Empire Asunder BoxSet

by Michael Jason Brandt

  The Third shook his head. “No, I suppose not.” Then he clapped a hand on Nico’s shoulder. “It is a good plan, Thane. Very similar to my own. Ah, my tea, at last.”

  Pris entered with their beverages, on the same oversize platter as before. With room enough for a dozen, their two looked lonely. Nico lifted his water and prepared to sip.

  To his surprise, Arturo spoke before drinking. “May I say something, Thane?”

  Nico thought of the last man he had shared a drink with—Captain Gornada, in Cormona. That memory was a warning at how suddenly friendship can turn. It was dangerous to like this man as much as he did already. “No, thank you, Third, I prefer—”

  But Arturo was already speaking. “I have enjoyed these last days. Despite terrible sadness, an unwanted conflict, an enemy at your walls…Akenberg hospitality has been exceedingly gracious. I came as the harbinger of bad news, and I forced you into a decision that I believe you would have preferred to avoid. Your respect has been a surprise, to be honest. Your company, agreeable. I am glad to have met you, Prince Nicolas.” He downed the tea.

  Nico did not understand how his companion could do that. Compliment a man just before killing him. Perhaps it was simply a courtesy to ease an opponent’s mind. Or to purge Arturo’s own guilt.

  Either way, he appreciated the gesture. Here was a man who embodied the values of the Order. His service was a boon to the empire, and his companionship an unexpected delight. Nico did indeed feel honored to fight the Third, and if he must die, there was no better way than by this man’s blade.

  “May the challenge be everything I hope for.” He raised the water.

  “Well said.”

  Duels were normally conducted in the castle’s sparring chamber. But on this occasion, an attendant informed the two participants that they would fight in the courtyard, instead.

  “Why?” Nico asked as the youth led them out through the main gates.

  He received his answer in the form of an immense cheer. Hundreds of people had gathered to watch, and roared their support at the first sight of their prince. Surprised and embarrassed, he looked down. This task would be difficult enough without bearing the additional weight of oppressive expectations. He attempted to block them out, unsuccessfully.

  Somewhere in the back, a distinct chant erupted, then quickly spread through the throng. “Ni-co-las! Ni-co-las! Ni-co-las!”

  Arturo smiled cheerfully, as though unaware the crowd was against him. “Very well. Much nicer to fight in the sun.” He tilted his head to allow a cheek to warm in the crisp, cool midafternoon air.

  After a morn inside the Rechshtal war room, the bright winter sunshine nearly blinded them. Nico squinted, hoping his eyes would adjust before the fighting began.

  They took their positions in the courtyard, surrounded by onlookers but seeing only each other. Arturo nodded discreetly, all signs of humor and camaraderie gone. Friendship had no place here, just as there was no room for sympathy or mercy—a lesson Nico learned from his very first bout.

  So much had happened since then. Very strange to think how it could come to an end—the fighting and killing, strategy and deception, the pleasures of riding with his company and earning their respect. The adulation of the Cormonans, their treachery, an impending battle, an eventual crown…

  He had created more memories in the last few tendays than his entire life before. And he would miss none of them half so much as never seeing Leti’s face again.

  Had there been a choice? In the moment, it had felt as though there were not. But in hindsight…

  Then Arturo was upon him, and Leti’s image disappeared in the flashing of blades and the crashing of shields.

  A quarter-hour later, Nico stepped back, eyes staring at the sight before him and mind replaying the sequence of actions. He felt the blood from the gash in his calf soaking through the woolen pants, pooling inside the bottom of his thick boot. His shoulder ached where the chain mail had turned the incoming blade enough to change amputation to a shallow slash. Two wounds, not inconsequential, but he was still alive.

  So was his opponent. Arturo was there, catching his breath, taking advantage of the respite, even if he appeared to need it less. He looked confident. Poised. As he had every right to.

  They were both too good, too aware of the defense, to expose themselves to the type of fast and easy strike that could end the duel quickly. Instead, each had learned to look for small successes wherever they could find them. And the dynamic of the competition had changed as a result.

  Swordfights were ordinarily fast and brutal, their outcome determined by a sudden show of skill. This one, however, was becoming a test of endurance. And Nico was already running out of energy, with no idea where to find reserves. He felt desperate, and although he tried not to let the fatigue show, he believed his opponent could sense it.

  The wounds were annoying, and either might ultimately prove fatal, but the biggest concern at that moment was air. Even after this momentary pause, the prince continued sucking for breath, chest heaving, heart hammering like a blacksmith. Without air, there would be no strength, no speed. No life.

  There was no more time to recover, for Arturo was already closing again.

  From the first swing, Nico knew this would be the toughest fight of his life. Opening with Grimaldi’s Fourth Measure, that old familiar friend, he quickly moved on to Hansa’s Gambit, and from there to Prunela’s Scale. None had the slightest success. Renard’s voice began to lecture inside his head. “If the plan isn’t working, only a fool would keep using it.”

  It was all leg work now. That took less effort to execute, while still requiring Arturo to pay some attention to his own defense. The man had no weaknesses, and if Nico was not going to achieve anything with his attacks, at least he would burn less energy failing.

  The first snowflake fell, lazily floating through the air between them. Both men watched the flake suspiciously. In other circumstances, snow might have created a lovely effect on the surroundings. But here it could only become another obstacle, distracting the eyes and deceiving the feet. With any luck, this growing cascade would not last. Or the fight would end before the snow accumulated.

  Of a same mind, both men lunged forward simultaneously, swords clashing on shields, the battle resuming in earnest.

  Something between ten minutes and a lifetime passed before the next disengagement. Nico had taken another light wound, this time to the other leg. Now both legs and one arm suffered. Yet Nico was nearly elated, for he had managed to score a wound in the exchange.

  He abandoned memorized sequences in favor of pure instinct—a series of thrusts, feints, and parries culminating in a single slash to Arturo’s abdomen. The blow was heavy enough to nearly dislodge the sword from Nico’s hand, but at the time he thought the hit merely knocked the wind from his opponent. Now he could see the man favoring one side, a slight hunch to his posture, bloodlust not yet numbing the wound the way Nico’s had.

  Press the advantage. Nico drove himself on and on. Yet it was so hard to break through even the minutest amount, to so much as force a step backward.

  Clash and circle. Circle and clash. The snow falling all around.

  At last, Nico was spent. One knee in that snow, gasping for breath, shoulders shaking. The bottom edge of his shield rested on the ground, relieving the burden from a weary arm. He took to moving the shield only when absolutely necessary, and it functioned as little more than a dead weight he had considered discarding a dozen times.

  Annoyingly, he had blood in his right eye from a scalp wound that was almost completely unfelt but would not stop bleeding. He was certain that half his face was streaked in blood, and imagined the horrifying sight he made to the onlookers. Yet pain was nothing, appearances were less—vision was everything, and so he was thankful that one eye remained clear.

  In dueling there is a tipping point, before which the outcome is in doubt and after which is only a matter of time. Sometimes it is difficult to recognize exac
tly when that tipping point occurs.

  Not so today. This one had been clear for at least the past three passes. Nico was doomed.

  Why did his opponent delay the inevitable? Arturo should be pressing the advantage, but instead lingered just out of range.

  He had clearly not fully recovered from the injury to his midsection. If anything, his hunched posture was even more pronounced. That single success was the only thing keeping Nico alive, even as a significant part of him wished the Third would hurry up and end this.

  Filling the pause, the chanting began anew, growing more pronounced until it permeated his addled mind. Ni-co-las. Ni-co-las. Ni-co-las.

  He listened more closely as his breath slowly returned. Either the chant was getting louder and louder, or the barrier between awareness and comprehension was breaking. That was his name. They were shouting his name, over and over and over. They still thought he could win.

  Nico believed they were fools, but could not deny the swelling of spirit happening inside. Rejuvenation. Here was the energy he so desperately needed. Thanks to the cheers, he was able to stand again, to lift his shield, to assume a combat stance. He was not done yet.

  His enemy ignored the noise. Pressing forward, he feinted and lunged. Nico parried and launched his own attack. Sword high, shield low; sword low, shield back… The series of blows went on at an unsustainable pace. The chanting turned back to oohs and aahs, then became a gasp—for Nico’s blade swiped across the back of a heel, slicing leather and muscle. At the same time, Arturo’s blow came down so hard on the shield that Nico lost his balance and tumbled to the ground.

  Rolling… Raising the shield instinctively to meet another blow… The concussion rang through his left arm, even as his right hand thrust repeatedly to force Arturo back.

  As they separated, Nico found himself back on a knee, once again without the strength to stand. This time he was not sure it would come back.

  Arturo hobbled, limping around in a circle, sword hand pressed hard to his gut. Perhaps he was bleeding beneath the armor. Judging by the man’s posture, the earlier hit must have inflicted internal damage. If nothing else, Nico had put up quite a fight—one the Third, and all these onlookers, would never forget. The Order promised a means to die honorably. Nico would have liked to see his beloved again, but he could die content knowing he had nearly matched a Third.

  The contest was not over, however. The honor of both men demanded that they resist to the end. Despite the fall, Nico was able to move well enough to keep the shield between himself and his circling opponent. Now he watched Arturo give up the maneuver, let his own arms sag, struggle for breath himself.

  “Prince, how are you still alive?”

  By way of reply, Nico stood. Slowly, steadily, not daring to risk falling over.

  The crowd cheered louder. He loudly smacked the blade of his sword against his own shield boss, encouraging them further. The chanting resumed. “Ni-co-las! Ni-co-las! Ni-co-las!”

  Arturo, at last, cringed. Nico stepped toward him.

  The man lunged, surprisingly quickly, his energy not as drained as it seemed.

  And Nico was ready. He blocked, thrust, parried, slashed. Arturo’s wounded foot came down awkwardly on the moist earth, slipping for just a second. Nico leapt forward, not swinging the sword at all, shield impacting on shield with all the force he could muster.

  The Third went down for the first time. The cheering would have been deafening, except that Nico no longer heard it. He took one step, thought better of it, jumped back, and watched Arturo’s sudden swing pass through the air between them. A close call, and a reminder that a wounded animal was most dangerous.

  Now Arturo was on a knee and Nico afoot. The young prince had the blessing to be able to catch his breath and study his opponent. The pain in that sweat-drenched face was unmistakable. Here was an opportunity to seize the advantage, once and for all.

  Nico took a step right, then left, then right again as he raised the sword for another thrust from that side. At the last second, he turned it into a swing from the opposite direction. Arturo had lifted his shield to meet the expected attack. Instead of trying to sweep it back across his body, he now brought his blade up to parry. Nico’s sword deflected downward, right into the abdomen where the Third was already hurt.

  Instinctively, Nico did not think the blow was enough to accomplish anything substantial. But Arturo looked like he was gasping for air. Then he retched, dark blood and bile spilling out of his mouth. He dropped the sword into the snow to support himself with his hand. The body shook violently, then he heaved again. And collapsed, face down, unmoving.

  The thin layer of white snow between the two of them became black and red.

  “Ni-co-las! Ni-co-las! Ni-co-las!” The cheers were louder than ever, but the energy they bestowed was entirely gone.

  He dropped onto both knees, arms hanging limply, too tired to detach his left from the straps of the shield. Blood ran from four wounds.

  Not believing that it was over. Uncertain how he had won.

  If he could survive this, he could survive anything. Leti, I will see you again, after all.

  Hands wrapped around him. He did not know who they belonged to, but they were all that stopped him from collapsing beside his dead opponent. So he gave himself over to them.

  9

  Gothenberg

  Once again, snow halted the progress of the harpa caravan. Winter had finally reached down from the mountains onto the Gothic plains.

  Light and unremarkable at first, by the third day it fell fast and thick, and the caravan could no longer disregard its effects. Summer called for a premature end to the day’s travels, allowing extra time to prepare a camp with extra protection from the vexing precipitation. This came in the form of a series of overhanging canvases suspended between wagons and propped up by long poles, creating an enormous canopy. Still, some snow got through a hole in the center required to let campfire smoke out. This fire blazed bigger and stronger than ever before, and some of the soldiers were sent out to gather extra firewood to keep it going through the night and beyond. Shortly after venturing beyond the canopy, however, the raging storm forced them back.

  It slackened slightly on the third day, and Corporal Mercer sought to take advantage.

  The atmosphere beneath the canopy was cozy, and Yohan loath to leave it. But he reluctantly went with Brody on a wood-gathering run. What they picked up was already soaked, and stores would need to dry before becoming useful. He wondered if they were wasting time, collecting fuel that would no longer be needed by the time it was ready.

  Not that he minded. Conversations with his loquacious friend were less common now that the other soldier was spending so much time with Meadow, and Yohan more with Summer. Expecting an opportunity to be reminded of just how much he appreciated the cheerful banter, Yohan was instead struck by Brody’s unusual reserve.

  They approached a pair of trees, looking for low and fallen branches.

  Yohan attempted to lighten the mood by emulating Meadow’s title and tone. “Is all well, Soldier Brody?”

  A wry smile was his reward. “Aye, Brother. All is well. Just thoughtful these days.”

  “That is unlike you.”

  “Aye. I become more like you each day.”

  “And I like you, I find.”

  Brody laughed. “So I’ve perceived. Dancing, smiling. Why, last eve I believe I heard you laugh. These harpa have had quite the effect on you.”

  Yohan could not deny it. “I feel a weight has been lifted.”

  Brody balanced one armload of sticks while he placed a hand on Yohan’s shoulder. “I am happy for you, Brother.”

  “Should I be happy for you, in return? Where have these newfound thoughts led?”

  A pause, as his friend considered. “When this is over, I am staying with them.”

  “Aye? And what of joining the Swordthanes? What of your Proving?”

  “Bah,” Brody scoffed. “A fanciful dream, nothi
ng more. I’m not one of the greatest swordsmen in the empire. It’s become clear to me that I’m not even the best swordsman in this squad.” A hint of sadness mingled with the usual cheer.

  “Don’t sell yourself short, Brother.”

  Brody laughed again. He took his hand from Yohan’s shoulder to scoop up more sticks. “Sometimes a man is fortunate enough to decide between two dreams. Only a fool wouldn’t choose the one just in front of him.”

  Yohan stiffened. A few preliminary notes of music emanated from the distant camp. He closed his eyes, suddenly disoriented. Waiting. The fiddles were echoed by familiar, comforting laughs. Yohan breathed deeply, collecting himself.

  Still hunched over, Brody did not notice. “Besides, by the way Kelsey talks, you should be the one taking your Proving, not I.”

  “I have no interest in the Thanes.”

  “You haven’t even thought about it? She says she’s never seen anyone fight like that.”

  “Kelsey exaggerates.”

  Brody stood back up, grinning at him. There was the familiar, teasing smile Yohan knew so well. Pleasing, and so willing to be pleased. An enviable outlook on life, and yet another lesson learned.

  The grin morphed into an expression of surprise, then worry. “What the Devil…”

  Brody dropped the armful of sticks and began to run. Yohan turned, seeing a figure emerge through the blurry wall of falling snow. The figure stumbled, went down to its knees, and stayed there. Yohan dropped his own sticks and ran after his friend. As the two of them got closer, the bowed head lifted and an unexpected face returned their stares. Sallow eyes and a ginger beard, grown uneven.

  “Are you hurt, Brother?” Brody asked, for the man wore the garb and gear of a Vilnian soldier. “Wait. I know you.”

  “Redjack,” Yohan said. “Can you stand?” Not waiting for an answer, he and Brody lifted the man between them and hurried him toward the camp.

  In her twenty-two years of life, Summer had taught the harpa dances to many a willing partner. Each time pleased to do so, happy to spread happiness. But never had she derived such satisfaction—nay, enjoyment—as she did with Yohan.