Winter of the Wolf (The Desolate Empire Book 4)

by Christina Ochs

  Lennart took his place at the head of his royal guard then cantered to the front ranks of his infantry. Lofbrok had them well in hand and Lennart was certain they wouldn’t falter, no matter what Mattila threw at them.

  He gave the order and the artillery started its barrage. Even without the smaller pieces held back to take on Dura, they would do plenty of damage. Lennart grabbed a glass from one of his officers and tried to see through the gloom. Through the snow and haze, Mattila’s ranks still stood motionless. Impressive discipline, though he might have expected as much.

  Lennart waited for several more barrages, and even though the enemy didn’t budge, he ordered the advance. The guns would keep lobbing balls at them and maybe his opponents would soften up before the infantry reached them.

  They marched forward, but Mattila’s troops stayed in place. No guns fired back at them either. Lennart found that odd. He expected she’d take some to the Obenstein, but surely she had big siege pieces out here somewhere? Unpleasant as the thought was, he expected her to turn those on him before long.

  But the enemy remained quiet until Lennart’s first rank got within range. At the sight of tiny flames in the distance, followed by the crackle of muskets, he shouted “Fire!” and the order echoed down the line.

  Only a few of his soldiers went down, and they continued forward in good order, the second rank moving into place as the first reloaded. They sent off another barrage and Lennart’s ears were still ringing when he noticed a commotion behind him.

  “Go see what’s happening,” he told an adjutant, and the girl raced to the back.

  She returned not five minutes later, breathing hard and looking panicked. “It’s cavalry,” she said, “attacking our rear.”

  Lennart tried to think how Dura had managed that. She must have been hiding in the woods below the ridge. He could have sworn he had troops guarding the area, but didn’t recall if they’d sent a report in the past few hours. Maybe they hadn’t, and no one noticed it in the confusion.

  He looked at the front, where the enemy was still engaging. He wouldn’t retreat from there now, even though he was trapped. It didn’t matter; he’d have to fight her either way.

  “Get a message to Colonel Friberg,” Lennart told the adjutant, though he wasn’t sure what he could do at this point. He grabbed another young officer and sent him to Lofbrok, in case he hadn’t already heard what was happening. Then he wheeled his horse around and headed back, his suite pounding after him.

  Things were a mess by the time Lennart reached the rear. Even though a few especially disciplined companies had wheeled around and engaged the enemy, most hadn’t been able to turn in time and couldn’t present a united front to the attackers.

  The same wasn’t true of Dura’s cavalry. They remained in tight formation, knee-to-knee, mowing over Lennart’s ranks with their enormous horses and constant pistol fire. He had to stop them.

  Lennart decided to leave the front in Lofbrok’s capable hands. This situation was far more dangerous, so Lennart drew his pistols and turned to his guards. “We have to help here,” he said. “Keep an eye out for Franca Dura herself. All I know about her is that she’s supposed to have red hair. Try to shoot ‘em all in any case.”

  He clapped down his visor and rode ahead, his officers close behind him. He hoped he might give them the impression he had more cavalry than he did. Lennart spurred his horse and rode straight at an enemy trooper, waiting until he made eye contact between the slits in the visor. Then he fired one pistol. The trooper toppled from his horse, and Lennart shot another who also went down.

  Encouraged, he spurred forward. “To me,” he shouted, pulling out his sword. Perhaps if the other troops saw the king was here they would take heart. “Get them in formation and follow me,” Lennart yelled at a young lieutenant who’d grabbed the weapon from a dead musketeer and was reloading. “Get in formation or they’ll slaughter you.”

  And then he drove his guards into the enemy like a wedge, his sword cutting down all who stood in his way. His sudden assault broke their ranks, and many peeled off, riding back to reform. Lennart didn’t intend to let that happen.

  “Follow me!” he shouted again, holding his sword high, and praying that at least some of the infantry were coming too. He didn’t want to do this alone.

  In spite of the poor odds, Lennart was enjoying himself. Dura might have stolen a march on him, but he doubted she expected him to come after her himself, which was exactly what he was doing. Her standards fluttered here and there, but he didn’t know which was her personal one.

  “Forward,” he heard someone shout, a feminine voice this time. Ranks formed out of the confusion Lennart had caused. It was snowing harder now, big wet flakes that stuck to everyone and everything, turning the ground white and slippery.

  Lennart rode toward the voice, and grinned when he saw a pair of red braids laying over bright pauldrons. It was as though she wanted him to know.

  “Franca Dura, I’m coming for you,” he said, spurring his horse straight at her.

  Teodora

  Aside from the nightmares, Teodora felt wonderful. The ceremony had worked better than expected, and she felt twenty again. Externally, she changed more slowly, but before long, she might look twenty again, too. Her skin had smoothed out, her eyes had brightened. Her hair went from pure white to a steely gray. At this rate, it would be dark brown again before spring.

  Teodora attacked her duties with renewed vigor, insisting on running the kingdom until the peasants were defeated and everything was in order again. Even though she didn’t breathe a word about the ceremony to Princess Viviane, Teodora’s transformation was obvious, and now the princess looked at her with mingled fear and envy. Best of all, she let Teodora do whatever she wanted, without a word of protest.

  “The Count and Countess Herbst,” Princess Viviane’s footman announced in ringing tones.

  Teodora shifted in her seat, bored. She’d already had more than enough of Isenwald’s minor nobility streaming through this room, complaining about every imaginable thing. Teodora supposed it was the price of her visibility.

  Before long, she’d let Princess Viviane take over this duty again. For now it was helpful to remind everyone in Isenwald who was truly in charge, even if it was dull and inconvenient. In most cases, Teodora let her secretary compile all grievances into a list to be laid on Princess Viviane’s desk.

  The moment Count Herbst entered the room, Teodora sensed he was different. He did not have the air of a supplicant. A tall, thin man with chilly gray eyes, he was attractive in a reptilian way. His wife shrank back, as though frightened, most of her face covered by a heavy scarf.

  “Your Highness,” Count Herbst said, “I have valuable information for you about the peasant revolt.”

  “Oh really?” Teodora leaned forward, interested. “What is it?”

  Herbst looked around the crowded audience chamber and dropped his voice. “Might we speak in private? There’s no telling who might be listening here.”

  Teodora hadn’t considered it before, but it was possible the peasants had spies here at the palace. It was unlikely they’d infiltrated the courtiers, but servants were always suspect. “That’s an excellent point. We’ll speak alone in a moment.”

  She rose and said, “I’m done for the day. Come back tomorrow.” A muffled groan went up from a cluster of petitioners who hadn’t yet received their chance.

  She swept out of the room and down the corridor, hesitating before turning into the study. It was the room most likely to be empty, since everyone else seemed to avoid it. One of Teodora’s maids told a crazy story about Prince Kendryk’s angry ghost, but Teodora had laughed at that. If Kendryk was as ineffective in death as he’d been in life, she had nothing to worry about.

  The count and countess followed her into the room, and after sending the servants away Teodora said, “Now tell me what you know about the rebellion.”

  “It’s rather upsetting,” the count said, though he di
dn’t look upset. “My own wife has betrayed me.”

  “The countess?” Teodora’s gaze swiveled toward the woman. “Are you involved in the revolt?”

  The woman, her face still muffled, shook her head.

  “For Vica’s sake, take that thing off your face,” Teodora snapped, impatient.

  “Best do it.” The count gave the woman a sharp elbow.

  She unwound the scarf, revealing an ugly purple bruise down one side of her face. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her lips trembled.

  Teodora didn’t understand. “Did the peasants attack you?”

  The countess shook her head again.

  “I did that,” the count said. “I found out she was helping the rebels, bringing them food and other supplies.”

  “Why in the world would you do such a thing? Don’t you realize those peasants would burn your house down with you inside it if they could?”

  “I wish they would,” the woman burst out. “I wish they’d succeed.” She leapt out of her chair and glared at Teodora, her hands balled into fists at her side. “I hope they destroy everything. I’ll never help you find them.” And with that she burst into noisy tears.

  “You must excuse the countess,” Herbst said. “I’m afraid she’s lost her mind.”

  “That’s a shame,” Teodora said, “but the likeliest explanation. Still, I’ll want her cooperation.”

  “It’s not needed,” the count said, shoving his wife back into her chair with one hand. “I had the countess followed, so I know where the rebels are hiding and will be happy to lead you to them.”

  Anton

  Anton was grateful for Natalya’s presence. Trystan was bleeding in multiple places and looked pale, but the Maxima remained calm, binding his wounds with quick efficiency, using bandages she carried in a little bag.

  “I need to get him off the ground and somewhere warm,” she said, looking up at Anton, who’d dismounted along with Maryna and came to stand nearby.

  “There’s a village on the other side of the pass,” Anton said. “Only two leagues off.” The village behind them wasn’t much further, but Anton didn’t know what awaited them there.

  “Let’s get him on a mule,” Natalya said. “He’ll just have to hold on.”

  Anton waved over another sturdy man, and the two of them helped Trystan to his feet and lifted him into the saddle. He was as heavy as he looked. White-faced and sweating, he leaned over the pommel, gasping for breath.

  “The air is thin up here,” Natalya said. “The sooner we get him into the valley, the better.”

  Anton worried Trystan might slide out of the saddle, so called over two more soldiers to ride on either side of him, making sure he stayed put. After sending them on their way, he went to look for Karil and found him working his way back through the massed troops on the road. In spite of the attacks from above and behind, they’d taken only a handful of casualties. Karil had already seen to getting the dead and wounded loaded onto mules.

  “What happened back there?” Anton asked after telling Karil about the duel.

  “A few dozen villagers attacked us, though not very hard,” Karil said, shaking his head. “I guess Vega forced them, but they weren’t at all keen on the idea. I shot one fellow in the leg, another got nicked with a sword and that was enough. They’ve already headed back.”

  Anton left Karil behind to get everyone moving forward and found Maryna who waited for him even though Natalya had already gone with Trystan.

  “You should have gone with them,” Anton said. “You’ve got to be frozen through.”

  “Not really.” She smiled at him. “I got so excited, I feel quite warm.”

  They turned their mules into the pass. In spite of everything, Anton kept a close eye on the cliff-tops on either side, while telling Maryna about the attack by the villagers.

  “I’m so glad Count Vega is dead,” she said with a sigh.

  “He didn’t harm you, did he?” Anton asked, though if he had, there was nothing to be done about it now.

  “Oh no. He wasn’t so bad, considering. But it was impossible for even Natalya to outwit him, or to get away. We even tried once,” she added with a laugh.

  “You must tell me that story too,” Anton said. “We’ll have a lot to talk about on our way back.” He was careful to keep the conversation steered away from Kendryk, feeling like a coward.

  They reached the village which was awake already, though it had to be hours until dawn. Light blazed in every window and many doors stood open, revealing villagers in their nightclothes hoping to glimpse Maxima or princess.

  Anton led Maryna to the house they’d already chosen for her and Natalya. “Two old ladies live here,” he said. “They’re very nice, though they might feed you too much. I’ll go check on Trystan and come see you in the morning.”

  Before dismounting Maryna turned toward him. “Thank you so much Anton. I’m so happy it was you who rescued me.”

  “Me too,” he said. “But be sure to thank Trystan too. It wouldn’t have worked out just now if it hadn’t been for him.”

  Anton and Trystan had been staying in another house, so Anton went straight there.

  Natalya already had Trystan arranged on a mattress dragged close to the fire in the main room. “I’ll clean and rebind his wounds,” she said, already at work.

  “Will he be all right?” Anton looked down at Trystan, turned a waxy shade by now. He’d seen dead people who looked like that.

  “I think so.” Natalya sat back on her heels. “He’s young and strong so he’ll recover, but he needs rest. We must stay here a while.”

  Anton got down on the floor beside Natalya. “I need to get Maryna back to Terragand as soon as possible.” He took a deep breath. “Did you hear about Prince Kendryk?”

  “Isn’t he with Lennart?”

  Anton told her what had happened.

  Natalya was still for a while, swallowing hard and blinking a few times. “Of all people, he deserved it least,” she whispered. “And poor Gwynneth. I wonder if she knows?”

  “She does.” Anton went on to tell her what had happened in Isenwald.

  Natalya wiped a single tear, then shook her head. “I’m glad she pulled it off. I never thought I’d be gone more than a month or two, so she was right to leave.” She stared into the fire for a few minutes, then said, “I think it’s best you tell Maryna, but you must do it soon.”

  “I don’t want to,” Anton whispered.

  “I know.” Natalya looked at him, her beautiful green eyes brilliant with unshed tears. “But you are her closest friend here and she trusts you. Oh, the poor darling.”

  Natalya put her face in her hands. When she looked up again another tear crawled down her cheek. “She loved Kendryk more than anything in the world. This will be terrible for her, but she must be strong. Terragand is hers now and she will need to return as quickly as she can.”

  She took Anton’s hands in her soft, warm ones. “Please promise me you’ll do this.”

  Anton still didn’t want to, but you couldn’t look at Natalya long without doing whatever she wanted you to.

  Gwynneth

  Gwynneth’s heart went out to Elektra when she saw how terrified she looked. For someone like her, meeting the leaders of a peasant revolt had to be upsetting. So once two of the others had checked them for weapons, she hurried over to her, drawing her into an embrace as if she had been one of her own children.

  “Your Grace,” Gwynneth said, pulling back so she could look her in the eye. “We’re so happy you escaped. I knew you wouldn’t betray us.” She threw a glance in Braeden’s direction. She still hoped he was wrong about this.

  Elektra stared at her, looking nervous. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

  Gwynneth smiled. “We decided the peasants are far less evil than your mother.”

  “You’re right,” Elektra murmured, glancing around the old barn uneasily. “I’m afraid I agreed to cooperate with her when she killed my guards and took over
.” Tears filled her eyes. “But I didn’t mean it, and escaped as soon as I could. You must believe me.”

  “Of course,” Gwynneth said, leading Elektra to the fire. “Stand here for a bit, you must be frozen. And your friend too.” She smiled at the burly, grim-looking man who’d come with her. “We’re so grateful that you brought her to us.”

  “Oh,” Elektra said. “Janos is Moraltan. He doesn’t understand much Olvisyan.”

  Gwynneth switched to Moraltan, which she spoke passably well. “Thank you so much for helping the archduchess.”

  The man Janos looked straight at Gwynneth with wary eyes. “It is the sworn duty of every Moraltan patriot to try destroy the empress.”

  So he was pretending to be a rebel. Gwynneth fixed her friendliest smile on him. “Then you are most welcome here.”

  “I hope you don’t mind if I stick close to the archduchess. I couldn’t stand it if anything happened to her.” He looked at Elektra, his gaze softening, and Gwynneth hid a smile.

  She wondered how likely it was this man wasn’t working for Teodora, but had fallen in love with Elektra instead. The archduchess wasn’t terribly pretty, but she had a certain sweetness to her. Some men found that irresistible, especially combined with the youthful innocence radiating from the girl.

  To Gwynneth’s annoyance, Braeden fixed a hostile stare on the two of them. She wished he’d at least be civil, if they wanted to have any hope of deceiving them. Though perhaps it made sense. No one would expect Braeden to take Elektra’s defection well, even if she was recanting it now.

  Fortunately, Florian stepped into the gap. “I lead the peasant revolt,” he said, “and have made common cause with Princess Gwynneth and Count Terris. Until your mother arrived, we hoped to kill Princess Viviane. Now we’ll try to get both of them at once.”

  “That sounds marvelous,” Elektra said, rubbing her hands over the fire. “But you must act quickly. Princess Viviane has called up her whole militia and expects them to be ready to fight within just a few weeks.”