Redemption (The Boris Chronicles Book 4)

by Paul C. Middleton

  Scrubbing his face, with fear in his eyes and sorrow in his expression, Boris was silent for a time. When he finally spoke up, his tone was one of self-reproach. He said, “You are right. You’ve been right for years, probably decades.” His voice was that of a broken man when he continued, “But what can I do about it now?”

  Janna looked concerned because she had discussed the options with Lilith previously. With the amount of the population that disapproved of the situation, half-measures wouldn’t be enough.

  Lilith presented her analysis. Over sixty percent of the population disliked Olaf for a variety of reasons, while less than five percent liked him. There was an interesting aspect as to the makeup of the five percent.

  Then she went forth with the proposed solution. “We recruit from the self-proclaimed militias in the west and south to form a battalion. Pull some of the most experienced Non-Coms from the regulars to give them a leavening of real military experience and put Olaf in command. Many of those militias object to the restrictions you placed on his movements and command opportunities.” She had used the common slang for Non-Commissioned officers or NCOs.

  She snorted, “They can hardly object to being placed under his command. They will be a dog’s breakfast, but all those we’re talking about have completed the year of military service you require.”

  Boris went pale as a sheet, but nodded slowly. Janna was stuck. Part of her felt outrage, built on denial that it was the best solution. There was a core within herself that knew with all their commitments, it was the best they could do.

  Danislav was concerned. He hadn’t realized the number of people who actively disliked Olaf was so large. “But surely, that can only lead to his death, Lilith. That is not the goal here. Those militias represent something of a reaction to the perceived Iron Hand of Boris. Pushing at the edges of his policies. Probing outside the borders of his lands. Chasing bandits that only raided for food and aren't stupid about it, only intimidating the people they take food from.”

  Danislav frowned at that as he didn't like the policy that allowed raider bands to form. Or the policy that left any bandits on the borders.

  The problem was if they went after the pure bandits as well as the sadistic bastards, they'd be stretched well beyond their breaking point. They just didn’t have the resources, even with every advantage they had built up. The bandits, rather than the psychopaths, usually protected those they preyed upon from other predators. Boris was somewhat philosophical about it. After all, sometimes Cossacks had practiced similar banditry.

  Boris could only protect so much land, so many people. Beyond that, all he could do was encourage restraint as firmly as possible. Prevent the worst atrocities.

  That was despite controlling one of the very few areas that still produced ammunition at all. Boris had managed to relocate a small production facility for artillery ammunition as well as ammunition for their rifles. With the efforts to minimize artillery use, they had a decent supply for even a significant period of conflict.

  “Your analysis is flawed, Danislav. After the platoons he patrols with most regularly, often filling in for injured or ill privates and NCOs, the self-formed militias are the group most likely to support him. They view him as the ‘imprisoned heir.' Although, they won't be easy to lead. They all have their preconceptions of Olaf, and few in the militias have served with him.” Boris concluded

  Boris was smart enough to allow those militias to form, even let them send officers and senior members to train in tactics and the military skills they needed. That made their issues as well as their support public. It also encouraged units that were on the official register and that supported him unconditionally to train rigorously. To show those viewed as potentially disloyal the cost of an uprising.

  “That brings up the second problem,” Janna began in a distant tone, “without any of the militias on the board, we have no reserve for the regulars which will be weakened when, or I suppose if, the coalition moves in to quieten the central lands.”

  Danislav’s face lit with a wry smile, “Janna, we’re talking about the independent militia, not the official militia. The official militia would resent being sent under Olaf. Many of the more experienced members are still in the official militia because of the independent militia. The biggest problem will be maintaining numbers when we send Olaf’s militia away.”

  He rolled his eyes then continued, “They see themselves as a counterbalance to what they view as youthful exuberance. There is only a handful of the pro-Olaf militias. There is barely a half-dozen in each group that are from the first generation after the Fall, and I can only think of one or two who were born before the world’s worst day ever.”

  Boris slowly nodded and, tapping an index finger on his chin, said, “So, they’re similar to the gangs that would spontaneously form in large Russian cities?”

  Lilith responded, “In analytics of formation, you would be correct. In all other definitions, you would be incorrect. They hold themselves to a much higher standard than any boy gang could, complemented by the compulsory military training that all citizens of your domain must take between the ages of sixteen and twenty, and the year’s military service at age twenty-one.

  “Their discipline and cohesion I would estimate to be equal to that of a well-drilled militia, perhaps even a reserve force. Similar in nature to the best of the militias in pre-Fall Cold War United States. Call them the Minutemen. I will state unequivocally they do not match the discipline of your regular army, and would have no real threat value in insurrection despite knowledge of your methods of operation.

  “In part, this could be due to their estimate of their own abilities compared to your regular forces. Additionally, it would be because of the lack of any tactical heavy weapons or support artillery. Finally, the Weres in their formations are also loyal to Boris as pack leader.” Everyone at the table nodded in understanding.

  Although the entire population of his domain was expected to be proficient with a rifled sidearm, the official militia was limited to light field artillery. They had a limited number of pieces. Only the regular and reserve forces had medium pieces and infantry mortars. Given the state of the region, most of the military bases had been raided for equipment early on. The independent militias were not allowed any artillery.

  Then there was the respect most of Boris’ population felt for him.

  If rebels lacked a broad support base to move and conceal a stockpile of heavier weapons from a new-found cache, any rebellion would fail and do so quickly. Given that Boris was respected—and at least liked—by most of his citizens, it was doubtful that such an event had even occurred once. Without the occurrence of such an event, no rebellion could succeed, hence the formation of dissidents into independent militias.

  They could make it clear that to push too hard against their wishes would cost Boris.

  All this made a few additional problems clear to him.

  “I’m going to have to slice at least an artillery platoon out of rotation to support whatever forces we end up sending with Olaf. He is going up against an unknown weapon. I won’t have him and his forces more vulnerable than necessary. Maybe not any heavier field artillery, but he'll need mortars.”

  Danislav nodded and said, “I would suggest that some of the original pack would be willing to act as a headquarters squad and bodyguards. If we pick from outside the potential Alphas, there won't be any whispers. Just you doing what you had to for your kids when you sent them away. There might be a little chaos in the sub-packs as people vie for position to be potential replacements. Always will be, though.”

  A sad smile crossed Danislav’s face, and the century or more of life he’d lived seemed to show at once. His voice wavered as he spoke again, “That’s the cost of having so many Shifters in your domain. When a position they value comes up, there’s always violence.” In a weary, resigned move, he briefly scrubbed his face with his hands.

  When he looked up, he saw a pair of sorrow-filled parents.
He understood part of their concern. For while Olaf could best even his father in bear form, he’d never taken the Pricolici form. They couldn't see that he was as mature as his siblings or themselves without it.

  Especially Boris. He was of a different age and felt that his heir should be able to do anything he could. If one of Olaf’s siblings could take the Pricolici form, they would have been Boris’s heir in a heartbeat.

  Sighing, he stood and nodded to the grieving couple. It was a joyous kind of grief, but, finally, their last child was leaving the nest. No parent felt only joy in such a situation, especially when others forced their hands.

  He would make sure the send-off was well-oiled, organized, and happened as soon as possible. That was the best he could do.

  Boris was too conflicted to give the orders to Olaf. He didn’t want to send his eldest son into battle. He didn’t want his son to live the life he had. Unfortunately, his son had been born into a time worse than any Boris had lived through before the Fall.

  Though there were centers of light, beacons of hope scattered across the world, most of it had descended into violent feudalism of one sort or another.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Danislav first checked the roster and saw that Olaf should be home. Since he was back, and it was daytime, he'd be training somewhere in the central barracks site. Boris had also insisted on sending a squad from the experienced pack members. He'd attempted to convince Danislav to assist in command, but Janna had reluctantly pointed out that Danislav was too much Boris's right-hand man.

  No-one would believe Olaf was in command if Danislav went with him. In the end, Danislav had agreed to find ten or so volunteers from the core pack that went wherever Boris traveled.

  At least they understood the motivations Boris had in keeping Olaf back. They’d lived through the Fall. They may not be willing to unconditionally accept Olaf as a competent field commander, but they would protect him to the death on Boris’s behalf. They might not have agreed with how he had treated his heir, but they understood the why.

  He was entitled to some mistakes after the shit he had pulled them as well as their families out of.

  When Danislav finally tracked Olaf down, he was training a mixed group of normals and Shifters in human form. They went through how two or three humans should take on a single Shifter if spotted, just to be safe.

  The fact that humans could face Shifters with a reasonable chance of success was one of the factors that allowed for equal status. The fact that every human and Shifter was issued a silver laced blade and a clip of silver ammo for their sidearm was another reason Shifters hadn’t tried to push for ‘extra’ rights now they were common knowledge. Boris’s opinion on the matter was the final reason.

  Olaf and three of the Shifters were supervising. The standard tactic for unarmed humans against Shifters in human form was for one to tackle at the waist, a second to grapple the arms, and a third to strike from behind. It required some luck, to be sure, and an excess of numbers.

  They taught the larger men and the largest women tactics for taking on Shifters one on one. Unfortunately, not everyone was up to the Queen Bitch's Guard standards. That meant they had to find tactics that worked for less than the perfect warrior physique.

  Boris was still the leader of the Siberian Shifter community, officially. He needed to be the one that judged if a Shifter was breaking his code. In these days, the Strictures were impossible to enforce.

  All the Shifters in Siberia were welcome to move to his domain if they chose, as long as they were willing to follow the laws of the land. Many simply loved living on the open steppe despite the swampy mess that the tundra had become. So, they had to follow Boris’s code.

  Boris’s code was not hard to follow. Harm not those weaker than yourself. Seek to protect. If you must steal, no more than your needs for a week and a day. It was the best he could do when he traveled across the steppes for a month a year.

  Once a year, most years at least, Boris and the central pack traveled to mete justice to his Siberian pack. First offenses were held over until he arrived. Repeat offenders might be brought into New Romanovka or punished in place by neighboring Shifters. Occasionally, a troublemaking individual or small group would make it to his borders. Capturing them when they did was a point of pride.

  Boris hated wasting potential, but at least one in three of the captures was too feral for life in his pack. They were too unwilling to change their ways for a second chance. And it was slowly getting worse.

  Still, it was a problem for another day.

  Danislav started out of his contemplation when Olaf shouted happily, “Older brother, so good to see you! Join me on the mats?”

  Danislav smiled and nodded. The room went silent. In human form, Boris and Danislav were slightly better than Olaf. They had years more experience, but they couldn't give him any slack. It was bittersweet for Danislav. Strangely, Olaf had become the brother in truth that he wasn't in blood. Returning home from a patrol with Olaf gone would be like part of the foundations of his life being stripped away.

  But his brother needed the experience. He needed to spread his wings, whatever the risk. Danislav’s thoughts were racing, distracting him as he blocked a series of light punches and kicks. Probing blows, seeing where his head was at.

  A sound kick to the guts brought him back fully to the sparring room. Olaf looked at Danislav quizzically. Such a basic series of attacks shouldn’t have gotten through. Shaking himself as he backed up and repositioned, Danislav focused. He couldn’t have Olaf think that he’d let him win.

  Sparring back and forth between the two was going fast enough that the training in the rest of the gym had stopped as they watched a pair of masters. Strikes flowed back and forth as if they were in some intricately choreographed dance. Only the force of the blows, the sharp thwacks and whacks as hits were blocked or redirected, told the audience that this was serious training. To many of the watchers, it was training at an intensity they had never achieved.

  Olaf threw a palm strike to the head, following it with a rising elbow and a feinting kick to Danislav’s knee. Despite blocking the elbow and sidestepping the kick, Danislav hadn’t expected Olaf to pivot on his back foot and rip his feinting foot forward, knocking Danislav onto his back.

  Chagrin filled Danislav as he found himself grabbed by the foot and dragged forward. Danislav managed to kick his hand and grabbed him, but only realized that Olaf had let go to shove him in the back and grab his arms as he tried to roll away. The younger brother had improved significantly since they had last sparred about a year ago.

  It was odd how training people who did not know martial arts could improve you as fast in some ways as training with people near your skill level. Every time you taught someone, you learned something yourself.

  After all, wasn’t there an old saying that the world’s best swordsman didn’t fear the second best? He feared the worst because he couldn’t predict what the damned fool would do.

  “Mercy,” Danislav grunted out, admitting defeat. As he rolled on his back and caught his breath, rubbing his wrists from the tight hold Olaf had captured them in, he saw a genuine smile on his brother's face. “You've gotten better,” he complimented the young man.

  He did take after his mother. Six-foot-three, but more wiry than bulky. Still, Olaf was stronger than any Werewolf. He was also the fastest Were in animal form that anyone Danislav talked to had ever encountered. Even with Danislav leading a team to train Olaf, they’d stopped sparring in animal form ten years ago. He regularly beat his father in bear form. That should have been enough to earn him a spot leading outer patrols.

  ‘Damn his parents' overprotectiveness,' Danislav thought.

  All of Olaf's siblings had been given tasks years ago. Fiona was helping the Mongolian pack against the Sacred Clans. His youngest brothers, the twins Anatoly and Leo, had been scouting the central regions and acting as diplomats to the Finnish government—one of the few true governments to survive the Fall. T
hey’d also led missions to contact the rulers of the regions that encompassed the former states of Estonia, Latvia, and the reinvigorated royalty of Sweden.

  “Why were you so distracted at the start of the fight, brother?” Olaf asked, confusion on his face. “I know you, and you know I’m skilled. You wouldn’t let something as basic as that go through unless you had something on your mind. Tell me,” he finished, an almost childish anticipation in his expression. The hope was clear on Olaf’s face that he might be given the news he had been prodding his brother for over the last twenty years.

  “Yes, brother, it is. Circumstances have finally conspired to force Father to give you command.”

  It was apparent that Olaf wanted to react childishly. Backflips, perhaps, or maybe a simple shout of joy, but he kept it contained.

  He had been denied the opportunity to prove himself for so long, he'd been convinced it would never come. To be fair, few people would have blamed him. Those who distrusted his competence would be thrilled about Boris sending Olaf on what, to them, would seem like a secondary priority. Especially considering the forces he would be sent with.

  Those who were more disappointed in Boris for giving Olaf no opportunity to prove himself would be happy that he was finally given a chance.

  Reaching down and grabbing his brother's wrist, Olaf hauled him to his feet. “Come, brother,” his voice boomed through the room expansively, “we have much to plan if we are to get things moving quickly. And the sooner we get things moving, the less chance there is of my father changing his mind.”

  With that, he turned started towards the door. After dusting himself off, Danislav followed him, a smile on his face. Olaf was usually so reserved, hiding everything behind the mask and burying his frustration deep. Maybe this was what he needed to move forward. Perhaps this was his chance to become someone with open emotions that others could respect, rather than a distant man they felt held them in disdain.