Torches sputtered, trying to survive the storm, making the weakest of lights by which he navigated his way around wagons and tents. Not far from where he slept, a group of patriarchs had taken shelter under the thick branches of an old chestnut that provided some lee from the elements.
Now, the ancient tree was a witness to a gruesome fight, unarmed patriarchs and several soldiers fighting a horde of monsters intent on rape. Matriarch Alda was in their hands, and they struggled with the choice between stripping her clothes off and fending off men who opposed them.
Unseen by either group, Ayrton hopped toward the carnage and hid behind a tree. They had camped at the outskirts of a forest, where they had hoped to avoid the worst of the bad weather that had haunted them for the last several days.
Matriarch Alda was screaming madly. People were cursing and growling like animals. Swords rang. Ayrton waited for a few moments, breathing hard and deeply, trying to get his bearings. The illumination was horribly weak. He could guess shapes at best. Still, he did not hesitate when he rushed from his hiding.
The first man never saw him coming, only felt a cold length of wet steel through his neck. Ayrton did not waste time talking, negotiating, or merely wounding. He cut through flesh and bone as efficiently as possible. The second man collapsed.
The remaining three noticed him, let go of the matriarch, and charged together. He spun and slid in the mud, collided into the chestnut with his back and shoulder, cursed silently as blades rained about him. He was winded within seconds.
But his opponents were drunk. Their movements were sluggish, inaccurate. The third man dropped dead, clutching his guts. The remaining two yielded.
Suddenly, the enraged and shocked crowd of onlookers became a mob of rabid animals. Picking up dead branches and stones, they attacked the two Outsiders. Ayrton found himself defending the very men he had tried to kill only a moment earlier.
“No! No! Stop. They must live so we can hang them before all!” A fist punched him, tearing open his upper lip. A stone bounced off his shoulder. “The justice of the gods must be served.” He stood over the two cowering drunkards, sword poised to strike if need be. The crowd lost its momentum. Ayrton almost dropped to his knees, exhausted.
Matriarch Alda rose and started wiping clots of mud off her shredded dress. It was a symbolic gesture. She looked him in the eye. “Thank you, soldier. You are a true servant of the gods.”
Ayrton nodded mutely, too tired to speak anymore.
In the morning, they hanged the two offenders. There was a shortage of rope in their camp, so they used a chain, hanging the matriarch’s would-be rapists in turns. All of the patriarchs, including the survivors from Talmath, presided over the executions. They preached for a long time on morality and compassion. Ayrton listened to the empty words with growing anger. The people, who had abandoned an entire city and left its souls to die, dared tell others about morality and compassion. After the sermon came a series of prayers.
While praying, Ayrton let his eyes survey the Outsiders, watching the lips that moved and lips that stayed still. He could see derision and disbelief written plainly on some of those grubby, unshaven faces.
Ayrton wondered if his life were not an illusion. If the Territories were not an illusion. He had honestly believed that people deserved a second chance, believed that there was always something good in the world, no matter what evil things people did. He was the living proof. He had come to the holy land and asked for forgiveness. And they had given it to him freely, unreservedly, a gift of life.
When they had called him to join the Cause, he had ridden gladly, honored to be able to give back some of the love they had shown him.
Now, he could see that it had all been a farce, a farce that worked while everyone had their bellies filled and a roof above their heads. But the moment they faced a test of faith, they shed their hides of pretense, and vile, foul, selfish beings rose from within.
Ayrton did not presume to be able to understand the grand schemes of the gods. The patriarchs and matriarchs would do everything to see the Safe Territories survive this ugly war. But the price was too high. They sent people to their deaths without blinking. Worst of all, they gave people false hope, the most horrible kind of treason.
The leaders of the land had failed. They did not seem to have a vision, no clear goal. The recruitment of fodder was sporadic, unorganized. Bands of soldiers wandered aimlessly like headless chickens. The Safe Territories would not survive if this mess continued.
The patriarchs had to unite the people, the entire people. But all they had were the confused and idealist fools like himself. And the first moment they could, they fled, leaving the people to die.
Soon after the hangings, the patriarchs summoned him.
His heart hammering with dread, he walked into the forest, where they waited for him. Matriarch Alda was with them, her face bruised from the beating she had suffered last night. Ayrton’s lip was swollen, impeding his speech.
“You are a brave man,” she said.
He was quiet.
“You have saved us from those infidels. The gods and goddesses are grateful.”
Ayrton could not stand it any longer. “Why have you abandoned Talmath?” he whispered.
Their pious faces darkened. “Have faith in the gods, son. They have a plan.”
“You left a whole city to die,” he spoke in a barely audible tone.
The same priest who had accused him of sedition smiled softly. “Everyone has their place in the plan. Some people have to die so others can live. There are so many things you do not know. I can understand your anger.”
“Everyone deserves a second chance,” he hissed.
“You are a good and a passionate man,” Alda said. “My goddess says so.”
Ayrton felt a chill go down his spine. “Why have you fled the city?”
“We have not fled Talmath. We left because we were ordered to do so.”
“Why? By whom?”
“People must have hope,” the priest said.
“What do you want from me?” Ayrton growled.
“We want to charge you with a holy quest,” Alda said. “Goddess Selena has a mission for you.”
“I will not give my life over to some nameless Caytorean so you can flee again,” he said.
“My goddess told me a very special man would come. One who holds dear the lives of others above his own. A man of virtue. When you came from Talmath, leading those refugees, I was hopeful. But after you saved my life last night, I knew for sure.”
Ayrton felt his throat constrict with fury. “Why are you sending all those fools to die? They cannot defeat the Caytoreans. The enemy has a well-organized, professional army. You are sending bands of simpletons to fight them. All those people going east will die.”
The patriarch who accused him before bore a look of pain and sympathy on his face now. “We know that, son. We know. It hurts us, but we have no choice. They must die so we can save others.”
“Why?”
“They must die so you will have enough time.”
Ayrton felt his head spin. He was an Outsider, a man who had fled to Territories to escape atrocity, to escape horror and pain and responsibility.
“You let Talmath die on purpose?” he whispered.
“It could not be defended. You have been there; you have seen it yourself. But had we ordered the city to evacuate, the Caytoreans would have been now before the gates of Jaruka, with everyone from Talmath to here dead.”
“Our people must fight, even if it’s a hopeless war,” Alda added.
“The Safe Territories have become a slaughterhouse,” he groaned, confused.
“Yes. Many will die. But we shall know the true from the false. We shall know the righteous from impostor. Thousands will die, but thousands more will live. Your mission is more important. You have to save the Territories.”
Ayrton shook his head. “The Caytoreans cannot be defeated by us. We cannot stop them.”
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bsp; Alda nodded sadly. “Eventually, they will overrun every city in the land. It cannot be prevented. The Safe Territories will cease to exist as a land, but the idea must live. You must save the essence of the Territories. That’s the only thing that really matters.”
The Outsider had never been so confused in his whole life. His anger was waning, to be replaced with despair. “What do you want from me?” he groaned, defeated.
“We want you to go into the City of Gods and save the gods,” Alda said.
Silence. “The City of Gods is a myth,” Ayrton said after a very long pause. He took a step back, stumbling on a branch. “You are mad.”
“There is more to life than just our petty needs. You may hate us and think us for liars and cowards, but that does not matter. All that matters is that you save the gods,” the patriarch spoke, his voice soft and compassionate.
“You are the servants of gods. Why don’t you save them yourselves?”
Alda stepped forward quickly, grabbed his hand between her soft palms; her skin was cold. “We are doing our duty. You must do yours. You must find the city and save the gods.”
“I don’t believe you,” he croaked.
The patriarchs closed on him, encircling him, a wall of rustling silk and color. He felt disoriented, dizzy.
Another nameless face spoke, “Whenever a believer dies, a deity loses some of its power. The Caytoreans are slowly killing the gods. When the gods have no more believers left, they will die.”
A second voice piped in, “As long as there are believers somewhere, anywhere, the gods will live. The enemy cannot kill every believer in the world. But this war is weakening the gods. Whenever a temple falls or a shrine is razed, our creators lose more of their power. Soon, they will become so weak even humans will be able to kill them. You must save them. You must find the gods and save them.”
“Men cannot kill gods,” Ayrton growled, terrified.
“Men can kill the body that hosts a deity. A strong god would simply seek a new vessel, take a new form. But enfeebled as our gods are becoming, they might not have the necessary strength to do it one more time. They would become disembodied spirits. Their presence in our world would fade. They would soon become forgotten. Slowly, with time, religion would die out.”
Alda stroked his cheek, like a mother. Her eyes were wet. “Our prophets have tried to warn us, but no man knows the future until it has already happened. We have only one hope left. It’s you.”
Ayrton sank to his knees. “I don’t believe you.”
“As long as the City of Gods stands, living men cannot enter save one, a man whose heart is true and pure. You must find the city; you must enter and warn the gods. They will not have known about the wars. It has been a long time since the gods took interest in the world of men.”
The priests stood all around and above him. He struggled to breathe. This was a nightmare. “You must find the gods and convince them to flee. You must save them.”
Alda patted his head. “In Jaruka, it will all become clear to you.”
CHAPTER 25
Mayhem in the camp. Adam woke from his sleep, lights dancing before his eyes.
A few moments later, the tent flap stirred. “Sir, sorry to wake you up,” one of the night guards announced. “I have an important message.”
“I’m awake,” he murmured, pinching his nose bridge. His neck hurt.
“A Caytorean messenger wishes to speak to you,” the guard said. “He says he’s got a message for you and will not deliver it to anyone else.”
Adam sobered almost instantly. “Don’t hurt him. I’ll come out soon.” Lumbering about in almost total darkness, he found the washbasin by feel and splashed his face with a few lukewarm drops.
Several minutes later, he came out, hastily dressed and unarmed, his hair disheveled, a stain of spittle on the collar of his nightshirt. Around him, a circle of cressets made him squint.
There were soldiers everywhere, in a mixed state of curiosity, alertness, and anxiety. The night was annoyingly warm. Adam walked past the sputtering torches, following Lieutenant Gerard, who had also been roused. A knot of crossbowmen closed around him in a protective loop.
“What’s going on?” Adam asked, his voice casual.
“A man arrived half an hour ago, from the east, claiming he carries an important message for you. He is dressed in plain gray clothes with no insignia. He says he’s a Caytorean, but he does not serve in the army.”
“An assassin?” Adam asked.
“We thought so. He does look quite benign, which, frankly, really bothers me all the more.”
“Let’s see what he wants.”
His men took no chances. They had erected a cage around the messenger. It was a simple structure of linen sheets, but it obstructed the man’s view and would stop darts, needles, knives, or any other kind of ranged weapon. Lieutenant Gerard had had the man stripped, but found nothing on him.
Close to fifty soldiers encircled the absurd cage. Adam tried to approach, but Lieutenant Gerard would not let him.
“Hey, you! Major Adam is here. Deliver your message.”
There was a silence from the behind the sheets. “Greetings, Adam the Butcher,” the man spoke, evoking a wave of murmurs among the Eracians. “I’m here on behalf of Lord Erik, a Caytorean noble who wishes to speak to you. He wants to meet you now, several miles east of your camp.”
“Maybe I could just kill myself,” Adam suggested.
“Lord Erik would like you to believe his words, but he does not know of any possible way he could convince you. This is no trap.”
Adam stood like a statue. “Lower the sheets,” he said.
Lieutenant Gerard looked like a man about to cry. “Please, sir, no. It’s dangerous.”
Adam grabbed the man by the shoulders and moved him sideways. “There, now you’ll be my shield.”
Two soldiers cautiously approached the cage, as if a rabid beast hid inside, and released the sheets.
The Caytorean was naked and bound, hand and foot. Massive chains were snaked around his wrists and weighted down by a heavy stone. Rags were wrapped around his hands to keep him from scratching anyone deliberately; poison could be hidden beneath the nails.
“I’m here,” one of the soldiers said, pretending to be Adam, another precaution by his men.
The confused, if determined, messenger turned to face the pretender. No bolt of lightning shot from his mouth when he spoke. “Lord Erik begs that you meet him.”
“You can tell Lord Erik to come here, then,” Lieutenant Gerard piped in.
The man was adamant; Adam admired his bravery. “Lord Erik insists that you meet in person, tonight, away from too many eyes and ears. He guarantees your safety.”
Adam leaned and whispered in Gerard’s ear. “Prepare an escort party.”
Gerard groaned. He motioned for his men to cover the messenger again. The soldier threw the linen over his head. He stood like some ridiculous statue, naked and patient, the roundness of his head gently bobbing with slow breaths beneath the white cloth.
“You cannot go, sir. Please.”
“I believe this meeting could be important.”
“It’s a trap.”
Adam pointed at his subordinate. “Somehow, I don’t believe it is. But I sincerely appreciate your worry. Now, let’s get going. I want to meet this Lord Erik. He seems to have something very important to tell me. I want to see him and get back before dawn.”
Lieutenant Gerard swallowed, his face pale. “Aye, sir.”
“You’re in charge of my security. Organize the best escort you can think of, but make it small and efficient. Let’s keep this whole affair quiet. I don’t want any of the colonels interfering.”
Gerard took the task seriously. He mustered a hundred cavaliers and armed them with crossbows. Then, he dispatched more than a dozen scouts east to patrol the area and search for a Caytorean ambush. Finally, he forced Adam to wear the heaviest hauberk and helmet he could find.
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bsp; They set out quickly, a sizable portion of the camp wide awake and watching them with curiosity. Luckily, most of the commotion was restricted to his part of the camp. Mali and her officers slept quietly on the far end of Virgin’s Blood.
He knew that word would spread in the morning. By then, he would know what he needed to know.
Adam sweated in the heavy outfit. His shoulders ached, unaccustomed to the feel and weight of the thick plate. Anxious soldiers trotted about, scouting into the night, crossbows cocked and ready. They took twice the time needed to cross the short distance.
One of the scouts came back and reported the presence of a small body of men not far from their position. Lieutenant Gerard ordered the group encircled.
Whoever Lord Erik was, he took the little show rather stoically, patiently waiting for the menacing group of Eracians to completely surround him and level their crossbows at his heart. The dozen men in his company did not move, standing idly about like some moronic honor guard. A single torch burned.
Adam found the scene surreal. He dismounted, despite vehement protests from his officers, and started forward. The helmet irritated him, and he took it off. Several soldiers rushed to his side, physically blocking his path, shielding him from potential threats.
Adam had to push and shove. Finally, they relented and let him walk. He came within about four paces of Lord Erik and paused.
The man facing him was a friendly-looking grandfather, with silver hair and mustache, and smart spectacles on his eyes. By his side stood a little boy, his eyes huge with curiosity, but no fear. Adam waved his men lower their weapons. They only half listened; the crossbows now threatened everyone’s genitals and the boy’s head.
“What a splendid demonstration of Eracian military prowess. I’m impressed,” the man spoke in perfect Eracian dialect. “I’m Lord Erik. This is my grandson, Robin. But you can call him Rob.”
Adam nodded. “I’m Adam the Butcher.”
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