The Desolate Empire Series: Books 1-3

by Christina Ochs

  “Might I stay with you, sir?” Trisa asked.

  “Sure.” Braeden knew he should send her straight back, but they’d all be on their way in a few minutes.

  Braeden told Miro to round everyone up, and an instant later, heard pistol fire. He couldn’t see where it came from but it was close. “Form up,” he shouted, wheeling Kazmir around to get in front of the others and pulling a pistol from its holster. Then he paused, holding his breath.

  More shots followed a few seconds later, whizzing past his head, but not hitting anyone. They were lucky it was already so dark and that they weren’t on the road where they might have made easier targets. The dark also meant they should be able to spot muzzle fire if the enemy was close by.

  “That way,” Trisa said in his ear.

  “What did you see?” Braeden asked.

  “Flames, little ones, over there near that house.”

  “Get behind me,” Braeden told Trisa, then had Miro bring everyone else up. “Head toward the house and fire at anything that moves.”

  They moved slowly toward the tall farmhouse, nothing but a shadow against the increasing snow. Braeden didn’t want to give the others time to reload, but he didn’t want to charge into an ambush either. When the next crack came, he was ready. He saw the flash and fired straight at it, and so did several others. There was a scream in front of him, abruptly cut off, and the thump of a body onto the ground behind him. He hoped it wasn’t Trisa, but couldn’t look back right now. He kept moving forward and pulled out his other pistol. In the dark there’d be no reloading. But that was also true for the enemy.

  He advanced on the house, pistol raised. There was a rustling, the jangling of a harness and he resisted the urge to fire in that direction. Instead, he spurred Kazmir on and came upon them as they were getting away. A few of their number were hurt and trying to scramble onto their horses. It seemed their pistols were spent, since Braeden heard, rather than saw, swords being drawn. He fired at a shadowy shape in front of him and it fell. He drew his saber and Kazmir rushed forward.

  Now they had them on the run, but Braeden’s blade caught one unfortunate fellow across the shoulder. His armor might have stopped the worst of it, but he was already hurt and slid to the ground under the force of the blow. The rest were getting away. “Hold!” Braeden shouted. It was too dark and he didn’t want to risk the horses slipping into a hole in the snow.

  He paused until he was sure they were gone and asked for someone to light a torch. He dismounted to look at the fallen man. His horse had run off with the others and his breath came in harsh wheezes. Braeden knelt next to him and held up the light. “Who are you with?” he asked.

  The young fellow gasped for air, though Braeden reckoned he might be putting on a show. “Tell me,” he said, shaking him by an injured shoulder. The man moaned, turned his head away, and died.

  Braeden looked him over. Cavalry, as expected, with the fine armor of a cuirassier. It had been his bad luck he’d been shot in the side, in a small area the armor didn’t cover.

  Braeden stood. “This is one of Arian Orland’s cuirassiers. No other enemy force is this well-equipped. I don’t know what he’s doing here, but we’d best get back and warn the camp.”

  They helped one slightly injured hussar onto his horse and hurried back to camp.

  Braeden went straight to Prince Novitny, who stamped around in front of a small fire, while he shouted at servants to hurry setting up his tent. The fire snapped and hissed as the wind blew snow across the flames. It was a terrible night to be out.

  “I’ll tell the empress,” the prince said, “but we can’t afford the distraction. Orland’s force is large enough it won’t be easy to beat. And this snow will make it hard to find fodder for the horses. We have to keep moving.”

  “I reckon Orland thinks he’ll rescue Prince Kendryk,” Braeden said, pulling off his wet gloves so he could warm his hands over the fire.

  “Maybe. Or he’ll try to take on Ensden up at the castle.”

  “Either way, we need to stop him.”

  “Don’t get me wrong, I’d like to. But our mission is to get the empress and the prince to Atlona with no mishaps. We have to defend, not attack. Double the guard tonight,” Novitny said. “Set another perimeter so we have plenty of warning if he tries anything. I’ll go talk to her highness right now. Be ready to move out in the morning just in case.”

  Gwynneth

  There was a puff of smoke from the guns and a second later, a tremendous crash. A few chips of rock flew, but the tower held.

  Gwynneth forced herself to stand up straight. “Everyone into the cellars,” she said. She had hurried into the courtyard from the library after the first barrage. Most of the castle’s population had joined her, but she had to get them inside. Another crash followed, a few people screamed, but everyone made for the stairs. She stood outside and counted as everyone went below. Just a few missing.

  She looked around for Merton, pounding down the stairs from the wall, following the rest of the guard. “Where is Edric Maximus?” she asked.

  “Still in his study, I’m sure,” he said.

  “Get everyone else below and keep them there. I’ll find the Maximus.”

  “Your Grace, it’s not safe.”

  “I’m sure it sounds worse than it is. These walls will hold well enough.”

  “But the flying rock. You could be hurt.”

  “Maybe. But I can’t risk the Maximus. Please, go below so I don’t have to worry. I’ll bring him.”

  Gwynneth turned away, ignoring Merton’s protests, and ran across the courtyard, praying she could get indoors before the guns fired again. She was running up the spiral stairs when the next blast hit. She kept going. If Edric was foolish enough to stay in his study something might fly through his window and hit him. He wasn’t that foolish.

  He stood outside the study door, at the head of the stairs.

  “You must come below,” she said.

  “Won’t it be over soon?”

  “Probably not. They needed three days to haul the guns across the river. I imagine they’ll blast away until they run out of ammunition.”

  “That’s very inconvenient.”

  “I’m sorry if it interferes with your work, but you must come down. Bring what you can.” She didn’t give a fig about his work, but he was useless to her dead.

  He pointed to a folio tucked under his arm.

  “Good,” she said. “Then come.” A blast hitting the walls just outside drowned out her words. It was gratifying to see Edric flinch. That took some doing.

  “They won’t break through, will they?” he asked as he followed her down the stairs.

  “I doubt it. The weakest spot is at the gate, but they haven’t found an angle that can reach it. So now they’re trying the other side.”

  They paused at the foot of the stairs, and waited for the next round. “So he’s trying to batter the wall down,” Edric said.

  “Yes, he’s trying. But he won’t succeed. He’s got to do something, of course. I’m sure Teodora is furious that I’m not cooperating, and she needs me to surrender before I can get help. At best, he might hope to intimidate me into surrendering.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” Edric said.

  “You know me that well at least.” And it was true. Much as Edric had hurt and angered her in the past, he was one of the only people who knew what she’d done. So he understood better than anyone why she had to atone for it now.

  There was a quiet space. “Now.” Gwynneth gathered up her skirts and ran across the courtyard. Merton waited at the heavy door and opened it just wide enough for them to slip inside. Everyone had crowded into storerooms at the foot of the stairs. They weren’t comfortable, but better than the dungeons.

  Gwynneth had planned for this and stocked the cellars with food that could be eaten cold, barrels of water, and plenty of heavy blankets. Hopefully they wouldn’t stay here long. At the rate he was firing, Ensden would run out of
shot before morning.

  “I don’t suppose he can keep this up for long.” Merton looked pale.

  “No, he can’t,” Gwynneth said. “It’s a good show, but completely useless for him. Best of all, he’ll be out of shot and powder when my brother comes.”

  “You seem very certain of your brother,” Edric said. “I wonder he’s not here yet.”

  “There’ve been complications.” Gwynneth was still unwilling to believe that her own father hadn’t come to her rescue at once. “But I’m certain Arryk is on his way by now.”

  “I hope so,” Merton said. “Even if they can’t break down the walls, they might break down our nerve.”

  “I should think not,” Gwynneth said. “And please keep your misgivings to yourself. It’s up to us to set a good example to those who aren’t as strong. There will be no talk of surrender. Anyone who does so will find themselves keeping Count Balduin company in the dungeon very shortly.” Gwynneth wished she could find a use for Kendryk’s unpleasant, unfortunate cousin, but for the time being, he was just another mouth to feed.

  “Of course.” Merton was still a bit pale around the gills. “I apologize, Your Grace.”

  “See it doesn’t happen again.” Gwynneth kept her tone stern. She hated being hard on him, but Merton was a stout as they came and she wanted him to help keep up everyone else’s spirits. She didn’t want to do it alone, though she would if she had to.

  With the great door shut, it was much quieter in the cellar. After a while, people talked softly, and Maryna led a group of children into a corner to play a game. Gwynneth sat on a pile of blankets and tried hard to keep her thoughts from Kendryk. Whenever she thought of him, she felt her resolve weakening. Even if he hadn’t been hurt, she didn’t want to imagine what Teodora might do to him.

  She glanced across the room at Edric Maximus, talking with some of the soldiers. It would be so easy to send a messenger to Count Ensden, surrendering Edric and the castle in return for Kendryk’s life and safe passage to Norovaea for all of them. It would be over and Teodora wouldn’t be able to hurt any of them again.

  Gwynneth hardly dared admit it, but she wondered if Arryk would ever come. Winter was setting in now and crossing the sea would be difficult. And by spring it would be too late. She thought she’d stored enough food to last a year, but the cook had quietly shown her meat already rotting and weevils in the flour. They would starve by spring.

  But she had promised Kendryk. And worse than thinking about him suffering was picturing the disappointment in his eyes when she told him she hadn’t been able to keep her promise. She had seen it once and couldn’t bear remembering it even now. It wouldn’t happen again.

  Teodora

  Teodora paced the length of her tent while Sybila stood calmly at the brazier, warming her hands. The sharp wind of a winter storm made the canvas walls snap and and icy air crept into every gap. But Teodora was warm.

  Maybe because she was angry. It was bad enough that her doctor had more or less ordered her to stop her entire army in the middle of nowhere, but she also had the nerve to give Teodora instructions on how she ought to handle her captive.

  “He’s slipping in and out of consciousness,” Sybila said, “but you can visit him for a short time.”

  “Good,” Teodora said. “I’ll try not to be too horrible.”

  “Your Highness, with respect—” Sybila began.

  Teodora knew her well enough to expect that she wouldn’t want to hear Sybila’s next words. “What?” she asked, impatient.

  “I realize you are feeling triumphant, and rightfully so. But the prince is still near death. If you upset him too much he might succumb to the fever within hours.”

  “Yes, I understand,” Teodora grumbled. “A dead prince does me no good at the moment. I hope I can kill him later, if his wife refuses to cooperate.”

  Teodora wondered if there was a way to force Gwynneth to surrender the castle and the priest, but still kill Kendryk after that. Her victory would then be complete.

  In the meantime though, it was time to pay Kendryk a visit. Outside, Teodora wrapped her heavy fur cloak close against the biting cold. Once she entered the hospital tent, it was warm again.

  A light flickered near Kendryk’s head, and she sat on a stool someone hurriedly pulled up for her. He looked quite white and she would have thought he was dead if she hadn’t seen the slightest movement of the blanket over his chest. She stared at him until his eyes fluttered, then stayed open. The first thing she spotted in them was fear, but then he smiled.

  She smiled back. “It’s lovely to see you, darling.”

  Kendryk nodded pleasantly, though she was sure she was the last person he wanted to see. But it was true he’d always had good manners and too much composure for her liking.

  “You look dreadful.” She pretended concern, putting a hand on his forehead. Sybila hadn’t been wrong about the fever. He was burning up.

  “Oh dear, you’re in terrible shape.” She pulled back the blanket, picked up one of his limp hands and put it in hers. “I don’t want you to die. Do you understand?”

  Kendryk nodded again, though his eyes were so glazed over she doubted he comprehended anything.

  “I can’t stay here, and I can’t leave you here either. Arian Orland’s been sniffing about and I can’t give him a chance to rescue you.” She had hoped to finish off Orland, but he’d disappeared and Prince Novitny was adamant about getting her and her prisoner to Atlona first. It was maddening, but she knew he was right. After nearly losing her capital earlier in the year, putting her base at risk was unacceptable. Bad enough she’d had to leave it this long to take care of Kendryk.

  It hadn’t escaped her that Kendryk winced when she said Orland’s name.

  “You’d like that wouldn’t you? He didn’t help you when you needed him, but he could redeem himself now. Well, I won’t allow it.” Her words were angry, but she felt happy. She kept holding his hand. “I have good news I wanted to share with you. Not only are you completely defeated, but the Marjatyans won’t trouble me anymore. They will need years to recover from what I’ve done to them.”

  Kendryk smiled pleasantly, his stare still blank. He’d probably forgotten who the Marjatyans were, even though their rebellion against her must have been his greatest hope. According to Sybila, he’d awakened without knowing who he, or Teodora, was. It rankled that he had no recollection of her marvelous victory, but with any luck those unhappy memories would return as he recovered.

  “And now that I have you, sweetheart, I’ll get the rest of Kronland to behave too. Terragand is practically mine.” She paused and frowned, thinking of Princess Gwynneth still in her way. “I suppose you’re wondering what’s to become of you.”

  Kendryk nodded politely, though he seemed uninterested. No matter. That would change soon enough.

  “You will be my guest,” she said. “You won’t be comfortable, but I won’t give you the worst cell in the Arnfels either. If your wife behaves, you might not spend the rest of your miserable life there. I’d like to make an example of you, but my advisers tell me I might cause more rebellion if I had you beheaded. It would give me immense satisfaction, but I must be practical.”

  Kendryk appeared far too unconcerned at the prospect of beheading.

  She smiled at him bracingly. “Now I’m ordering you, as your sovereign, to stay alive. You are no good to me dead. Is that understood?” She gave his hand a squeeze for emphasis, then dropped it and left him.

  Janna

  The wind changed direction, blowing sleet into Janna’s face. She pulled the hood of her cloak farther forward, but then she couldn’t see. Not that she needed to. Zoltan, the old warhorse, obeyed instructions perfectly and failing those, just followed the horse in front of him. Janna fell asleep in the saddle more than once, to awaken with a start and see she was still moving at the same pace in her same position in the column.

  But when the wave of nausea came on, Janna barely had time to leap from Zol
tan, and vomit into the frozen grass at the roadside.

  “I hope it’s not plague,” she moaned.

  “How long have you felt this way?” Nisa was already next to her. She’d been riding in a wagon alongside.

  “It came on just now.” Janna stood up, a little shaky.

  Nisa laid a cold hand on her forehead. “You’re not feverish. I doubt it’s plague, though I have an idea of what it might be.” She smiled.

  Janna remembered and shuddered.

  “When did you last have your courses?” Nisa asked, practical as always.

  “I don’t know.” Now she considered it, well over a month. “I thought it was the stress of being on campaign.”

  “That rarely includes being sick the way you are,” Nisa said, with a meaningful look.

  “Oh.” Janna looked for Zoltan, who stood waiting for her nearby. “Are you sure?”

  Nisa shrugged.” It seems natural.”

  “I suppose it is. Should I tell him?”

  “Right away. He’ll be thrilled.”

  Janna mounted Zoltan, wincing as she did so, and looked down at Nisa.”Will he? Some men aren’t happy about it.”

  “Pfft. Those men don’t want a future with their women. Yours does.” Nisa smiled over her shoulder as she climbed back into her wagon.

  “I think so,” Janna said. “I hope so.”

  “Are you sure?” Braeden asked when she told him after making camp that evening.

  “I seem to have the symptoms,” Janna said. “Nisa believes it, and she would know.”

  Braeden pulled her into his arms once they’d entered the tent. “It’s never happened to me before. I never wanted it, to be honest.”