The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2)

by Igor Ljubuncic

  The mercenary shook both his hands and head. “No, no, no. She’s one of ours,” the man said, almost defensively.

  “Why do you keep her in the cage?” the count asked.

  The mahout seemed confused by the question. “Why? Because she’s a maiden. It’s for her own protection. We keep them locked until they can be sold and bargained for. This one is for you.”

  Bart swallowed. Junner simply ignored his earlier mention of his marriage. “You consider this a game?”

  Junner inclined his head. “Game, yes, no. It’s the Balance. Best night to lose maidenhood. And she’s for you.”

  The count realized he should be honored. Looking more sharply, he realized the woman did not seem frightened or harried or malnourished. She was healthy, clean, and even looked bored. The cage was rather large, and it contained a bed, a washstand, and a handful of dolls and board games to keep the woman occupied.

  “You keep her locked in there all the time?”

  Junner chortled. “No, of course not. In daylight, we get them traveling together with other women, under guard, but tonight, you can’t know what might happen, so it’s best to keep your assets protected. This one is mine. I got five maidens,” he declared proudly. “Sold the other four earlier, so she’s the only one left. But most expensive, too.”

  “Is she your daughter?” Bartholomew was sober now.

  The other man just shrugged innocently. “Could be, but I doubt it. She’s prettier than me.” He laughed madly. “You can have her, if you give me your Kacey woman,” Junner offered.

  Bart suppressed his anger. “My soldiers are not for sale. They are free people and will choose their own destiny. If Corporal Kacey wants to be with you, it’s her choice. I do not own her. And I wouldn’t suggest you ever ask her that.”

  Junner sensed the sudden change in the count’s mood. “Ah, Lord Count, take no offense. You’re not into bargains, no matter. I saw you play and drink. I thought you wanted some dessert.”

  “No, thank you. Let’s go back.” Bart realized his cultural enrichment had taken a whole new turn.

  “You stay here!” Junner told the girl. She looked disappointed. Laughing, he led the count out of the tent. “She’s a pretty one. I won’t sell her cheap.” And his friends would not buy costly, it seemed.

  Bart felt empty when they returned to the celebration. He took his place near a fire, eating roasted meat mechanically, his mind reeling with thoughts. The sight of the caged woman, even if voluntarily, shocked him. Then, he should not be surprised. The Borei had little regard for the rigid family and marital rules that bound the realms. Welcome to reality, his mind whispered.

  He drank more wine—snake wine, red wine, white wine, plum wine, anything he could lay his hands on. Soon, the world swam before his eyes. A throbbing rhythm hit his temples, and he slowly realized those were drums. The Borei had cleared a large circle. Women were stepping into it, limned in orange flames of campfires, dancing to the beat of the music. Scantily clad despite the cold, sweating and swaying drunkenly, the Borei non-maidens gyrated in front of the cheering, hollering crowd of soldiers. Men were tossing coins toward the women and shouting offers. Every now and then, one of the owners would stand up and accept the bid. Never pausing, the purchased women snaked their way out of the circle, following their new owner for the night.

  The Borei shared their women, all right, but they also loved trade.

  From the corner of his eye, Bart saw Corporal Kacey join the tribe women in the dance. With growing horror, he watched her undo her shirt and flaunt her skinny torso and small tits in front of the leering crowd. She still wore her trousers and had a sword buckled on her slim, somewhat manly hips. It was insane.

  Bart wanted to move, but his body felt like lead. He saw the Red Cap female step into the circle and drag Kacey away. One of the Borei tried to protest, but the Parusite soldier clouted him hard in the face. He tumbled like a bag of wheat. His comrades laughed so hard that some vomited their dinner from sheer excitement.

  The sight of puking reminded Bart he might want to do the same. Inhaling deeply through his nostrils, he kept the contents of his own stomach down. The dance continued. Bart felt his eyes close. He passed out.

  He woke up naked, shivering. Opening his eyes, he saw the thick hairs of a woolen blanket tickling his nose. He pushed the cover away and realized he had too many arms. He counted again. And then, his throbbing mind truly registered what his eyes saw.

  There were two women entangled with him beneath the cover. He sat up a little, felt the world spin, and slowly rested his heavy skull back on the ground. Carefully, he tried again, propping himself on his left elbow. The woman on his left murmured something and flipped over, trailing saliva from her mouth to his nipple.

  What in the name of the Abyss did I do? he asked himself. You fornicated, his mind answered instantly.

  Bart did not quite know whether to feel shame, guilt, or elation as he crept away and went about looking for his clothes. He stepped over slumped forms of soldiers, some naked, some half dressed, others bathing in their urine and vomit. His clothes rested in a neat pile near an empty skin of wine.

  He looked down at his member, crusted with dry semen. Well, it had seen some action, finally, he thought with gruff, stupid pride. Sonya would not like this, he knew. But then, Sonya did not need to know.

  “Come back,” the other woman groaned. She had blonde hair; the other had black.

  “Soon,” Bart mumbled, and he realized spending another hour with the two women might not be a bad thing. He wondered how much he had paid for them. He could not remember anything after that little fight.

  It was still before dawn. The eastern sky was ruddy, dappled with dark gray clouds. The sun would emerge in about an hour and begin its ever-shorter trip until the next balance. Autumn had officially started.

  Bart looked around the camp. So quiet, so serene. He liked it. He knew he had done things that would see him expelled from Leopold’s court, but he liked it. He felt as if some giant weight had been lifted from his chest. His soul felt clean and pure, even if his head hurt fiercely. Even blinking was a painful task.

  He was just about to don his cloak. No. He would go back under the covers with those two girls and enjoy himself some more. The world could wait. He started undressing again. The cold whipped at him, easing his headache a little.

  A horn sounded. It was distant, coming from the Parusite camp. Short note, long note, short note, long note. Bart frowned. He had never heard that tune before, and he thought he was well familiar with their signals by now. Something was happening.

  He looked around. Most of the Borei were too drunk to hear the horn. Some were stirring, but like him, they found the pattern unfamiliar, so they just slumped back to sleep. If there were no superiors around shouting, it meant things were fine.

  But the same could not be said for the Parusites. There was an obvious commotion exploding in the far camp. A noise of panic was rising, becoming a thunder. Had the Athesians attacked again? No, it did not seem that way. The battlements were still. No sound of assault.

  Bart contemplated his next move. So far, the Parusite king had kept him penned like a sheep, trying to limit his movement, watching him, making sure he could not complete his diplomatic mission. He could not freely send messages or communicate with Empress Amalia. Then, he had tested him like some green soldier when he confronted him with the Oth Danesh overlord’s death sentence. And even when he volunteered his troops for the camp’s defense, he was coolly, if politely, snubbed. Whatever the king thought of his gallant actions, he kept to himself. A quiet praise was no praise at all.

  Trouble? Let it be. He was done groveling. He represented one of the most powerful rulers in the realms. If King Sergei needed something, he would make sure to send a messenger.

  Ignoring the rumble in the Parusite camp, he snuggled back under the covers. He closed his eyes and continued scheming his plan. It was a daring idea, but it sat well with his new, r
eformed self.

  CHAPTER 41

  A city under siege should not have fancy celebrations, but it was a must. The Autumn Festival was good for morale. Despite what Mayor Benedict advised, Amalia ordered every alehouse, tavern, and inn to serve free drinks on the night of the festivities. Free drinks, with the empress’s compliments, no less. It was important to remember that. Besides, to ask the innkeepers to waste their own stores would have been an invitation to mutiny.

  The barrels were rolled out from the imperial warehouses and handed out to proprietors the day before the turn of the season so they would not squander it on regular customers or try to black-market the goods. You could never really count on gratitude winning over greed.

  The poor were also given food at large mess halls in the army quarters. The acts of this sudden charity and benevolence thinned down their supplies further, but there was a solid buzz of warmth and even some hope radiating off the streets of Roalas all night. People ate and drank food blessed by their ruler, and the hundreds of plainclothes operatives made sure the litany was well repeated with each swig and bite. By early dawn, drunken patrons and desperate citizens were singing songs of praise for their empress.

  There was little violence, except the usual share of saboteurs, traitors, thieves, and occasional troublemakers. Since the night attack, the jail cells were empty, so they needed filling again.

  The city had a lot to celebrate, despite the gloomy weather, despite the siege. There was a new legend being born. It was called the Night of Surprises, and it spoke of a handful of Athesian heroes sallying forth against a hundred thousand of Parusites and winning. The fathers and sons of Roalas had ridden into certain death and emerged victorious. They’d burned siege weapons, they’d slaughtered giant beasts, and they’d hunted down traitors and deserters.

  It was for this very reason that Amalia chose to commemorate their dedication and sacrifice in a formal ceremony the morning after the festival. All of the surviving volunteers, including soldiers discharged from hospitals, were assembled in the court, commanders in the first ranks, the most distinguished fighters behind them, the remainder of the force in the back. So few, so very few.

  The commander of the City Guard stood in the very center, flanked by a few hard-core veterans and several new heroes of the city. Few had held any significant rank at the beginning of the attack, but when their superiors died, they took over and led bravely. Now, they were the elite of the city, the best troops around, men hardened by fire and horror and impossible odds. The new First Legion, born of simple city watchmen.

  Gerald did not find his new intimacy of war that rewarding. It was a good thing, but it was sad. To look around and ask the silly question: why them and not me? What kind of chance, what kind of divine interference or random luck made these people live to see the day after and not the rest of them? What made them special? Their skill with the sword? Their stamina? Their indifference to the smell of blood and shit?

  Gerald knew he should be glad he was among the living, but some suicidal, self-destructive part of his soul yearned for the blackness of death. Not so much to die as not to have to cope with life’s merciless roll of the dice every waking moment. He could not quite explain it, but it tugged at his chest, taunting him. Focusing on saving the city helped.

  The veterans had warned him. “You’ll get all sorrowful and melancholy. When that happens, get drunk and get yourself a pair of whores. You might end up a drunkard and penniless, but at least you’ll have drunk and fucked yourself a share, so that’s a good start.” He had abstained from drinking and whoring, but he might listen to their advice just yet.

  Everyone was so gallant today. He had almost forgotten his vehement argument with Amalia. He recalled Theo’s reserved reaction, Lord Benedict’s pragmatic approach to sacrifice, Luke’s silent, deadly support. After a victory, old differences were forgotten. Had he failed, well, had he failed, he would have been dead. Now, he was a lucky fool, and he deserved a medal.

  The decorators had done their best to make the palace capable of hosting a huge meeting. Most of the available halls were normally small and empty. Emperor Adam had never given formality much thought, never considered glitter as a worthy replacement for gut-wrenching awe. Almost desperate, the army of servants had knocked several walls down and joined several chambers into a large hall. They had done pretty impressive work, tapestries, rugs, banners, polished suits of armor. It would probably offend any other ruler, but it would have to do. The gardens would have been a much better choice and could receive more people, but the weather was too bad for that.

  Hundreds of soldiers, members of their families, the rich and important of the city all crowded inside the new hall, watching the empress. She stood like a statue, letting anticipation build. Her head was covered with the wig, and unless you knew it, you would never know she sported an orphan’s stubble on her scalp. The fake bloodstaff also looked rather genuine. Nothing sinister had happened in the Athesian court, the message was clear.

  This was the first moment of any real significance in Amalia’s reign, he thought. The hall, the audience, the effort taken in making a lasting impression. The city stood despite the odds and even managed a vicious bite when provoked. The chance of a victory was a remote, slim one, but there was more hope today than in the whole of last summer.

  Theodore tapped the ceremonial cane against the stone floor, drawing everyone’s attention. He was the master of ceremonies today. He announced the empress, his slow tone vibrating with importance.

  “People of Roalas,” Amalia began, her voice loud and clear and steady.

  Gerald watched her. She stood without moving, making short, simple statements. The success of the night attack had helped her regain some of her confidence, but it was still outclassed by her stubbornness. He had pledged his life for her, but sometimes, he felt confused by her choices. He wondered if old Beno had ever doubted Adam.

  But his thoughts withered away. It was time to honor the city’s heroes. Gerald was first.

  One by one, Theodore read their names and ranks. They shuffled from the crowd and climbed the small dais, then kneeled before the empress as she wreathed their necks with a thin chain with a small but heavy gold medallion suspended from it. The coin-like piece was stamped with her head relief on one side and Adam’s family emblem on the other.

  Gerald let out a little snort of respect as he thumbed the piece, wondering about Adam’s choice. What kind of a man chose a stack of coins for a symbol that was etched on coins? You had to have a special mind for that. No one really knew what it meant. But it was easy enough to embroider on flags.

  There was no shortage of gold in Roalas, Gerald knew. Bread was probably more expensive now. Still, gold was a symbol of status and would endure siege and hunger, hopefully. But that was not all. Men also got promoted today, earning extra ranks on top of their blood-drenched career ascent. And lands, a stone’s throw worth for each warrior, something to look forward to in their retirement, after the countryside was purged of the Parusite pests. It was a bold and somewhat vain statement, and looking around, he noticed most soldiers did not appreciate the gift. But Amalia plunged on.

  Gerald’s joy shattered when he remembered Lieutenant Clive. The old man had succumbed to his wounds. The man had saved his life; he was the real hero. No one honored the dead today, though, because there were simply too many to list and name. Most of the bodies had never been retrieved. What could you offer the families that would mean anything? Empty condolences? A sack of wheat so the children would not go hungry? The proper way to compensate the city’s widows had yet to be decided, he recalled grimly.

  It was his task, his responsibility.

  The day stretched. He began to sweat. His shoulders ached from the ceremonial armor, a mail plate with a thick coat of gold paint and a large woolen cloak that tugged on the straps and chafed the armpits. At least his side had healed well, with only a rope of scarred skin to chafe him.

  “You are the heroes of
Roalas,” Amalia repeated after the last of the assembled soldiers got his medal. He limped back into the ranks, the shuffle of his boot an eerie noise in the silent hall. “We owe you our lives.”

  In the city’s squares and marketplaces, loud-voiced criers were delivering a shorter, more emotional version of her speech to the masses, all those who could not be present in the palace today.

  “Death to the Parusites,” someone called in the crowd. A wave of murmurs erupted.

  Gerald grimaced. He had not expected rage cries to be the ceremony’s ending. But the sentiment was too great to contain. Even Amalia sensed it. She lifted the fake glass rod in the air and chanted with them. “Death to the Parusites!”

  And then, the ceremony was over.

  When Gerald exited the hall, he saw a messenger waiting for him. His muscles tightened. He had almost forgotten about the secret assignment. The noise of horns in the enemy camp still echoed faintly outside.

  “Is it done?” he asked.

  The man wiped grime from his cheeks. “It is done, sir.”

  Gerald exhaled slowly. Now, he had to inform the empress.

  “Any reason for all the commotion in the Parusite camp?” Amalia asked Gerald when they assembled in her study. The empress-mother was there, Mayor Benedict, Theodore, Luke, a handful of female bodyguards, Agatha, another servant. It was fairly crowded, and Gerald would have wished for a more private meeting.

  Luke looked sideways at Gerald. He nodded back. He would handle this. “Your Highness, we have King Sergei’s son in our hands. He’s safely locked in the cells.”

  Silence. Amalia looked up from a swath of reports. Her eyes locked with Gerald’s. Then she looked at Luke, Theodore.

  “Who gave the order?” she asked quietly.

  Gerald did not blink. “I did, Your Highness.”

  Amalia rose. She traced a finger over her scarred ear. “Interesting,” she muttered. If she were displeased with him taking the liberty of doing things without informing her, she was surely excited by the prospect of holding the Parusite prince-heir as a hostage. It changed the whole balance of this war. “Was this your idea?”