The Betrayed

by Igor Ljubuncic

  Armin looked behind him. “Juval, you’re dismissed for the moment. Do return in about an hour.”

  The commander of his guard was obviously displeased. “Sir, it’s dangerous. The area—”

  “I believe I’ll be fine,” Armin insisted, his voice turning stern. “Go now.” After the four guards retreated, reluctantly, Armin spoke again. “The council does not like me snooping around. They are supposed to protect me, but I’m sure they have quite good hearing.”

  Horace grunted in agreement. “Bloodsuckers.”

  “I must admit I have tried securing a passage on board one of the guild vessels, but they did not seem pleased with my idea. I cannot blame them, though. They must be afraid.”

  Horace sat on a crate and pointed at another. Armin creased his forehead in silent thanks and thumped down. Old dried bits of crab caught in the wicker scratched at his legs through the robe.

  “What’s that you told them that got them scared?”

  “A ship to take me to Ichebor and back to Eybalen, myself as the only passenger. No one else. Half the money now, half upon return. I don’t care if you take cargo as well, as long as it floats to Ichebor as well.”

  There was a silence from the captain and his crew. They stood staring at him, with the hard eyes of people who had spent most of their days glaring into the offing, with merciless sunlight blasting their faces.

  “Ichebor? The Broken Islands?” Horace said.

  Armin nodded. “Yes.”

  Horace scratched his neck with a loud noise of nails clicking over wiry hair. “How much?”

  The investigator pretended to consider. “I can give you a thousand gold marks.”

  Someone whistled. His comrades silenced him quickly. Horace kept his face straight, despite the distraction. He tried to appear disinterested. Armin knew that Tenacious itself was worth far, far less.

  “When do you wish to depart?” the captain asked.

  “As soon as possible. Tomorrow, if your crew can be ready by then.”

  Horace grimaced. “A fortnight to the islands, a fortnight back. How long do you need to stay on the island?”

  Armin had no idea. “A week or so. But I’ll pay another hundred marks for every extra week.”

  Horace rubbed his chin. “Won’t be easy. We’ll be hitting winter gales on our way there and back. The weather is always bad around the islands. And then the waters are treacherous. The lanes around the islands are not very thoroughly charted.”

  “I have the maps. You’ll just need to find the one island I’m looking for.”

  The captain seemed impressed with Armin’s knowledge. “That makes things a bit better. Still, it won’t be easy.”

  Armin slanted his head. “If it were easy, I would not have heard so many refusals, I think. But if you are a man of courage and skill, and you wish to earn five years’ worth of sailing in one month, then you should accept my offer.”

  Horace watched Armin carefully, weighing him. He turned to his men. “That foreigner’s got a tooth for bargaining, eh? Fine, I accept.” He extended a big hand. This time, Armin did not hesitate with the barbaric custom.

  Ewan paused in his work and listened. Someone was talking to Horace, trying to buy himself passage toward some unknown land. But it was not Sirtai. This made his heart beat faster.

  Unsure whether it was chance or luck or a strange twist of fate that had led him to the Tenacious that morning, he let go off his bale of herbs and walked closer to see and hear what the man wanted.

  The potential passenger was a strange-looking fellow with no hair on his face, not even eyebrows, which made him look alien and perplexed. He was too dark, even for most sailors. The flowing robes he wore marked him as one of those adulterous Sirtai; his friends had told him all about the islanders.

  Horace seemed hesitant to take the man’s offer. The crew stared, torn between avarice and fear.

  “Ichebor,” Ewan heard the word. Something stirred inside him, some wild instinct in the depth of his soul.

  The two men shook hands. The smugglers visibly relaxed.

  “We’ll be ready to sail with the tide tomorrow. Don’t be late,” Horace told the foreigner.

  “There are fifty gold marks in the pouch,” the Sirtai said, handing a purse over. “Call it an advance payment. I will bring the rest tomorrow. As to being late, I do believe you will find it prudent to wait for me.”

  Horace guffawed coarsely, amused by the man’s sharp remark. Like all sailors, the smuggler captain was a harsh man with a harsh sense of humor.

  “Another fifty marks,” the foreigner said, throwing Horace off-balance, “to make sure nothing makes me miss the voyage.”

  The sailors stiffened once again. For such a huge amount of money, they would kill everyone in the docks to keep their valuable passenger unscathed.

  The Sirtai retreated. Four men detached from the boredom of their waiting a hundred paces away and joined him.

  Ewan waited for a moment before he started to run.

  “Caution, sir, someone approaching,” Juval said. He did not draw his short sword, but he put his hand on the hilt. A boy was running toward them.

  “Halt right there, lad,” Juval warned.

  “Please, sir, may I talk to you?” the boy asked, panting.

  Armin frowned. “Are you one of Squiggle’s lads?” he asked.

  “What? Who?” The boy seemed confused. “Please, sir, hear me out.” He stepped closer.

  “Back off, lad,” Juval warned.

  Armin saw the boy regard his bodyguard with apathy. His eyes fell on the sword. There was no fear in them, only mild resignation. The investigator found this most intriguing. Most low-born people feared their superiors, even more so their armed guards. They had too often, and sometimes quite wrongfully, tasted the sharp end of a sword.

  Not this boy. For all his ragged looks, he did not look like someone who had grown shadowed by violence and cruelty. His eyes saw no danger in the gleaming length of steel. It was a very unusual reaction for a long-limbed, wild dockworker.

  “What is it, boy?” Armin asked, raising a hand to keep Juval in check.

  The boy let loose an enormous sigh. “Thank you, sir. My name is Ewan. I need to travel across the sea, but I do not have any money to buy myself passage on board one of the ships. I have noticed you need to travel east, but not to Sirtai. I was wondering if I may join you, sir?”

  “Smack him on the head, sir?” Juval pleaded, enraged by Ewan’s audacity.

  Armin looked at his bodyguard sideways, silencing him with a harsh stare. “You need to travel east?”

  Ewan sighed. “Yes, sir. I don’t know quite where, but I can feel it.”

  The analyst squatting inside Armin’s head clapped with excitement. “You don’t know where, then. Can you show me where you feel you need to go?”

  Ewan pointed toward the leaden-colored horizon, hidden in the mist veiling the city. North and east. Armin could have sworn the boy’s finger pointed straight toward Ichebor.

  “How old are you?” Armin demanded.

  Ewan swallowed, and this time, he did not lie about his age. “Fifteen.”

  Armin nodded. “And have you always worked at the docks here?”

  Ewan squirmed, contemplating an answer. He decided to stick with the truth, at least bits of it. “Hardly, sir. I have been in the city only for a few weeks. I started working at the docks hoping to earn enough money for the fare, but it will take me ages. I…I must go east. As soon as possible.”

  “Northeast,” Armin corrected him. “What you’re telling me is very interesting, Ewan.”

  “I know it sounds strange, but—”

  “No, it doesn’t sound strange.” Armin cut him off. “Your story is fascinating.”

  Ewan looked at him expectantly. The boy had intelligent eyes. It was obvious he had seen and heard quite a lot of things in his young life. Despite the grime of grueling labor, Ewan had delicate, scholarly features and a matching physique. He did not
look like a typical gutter rat.

  Memories coiled in Armin’s head like snakes, stirring, hissing. Things he had read in the chronicles about the gods and their Special Children burned raw and bright before him. In the hour of need, they would present themselves, driven by the blood of their forefathers…

  “So, you would like me to pay for your passage, too. What would you give me in return?”

  Ewan squirmed. He opened his mouth, unsure what to say.

  Armin lifted a finger, stalling him. “How about…you tell me the whole truth about yourself? And afterwards, if I need anything else, you will become my assistant. You’ll help me if I need anything during the voyage. Reasonable things, of course.”

  The boy hesitated. He did not wish to divulge his secrets, just as Armin had expected.

  “You can tell me on the ship, while we sail for Ichebor,” Armin said, relenting. A real investigator would not destroy evidence over pride.

  Ewan grinned like a fool. “Thank you very much, sir. I don’t know what to say.”

  Armin stepped closer, staring the boy in the eyes. “Be on time tomorrow. If I catch you lying, stealing, or doing anything of that sort, you’ll be swimming back to Eybalen. Do you understand me?”

  Ewan nodded.

  Armin stood, watching Ewan scamper away. Some dark load that had weighted his soul had been lifted. Juval glared after the departing boy, daring him to turn back. The investigator touched the bodyguard on the shoulder, breaking his childish reverie.

  “Focus on the docks. Everyone has seen me dig purses full of gold from my pockets. They might decide to take my robe and search for more. Let’s make sure nothing bad happens.”

  Taking the suggestion like a battle order, the four men spread about Armin, flanking him, short knives drawn.

  Shadowing them were dozens of sailors, Horace’s men all, watching their new, precious passenger with all the care of the dearest parents in the world.

  CHAPTER 39

  Davar sat in his tent, naked. Three children sat on small stools several paces away from him.

  “Come on, the first one to touch my knee gets a roast chicken leg,” he said.

  Behind him, a table stood, loaded with platters of meat, bowls of fruit and sweets, and pitchers of drinks. The children had not eaten a whole day, which only made the game all the more interesting.

  Davar waved the chicken leg tantalizingly. The three children watched the food with half-sad, half-glad eyes, their limbs twitching with fear and hunger.

  A pair of Davar’s trusted soldiers stood nearby to make sure the boy and the two girls did not try to escape. The boy stood up. Davar could feel his heart quicken.

  “That’s right, very good, boy. Come here.”

  Just then, blackness erupted before his eyes. His vision fled, replaced by a void so dark, it sucked at his soul through the eye sockets. Gasping for air, senseless, paralyzed, Davar stumbled forward, flailing on the floor, thrashing like a fish. The children screamed, scrambling away.

  One of the bodyguards rushed to help their commander. The general-patriarch’s arm rose and, despite the blindness, uncannily grabbed him by the throat and flung him away.

  “Leave me,” he rasped.

  Soon, the tent was empty.

  Davar found himself kneeling, weeping, his eyes shut, nails of pure darkness riveted into them, boring into the depths of his skull.

  “My god,” he whimpered with adoration and panic.

  A presence coalesced from the pitch clogging his brain, becoming a solid form of dark grays, just a hint of hues lighter than the infinite blackness surrounding it. “My god,” Davar repeated, weeping with ecstasy and terror, “you have come back to me.”

  “I see you have much free time on your hands.” A hollow voice without sound exploded in his brain.

  “Innocent meditation, my god,” Davar pleaded.

  “You will have time for your little games later, after your mission is finished,” the voice chided.

  Davar sobbed, his mouth working wordlessly. “I’m sorry, my god,” he wailed faintly.

  “You are forgiven. But your task is far from finished. The City of Gods still stands. The guards are still in place. Tell me of your progress.”

  The general-patriarch laughed hysterically. “We took Jaruka a few days ago, my god. The patriarchs gave us a fierce fight. We lost almost ten thousand souls in the attack, but we overwhelmed the defenders.”

  “Your losses are of no consequence.”

  Davar nodded. “Of course, my god, of course. Jaruka is ours now. We have slain all of the Outsiders and several thousand pilgrims. My forces are currently hunting the stragglers all around the city.”

  “You must destroy every temple and every shrine. You must kill every clergyman and clergywoman. After that, you must put to death every soul in Jaruka. No one must live. The city must be erased from the maps of humanity.”

  “We are doing the best we can. But they are so many, my god. My men work in three shifts, slaughtering them.”

  “You should not complain, Davar. You are doing your god’s bidden work. You should be glad.”

  Davar whimpered. “Yes, my god. I am happy. I am glad.”

  “After you have killed everyone in Jaruka, the defenses around the City of Gods should fail, and you’ll be able to pass through. It is essential that you do not linger. You must complete the conquest of Jaruka as quickly as possible.”

  Davar wept. “Anything you say, my god.”

  “Bring me the heads of the false gods,” Feor said, fading away.

  Davar collapsed. Light blasted into his eyes once again, temporarily blinding him. Slowly, he regained his senses. He was lying on the ground, wallowing in his spit and blood. A hot trickle oozed from his nose and from a bitten-through lower lip.

  Groaning, he tottered up, dizzy, nauseated, weak. He walked to the table, reaching for a goblet of wine, and drank generously. Fire spread through his belly, warming him up and strengthening him.

  He exited the tent, fully dressed and recovered. His bodyguards waited, holding leashes that connected to the scrawny necks of the three children.

  “General-Patriarch, do you wish to resume your game?” one of them asked.

  Davar shook his head. “No, we don’t have time. Put the kids back in the cages and give them something to eat.”

  “Can we use this one for a little sport, me and my men?” the same man asked, pointing at a girl, the one Davar had found in Talmath. Something akin to jealousy bloomed in Davar’s throat.

  “She’s mine,” he stated coldly. Still, he could not blame them. He’d forbidden coitus with infidel women. The very least he could do was offer them the captured children. But if he could not have his fun, then no one else could. “We have work to do. Pleasure comes second. Lock them up, and join me in the city.”

  With great reluctance and a coil of pent-up energy in his belly, Davar walked toward Jaruka. Soldiers automatically fell behind him, forming a sort of a ceremonial procession.

  Although his game had been spoiled, Davar felt buoyant. His god had spoken to him again. For a time, he had been worried, thinking he might have fallen out of Feor’s favor. But now, his faith had been rejuvenated, reinforced. He was doing Feor’s holy work.

  The first time Feor had spoken to him, Davar had cowered in his own feces, crying incoherently like a baby, too terrified to trust his eyes and ears. The encounter with divinity was a terrible ordeal. Many lesser men would have gone mad.

  But he was strong, of body and will, and he had slowly recovered. Feor was a gentle, forgiving god. He had not begrudged Davar for being so frightened the first time. He had let him grow into the acceptance of truth.

  For days without end, Feor would come to him, telling him of his great plans, of his divine vision. Davar had not believed his great fortune, the sheer magnitude of trust and respect of being honored by a god to become his champion.

  Guided by Feor’s all-knowing hand, he had abandoned his former life and be
come the founder of the Movement, a trifle sect of derided fools who had become the major force of faith in the realms, the hammer that beat the anvil of destiny for all the people of the known lands. Within just two short decades, he had seen Feor’s might take hold of the world. Only a true god could have accomplished something so grand, so impossible.

  Recently, Feor’s visits had decreased, becoming seldom, irregular. His god would only come to him once in a while to make sure he did not deviate from his mission, to march west and destroy the City of Gods. But in the moments of loneliness that stretched for hours and days without end, Davar would go to sleep weeping, feeling abandoned by his god’s love, feeling he had somehow failed Feor, had done something sinister and horrible that would make his god forsake him.

  And every time, his god would come back to light his world with hope and joy and reinstate eroded confidence.

  All around him, his soldiers were busy killing the people of Jaruka in every which way possible. They had them stretched on racks; they had them in pillories, raped and burned and hacked to pieces. Groups of men congregated about their victims, exercising their sadism and inventiveness.

  It was taking too much time.

  “Summon Faithful Ainsley,” he ordered.

  The leader of one of his legions soon showed up, his furs matted in blood. “Yes, General-Patriarch?”

  Davar made a dour face. “These inane killings must stop.”

  Faithful Ainsley frowned in confusion. “My lord? We must kill the infidels.”

  “Definitely, we must kill them. But not like this. It’s taking too much time. We must make haste. Feor has tasked us with an important mission, and there’s no time to lose. See that all men stop playing with the captives and begin executing them quickly and efficiently.”

  The subordinate seemed disappointed. “As you order, sir.”

  Davar scratched his head. He had to think of a simple, orderly way to kill tens of thousands of people. Something that would take only a few hours rather than days or weeks.

  The war was almost over. Most of the Territories were under Feoran control. Davar had to admit his forces were stretched a bit thin and most of the land they had occupied lay deserted, with not enough troops to man every village. But all that mattered little, paled by comparison with the great goal ahead: the City of Gods, the den of all evil and corruption.