James dismounted and almost fell. He felt light and shaky. His limbs burned with adrenaline. Timothy was at his side like the loyal squire he was, pale like a slug, but still heroically holding up his unbloodied weapon. Not bad.
Xavier slid off his horse and approached the emperor. “Are you all right, sir?”
James swallowed a lump of fluttering giddiness. He wanted to retch with excitement. “Your men?”
Xavier stared at the five prisoners for a long time. Something like panic crossed his eyes. That nervous blink scrunched his face. “These are not my men. I swear it.”
“Then whose?” Rob accused. He was leaning against a tree, breathing deeply, an angry look on his face.
The warlord squared his jaw. Blink, blink. He realized Rob was not questioning his personal loyalty, but an army leader whose men took bribes from the enemy was not going to hold his position for too long. “We shall find out.”
He approached the first man. “Who sent you?” The man said nothing. Xavier kicked him in the groin. Keening, the prisoner folded. Some distance away, the wounded man had dragged himself to a tree and was leaning against it. He was staring at his bloodied arms and sobbing. “Cut that noise. Blaine, finish him off.”
James tried to gesture, but the soldier was faster. He buried his blade in the man’s chest. “Keep them alive. I want answers.”
“We should call off the hunt, Your Highness,” Councillor Sebastian suggested. “It’s too dangerous. There could be other ambushers. We do not know who might be conspiring against you.”
It could be anyone, James realized. Until a few months back, Sebastian had been one of his most ardent opponents. Quickly, James scanned his company. But all he saw were worried and excited faces of men having had a sudden brush with death.
“We’re not going anywhere,” James said.
“Watch the perimeter,” Xavier ordered. Several soldiers remained to guard the five surviving ambushers, but the rest spread around, forming a defensive ring around the kill zone. Two scouts rode off to warn the other teams. The adventure had just turned into a deadly affair. They were no longer hunting fellow Deer and Rabbits. They were up against a real enemy.
“Who sent you?” Xavier repeated the question, advancing on the second man.
The attacker was pale, terrified. He muttered incomprehensibly before Xavier punched him in the side of the head.
James reached over and yanked the warlord back. His strength was returning, but with it, a cold sense of fear. “I don’t need you to beat them into a bloody pulp. I want them to tell us what they know and not because they might want the pain to stop.” Are you trying to hide something, you bastard?
Xavier grinned madly. “You call this pain? Blaine, cut this man’s balls off.” He pointed.
Blaine was one of Xavier’s regulars, a silent, gruff veteran who did what he was told. The man grunted like some animal and knelt by the third prisoner, fumbling with his breeches. He reached behind and drew a short, wickedly curved blade. It was a skinning knife, used for dead animals and game. Carefully, Blaine placed the top of the knife below the man’s groin. The attacker whimpered.
“Please, no,” he pleaded.
James did not like this. But if he were going to lead a nation, he could not balk at the sight of torture. He had commissioned deaths for far less than an explicit attempt on his life. But it wasn’t just his life at stake. It was the future of Athesia.
“What’s your name?”
“Baldwin,” the attacker wept.
“Who sent you?” James pressed.
“Councillor Rudolph of Shurbalen,” he cried.
“That was quick,” Xavier said, his laughter a soft, hissing rattle. “Finish them.”
“No!” James shouted. The name is meaningless, he thought. I will always have enemies, new ones and old ones. This will never end. “Blaine, put that knife away. Put it away.”
“Your Highness?” The warlord looked displeased. That blink again.
James looked around. Sebastian was staring at him carefully. Rob looked tense; he probably expected Xavier to disobey him and then see what would happen. Timothy was standing behind him, not sure where to point his sword. The rest of the party, some rich men and nobles, some die-hard soldiers, watched the exchange of wills carefully. Even some of the men guarding the perimeter could not but help steal a backward glance.
A thunder of hooves interrupted the uneasy standoff. The rest of the hunting party was coalescing toward the ambush site. James was impressed by the clockwork discipline. Without a word, soldiers formed defensive ranks, armed swordsmen in the front, crossbowmen behind them, at least two men back-to-back. The forest was dark and the visibility broken by the trees, but this tactic was guaranteed to offer the best mutual protection.
“We will continue our hunt,” James stated plainly. “If this were a war, would I end it now just because someone tried to kill me? We ride on. I want double the number of scouts, and they ride crescents back and forth.”
“What about these scum?” Xavier growled.
“Gentlemen.” James heard himself speak ceremonially, a wild idea budding in his head. “We just got another prey. Only it’s not a game this time, it’s for real.” He looked down at his captives. “You have one hour. If you manage to flee, you keep your lives. That’s all you get. Or you can stay here and die right now.”
A blast of murmurs spread through his retinue. The fifth prisoner spat derisively. Blaine aimed a kick at his head, but Xavier stopped him.
The man curling on the ground and holding his crotch looked up. “Thank you, my lord,” he groaned.
Within seconds, the five survivors were all up and running deeper into the forest.
“One hour, then we hunt them down,” James repeated.
Rob saddled up. “You know, you are your father’s son,” he said simply.
James did the same. “I hope so.”
CHAPTER 46
Amalia stood outside the burned inn in the Street of Fortune, sniffing. Days of continuous rain had not wiped off the acrid smell of smoke. The charred remnants of the building stared at her accusingly. You failed, Empress, they said.
This was the seventh case of arson in the last week. The inn had belonged to an Eracian, an immigrant from the last war. Like so many, he had arrived in Roalas following the invading army and made the city his new home, lured and enamored by the prospect of justice and equality that her father had forged. For nearly two decades, he had lived in peace with his neighbors.
No longer, it seemed.
Amalia had to root out the phenomenon before it exploded into a civil war. If the people of Roalas turned against one another, her small empire would die without any aid from Parus. National unity was what made Athesia special, beyond religion, beyond birth, a place where every citizen of the realms could find their peace. Her dear father had emphasized the need for harmony as much as the necessity of violence. “Animals need order and control. But now and then, they need a soft, loving pet on their head. And if you pet one, you must pet them all.” She felt strange referring to her people as dogs that had to be leashed, whipped, or fondled, but deep down, she understood what he had been trying to tell her. She could see humanity fraying out around her like an old straw hat.
The only thing she could do was make sure everyone felt equal to their neighbor.
But there was no easy way she could calm the spirits down. If she tried to offer protection to the Eracians, the Caytoreans would turn against her. If she ignored the attacks, the locals would interpret that as an endorsement of their acts. Worst of all, she knew she would lose this internal battle the moment she started segregating her people into camps. The awareness of a unified Athesia was too young, too brittle to survive the crisis. Just a single generation of people had been born under her father’s rule. Not enough to sustain the dream of his empire.
She needed a diversion. The Night of Surprises had given her some respite, the Autumn Festival another few days, but the e
ffect was wearing off. Hope was quickly being replaced by fear and hatred. With ever-shortening days and gloomy, livid rains hammering on rooftops, Roalas was becoming a pot of bleak despair and raw survival.
Amalia looked behind her, at her retinue. Jerrica was Caytorean by birth. Agatha, too. She counted. Her own court still held true and loyal to her father’s ideas. But that was not enough. No one cared where an empress’s maid might have been born.
The morning was without rain, but a low bank of heavy clouds hung above the city, drifting slowly. People moved in the street, quick, withdrawn, faces cast downward toward mud and cobbles and ominous thoughts. When they saw the empress, they scurried away, propelled by silent, common guilt.
“Do we have any information who might have done this?” she asked.
Harris, one of Luke’s adjutants stepped forward. The head of the Secret Guard had not deigned to come. Back at the palace, he and Gerald were busy plotting something, keeping her in the dark. Lately, she felt they were ignoring her. Decision after decision, they saw them through and only then bothered to inform her. She did not begrudge their deeds. She regretted the lack of trust.
“We are checking,” the man said.
There was a fine line between leading a nation and being a puppet figure, Amalia thought. She had to admit Gerald and Luke knew more about war than she did, but it irked her to watch helplessly as they wove the future of Athesia. “A wise ruler knows when to step down and let even wiser people take over,” her father had always told her. She still found the notion hard to accept.
Lord Benedict watched the ruins with a deep frown on his face, his frame wrapped in an old fur cloak that radiated humble honesty. He looked displeased at being here. After she had pruned the heads off a handful of his colleagues, the relations between them had soured even further. The mayor believed this war was a giant mistake and displayed his feelings on every occasion. He failed to grasp the need for solidarity, and worse, his obligation to loyalty. The man was careful never to step over the thin line of becoming a traitor, but he was just as guilty. The burned houses were his work as much as that of saboteurs and haters.
Amalia did not really understand why her father had decided to keep the office of the city mayor occupied after his conquest. Well, he did try to tell her. “I rule this nation, and I rule this city. But I cannot rule the nation through Roalas. I need someone to be my counterweight when it comes to simple daily politics, when it comes to merchants whining about their lost goods and women complaining about their daughters. I cannot be the judge for the people of Roalas in their city, because I would have to be a judge in all our cities.”
It made sense, but she wondered how wise her father’s choice had been. Maybe in peacetime, but now, Lord Mayor Benedict was a serious obstacle to her rule. He radiated pessimism and borderline disobedience. She wanted to see his side and understand his motives, but all the man offered was sour cowardice.
Could she remove him? Vacate the office? Appoint someone else? Who would take care of taxes and mending roads and making sure the food was distributed fairly? She could not divert her energy to running a city. The entire nation needed her.
Even if her nation had been reduced to whatever survived within the curtain walls of Roalas.
Even so, Lord Benedict was just one of her many problems.
Meeting with the Eracian Count Bartholomew had shaken her. His message had been clear. The deterrence she had hoped to achieve through the abductions did not exist. Monarch Leopold was inclined to forgive the insult, it seemed, but he would not beg.
She had no idea what had become of her message sent during the night attack. It could be weeks or months before the reply arrived, if ever.
Meanwhile, she had to deal with treason, civil strife, the cold winter, scarcity of food, and all the other perils of this siege. She had to live with her disappointment in her closest allies, the lethal threat of the Parusite attack, and the nervous Eracian count, who could easily undo all she’d tried to achieve. Amalia had no control over him and could not know what kind of reports he might be sending his monarch in Somar. The Eracians seemed willing to negotiate, but this man Bart was an unpredictable factor in the broader scheme.
She felt aware of the inn proprietor, standing by the black skeleton of his business, staring at her with the big, gimlet eyes of a person with not a shred of illusion left in his soul. What could she possibly tell him that would console him? He had followed a brave man called Adam into this foreign land and built his life and raised his family. Now, his home and livelihood had been taken away from him. And Adam’s daughter only had empty words of consolation to offer.
It would not do.
Almost instinctively, Amalia raised her hand to scratch her scalp, but stopped herself. She had grown some hair, and hiding it underneath the wig was becoming cumbersome, so she was glad for the winter veils and shawls that allowed ladies to hide their pretty heads from the wind and hail. Not that her face was pretty anymore with that big scar.
She really had nothing. She was losing everything. She had lost her secret knowledge and weapon. She was losing her friends, her own confidence. The army was in tatters. The food supplies were low. The love her nation bore her was oozing away down the drains like old piss.
She did not know what to do.
Release the hostages, the words reverberated inside her head. Everyone told her that. Was she being blind, or was everyone being so craven? She could not tell. Theodore had spent the early hours after dawn droning about her responsibilities. While Agatha painted her skin to hide the scar, the old man had lectured her on the prospect of reestablishing ties with the neighboring realms. It was the only way to defeat the Parusites.
She could not accept that.
She was going to break King Sergei. He would starve and freeze under the city walls. His men would lose thumbs and noses and ears to frost, and shit themselves to death with the flux. And when finally his men stormed the gates and failed, they would break and limp back to their country. After that, Eracia and Caytor would bend their gangrenous knees and finally accept Athesia as an equal for all generations to come. Power was forged in blood. Her father had proven that.
“Master Malcom will be repaid the worth of his establishment,” she stated simply.
Lord Benedict sighed. Signing another letter of credit for after the war was just a trifle nuisance to him. The proprietor said nothing. Paper with an imperial seal would not feed his children tonight. But Amalia could not allow gold to be distributed to common people. That would lead to even more trouble.
She had seen all she had to see. Touring the city was becoming ever more of a burden. Mostly the weather, but also the spirit of the people, weighing on her soul. When you tried to play the gallant role of a redeemer, you expected cheers and smiles to greet you back and warm you. You did not want grim faces and weeping children.
She was doing the best she could. Almost every day, she rode or walked through the city, handing out loaves of bread and baskets of eggs from the dwindling palace stores, talking to wives, inquiring about their sons and husbands standing watch at the battlements or recuperating in the First’s hospital. She tried to be pleasant and strong, to inspire and give hope. She visited shops and taverns, complimented the people on their courage and resolve. And when needed, she watched her headsmen punish criminals and traitors in public squares. Roalas was her city, her bastion. But all her efforts just did not seem enough.
They started back toward the palace, a slow procession. Her company of bodyguards spread about, screening her from danger, carefully eyeing every window, every rooftop, every alley. As the rhythm of hoofbeats and creaking wheels settled in her head, she turned her thoughts to Gerald, her maverick hero.
She was angry with him. But even as she felt her muscles tighten with ire, she knew her anger was nothing more than childish, peevish resentment. Gerald was as close a friend as she was ever likely to have. He wasn’t afraid of her. But the pain of his actions hurt deeply.
It wasn’t betrayal; it wasn’t mistrust. It was the feeling of pitiful self-worth as she slowly realized that the realm would go about without her just as well as it did now. Her commander—her general—was capable enough of running the city and fighting this siege without her opinions and whims. She stood in his way. And she hated her own incompetence.
A knot of people waved at her. Amalia almost forgot to wave back and smile, her mind reeling with questions and doubts and the gnawing sensation of despair. Gerald made her feel like a stupid girl.
The entourage entered the palace grounds in silence, only the hooves beating erratically against the wet cobbles. She ignored her servants as she headed toward her study, where she knew Gerald would be. She had left him there before leaving on her inspirational tour.
The ghost image of their first kiss floated before her eyes as she entered, tugging on her gloves with more force than necessary. Gerald was bent, writing. A stack of reports lay half curled at his side.
The room stank from candle smoke, but the musky smell of his masculinity wrapped around her. His smell reminded her of when she had been a little girl and would hide in her parents’ bedchamber, covering her head with Father’s blankets. The world would melt away, to be replaced by a warm, woolly cocoon of safety and carefree bliss. And in the soft cushion of protection, her father’s scent lingered, deep and loving.
Her mind emptied. The one thought that remained was the fatal realization she feared losing Gerald. In that one moment, panic gripped her, so intense that she gasped. She didn’t want to lose her small empire. She did not want to see her people starve or die or bend knee to the Parusite king. She dreaded the notion of having to admit defeat. But most of all, she felt selfish about losing Gerald.
He looked up, stretching. He was weary. “Amalia.”
She was silent for a long while, her thoughts colliding in a rush until they roared like rapids. “What am I doing wrong?”
The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) Page 53