The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) (28 page)

But what if the news of Parusite forces on all three fronts turned out to be true? She would face an enemy with limited strength, spread all over the realm’s borders, without a cohesive command and thinly stretched logistics. She could not allow the risk of committing any more forces for the surprise invasion she planned. Besides, that would mean death to any hope Caytor may have had for Athesia. The High Council would be united against this new threat. The impostors would gain legitimacy, even if they now served a double purpose of annoying her and segregating Caytor.

At the end of the day, there was nothing left to do but wait. She no longer had the advantage. She had to wait for her enemies to make their move.

Gerald was staring at her, unblinking. She looked back. The man’s handsome face was creased with fatigue and worry. He looked beaten, even if his skin was unblemished. The captain noticed her. He held eye contact for a moment, then broke it quickly, guiltily.

Amalia felt a flutter ripple through her chest. What was that? What did he see in her? How did he perceive her? Did he think she was a weakling, a fool? Did he truly respect her? How could he protect her if he had no respect for her leadership? She wanted to break into tears.

Father would have known what to do
, she thought.

“Leave me.” She dismissed everyone, took her diary, and began to write.

CHAPTER 18

C
ount Bartholomew traveled light, which meant he had a carriage, two servants, and a dozen guards for escort. He was entitled to plush cushions and shade, but he rode a horse, like the rest of the soldiers, while the maid, Alke, and the elderly man who sometimes answered to the name Edgar, when his failing ears obeyed him, shared his luxurious cabin, never quite comfortable with the sudden upgrade in status.

The trip across Eracia had been uneventful. They had crossed the Territories without any incidents, greeted with apathy and lukewarm enthusiasm by the expatriated Eracian settlers working the holy land and rebuilding the razed cities.

For Bart, the journey through the former land of religion and forgiveness was a journey through history. He had only read about the events of the past two decades, never really seeing them for himself. His firsthand experience was sobering.

The northern stretch had seen little revival since the Feoran offensive. Villages and towns remained empty husks, taken over by neglect and creeping vegetation. In some places, the growth had almost entirely covered the ruins, hiding the scars of horrors past.

The Borean Woods were a dark curtain to their right, watching them as they had watched generations of humans go by and leave their bones behind. Bart thought he glimpsed old graves, but they could have been just mounds of rock. He didn’t lead his group closer.

Seeing Talmath had left him breathless, but not in a good way. A city about half as large as Somar and full of ghosts. The Feorans had been pretty thorough in their destruction, but some buildings had remained standing, crooked and crippled, broken fingers jabbing against the skyline. Birds nested in the gaping black sockets that had once been chambers and prayer halls, and they would take flight in noisy flaps of wings when his small procession approached. Humans were a rare sight around the corpse of Talmath.

Bart had crossed the city’s thoroughfare while his soldiers rode at his flanks, crossbows loaded and aimed low. They had expected vagrants or bandits to lurk among the ruins, but all they found were weeds and dusty memories.

After several days, when they crossed into the land held by the Parusites, Bart saw an immediate change in the atmosphere. While the Eracians had seemed disinterested in bringing life to the Territories, their southern neighbors were lit with laborious zeal. They had paved new roads and erected new bridges across gulleys and rivers, making for a much shorter and more pleasant passage. New, freshly painted temples loomed everywhere. It was as if the war had never happened.

There was only one problem, Bart mused with scholarly curiosity. The land felt somewhat deserted for such a colorful display. The Parusites just weren’t there. Or rather, there weren’t enough of them.

However, as they neared the disputed border of the fledgling realm to the east, just over Bakler Hills, the mystery was solved. The Parusites were there, all right, in full battle gear.

Eighteen years back, calamity had ridden across these ridges, Bart thought. Now, it was riding forth once more. The wide and cobbled road was busy with caravans, ferrying soldiers and craftsmen. Most did not wear battle gear, but there was no mistaking the military feel about them. Almost like river tributaries, tinier streams of people were converging, coming from the green fields and over knolls dappled with low trees and gorse.

The Parusites did not pay their small party too much heed, but there was always an armed patrol watching the Eracians from a distance. Bart’s company never veered off the main road toward the army camps to discover how serious their intentions were. He had a mission. He could not waste time fooling around with bored Parusite hobelars.

As he crested the legendary hills, Bart briefly thought of his former national, an unassuming officer named Adam, who had once stood at this place and watched the world before him. Had he known what legacy he would weave?

The deeper they cut toward Athesia, the more crowded it became. Trains of supplies rode everywhere, under full escort now. Troops marched in long, snaky lines, raising clouds of dust, proudly displaying the coats of arms of their noble houses and carrying the Parusite royal banners. There was a smell of leather and smoke in the air, an almost permanent aroma that even the winds could not disperse.

The Parusites did not even bother hiding their intentions. They displayed their colors proudly. Count Bart did not know what their symbols stood for, but there was no mistaking the all-red flags. Most of the armed forces were women, of Princess Sasha’s all-female Red Caps regiments, but there were also quite a few grizzled, red-faced men, having replaced scythes and pitchforks for chain mail and spears. The last two days of their journey felt like an endless suburb of a military city, with one camp starting where another ended. The only thing that changed was the device on the unfurled standards.

Finally, by a clump of ancient, gnarled, half-burned, and invincible oaks that must have served as a landmark for traveling caravans for the past ten generations, they were intercepted. This was where the Territories ended and the godless realm began, it seemed. He couldn’t tell from so many Parusites trampling the land to death.

There was a sort of checkpoint haphazardly erected on the road junction. The pale line veered to the north and south, but the main branch led east, straight as an arrow. It was manned—no, it was womanned, Bart thought with crazy witticism—by a handful of female soldiers, their dusty brown leathers even dustier than usual. A wind was blowing, raising a fury of grass and dirt that made everyone scowl. At least it was not too hot.

A small convoy was undergoing an inspection of sorts. The caravan leader was waiting in the shade of an open tent, sitting on a stool, idly rubbing a branch between his palms. His help sat nearby, gambling. One of the soldiers was gambling, too.

Not far away, a warehouse station looked like an ugly humpback, hugging the land and stretching along the road’s curve. Piles of goods awaited loading. Probably war supplies going north and west into Athesia, the count noted. The Parusites must have invaded in earnest. He might be too late.

It was bad news.

“Where to?” a sentry hailed them after a while.

Captain Paul, the head of his guard, dismounted and walked toward the barricade. He spent a few minutes talking with the sentries before coming back. He did not look pleased.

“They want to speak to you, my lord,” Paul told him.

Bart slid off the saddle, stretched, and walked toward the Parusites. Paul and another soldier accompanied him. The count felt slight discomfort in his belly. He was not a military man. He did not want any trouble with the sentries.

Instead, he was greeted with cold professionalism. “Count Bartholomew of Barrin?” the commanding officer asked him. She read the official document with ease, without mouthing the words.

“That’s me,” Bart said, staring at her. This was his first encounter with Princess Sasha’s troops. He had only heard rumors and wild stories about their reputation.

“I’m Commander Rebecca. First Guard.” She looked him up and down, left and right. She frowned. “You ride a horse?” she asked, frowning.

The count tried to ease a smile. “Sometimes. I prefer riding than sitting in a carriage all day long.”

“That’s a peasant’s tan,” she commented drily, obviously displeased with his remark.

Bart rubbed a hand down his cheek. Once smooth and polished and fairly white, it was rugged with weather now, bristling with two days of stubble and sporting a dark, very common shade.

“What is your business here?” Rebecca inquired.

The count did not like the extra questioning. He had expected the Parusites to be more courteous. After all, he was a noble dignitary from a neutral neighboring realm. And it was most likely in King Sergei’s interest not to have a hostile nation at his left flank. Most likely.

“I am on a diplomatic mission, on behalf of the monarch himself. I intend to petition King Sergei.”

This evoked a rattle of chuckles from the assembled sentries. All women, he noted. Some were young and pretty, sporting confusing manlike haircuts. Others were older, with scars and grim faces. One looked like a man, except for a gigantic pair of breasts under a loose tunic. He was uncomfortable with their straightforward blank stares.

“Quiet,” Rebecca snapped. “I will have to clear this with my superiors. Wait here.” She walked away and soon was gone from view, the bend in the road masking her affairs. Nearby, the gamblers laughed and grumbled, the toss of wooden dice on a wooden board unnerving.

“Drinks, sir count?” one of the local soldiers asked, raising a skin.

“No, thank you,” he said.

“Say,” the woman persisted, “I see you got a filly in your retinue.” She pointed behind him. One of his dozen guards was a young woman. Kacey, Bart recalled. The Parusite waved at her.

Bart refused to comment. Frankly, he was not quite sure what to say. He felt a flutter of alarm in his bones. Bored soldiers were always trouble. He tried to ignore the woman.

“And some of your lads ain’t bad, either.” The woman would not let go. “How about you let us have some fun before you leave?”

Bart was trying to figure out how to respond when Commander Rebecca returned. He said nothing about the jibing. He did not really know how the officer would take it. Perhaps it was deliberate. Perhaps the Parusites had no respect for their Eracian neighbors. In Eracia, a soldier would get flogged for acting that way. Only several generations ago, speaking out of line would have meant death. But the nobility had lost much of its power. Eracia was becoming more and more a commoner’s realm. The standing army was made practically entirely of the working class. Eracia faced a tough decision of becoming something like Caytor or going back to the way Parus still was.

But that was a question he would have to deal with later.

Coming here had been a political decision as much as an act of sensibility. If he managed to ensure that Eracia and Parus did not shed each other’s blood, he would save the economy of his realm and prevent countless meaningless deaths. He might even get a new title.

Not that it mattered much to him. But that harpy of a wife of his would very much love that. They had no children, so she focused all of her efforts and frustration on getting more power, more wealth, a higher status in society. Sonya liked nothing better than to snub her lady friends over tea, a slow and polite humiliation revolving around lands and titles and property.

Bart had been glad to leave the countess and her mind grilling behind, although perversely, he was doing exactly what she desired, even if she did not appreciate his methods. He was trying to advance his—and her—status through a daring, risky political adventure, but in her opinion, he was simply going away from the throne, away from the seat of power, abandoning the opportunity to other vultures. She wanted him to be the monarch’s darling aristocrat. It could not be done by riding off to a crumbling foreign realm. No, it could not.

So he rode off.

There was little glory in being noble born in Eracia these days. You took care of the family assets or you joined the army and became an officer. There was little else you could do. The army ate away the noble roots like beavers. Most of his friends in the military had become as common as their subordinates. There was just one problem. Bart was not a violent man. He hated the idea of getting hurt. He did not want to wield a sword and gut nameless strangers in the name of fancy ideals. He preferred the blade of diplomacy over the terrors of war. The very sight of blood made him weak. A military career had never been an option for him. Sonya despised him for his cowardice, and he just wanted to be away from all the fuss and ranting and plotting.