The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) (18 page)

Sergei was finishing his meal when his dukes and archdukes started arriving. He watched them enter the tent, nod curtly, and take seats. They were the most powerful men in the realm. In a way, he could not really rule without them. They were sworn to him, they might even fear him, but his claim depended on their goodwill and obedience. It was no different from a pack of wolves. Together, they could tear him apart and take his place. But who would be the first to pounce and hope that others followed suit? No one. Because he knew they were better off serving him than fighting each other to the death. Besides, he respected them, and they knew that.

His father had not really understood the balance of power. He hadn’t known that back then, but he understood that now. What little history records spoke of his reign and his final campaign, Vlad the Fifth had ruled by terror and intimidation. You could force people to do your bidding, but you couldn’t force their hearts. And that made all the difference. Sergei would not make the same mistake.

The king snapped his fingers. “Timur, make sure there’s wine for my war council.”

Within days, he would have to count on his lords to manage the flow of arms and order men to their deaths. They would be in charge of massive armies, hundreds of counts and barons and knights and thousands of soldiers, who cared little for the figurehead marching them into the press of blood and swords. Terror was a powerful motive, but it drifted and faded like a fart. When it wafted past the last spearmen, the grand plan would mean nothing.

Sergei intended to win this war by the grace of cunning and honor and careful planning. So he made sure to listen to all his senior commanders and try to accommodate their wishes and needs. After all, they would have to do the same with their subordinates. And the subordinates would face the same challenge leading their units. He was going to win this war for all of Parus. They would fight as one nation, united in their cause, in their pride.

Genrik, the war chronicler, took the seat of honor at the head of the table, drew his gilded stylus as if it were a majestic sword, tapped its needle-sharp tip in the ink of soot and walnut oil, and began writing. Genrik was a respected man, a high scribe and a holy brother. His word carried a lot of weight. He could make any one of them immortal or just a speck of dirt in the annals of history. He never spoke much, but he wrote a lot.

Archduke Nikolai rose, cleared his throat, and gave his daily report. He was worried a little about the Borei. For some weird reason, the mercenaries were abducting camp followers and marrying them. It made no sense, but it sure did deplete the entertainment for the Parusite men.

Sergei grimaced. This could be the innocent bud of a big future strife, but he had more pressing matters to discuss. He would leave sell-swords and whores to Nikolai. “What do your men report, Kiril?”

Duke Kiril grunted, bringing everyone’s attention to his fatherly face, which belied his role as the head of the Talkers. “Princess Sasha’s troops have captured two enemy scouts, my king. But they revealed no useful information. We also found some deserters, Caytoreans by birth. They say they don’t want to serve under some Eracian whore. They say they wanted to take up brigandage, but now that we’re here, they want to join our ranks, Your Highness.”

Talkers were mostly covert troops. An elite of die-hard veterans from countless desert raids, they were charged with the most dangerous, most insane missions. Sabotage, infiltration, espionage, foraging behind enemy lines, scouting, tracking, and even interrogation. It was their task to glean information from captured enemy soldiers before they were mutilated beyond recognition by their angry captors. Officer and noble and common footman alike, they never missed an opportunity to ask questions and learn more about their foe. They spoke many languages, including the exotic dialects of the Red Desert, and even the nomad languages beyond Lia Lake. Sergei believed some of his Talkers even spoke Sirtai.

Sergei pursed his lips. “Keep them detained. They could be spies.” He rapped the tabletop. Bogomir and Vlad had not arrived yet. Probably for a good reason, so he decided against sending a man to look for them. His son was learning the hard lessons of leadership; it was more important than a routine evening meeting.

Oleg gave a boring yet crucial report on their supplies, how much grain they had, how much fodder for animals, how much drinking water and pickled goat meat and spare horseshoes. As an afterthought, he added, “Count Pavel would like to see you, Your Highness.”

It took him a moment to recall who the man was. Pavel was one of the lords ruling northern Parus. Sergei had met him only a few times before, at his coronation, at the birth celebration of his children, his son’s wedding. He was a burly, distant, dutiful man who spent his days complaining how people crossing his remote land never paid enough coin. The count was probably going to protest the surging costs of the upcoming war.

Sergei would have to be patient and listen carefully, indulge the man. For all his whining, the count was as important as every other man, no matter how low in rank or wealth. While his people held every league of land from the pebbled shores of Lia Lake all the way to the Velvet Sea, it was a huge stretch of land with no defined borders or natural defenses. With his troops pressing east, their northern and western flanks would remain exposed. He did not wish any displeased local lord welcoming Eracian spearmen or the hungry wild tribes behind his back.

But Pavel was the least of his worries. His biggest care was the order of battle. In a few weeks, they would be assaulting the walls of Roalas. The city would fall one day. And he would need to appoint one of his dukes or archdukes to rule the conquered land. He must make his choices carefully.

He wasn’t quite sure what to do yet. Should he prefer family over close friends and longtime allies? Should he give the city to the most distinguished warrior or the most powerful nobleman? Who would have the honor to lead the battle? Who would be charged with mopping up after the attack? There were hundreds of other aspects to this war, all dire.

His sister must also be given her due. After the war, the Eracians and Caytoreans would surely press their demands, maybe even seek to unsettle his new gains. They had hostages in Roalas. He wasn’t quite sure what to do with those.

On top of all that, Sergei did not plan to destroy Athesia. He wanted Amalia dead, but was not a fool to immerse himself in a childish obsession for personal revenge. He had his Pum’be for that. What he wanted was to topple the enemy who had disgraced his father and almost ruined his kingdom. And he intended to annex Athesian lands as a new duchy. But the Athesians would never bend knee if he started burning their villages and raping their women.

Sergei remembered all too well the stories and legends about Adam the Godless. He had taken Roalas without bloodshed. It was an important lesson.

“Giorgi, I will see the count first thing in the morning.” He rose and started pacing around his tent. Heads turned to regard him. “Tomorrow,” he began, “the war begins. Starting tomorrow morning, we march in silence, and we sleep in silence. No gambling and drinking in the night. I want double patrols and double guard. And keep the mercenaries away from our troops.”

Nikolai nodded.

“Yuri, you will assume command of all troops from the Wester and Sevorod ranges. They will report to you as organic armies. The counts maintain civil and administrative command, but you are in charge of the military.”

The duke tried to hide surprise from his icy blue eyes. He had obviously not expected this promotion, or the headache of managing a rabble of nobles and knights who hardly knew him. But Sergei counted on his patience to handle the dozens of small and mostly displeased lords who hailed from the two regions.

Yuri was a resourceful man. Supposedly, he ran successful trade with mountain tribes and the fishermen from Batha’n and made sure the brigands and desert people did not sneak onto his farms and villages and kidnap people and goats. He sent large coffers of tax money to Sigurd, even if his convoys took the longest to arrive. Stranded in the farthest corner of the realm, the man was forgotten in banquets and parties and celebrations, but he had a sinewy streak.

The promise didn’t have to be spoken aloud: Do well and you might see the duchy of Palotar grow to include the other two regions. You might even be given governance of the Territories. Sergei needed powerful men to consolidate his rule in the border regions. And if those borders snailed north and east, even more so.

Yuri was one of the older dukes, a rare survivor of the war. Secluded from the bustle of life’s tragedy in Parus in his remote province, Yuri had been spared the suicide march Vlad the Fifth had led north. But the rest of his nobles were just like their king, younger men with little combat experience.

In the small hours of the night, doubt niggled at Sergei’s soul, like a cur worrying a bone. He had seen people die; he had made people die, sent his troops to certain death and fought alongside them. But nothing so grand like this. He wasn’t quite sure what it would be like. He felt like Pyotr the Conqueror on his first march, a man who could never have known the greatness of his deeds.

“There will be no rape and no burning,” Sergei continued. There was a murmur of surprise among his lords. “We will take provisions and recruit locals if needs be, but they become my subjects. This is a royal decree. Any man caught in the act of pillaging will be put to death.”

Great campaigns had been lost when invading armies killed everyone and everything, leaving behind a scorched, desolate land that could feed no one, including themselves. He was not going to spend weeks raiding and then years rebuilding. His huge force would need lots of food in the coming winter. He planned on making good use of the subjugated Athesians. But they would not be so forthcoming if he butchered their families. When people had nothing to lose, they turned desperate. History books were filled with stories about nations turned into rabid beasts who burned their own houses and fields so they would not be used by the enemies and who sent children to war. If there was one thing he had learned from his nemesis, it was hope. Give your enemy hope, and they would hesitate. Adam had taught him well.

Sergei looked around the tent once more. He had these men for a year. War duty allowed him to command them away from their homes and families and fields for one whole year. Longer than that, they would want to go back, unless he paid them more and promised lands and titles. Half his army would dissolve by the next Spring Festival if he didn’t take Roalas sooner.

Back home, Vasiliy would have to do with reduced manpower for the autumn and winter. Still, the granaries were bursting, and the harvest promised to be good, and there was no shortage of food. Parus was strong and would survive the hardship of war. Next year, though, no miracle would convince his conscripts to remain in foreign lands.

Until just a decade ago, Parus had had no standing army. Sergei had soon learned a small professional force of soldiers for life was cheaper than masses of ill-trained levies. So he had shattered old habits once more and made his lords maintain static garrisons at all times. First, the Red Caps, next mandatory military service, like his neighbors did. But it stood to logic. If you wanted to live off war, you’d better be good at it. Fighting was a trade like any other.

But it would take another generation before Parus fielded large armies of pure soldiers. For now, it had to do with tradition, lots of tradition. He had a mighty hammer of elite troops, but the mainstay of his army were footmen, spearmen, people who fought for duty and not because they worked in the war business.

Holy Brother Ivan and Under-Patriarch Evgeny entered, fashionably late as befitting high clergy. The nobles rose and nodded curt yet polite greetings. Evgeny was a massive fat man, and he always sweated. Wrapped around his arm was his albino pet ferret, and he was feeding him fresh meat.

“My lords,” he declared joyfully, “I have prayed earlier for our beloved king, and my god has graced me with an answer to my prayers. Our campaign will be a swift and glorious one. Our enemies will not be able to stand the wrath of our great host. We will soon feast in the halls of Roalas.” Duke Oleg nodded vehemently.

Sergei said nothing. He wasn’t much of a believer in omens and godly secrets, maybe because his parents were. His firstborn took after his dead grandparents, it seemed. Well, Under-Patriarch Evgeny was a cunning man, with a loud and cheerful voice, and he could easily sway masses. But he was hoping to stake every unbeliever in Roalas after the war was done. Sergei did not like his zeal or his plans, but he appreciated the effect the man’s sermons had on soldiers’ morale. He feared the confrontation with the clergy once the spoils were divided, feared the price they would demand and refusing it. Ungodly or no, the Athesians were every bit as good for paying taxes and plowing the fields as any other man. But he would have to account for the slack and help the priests had given him over the years. Still, he postponed that fight for when it was due.

Timur brought out fresh drinks for the under-patriarch and the brother. The ferret fidgeted in the man’s grasp, stealing everyone’s attention.

“I have inquired with Archduke Bogomir about the fifty apprentices he promised me,” Evgeny said. “He says he cannot spare the manpower now, it seems.”

“After the war, Your Holiness,” Sergei offered in a calm voice.

“But surely prayer is as important as sword fight?” the big man retorted.

The king was silent for a moment. This wasn’t the first time they’d argued about building up combat clergy, nor would it be the last. Sergei did not relish the idea. War and religion had always had balance in Parus. Changing that now would not be a good thing.

“Surely,” he said. “But first we must win the war.”

“Brother Roman has returned from the Red Caps camp, Your Highness,” the other priest interjected. “There is much sin going on there. The gods and goddesses will not be pleased.”

Sergei pursed his lips. “I shall talk to Princess Sasha,” he said. He was somewhat weary of these hinted threats and conflicting messages, praise and sin mixed. The clergy had grown bolder now they were away from Sigurd, maybe because they knew the common man depended on them so much more now.