The tide of the war had arrived along with the invaders. Weary messengers riding their horses to death had stumbled into the capital with the grave news of their shameful defeat, with Parusite cavalry hot on their heels. No one had ever done anything so daring or spectacular in five hundred years of written history.
And yet, Roalas had survived, scarred and battered, but very much alive.
Sergei snorted. He sipped some more mulled wine, staring at the city’s siege walls through a haze of soot, smoke, and early morning haze. Amalia had been saved by riffraff. Lucky fool.
Like any large, prosperous city, Roalas had its most unsavory districts spill outside the walls in a sprawl of mold and mildew and rot and rickety shacks that housed the poor, the unwanted, and the refugees. The circle of misery thinned out eventually, blending into the surrounding grain fields, but it formed a huge, pulsating, almost-natural barrier against intrusion. Once the fires had started, the slums had become an impregnable defense shield.
Sergei had not given orders to burn the slums, but burned they had. The blazes had spread quickly, devouring the paper-thin houses and their dirty inhabitants, not before creating a massive debris field of death and destruction that no army could pass easily. Even now, days later, smoke rose from the ruins. Many thousands had perished in the conflagration, but many more had survived. They lived in the cellars and charred skeletons of razed buildings, hungry, desperate, and mad, with boiled skin and bloodshot eyes, preying on anything that moved. Even the Athesians kept away.
They called it Inferno.
History taught a bitter lesson. The few books that documented the Feoran blasphemy in the Territories two decades earlier spoke of a similar battle in the city of Talmath. Faced with overwhelming odds, the defenders had set fire to the poor quarters to check the enemy advance. It had not helped them in the end. The same would happen here, he thought. Roalas may have gained a few precious moments of respite, but it would fall. Still, he should have considered the possibility and prepared for it.
One of his scout units had returned from a city patrol with half their men and horses missing. Ambushed in the maze of rubble and shriveled bodies, they had been beaten to a pulp with rocks and bare hands. A lucky survivor had sworn to have seen one of his comrades being eaten alive. Sergei had put the man to death, but the rumor lived on. Now, his forces were not so keen on scouting in that no-man’s-land. In between potshots from catapults and archers on the walls, killing parties of Athesian defenders prowling the slums, the masses of hungry animals, and the thick, acrid smoke that seared the throat and hid lethal surprises under a veil of confusion, the Parusite soldiers did not fancy storming Roalas. No one wanted their lives claimed by Inferno. No one wanted their dead bodies desecrated and their souls condemned to eternal agony in the Abyss.
Clearing the rubble would take a long time. Unfortunately, his men would have to do that, and he hadn’t planned for this eventuality. Siege engines were out of range and needed to come closer. Any massive charge would require a clear swath of ground to concentrate the force. For now, all he could do was send slow, snaking columns of men toward an almost certain, humiliating death.
Amalia had earned herself several days of an accidental cease-fire, allowing her to regroup and assign new commanders to decimated units, recruit more soldiers, and prepare her defenses. It was inevitable. The black bodies of the refugees and flea-infested rabble had saved the empress.
But the debris was only part of his problem. His troops craved blood. After the magnificent victory, they were cocky and wild and wanted more of it. They were elated and restless. The night camps shook with random, wanton violence. Discipline was strict, but there was just no containing the sheer, pulsating gore fest.
Sergei maneuvered his efforts as best as he could, trying to minimize anarchy. This war was not about obliterating Athesia. It was about destroying its image, but not its people. He would need the hundreds of thousands of former Eracians and Caytoreans to work the land and pay taxes after Athesia officially became a Parusite duchy. He could not afford genocide as a sport.
His royal decree promised slow death to any soldier who raped civilians. Women and children were to be allowed safe passage, no matter what. Any Athesian man willing to walk away from the conflict would be spared. He made sure his proclamations were heard far and wide, especially inside Roalas. The defenders needed to have that desperate hope. It would make their struggle so much more difficult. No one really wanted to die if they did not have to.
Remember Adam, he thought. He gave you hope. I give you hope.
Of course, the men would be rallied to special holding camps so there would no sudden pockets of resistance blooming to life behind enemy lines. But he truly intended to give the nation a chance. But not its empress. She had to be destroyed.
He sipped more wine.
Still, his success was not without blemish. In the east, the Oth Danesh were causing too much trouble. He had already received a dozen official complaints from Caytorean mayors who claimed their cities and towns had been harassed by the pirates—ships attacked and boarded, caravans sacked, villages burned and raped, and small folk carried off as war trophies.
Sergei was not pleased. He might have to put some of the pirate captains to death as a lesson. He could not afford to have the Caytoreans step into the conflict as his enemies. Not now, anyway.
Behind him, the riverfront bustled. Soldiers were hard at work repairing bridges, clearing the fields of dead bodies, setting up the defense perimeter; half a dozen lookout towers already stood erect above the endless field of tents, stabbing at the sky like brown, chipped fangs.
On the river itself, an arrested dory that belonged to some local fishermen was circling a scuttled barge, men on its deck scratching their heads, trying to figure out how to get it dislodged from the muddy bottom. In their desperation, the Athesian defenders had sunk a pair of larger boats at the narrow points of the streambed to keep the attackers from being able to ferry troops upriver. Not that it had helped them. On the far bank, carpenters were busy assembling rafts to help with the crossing of forces.
Noise was everywhere. But most of it belonged to trade.
Foreign convoys traveling to Roalas were not allowed into the city. But rather than being turned away or having their goods plundered, the merchants had been surprised to learn their commerce would be bought by the Parusite forces, paid for in full in silver and gold. It was a not-so-subtle hint at Sergei’s future intentions of establishing more active, more prosperous relations with the other realms.
Roalas was fully and completely encircled. Sasha held the position to the north and west. If the surviving enemy legions in the north tried to join the city defenders or lift the siege, they would have to get past the Red Caps. His mainstay held the south. The pirates blockaded the east border and the seaports.
But there was a galling rumor of an entire Athesian legion lurking somewhere in Caytor, now effectively cut off from their realm, with no clear orders what to do. He was not sure how strong and skilled the force was, but it was a thorn in his side. The notion of having to strengthen one of his flanks frustrated him; it drained his resources from focusing the full brunt against the capital.
His momentum had been stalled. From a glorious day-and-night pursuit to a slow siege. It was not what he had hoped for, even though he had conquered a third of the realm in just a week. But now, there was a lot of work to be done.
Bridges needed to be repaired so fresh supplies could be brought in. He wanted the city’s lush, untouched fields harvested; no reason to let it all go to waste before the winter. His troops needed huge amounts of supplies, his mounted forces were short on fodder, and the countryside was already plucked clean. The fleeing mob had taken away everything. What few people still remained in the abandoned villages watched the invaders with wary, frightened eyes, stayed indoors, and refused to go out. When foraging parties came their way, they waved their empty hands and spat behind their backs.
&
nbsp; Sergei put the wooden cup down. It was time for morning prayer. His son was already waiting, dressed in a simple white robe, talking to Brother Ivan.
The boy had done well, the king thought. Archduke Bogomir was extremely pleased with his performance. Vlad was not squeamish around blood. And he had not hurled his forces into the fray needlessly. In the several smaller skirmishes Vlad’s forces had been engaged in, despite the quick assurance of victory, his son had taken care committing the units, avoiding unnecessary risks and casualties. Smart leadership and careful thinking.
“Good morning, Prince.” Sergei used the formal greeting on purpose.
“Good morning, sire,” the boy responded, somber and grave.
“Your Highness,” Brother Ivan said, bowing slightly.
They did not talk during the service. Men knelt and prayed. Duke Oleg was squinting hard as always, tears running down his cheeks as he mouthed silent words of submission and love to his deity. Sasha was nowhere around. She must have been praying in her own camp. Hopefully.
Finished with the prayers, Vlad retired to change and don his battle armor. Sergei was already wearing light, supple leathers. He had no intention fighting any battle today, but he had to be prepared and look the part.
Sergei went back to his tent and read the reports again. Timur was brewing hot coffee with cinnamon and pepper. Giorgi was making copies of his latest orders. And there was a placating letter for the High Council of Trade, too.
Soon, Vlad was back, trailed by a horde of younger nobles. He already had a thick knot of hardcore followers, barons, baronets, and knights who sought his company and favor. Older nobles liked him a lot, too, but they were more distant and aloof about their affection, possibly even worried that too much attention for the prince-heir might anger the king. Captain Speinbate avoided his son like the plague ever since that night with the captives.
The king squinted back at Kiril’s list of captives. Several thousand Athesians had laid down their weapons and surrendered to him on the promise they would be treated fairly. So far, they had been treated fairly, just as their rank and class and wealth required.
Sergei still struggled with custom, undecided what to do with all of them. Common men, poor and without honor, except maybe a few officers. They had no families who could ransom them back, even if they wanted. He might just kill them to save himself the hassle of keeping them chained and fed and guarded, and no one would begrudge him for that. After all the Athesians had done, they deserved no mercy. They were godless people, every one of them. He had every right to kill them all.
Back home, when two lords went to war, every armed man knew his fate in advance. As a knight, if you lost a battle, you yielded honorably and were ransomed for gold. If you were lowborn, you died. These Athesians had no concept of honor, though. No one was sacred. In a way, it had made his decision to send nameless assassins against their commanders somewhat easier. That and eighteen years of bitter pragmatism that callused his soul.
One day, this war would end. And then, he would have the other two realms to reckon with, men with as little love of gods and honor as their mongrel neighbors. So, he hesitated, stayed his hand, and weighed his options, wrote the future chapters of history about himself in the back of his mind. He did not want to be portrayed as a mindless, bloodthirsty butcher.
After a while, he put the reports down. He went outside, let the cool morning breeze soothe his preoccupied mind.
“Your Highness,” Under-Patriarch Evgeny called. He was without his ferret now, and he already sweated profusely, dark, wet stains growing under his armpits.
“Your Holiness,” Sergei offered in return.
“I must know what you plan to do with the Athesian captives,” the priest said.
Sergei looked around. Ipatiy and Valentin waited nearby, looking half alert and half bored, but they were not paying any attention to him right now. Duke Kiril was talking to a messenger, distracted. Good. Evgeny seemed disturbingly keen about the prisoners. He probably saw them as new leverage, mostly because Sergei had not been indulging to his needs so far.
“They should be killed,” the under-patriarch added evenly.
Timur came out, bearing a small, round silver tray with a big wooden cup on it. The sharp aroma of coffee filled the air.
“Another cup for His Holiness?” the king said. Evgeny waved his hand. “Killing the Athesians will not serve any purpose.”
“Dealing death is a sin,” Evgeny preached. “But the lack of faith is the greatest sin of all, for without gods and religion, we are lawless animals. The world has no place for unbelievers and pagans. So when you kill a heathen, do you answer for his death or for serving your gods?”
Sergei was annoyed by the riddle, mostly because he was in no mood for more banter with the fat man. His son shuffled close, his eyes keen.
“Your Highness, if I may,” Vlad asked meekly and knelt for a blessing from Evgeny. The clergyman put his pudgy, beringed hand on the boy’s brow and murmured a quick prayer.
“What did you have in mind, my prince?” the priest asked, even as his hand rested on the heir’s forehead. It was a meaningful gesture of power and subservience, mixed. Sergei felt a flash of anger run through his chest. He hated when the fat man tried to manipulate his son.
Vlad rose, dusting his knees. “We should not kill the Athesian prisoners, Your Holiness. They are more valuable to us alive.”
Sergei arched a brow. He had not expected his son to be so forward about defying the clergy; the boy was strict and pious, but then he was a man grown now and a war leader. “Go on.”
“We could use them for farming, sire.”
It was such a simple notion, and it made perfect sense. Ransoming them back would be a futile attempt. They could be sold to slavery in the Far South, but there would be little profit. No one cared for poor, illiterate, scarred soldiers. Defeated, they were worth less than the bread crumbs they were fed. Unless they made all those bread crumbs.
Around him stretched mile upon mile of checkered fields, corn and wheat and barley and hemp. Without farmers, the harvest would rot. If he could press the considerable workforce of prisoners to work in the fields, he would make sure his army did not starve in the winter, if the siege lasted that long. It was a superb idea. He would be able to free his craftsmen and soldiers to more important duties. And he would not need to decide what to do with the lives of the enemy captives.
The world watched him, judged him. High on the scarred city walls, the Athesians watched and judged him. They saw trains of people come and go, unharmed, and it left them thinking. Around him, in the tents and shacks of army camps, the clergy watched him. Was he a man of religion? Or was he a man of war and profit? Genrik watched him, an old, honorable man whose word was pure truth. He would write the history books, and he would judge his liege without fear or bias.
Evgeny was not pleased, he noticed. But he did not argue with the prince-heir. He just nodded gruffly and waded away, as if the little conversation had not taken place.
“You will make a plan,” Sergei said softly.
“Yes, sire,” the boy agreed.
Duke Kiril came. “Your Highness, some Athesians want to petition you.”
Sergei arched his brows. “Who are they?”
The head Talker shrugged. “Mayors from smaller towns up north. They wish to know if you will grant them safety and protection if they swear fealty to you, Your Highness.”
Already? That was good news. The rumors of his justice were spreading. Good. “My son will hear them.”
Vlad nodded, eager and undaunted by this new challenge. Kiril bowed and turned to leave on some other pressing duty.
Sergei stopped him. “A word with you.”
“Your Highness?”
Sergei put a friendly hand on the man’s shoulder, tugging him closer. “In your reports, I noticed you mentioned the deaths of the high-ranking officers and their deputies, except the commander of the City Guard.”
“He’
s not a threat, according to my agents, Your Highness. He leads the city guard. They are mostly green troops, untrained in the art of war. They have no skill or knowledge to oppose us.”
“Perhaps that is so, but the city still stands.” He pointed bluntly. “Why was he not listed?”
Duke Kiril looked a little uncomfortable. “Your Highness, we might need the city guard for after Roalas is taken. They know the city better than any other.”
Yes, and if it comes to street fighting, they know the city better than any other, Sergei thought sourly. Kiril’s men had done sloppy work. Perhaps the city was led by a mere watchman, but one who was intelligent and resourceful and unafraid. The man had razed the bridges, dammed the river, let all the people enter the city, and stalled his attack.
He still had no news from the city. The fact Roalas kept fighting meant Amalia was still most likely alive, but he did not know whether the Pum’be had tried for her yet. They had all been given orders to coordinate their attacks, but you could not really know with those sneaky dwarfs. They always did what they thought was the best way of killing people, a reputation well deserved.
The defenders were busy this morning, lobbing rocks at the siege lines. They did have impressive artillery, with a range twice that of his own catapults. This put his units at risk and forced him to stay back a further five hundred paces. Worse yet, once his siege machines were finally assembled, they would have to be moved forward, within the range of the city weapons. It would make for a precarious bombardment campaign.
Clusters of rock, tiles, rubble, and broken masonry were sailing high into the air from the siege walls, peppering the ravaged countryside in a random fashion. Most fell short of their mark, but some grazed the outskirts of his camped forces. There were few casualties, but it was a spiteful act of defiance. Sergei wished he had known more about Commander Gerald.
The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) Page 26