The Betrayed

by Igor Ljubuncic

Lord Erik snapped his fingers. One of the Eracians almost jumped. “Ah, yes. I heard you coined that name. Very subtle.”

  “What is the purpose of this meeting?” Adam was slightly impatient. The man’s obvious indifference at the heavy presence of enemy soldiers irritated him.

  “I would like to congratulate you, Adam the Butcher. You’re doing a splendid job.”

  “You could have written that in your message.”

  Lord Erik snapped his fingers again. “But then you would not have really paid attention to my words. Now that I have it, I want to offer you a bargain.”

  Adam considered killing the small group of Caytoreans and leaving, but some deep instinct stayed his hand. “Go ahead.”

  “I would appreciate if less people heard the words I’m about to say,” the friendly grandfather suggested. “I know you find it highly suspicious, but this is no ruse. My smile has nothing but the most benign of meanings. Please order your men to step back a few paces. I’d like to talk to you alone.”

  Adam looked about. A hundred Eracians had their weapons ready. If anything happened, no one would survive.

  “Let us take the boy as a hostage,” Lieutenant Gerard offered.

  Lord Erik bent slightly. “You see, Rob? Imagination is the most vicious weapon of all. I am an old man, and you are a child, and yet they fear us more than a whole five of Caytor’s best.”

  Adam thought the man was a lunatic. But he was not really sure.

  “I will not let my grandson be touched by your troops,” Lord Erik said. “He will remain by my side. If you find him or me too threatening, then do retreat. Be aware that I’ll never again approach you with my offer, though.”

  Lieutenant Gerard tried to speak. Adam raised a hand, silencing him. “Everyone take ten steps back. If anything happens, kill these people. Watch for any signs of an enemy force approaching.”

  Slowly, reluctantly, the cloying ring of men parted. An island of peace opened around Adam and the stranger. Only the faint stink of sweat remained.

  Lord Erik reached forward. He held a book in his hand. A simple, ordinary book.

  “What is that?” Adam asked, his suspicion boiling again.

  “I believe you can tell a book by its shape,” Lord Erik said, the tiniest trace of mockery in his clear, beautiful voice. “I know you are an illiterate man. Perhaps this book will prompt you to learn to read and write. No man can be a great leader if he lacks education.”

  Adam did not reach out his hand.

  “This book is a gift, given freely. Take it.”

  Adam’s fingers closed on the old volume. It felt as ordinary as a piece of wood.

  “Do not give this book to anyone or let anyone read it. It’s meant for you only, once you master the letters. I hope you are a curious man.”

  “Why do you want me to read a book? Why are you giving it to me?”

  Lord Erik smiled reassuringly. It was the loving smile of the best grandfather in the world. “I want you to know what’s written in that book. It’s a gift for your great military achievements in the last several weeks.”

  “I’m killing Caytoreans.” Adam stated the obvious.

  “I need to tell you some things,” Lord Erik continued, without missing a beat. “Like Eracia, Caytor pools its soldiers from the commoners. The noble retainers are a thing of the past in both our countries. Most of the army men are simple people, peasants and small townsfolk with little wealth and few worries beyond their immediate needs.

  “Such people do not like complexities. They tend to overlook them, to ignore them. On the other hand, when something very simple, very primal comes their way, they tend to take it very seriously. That’s one of the reasons why most soldiers are…very mediocre people. Smart people have qualms when it comes to hacking bone and muscle every day.”

  Adam listened, his fascination growing.

  “In Caytor, a religious faction appeared out of nowhere twenty years ago. This faction follows a god called Feor. A god that was unheard of until that time. Feor is a very simple god. A very simple god for very simple people.”

  “I’ve heard of Feor,” Adam said. Like most Eracians, they treated it as another exotic, faraway fad.

  “Most of the Caytorean common folk worship Feor, including the military. You could almost say that the entire army is under the spell of this new god and his protagonists. The Caytorean higher society does not like this situation.”

  Around him, the night was silent, save for the nervous whinnies of horses and the short staccatos of hooves on soft ground.

  “Most nobles and rich people in Caytor are very secular. Even before the Movement of Feor rose, we paid very little heed to the religious institutions. But now, our interests are in jeopardy. Most of the countryside is virtually ruled by the Feorans. Other than in the large cities, we hold almost no sway over the commoners. Our resources are getting thinner. So, we lack the manpower to purge this epidemic.”

  “What has all this got to do with me?”

  “Here enter you, Adam the Butcher. You are a vile Eracian soldier, inflicting huge casualties on the Caytorean army—and indirectly, to the Movement. You are decimating the ranks of our very enemies. The Feorans are no longer so convinced in their supremacy. The campaign in the Territories is not progressing so well. There are rumors that Feor disapproves of the war, that he even favors you.”

  “That’s nonsense,” Adam snapped.

  “Definitely. But most people spend their entire lives wrapped in a bubble of nonsense. Regardless, you have given hope back to the Caytorean nobility. We thank you for it, and we wish to help you succeed.”

  “I wonder who the traitor would be. You, for helping an enemy, or me, for accepting that help.”

  Lord Erik touched his spectacles, pushing them higher up his nose. “Neither. We both act in the best interests of our realms. You are fighting an enemy and winning. You have restored the glory and pride back to the Eracian ranks. On the other hand, we have a secular champion who manages to do what we cannot.”

  Adam rolled his eyes as he considered this.

  Lord Erik continued, “When the fighting ends, the Eracians will find themselves a nation led by secular elements, reasonable and rational elements. You might bring about the first real attempts at peace between our realms.”

  “Why would this war be any different from those we’ve fought in the past?”

  Lord Erik cheered at the cue Adam provided. “Because back then, Eracia did not have a secular, rational leader.”

  Adam’s breath caught in his throat. “You are proposing that I betray the monarch.”

  “Not at all. You will be helping your monarch. Have you not noticed that there has been very little involvement from either the council in Eybalen or the monarch in Somar? That’s because our leaders are weak, terribly weak. They lack the charisma and the power to inspire people. And you have them both. You can change the course of history.”

  “You suggest that I dispose of the monarch?” Adam fumed.

  Lord Erik’s brows shot up. “No, no. I suggest that you destroy the Caytorean army. The nobility will support you. And when you win the war, they will be very grateful. You will have brought peace to our realms, but more importantly, you will bring about the new era of sanity to the world, a world ruled by people of reason and wit, a world without foolish notions of divinity.”

  Adam found himself nodding. A world without gods. It was such a splendid idea. But something was wrong.

  Lord Erik sensed it. “If you win this war, no one will be able to oppose you, not even the monarch. There will be a huge opposition to your campaign once you unleash it, but once they realize you’re winning, they’ll flock to your side like dearest sons.”

  The grandfather patted Rob’s head. The boy was listening raptly.

  “We will help you. We will channel weapons and information. Now, tell me. What was your next move? West, against the forces besieging the holy cities?”

  That was the plan. Mali had sket
ched it, and her officers agreed. “Yes.”

  Lord Erik shook his head in disapproval. “I think that would be a grave mistake. Leave the holy cities to burn. What do they mean to you anyway? If you attacked west, you would win a few easy victories against the Caytoreans, but you would not have secured the border. You will gain so much more if you invade Caytor and move against Roalas. It’s one of the largest cities in the west of Caytor. It is also one of the few cities we nobles no longer control. It’s a nest of Feoran infection. If you raze it, you will have dealt a colossal moral blow to the Movement and probably gained control of the entire region. The Feorans will be in panic.”

  Adam looked at Lord Erik’s men. They stood like servants, arms folded in front of them, eyes locked into infinity. The Eracians looked like a flock of sheep guarding wolves, on the brink of panic. The horizon twitched with the comings and goings of riders. Still, there was no sign of an ambush.

  “If I accept this, what then?”

  “We will give you money and weapons. If you attack Roalas, siege machines, too.” Lord Erik made a small gesture. Two of his men stopped being statues and approached the black carriage that stood behind the old man and his grandson, opened the door, and produced a heavy chest from within. Staggering under the weight, they hobbled up toward Adam and let the chest drop. It clinked. One of them unlocked it and flipped the top open. Pure gold smiled at Adam.

  “We will finance mercenaries for you, if you’d accept them. We intend to supply you with five thousand crossbows within two weeks. Our armories are bursting with weapons. We have the tools, but we lack users.”

  Adam’s head swam. A world without gods. It sounded like a mad dream.

  “You seem like a man without purpose in life. Most people without purpose are either very happy or very sad.” Lord Erik paused. “And you do not look happy. This is your chance to avenge yourself. This is your chance to strike out at the gods and the people who have given you nothing.”

  For just a split second, Adam considered ordering his men to fire. It would be so easy. On the other hand, dead men had nothing to lose.

  He opened his mouth and said, “I accept.”

  CHAPTER 26

  General-Patriarch Davar crushed the report in his fist, threw it on the ground, and stepped on it. Feor was always testing him.

  Adam the Butcher had surprised him again. Instead of moving west into the Territories, he had taken his forces into the heart of Caytor, away from the war. It seemed he had underestimated his opponent.

  He had deliberately stalled his advance against the heathens and fortified his positions in and around Talmath, expecting the Eracians to attack him. The entire operation had been in vain. The Eracians were marching into Caytor, against Roalas, one of the strongholds of the Movement.

  Davar could abandon the holy war and retreat, closing on the Eracians from behind. The enemy would be caught in a vise, between the battlefront veterans and the defenders in the homeland. Or he could move west, against Jaruka and other unholy cities in Talmath, leaving Caytor to fend for itself. This would severely cripple his rear, thinning his reinforcements and supplies.

  All evidence pointed in the direction of the first choice. But he knew this was not what his god wanted. Feor wanted him to destroy the Territories, to destroy the false gods.

  Still, deep inside, he itched to meet this Adam, burned with desire to defeat him in combat, personally. It was almost an obsession. He even dreamed of that godless bastard.

  Yet, he did not know what to make of Adam. He was extremely popular among the soldiers. But the rumors said the patriarchs viewed him as a menace of the worst kind, even worse than Feorans and this new war. While the Feorans sought to exterminate followers of other religions, they still believed in a deity. Adam professed godlessness, the gravest of sins. Despite his valiant stand against their enemies, the patriarchs still considered excommunicating him.

  If Adam were a Feoran, he would have been a great leader. But he was not, and therefore, his ungodly ideals had to die.

  At least the conquest of Talmath, Poereni, and Mista were done. The dens of evil in the eastern Territories had been purged, hundreds of temples and shrines burned and toppled, tens of thousands of false believers put to death. Feor was mightier than ever.

  His fives were consolidating, merging into a huge, invincible army south and west of Talmath, converging onto the blood-soaked plains of the central Territories. A huge garrison still remained in the city, prepared to check any flanking attack by the Eracians, but it seemed this would never come. Quite the opposite, the Eracians seemed intent on waiting for him, having set up a chain of forts in the Bakler Hills, all the way to the border.

  After he purged the Territories, there would be another war waiting for him. He would have to dislodge the Eracian infestation in the northeastern Territories, maybe even fight to reclaim some of Caytorean soil that could be lost due to the pesky invasion. But that could wait.

  Rumors of an ever-growing conflict had reached him, although he could not be sure if they were true. The Eracian monarch seemed to have started taking interest in and liking this war. If that were, indeed, the case, that was bad news. Davar did not favor another front, a direct conflict between the two realms. The Eracian Eastern Army would strike directly into northern Caytor, where the presence of the Movement was relatively small. Such an act would serve the purposes of the decadent and corrupt and ungodly nobility of Caytor, shift the odds in their favor and against the Feorans. They would blame the Movement for the war, turn the people against the one true religion. He could not let that happen.

  His Pum’be assassin would be really busy in the following months.

  All signs indicated that he should retreat and defeat the Eracians. But he knew what his god desired. He did not know why Feor had chosen him. Maybe it was his fervor, his commitment. Of all people, Feor had spoken to him.

  Twenty years ago, he had been afraid and skeptic. Now, he had no doubts or fear left. The path before him was clear.

  The sun was setting, lighting the patch of forest behind him on fire. The first signs of autumn were already visible. It was colder, it rained more often, and the trees were changing their colors. Days were getting shorter too. Soon, marches would become slower and more difficult. Storms would turn the roads to mud, making passage for carts and mules riskier.

  He had to conquer Jaruka within a month and begin the hunt for the false gods.

  Despite their crushing defeat in all the major cities, the people of the Territories still came against his forces, breaking their teeth against the stone-hard hide of the Feoran war machine. Sporadic encounters were reported daily, with small groups of fanatics and desperate Outsiders. These mosquito bites were annoying, but could do nothing to change the fate of the Territories. The false gods were doomed.

  For all their misplaced zeal, the people of the unholy land were pragmatic. Many Outsiders, mostly Caytoreans in their former lives, were flocking to his side, begging to join and convert. Davar commanded several large units of these criminals. They were very eager to prove their worth in combat. He called them the Reformed.

  A horn sounded. The lookouts warned of an unknown party approaching. The camp around Davar stirred to lazy alertness as bored soldiers abandoned dice, cards, and drinking. Last night, a special delivery of Feoran whores had arrived in the camp, to the great delight of his troops. Having been forbidden from keeping infidel female prisoners for their amusement, the soldiers had been extremely testy in the last few weeks. Davar had funneled that primal, bestial anger against Talmath.

  The former city of false gods was now a new, clean place. All relics of the old religions had been destroyed, stone by stone. No temple or shrine had been left standing. Just as it had died, Talmath was being born again, with new faith coursing through its veins. It would be a military city for some time, but eventually it would be a pilgrim site for Feorans, a monument of love and dedication to the one true god, a monument of victory.

 
; “Protect the general-patriarch,” one of his senior officers barked.

  Several bodyguards detached from the crowd of filthy furs and leathers and rushed forward to block the path toward Davar. A cloud of dust on the horizon slowly transformed into a single rider, galloping toward him. The guards briefly halted the man, then let him through.

  General-Patriarch Davar waited. Another messenger? He had not expected so many urgent dispatches. The army was well coordinated, most units in place.

  The young Feoran approached, bowed, and handed him a hide tube. Davar fished inside, producing a roll of waxed paper. He unfurled it and read. A hint of a smile twitched his lips. It was not a grimace of joy; it was acceptance of one’s fate.

  The report spoke of fifty thousand Parusites riding north. They had defeated the Caytorean garrison in Mista and taken the city. The southern Territories were lost to King Vlad the Fifth, the current incarnation of Parusite royalty.

  It was all a test.

  CHAPTER 27

  King Vlad rode in the front, surrounded by his nobles and his best bodyguards. Behind him, a thousand knights followed, a thunder of hooves. Ahead of him, half a mile away, several thousand Caytoreans were on the retreat, fleeing the battlefield.

  Mista had fallen in a matter of days, so great his brilliance as a war leader was. The battered enemy had abandoned the city and congregated near the border, hoping to escape the wrath of the ferocious enemy. But Vlad was not going to let them escape. He would not allow them to sit out the defeat and then scurry into Caytor.

  The trapped enemy was now inching toward the bridge that spanned over the Telore River, the natural border between the Territories and Caytor. Parusite troops were on both banks.

  The Caytoreans had nowhere else to go; the bridge was the only crossing point for many miles. Anticipating the cowardice of his foes, Vlad had sent a large contingent of his forces across the Telore, into Caytor. They now held the bridge, with hundreds of pikemen waiting for enemy flesh, with rows of archers and mangonels aligned in the rear. The neighboring Caytorean villages were charred ruins, smoke eddying from their split carcasses.