The Betrayed

by Igor Ljubuncic

  Ayrton felt they were not telling him everything, but he listened.

  “Some of those children became champions of great wisdom and strength. The gods used them to defeat unearthly evils that were hatched into the world, defeat the forces that human swords and axes could not destroy.

  “Other children became wizards and sorcerers and witches and used their skills to heal or render great fires and lightning. And some of those Special Children were gifted with insight into the rivers of time. They could unravel the everlasting thoughts of the gods and see into the future. They became prophets.

  “But the human mind cannot cope with such enormity without consequences. Most prophets lost their human identity, becoming deranged souls. For most people, prophets are just hopeless madmen. On the other hand, whenever we hear a tale of a lost soul, we make sure it is brought here so it can serve the gods.”

  Ayrton felt cold comprehension dawning. “That girl is a prophet?” A ragged doll, playing in a pool of its own feces?

  “She foretold your arrival,” one of them said.

  Ayrton shook his head. The world’s hope hinged on a crazy child and a former mass murderer. He wanted to close his eyes and sleep, never waking up.

  “She is a Special Child, have no doubt. Sometimes, the gift can skip entire generations, roll down a lineage for centuries, before sparking true and strong when least expected, but most needed.”

  The Outsider rubbed his temples. His head was beginning to ache. The stink in the room was oppressive.

  “After the great war, the gods were weak. They could no longer work miracles like they had before. The world that survived the war was no longer the humble, peaceful creation of theirs. The human soul had become corrupt, foul with greed and treachery. Belief was very weak. Appalled, shocked, exhausted, the gods retreated to their city and erected barriers to keep men from ever entering. They would only ever talk to their Special Children and pure souls, disdaining the rest of mankind.”

  Ayrton listened, his blood curdled to ice. How could anyone be a believer after hearing all these tales? How could one face the crowds and lie so blatantly? Where were the kind, compassionate deities he heard of in prayers?

  “But not all was lost. Some good humans would not let the world deteriorate to an obscenity. They established the houses of the gods and built temples all over the world, spreading faith by fire and sword. They purged the wicked and unfaithful.”

  Ayrton reeled. He had vaguely known the tales of nomadic wars and great purges.

  “And then, they marked the Territories, a pure land in honor of the gods, where people could find respite from the sins of the world. And they became the patriarchs and matriarchs of the nations, the pillars of morality for all to worship.”

  Alda filled his vision. “One day, the gods will forgive us and return to us. One day, the world will be hale again, whole and pure. There will be no more wars, no more poverty, no more jealousy. We wait for that day.

  “We must build more temples, make people believe. Only through the strength of faith will the gods be strong again. But now, everything is at stake. Everything. The gods are too weak to fight themselves. We must fight for them. But we cannot win the battle. Our only hope is to save our creators so we can begin again somewhere else.”

  Ayrton had never wanted to commit suicide so readily.

  “My goddess no longer speaks to me. She’s too weak. The barriers are crumbling. You must go to the city and warn the gods, rouse them, and take them away, far from destruction and death. If the barrier falls, every evil soul will be able to enter the city. If that happens, all will forever be lost.”

  “It is up to you,” someone else said, “you and the Special Children. We have saved the world in our time. Now, it’s your turn.”

  “Why can’t you do it yourself? Go to the city? You have lived lives far more…pure than mine.”

  One of them shook his head. “We have very little time, so we cannot tell you everything. But our souls are not pure. After the war, the gods decreed their Special Children a curse and had them executed.”

  “But just like the gods in the ancient times,” another voice added, “we had no choice. We disobeyed. We harbor those that they deem cursed. Our souls are tainted.”

  “My soul is not pure,” Ayrton croaked.

  “It is, son. It is. We know you harbor dark secrets in your heart, and they can never be erased. But you have given up those ways, given up the old sins and become a new man. You have saved thousands of people from death in Talmath. Surely that matches up somehow to your past sins?”

  “If my soul is not pure enough, I will die,” he said.

  “No, you will not. You must have faith.”

  “The goddess Selena showed me. I was doubtful at first, afraid and hesitant. But then you did all those things. And I knew it was you.”

  “Showed you what?” Ayrton asked, confused.

  “Purity. A pure soul. There are very few of them left in this world. Very few.”

  A pair of sinewy, frantic arms gripped him. “There are many people who have come to the Territories, repenting for their evils. But they are all peddlers. They do not really believe. There is always a trace of doubt left in their souls. They would rather go back to sin than die for justice. But you are pure. You have the courage. You are a leader.”

  “You are our only hope,” someone repeated.

  Ayrton nodded, disoriented. The ghosts of his past danced around him, cackling. He would never go back. Never. That man was gone.

  He shook his head. Am I what they say, or just another convenient scapegoat? They have lied and manipulated before. What’s so different now?

  He wanted to believe them, wanted to think his life had not been one useless tragedy. But then he remembered Ewan. He had had very little time to think about his friend, a student, a would-be son. Ewan deserved a better world. With heart-racking ache, he wondered where Ewan could be. Another nameless corpse littering the fields of the Territories? It was unthinkable.

  Ayrton stared at the crazy girl. She was oblivious to the crowd around her, her head bobbing slightly in rhythm with her gurgling.

  He did not understand so many details. Things just did not fit. They were lying to him, he was sure, manipulating him. He did believe them on one account; the gods were weak, and they could not save them.

  All hopes now hung on what people thought were divinations, where they could be nothing more than dreams and hopes of desperate men. It was ridiculous that the gods and goddesses lived not far from this city, in some enchanted little place, begrudging the world like a wicked toy gone bad.

  It had to be real. It had to be true.

  “Where is the City of Gods?” he asked.

  They handed him a map.

  CHAPTER 32

  Ewan took a deep breath and started across the street. Halfway to the mark, he hesitated, halted, faltered, turned around, and walked back.

  He came to this place almost every day, sitting on the steps of a derelict, abandoned temple, staring at the little establishment across the narrow road. People and animals buzzed before him, a stream of colors. He waited, munching on a slice of pork pie.

  It must have been coincidence that he’d met Vicky.

  Shortly after arriving in Eybalen, he had decided to make a fool of himself and had gone to one of the seafaring captains after all, inquiring about the price of a passage to the lands east of Caytor. The impatient man had waved him away, telling him he had no time for stupid pranks.

  Smartened by the experience, he’d gone to another shipmaster the day after, offering to work on the deck in exchange for transport. This time, he had not been shrugged off instantly, but he had had no luck either. Appraised like a horse for sale, Ewan had been turned down for being too scrawny, too delicate for the rough lifestyle on a ship.

  Several more shipmasters turned him down, pretty much consistent with their arguments. He lacked the sinew they needed in deck boys. One of them had offered him to serv
e as the plaything for the veteran seamen. Ewan remembered to stay away from the skipper of the Little Wavebreaker.

  After learning the only inhabited land east of Caytor was called Sirtai, he had begun visiting the docks again, trying to secure a passage. But the prices were far too high, much more than the small and dwindling hoard he possessed. And whenever he had offered to work the rest of the price, they had turned him down. They left him with no choice.

  The nagging in his marrow would not leave him. There was something beyond the waves calling to him. He did not understand what it was, no more than he understood the strange ailment that had possessed him. Ewan had no doubt the two were related, that the answer to his questions was out there.

  He wasted little time wallowing in self-pity and remorse. When his bouts of fever racked him, his resolve weakened, and sometimes he would cry, mostly because he was alone. He longed for Ayrton, longed for human company.

  It was the loneliness that had brought him to the footsteps of this place. That, and his curiosity.

  Until he saved enough gold for the voyage, he was forced to stay in Eybalen. Fortunately, the dockworkers were glad to offer him a job. He was apprenticed to a group of laborers,who earned their living breaking their backs with sacks of goods loaded on and off the ships. They were a hard and dour lot, spoke very little, and never joked, but they did not molest or harangue. He shared the load as best he could, and that was enough for them.

  Very soon he had learned that he would spend ages hauling cargo before he saved enough for the journey. It felt as if he were doomed to spend his life in Eybalen. But it did not sound right. There must be something more.

  At night, before sleep, he prayed to Lar. But his god never gave him answers, only left him teary-eyed with empty, hollow questions. Whatever fate Lar had in store for him, he kept it to himself like a bitter old man.

  The first days had been torture. His frame was not used to lifting such enormous weights. He was weakened by the long travel to Eybalen, losing what little muscle he had had on his bones. But even when his palms bled and his ribs creaked, he did not complain, fighting the jute sacks with the ferocity of a badger.

  The silent, morose dockworkers would say nothing, and they never helped him. But they shared their meals with him. The taste of raw clam had repulsed him at first, almost making him gag. Soon, he had grown to appreciate the abundance of strength they gave a man during the long, grueling day. Within only a few weeks, he had grown back the old muscle. He could feel he was getting stronger, filling up with stubborn cord.

  One stormy day, with the harbor businesses banked to a low fire, he’d met Vicky.

  Girls of all ages came to the harbor often, hawking their bodies to hungry sailors. On the rainy days when ships failed to make port and dockworkers scurried into warehouses to gamble, drink, and snore, they poured out of their brothels, preying on idle men.

  The first time he’d seen her, his breath had died on his lips.

  She was a gentle, fragile thing, thin and frail, and it pierced his heart to see burly, hairy brutes take her away. Vicky was not very beautiful or well-built, like some other women, but she had some sad quality about her that made his soul ache.

  His loneliness had brought him to her. Sarith had faded to the back of his memory, the experiences of the big city washing parts of his innocence away. Still, he could not ignore the pang of guilt that burned in his gut when he had approached her, his heart hammering.

  He would pay her the coppers she took for an hour with the customers and take her to the old wharves, away from the tumult of the harbor. There, amidst the skeletons of ruined fishermen’s boats and hills of torn netting, they would sit and talk, just talk.

  At night, in his musty little rented room, he would pleasure himself. He no longer begged forgiveness from Lar for his weakness. He no longer thought of Sarith. It was Vicky who floated before the eye of his mind.

  And now, he wanted something else.

  Ewan was not sure if what he intended to do was wrong. He wished Ayrton was by his side to tell him. But he wanted her, desired her. His urges were strong, almost crippling him when he gave them too much thought.

  He believed he loved her. He was not really sure, never having experienced love before. The money in his callused palm felt like a sin, though. But she depended on that coin to live. She had nothing else in her life. If he paid her, it did not mean he didn’t love her, did it?

  He started across the street again. Wicked Filly, the place was called. A score or so of girls worked inside, servicing the entire south quarter of the harbor.

  The burly man called Anton barred his way. One of his huge, tattooed arms came to rest on Ewan’s chest. “Where to, young man?”

  “I want to…see Vicky.”

  Anton grunted. “Don’t you all? Where’s your coin?”

  Feeling ashamed, but unable to stop himself, Ewan showed the fistful of coppers. Anton let him in.

  The Wicked Filly was a clammy, airless place. It was unnaturally hot inside. Seminaked people moved about, followed by Vicky’s friends. Another large man sat by the door, watching the customers with the eye of a bored lion. Ewan felt his heart thud.

  “Welcome, sailor,” an older woman greeted him. Her gentle hands guided him deeper into the cauldron of sweat. Small, steep stairways spiraled upward, toward the rooms.

  Ewan took a deep breath. “I want to see Vicky.”

  The woman smiled; she missed quite a few teeth. “Vicky is busy. Maybe another one, hm?”

  Ewan watched a huge wave crash into his sandcastle of hopes, leaving behind a mangled pile of mud. “No, I’ll be going.” Fire lanced up his loins, jeering him, Stay, stay, stay.

  “No reason to be so desolate. There are so many pretty girls for you. Maya! Don’t fret. You will enjoy her. You have earned it.”

  Like a man in a trance, he felt his palm open and spill the coins into the matron’s palm. They vanished from sight. Ewan began to sweat. He did not want to…He wanted Vicky.

  Maya came and laid a soft, cool hand on his nape, stroking the ends of his wild hair. He felt fire course down his back. He felt something old, primal, manly awake inside of him. He swallowed hard, the sides of his jaws tingling strangely. Blood pumped in his neck.

  Maya led him upstairs. She was a petite thing, with tiny breasts but a large rump, her hair dyed a dark hue of yellow. As they clambered, she held his hand, almost afraid he would run away, turning and smiling at him encouragingly.

  Ewan felt dizzy. What am I doing here? But he watched, unable to turn away his eyes, just like men relished the sight of a corpse. It appalled him, yet it fascinated him. There was something ethereal about it.

  Maya closed the door behind him and latched it. She waited for him. “Your first time?”

  He nodded like a stupid man.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.” She removed her flimsy, slightly filthy gown.

  Ewan watched her undress him. His member stood up, stiff and swollen, pulsing with the onrush of blood. Vicky, he thought. I don’t want this.

  Maya grinned. “It will be all right.”

  She pushed him onto the bed and climbed on top of him, straddling him. He closed his eyes and envisioned Vicky. Several gooey moments passed, the intensity of detail burning into his scalp. Then, he felt a watery rage build inside of him. His muscles tightened.

  Forgive me, Lar, an echo of a thought exploded in the back of his mind as color fled his world and he reeled in sensationless ecstasy, a bittersweet agony coursing through every inch of his being. He wanted it to continue forever.

  Finally, he managed to breathe, swallow tacky, unclean air. He opened his eyes. He lay, staring at the ceiling, his body weak and soft like dough.

  Gently, he arched his neck. Maya was up, wiping the milky substance on her thighs with the hem of her gown. “That was quick, but you were good,” she said.

  Ewan watched her without comprehension. “Good?”

  She nodded. “You still
have plenty of time left. Fancy another?”

  The coarse bliss melted away. He felt cold. He stumbled up, dressing. “I’m going.”

  Maya squared her shoulders. “You’re welcome anytime, honey.”

  Ewan fled the Filly, ashamed.

  He met Vicky three days later. Her expression was unreadable. They sat, sharing some of his clam chowder lunch. Dead boats watched them.

  “Maya told me you came to the Filly a few days ago.”

  Ewan froze. “Yes,” he admitted after a few moments.

  “Did you enjoy it?” she asked, her voice low.

  “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “It was strange. I don’t know.”

  Vicky spoke as she chewed. “First times often are. But you will like it more the next time.”

  He nodded.

  “You shouldn’t have left so early, though. Erika was angry with her. She thought you weren’t satisfied with the service.”

  Ewan frowned. “Who’s Erika?”

  “Our matron.”

  “I wanted to see you, but you were busy with another customer,” he said, careful to keep the string of pain from his tone.

  She said nothing.

  “I think I love you,” he blurted.

  Vicky turned to face him. Her face was young. She wasn’t much older than himself. But her eyes gleamed with sad wisdom beyond her age. “Foolish boy, how old are you?”

  Ewan squirmed. “Sixteen,” he lied.

  “I’m twenty-three next month, and I have seen a hundred men break their hearts pledging love to one they could never have.”

  His eyes moistened without his volition. “No, this is different.”

  Vicky stroked his check. “Loneliness is not love. This is not love. It’s not.”

  Ewan shook his head stubbornly. “No. I know what I feel. No one can deny me that.”

  The whore lifted his chin so he stared into her eyes. “I have nothing to give you, Ewan. My life belongs to the Wicked Filly. That’s where I belong; that’s who I am.” She paused. “You will find the one who will love and cherish you, a decent girl. You are an honest person, Ewan. You deserve better.”