World War IV: A Broken Union (9 page)

The smoke rising from the burned village could still be seen five miles away. The small community offered little resistance when Rodion and his men rode through. Their massive numbers swallowed the people that stayed behind whole. It wasn’t the first village his men had seen on their march, but it was the first to still have people living in it.

There were only a handful of women, who were quickly run through by most of the men before they were disposed of, left to weep and rot and burn with the village and the men stupid enough to try and fight back.

Rodion’s army had cut a long, thick line down the western coastline. They pillaged towns, felled entire forests, and drained the rivers dry with every steady march forward. Every few hours, he found himself turning around on the saddle of his mount to admire his work.

The journey down had been met with little opposition, as Rodion had expected. The scouts he sent forward had told him of the growing army near the wilderness border that separated these lands from the main territories the Mars brothers controlled. However, he also knew that Dean Mars was not with them, and with the other brothers still overseas, the army was left leaderless, with only a parrot standing in place, barking orders echoed thousands of miles away. He knew what the Mars name meant to the army he was riding to face, and with the royal blood nowhere to be seen, it would impact the enemy’s morale.

The sun dipped lower into the western skies, and Rodion decided it was time to make camp. He reined up on his horse then dismounted, the marching thunder that was his army slowly coming to a halt. Rodion stretched his legs while his men set up his quarters for the night. He grabbed his rifle and headed farther south. “I’ll be hunting. Have the fire ready upon my return.”

“General, you should have an escort.” The captain of his security guard hurried toward him, eager to prove his worth. While the man was loyal, Rodion often found his clinging demeanor irritating.

“Stay with the camp. If I’m brought down now, with an entire army behind me, I have no business leading them into battle in the first place.” Rodion left the captain to worry by himself. Even three miles away from the camp, he could hear the murmur of his soldiers’ voices, and if he could hear them, then any game in the area would as well.

After the sun finally disappeared and cast the forest in darkness, Rodion felt the cold bite of frost penetrate his furs. The temperature finally dipped to Rodion’s liking, and he continued his hunt southeast, heading into the thicker areas of the forest. The farther he walked, the quieter the forest became, and the more fluid his movements.

Rodion had spent his entire life on the frosted tundra of Russia’s north. It was that environment that hardened him into the man he was to become. The man who now commanded the largest, best equipped standing army in the world. The frozen wasteland that was his home had carved him with the sharp picks of ice, which also ran through his veins.

Rodion slowed his pace. He planted each step forward soundlessly, effortlessly. It was as if he walked on the snow barefoot. He crouched low, his eyes still blind in the dark but his ears opened, listening for any rustle in the area besides the thump of his own heartbeat. He walked for another two miles before he finally came across tracks.

They were fresh, newly indented in the compacted snow. Rodion followed the trail another half mile to a small stream cutting through the forest on its way to the coast. The wind blew hard against his face, bringing with it a rush of cold and adrenaline. He saw the deer drinking less than forty yards away. He bent to one knee and brought the animal into his sights.

Being downwind, the animal never even smelled him. Rodion squeezed the trigger, and the quiet of the night was shattered with the thunderous gunshot that dropped the animal where it drank. The stream’s light babble soon replaced the ringing in Rodion’s ears as he bent over the animal, examining the size of the buck.

The antlers had barely grown out, but the animal was still thin for its age. Rodion pulled the knife from his belt and split the animal’s stomach from chest to tail, disemboweling the animal quickly to avoid the meat spoiling.

Rodion worked the blade effortlessly over the animal, stripping it of its hide and meat quickly. Steam rose from the dead animal’s still-warm flesh, and by the time Rodion was finished, his hands and arms were stained in the buck’s fluids. He held a chunk of the venison he carved from the carcass and eyed it greedily. This corner of the world still teemed with life, a dark contrast to the dead cold of Russia.
Nothing but useless ash.

The deer meat concaved against the pressure of Rodion’s fist until the chunky meat dissolved into pulp. He remembered the hundreds of nights when he passed out from hunger and exhaustion. The gnawing black hole in the pit of his stomach was an endless growl of pain and remained that way for much of his childhood.

While other nations were concerned with building armies, ships, and weapons, every surviving soul in Russia focused their strength on food. Anyone who had it guarded it closely. It was the most precious resource there to be had. The self-proclaimed authorities that had possession of rations put on tournaments where anyone could enter and fight. Each match offered its own prize. The more brutal the fight, the more food was given to the victor.

Bones snapped. Faces were beaten. Lives were ended in the ring, to the roar of thunderous applause. The matches weren’t just opportunities for food; they were entertainment that helped keep the hordes at bay. The duels didn’t stop until one of the parties was either injured beyond the capacity to fight, or dead. Most of the time it ended with the latter. It wasn’t until Rodion was older and strong enough to fight that he dared enter.

Rodion scraped for years in those rings, and the first few were the worst. While he was big for his age, he was pit against grown men who were seasoned in the realm of combat and had a viciousness he’d yet to grow into. He lost his first thirty matches in a row. He’d been knocked out, broken both hands, the back of his head split open, and nearly had his eyes gouged from his skull.

But over time his wounds healed, and in the process of nature, he grew harder, stronger than before. And the healing component that mended injuries, sealed cuts, and rejuvenated muscle was his rage. It seeped into the cracks of each wound and filled it with a power Rodion had never felt. Every day he grew hungrier, bitterer—until the day he finally won. It was a memory imprinted on his mind that would never wash away, no matter how many years had passed. It was as much a part of him as his own beating heart.

Rodion faced a man in the circle that day who had never been beaten. The men who fought him either ended up dead or wished they had. He was merciless, never stopping until he was peeled off his opponent. He lived for the fighting pits, but not because he needed the food—because he needed the rush. He needed to feel the surge of power that accompanied holding a man’s life in your hands.

Rodion had yet to experience that power, but he’d reached the bottom of his well. He walked into the fight with nothing. His back against the wall, the pit in his stomach demanding to be fed or kill him. There were moments when he felt the flicker of desperation in his muscles, the small voice in the back of his mind telling his future if he failed.

Sixty seconds. That’s all Rodion kept telling himself before the match keeper gave his command to fight. If he could keep the beast at bay for sixty seconds, then he’d have already lasted longer than all the other men that fought against him. And if he could last for sixty seconds, then he could last for another sixty, and another, until he’d won.

Each blow across Rodion’s face and body felt like it would be his last, but each hit only backed him against the wall he’d been dying on, forcing him to stay on his feet. His mind and body went numb, and his eyes glazed over until he could watch the man’s fist connect to his jaw, stomach, and back, but felt nothing. It was then Rodion pressed forward, and it was then he felt the reaping of strength from all of the seeds of rage that had been planted.

The match lasted for nearly an hour. Neither participant, the match keeper, nor the crowd dared to give up and stop the relentless cry for more. More blood, more death, more entertainment. Finally, with Rodion’s opponent slowing from fatigue, Rodion lunged his hand forward in a strike to his enemy’s throat with lightning speed and crushed the man’s windpipe.

The mountain that was Rodion’s opponent swung wildly and violently, staggering around like a drunkard, gasping for air that wouldn’t come. His face purpled, and his feet stomped and rattled the ground like earthquakes until he finally collapsed, choking on his own spit until he finally lay still.

Rodion walked away from that fight with a broken nose, a right eye swelled shut, three broken ribs, bruises and cuts along his face and body, a limp in his left leg that sent a stabbing pain up his side whenever he put pressure on his heel, and three days’ worth of rations.

After all of the struggle and fighting, all of the pain and hunger, Rodion finally had a taste of what the winners ate. And the moment it touched his lips, he knew that he was never going to lose again. And he didn’t.

Rodion fought his way to power, one match at a time. His legend grew after every fight, and it wasn’t long before he had replaced the mountain he’d crushed for his first victory. Men flocked to him, men of strength, cunning, and viciousness. Those matches were how he built his army.

Once he had enough men hardened and capable of handling themselves, it was easy to swarm the other smaller territories. The leaders of the tribes were protected, but their people were not. Every tribe he invaded he gave the same offer: pledge loyalty and join, or die. Some people took Rodion’s offer; the others were still buried under the icy tundra of Russia’s north.

Rodion’s army and name grew with every tribe, village, and clan that he conquered. And with the growth of his people came the need for resources. Food, water, weapons, clothes, homes. He sent scouts out to the far reaches of their territory, places long thought to be destroyed or still haunted by the death of the Great War.

Many of Rodion’s men that returned from these expeditions from the dark corners of his country soon died once home, plagued with a sickness not curable by any of their healers. But despite the casualties lost, Rodion continued to send his men out to look for something more than what they had. It took years, but the expeditions finally paid off in the form of an abandoned structure one of his men spotted north of the ancient capital.

Rodion himself rode out to the sight to examine what the scout had described. Somehow, despite the structure’s proximity to the bombs that fell, it remained untouched and undisturbed through the decades. Some of the area had given way to rust and time, but for the most part it was in the same shape it had been nearly fifty years ago. And what he found inside paved the road to his conquest here.
Ice and iron. That’s all I need.

Rodion packed the venison in his bag and left the rest of the carcass to scavengers and rot. The fire in his camp was roaring by the time he returned, and he tossed the bloody sack of meat on the ground next to his cook. “Don’t burn it.” He stepped inside his tent and pulled off his furs, bits of snow falling to the floor as he did.

“General.” One of his stone-faced officers entered his quarters as Rodion pulled his boots off. “We received word from the Chinese when you were hunting.” He extended the note then waited patiently for the reply.

Rodion remained silent, looking over Delun’s words carefully. While he despised the idea of their union, he understood it was a necessary one. However, it would only be a matter of time before their armies turned on each other, and when that happened, he needed to understand Delun, which had proven difficult. The Asian was smart.

The man had queer tendencies in the way he treated his own people and how he wanted to be perceived. He pulled a veil over everyone’s eyes, deceiving the onlookers into an illusion. What made the charade so convincing was Delun himself. There were times in their interactions together that made Rodion wonder if he was only imagining these things. But the closer Rodion looked, the more he saw, and his own insanity became less likely. “Are the towers up?” Rodion asked, handing the message back to the officer.

“Yes, sir. Do you have a reply?”

“Bring the receiver into my quarters. I wish to speak with Delun himself.”

The alliance between the two countries was forged out of their own worth to each other. Rodion had the guns and the soldiers, and Delun had the technology and the navy. While the warm relationship between the Brazilians and Chinese didn’t sit well with Rodion, he couldn’t deny the ease in which this technology had allowed him to strategize. What once took days and weeks to deliver messages, now only took seconds.

A group of soldiers brought in the hefty equipment, connecting the bulky pieces with cumbersome hands. While the technology was useful, it required time and resources to move and construct in the camps. Once everything was in place, Rodion dismissed them and tuned to the frequency that both Delun and Rodion had agreed to speak on.

“General?” Delun’s voice crackled through the pops and whines of the speaker. The shock and wonderment of the device still prickled the hairs on Rodion’s back, even after having used the machine dozens of times.

“I received your message, Delun.” While Rodion’s ally offered the courtesies of titles, it wasn’t a civility he reciprocated. “Have you captured the Mars brother?” Both of them knew the merchant brother had helped the Aussies in their hold of Sydney, and his capture would offer the Chinese some leverage once the North American territories brought the full force of their Navy to meet them. Although Rodion would have preferred dead to captured.