…

  “Nay,” he said, shivering in the uncomfortable seat. “It’s not. I sense it, too.”

  Outside, the practice swords clamored on.

  Just ahead, the watchtower came into view. The rough trail they had followed all morn curved around one last rocky slope then traced a descending path to the base of the bleak structure. Perhaps a half mile distant, it looked even older and less intact than the last one. Marek would not be surprised to find a wall partially collapsed, although there was no sign of that from this angle. He resolved to give the whole building a thorough review and advise Jenaleve not to leave a detachment here at all if it was not able to provide decent shelter. These mountains were unforgiving—as the morn’s snowfall was pointedly reminding them. Orders or no, there was nothing to be gained by leaving ten soldiers to freeze to death.

  “Frissa, Yeldon, scout ahead to a quarter-mile past the tower. Karlo, Yohan, you’ve got point on the tower itself. Move out.”

  He watched the four figures move forward, the brown and green of their uniforms fading into the whitening air. The flurries had started slowly, but steadily increased in the last hour. Already each footstep was crunching through a shallow covering. Soon it would slow them substantially. Even worse, visibility was swiftly deteriorating.

  Storms in these mountains were unpredictable. This snowfall might well turn into an all-day blizzard, or it might as easily stop in the next minute.

  He heard his warhorse, Broadaxe, whinny in discomfort. It took two steps backward, tugging a young recruit named Shanks forward a yard before he was able to restrain it with a hard grip and soft words. Marek shook his head. This was no place for the destriers, but he and Jenaleve were required by their office to keep one at all times. Hers, at least, was better behaved.

  “Captain?” came a voice. He turned to see the heavily bearded face of Redjack, one of the best scouts in the company.

  “What is it?”

  “Permission to go with Frissa and Yeldon? Your pardon, but my eyes are better.”

  “Granted. Move.” He glanced around. “Where is the commander?”

  “Here, Captain.” She moved closer. He admired the look of determination she wore. There was no remnant of yesterday’s doubts—today she was all business. “Anything to report?”

  “The snow has me concerned, Commander. What do you think of proceeding instead of waiting for the scouts to return?”

  He watched her wiggle her nose. He did not know whether that was a sign that she was thinking, but it certainly was adorable. Then she shook her head. “No, Captain. I think we should follow procedure.”

  He nodded. Not the answer he was hoping for, but it was the one he expected.

  There was not much for the rest of them to do but wait. The inactivity quickly made them colder, so he began to assign busy work just to keep limbs moving and minds preoccupied. Every once in a while he imagined hearing an indiscernible noise, carried by the winds from some unseen point.

  Marek glanced around the wide trail. The mountains were not only unforgiving—they were bleak, silent, and deeply impersonal, as if determined to convey how unwanted the outsiders were.

  He repressed a shiver. These peaks and this weather invited the wildest of fantasies. He could easily picture a dragon swooping down from above or an avalanche burying the trail in a cataclysm of ice.

  What he did not imagine were hundreds of fur and leather-coated warriors circling around his patrol on hidden tracks. Not, that is, until the first volley of sling stones knocked Shanks to the ground not far from Marek’s feet. Then the dark figures seemed to emerge from nowhere, in small groups of three and four, as if birthed by the snow itself.

  It took a second to collect his thoughts. The shapes were all around, but seemed most heavily concentrated in the rear. His soldiers were reacting, but they needed direction.

  “To the tower!” he bellowed. He glanced at the two nearest. “Sisko, Skov, start clearing
the way to the tower.” He bent down to inspect Shanks. There was blood on the temple, but the young man was trying to push himself up to his knees. Marek grabbed his arm and pulled him up, then shoved him after the other two.

  “Jenaleve!” he called. “Where is the commander?” How had they all gotten so dispersed already?

  He heard the familiar sound of combat. Not the wood on wood of sparring practice but the far more strident steel on steel, along with shrieks of anger and agony. It was happening all around him, and he drew his own sword in case he should need it. But he hoped to stay clear of the fighting—a captain was far more valuable in a fight directing others than getting his skull split open.

  “Commander!” he yelled louder.

  Then he saw her, in the midst of the fighting. She was surrounded by three enemies, two pressing from the front while the third circled behind. Marek barely had time for two steps forward before he saw her feint ahead then pounce backward, catching the circling man by surprise. Her sword flashed forward then back, and the man went motionless, then to his knees, then face-down in the snow. Jenaleve had already turned back to face the other two. One lunged at her then away, drawing her shield in that direction. The other aimed a thrust at her exposed body, then stared at the stump where his hand and sword used to be. He took two clumsy steps back and tripped over his own feet, then from his backside continued kicking out with both legs, trying to put distance between himself and danger.

  Marek continued to move toward the action. She was clearly handling her own…but they needed everyone to regroup at the tower. The first opponent was slowly backing away, giving her the perfect opportunity to extract herself from this fight. Yet she was not doing so. Instead, she strode toward her remaining foe, clearly intent on finishing him off.

  Marek opened his mouth to yell, but suddenly found himself spinning from a stone to the shoulder. Jenaleve—and the rest of his soldiers—might outmatch these foreign fighters in a clash of swords, but they had no effective defense against dispersed enemy slingers. And the longer they remained away from the tower, the longer they were exposed.