The Desolate Empire Series: Books 1-3

by Christina Ochs

  Anton thought that would be a shame, though King Arryk presented a tempting target. His armor was all gold and over his helmet he wore the fur of a great white bear, it’s jaws gaping wide.

  Count Orland wasn’t going to let him stay out there by himself and Anton watched Cid pull ahead. He urged Timur to a trot, and picked up speed as the ground grew more even. He still couldn’t see what was ahead, though now musket balls whistled closer and a horse crashed to the ground behind him. Anton pretended he hadn’t noticed and urged Timur forward. King Arryk was still out ahead, but not by much.

  Now the shrieks were louder than any Anton had heard before, followed by crashing thuds and the awful screams of people and horses. They had come into range of Ensden’s guns.

  The Norovaeans were taking the worst of it, although Anton felt rather than saw cannonballs landing around him. He gritted his teeth and spurred Timur on. If they went far enough, the balls would pass overhead and into the ranks behind them.

  Ahead of him, he spotted Count Orland’s plume, but nearly fell off as Timur came to sudden halt. It seemed they had reached the front lines. Ensden’s infantry stood massed before them while his guns landed shot behind them. They were trapped.

  The count turned toward them. “Don’t stop now,” he shouted. “Their lines are thin and won’t hold if we go straight in. It’ll be ugly, but it’s the only way.” With that, he faced forward again and pulled out two pistols.

  Anton looked for Lotta and didn’t see her, so he got two more pistols ready and looked for a path forward.

  For the next moments, he was confused. He lost track of the count, and several horses rushed past him. One went down right next to him and he yanked Timur out of the way. The horse’s rider was thrown off, but got back to his feet, fumbling for a weapon. A spear-point came from nowhere, pushing through a gap in his armor near the throat. There was a spray of blood and he fell again.

  Anton looked around wildly. He wondered if he should fire the pistols, until he remembered the count needed them.

  He took a deep breath and urged Timur on, keeping an eye out for that spear. The enemy soldier holding it had disappeared, so he kept going forward. He spotted the count off to his left, in the thick of things. Anton went straight for him and shouted as soon as he got behind Cid. “Sir, your pistols.”

  The count turned in his saddle and grabbed the two Anton held. In one fluid motion he fired one, then the other at a right angle, away from Cid’s head. Two enemy pikemen fell and Anton had two more pistols ready when the count turned back. He took back the two empty ones. Somehow, he’d have to reload in the middle of this.

  He had two more already loaded, and when the count turned back to him again, he shouted, “reloading,” so the count pulled out his saber and slashed about until Anton handed him the pistols. The noise filled Anton’s ears and he wondered he could hear at all. Smoke and dust and awful smells swirled around his head.

  “We have to get to the king,” the count shouted. The pressure in front of them had let up because much of the enemy had gone left. Anton handed over two more pistols, then drew a sword sheathed in Timur’s saddle. He couldn’t remember putting it there. Though he didn’t know how to use it, it was better than nothing.

  The count, Anton, and a few others, pushed to where they saw King Arryk and a few of his officers in a sea of enemy. More of Orland’s cavalry came up behind them and they bore down on the enemy to their left.

  When Anton saw he wasn’t in immediate danger with the enemy focused on the king, he sheathed the sword and reloaded a few more pistols. By now, the count was cutting his way through with his saber and Anton couldn’t keep up, so he just handed pistols to all who needed one. He kept an eye on Orland’s purple plume and another on King Arryk’s white bear’s head.

  Ossian Schurtz galloped past, then wheeled back when he saw Anton. “Get whatever pistols you have to the king,” he said. “He’s in trouble.”

  Arryk

  Until now, Arryk had imagined a battle would be more fun and less terrifying. It started out well enough. The great guns overhead made a tremendous noise and Arryk knew the enemy would falter at the sound. He also knew he should wait, but every second that went by meant less enemy left for him to kill. He didn’t want it said that he’d never even joined the fight before it ended.

  Larisa anticipated his order, and before he spoke, she said, “Wait,” rather sharply.

  Arryk pretended he didn’t hear and shouted the order to move forward anyway. He knew the others would be eager to fight too. The way ahead was clear and he urged his horse to a trot, then a gallop. He didn’t see the enemy but they had to be near.

  Arryk caught sight of spear tips and shiny helmets ahead when a whistling overhead and horrid sounds behind him nearly caught him by surprise. His horse kept moving, even though Arryk’s first impulse was to run away.

  But he couldn’t run. He was the king and everyone was following him. He would have to keep moving and hope a cannonball didn’t take him. That would be a terrible end. He wondered if he should pray but didn’t remember the words to any prayers. So he made a silent promise to the gods to read everything Edric Maximus ever wrote, no matter how boring, if they would just spare his life, and Larisa’s.

  She was still at his side, and pulling ahead. He spurred his horse to catch up to her. After the shriek of another cannonball the officer on his left disappeared. Arryk forced himself not to look. He needed to keep his eyes trained on what was ahead. And that was infantry and they were ready for him.

  Since Count Ensden knew they were coming, he’d had plenty of time to get everyone into position. They had dug trenches and put spikes into the ground, and in between, pike stood waiting for him.

  The plan had been to have the artillery soften up the infantry positions before sending in the cavalry, but Arryk had moved too soon and they still stood firm. There were a few gaps where the guns had hit their mark, but those filled in quickly.

  Arryk drew his saber, but the enemy was still out of reach and his horse wouldn’t ride into the lowered pike. He’d have to wheel around and try again. There was a terrific noise on both sides of him and he realized that both Larisa and someone on his left had fired pistols.

  Arryk fumbled for his own. He could shoot well enough, but wasn’t prepared to do it at a full gallop. He pulled his horse up well before they reached the pike, pulled out both his pistols and fired them into the front ranks. There was already so much smoke it was impossible to tell if he’d hit anyone. But then Larisa peeled off to the right and his horse followed.

  Now he remembered their training. His own second rank would come up and fire next and they would keep going until the pike square crumbled.

  When he headed back, he saw the damage the enemy artillery had done. It looked like half his cavalry was gone, pounded into the mud in a bleeding mass. He worried he might be sick, but Larisa shouted at him again. “Hurry up and reload.”

  By some miracle, she had already reloaded while Arryk fumbled with his pistols, hands shaking. Larisa grabbed one impatiently and finished it before he reloaded the other. He remembered Count Orland suggesting he have a page accompany him with loaded pistols, but he’d forgotten to do anything about that.

  When they reached the front again, most of the enemy pike had disappeared. Arryk wondered if they’d retreated, but then saw the glint of muskets an instant before an explosion of noise and smoke. This was worse. The muskets had greater range than his pistols and he had no idea where his own musketeers were, if any survived at all. He’d placed them behind the cavalry which meant they were being pummeled by the guns as well.

  He took a deep breath and spurred his horse on. If he died right now, at least it would be facing the enemy. His horse veered around the body of a fallen horse and officer. Arryk, caught by surprise, fell off. In spite of his heavy armor, he rolled onto his shoulder and got back up again. He looked for his horse but it was gone, along with the pistols still holstered in the saddle. Curs
ing under his breath, he drew his saber, just in time to meet a halberdier who’d come from nowhere. The man wore little armor and went down in a spray of red when Arryk sliced his blade across his neck. He grabbed the halberd, though he didn’t need it and looked around wildly for Larisa.

  She was on the ground, on her hands and knees, next to her thrashing horse.

  “Oh gods,” Arryk said, certain she’d been hurt.

  Larisa got to her feet unsteadily, grabbed a pistol from the saddle and shot the horse, then pulled a flail from somewhere else. Arryk remembered laughing at her when she practiced with it; now as it hissed around her head, he was glad she never listened to him.

  The muskets ahead still fired, but more raggedly now. Faris’s guns were doing their work and the enemy was slowly diminishing. But there were still too many, especially because most of Arryk’s cavalry was now on foot. At least some were still alive, though Arryk didn’t know how long that would last.

  There was more shouting in his ear. It wasn’t Larisa—she was several paces ahead, cutting a path with her flail. He turned and saw a boy with a horse standing at his elbow.

  “Your Majesty, here’s a horse,” the boy shouted.

  Arryk laughed. He couldn’t believe his luck. Maybe he’d be reading sermons after all.

  “His name is Timur and the pistols are loaded,” the boy said.

  Arryk vaulted into the saddle and spurred into what remained of the enemy line. A rising breeze blew the smoke away and he noticed they had made progress. To his right, Orland’s cavalry chased infantry down the riverbank and behind him marched rank upon rank of Faris’s pike.

  The castle seemed so close now he could see the hinges on its massive gate across the moat. Around him, his own troops ran forward and he urged the horse on. He came to the top of a small rise that led down to the river and saw waves of humanity crowded at its banks.

  There was no bridge but everyone who could was getting into boats or heading upstream to a ford. Troops fanned out all around the castle walls and soon there was no sign of the enemy.

  Arryk stopped for breath and wiped the sweat from his face. His hand came away red. He didn’t feel hurt and wondered if it was someone else’s blood. He looked to the sky, surprised that the sun had moved so far west. Had they really been fighting all day?

  Everyone milled around the castle walls expectantly. The orange Roussay banner fluttered from the highest tower above the Bernotas blue and Arryk realized with a sudden surge of excitement that he had won a great victory. The drawbridge lowered and the gate opened. Arryk rode forward, crossing the moat. He couldn’t wait to see his sister.

  Gwynneth

  Exhausted, hungry and ragged, Gwynneth didn’t feel the least bit like a princess. It didn’t help she was hugely pregnant. The baby wouldn’t come for several months, but she was certain she was about to burst. And over six months of siege had done nothing for her looks, she was sure. She’d ordered them to open the gate when it was clear her brother had won the battle, then made her way down from the top of the tower.

  Arryk rode into the courtyard on a horse that was too small for him, throwing off a bloodstained fur as he dismounted. Gwynneth would have run to him, but she could barely walk. Arryk ran to her instead, and swept her off the ground as if she were still a girl of seventeen. By the time he put her down, she was sobbing. Mortified, she buried her face in his shoulder. He held her close, stroking her hair and murmuring something in Norovaean into her ear.

  She pulled herself together with an effort, wiping her eyes with her apron.

  He looked down at her, his eyes crinkling the way she always remembered. “What are you wearing?” he asked. “You look like the maid.”

  “Whatever fits.” It had been so long since she’d smiled, she thought her face would split. “This dress belonged to the baker’s wife. She used to be on the larger side, before we went to half-rations.”

  “We’ll find you something suitable soon enough.” He put his arm around her shoulder and steered her back toward the castle. “Are you all right? And the children?”

  “We’re all well, though rather hungry,” she said. “Almost everyone’s survived, but I worried about having enough food to last another month.” Only one old woman had died on one of the coldest nights; that everyone else had remained healthy was yet another reason to convince Gwynneth the gods were watching over her and her mission. “I’m so glad you’re here; I have to admit I’d nearly lost hope.” While she led him into a tiny parlor in the castle living quarters she barely registered everyone else rushing down stairs and out doors to greet their liberators.

  She grabbed a girl running by and told her to have the children brought down to see their uncle. Arryk had met Maryna a few years before on a visit to Terragand while Devyn was a baby, but he’d never seen little Andres, who was just now learning to walk.

  The two of them sat at a small table grinning at each other. Then his face sobered. “You must know that father is dead, Gwynn. That’s why I didn’t come months sooner. He’d had some kind of attack last summer and wasn’t able to speak after that. Classen wouldn’t authorize any military action, so I had to wait.”

  She had suspected her father was dead, but hearing it was still a blow. She couldn’t speak for a moment. “Poor Papa. Did he suffer very much?”

  “No one knows. It didn’t seem like it. The times I saw him, he was hardly conscious.”

  “That’s a mercy then. I was sure something awful had happened, because I knew you would have helped if you could.”

  “I was ready to come as soon as I heard what Kendryk did with the priest. I’m sorry I took so long but I’m glad I wasn’t too late.”

  “Not too late for us, thank the gods. But too late for Kendryk, maybe.”

  “What do you mean? Surely he still lives.”

  “I hope he does. The last word I received was from the empress telling me she’d had him deposed and ordering me to vacate the castle as it no longer belonged to him. Even if she didn’t kill him, I don’t know if he would have survived that. It must have broken his heart.”

  “I have heard no word of his death. Come now Gwynn, don’t despair. He’s tougher than he looks.”

  “But he was hurt.” The tears she’d been holding back so long welled up again. “And it wasn’t just from battle. I’d done something terrible before and he was already so sad, and then he had to burn everything, and I don’t see how he could bear it all.”

  “I can’t imagine you doing anything that awful and he did what he had to. It is very much in Teodora’s interest to keep him alive.”

  “Or to let us believe he was alive. She still kept hoping I’d turn over Edric Maximus or the castle to her.”

  “Well, now you’re free and she has no hope of that, there will be no point in pretending Kendryk’s alive if he isn’t. I doubt you’ll be in suspense very long.”

  “If he’s dead, I’m sure I won’t survive it.” She felt like she was hanging on by a thread. The joy of liberation was being replaced by a creeping fear that Teodora might punish Kendryk for her defeat here.

  “I’m sure he’s fine and you will be too,” Arryk said stoutly. “Now, I want to send you and the children back to Norovaea as soon as possible. You can take care of things for me there, since I’ve had to leave Classen in charge, which I don’t much like.”

  “Why not Aksel?”

  “Oh, he’s more peculiar than ever and has no interest in anything but his experiments. You’d be better at it anyway. I’ll make sure that Terragand’s borders are secure and find a way to free Kendryk. With any luck, we’ll have made Count Ensden a prisoner and can trade him.”

  “Teodora won’t do it,” Gwynneth said. “She won’t free him for any reason now she can’t get the castle and Edric. And I’m sorry, but I’m not going to Norovaea. I’m staying with you and we’re not stopping until we’ve beaten down the gates of Atlona and freed my husband.”

  Exhausted as Gwynneth was, she couldn’t re
st yet. She’d ordered hers and the children’s things packed since she planned to join Arryk on campaign. Balduin Bernotas still languished in the dungeon and must remain a hostage, so she’d leave a garrison at the castle to keep it from falling into Evard’s hands.

  Arryk was no good at making those kinds of plans, so she sent him off to play with the children and gave all the orders herself. After arranging everything, she went back to the little parlor to see what letters needed to be sent, now she could send them. She’d no sooner sat down, than there was a soft knock. “Come,” she said, hoping whoever it was wouldn’t take long. It was well after midnight and she struggled to keep her eyes open.

  She jumped out of her chair as Arian Orland entered, alone. He closed the door behind him, but stayed on the opposite side of the room.

  “Might I have a word with Your Grace?” His tone was very different from what she’d ever heard before. “I won’t take long; I can see you are exhausted.” That was a kind way to comment on her faded appearance.

  She stared at him hard for a moment. He looked as good as ever, but she felt nothing, not even anger. Best to finish this now. “All right.” She sat back down without offering him a seat.

  He took a few steps toward her, then stopped. “I need to know,” he said. “Is it mine?”

  Such an unexpected question nearly sent her into hysterical laughter. She pushed it down. Whatever had passed between them, he had helped free her now and didn’t deserve to be insulted. “It’s not,” she said softly, shaking her head. “I’m sure of it.”

  “Oh.” He seemed disappointed.

  “It’s for the best, I think.”

  “I suppose it is. I wouldn’t have minded, you know. Does this mean you were reconciled with Kendryk then, before the end?”

  She nodded, unable to speak, thinking of that last night.

  “I’m glad,” he said. “At least in some ways. I wanted to apologize in any case. I’ve never had many true friends, and Kendryk was the best. My behavior was disgraceful.”