Ewan nodded heavily. He wanted to believe his friend, but he knew Ayrton did not believe his own words either. And there was a lump building up in the pit of his stomach, one of anger, a rare feeling that he had felt only a few times before. The quivering hypersensation of tension that slowly imbued him was almost toxic.
“Don’t do anything foolish,” Ayrton said and squeezed him. He had strong arms. Ewan deflated a little.
Ayrton mounted. He waved once, a short, spartan gesture, and wheeled off to join a growing assembly of men at the outskirts of the village. Flowing from several directions, like the fingers of a great river, the riders coalesced into a solid company. They milled about for a few moments and then rode off, leaving a cloud of dust behind him.
The village square soon emptied. Ewan stood and stared.
CHAPTER 3
General-Patriarch Davar stood on a little knoll and watched his army converge in the valley below, readying for the night. With the combined forces of Astar and Stabir, he had close to eighty thousand swords under his command. Plus, word was getting out. Knots of mercenaries and scavengers were trickling in, hoping for their share of the spoils.
Davar was very pleased. Only twenty years ago, he had been a fledgling priest of a young new religion being born in the world. Today, he was the leader of the rising, growing Movement of Feor and a commander of vast armies. And the world was yet to witness his true power.
The Movement had burgeoned and spread like fire among the Caytoreans. The Ways of Feor were very simple, and they appealed to the minds of the common people. Feor was a very obliging god. He only asked for devotion. Nothing more.
Feor was much liked by soldiers. He was their kind of god. He let them kill and rape and did not begrudge them for that. The old gods were cruel and demanding. And they imposed difficult moral rules on mankind. Feor only ever asked for people to worship him.
In the beginning, the disciples of the new faith had been scorned by priests of other deities. But as the Movement grew and attracted throngs of followers, the resistance to the Ways became a real menace. The Feorans became hunted like animals. The old priests mustered mobs that would attack Feor’s people and burn his shrines. But the Movement was unstoppable.
Within just a few years, the tide turned. Resentment and fury blistered among the common populace, the army chief amongst them. Soon, angry mobs found themselves facing real soldiers with steel weapons. The hunters became hunted.
A generation ago, no soldier would have sworn by Feor. Within five years from the Awakening, one in five had become a Child of the Ways. Today, most, if not all, of the army followed Feor.
There were rumors that the Movement was grabbing foothold in neighboring realms. Feor’s messengers walked the roads, unafraid, spreading the word of the new, merciful god who let men live true to their true nature.
In the Safe Territories, Feor was a sacrilege. He had no shrines or followers in the Land of the old gods. But it was about to change. There was no denying the truth.
A month ago, General-Patriarch Davar had summoned his garrison at Astar and issued a summons for a holy war. Less than a week later, they had marched out of the barracks, heading for the Territories. Other garrisons had joined in, a total of nine, spread all across the border. More than twenty thousand men had crossed into the Territories, bent on purging the old evils from the world.
As expected, the Eracians had responded with a mobilization of their own. Standing regiments at Spoith, Decar, Tamoy, and other outposts had left the safety and comfort of their stone keeps and moved to meet the Caytorean forces.
So far, the two nations had resorted to passive encounters, letting their scouts prowl the outskirts of each other’s camps. But there was no denying the blood-quickening anticipation of an all-out war sizzling in the air. The general-patriarch could not have been more pleased.
Still, he was moving cautiously. His right flank was undermanned, and he did not intend to let the Eracians gain the upper hand in the first major clash in a generation. So he bided his time, waiting for reinforcement from inland.
The public outcry among the Caytoreans had been relatively small, but Davar wasn’t one to be taking chances. He had ordered most of the city garrisons to remain put, making sure the merchants and nobles, the less fervent followers of the Ways, were not tempted to rebel against him.
Meanwhile, his armies had advanced only a few miles into the Territories, burning a few villages. Davar was waiting for his longtime enemies before he made any serious moves. He bet the Eracians would cross the border into the holy land before the month’s end. And then, he could really strike out.
The first big city of the priests was just five leagues away. Talmath was one of the pilgrim cities where people paid homage to their old, false gods. It was a big, ripe plum, ready for plucking, rich in spoils never touched by war. While most of Eracia and Caytor bore old scars of countless skirmishes, the Territories were as pure and sweet as a baby lamb.
The prospect of plunder made his soldiers salivate. But Davar only cared for the holy places. They had to be ruined. The false gods had to be destroyed.
He was not sure what kind of opposition the patriarchs would put up. Although they professed lies about peace and compassion, they secretly trained armies that were ready to march and crush any opposition to their brutal monopoly. The Feorans had felt their evil, ferocious bite. But they had survived.
Davar also took note of the common people, not just the clergy. Many former criminals had found refuge in the Territories, shedding their sins and former identities in return for a few more years of life in peace. But Davar was unconvinced. Animals were animals, and no gilded cage could change that. Feor knew that and accepted it. And that was the simple reason why people loved him. He was the Truth.
The longing for destruction was in the hearts of men. Denying one’s nature was denying one’s existence. The rapists and murderers all over the Territories could fool no one but themselves. They simply waited, waited to be liberated of their self-imposed imprisonment.
Davar wondered whose side they would take.
But if the patriarchs managed to conscript even a tenth of their number, his armies would have to face quite a large force. Then again, he had never promised anyone an easy or a bloodless war.
Most of the Territories would be easy prey, though. Most of the people in the Territories would never lift a finger to save their hides, even as they got slaughtered. But one could only hope.
The sun would set in about an hour. Most of the troops had arrived in the camp. Latecomers consisted mostly of long, lumbering supply convoys.
The General urged his horse off the knoll, following a winding, dusty trail back to the valley.
Commander Mali did not care for formalities. She ushered the scout into her tent and let him drink from her own flagon. The man did not look particularly exhausted, but he did seem parched; it was very hot outside.
“Where do you hail from?” she asked him as he slowly recovered.
“Near Bakler Hills, sir,” the scout reported.
She had long ago established that her inferiors should use “sir” when addressing her. It had been one of her little battles at neutering her rank and authority and making the soldiers accept her as just another officer—not one with tits.
“The enemy has moved about ten miles into the Territories. They burned a few villages and such, nothing significant. But people are afraid and fleeing toward the cities. The patriarchs are trying to assemble troops.”
Mali looked at a map, marking the Bakler Hills in her memory. “How many?”
“Well, I heard ten garrisons or so, sir. Copper Astar on the west flank, but many others further east. I have seen two camps, must be like two or three days old. They send foraging parties and such, and they raid villages for women, but they have made no major moves.”
“So they are massing up.” The commander looked at her officers, spread about the tent. They kept silent, contemplating their enemy�
�s motives.
Mali had sent tens of scouts south and east, probing into the Territories and Caytor, trying to weigh the situation. Confusing reports poured in, but in the blur, a misty truth was slowly unveiling. Large bodies of Caytorean forces had crossed the border into the Territories, but only just. And apparently, they were waiting for yet more forces. Or perhaps, waiting for her.
She was not sure why the Caytoreans had suddenly decided to invade. She had sent inquiries to the political echelon, hoping for some kind of an answer. But she was not optimistic. She suspected the leaders of the nation would take this act of aggression as a sweet excuse to begin yet another series of bloody wars with Caytor, finally hoping to win. Not that it had worked in the last seventy wars or so.
The two countries had warred for so long, no one really remember why. But they had realized they could never win a true war without a professional standing army—instead of levies and occasional men-at-arms mustered by the local lords.
Since, they had both established academies for officers in the big cities, built series of massive strongholds along the borders, and paid silver to young men to enlist and become men of war for life, training and fighting even when no war loomed.
Absurdly, the massive buildup of forces had brought an end to real wars and turned them into scuffles and skirmishes that came and went like summer drizzles. The two nations had yet to blood their huge arsenals in a real, total war. Mali was afraid that too many people yearned to see it happen.
Still, she was glad for the tense standstill. With every passing hour, more Eracian regulars and chance conscripts arrived, beefing up her forces. The Baran regiment was still a few days off. In the meantime, she had three full regiments under her command, although almost a third were convicts and peasants. The enemy outnumbered her three to one, but most of the Caytorean forces were spread further to the east. At the very least, she could face the regiment from Astar on roughly equal terms.
If it came to that, she could move at any moment, two days to cross into Caytor and officially start a war, march another two or three days to the border with the Territories, and strike at the enemy from behind. Or, she could advance south, cross into the holy land, then veer and slice into the enemy’s right flank. She could save a whole day this way, while provoking an unprecedented scandal of her own. The Territories were sacred.
But she was reluctant to try anything. She needed to know what her counterpart, some general or such she had not yet heard of, intended to do. Why had he crossed into the Territories in the first place? It appeared, for the first time in ages, that Caytor did not seem intent to wage war on her traditional neighbor. And that worried her more than anything. What kind of a scheme was the enemy brewing?
“Thank you. Go rest for a while.” She dismissed the scout.
The man saluted and walked out of the tent. Mali beckoned her officers closer. It was time to debate.
Adam watched the scout leave. He pretended to shovel shit while his eyes drank in every detail. He had seen tens of scouts come and go in the last two days. Something serious was afoot.
Indeed, two weeks sharp from his redemption, they had left the garrison and marched south and east, moving at a relatively brisk pace. Most of the convicts were too weak to follow the regulars, despite the brief training. Adam had counted another fifty or so deaths during the short march toward the border.
Now, camped a stone’s throw away from the ridge of hills that marked the official border between Eracia and the holy land, they simply waited. It had been several days.
Adam appreciated the respite. His officers seemed as preoccupied as everyone else, allowing him to indulge in the mind-numbing routine of shit-shuffling without additional humiliation. After a few tense weeks of focused hardship, they had been given some unintentional slack. As long as they performed their mucking duties well, they were left in peace, earning a couple of golden extra hours when they could merely pretend to work. Their shifts were less strictly regulated.
The former prostitute believed it was the effect of the march. Away from civilization and the sharp walls of barracks discipline, men naturally slid into semichaos. Order had significantly eroded since leaving the garrison. Adam wondered if he could somehow exploit the situation to his advantage. On the other hand, he was more alert than usual. He knew that bored soldiers could be quite a lot of trouble, and without anyone to rein them in, they could become really dangerous. And he could not think of a juicier target than the lot of former subhuman criminals he belonged to.
As if his very thoughts were a self-fulfilling prophecy, he saw a staggering, drunk soldier enter his field of view, walking toward him. Adam checked his little spike was in place.
“Hey, you,” the soldier mumbled, a mere two yards away. “You got a pretty mouth.”
Adam merely nodded, slowly shoveling manure. He waited.
“Come with me,” the soldier said. It was not a suggestion.
The former prostitute looked around. No one seemed particularly interested. Most of the men were sleeping, drinking, or gambling, wasting their time and keeping away from the hot summer sun as much as possible.
“Someplace quiet, please?” Adam meekly suggested.
The soldier grunted and waved for him to follow. They crossed a few rows of tents and finally burrowed into one. Mechanically, the soldier let his breeches slide and stood there in the middle of the gloom, waiting. Adam knelt in front of the man, thinking, thinking.
He had already died once. The whore from Paroth was dead. There was no going back.
With a shit-stained hand, he gripped the soldier’s member while his other sought the worn, smooth, reassuring texture of the willow spike, hidden at the small of his back in a bundle of rags. He withdrew it. He checked the point was sharp, pricking his own thumb.
His molester groaned with anticipation and closed his eyes. Unceremoniously, Adam rose and buried the spike in the man’s neck, below the jaw and close to the ear. A jet of hot blood sprayed his face. The weary, sweaty look of drunkenness became one of pale shock.
Adam shifted his grip from the waist to the man’s mouth, clamping it shut. “Shhhh,” he said softly, watching the life twinkle out of the soldier’s eyes. The life quickly ebbed, and the body slumped, dropping into bloody heap.
Without wasting a moment, Adam assailed the body, rummaging for valuables. He found a moldy purse and three copper coins in it. He placed the empty pouch back. He considered taking the sword, but it was too big to conceal. Instead, he took a short, curved knife and hid it where the spike used to be. Finally, he had a real weapon. Within two breaths, it was over.
He left the tent without a backward glance. He held the shovel in both hands, walking slowly toward his crap pit. The blood blended well with the other dark stains on his ragged tunic.
Shovels were very useful. They marked him as a man with a task on his hands. They could also be used as a weapon. But most of all, they smelled bad and repelled most people.
Adam finally let himself look around. Nothing had changed. The flies buzzed. The soldiers laughed and shouted. The world held its steady, lazy course. Then, he saw Sajan, an old, toothless convict who had arrived with him, staring at him from his own crap pit some distance away, eyeing him with a slick, all-too-knowing glare of a carrion eater.
That night, Sajan crawled up to him. Adam pretended to sleep, waiting. When Sajan laid a clawed hand missing a small finger on his chest, Adam placed the tip of his newly acquired knife under Sajan’s chin and waited. Sajan froze, a hiss of bitter surprise escaping his dry, puckered lips. Adam opened his eyes.
Sajan was like a giant rat, poised to gnaw on some old bone. Adam felt compelled to slice his throat, knowing he would have to do that sooner or later, but he stayed his hand. Killing a soldier had been enough. There was nothing to link him to the man’s death. His comrades would probably suspect a brawl gone wrong. But if he killed Sajan right now, there was no way to elegantly disentangle himself. Worse, some of the animals shari
ng his company might see him and mark him as a threat. He had blissfully stayed invisible for the last few weeks and intended to remain that way.
Adam palmed one of the stolen coins into Sajan’s extended hand. The man exhaled a fetid gasp of genuine shock as he grasped the texture of cold metal in his hand. The former prostitute placed a finger over his lips. Sajan nodded curtly. Adam withdrew the knife. The little rat sidled away.
Adam went back to pretending to sleep.
In the morning Commander Mali gave the order to march.
CHAPTER 4
“This is The Book of Lost Words,” Lord Erik told his grandson. “It’s one of the most precious books in the world. A long time ago, it belonged to the White Witch of Naum. This is the original work. There are no copies.”
Rob’s eyes were big with astonishment. “Where is Naum, Grandpa?”
Lord Erik smiled. “It’s a land far, far to the north, thousands of leagues from here.” The man put the book onto the table before him. It was an ordinary swath of papers, with no decoration whatsoever, though well kept.
Lord Erik lowered his voice conspiratorially. “The four men who wrote the books were powerful wizards. They used blood of newborn babies to write the text and placed devastating spells on the pages to prevent anyone from copying them. Then, they killed themselves so the spells would never be extricated from them. It is said that anyone who tries to copy but one lost word will perish on the spot.”
Rob moaned with excitement. “How did you get the book, Grandpa?”
The grandfather gently patted the boy’s head. “That’s a story for another time.” He opened the book. “During the Age of Sorrow, the gods and goddesses were terrified and lost. Never before had they had to face such uncertainty, and they burned to know what would become of them. But the flow of time was unknown to them, even though they were divine and immortal.”
The Betrayed: Book one of The Lost Words Page 3