The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2)

by Igor Ljubuncic

  James nodded vaguely. He seemed shocked. “What do I know about courts and ruling? I don’t want to do that.”

  Mali came over, hugged him gently. “Which is why you’re the best man for the task. Your half sister is a crazy woman. She brews a terrible war for the realms. She is doing mad things. She means no good. She hungers for power, and she will destroy everything to see her lust sated.”

  She sat down on the floor, facing him. “I was an army commander once,” she confessed suddenly. The truth was just too painful to contain.

  James leaned back, eyes lit with shock. “You? A military officer.”

  Mali smiled sadly. “Yes. A commander of a whole army.” It sounded like a story, not her own life. “And now and then, we had to choose new officers, promote them from the ranks of the common troops. Sometimes we chose the best fighters and the bravest people, but most of the time, we chose the honest, hardworking men. Do you know why?

  “We did that because we knew that ambition is the worst thing to have in an officer. Ambitious officers sent their men to die so they could drench their own glory in blood. We wanted men who hated war and didn’t want to risk the lives of their soldiers. They always made the best leaders. Their troops always survived to see the next morning.” And your father changed that in a dash of madness.

  Mali held his big, strong hand. The hand of a warrior. “You can stay here. You can let Amalia undo two decades of your father’s work. You may not even care. But there will be a horrible war. This far north, we may not care much for what happens in Athesia or Caytor, but the consequences won’t escape you. Can you live with the knowledge that you had it in your power to change all that?”

  James rose, impatient, confused. “They just want to use me.”

  “Maybe. But you know that you can make a difference.”

  James rose. “It feels bad, Mom. It feels strained and…dirty.”

  Mali wiped away fresh tears. “You can protect the realms from total ruin. You can restore peace.” She swallowed a lump. “When you fight in the woods, why do you do that?”

  “To protect Windpoint,” he stated simply.

  “The whole world needs you now,” she pleaded. “When you fight the brigands, you’re defending the people of our town. They do not always know that. Most won’t even thank you for it. But you do your duty, and you know your worth.”

  “What do I tell Celeste?” he croaked.

  Mali grimaced. “Nothing, Son, you can’t tell her yet.”

  He was very much a boy just then. “Can she come with me then? Maybe we can move the wedding? I can talk to her father and see if he approves.”

  Mali shook her head. “They must not be involved. It would put their lives at risk. If you do this, Son, you must do it alone. Secretly. You can tell them you must go on a special mission. But you will have to postpone the wedding.”

  Adam’s son paced around the small room, thinking. “It’s not fair.”

  “No, Son, it is not.” Adam should have loved me, she thought. Not some Caytorean bitch.

  He sighed, once, twice. Resolve battled doubt across the wind-creased lines of his face. Mali hated herself, but she had no choice. She would never be able to live with herself. She had already fled the world once and let it thrash like an upturned beetle. She had abandoned her nation, her army, her duty. She would not let it happen again.

  You’re a jealous old bitch, her soul told her. She shrugged. She did not care. Adam should have loved her.

  “Those men will try to manipulate you. Never forget your principles, Son. Never forget your duty. You are the son of a king. You are destined to rule and bring goodness and justice to the world.”

  James straightened. He wiped away his own tears. “I need to think.”

  Mali nodded. “I understand, Son.” She hugged him again, fiercely, and left the room.

  In the morning, Otis and Melville came to see her at her office. But the two were not utter fools. As an excuse, they had commissioned a bogus trade agreement notarization while waiting for her son to make up his mind. James gave them no answer that day.

  He was in a bad state, his mother knew. Bailiff Edmund visited her home in the evening to tell her James had taken a squad on a forest patrol. Mali knew her son often led parties into the woods, searching for brigands, but this time, she felt he wanted to escape the world, much like the criminals he chased.

  Two days passed with no sign of James. The councillors gave her some space, but she knew their patience was slowly wearing. Deep in her soul, she prayed they would get bored and just leave so her son wouldn’t have to fight his terrible moral dilemma anymore. It’s all my fault, she thought sadly, trying to keep her tears from dripping onto the expensive parchment.

  A week went by, the slowest week in her entire life. Every minute was torture. She spent most of her time reflecting on her choices, from her first steps as a newbie in the now disbanded Ninth Independent Battalion to the very day of James’s birth. She remembered her first promotion, her first kill, losing her virginity lying on smelly canvas that left her itching for days. She remembered the pointless border raids with the Caytoreans, so many of them they had become a lifelong campaign. The slow climb to higher ranks, the politics, the rivalry, the inescapable loss of friends who became subordinates, the night raids into enemy territory, her first injury. In her time, there had never been any real war with Caytor, but she had killed men by the score by the time she had earned her commander’s rank. Then, Adam had come and made her life into chaos.

  The councillors sent one of their aides to see her, but she was in no mood to talk to the man. She was not quite sure if they were being persistent, desperate, or just plain bored. Windpoint was not the most exciting place in the world.

  Alexa kept her company, and the two of them often talked into the small hours of the night, recalling the many happy and not-so-happy moments from the old wars. There was the Autumn Skirmish, neither could quite remember in which year, when Alexa got spiked through the shoulder by a Caytorean lance. And Mali told her how she had once killed a man with a spoon. They laughed hysterically, drinking wine, too much wine. Some of those stories sounded so absurd now.

  In the morning, a late spring rain swept over Windpoint, quick and sudden. The big fat drops barely moistened the ground, but they raised a cloud of wet dust that spattered the laundry lines. Housewives cursed the weather and went back to washing the same clothes again. James still did not return. Mali began to worry.

  She met Celeste in the market later that day. The girl beamed her a smile of pure innocence. Her eyes sparkled, and there was nothing wrong in her world. Mali pitied her, but she mostly felt sorry for her son. He would have to lie to her, leave her behind. They would pledge eternal love to one another, but it would wane, like an old flower. She remembered her own childhood infatuations, the brave and empty promises, the crystal-clear expectations from the elusive, foggy future.

  They chitchatted for a while. Mali did her best to keep her concern hidden. But the girl just did not seem to notice. Celeste knew James was away on a patrol, but she never thought about the perils he faced. Her champion would return, she knew with steel conviction. She invited Mali over to her parents’. Mali just nodded, trying to suppress tears, not really sure if she could handle the pleasant dinner, the smiling and friendly people. They parted with a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

  James returned in the evening, his uniform torn and bloody, but the blood was not his. The squad dragged a pair of filthy, rabid bandits behind them, shackled and hobbling. Bailiff Edmund congratulated the squad.

  Mali waited patiently while her son scrubbed bits of flesh and mud off his skin. He wiped himself clean and let her hug him lightly.

  “I missed you, Son,” she whispered. He grimaced and hissed, pushing away. “What’s wrong?”

  James stroked his side. “Got a nasty blow there. Nothing broken, I think.”

  “Who were those bandits?” Alexa asked him when they sat down for supper. James
nursed his side when he sat down, but he tried his best to pretend nothing was wrong.

  “Deserters from the army, it seems. Now that the rumors of a new war are about, the weaklings are already fleeing the ranks. The forest is teeming with brigands. We intercepted three pockets, two common brigands and then this lot. There were seven of them. Only those two surrendered. They knew it was the noose awaiting them if they got caught alive. Craig wanted to kill them back there, but I wanted to bring them back so everyone will know. So they go before the magistrate tomorrow and they hang for everyone to see.”

  Mali nodded, dunking bread in her broth.

  “I’ve made up my mind,” he said suddenly.

  She looked up. For a moment, she hoped he would refuse. But she knew he would not. Not her son. He was the deputy bailiff, a man of the law, and he would not let crime and injustice reign if he had any say in the matter.

  “I can talk to Edmund about your leave,” Mali offered. “And I’ll talk to Celeste’s father—”

  “No.” He cut her off. “No. I’ll do it. I’ll talk to Celeste. And I’ll sort things out with Edmund. He won’t like it, but he’ll understand.” His resolve wavered. “I’m not sure about Celeste. What do I tell her? How long will I be gone? A month? A year?”

  His mother reached over and squeezed his hand. She didn’t have all the answers.

  Neither did he. But she knew her son. His mind was set. He didn’t like any of this. It was all too sudden, all too big. But if he had as little as a pinch of his father’s madness, he would find a way and figure things out.

  “I will do my duty,” he said stubbornly. They ate in silence after that.

  CHAPTER 6

  Empress Amalia was leaning on her desk, hunched over, writing in her diary. She had never quite lost the habit, ever since she was a little girl. The bloodstaff leaned against the desk’s edge, never far from her grasp. She paused writing.

  She looked at the terrible magical weapon, wondering what it really felt like using it. What did her father feel when he defeated the entire Parusite army in one night, single-handedly? Now that he was gone, would she ever be forced to use it?

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Enter,” she said.

  Gerald, commander of the City Guard, the captain of Roalas, stepped in. He bowed slightly, as befitting his rank. “Your Highness.”

  “Amalia,” she insisted. Her father had never liked honorifics. He said they were like a salve for piles. They might reduce the swelling, but not the smell.

  “Your Highness Amalia,” the man blurted, obviously uncomfortable with the lack of etiquette.

  She had known him for many years, serving as her father’s shadow, which probably made the situation more awkward. He had held the captain’s rank ever since his own dad had retired, leaving the commander’s post open. In his role, he had often met the princess, but never quite talked to her. And now, he was the city’s top officer, reporting to a young girl he had known before her breasts had budded. Well, they hadn’t really grown much since. She banished the useless thoughts. It had been only a few months since she had become his empress. He would get used to her style. They all would.

  “Can I help you?” she asked almost casually. She closed her diary, but slowly, so it would not look like it was anything important. No one must know about her diary. She leaned sideways and stored the little book in the bottom drawer of her desk. As she did so, the shoulder strap of her dress slipped off her shoulder.

  Raising her head, she saw Gerald avert his eyes quickly. She blushed.

  “I…wish to report that the unit is ready, Your Highness Amalia.”

  Amalia rose and picked up the bloodstaff. They left her office in the north wing overlooking the Garden of Joy. Agatha, Amalia’s personal maid, was waiting outside, sitting on a chair and knitting. She bolted upright with almost mechanical precision. Amalia waved for her to relax. She would not need her for this errand. A pair of bored guards farther down the corridor clicked their heels in salute.

  Commander Gerald led the way past more guards and servants. Heads bobbed, skirts pooled as women curtsied, men showed their pates, some balding, some not. A utilitarian decor poorly concealed by an occasional rich furnishing followed them. Within minutes, they were in the opposite end of the former keep hastily turned into the Imperial Manse, the legacy of Adam’s spartan taste ingrained in every brick and floor tile.

  The south wing corridor stretched above a half circle of sheds in an older, overlooked side courtyard. The ringing of hammers sang a random melody. The air smelled of soot and sweat. Here, far from the eyes of guests and the city’s dignitaries, men of craft and trade kept to the old military tradition of the place. They made window grilles and railings, door hinges, chains, and quite often as not, weapons.

  In the center of the courtyard, surrounded by glowing forges, red iron, and the hiss of cooling buckets, was a catapult, unlike any used in the realms before. It was all metal, small, squat, and very heavy. It was dark and ugly and did not inspire much confidence.

  Amalia wiped a lock of hair from her forehead. “That’s the unit?”

  The captain nodded. “Yes, the first one. Our engineers assure us it will have seven times more throwing power than the ordinary twenty-stone siege onager. And it can be lugged by a team of only four oxen. Master Reese is willing to bet his month’s pay on it.”

  The empress stared at the metal monster. She did not believe Eracia or Caytor would dare attack, but if they did, she had a few nasty surprises that would make them rethink their foolishness.

  Athesia had always valued quality and cunning over sheer numbers. Her armies counted less heads than either of her neighbors. But the numbers made no difference, her father had taught her. As long as your force was an independent unit that could support itself, you could win in battle.

  “What do you call that?”

  It was Gerald’s turn to blush. “Well, Your Highness Amalia, the engineer who planned it has a very colorful language. He never thought you would ask about his contraptions.”

  “How silly of him. Tell me.”

  He coughed deliberately. “That one is called Fucker.”

  She frowned. “I thought it would be something more profane.”

  Gerald looked straight ahead, his face emotionless. “We will have twenty…uh…units ready by the end of the month, all to be deployed in Roalas. We hope to have a hundred units produced and sent to all our major cities before the summer’s end.”

  “Have you tested it yet?” she inquired.

  “We will have the first trial tomorrow, Your Highness Amalia.”

  On their way back to her office, Gerald told her about war preparations going on in and around the city. All of the criminals in Roalas had been pressed into helping the effort, digging trenches and traps, barricading weaker outer structures, and building roadblocks and hardened outposts. They were promised a pardon if they worked hard and did not try to escape, another of her father’s ideas. He had valued the criminals’ willingness to survive as a significant force multiplier. Whenever there had been a need, he would empty the cells and make the morning hangings that much briefer.

  The Second and Third Legion had redeployed east and west to prepare for possible invasions. The Sixth Legion had taken the southern border, manned with auxiliary cavalry and javelins. Around Roalas itself, it was quiet and tense.

  Her personal adviser, Theodore, a man probably as ancient as Roalas itself, met them halfway across the castle turned palace and spewed his litany of boring administrative reports. When he started talking about the hostages, Amalia stopped walking. Gerald almost bumped into her. Awkwardly, he arced his body to prevent contact, but he could not avoid brushing his shoulder against her neck.

  She pretended she didn’t notice.

  “Amalia,” the old man said, at ease with her father’s casual custom, “one of the Caytorean dignitaries wishes to speak to you. He requests a formal meeting. He wishes to discuss the status of hi
s, well, imprisonment.”

  “Bored, is he?”

  Theodore ignored the jibe. “His name is Councillor Stephan. He’s a prominent Caytorean dignitary.”

  Amalia considered. “Let him wait. If he asks again, I will meet him.”

  “Amalia, I don’t think it’s wise to ignore this man.” The adviser used his teacher’s voice. “Soon, they will all start wondering what you’re trying to achieve. Even hostages need reassurances. They will surely want to know their captor has a plan, whatever it may be.”

  The problem was she did not really have one.

  Kidnapping all of them had been an act of brilliance, something her father may have done. But now, she did not know what to do next. “All right, I will talk to him. I’ll meet him in an hour.”

  “Amalia,” Theodore said, as if that one word carried everything he thought.

  “We should bolster your security,” Gerald said after the adviser shuffled away. “The Eracians and Caytoreans may try to assassinate you.”

  “That’s quite likely,” she said coldly, not feeling quite as confident as she sounded.

  They walked on, rounded a corner, and climbed a short flight of steps that led to the top floor of the keep’s north section. A clerk gracefully shuffled out of their way, nodding in greeting, never breaking his stride.

  “They tried to murder my father a hundred times,” Amalia continued. Her father had done his best to keep the grisly attempts hidden from his daughter. As a child, she had not really understood some of the tension and fear and danger, but they had registered, sunk deep into her consciousness, and surfaced now and then, like a lazy turtle, snapping its toothless jaw.

  She remembered her seventh birthday. Dad had given her a new lady pony, a beautiful silver lowland breed, with a silky coat and a lustrous mane. She remembered jumping with excitement, shouting with glee. It was the best present ever. She remembered the heavyset groom dropping the harness and rushing forward with a long cleaver, lunging. She remembered her father sidestepping the blow easily and tripping the man. And then, the bodyguards were there, all women, hacking at the assassin. It was over in seconds, and then as if nothing had happened, her father simply asked for another stableman, and soon she was riding the lady pony, all the earlier horrors forgotten.