The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2)

by Igor Ljubuncic

  A delegation of frightened village mayors and elders from both sides of the river had petitioned to see him, pleading that he spare their sons and daughters and not burn their homes. They had been surprised to learn that he intended nothing sinister, just a secure passage north and half their supplies and tools. He even gave them letters of credit for their effort. Come to Sigurd, and I shall pay you back, the paper notes said. Athesians and Parusites, they came together and regarded him as a stranger. One of the elders from the far side had even called him “my king” until he realized he spoke to the wrong ruler. It was almost amusing.

  At Sergei’s side, Count Pavel looked smug and dejected at the same time. After years of being neglected, he now expected to be paid in full, but the villagers simply had no gold.

  The crossing was proceeding as a large transport should; it was a controlled chaos, slow and messy and riddled with incidents. There had been some forty broken legs and arms, a bagful of fingers lost when soldiers tried to pry loose stuck wheels and entangled chains, several men drowned, and a soldier died from heatstroke. A dozen soldiers, Borei mercenaries, and some locals had been caught stealing pigs and were hanged with the first light. Another sell-sword had tried kidnapping a maid from a village and was caught, flogged, and forced to pay her father for the damages and apologize. A bored youth had been throwing rocks at the meandering convoy and got shot in the stomach by an equally bored soldier with a crossbow. He hadn’t died, but his fate did not inspire his family to trust the foreigners.

  Sergei expected at least two more days of this chaos. He had already chosen a spot for camp and would cross among the last units. Yuri’s men and newly acquired troops were ranging ahead, as they were most familiar with the region.

  Vlad the Younger had joined his father earlier that morning. Sergei had spoken to Archduke Bogomir about his son earlier. The boy was performing well. While he still needed a few more years of combat experience to become a real leader, he had a natural streak for command. He was easygoing and charming. Soldiers listened to him. Most importantly, he made careful, balanced decisions. It was probably the most important trait in the future king and the nation’s ruler.

  His son stood some distance away, shoulders pushed back, trying to swagger among older nobles. He was the youngest commander by far, with Count Stanislov, the closest to him in age, a whole five years older. Vlad never missed an opportunity to emulate his seniors, mimicking their mannerisms and style. Unconsciously, he alternated between a noble, a proud prince, a soon-to-be-father, and a child still not quite sure what he was doing here.

  Taking him along had been a bold move. The boy might be a little young for bloodshed, but he was learning golden lessons of military leadership and the untold, inglorious hardship of logistics. Sergei made sure other nobles in his command reported to his son daily, telling him of any unusual activities, updating him on their supplies and water levels and other crucial details. Sergei was hoping Vlad would grasp the lethal importance of the noncombat elements of war. Fortunately, he had, with even more zeal and attention than Sergei could have hoped for.

  Vlad was not a big man yet. The padded leather armor hung from his frame like an oversized coat. But he was already gaining weight. Lugging his battle gear around, riding for many hours a day, laboring under the cruel sun, he was turning into more of a man by the day. His face was sunblasted and harsh, a far cry from the milky complexion he had sported back home.

  Sergei remembered his very first excursion into danger. Vlad the Fifth had taken him hunting desert wolves at the age of ten. It had not been a pleasant experience. There had been discomfort and pain and nausea. There had been endless hours of riding across arid plains and broken hills, hours following trails down steep ravines. There had been fever and sun blisters and humiliation. And at the end of all that, he had been forced to skin dead animals.

  Sasha had never balked. She had always been more vicious than he.

  Lord Vasiliy had been far more aware of the trauma these gestures of violence could cause, even if the victim were the future king of the realm. He had taught both Sergei and Sasha the art of war, but they had both spent hundreds of hours of combat practice and horse riding before ever going on their first raid. Even then, Vasiliy had kept Sergei away from the blood and torture. Only a year short of being crowned the king had the regent finally let him take life. By then, Sergei had been ready for it.

  His son was almost of that age now. In a little more than a year, he would be old enough to rule the realm if something befell his father. Young Vlad was a skilled fighter. He had earned his honor among men in both the practice yard and in real action. Like Sergei, he was deft with sword and javelin and knew how to survive in the desert. But Vlad had not yet killed anyone.

  Sergei planned for Vlad’s troops to participate in mopping actions after the major frays. They would hunt down survivors and round up prisoners. They would fight the last pockets of resistance, with the prince-heir in command. His son would taste real combat in small doses first. It would give him time to appreciate the horror of war, give him time to learn how to respond to his fears. Archduke Bogomir would always be close by, guiding and helping the prince, protecting him if need be. His son would make his first kill before this war ended.

  This was a critical lesson. The boy could not become a king if he did not know what it meant to take life. But he would learn mercy and justice, too. He would have to face the ultimate danger and stand up to it. He would send his men to their death. And he would learn when to fight and when to hold his ground and wait for a better opportunity. He would learn comradeship and the intimacy of soldiers that transcended bloodlines and ranks. He would know raw survival and bone-deep fear and disgust and loathing. It had to be done.

  “Sire,” the boy called.

  “Yes, Vlad?” Sergei answered.

  “I wish to consult with you, sire,” his son said.

  Sire, not father, Sergei thought. It would not be appropriate for Vlad to call him father now, here, around soldiers. They were brothers-in-arms now.

  Sergei doffed his cracked leather gloves. “Speak.”

  The prince rubbed his spotless chin. “I have consulted with Dukes Bogomir and Vsevolod. If you let me lead the first assault, I would be honored.”

  And he was wondering about who would lead the charge, he thought sourly. Sergei did not like this idea. The Borei would keep to the rear, along with Vlad’s forces. They would not engage until near the Athesian capital. He did not want to waste olifaunts on secondhand units they might encounter soon. And his son would need his time to learn war.

  “That was not my idea,” the king said reluctantly. The dukes must have thought he would be impressed. They were trying to earn favors through his son. Well, not quite. “You will protect the rear of our attack for now. When we reach Roalas, we will think of a new strategy.”

  The boy opened his mouth, as if he intended to disagree, but he would not do that. Never in public. The king’s word was law. He nodded. “Yes, sire.”

  Captain Speinbate watched the exchange with mild if respectful amusement. He was enamored with the official father-son business. The Borei were not really formal, and they tended to share wives among family members. They did not consider incest much of a problem, either. The priests hated them. One day, he would pay the price of having them around, Sergei knew.

  There was more than one reason to keep the mercenary in the back. Sergei was not really sure how their monstrous things would perform in combat. He did not want to have his first attack ruined because of gigantic grass eaters. And despite lavish promises of glory and power, he did not know if the Borei could be trusted. They fought purely for gold, after all.

  A dull-faced woman stood behind the captain, staring stupidly at the cauldron of men and banners converging toward the riverbank. She looked pale and sickly and maybe even drugged. The Borei were sick bastards, Sergei knew.

  Moments later, a rider arrived at a brisk trot. A wall of soldiers closed on h
im. “Your Highness, a messenger for you,” the sergeant of the guard called.

  Sergei beckoned they let him pass. Dismounted and disarmed, the dusty courier shuffled over, walking the slow, pained gait of a man who had spent the best half of the day riding hard.

  “Your Highness,” he saluted, “I bring news from Archduke Vasiliy.”

  Sergei flicked his fingers impatiently. The man handed over a horn tube. The king tapped on the tube bottom, goading the paper roll out like a snail coming out of its shell, broke the wax seal, spread the message, and read, squinting in the fading sunlight.

  News from home.

  The steward of the Crown reported good weather and rich fields and peace. Queen Vera was managing things just fine in his absence. Sergei was pleased to note that. His daughter-in-law Natasha was well, and her baby was healthy, the midwives said. She was due shortly after the Autumn Festival, a good omen. Vlad was not going to be around when the child was born. Well, it made no difference; men needed to be around when babies were made, not when they arrived into the world.

  His other three sons and his daughter were doing well, too. Boris could read now. Galina was showing interest in falcons. Gosha still suffered from the clubfoot, so they had to break his legs again and splice them. He might never become a good runner, but he would be a decent knight on a horse.

  Suddenly, Sergei wondered if his father had traveled this same road eighteen years earlier. Had he camped at this very bank and conferred with his soldiers? Had he cared about Sasha and him back home, with their mother? Had he written letters to Queen Olga, how he loved her or missed her? Had he killed the Caytorean villagers outright or shown them mercy like he did? It was a strange cycle, and he felt uneasy for a moment.

  This very road. Across the bridge crossing, Gerassim’s Stride ended. It became the South Route, the name unchanged since Athesian takeover of western Caytor. Some scholars and priests in Sigurd had suggested he rename the road to Vlad’s Pilgrimage, but he had refused to dishonor his father’s memory with a painful symbolic reminder of his failure. It remained Gerassim’s Stride. His youngest was called Gerassim.

  “Rest for the night. You earned it,” he told the messenger. “You will leave tomorrow at dawn.” He wanted to write a letter to Vera.

  “Thank you, Your Highness,” the man said, obviously glad for the respite. But he would be disappointed to learn he would have no drinks or whores or gambling. The fun had been left behind some time ago.

  “Will you join me for the evening prayers, sire?” Vlad asked, breaking his reverie.

  “My lord.” Duke Kiril joined them, winded. He bowed his head ever so slightly. “I have great news for you, my king. We have captured several more Athesian scouts. They are being interrogated as we speak.”

  A wild idea struck him. Sergei turned toward his son. “Perhaps later,” he told the boy. “We have more important matters to take care of. Follow me.” Now, here was a lesson to be learned.

  Kiril frowned. He had not expected his lord to want to see the Talkers in action, but he really didn’t have any choice. Vlad stepped in behind his father. Ipatiy wavered, then followed, keeping distance from his liege’s son. Sergei had no clue why the two disliked each other, but he never really pressed the subject. Matvey and Gennadiy stayed behind to set the tent for the war council. Without an invitation or a word, Captain Speinbate also joined the procession.

  The camp was deployed in a cross formation so that no sudden enemy attack could drive a wedge into an exposed flank without facing retaliation from at least two directions. Weaker auxiliary units and followers were placed by the riverside, and they were slowly trickling over to the far bank, almost like a muddy spillover.

  The king’s company crossed the center of the camp and headed for a secluded spot near the western edge of the perimeter. Men saluted and nodded as their king passed. Sometimes he nodded back, but mostly he did not acknowledge them. It was awfully quiet, except for the sounds of labor.

  “Intelligence is a critical part of warfare,” Sergei lectured as they walked. “Without it, your troops are blind. Swords can win battles, but only if there’s a mind guiding them. And you must always see the bigger picture. Imagine you’re an eagle in the sky, watching the progress of this great host. You see patterns emerge; you see problems and opportunities.”

  Vlad nodded. He had heard these stories before, but he would never disgrace his father, or himself, by interrupting the king in public. He listened and tried to remember tiny details he may have overlooked.

  “When you capture enemy troops, they are more valuable than a hundred reports your spies and your scouts bring. Because your men see what’s on the outside, but they speak about what’s inside. The captives will tell you what things really are like, not what they appear to be.”

  “Duke Bogomir tells me you must never treat your foes with disrespect, sire.”

  “True. Even a common soldier can tell you truths that might save thousands of lives in the next battle. I want you to see what these Athesians have to say. And I want you to tell me what we should do with their information.”

  They reached an isolated part of the camp, far from the noise and too many curious faces. It was encircled in stakes and had a sizable force guarding it. A sentry, his uniform almost gray from road dust, tapped his spear against the heel of his boot as a silent greeting. Another man moved a human-size crow’s-feet barrier and let the king pass through.

  Behind a clump of stunted hornbeam trees, a lone black tent stood, surrounded by a dozen Talkers. A lamp burned inside the tent, its glow a sick jaundice spot on the filthy canvas. There were silhouettes limned in that pale light, some standing, others seated, quite animated. Muffled cries wafted from within.

  Sergei stopped a step from the entrance and took a look at his son. There was a sharp odor exuding from the tent. It was the unmistakable smell of torture. Sudden doubt wrapped him. Perhaps Vlad should wait outside? Maybe it was too early. But the boy’s eyes shone with grim determination. There was nothing childish about him.

  Sergei looked at the sell-sword chief. Captain Speinbate looked nervous. For a bloodthirsty mercenary, he seemed rather squeamish. It did not sit well with his overall reputation. The man fidgeted, avoiding eye contact. His woman escort stared stupidly. Sergei felt a flash of anger bloom in his throat. How did she get here? He gestured for her to be taken away.

  “You don’t like blood?” Sergei asked, surprised and furious, as Ipatiy led the unresisting woman slowly away.

  “No, blood is fine, my lord,” the man said, waving a hand dismissively. “I don’t like the smell of shit. Makes me queasy, and I didn’t have my dinner yet.”

  “Well, it’s definitely better to be queasy before dinner than after, don’t you think?”

  Captain Speinbate grimaced, his gold-capped teeth shining. “Definitely.” He did not seem pleased.

  Sergei, his son, Duke Kiril, and the mercenary entered the little tent. The torture halted. The stench of blood and feces hit them like a sledgehammer. The Borei heaved, but managed to suppress the urge to vomit. Sergei felt his eyes water. The boy’s lower lip quivered, but he endured stoically.

  Blood was fine, Sergei thought, but this…

  Beyond the wall of smell, the scene was remarkably simple. Several Athesian scouts were hobbled in low chairs, tied with thick ropes, their hands and feet turning purple. One of the Talkers was holding pliers. Another used a sock filled with potatoes. Beneath each chair, there was a pool of urine and shit and curdled blood. There had not been any fresh bleeding recently.

  Sergei was disgusted. What kind of madness is this?

  “What have you learned so far?” Duke Kiril asked, all business. He did not seem fazed by the scene, and in the feeble light, he failed to read the black look on his king’s face.

  “Nothing much yet. They won’t tell us anything important,” one of the torturers replied hesitantly. He seemed disappointed, and yet wary of his very important audience.

  “Yo
u must never exercise too much force,” Kiril explained smugly. “Then, they tell you whatever it is you want to hear. Not good. Can’t let them lose hope or judgment. They just need to understand the possibilities.”

  Too much force? What would that be, cooking these people alive? Sergei regretted his decision to bring Vlad along. He wasn’t quite sure what he’d wanted to achieve. For a fleeting moment of panic, he felt like his own father, forcing horror upon his children, scrubbing their innocence bloody raw.

  The Talkers spent a moment or two watching the king, then realized he was not going to leave just yet. He wanted to see them in action, they figured, and grew bold and innovative. One of the men took this as a sign to go really wild and impress Sergei. He swung the sock and slammed it into the face of one of the prisoners.

  The Athesian was as surprised as the rest of them. He spat his teeth, spraying blood on everyone. Sergei stepped back. There were hot droplets of gore on his coat.

  “Enough!” Duke Kiril thundered, striking the man with a wide backhand swing. “What in the name of bloody Abyss are you doing!”

  His earlier cockiness was gone, replaced by shock and shame. “Sorry, my lord,” the man mumbled, retreating.

  “Watch your language,” the prince-heir said.

  They all turned to face him. Unlike the rest, he seemed fairly composed. It might be sheer bravado, but Sergei was proud. And a little worried. Sasha used to have that look when she tortured little animals.