The Desolate Empire Series: Books 1-3

by Christina Ochs

  It was raining harder and the river rushed between the banks, muddy and foaming. Troops still crossed the bridge. Anton heard gunfire and screaming behind him, but didn’t look back. Skandar waded into the water but it was flowing too fast and he couldn’t swim straight across. “Into the water,” Anton shouted at a few horse-boys nearby, riding spare mounts.

  The current pulled Skandar so hard, he couldn’t move forward at all. Anton tried not to panic. At this rate, they would end up a league downstream, not that it mattered right now. He’d be lucky to make it at all. The water was fast and wild and soldiers fell off the horses, screaming and flailing before being pulled under. Most hadn’t taken off their armor, so they didn’t have a chance. Far downstream, Anton saw some riderless horses struggle onto a steep muddy bank. He let the other two spares go and they floated downstream making slow progress to the other side.

  He let Skandar swim and looked around. Next to him, a very small horse-boy clung to the neck of a huge charger, his face white and his eyes squeezed shut. “Come on.” Though Anton felt just as scared, it helped to have someone else to worry about. “It’s all right.” He leaned over and grabbed the charger’s reins.

  The cold water rushed around his legs and Anton concentrated on the opposite bank. Fewer and fewer were making it. He had thought the worst was hearing the carnage behind him and watching people and horses go under around him. But that was like nothing when the bridge buckled, then disappeared.

  By the time Anton noticed the strange creaking sound and turned toward it, the bridge had already come apart. A hideous wail rose from the crowds that had been on the bridge seconds ago, and were now in the water. Anton saw a groom he knew clutch at a board, miss, and go under. He didn’t see him again.

  Anton had to let go the other horse’s reins and grab Skandar’s neck as a flood of bodies rushed past. He held his breath as an entire wagon hurtled toward him, though it changed direction at the last second, sweeping two horses away right in front of him. He wasn’t sure he could stay upright. “Come on Skandar,” he whispered into the horse’s ear and held on.

  After the first rush it wasn’t so bad as long as he didn’t open his eyes. The gunfire sounded close now, but the opposite bank was near. Skandar struggled up it, sliding backward a few times, but finally reaching the grass. He fell to his knees and Anton slid off his back, his legs numb, and collapsed beside him.

  For a while, Anton and Skandar both lay on the bank, breathing hard. The sounds of the guns were closer now—Mattila must have moved hers down the road. Anton couldn’t bear thinking about the carnage on the other bank. The river had seemed so wide while he was crossing it, but now it wasn’t wide enough. He saw and heard everything.

  Most of the cuirassiers never made it back to the bridge, and even though they fought hard, they were outnumbered and cut down by the dozens. At one point, Anton thought he’d spotted the count’s purple plume, but it got dark and he didn’t see it again.

  Once Mattila’s army killed all of the soldiers, they turned their attention to the wagons and the soldier’s families. That was much worse. Anton wondered if Mattila was taking revenge for what the count had done to the villages around Lerania, or if she was just as bad.

  Anton put his hands over his ears, but that didn’t help. Finally, exhausted as he was, he pulled Skandar to his feet and walked him toward the city. On the side of the road not far away, he spotted a small group of the count’s officers rounding up soldiers and horses.

  Anton walked up to one he knew. “Any sign of Count Orland?” he asked.

  The man shook his head. “Say, you’re his page, aren’t you? Why weren’t you with him?”

  “He sent me back with the horses,” Anton said miserably.

  “Good thinking,” the man said. “We have a few, more than we have troopers.”

  “What do we do now?” Anton asked.

  “We have a day or two before Mattila throws up a bridge. Those of us who want to will wait until morning for Count Orland and anyone else who makes it. After that, I plan to ride north and find Emilya Hohenwart’s army.”

  “Can I come too?” Anton asked. He didn’t see how the count could have survived between Mattila on the other shore and the mess in the river.

  “Don’t see why not, as long as you can make yourself useful.”

  The screams and shooting died down at some point and the rain let up a little. Anton fell asleep in the wet grass, propped against Skandar, who lay on his side, still exhausted.

  In the middle of the night, there was a commotion, and Anton jumped up, drawing his knife from his belt. It was the only weapon he had. Someone lit a torch and there was a familiar laugh. Anton ran toward the light, then had to laugh too. It was the count. He was soaking wet and his armor was gone, but Cid stood next to him. Anton raced over and put his arms around Cid’s neck. “I knew you’d make it,” he murmured.

  The count noticed him then. “You really are a scrappy little bugger, aren’t you? Almost as lucky as I am.”

  Anton grinned, surprised at how glad he was to see him. “I’ll give Cid a good rubdown,” he said, noticing the horse’s quivering legs.

  The count nodded. “He had quite a swim. That water is still high, and I started out several leagues upstream where I wouldn’t be spotted. I hope he can get enough rest. We have to leave at first light.”

  Anton looked around. No more than a few dozen troopers had made it here, some still soaking wet, like Anton, and a few wounded. They were a sorry-looking bunch, and in a hurry since they wanted to be far away by the time Mattila made it across.

  “She might not bother following us,” the count said. “There’s hardly enough to make it worthwhile. She got the baggage after all,” he added bitterly.

  It was then Anton realized that all of their supplies were in the baggage train and so was most of the money. Aside from what the count carried on his person, they had nothing. No spare clothes, no tents, no food, no armor, no weapons. Anton wondered what they’d do if someone attacked.

  The count spent the morning in a black mood, and Anton stayed clear. But by afternoon, he seemed to have a plan. He gathered the officers around him and said, “We make for Floradias. I have contacts there and will be able to raise money. The truce still holds, so maybe we can recruit as well.”

  “You want back in the fight after this?” one officer asked incredulously.

  “Why not? As long as I live, I won’t abandon Princess Gwynneth.”

  Fire burned in the count’s dark eyes and Anton shivered. The count might be a little crazy, but his loyalty to the princess impressed Anton. It was the way heroes in the stories behaved. He decided right then he’d go to Floradias with him.

  Braeden

  “She plans to pick ‘em off, one at a time, and it seems they’ll let her,” Prince Novitny said to the officers gathered in his tent. The rain drummed on the canvas. Novitny had just returned from a staff meeting with General Mattila. He unrolled a large map on a table. “Now she’s finished off Orland, we’ll take on Faris and this time we’ll get him. Our scouts say he’s here.” He pointed at a spot somewhat to the east. “It takes us off our path toward Arryk, but it’s a good chance to neutralize Faris first.”

  “I thought he’d linked up with Arryk by now,” Braeden said.

  “I think that was his plan, but he got hung up in this godsawful weather. All those big artillery pieces are bogged down in the mud. They’re moving, but slowly. If we can get there fast, he won’t have time to set them up, like he did at Birkenfels.”

  It was almost summer, but the rains continued. Miserable as it was for men and horses, Janna never let Braeden forget that it would be far worse for the people trying to plant crops. Bad enough that war had come, now there was no food either.

  But Braeden knew feeling bad didn’t make the corn grow. The sooner they defeated King Arryk and his allies, the sooner everyone could get back to their regular lives.

  Mattila managed the affair efficiently.
Once she’d spotted Faris, she surrounded him. He knew she was there, but it didn’t matter. He set up his guns where he could, and placed his infantry. They put up a good fight, but it wasn’t enough. Mattila didn’t even bother placing her own guns. The weather made moving them difficult, so she had left them in Lantura, closer to where she planned to meet King Arryk.

  The Sanova Hussars took on Faris from the front. They waited until his guns fired a few times, ineffectively, then they came down on the main body of badly placed infantry. They had been marching down the Podoska road, trying to link up with Seward Kurant’s army, and were strung out for leagues. The guns got bogged down in the low places on the road, which meant they were placed where they could do the least damage.

  Aware of his poor position, Count Faris ranged his pike in the van as the hussars bore down on them, but like everyone else faced with the long lances and disciplined charges, they broke soon enough. Then Braeden went to work with saber and axe. It was nastier than usual, since the road there ran between two stone outcroppings and few could get away. They fought hard, but at the end of a few hours, many of Faris’s Zeelund mercenaries were dead or wounded and even more surrendered. Faris himself had been shot three times and, though he survived, was taken prisoner.

  Mattila had put it about the countryside that she would offer three months’ pay up front to any soldier who came over to her. This worked well, since the allies were constantly strapped for cash. The terrible weather had made it difficult for them to get even the most basic supplies, so a fair number of the prisoners were happy to get a square meal, let alone a pay increase.

  “So, she steals from the people here and uses that money to pay the soldiers who’ll steal even more from them.” Janna was carefully stitching up a long gash on Braeden’s arm. “I don’t understand how that got through your armor,” she said, her brow furrowed in concentration and her tongue sticking out just the slightest bit.

  Braeden wasn’t sure where she’d learned field medicine, but he preferred her clumsy stitches to those of any doctor.

  “You must really love me to let me do this to you,” she said, reading his mind.

  “I do,” he said. “It was a halberd that got through; a nice sharp one. Caught me right under the vambraces and sliced right through the mail. Doesn’t happen often.”

  Braeden winced as she pulled another stitch through.

  She frowned. “I’m sorry. I’d do it more quickly if I could.”

  “Just takes practice,” Braeden said through clenched teeth. He should have had some of that brandy first.

  Arryk

  “You can’t afford to wait any longer,” Gwynneth said, flinging the message on the desk in front of Arryk. “She’s picking your allies off one at a time. Barela isn’t with her so you have a better chance.”

  Arryk read the message, then put his head in his hands. The news of Ruso Faris’s defeat and capture on the heels of Arian Orland’s obliteration at Lerania made him sick. “No, we need more allies, better ones. I just don’t know how to get them.” It was summer now, but here he sat, waiting for Mattila to defeat him next. It had come as a considerable shock to learn that Teodora had a new general, one who had conjured up a formidable army in a matter of months. Now he was angry he hadn’t attacked Teodora a year ago. He wished he’d been strong enough to override Gwynneth when she’d advised waiting to build up a stronger alliance, but it was too late for that now.

  “We’ll think of something.” Gwynneth sat back down across from him. “But in the meantime I’m worried. Kendryk has been a captive for nearly two years and I don’t even know if he’s still alive. And I had good reason to believe that Arian Orland could help. Now I’m not sure if he’s alive either, and if he is, if we’ll ever hear from him again.”

  “I’m worried, too,” Arryk admitted. “I never intended to be away from home so long. Things there can’t be going as well as Classen claims in his letters.”

  “What do your own sources say?” Gwynneth asked.

  “Don’t have any,” Arryk said, looking down.

  “What? You don’t have your own people at court?”

  “I told you. I had no interest in being there. All of my friends are military.” For the hundredth time, Arryk felt completely inadequate.

  “Well, what about your Larisa? Isn’t she a duchess? Surely she has connections who can help you.”

  “She’s a duchess because I made her one,” Arryk said, squirming in his seat, wishing he were anywhere but here. “She’s originally a farmer’s daughter from the Helmen Islands.” He’d forgotten about undoing the duchess thing, but Larisa no longer bothered him about it so perhaps she’d come around to the idea.

  “Oh Arryk.” Gwynneth laughed, though he detected sympathy in her eyes.

  “She’s worth a hundred courtiers.”

  “I’m sure she is,” Gwynneth said. “I wasn’t being critical. I like her and I’m glad you have her. It’s just a shame your position isn’t more secure. What does Aksel say?”

  “The usual. He writes all about his scientific experiments. He’s building a telescope he means to take out to sea.”

  “In other words, he’s no help at all. But there’s no point in worrying about that right now. Let’s think about what we must to defeat Mattila as quickly as possible so you can go home. I see no alternative except to get help from Galladium. You must avoid fighting Mattila in the meantime.”

  “Will Galladium help? And even if they do, I’m sure they’ll end up taking all of the credit,” Arryk grumbled.

  “If you beat Mattila there will be plenty of credit for everyone.” Gwynneth stood. “I’ll take Maryna along. It’s time she met Natalya.”

  “But I need you here,” Arryk said, standing as well. It was true. He relied on Gwynneth for just about everything. She had little interest in military matters, but was excellent at keeping up the troops’ spirits and there was no better negotiator. She also had a knack for turning reluctant potential allies into real, sometimes mildly enthusiastic ones.

  Gwynneth took him by the hand. “I know, and I hate to leave you. I’ll do this as fast as I can and with any luck, I’ll bring good news when I return.”

  Kendryk

  Kendryk wore rags and his hair had grown to hang far down his back. No visitors had come since his last audience with Teodora months ago. The only light came from the flicker of the torch when a guard passed his cell. His cell was surprisingly warm, but also damp and he’d often awaken from sleep drenched in sweat. He slept a great deal, but seldom dreamed. And when dreams came, they were nightmares.

  He recited over and over to himself everything he’d ever learned. Songs and poems and grammar in four languages, and the parts of the Holy Scrolls he’d pored over so often. He reconstructed the Bernotas family tree in his head, then Sebesta—his mother’s side—as far back as he remembered, and then Roussay. Then he recited the royal lineages of Inferrara, Brevard, Sikora and Ostberg.

  He supposed that kept him sane, though his mind wandered often enough he wasn’t sure. He wondered about his family and what they were doing. The children must have grown a great deal by now. Did any of them remember him? Though he believed that Gwynneth had kept her word about the castle, he wondered about everything else. Was she true to him now?

  He wondered if Arian Orland had helped rescue her and if they were together now. At first, the idea gave him a great deal of pain, which he welcomed, since anything was better than the flat dullness of feeling nothing. But now, he didn’t even have that. Kendryk still loved his wife, but was sure he’d never see her again, so what she did without him didn’t matter. He wished her well, like he’d wish a friend or distant family member well. He hoped she could be happy.

  There was nothing for him now, not even faith. For a long time, he expected another message from the gods, but after dreaming of Gwynneth, they sent nothing more. He’d spent all of his waking hours in prayer, but still nothing. At some point, he’d given up. The gods had abandoned him
because he’d failed them and was of no more use to them. He didn’t blame them for that.

  It occurred to him that the black which surrounded him now might have been the black of the dream that came to him after his first meeting Edric. He didn’t like to remember, but if he closed his eyes, sometimes it returned far too vividly:

  * * *

  A great shadow moved over the land, covering first the army of the enemy, then rolling toward Kendryk. Blacker than ink, it coated everyone and everything like hot tar. Kendryk tried to run, to fly, but the shadow caught him, black tendrils clutching at him, pulling him to the ground. He reached for something to hold onto but found nothing.

  The shadow covered everything, and Kendryk still had one eye open to see it. When he opened his mouth to scream, it filled with black. He fought the shadow with everything in him, but he was slipping into it. If there was something he should do or should have done, he couldn’t remember it. A voice shrieked at him in a language he didn’t understand, but it was too late. His eye closed, and his breath stopped …

  * * *

  He opened his eyes, shivering and shaking just like that first time. Even though that dream hadn’t come true, Kendryk knew dreams were representations—they didn’t foretell events exactly. And wasn’t he now covered in blackness? Perhaps that battle below Birkenfels had been the last one. He had failed and all was lost.

  And perhaps the end of the world wasn’t so literal either. His world had ended, along with the worlds of thousands of others—those who died in battle, or as an indirect result of the war. And if the war dragged on, as he suspected it did, the world ended every day for thousands more. In that case, he had failed utterly, though he’d tried hard to do the right thing.

  It gave him hope to wonder if Edric had been wrong and Kendryk wasn’t the ruler foretold in the Scrolls. If that was true, then all wasn’t lost and perhaps someone else would succeed in his stead. He’d never seen his brother-in-law Arryk as a religious sort, or very thoughtful at all, but he was still young and might have changed a great deal.