She squirmed. “That won’t be enough, I’m afraid, Your Majesty.”
Leopold could just tell he would not enjoy this meeting. The simple thing would be to grant her the rights to lease her husband’s lands and properties to a bankrupted nobility in return for exclusive trade rights and the ownership of their souls. But in some small way, even though he did not really like Bart, he felt it would be too dishonorable toward the man. It would almost be like treason. Besides, he did not need Countess Sonya any more powerful than she already was.
“There’s the other thing,” she said. And then, she hiked up her skirts and straddled him where he lounged on the big leather sofa. Leopold did not resist. Slowly, she lowered herself, applying weight against his loins.
He could feel the heat of her naked body radiating through the leather of his pants. He swallowed. “If anyone enters upon us, I will have you beheaded,” he said, his voice thin and husky.
She smiled. “I will take the risk, my lord.” Carefully, she reached down and undid the lace of his trousers. He was hard as a rock. Sonya knew he hardly ever slept with the queen, especially after she had birthed him a moron. It was a cruel reminder of their failure.
He gasped as she led him inside her. His eyes glazed. And then, the negotiations began. Leopold made a thin, keening noise like a dog as he climaxed, slapping his fists against the sides of the sofa. Countess Sonya waited for his last spasm, then stood up quickly, dripping seed over his trousers. Leopold cursed silently. But he had won again. She had not managed to sway him.
Sonya shrugged the pooled layers of fabric back down her pale legs, regaining composure. It looked as if nothing had happened. The monarch watched her, wondering how many foolish, lewd men like himself had been the subject of the same manipulation. For all he knew, she was plotting his death. He could have her executed for treason. Even the simple fact she had cheated on her husband was enough to get her thrown out of court and stripped of her title. But he needed her money and influence to stay in power.
Which was why he needed the mercenaries so badly. Once he had a powerful paid army under his control, no one would oppose him, inside or outside the realm. He would settle the score with anyone who had mocked him. He would make his nobles fear him once again. He would become like Vergil the Brave.
Leopold watched Sonya smooth the creases of her dress, tuck stray strands of hair behind her ears. Deep inside his mind, caution and panic screamed their warnings. It was rumored the countess was barren, but no one could really know that for sure. In a sudden moment of clarity, he wondered what would happened if she accidentally got pregnant. Normally, this would be less of a scandal with Bart around, but it would be highly suspicious if she came with child while the count was away, fighting bravely for the sake of the realm. It would make his list of problems that much longer.
He was most surprised that Countess Sonya actually favored his decision to bring in the nomad hordes. She even goaded him. Leopold could only begin to fathom the depth of her machinations. He almost believed she wanted him to start the war with the Parusites so they would execute the hundreds of Eracian nobles held imprisoned in Roalas. In one fell stroke, she would get rid of a large number of her rivals. But even Sonya would not be that crazy, he hoped.
Despite his humiliation, she made him feel important. She held him by the balls and the coffers, but she believed in him. She wanted him to be powerful. She wanted him to command respect of his realm, something he lacked today. Maybe she saw Bart becoming a trusted duke, advising the monarch one day. After all, her husband’s money would pay for much of the mercenary army.
Leopold wished he were as cunning and unscrupulous as she. He fantasized about getting rid of her once he gained more power, but he was not sure he could bring himself to do that. And he was sort of attached to her shaming presence. The memory of her undulating slowly, very slowly, above him, demanding rights to lands and trade, floated before his eyes. He shook his head.
“Have you decided?” Sonya asked him.
He needed power. He desperately needed power. Leopold reached for a napkin and started cleaning his trousers.
“Yes, I have.” He would have the mercenary armies hired before the year’s end.
She just nodded, satisfied.
CHAPTER 31
So this is it, Gerald thought. He was scared, genuinely scared.
Most of his men had spent the last two hours shitting brown soup from their bowels in anticipation of the battle, terror gripping them. They were alert and exhausted at the same time. No one had slept even for a moment. Few had eaten, unable to bring themselves to chew and swallow food. The attack was most likely suicide, but they had no choice. It had to be done. Athesia demanded their sacrifice.
All the soldiers hiding in the rubble surrounding the city were volunteers, each one perfectly aware of the risk and the slim odds of their survival this night. And still, each one had asked to be included in this mission. They were fathers and brothers and sons of Roalas. Their wives and children waited for them behind the walls, wrapped in cold misery and anticipation. If they failed, their wives would be raped and their children thrown into the river. Failure was not an option.
Leading an attack against a numerically superior enemy in the middle of the night was a grave risk. But there was no other way. The Parusites were too powerful to engage in an all-out assault. The only way the defenders could win was through brutality and surprise.
Adam’s way.
Gerald’s force was a unique selection of men. Half were survivors of the decimated legions, men emasculated by their shameful defeat. This battle was meant to redeem them. They would either emerge victorious or end up dead. But they would no longer suffer the disgraceful burden of failure. More importantly still, they had tasted blood. They had lost, but they knew the din and confusion of combat. They had seen their friends die. They had seen war in all its treacherous beauty. Whatever happened tonight, they had seen it before.
The other half were Adam’s veterans and green troops, like himself. Although they had not fought in two decades, the old soldiers had volunteered to help train and lead the rest, knowing all too well that the first moments of the battle would be crucial. Once men got past the initial terror of carnage, they would fight for survival, their combat instincts kicking in. If they got that one lucky chance, they might actually live through tonight.
Gerald had carefully arranged his force into units consisting of at least one old man and several junior officers and sergeants. The young men needed to learn war fast. They needed someone to show them how it was done. Taking inexperienced city guards and reserve troops along was a great risk, but there was no other way.
Tonight, the City Guard would lose its maidenhood. Tonight, Athesia would have its general.
Or maybe, he would die a nameless hero, forgotten in the ballads to come.
He did not want the title. He did not want the burden. But there was no one else to lead these men into battle, no one else to teach them real combat. The highest-ranking officer to return alive from the rout was a major who now spent his days drinking and weeping in the barracks’ mess.
So, Gerald led.
Empress Amalia had opposed his plan. She called him a fool. If he died, the city would be left without its captain.
She believed the survivors of the legions should go to battle and protect the realm. The City Guard was a not an army force. It was up to the army, the paid soldiers, to fight for the nation.
Maybe so, Gerald had argued. But straw targets and wooden swords could not replace the cold, stark terror of a real war. Roalas’s defenders had never tasted blood or steel. If they wanted to protect their homes, they’d better do it right.
Eighteen years of absolute peace had left their mark. No one had expected war to come to the capital. The city didn’t even have its own legion force. In Adam’s time, it hadn’t been needed.
Gerald knew all about planning and the mechanics of combat. He had fought gangs, stilled small r
ebellions in nearby towns and villages, chased criminals down narrow, slippery alleys, wrestled with drunks and cowards and stabbers, broken arms in pub fights, and shattered noses with well-placed punches. He was a decent archer, and he could even ride a horse well.
But there was nothing in the practice yard, not even the street brawls, the rooftop chases, not even cornering a madman with an axe, or hunting brigands through grassy fields, that could compare to a real fight, old Beno would say. Nothing at all. You sweated for years, you wept bloody blisters on your palms as you wielded the wooden swords, but the first time you saw men just like you rushing to kill you, not because they cared, because they were afraid, the same as you, all your wise lessons evaporated.
By the fourth battle, you would lose half your men, Gerald’s father had added. But those who remained, they knew the smell of guts and the sharp stench of blood; they knew the noise and confusion and breathless pressure. They became veterans. And the intimacy of that knowledge was worth twenty years of training.
You could train men for war, but you couldn’t train men for terror.
Nothing like the books. Nothing like the songs, Son. The press of a thousand souls brought together into one living, breathing mass of fear and determination. The hum of bowstrings, the raw, endless cry of death, the heat and the sizzle and the confusion. The stench of shit. Most of all, the shit.
Gerald felt lost and terrified. But something else, something deeper, was guiding his hand.
He brandished his father’s sword tonight, a good old blade.
Tonight’s plan was elaborate. They were going to strike the Parusites on three fronts and try to lift the siege. They just waited for the diversion.
No one spoke. Men lay on their backs, leaning against the charred remnants of the slums, waiting, reliving their lives in quick bursts of images and regrets. The air was thick with the stench of sweat and feces. The night was cool, with a low cloud cover that obscured the moon and the stars. Visibility was low, just perfect for a sneak raid.
Time stretched. It was well past midnight. And still, not one man dozed off. You could barely see the faces, but the eyes shone bright and white, hundreds of them, glazed with fear.
Then, it started.
In unison, the twenty-nine Fuckers lobbed their load into the night, against the south encampment. Reese, the city’s chief engineer, had modified the engines to extend their reach. And with a lighter load than usual, they gained an extra two hundred paces of range. Instead of stones, the catapults fired severed, tarred heads of Parusite soldiers, doused in oil and set alight. On the south side, Gerald watched them arch high, higher; then they dropped beyond the line of sight, obscured by the curtain walls.
The captain of the city tapped his chest twice. His troops rose and started advancing toward the north camp. They moved slowly, carefully, mindful of the rubble strewn all around. The most important thing was to keep formation. If they dispersed, they would die.
A thunder of noise exploded into the night. The Parusites were waking up. Armor jangled. Weapons clanked. A horn screamed into the night, howling. Drums started beating, the heart of a slow, lumbering beast. Streaming through the West Gate was a contingent of two thousand Athesian spearmen, packed tightly, shields raised above their heads against arrow fire, moving toward the Red Caps. Now that was the real diversion.
The spear force was going to try to break through the siege lines west, drawing the bulk of Princess Sasha’s troops there. A similar detachment was going to try to destroy the siege engines being assembled in the south camp. Once finished with their work, they would retreat into Roalas, covered by archers and catapults from the battlements.
Gerald’s force was going on the real mission that night. A thousand men total, divided into two groups. The west group was comprised entirely of criminals, the scum of Roalas, the filth that floated in gutters. They had been given a very simple choice: die at the gallows or try to fight their way to freedom through the Parusite lines. If they survived the night, they would be pardoned and forgotten. If they somehow miraculously survived, came back into the city and joined the army, they would even be honored and given rewards. It was a desperate measure, but Gerald had no other choice. The criminals would try to kill and rape the Red Caps while he carried out the second part.
That was another lesson he remembered from Emperor Adam.
On the far east flank, his force of six hundred men was going to try to kill Commander General Driscoll, formerly of the Athesian Ninth Legion. A traitor.
The man had surrendered to the Parusites less than a week after the initial attack. Rather than trying to relieve the city, he had led his force into the Red Caps camp, waving a flag of truce, and bent knee to King Sergei’s sister. Now, the Ninth Legion fought under the Parusite banners. It could not be tolerated. The man had to die. Gerald intended to murder him personally and present the coward’s head to the wife he had left in Roalas.
The commander of the City Guard could not see beyond the siege walls toward the west and south to see what was happening. The only sign of commotion was a fresh salvo of severed heads, tracing a hundred orange lines into the velvet night. The act would infuriate the Parusites. So keen on religion, they viewed the desecration of bodies as blasphemy. Perhaps their wrath would make them reckless.
The rolling cacophony of sound intensified, thousands getting ready to die. Unseen in the frenzy, his force skulked toward the Red Caps’ picket line. They all wore padded armor and gray-green leathers, no mail or no plate. They had to be quick and quiet. Even their faces were smeared in soot and grease, to make them a part of the night.
Only fifty paces away, they could see the Parusite sentries, swords drawn, staring into the night. Behind them, small fires burned, illuminating the soldiers in an unholy halo. The first line of Athesians stopped, knelt, raised their crossbows, and fired. A dozen guards went down.
Each man was armed with two crossbows, plus either a sword, a hammer, or an ax. No pole-arms, no bulky, ungainly weapons. Their goal was to inflict maximum damage to the enemy—hamstring any horse they found, burn any supply cart they saw, behead any officer, be they man or woman. They would cripple the Red Caps as much as they could. No talking, no negotiations, no mercy, no prisoners.
A lone guard dog was barking at them, running ahead of the advancing force, but not quite approaching them. One of the soldiers tried to kill it, but he missed. The bolt slammed between its paws. Growling and whining at the same time, the dog ran away. The enemy tents were only paces away.
Gerald slowed down and raised his crossbow. “Steady, boy,” Lieutenant Clive, a grizzled, stooped soldier from his father’s time, whispered. The man was wheezing, out of breath, but he kept pace with the youngsters.
Gerald had not expected his first kill of that night to be a beautiful woman. She emerged from her tent, half dressed, trying to don her helmet. The bolt struck her in the neck. The blow of the shot made her spin once before she toppled like a lifeless doll.
“You did well, boy,” the old man hissed.
The captain of Roalas blinked. I just killed a girl, he thought stupidly. He tossed his crossbow away and drew his sword. His palms were clammy with cold sweat; his grip almost slipped.
Cries of alarm erupted around them as the enemy camp woke to yet another attack. The Athesians, silent and grim, their jaws locked with determination and primal terror, surged forward, cutting women down. Those who hesitated in front of a freckled face or a slim figure died. Within seconds, no Athesian men held any illusions about who they faced. Fighting women was cruel, but it had to be done. The Athesian female soldiers had no such worries; they never once showed the mercy or reluctance of their male comrades.
Real war was nothing like training. In the past three weeks, the veterans had tried to prepare them for combat, making them rub their skin in offal and drink cow blood and spar with real weapons. But it was the indifference, the cold, detached indifference that shocked Gerald. You fought like a puppet, with no dis
cernible emotions, your limbs moving of their own volition, survival taking over. You did not waste time thinking. It was lethal. He was—
He parried just in time, stumbling over a tent line. Another veteran stepped just in time to save him from being impaled, using the big ax to hack the woman’s arm off. She shrieked and fainted almost immediately. The soldier finished her, then turned toward Gerald.
“Foolish, man.”
Gerald wiped the hot spray of blood from his face. He could not be distracted. No. He shook his head. He followed the horde.
They moved as a tight pack, covering one another’s flanks, two or three men working as a group, one attacking, the other two probing for openings and protecting the front man. It was quite effective. They wormed through the enemy camp, deeper and deeper.
His eyes flicked left and right, trying to spot surprise attacks. Blood pounded in his ears, making him almost deaf to the external world. Breathing was hard. The air was thick and reeked of hot blood. He gagged. Then, he saw a Red Cap crawling away from the frenzy, clutching her entrails, dragging them over dirt. He vomited.
“Breathe, son! Breathe!” Clive was shouting, holding his shoulders. “You two, close the gap. Cover the commander. Support fire, now.”
Two dozen Athesians detached from the main force and knelt down, arming their crossbows. Confused, disoriented, Gerald reached behind his back for the second unit, only to realize he had lost it in the fray.
“Focus, lad!” Clive was cursing. The man slapped him. An arrow slammed into the old man’s side. He grunted and folded. “Bugger. Fuck me.” He spat. They dragged him away, despite his protests. “Break the shaft. Break the…aaargh. Fuck me!” he howled through a rag as an inexperienced squad healer tried to dislodge the arrow from the wound. Clive slapped him, pushing him away. With his own knife, he cut the cloth and leather around the entry point. It was a lucky flesh wound, through the fat slab at his side. Screaming defiance, the old man sliced through the tissue and yanked the arrow out.
The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) Page 36