His convoy was a ragged one. He commanded less than three thousand Outsiders and about five thousand refugees of all kinds. They stretched for two miles behind him, weak, confused, and hungry. Every day, more and more people lagged or got lost. Caytorean parties prowled the region and hunted anyone and everyone mercilessly.
Ayrton knew with ice-cold certainty that before the week’s end, most of his refugees would be gone, for better or worse. They would scatter through the countryside, heading toward villages they knew or thought they knew, seeking sanity and help there. Others would perish by the sword and disease and the oncoming autumn cold.
He would have a fool’s luck if he managed to remain with as many as half his soldiers. These animals, too, would wander off as his grip on their hides weakened. But he would be a fool if he tried to worry or protect everyone. He was powerless. His best hope was to march west, away from the killing.
Ayrton drank from a skin. Luckily, water should not be a problem. There were many springs about, and rains came regularly in the late summer.
He did not really know where to go or what to do. He could march toward Jaruka, the holiest city in the Territories. But he also felt a need to seek out the patriarchs. His anger was slowly eroding, but the ugly, empty feeling of betrayal sat in the pit of his stomach like a ball of lead. He needed to know why they had abandoned the people in Talmath.
Most of the villages they found were deserted, the inhabitants having fled the rumors of war. The countryside was empty, fields left unharvested. They plucked turnips from the ground and spitted corn over small fires. Ayrton hardly slept four hours a day and found himself dozing while marching. The few soldiers with bows tried to hunt, but found very little game. Animals had much better instincts than people.
As the week stretched out, Ayrton found himself leading a band of pilgrims a third of its original size, most of the refugees gone. Some still hung on, hoping the man in the front had some sort of a plan. Bandits and vagabonds avoided them; they were too large a group to prey on.
On the ninth day of their grueling journey, they encountered the first populated hamlet. The word of fighting had still not yet reached here—or the people treated it with the typical disdain of the condemned. The roads were mostly empty, but here and there, a wagon rolled or a family walked toward one of the shrines, carrying offerings. There was no sign of the great armies of the Cause.
Ayrton wondered where the patriarchs hid. Had they all fled the cities at the first sign of peril? Was the creed so…shallow? People devoted their lives to the gods. People believed and trusted and expected the patriarchs to protect them.
He made his convoy halt half a mile from the village and proceeded on foot, followed by a small band of soldiers. They crossed a short bridge of stone arching over a narrow creek. The village was a random collection of a dozen houses and a mill, yet a large crowd stood in the small square occupied by a shrine.
Coming closer, he could see most of the people wore the smooth, monotone robes of different colors. His blood heated. The patriarchs?
The robed assembly noticed the newcomers and dispersed. A group started in their direction. Ayrton slowed and bade his men relax.
“Greetings,” one of the men shouted.
Ayrton raised a hand in friendly gesture. “Greetings,” he called back.
“You must be soldiers of the Cause,” the man spoke again; his robe was blue and stained with dust.
“We are,” Ayrton said.
“I’m Under-Patriarch Lenard,” the priest said. “How many are you?”
Ayrton hesitated. “About two thousand or so, including some refugees.”
Lenard looked shocked. “So many. Where do you hail from? Are you here to join the march on Talmath?”
The Outsider stared at him stupidly. “We come from Talmath.”
Under-Patriarch Lenard seemed confused. “I don’t understand.”
What in the name of gods was happening here, Ayrton thought, apprehension clenching his gullet. “Talmath is lost. The Caytoreans have overrun it. Didn’t you know?”
There was absolute silence on the other side. One of the other robed men sank to his knees and started to pray mutely. Another started to cry.
Lenard was pale as a worm. “Where are the patriarchs?”
Ayrton gritted his teeth. “We don’t know. But they have abandoned the city.”
Silence, again. “Come with me,” the man spoke after a long time.
They were led into the village. Close to a hundred clergymen and clergywomen clustered near the shrine. Some were armed.
Lenard went to talk to a group of priests who stood slightly apart from the rest. An old woman with a definite aura of authority came forward. “I’m Matriarch Alda, serving Goddess Selena, blessed be her name.”
The soldiers bowed in reverence. They let her touch their brows and murmur blessings.
“Under-Patriarch Lenard tells me you come from Talmath and that it has been lost,” she spoke, her voice sad.
Ayrton matched her gaze. “Yes, holy one. The Caytoreans have breached the defenses. We could not fight them. The lower city was burned to the ground. We fled while we still could.”
She took the news with the same blunt shock as Lenard. Her resolve wavered. “We have had no news from Talmath in a while. But we knew that the city was strong with faith. It has…it had thousands of strong defenders.”
Mostly peasants, fools, and animals, Ayrton thought.
“You said the patriarchs have abandoned you,” she whispered.
“I don’t know, holy one,” Ayrton managed to say in a composed voice, but it was a strain. “We don’t know where they are or when they left. We came one day to the monastery, seeking their guidance. The monastery was empty. Only the combat priests have remained.”
A wave of emotion rippled through the colorful lot. Ayrton could almost pinpoint every combat priest and priestess in the lot. The pain and despair that twisted their features was too obvious.
“We thought the patriarchs would have gone west, to warn others and rally more people,” Ayrton said.
Matriarch Alda spread her arms helplessly. “We came from Sarid. We visited dozens of villages. Hundreds joined our ranks. They marched east with the love of the gods in their hearts. We met no fleeing refugees. Or our brothers and sisters.”
Ayrton rubbed his neck. What was happening? The entire Territories seemed to be one huge cauldron of confusion. What were the patriarchs doing? Who led the people?
You, his soul told him. A headache started to bloom above and behind his ears.
His comrades watched the clergy with suspicion in their eyes. Ayrton prayed for strength. He so needed strength. Animals needed someone to control them.
“Going east is a lost cause,” he blurted. “You will find empty villages and roving hordes of brigands and, further still, tens of thousands of Caytoreans intent on bringing death and ruin. You cannot fight them.”
“We must fight them,” Alda said, but she did not sound convinced. “It has been decreed.”
“We must go west. It’s our only chance,” Ayrton pleaded.
“We need to find the patriarchs and matriarchs from Talmath,” she mumbled, almost in a trance.
Ayrton wanted to grab her by the neck and shake her. But he knew it would be a great offense. The patriarchs had left the people to die while running off, saving their own hides. “Our only hope to stay alive is to move west, far from the killing.”
“I need to speak to my goddess,” the matriarch declared.
Ayrton swallowed. He had lived a life of sin, once. In the great scheme of divine plans, he knew he deserved to die. But he didn’t want his life to end in a failure. There must be more to life than dying an anonymous death in a field somewhere. There must be more to life than being just another victim to human greed and madness.
There had to be.
A wall of colors closed on them. “The matriarch will now retreat to her shack. She will pray and fast and seek il
lumination. You should go back to your people and wait,” Lenard said.
Ayrton motioned his men to follow. There was nothing else he could do.
“I don’t trust that bitch,” one of the soldiers barked as they left the village.
A sharp tip of a sword under his chin made him halt. “Watch your tongue. That’s blasphemy!” Ayrton hissed. He lowered the sword and shoved the man hard. “Always remember, we are soldiers of the gods. We serve the Cause!”
The man paled, sobered, and then reluctantly nodded.
Later that day, villagers came with their meager share of bread and salt, offering them to Ayrton’s men. They scarcely had enough for fifty, let alone thousands, but it was a gesture of goodwill.
Two days passed without a word from the matriarch. She was still in seclusion.
It would have been so simple to tell his men to pack and leave. They could proceed alone, without blessings from the priests. No one could stop them. But then, what was he going to do? He had no plan.
In the camp, he made his men pray twice a day, at dawn and dusk, and made them sing songs and bring offerings to the shrine in the village. The pile of offerings was almost hip-high, with trinkets of all sorts.
Some of the refugees volunteered to help the local farmers with bringing in the harvest, while others helped the herds with their flock of goats. In return, the local smith offered to sharpen their swords and buff their armor. There was very little violence. The awe of the gods kept everyone in check. But Ayrton feared the moment when this awe rubbed off.
Hundreds of refugees left them, joining little convoys of pilgrims or taking off on foot, striking north and south and west. A pack of savage dogs and people without hope remained.
On the third day, the brothers and sisters slew a chicken, in honor of the gods and goddesses, praying for guidance. But Matriarch Alda still wouldn’t come out.
Ayrton sat on a rock, staring at the world. It was so peaceful, immense vistas of green grass fluttering in the breeze, birds spiraling above the fields, hunting mice and insects.
He had no idea what the patriarchs and matriarchs in Jaruka had decreed, but it seemed like a giant mess. The Territories were not ready for an all-out war with a powerful enemy like Caytor. The combat priests and the few unlucky losers like him were not enough to stem that ugly, bloodthirsty war machine. He did not want the responsibility. He did not desire the failure. He wanted hope.
“Convoy approaching!” one of the lookouts shouted.
Ayrton stood up on his little promontory and shielded his eyes. A band of about a hundred, maybe two hundred, people were approaching the village from the northeast. They might have been more stragglers fled from Talmath.
As they came near, he glimpsed robed figures on donkeys, and riffraff in tatters following them.
“Spike, Enrique, with me,” he ordered. Two of the Outsiders followed him into the village. Spike was a former rapist, and Enrique was a silent type who no one really knew what he had done in his previous life. But he prayed five times a day, and tears ran down his face every time.
Ayrton’s blood heated when he saw the familiar faces among the newcomers. Some of the donkey riders were patriarchs from the Grand Monastery.
Under-Patriarch Lenard and a flock of underlings were already talking to the Talmath escapees. Ayrton shouldered his way through the tightly pressed crowd.
“…has fallen, we were told,” Lenard was saying.
One of the mounted figures wore a grim mask on his face. “Who told you that?”
Lenard turned and pointed at Ayrton. “They told us.”
“Talmath is safe. The faith is strong in the city. Our soldiers are fighting the Caytorean heathens bravely. The city has not been lost.”
Ayrton felt blood in his veins curdle. What the bloody Abyss was going on?
“Who are you, soldier?” one of the patriarchs, the only mounted one in the lot, asked him, his voice stern.
Ayrton swallowed. He bowed. “Holy one, I am Ayrton, a soldier of the gods. I serve the Cause. We have come from Talmath, holy one. The city has been overrun by the Caytoreans.”
“Those are words of sedition, soldier!” the priest snapped. “The gods and goddesses protect us.”
The Outsider looked at the faces of the people tailing after the patriarchs. They were mostly peasant boys and girls, with naked zeal on their faces, fool volunteers for a fool’s cause. His shock twisted into cold rage. “The city is burning, holy one.”
“The city is safe!” another patriarch intoned.
“You could not have seen it burn; you fled it,” Ayrton whispered.
Murmurs spread all about him. Ayrton felt his callused fingers touch the hilt of his sword.
“Are you accusing us of something, soldier? Do you doubt the divine guidance that we provide? Do you question the gods and goddesses?” the first patriarch boomed.
“I serve the gods!” Ayrton hissed.
The patriarchs turned away from Ayrton, ignoring him. “We have departed from the city some time ago, but Talmath was in the safe hands of our many brethren. We have left to rouse more people to the Cause. But we will return, with strong faith in people’s hearts. And we will expel the Caytorean invaders from the Territories!”
A ragged cheer spread through the crowd of priests.
“We already have a hundred brave soldiers with us. And I see you have recruited another hundred,” the man continued.
“This man commands several thousands of soldiers,” Lenard offered.
The mounted man would not look at Ayrton. “They will, too, join the holy march to Talmath.”
Ayrton felt his heart hammering in the pit of his stomach. He was not going back to Talmath. He did not want to die for nothing. But how could he refuse? These men had taken him, saved his life, saved his soul. They had given him a new life, a new hope.
And now, they would take it away.
Ayrton stared at the patriarchs. He knew they were lying. They had fled to save themselves, and now they intended to send thousands of people to a useless death. It was wrong.
He stood there, his blood pounding in his temples, a red haze beating before his eyes. An Outsider only got one chance.
Matriarch Alda staggered out of her hut. She stank. Her hair was disheveled and her eyes full of crust. She looked parched and famished. Tottering slowly, she approached the shrine and lifted the carcass of the slaughtered chicken in the air.
“Goddess Selena has spoken to me! Our gods summon us west! We must go west.”
Ayrton closed his eyes. Thank you, Gods.
CHAPTER 20
Adam the Butcher.
The nickname spread like wildfire. Within less than a day, everyone in the camp had heard the name. His soldiers would swear by their mothers and sisters that they had never called him Captain Leech in their lives. His lieutenants vowed to die for him if necessary.
And all Adam was…was a dead man with nothing to lose.
He did not seek glory or power. They came, nonetheless, jeering and taunting. But they meant nothing. He was a rock, rolling down the side of a mountain, such a free and reckless ride. He owed nothing to no one. Death was the ultimate freedom.
As a major, he was privileged to join many of the discussions regarding the art of war in the big command tents. Soldiers served him wine and cheese as he listened to his comrades talk. Most of the time, he listened and learned that war was a very simple thing. What complicated the whole business were human emotions. Once you threw in fear, hesitation, confusion, and greed into the cauldron, it became a whorefest, worse than any he had participated in while in Paroth.
His colleagues despised and hated and feared him. He was a symbol of evil, a mascot of all things wrong. Yet, deep down in their souls, they were glad that he existed, because he spared them the need to be like him, to be the monster.
As the captured hilltop became a major encampment, Adam made sure no hands went idle. He defoliated the entire region as he built the biggest hedge
hog of a camp ever made, with so many lines of picket that the foremost rank was out of bow range.
His men were an example for the rest of the forces. They trained from dusk to dawn, especially the peasants and the auxiliary units, which were less experienced. Many regulars grunted at his decision to arm the weakest units with crossbows until he demonstrated the sheer effectiveness of the weapon in the hands of a common man against the bodies of several dissidents.
With peasants turned into a deadly force, morale and loyalty grew. Animosity between units lessened as men scorned for their lack of combat skills became equals with their hard-core trained comrades.
Now that he commanded three whole battalions, the results of his efforts became visible almost instantly. He ordered towers built and mounds erected. Every day, a company spent a day hammering rock with pickaxes, hauling stones half a mile back to the camp and piling them on top of the mounds he had built.
After a week, there was a small quarry just outside the camp. The piles of rock had become a breastwork, encircling the entire perimeter of their position. The tiny supply bivouac had become a small army city, three times its original size.
The Caytoreans had temporarily diverted their forces further south, avoiding him. Scouts reported their movement day by day, even as more Eracians poured into the Territories, strengthening their hold of the northeastern reach. Talmath, Poereni, and other cities were all besieged, yet they held. There was still hope that the Eracians might cut off the Caytorean rear.
The enemy knew this and massed troops south and east, strengthening their right flank. Another clash was inevitable, soon.
Tales of his invincibility, terror, and fame came and went, most total fables. Soldiers were a bawdy lot and liked to brag. They invented a hundred stories about him. He bedded aurochs and bathed in blood and ate the beating hearts of his enemies for breakfast. Adam encouraged the tales, knowing that for every ten told in an Eracian camp, two reached the ears of his foes.
There was also envy. Other battalions were jealous of his success. His soldiers were the only ones with crossbows. Unlike other commanders, he had specifically ordered his men to scavenge all usable weapons from the corpses of Caytorean soldiers, especially the crossbows. To spite them, he named his regiment the Carrion Eaters and changed the banner to a red crow.
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