The Desolate Empire Series: Books 1-3

by Christina Ochs

  Teodora waited a few weeks before visiting Aksel, hoping an extended residence in the Arnfels might soften him up a little. When she was ready, she sent an order ahead to have the prisoner cleaned up, and put in a better room for her visit. One step inside Kendryk’s squalid cell had been enough to put her off for life.

  “Is he restrained?” she asked the guard before entering the cell.

  “He is, Your Highness.”

  “Then you can stay out.” Teodora swept into the cell, the door banging shut behind her.

  An attractive, bespectacled young man sat in a chair, manacles binding his wrists to its arms. “Your Highness?” He made an instinctive move to stand, but the chains held him fast.

  “Yes, it’s me.” Teodora smiled down at him, then sat down across from him. “I thought it was time we had a chat.”

  “I hope I’ve done nothing wrong.” He offered a charming, ironic smile, which also appeared quite innocent.

  “To be honest Prince, I’m not sure.” Teodora smiled back, though she kept it chilly. Let the boy squirm for a moment.

  It seemed she wasn’t succeeding. Aksel sat relaxed in spite of his restraints, regarding her with friendly and mildly curious blue eyes. She decided the spectacles did nothing to detract from his looks, and in fact made him appear more interesting than he probably was. Faced with an apparent choice between Gauvain Brevard and this rather sweet young prince, she could see why Zofya was smitten.

  Finally she said, “It’s come to my attention you spent quite a bit of time with the Archduchess Zofya before this.” She waved her hand at the barred window.

  Aksel’s face lit up. “I did. I hope I wasn’t wrong in doing so. The archduchess has a sharp mind with a scientific bent. Before this happened, we’d been working on a solution to the—”

  “Never mind that,” Teodora interrupted. She found science dull and generally useless, unless it advanced military technology. “I don’t care how she spends her free time. However, it seems she’s fallen in love with you.”

  From the way Aksel’s eyebrows shot up, Teodora guessed this was the first he’d heard of it. Then a flush spread over his face, though it appeared to be embarrassment, not ardor.

  “I’m sorry about that,” he said. “I can assure you, Your Highness, that I had no intention of leading the archduchess on. I thought we were merely friends.”

  “I hoped that might be the case,” Teodora said. “Zofya is still young, and her head is full of silly romantic notions. You might have heard that she is betrothed to Gauvain Brevard.”

  “Yes, I knew of that. In fact it was the archduchess who told me. It was some time ago, but she seemed to like the idea of becoming Queen of Galladium.”

  “Yes, she did, and so do I.” Teodora leaned back and fixed her gaze on Aksel. “You seem a reasonable sort—unlike your idiotic brother and fanatical sister—so I don’t mind telling you, it’s very important that this marriage go forward.”

  Aksel seemed amused, rather than offended at the insults she’d just flung at his siblings. He leaned forward. “Is that why I’m in here? To keep me out of her way? If so, I can assure you I’ll do my best to avoid the archduchess, should you be kind enough to send me back to the temple.”

  “You’re in here because I need your brother to send me money sooner than agreed.” There was no point in pretending. “I only found out about Zofya’s feelings when she came to plead for your release.”

  “How sweet of her. Has my brother responded to your satisfaction?”

  “It’s too soon to say.” Teodora shrugged. “Though you might help with that. Perhaps you can write him a letter, letting him know you’re safe, but will only remain so if he cooperates.”

  “What do I get if I write your letter?” Aksel’s tone was mild, but his eye bore an amused glint. He didn’t seem nearly upset enough about his circumstances.

  “Don’t be impertinent,” Teodora snapped. “You’re in no position to negotiate.”

  “True. I meant no disrespect. But I promise to be the picture of cooperation if you let me out of here.”

  “We’ll see.” Teodora stood and walked to the door. “Write that letter, and I’ll think about improving your situation.” Compared to his older brother, she found Aksel marvelously easy to deal with. Given time, she was sure she could find a use for him.

  Braeden

  It made sense there’d be soldiers ranged all along that bank of the river. Braeden’s only hope now was that a small party watched the ferry, so he and Karil could somehow blast their way through.

  “How many?” he whispered, mounting Kazmir and hauling Karil up behind him. They’d have a better chance on horseback.

  “Six, I think,” Karil whispered back.

  “Have they seen us?”

  “I don’t know. They’re standing on the road.”

  By now Braeden had spotted them too, and was certain they were Mattila’s troops. “We’ll come up on them quiet as we can. You hold the saber and I’ll take the pistols.”

  In spite of the bumpy crossing, Kazmir acted refreshed. Maybe he was looking forward to some action. Braeden walked him slowly through the trees, keeping the soldiers in view. They acted as though they hadn’t seen him, standing around in disorder, some looking toward the river as they talked, others watching the woods on the other side of the road. If they had spotted their quarry, they were hiding it well. Braeden counted six as well.

  “We’ll run over them once, then come back and finish what’s left,” he murmured to Karil. A rising wind rustled the needles of the firs, masking any smaller noises. It died down, and Braeden pulled Kazmir to a stop. The moment it rose again, he spurred him to a gallop, and Karil shrieked something ungodly at the top of his lungs. Braeden grinned, recognizing the Marjatyan battle cry.

  One soldier turned to face him, so Braeden shot him first. Another went down under Kazmir’s hoofs.

  “Right!” Karil shouted, and Braeden turned as a woman raised a musket. He shot her, and a scream rang in his ear as Karil caught a man from behind with the saber. These were lightly armored infantry troops; easy to kill.

  The remaining two tried to get away. Kazmir danced like a colt, and chased them down. Braeden drew his estoc, and stabbed the man running alongside the road, while Karil got the one trying to turn toward the river.

  “That’s all,” Karil said, once Braeden had pulled Kazmir to a halt.

  Braeden turned in the saddle to grin at Karil. “You really are a menace with a blade,” he said.

  “Thank Prince Kendryk for making me practice every day for two years.” Karil wiped the bloody saber on his breeches. They were so filthy by now, a little blood didn’t matter.

  “Now, we need to find our way, and quickly,” Braeden said, squinting up at the sky. The sun had moved high by now, though it hung far to the south this time of year. “East is that way.” He pointed into the trees. “I hope we can find a path that will lead us straight into Terragand. It can’t be over five leagues. Now let’s take cover and reload the pistols, since we made quite a ruckus, and might have raised the alarm for any other troops nearby.”

  He was right. They hadn’t so much as reloaded before they heard hoofbeats in the distance. “Cavalry,” Karil said. “Could be it’s your friends.”

  “I hope not. Captain Dura will be watched, so she can’t let us go a second time. We need to disappear into the woods.”

  Kazmir was reluctant to turn away from another fight, but Braeden made him plunge into the dark trees. They had to move both quickly and quietly, and it wasn’t long before hoofbeats pounded on the road behind them. Their pursuers stopped to look at the bodies, which slowed them down, but they had to know their prize wasn’t far away. Braeden kept Kazmir at a walk, his heart in his mouth. The moment he found a deer trail, he urged him to a trot.

  “They’re right behind us,” Karil whispered. “Shall I shoot at them?”

  “Not yet,” Braeden said. “Let’s try to get away first. How many do you see
?”

  “Four or five,” Karil said. “It’s hard to count them between the trees. I think the others have gone down to the river, but they’ll be on our trail fast enough.”

  “Let’s speed up,” Braeden said, letting Kazmir have his head. Behind him, horses crashed through the trees.

  Anton

  Anton’s head hurt worse than it ever had from drinking too much wine. He rolled over onto his back and moaned. When he opened his eyes, he saw the light of a fire and people he didn’t know sitting around it. He sat up carefully, and noticed his armor was gone. So was his doublet, and his boots. He wondered if he’d been hurt and someone had undressed him. But he wasn’t inside a hospital tent or wagon. He tried to stand, but his knees buckled, so he sat back down again.

  A few other fellows sat nearby, and he recognized one of them. “Where are we?” he asked. “Where is the count?”

  The man looked at him, hollow-eyed. “The count is dead,” he said. “And we’re prisoners of Brynhild Mattila herself.”

  The memory of what he had seen rushed back into Anton’s mind. “Oh gods.”

  The man looked sympathetic. “A real shame, the way he went. That gunner had perfect aim; took the count and his horse right with him. Nothing left but a few bits here and there.”

  Anton tried to speak but choked, and was sick in the grass. He laid back down again, staring up at the black sky. So what he’d seen really was the count and Cid. And all that blood; it had to be from the two of them. Anton was sick again. Then he thought of Skandar, and sat up. “My horse,” he said, trying to quell the panic rising in his voice. “Where is my horse? Is he all right?”

  “They took our horses,” the man said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Mattila takes yours for herself. Even a general doesn’t see a battle charger so fine very often.”

  Anton sprang to his feet, though he still wobbled. “I have to get him,” he said. “You have to help me.”

  The man laughed. “I don’t think you understand, boy. We’re prisoners of war and we’re not going anywhere.”

  “I don’t. What?” Anton fell back into the grass. His legs wouldn’t support him.

  “Prisoners,” the man said. “That’s why your armor and most of your clothes are gone. Spoils of battle. You might not see them, but you can be sure there’s guards posted all around us.”

  “So I’m a prisoner of the empress?” Anton was finally making sense of some of this.

  “In a manner of speaking, though the general might not agree. Either way, you’d best get used to the idea.”

  “What will happen to us?” Anton asked. He had to find out what was next, so he could figure out a way to get Skandar back.

  “I imagine those of us who are still fit will be invited to join the general’s ranks. As infantry, you understand.”

  “I won’t,” Anton said. “I won’t fight for the empress.”

  The man laughed again, harsher this time. “You will. If you refuse you die. They’ve already killed the wounded, and they’ll get rid of you too if you’re not of any use to them. Best do as you’re told. With any luck, the tide will turn, and you’ll be captured by the other side.”

  “I can’t fight for the empress,” Anton said again.

  “Just do it,” the man said wearily. “Make it easier on yourself.”

  Anton shook his head and closed his eyes. Maybe this was a bad dream and he’d wake up in the morning, the count’s familiar laugh in his ear, with Cid and Skandar standing nearby. He smelled food and realized he was hungry, though he doubted he’d get any of it. He was right.

  A kick to the ribs woke him up before dawn. “Up with you,” someone shouted.

  Anton sensed another kick coming, and scrambled to his feet before it connected with him again. The others were getting to their feet as well. A big man with a dark, fleshy face paced before them. It was cold, and Anton shivered, realizing he was in nothing but his shirt and breeches.

  “I reckon you lot know the drill,” the big man was saying. “Our fine general is offering you employment in her army. Say yes and you’ll be assigned to a unit, fed and paid mostly regular. Say no, and you travel straight to paradise, though from the looks of you, you’re more likely to go the other direction.”

  The man walked along the line, followed by a skinny girl scribbling on a sheet of paper fastened to a wooden tablet. He took their names and ages, then other men led them off somewhere. Anton was close to the end of the line. “Remember what I said,” the man standing next to him muttered. “Just do this, and might be you’ll live to get away.”

  Anton had to clench his teeth to keep them from chattering. The big man stood in front of him now. “Name?” he asked, looking Anton up and down with a critical eye.

  “Er.” Anton realized at that moment he shouldn’t give his real name.

  “Name!” the man barked. “Or are you one of them idiots? Them are the ones what dig privy trenches.”

  “Oh, er, no,” Anton said, his tongue getting in his way. “Beran. My name is Anton Beran.”

  “Moraltan,” the man grumbled. “Troublemaker most like. Age?”

  “Sixteen.” This lie came more easily since Anton used it on a regular basis.

  “Doubt that,” the man grumbled. “And skinny as a beanpole too. But you’re tall, and might yet get stronger if you’re dragging a pike all day. Pike,” he barked at the girl and she scribbled. “Off you go.” And he waved Anton to the left.

  A man who looked like an infantry sergeant said, “You’ll come this way. Welcome to the army of Brynhild Mattila. Weber back there says you’re Moraltan, so you’ll be with your kind. I’m assigning you to the Michalek pike regiment. You’ll report to the quartermaster and he’ll get you fixed for clothes.” Anton must have looked confused because the man shook his head, grabbed him by the arm and turned him around. “Between those tents, to the big one at the end. There’ll be a line of your lot.”

  Anton hurried off, cold mud squishing between his bare toes. He hoped the quartermaster had shoes. Something warm to wear over his shirt would be nice too. And food. It had been too long since he’d had anything to eat.

  Braeden

  As the crashing behind them grew louder, Braeden let Kazmir go. He’d have to trust him to find his way without breaking a leg. A shot whizzed overhead. “Keep your head down,” Braeden said, leaning over Kazmir’s neck. “Make yourself a small target.”

  “I should shoot back,” Karil said.

  “Not unless they’re so close you can’t miss. We can’t reload, and there are a lot more of them.”

  Braeden concentrated on finding a safe path for Kazmir, so he could go faster. By his reckoning, they were still too far from the Terragand border to get away, but he could do nothing but try.

  More shots flew by, and Braeden ventured a look back. They were right behind him now, with a clear shot if he stopped. He pulled Kazmir toward a thicket, hoping for a way out the other side. If not, Braeden would turn and face them.

  In the gloom, the bushes and trees showed no gap, but Kazmir went ahead anyway. Branches lashed at Braeden’s face, and he tasted blood on his lip. Their only hope now was that their pursuers couldn’t see which way they’d gone, though they’d likely heard them.

  “They’re Oricians,” Karil said in his ear.

  “Are you sure?” Light cavalry from the Zastwar borderlands, Oricians were notoriously good trackers. They wouldn’t lose the trail for long, if at all.

  “I’m sure,” Karil said. “Those long red coats and black hats. Can we outrun them? Their horses are smaller.”

  “Kazmir is too tired,” Braeden said. “We’ll go as far as we can, then we’ll have to fight them off until we can’t anymore.”

  He stopped Kazmir for a moment, and listened. The horse’s labored breathing blocked out any other sounds. Braeden wouldn’t push him any further. Even if the Oricians killed Braeden and Karil, they’d recognize a great warhorse and take good care of him. He dismounted quietly, helpe
d Karil down, and pushed Kazmir behind the wide trunk of a tree.

  With the pursuers so close behind him, he recognized the Orician tongue. A cluster of them stood on the other side of the thicket, and Braeden understood enough to tell they were searching for his trail. The gloom of the thick woods made it hard for them to spot it. Braeden put his finger to his lips, and drew his pistols. He hoped they’d go in another direction. If not, he’d be ready for them.

  A torch flared up; they hadn’t stopped looking. With that much light, they’d probably find it. They also made better targets.

  “Now,” Braeden whispered. “At any silhouette.” A shape moved into the light and Braeden fired. There was a shout, and a crash as something fell into a bush. A body, hopefully. Light flared from muzzles as they fired back. Wood splintered into Braeden’s face as shots drove into the trees around him. He wished he’d sent Karil into the shelter of the big tree along with Kazmir.

  Beside him, Karil fired both pistols at the same time and hit at least one Orician, crashing through the bushes now, dead ahead. Braeden fired again, but now his pistols were empty, so he drew a blade and stepped forward. He still didn’t know their numbers, or how many pistols they had, but he reckoned he might get one or two, even on horseback, before they took him down.

  An Orician thundered down on him, a pistol in one hand, a saber in the other. Braeden jumped aside as he fired, while Karil cried out and fell to the ground behind him. Willing himself not to look, Braeden gritted his teeth and lunged at the horseman. The man tried wheeling around, but the thicket was too small, and his horse balked. Braeden slashed across his back with the saber, hoping the fellow was as lightly armored as most Oricians. The man slumped forward across his horse’s neck, and Braeden looked for Karil.

  He sat on the ground, and in the gloom, it was hard to tell how badly he was hurt. Karil held a sword, barely fending off another horseman slashing down at him. Braeden ran toward him, and caught the man’s saber arm as he raised it for another blow. He shrieked and fell off his horse. Braeden whirled around as another horse bore down on him, threw himself to the side, rolling out of the way, and leapt to his feet as soon as the horse passed him.