Empire Asunder BoxSet

by Michael Jason Brandt

  When it began to bounce up and down on him, he knew he had won. These new gyrations did more damage to the monster than to him, his sword wedged as it was in its vitals. The claws rent the air as much as Yohan now, its mouth whipped left and right in frustration, and he believed he was watching its throes of death.

  He waited them out, careful not to expose himself until he was certain the final twitching was no cunning trick. Then he used the shield—nicked and battered, but still miraculously in one piece—to push the dead mass off to one side. He rolled to a side, then up to a knee, then caught his breath and steadied his uncertain balance. At last, putting an end to what seemed like hours on the ground, he rose to his feet.

  His companion stared, silently, back and forth between soldier and demon.

  “Thank you for the help, Patrik.”

  The caravaneer turned away.

  Yohan watched the man retrieve his pack and fiddle, then take to the trail again.

  Which way will he go, forward or back?

  Patrik came forward, toward Yohan. Then past, without saying a word.

  There was no thrill of victory, no sense of accomplishment, no carryover surge of energy that often came after battle.

  Yohan needed a break to recover, to dress his wounds and allow his muscles to rest. But no one had the luxury of time any more.

  He found his own pack, surprisingly distant from the corpse of the monster he had killed. Somehow, the fight had covered far more ground than seemed possible.

  He did not look back as he set out after Patrik.

  They ate together in silence, a piece of dried apple and a sliver of jerky washed down with a few gulps of water.

  Yohan stared up at the eve sky. “You’re right about the weather, harpa. It’s getting colder.”

  Why that would be, he could not explain, for by the calendar summer had barely begun. He had long since given up trying to make sense of the seasons, other than to consider their practical effect on this quest.

  The caravaneer did not seem inclined to respond, so Yohan continued to voice his worries alone. “I fear we will wish for winter clothing again, once in the mountains.”

  But when he looked once more at his companion, he saw the man staring back. Yohan waited, and felt no small relief when his patience was rewarded.

  Oddly, the harpa spoke of things in the past.

  “Summer told me of a contest you were in…before. You and the other soldiers. How you lost on purpose, so your friend would look better in Meadow’s eyes.”

  Yohan looked away. The memory—the reminder of Brody—was painful.

  “I think she was wrong. Not that you didn’t lose on purpose, but the reason why. I think you did it so he could feel better about himself.”

  “I never really thought about the why.”

  The pause was too long. Yohan knew what was coming.

  “She gave you the stone, did she not?”

  Yohan did not know what to say, so he said nothing.

  After some time, Patrik resumed the march.

  As they made camp for what neither knew would be the last time, the mountains were so close they blocked out much of the sky. Clouds obscured the rest, and with it any sense of warmth or comfort the stars and moon might provide.

  After so many days fighting off heat stroke, the two companions now shivered, as strong winds found the sweat on their bodies and in their clothes.

  The sensible thing to do was huddle together for sleep, but the absence of conversation all eve prevented Yohan from voicing the suggestion. He worried as much about the harpa’s state of mind as he did the impending doom that awaited them both, and he wondered why that would be.

  He had not yet found an answer when the other man broke the silence, beginning a conversation as full of pauses and stutters as it was of heavy words. Heavy, yet surprisingly emotionless words, as if the men were speaking of two others they had met on the long road, then long since departed.

  “I should tell you, Soldier Yohan… I feel a sadness, but no shame. She chose a better man.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “I never expected false humility from you. Your sympathy is not necessary.”

  “Nay, you don’t understand.”

  “Then explain.”

  “I’m not good with words.”

  “Try.”

  “All right. You followed me into that tower, remember?”

  “I remember.”

  “Then we went back, and found what we found. I would as soon have left you behind as have your company. It’s not that I disliked you, but I thought you would slow me down when all I worried about was revenge and rescue.

  “I struck a pace that any soldier would find difficult, and many would fail. I didn’t know how you did—I still don’t—but you kept that pace. A soldier trains his whole life for long marches; a caravaneer does not. And you did it without complaining, without asking for a break. I…admire your determination.

  “You fight, though you’re no fighter. You did the thinking when my mind could not. You keep going, though you know that odds are we’ll be dead in a day, and though you travel with a man you must hate.”

  “I don’t hate you, Soldier Yohan. I wanted to, but I find I’ve come to understand you too well.”

  “I think this would be easier if you did.”

  “Nay, I don’t believe that. These days have been hard for me, Yohan. But this helps.”

  “These days have been hard for us both, Patrik. But I am glad you are here.”

  “You love her, too, do you not?”

  “I do.”

  “Then promise me that we’ll save her.”

  “That, I cannot do.”

  “Why not? Don’t you owe me that much?”

  “Aye. But it isn’t that simple. It goes against…let’s call it the code I believe in. I will not make a promise I don’t think I can keep.”

  The long stopover at Threefork had been a blessed relief for Summer’s knee, but now that the group was on the march again her injury swelled and ached as though the pause had never happened.

  The pain made her welcome each stop, however brief, as a respite from the anguish. Try as she might, Summer found attesting more and more difficult as the days passed and her old life slipped further away. Already, her years with the caravans felt more like a blissful dream than any reality she had actually experienced.

  She clung to that dream by thinking of the people she had met along the way, friends and loved ones, countless women and men who had enriched her life beyond measure. So many were dead now, and she could only honor them through memory. But she could still believe that two in particular were close behind, and that made all the difference between giving up and maintaining hope.

  The woman beside her, on the other hand, was something of a mixed blessing. Jenaleve’s wrists remained bound, but she walked close enough for Summer to wrap an arm around as she limped along the frosty trail. The support helped, as did the slight sharing of warmth, but the long stretches of morose silence were little comfort. The swordmaiden spent most of her time staring intently at the Archon’s back. Uselessly planning escape or vengeance, Summer feared.

  Sometimes ahead, sometimes behind, the magistrate kept to a world of his own. Whenever asked, he willingly lent a helping hand or arm to relieve Jenaleve’s burden, but Summer found his inattentiveness disconcerting, as though he might drop her at any moment. She preferred the aid of the Vilnian princess, who never let her own distractions impair the task at hand. A reserve might exist between them, but Jenaleve would not neglect duty.

  She was not alone to blame for that reserve, and for that Summer felt the constant burden of guilt. Not often did they speak of Yohan, but when they did the princess’ suffering was as clear as the stars. She loved her soldier, but the doubt of his own feelings weighed heavily on her mind.

  Apparently, foolishly, the two of them had never spoken of their love, or at least had never expressed it in words. That he now pur
sued his princess with the zeal of a fanatic was apparently not enough, for a seed of doubt remained that he did so from duty.

  From simply recalling the look on his face during Redjack’s account of the ambush, Summer could have cleared the other woman’s concerns with a single short sentence. Yet she could not bring herself to do so.

  She had always believed herself above jealousy—a petty emotion, worth not the time nor the trouble. She had witnessed it in others, had seen it ruin relationships and lives, and forever banished it from her own untroubled soul.

  And had been helplessly, foolishly naive. She could not bring herself to assuage a tormented woman’s fears.

  Because it might be a lie. I have no reason to feel this way, and no right to hope so, but my heart believes he chases for me.

  All around, the tribesmen trudged on in no better humor than the prisoners. Many looked to be as deep in introspection as those they escorted, and Summer could make an educated guess as to the nature of their thoughts. The change had happened too soon after the disappearance of the sisters to be anything else.

  No matter what happened to her, Summer was thankful to not be them. She might be injured while they were hale, she might shiver while they wore furs, she might be walking toward her doom while they prospered, but at least she was no cannibal.

  It was late morn when they heard the sound of running waters. Just days before, any relief from the relentless sun would have been met with smiles and cheers. But now the idea of dipping so much as a toe into a stream made Summer shiver.

  Beside her, Jenaleve felt the tremble and was quick to reassure. “Be at ease, harpa.”

  The words were meaningless, but the tone was comforting. In fact, ever since the march began in the predawn hour, the princess had seemed unusually cheerful. Even optimistic, though there was no substantive reason that Summer could see for the change.

  Soon the stream came into view, and her mind was put at ease. Filling only a small part of a riverbed wide enough for a torrent, the narrow flow afforded plenty of room to walk beside without fear of falling in. Slipping remained a concern, however, for the plunging temperature was already creating a thin, patchy veneer of ice on the ground.

  The trail ran in parallel, sometimes along and sometimes inside the riverbed. The ground began to incline slowly, though not until the quiet trickling grew louder did the easy walk come to an end.

  More rocks appeared in the channel at the same time that the incline steepened. The shallow water dashed between and broke on the rocks, sending spray towards the legs of the walkers.

  The slope quickly became more pronounced, and the flow raced through a series of genuine rapids. Even this meager stream would have made footing treacherous for someone in Summer’s condition, and she was thankful that the trail continued up mostly dry, if broken, ground. She watched the others—Archon, most of the tribesmen, and the magistrate—clambering upward without too much difficulty.

  She took one step forward to take her turn, then felt Jenaleve stop her. “It’s okay,” Summer said, but the other woman was already turning to the nearest guard.

  “She can’t climb rocks like that. Help her.”

  He glared back, then shook his head. Naturally, for they were still too superstitious to touch the witch.

  Jenaleve grimaced. “Fine. Then cut these so I can.” She held out her wrists.

  The hairy, sunburnt face continued to glare for another moment. Then the guard drew out his knife and sliced through the rope. The blade cleared and his hand stopped, for the princess had grabbed it. Summer saw his eyes register surprise for the length of one heartbeat, then the wrist twisted and the blade was driven up into the base of his jaw. At once, those rough fingers relaxed, relinquishing their hold.

  In one continuous motion, Jenaleve drew the knife out smoothly, flipped it around, caught it in a backhanded grip, and drove it into the breast of the tribesman stepping toward her. His body fell back, that knife still jutting from his chest, for she had already taken his axe in mid-swing and made it her own.

  Desperate yells, frantic pointing. Summer looked up the trail to see figures running back towards the scene, some leaping rocks, others tumbling down.

  She wanted to help, but knew not how. Looking back at the princess, she saw that axe come down on the back of a man who was already hunched over. The sound of impact was more horrifying than his scream, and Summer reflexively looked away.

  She forced herself to turn back, wishing she could do more. The first few men from ahead rushed by, weapons out, and Summer was forced to back up to avoid collision. Her injured knee protested against the sudden movement, gave out, and she fell back on her elbows. A jet of water splashed her cheek, though she did not notice, her attention drawn back to the combat.

  Jenaleve waved a sword in wide swipes, keeping two tribesmen at bay. But others were circling behind her. Suddenly she feinted forward and spun around, surprising one just as he was stepping in. Her sword hacked into his neck, entering the flesh with a chopping motion before exiting with a clean, quick pull.

  Another sword nearly struck her exposed back, but she was already moving sideways as if seeing it from eyes in the back of her head. Yet another tribesman lunged at her, then jumped back with a bloody forearm.

  The figures were a blur, the constant motion and chaos difficult to follow. Summer was reminded of the fight on the hilltop, when Soldier Yohan and his companions had fought off a different warband—or was it this same one? There had been a Chekik present at that battle, also, though he had not entered the fray directly the way this one did, staff raised.

  Summer watched the weapon strike Jenaleve’s head from behind. There was no burst of light or flame, no thunderous sound of impact. But the princess fell to the ground and stopped moving, no different from the four corpses scattered around her.

  Awkwardly, Summer scrambled to her feet, hearing only the sound of the rushing waters. She could see the Archon speaking, but his soft voice was inaudible from this distance, and she could not tell whether he reproached the fallen prisoner or the guards.

  As quickly as her knee would allow, Summer ran to her companion’s side. The blow had struck the temple, where blood flowed through golden hair down to cold earth.

  Her eyes were closed, but Summer saw twitching behind the lids. And her chest still moved, the lungs still drawing breath.

  “Carry her,” the croaking voice whispered, then the Archon turned away.

  The relief that Summer felt when Jenaleve awakened was perhaps the greatest she had known.

  And the pain she felt when the princess met her eyes and said, “I failed,” was among the worst.

  “Nay, My Princess, you were tremendous.” She smacked Gregory, who was sitting nearby.

  “Yes,” he agreed. “Tremendously foolish. What were you thinking?”

  “Hush,” Summer told him.

  “I wasn’t thinking. The barbarian practically handed me his knife, so I took it.”

  “We’re lucky they didn’t kill us all on the spot,” the magistrate said.

  “Are we?”

  He stared at her, his eyes widening. Then he stood and wandered as far away as the cramped camp allowed.

  “Ignore him, My Princess. He’s the fool.”

  “I keep telling you I’m not your princess, harpa. Call me Jena. I’d like to hear that name again before I die.” The sorrowful expression remained, even after she closed her eyes once more.

  Summer helped ease the back of her head to the ground. “Is it all right if I change your bandage now, or should I wait for—”

  “Do it.”

  The blood was flowing again, seeping through the ripped cloth that served as a dressing. Jena flinched at the exchange, but said nothing more until the task was complete.

  Despite the freezing temperature and little more than a thin blanket to warm her, Jena was sweating. The eyes flickered open, momentarily, then shut again. “I can’t see.”

  “Shh. It will pass.”<
br />
  “How can I fight if I can’t see? How can I command?”

  “Shh.” Summer wiped the panicked woman’s brow, as gently as she could manage.

  Jena’s hand reached up, seizing her wrist. The strength of that grip, at least, was reassuring. “Say something. Talk to me, harpa.”

  “Call me Summer, Jena.”

  The grip eased, as did the breathing. A moment later, a smile appeared. “Ah, summer. A fine season, though not so grand as winter.”

  Summer frowned in annoyance. For the briefest of moments, she believed the other woman had forgotten her name. Then, as her patient continued speaking, irritation became fright. She watched the lips move, the strain on the face melt away, and the blood overrun the bandage and seep back into beautiful blonde hair.

  “Praise Theus, I can see again. I see the snow coming down. It’s so peaceful. Don’t you think so, Private?”

  “Shh.”

  “Ah, that’s right. You never talk. Why don’t you talk?”

  “Shh. Get some sleep, Jena. All will be well come morn.”

  The head nodded. “Yes, General.”

  Always dutiful, she drifted into sleep. In time, Summer was able to join her.

  She awoke to a gentle shake, but her eyes did not open until Jena’s voice whispered her name. “Summer. It’s time.”

  The recollection of yesterday flooded back to memory, immediately followed by the compulsion to inspect her companion’s head.

  The bandage was dirty, but dry, as were the traces of blood remaining in the matted hair.

  “How do you feel, Jena?”

  “Better. A headache, no more.” She smiled. “Between your leg and my skull, you and I make quite a pitiful team.”

  Summer smiled, pleased that levity was still possible.

  Then she looked over to the third prisoner, and her smile faded. Jena may have taken a blow to the head, but Gregory was the one who showed the most damage. His eyes looked haunted, his face gaunt, his body so weak one more strong wind might knock him over.

  But when the Archon began the march, boots crunching a layer of frost, the magistrate stepped in line with the tribesmen.