The Desolate Empire Series: Books 1-3

by Christina Ochs

  “This is a military discussion,” Bronson growled at the two of them. “You’re not needed here.”

  “You’re wrong,” Rheda said calmly. “This is more than a military matter. Everything depends on religious reform. Without it there is no point.”

  Bronson grumbled but said no more. They sat in Prince Bronson’s audience chamber, inside his magnificent, though damp and drafty palace. Arryk didn’t mind. It was nice to be out of the wind, Larisa at his side.

  He’d promoted Magnus Torsen to lieutenant and left him in charge of rounding up the wreck’s survivors. Most of the ships had reached a small harbor before the worst of the storm hit. Only the last few out of Arenberg had run aground. Arryk was optimistic.

  He knew the war had started because of religious problems, but wasn’t sure what they were.

  “Erm,” he said. “I quite agree.” He didn’t know what else to say, but Larisa jumped in.

  “I’m afraid his highness has been preoccupied with preparations for the invasion and we’re not up to date on the latest developments. Perhaps Father Anselm can fill us in later?” She turned her most dazzling smile on the priest, who blushed, then nodded.

  “If you must,” Prince Bronson said.

  Arryk then proposed which allies might be approached next and his plans to contact Faris and Orland.

  “Orland’s in Brandana last I heard,” Bronson said. “The empress has sent marauders there and he’s chasing them down. Faris is in Zeelund, trying to raise an army. Don’t know when he’ll be ready. As to Ummarvik, Prince Ossian is a fool and won’t do much to help. He talks a good story, but that’s all.”

  “I’ll ask anyway,” Arryk said. “What about Princess Martinek, in Podoska?”

  “She might help. It’s hard to say. Those Martineks are a strange lot, though they don’t shy away from trouble.”

  “I’ll send a messenger,” Arryk said.

  Prince Bronson then excused himself, leaving him with the princess and the priest.

  “Tell him, Anselm,” Rheda said.

  Anselm looked nervous. He’d been regarding Arryk closely, to the point of making him uncomfortable. “Your Highness,” he began, then paused, clearing his throat. “Are you familiar with the Quadrene Prophecy?”

  “The what?” Arryk asked.

  “You’ve heard of the work of Edric Maximus?”

  “We’ve heard a little in Norovaea, but I never had time to study his writings.” In truth, pamphlets of Edric’s most famous sermons had arrived in Norovaea months ago, but Arryk had never bothered to read them. He was sure Larisa hadn’t either.

  “Then I’ll start at the beginning,” Anselm said. “The Holy Scrolls tell of a great battle between the forces of light and darkness. The forces of light will prevail by the efforts of a young prince, who comes from the north to defend the truth. Originally, Edric believed that Prince Kendryk was the foretold ruler.”

  Beside him, Arryk felt Larisa sit up straight. “Go on,” he said, wondering where this was leading.

  “At first it seemed obvious to everyone that Prince Kendryk was the ruler of the prophecy. He did so much to defend Edric Maximus and defied the empress herself. All of us were sure he would prevail.”

  “But he didn’t.” Arryk’s confusion mounted.

  “No, he did not.” Anselm looked sad, and Princess Rheda’s eyes glinted with unshed tears.

  “So Kendryk is not the ruler in the prophecy?”

  “It seems not. The great battle still lies ahead, but Kendryk is in captivity. According to the last message we received he was near death. He might not even be alive.”

  The princess wiped her eyes.

  “Gods, I hope you’re wrong.” Belatedly, Arryk remembered he shouldn’t swear in front of a priest.

  But no one seemed to mind. “I hope so too,” Anselm said. “Even if he is not the prophesied one, he has done the Faith a great service and we owe him a debt that can never be repaid. But the fact remains we need that ruler to lead us to victory.” Anselm paused again and gave Arryk a meaningful look.

  Larisa elbowed him in the ribs. Arryk jumped. “Oh surely, you don’t mean me.” This was appalling. He didn’t even care about religion, though he didn’t think it was the right time to say so.

  “Of course I mean you,” Anselm said. “You fit the prophecy perfectly.”

  “I thought Kendryk did,” Arryk said, feeling put out.

  “To be honest, the prophecy is not all that specific. It says that the ruler is young and will come from the north, that he’s a prince, not a princess and will defend the truth.”

  “I’m not a prince,” Arryk said, relieved to find this loophole. “Not since last week.”

  “I’m sure it’s not meant so literally,” Larisa spoke up, placing her foot firmly on Arryk’s.

  He knew she wanted him to be quiet, and he was happy to oblige.

  “Exactly,” Anselm looked pleased. “And it makes sense it could be you. You’re here at our hour of greatest need.”

  “That’s very interesting. I will pray about it.” Arryk supposed there wasn’t too much harm in playing along for now. He was sure the prophecy was nonsense and once he’d liberated Terragand he could return to Norovaea. He didn’t plan to take the empress on directly if he didn’t have to.

  Anton

  At first, chasing Daciana Tomescu all over Brandana was fun. But they never caught her and she never stopped killing and burning. Anton was starting to feel frustrated, but then the count received word that King Arryk of Norovaea had landed in Helvundala and was gathering allies. He asked the count to meet him in Terragand where they would be joined by Count Faris, coming from Zeelund with a new army.

  It had taken several weeks for the count’s forces to get back to Terragand to meet the king and Prince Bronson, and then they had to wait for Count Faris. The king didn’t want to wait any longer, but the count convinced him they needed experienced infantry and the several dozen big artillery pieces Count Faris was bringing.

  The count said something to his own officers about the king’s troops being inexperienced, but Anton expected a king could afford the best soldiers. Besides, anyone looking at King Arryk was bound to be impressed. He looked like a golden god from paintings Anton had seen in temples. He was tall and on the slender side, though he seemed strong and quick, and wore his long blond hair braided down both sides and loose in the back. Anton used to think hair like that was for girls, but it didn’t look like that on the king. His face was strong, with sharp cheekbones, and his blue eyes seemed to pierce right through you.

  He looked exactly like a barbarian king should, and Anton was sure no one could withstand him. He rode at the head of a troop of young officers who all looked a lot like him, and at his side rode a beautiful, very fierce-looking duchess. Anton liked looking at her but was a little afraid of her too.

  They joined up with Count Faris’s army as they marched into Terragand, and he’d brought a great deal of artillery. The terrain became hillier and it took a long time to drag the big guns up the steep slopes and carefully bring them down the other side. Everyone able was drafted to help. Anton helped with the horses most of the time, but sometimes he jumped in when a big piece rolled too fast, or refused to budge uphill. The rainy spring weather didn’t help, and the roads turned into thick mud churned up by thousands of feet and hooves.

  He was relieved when they reached Birkenfels. They had been this close before at the beginning of winter, when Count Orland decided it would be too hard to take Ensden on by himself. But this time, there were far more of them. King Arryk alone led over twelve thousand troops, of both infantry and cavalry besides the count’s eight thousand horse. Prince Bronson led a force of about two thousand, but they were militia, not seasoned professionals.

  Even though the enemy had sentries posted in the steep hills around Birkenfels, it only took the count and the king a half day to kill all of them. Then they posted their own guards so no one would bother them while they put the
big artillery pieces into place.

  It took almost three whole days to get them up the steep hillside. The horses weren’t able to pull them all the way because the ground was too rough, so every man and boy and a few strong girls dragged them with ropes. Sometimes it took an hour to move just a few feet. Anton had never worked so hard in his life.

  The sun finally came out and it got warm. Anton peeled off one piece of clothing after another until he wore nothing but his breeches. At last they had the guns at the crest of the hill overlooking the castle and he saw his chest and arms had turned quite tan. He also had what looked like muscles.

  Even Gerd seemed surprised. “You don’t look like the wind will blow you away now. But Ensden’s guns still might.”

  Enemy guns didn’t scare Anton. He’d been spending so much time with theirs, they seemed like furniture. The crews were jolly sorts though rather deaf. They’d each named their pieces and were in friendly competition with each other as to who would blast the greatest holes in the enemy lines. For the first time, Anton thought that when he grew up, perhaps he wouldn’t become a cavalry trooper after all. It might be fun to fire off these great things instead. Maybe one of the crews would let him help during the battle.

  By the fourth morning, the guns were in position, overlooking the huge enemy camp below. Above that stood Birkenfels Castle. It looked tiny compared to the vast army spread below it and it seemed stupid that no one had conquered it. If Ensden had put his guns up here months ago, he might have been able to drop balls right into the castle courtyard.

  Anton said as much to one gunner, who roared with laughter, showing a mouthful of blackened teeth. “She’s got good range, our girl does, but not that good. We’d have to be half a league closer. And Ensden’s guns don’t have the range ours do.”

  “It looks closer than that.”

  “It’s a trick of the eye. That valley below us is nearly a league across. We’ll only be able to hit the edges of them.”

  “What good will that do?”

  “Oh, plenty. We’ll soften ‘em up just enough that the cavalry can slice right through. Then when they’re all in disorder, the infantry will go in. And that should just about do it.”

  It sounded simple enough. Anton couldn’t wait for his first real battle. If he wasn’t needed with the spare horses, he hoped they’d let him stay up here and help with the softening up.

  That night, Anton slept on the hillside with the gun crews. They expected the fighting to begin at first light. But right before dawn, Gerd came huffing and wheezing up the steep slope, carrying a small lantern. “You’re needed to help with Count Orland’s horse. He has a new page and she’s afraid of him.”

  Anton snorted. “What good is a page who can’t help with the horse?”

  “She’s the daughter of one of his father’s friends. Had to take her on after Cid kicked the last one in the ribs.”

  There was no chance of becoming a page if you weren’t high-born or had good connections. Anton wasn’t keen on baby-sitting a fancy girl who didn’t know how to handle a warhorse, but he was excited about being so close to the action.

  He went in search of the page and found her holding Cid’s saddle while a horse-boy Anton didn’t know tried to hold him still.

  “Here, let me.” He took the saddle and walked right up beside Cid, who calmed down and stuck his nose in Anton’s pocket, looking for the treats he always carried. Today it was half-rotted carrots, but Cid didn’t care and crunched happily while Anton saddled him.

  “Thank you,” the girl said. She had hair the color of the carrots in his pocket and front teeth that stuck out. “I’m Lotta, and I’m no good with horses.”

  “I’m Anton, and I am. Just do what I tell you. What else do you have to do?” Anton figured she wasn’t half ready and wouldn’t like what the count did when he came and found out. Those front teeth could still look a lot worse.

  “Um, load pistols? And get some swords? There’s a great pile outside his tent but I can’t make out—”

  “Come on. I know what he needs. I’ll show you. Loading pistols is hard and slow, but he might already have some loaded. We’ll do more after he’s gone.”

  She gulped. “Do I have to bring them to him during the battle?”

  Anton stared at her. “That’s what pages are for.”

  “But I’ll be scared.”

  “I expect so. Most everyone will be, except for me.”

  “You’ve been in a lot of battles?” she asked as Anton picked out a sword, a battle axe, two sabers, an arquebus and two pistols.

  “A few,” he said. “Though this is the biggest so far.”

  “Oh good. Can you stay with me? I’m really scared, but it’ll be better if someone experienced is close by.”

  “Sure.” Anton handed her the pistols. “Put those in the loops in his saddle. Make sure the butts are facing back.”

  They had finished loading up the weapons when Orland appeared. “What are you doing here?” he asked when Anton handed him a saber.

  “Showing Lotta around.”

  “Good. Can’t believe my father saddled me with such a worthless brat. Stay with her. Can you ride?”

  “Yes.” Anton didn’t mention it was because he “borrowed” Cid late at night when no one was about.

  “I want you at the back of the first rank. It’ll be hot, and I’ll need reloaded pistols in a hurry. One can reload and hand them to the other who’ll bring them to me.”

  Anton was disappointed. He was the faster reloader, so Lotta would have to carry them in.

  She looked like she was fighting tears.

  “What’s wrong now?” he asked after the count had disappeared into his tent.

  “He called me a brat. He can’t do that.”

  “He just did. He’s that way with anyone who’s displeased him. Once you learn everything you won’t make him angry anymore and it’ll get better. Now, where’s your horse?”

  Her pony was saddled and ready to go. “Is it battle-trained?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. Does it matter?”

  “It matters a lot. If he isn’t, the first bit of gunfire will spook him. I’ll find you another.”

  Anton found a horse for himself. He chose a young charger named Timur and another smaller one for Lotta. She was bigger than Anton—he reckoned she was at least fifteen—but she seemed scared of big horses.

  It was already bright and sunny a half hour after dawn. There was to be no surprise with a force this size and the racket they’d made getting the guns up on the hill, not to mention the sentries they’d killed.

  Anton found Orland’s standard in a sea of banners and horses, and said, “Come on,” spurring Timur while Lotta followed. Once he spotted the purple plume waving from Orland’s black helmet, he stopped and looked around. They were surrounded by horses and armored men. This was sliver of the whole force since King Arryk was off to the left somewhere and Count Faris behind.

  The cavalry spread out among the trees at the base of the hill, out of range of Ensden’s guns. Pike and musket ranged behind, but the cavalry would have to get in pretty far before the infantry could advance.

  Anton’s heart pounded. He’d loaded up Timur with all of the pistols, shot and powder he could carry, and Lotta already held two loaded sets. She was pale and her teeth chattered, but he hoped she’d be able to do her job.

  It seemed they stood there forever, though it probably wasn’t more than a few minutes. Suddenly, the guns let loose. The whole hillside shook and the noise, echoing through the valley, felt like it came from right above his head. A few horses jerked nervously, but everyone stayed put. Count Faris had been very strict in his orders. With the enemy so well entrenched, the guns would fire a long time before the cavalry moved in.

  The guns roared again, more ragged this time. After the first barrage, they fired as fast as they could and some crews were faster than others. Anton saw nothing but armored backs and horses in front of him. Smoke drifted down
from the hillsides, but the air was still mostly clear. Judging by the shouting and screaming from the enemy camp, some of the rounds had found their mark. Then there was the pop of musket fire and some whistling noises through the branches. The enemy was returning fire.

  A restless murmur spread through the troops.

  “Hold,” the count said. “It’s not time yet.”

  The pop of the muskets continued, but none seemed to hit their mark. They wouldn’t be able to find good targets in the trees, and most were still out of range. If anyone got hit wearing armor, they would barely feel it. Anton had none, so if he got hit, he’d notice.

  After a while, he got used to the sound of the guns. Even Lotta, who’d been looking green, seemed to relax. That was good. Then, there were explosions in the distance. Those would be the enemy’s guns, across the river. They were still out of range, though.

  Suddenly, there was a commotion to the left and Anton watched King Arryk’s cavalry move out.

  “Vica’s tits!” the count swore. “It’s too soon. Send him a message—oh, never mind. We’d better go now.” He slammed down his visor with its grinning death’s head, raised his saber and shouted, “Forward!”

  The horses ahead of Anton moved, so he followed. He glanced to his right and shouted, “Go!” at Lotta, who had frozen. He grabbed her horse’s harness and pulled. It started walking, too. They went slowly while they were in the trees. It was a long way to the enemy lines and they mustn’t tire the horses with a long gallop before the charge.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Anton watched the Norovaean cavalry pull ahead, the king at the front. They didn’t seem worried about sparing their horses.

  “What’s the fool doing?” a trooper near Anton asked. “All by himself out there. Someone’ll pick him off.”