The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) (25 page)

The king’s company crossed the center of the camp and headed for a secluded spot near the western edge of the perimeter. Men saluted and nodded as their king passed. Sometimes he nodded back, but mostly he did not acknowledge them. It was awfully quiet, except for the sounds of labor.

“Intelligence is a critical part of warfare,” Sergei lectured as they walked. “Without it, your troops are blind. Swords can win battles, but only if there’s a mind guiding them. And you must always see the bigger picture. Imagine you’re an eagle in the sky, watching the progress of this great host. You see patterns emerge; you see problems and opportunities.”

Vlad nodded. He had heard these stories before, but he would never disgrace his father, or himself, by interrupting the king in public. He listened and tried to remember tiny details he may have overlooked.

“When you capture enemy troops, they are more valuable than a hundred reports your spies and your scouts bring. Because your men see what’s on the outside, but they speak about what’s inside. The captives will tell you what things really are like, not what they appear to be.”

“Duke Bogomir tells me you must never treat your foes with disrespect, sire.”

“True. Even a common soldier can tell you truths that might save thousands of lives in the next battle. I want you to see what these Athesians have to say. And I want you to tell me what we should do with their information.”

They reached an isolated part of the camp, far from the noise and too many curious faces. It was encircled in stakes and had a sizable force guarding it. A sentry, his uniform almost gray from road dust, tapped his spear against the heel of his boot as a silent greeting. Another man moved a human-size crow’s-feet barrier and let the king pass through.

Behind a clump of stunted hornbeam trees, a lone black tent stood, surrounded by a dozen Talkers. A lamp burned inside the tent, its glow a sick jaundice spot on the filthy canvas. There were silhouettes limned in that pale light, some standing, others seated, quite animated. Muffled cries wafted from within.

Sergei stopped a step from the entrance and took a look at his son. There was a sharp odor exuding from the tent. It was the unmistakable smell of torture. Sudden doubt wrapped him. Perhaps Vlad should wait outside? Maybe it was too early. But the boy’s eyes shone with grim determination. There was nothing childish about him.

Sergei looked at the sell-sword chief. Captain Speinbate looked nervous. For a bloodthirsty mercenary, he seemed rather squeamish. It did not sit well with his overall reputation. The man fidgeted, avoiding eye contact. His woman escort stared stupidly. Sergei felt a flash of anger bloom in his throat. How did she get here? He gestured for her to be taken away.

“You don’t like blood?” Sergei asked, surprised and furious, as Ipatiy led the unresisting woman slowly away.

“No, blood is fine, my lord,” the man said, waving a hand dismissively. “I don’t like the smell of shit. Makes me queasy, and I didn’t have my dinner yet.”

“Well, it’s definitely better to be queasy before dinner than after, don’t you think?”

Captain Speinbate grimaced, his gold-capped teeth shining. “Definitely.” He did not seem pleased.

Sergei, his son, Duke Kiril, and the mercenary entered the little tent. The torture halted. The stench of blood and feces hit them like a sledgehammer. The Borei heaved, but managed to suppress the urge to vomit. Sergei felt his eyes water. The boy’s lower lip quivered, but he endured stoically.

Blood was fine, Sergei thought, but this…

Beyond the wall of smell, the scene was remarkably simple. Several Athesian scouts were hobbled in low chairs, tied with thick ropes, their hands and feet turning purple. One of the Talkers was holding pliers. Another used a sock filled with potatoes. Beneath each chair, there was a pool of urine and shit and curdled blood. There had not been any fresh bleeding recently.

Sergei was disgusted.
What kind of madness is this?

“What have you learned so far?” Duke Kiril asked, all business. He did not seem fazed by the scene, and in the feeble light, he failed to read the black look on his king’s face.

“Nothing much yet. They won’t tell us anything important,” one of the torturers replied hesitantly. He seemed disappointed, and yet wary of his very important audience.

“You must never exercise too much force,” Kiril explained smugly. “Then, they tell you whatever it is you want to hear. Not good. Can’t let them lose hope or judgment. They just need to understand the possibilities.”

Too much force? What would that be, cooking these people alive? Sergei regretted his decision to bring Vlad along. He wasn’t quite sure what he’d wanted to achieve. For a fleeting moment of panic, he felt like his own father, forcing horror upon his children, scrubbing their innocence bloody raw.

The Talkers spent a moment or two watching the king, then realized he was not going to leave just yet. He wanted to see them in action, they figured, and grew bold and innovative. One of the men took this as a sign to go really wild and impress Sergei. He swung the sock and slammed it into the face of one of the prisoners.

The Athesian was as surprised as the rest of them. He spat his teeth, spraying blood on everyone. Sergei stepped back. There were hot droplets of gore on his coat.

“Enough!” Duke Kiril thundered, striking the man with a wide backhand swing. “What in the name of bloody Abyss are you doing!”

His earlier cockiness was gone, replaced by shock and shame. “Sorry, my lord,” the man mumbled, retreating.

“Watch your language,” the prince-heir said.

They all turned to face him. Unlike the rest, he seemed fairly composed. It might be sheer bravado, but Sergei was proud. And a little worried. Sasha used to have that look when she tortured little animals.

With every passing second, the cold lump in his stomach grew bigger, sharper, heavier. It was too soon. Too soon. The boy had to face honorable combat first, before he could see the grisly backyard of war. Sergei looked at Kiril, his anger growing. Was this how his resourceful Talkers gleaned news from enemy soldiers? By smashing their teeth in with potatoes?

“Let me have a talk with them,” Vlad said, breaking the tense silence.

“You wish to torture them, Prince?” Duke Kiril asked, aghast. The man was suddenly pale.

“No, sir, I just want to have a talk,” the boy explained in a low, dangerous voice. “You will wait outside.”

Speinbate was the first to retreat, quickly and without hesitation. Kiril followed. Soon, Sergei was the only man standing in the tent except for Vlad. This was unraveling the wrong way. He could not let his son mutilate unarmed prisoners. It was simply wrong. There were people for that kind of work.

“You, too, sire. Please.” The boy’s face was somber.

Sergei walked outside. The evening was settling. Crickets picked up their song, filling the brown fields with a susurrating beat. Some distance away, olifaunts made their shrill calls, shattering the surreal atmosphere.

Sergei gritted his teeth. “If my boy comes out with blood on his hands…” he growled.

Duke Kiril swallowed. “No, sir, we won’t allow it.”

The king pointed at the torturers. The duke winced. “What kind of nonsense is this? You are supposed to be bring me news, not minced meat.” Sergei wondered how many incidents like these transpired daily. He wondered how many Athesian scouts had been taken alive and beaten into a bloody pulp, giving away any kind of rumor and half-baked truth to avoid the next kick.

A few long, tense minutes passed. There was no sound of activity in the tent. No screams, no pants, nothing. Finally, Vlad came out. His hands and clothes were clean. Sergei blessed the gods. The rest stared at him as if he could shit diamonds.

“They belong to the Athesian Sixth Legion,” Vlad said, exiting. “Detached. They did not know where the main body is now, but it ought to be about three days away, north and east. They were here before, but have moved to another garrison after hearing fairly credible reports of an enemy force gathering in the east.” He shrugged. “Must be the pirates.”

The head Talker stood agape. “How did you manage that, Prince?”

“I promised them quick death if they cooperated. As simple as that. You will honor that.”

“Yes, Prince.”

Sergei wanted to hug his son, but he stayed his arms. Everyone was looking. It was not the time, nor the place. But he was proud of his eldest. The boy had done the right thing. There were times when violence was pointless. Vlad the Fifth had not understood that, but Vlad the Younger did. It was an unexpected test, and he’d passed it. Sergei felt his taut belly muscles relax, the lump of anger dissolved like the first snow.

After weeks of worry and fatigue, he felt suddenly buoyant and happy. He was invigorated. His son’s little gesture had given him more hope than any military report predicting the swift victory ahead of them could ever have.

Kiril didn’t hide the relief from his face. He wiped sweat from his brow. “Well done, Prince.”

Vlad nodded, haughty and humble at the same time. “Thank you, my lord.”

Sergei looked at his liege. He would have a long talk with Duke Kiril about his interrogation methods. He knew people got beaten and fingers got broken in these kinds of situations. It was only expected. But not this. Later. Now, he wanted to be with his son.

“Time for prayer, sire,” the prince-heir reminded.

“Yes, we will all go together,” the king said.

Captain Speinbate tried to cough out an excuse, but Sergei was not listening. He was already walking away.

Shaking his head, the mercenary followed his employer, keeping his distance. He kept his eyes pasted on the boy. The lad frightened him. That was a stone-cold killer if he’d ever seen one.

CHAPTER 16

L
ord Erik entered the common room, two of Calemore’s soldiers tagging closely behind. He scanned the dimly lit room and found Senari seated at a small round table toward the back, one of the serving wenches propped on his lap. He started toward the other god.

Senari saw him. His smile vanished. His face paled. He was no longer feigning interest, pretending to listen to the girl warming his knees. She paid little attention to the avatar and the armed men approaching.

Damian was smiling. “Hello, Sena.”

The woman frowned, but she kept her eyes on the man she was entertaining. “Sena? You told me your name was Wyatt.”

Senari paid her no heed. His eyes were plastered on Damian.

“Who’s your friend?” the woman persisted. She seemed to be on the poor side when it came to hints.

The other god seemed distracted. He opened his mouth to say something. Instead, he only managed a weak groan.

“Beat it,” Damian barked.

The wench looked him up and down, frowned, but she obeyed. She could feel danger even if she could not really understand it. Uninvited, Damian took a seat opposite Senari. The two soldiers remained standing, solid, impassible, threatening in a very nonviolent manner.

“This is how you spend your days, then? Drinking yourself to oblivion and whoring with local peasant girls?” For an instant, his own last eighteen years flashed in front of him, a vomit bucket of remorse, tears, shattered dreams, bad memories, and lots of drinking.

“Please, Damian. I don’t want any trouble,” Senari whispered. His voice trembled.

Lord Erik’s grandfatherly face creased with sympathy. “It’s been a whole age since,” he continued, ignoring the other god’s mumbled plea.

“Please, Damian. Please.”

“You have betrayed me,” he hissed, his eyes sharp and focused on Senari. Muscles in his jaw twitched. Then he remembered Nannath. No, he must not lose his composure.

“We didn’t know,” Senari moaned. “We acted in the best interest of the world.”

Damian slammed a hand against the pockmarked table. Several patrons turned, stared for a moment, then got back to their business.

“You mean you decided to destroy me because I was different?” He leaned back. “But it makes no difference now. I have won. Your sad, stupid humanity is gone. The world is ruled by my creation. And you have perished almost to the soul. More or less.”

“We can work together,” the other god offered.

“Ah, Sena, always the slimy one. Even back then, you showed promise. But you went over to the winning side. If only you had stood by me, it could have been different. No. You were always a coward. And a traitor.”

Senari was on the brink of tears. His face was as pale as a slug. Sweat beaded at his temples. He reeked of panic and stale ale. It was an unsettling stench. “Damian, I beg you.”

Damian was calm again, smiling softly. “Too late for that, I’m afraid. Most of you are dead anyway. Staying behind in this world makes no sense for you, Sena. What do you have? A fistful of ancient ideals that no one remembers and a scattering of followers who worship brick and timber houses and know nothing of the god they pray to? Why do you bother?”

“Damian, I beg you. Please. Let me have my last few years in this world. I’m doomed anyway. My powers are weak. And even if I wanted, I couldn’t do anything. No one cares about the gods anymore. We’re fading away.”