The Betrayed: Book one of The Lost Words

by Igor Ljubuncic

  They saw no one on their short trip to the village. Disturbing signs of evil greeted them as they approached the hamlet. Scattered clothing here, an abandoned basket there, they all spoke of haste and panic. Ewan hoped Chergo had not met the same fate as the monastery. But if it had, he hoped the people had been smart enough to flee.

  But it was not so. Chergo had been razed and burned, just like their home. They found no living thing.

  As they prowled the ghost village, they saw a wagon on the road, heading away from the village. They called, but the driver only hastened his pace.

  Duvall had really gotten into the role of the leader, as the most senior apprentice, and started giving them orders. Both Ewan and Adrian felt angry at his behavior. He was their elder by only a few years.

  Toward sunset, they met other refugees. With nowhere else to go, the few survivors had come back to their homes, hoping against hope to find some sanity in the one crumb of the world they knew. They were all younger people who could run.

  But unlike the brothers, these people refused to join them or help them. Ewan heard some of them mention the Call. His thoughts strayed to Ayrton again.

  Ewan’s stomach turned when he realized there were no women among the dead. The attackers must have taken them all away. Then, he remembered that a convent to the goddess Lilith stood by the road to Poereni, just beyond the next ridge of hills. Those women and girls would be defenseless against these murderers.

  “We need to go to Speann,” he said.

  “What are we going to do there?” Duvall protested.

  “The convent could be under attack. We must try to help them if we can.”

  “It’s away from Talmath,” Rais suggested, siding with Duvall.

  Ewan knew they were no soldiers. They were barely adults, some of them. They were weak and hungry and could do very little to help themselves, let alone someone else. But he felt compelled to try. What kind of a man was he if he turned a blind eye to other people’s suffering?

  “Don’t be a fool. We almost got killed. You want to get us killed?” Duvall was on a rampage now, his ego bolstered.

  “I’ll go,” Adrian snapped. “We’ll go together, Ewan.”

  “I’m the most senior brother, and I’ll say what we do,” Duvall growled.

  “The monastery is gone,” Ewan said softly. “We’re alone.”

  They all deflated. The last issue was left unsolved, but they turned the conversation to food. They had no bow and arrow and could not hope to catch any game. Their provisions were low, sufficient only for about a day or two. At least the water was plenty, many tiny streams running through the fields.

  The group went to sleep in the lee of a semicollapsed barn. Luckily for them, the night was just cool, not cold. Ewan could not stop thinking about what might be happening in Speann.

  The morning brought yet another surprise. A pair of soldiers on horses, wearing dirty uniforms with no visible insignia, appeared on the hilltop outside the village. The brothers lurked out of sight, awkwardly gripping swords they did not know how to wield.

  The riders eventually decided to enter the abandoned, burned hamlet.

  Bojan started to cry. They heard him, dismounted, and drew their weapons.

  “Who goes there?” one of them shouted.

  Ewan peered around the corner of a house. He could only see one man. Where was the other?

  A low curse startled them all. Wheeling about, they saw the second soldier standing behind and above them. The sunlight hid his features.

  Adrian lunged forward, trying to stab him with the sword. Cursing again, the man sidestepped, letting Adrian fly. “Stupid children! Stop! Stop!” he bellowed, backing away.

  “Adrian, no!” Ewan shouted. It was obvious that the soldier did not want to attack them. He was probably one of the Outsiders, like Ayrton, who had answered the Call.

  His friend lowered his weapon. He was flushed and breathed in harsh rasps. A collective knot of bristles, the group of brothers turned to face the two men, while keeping away as much as possible.

  “Put those swords down before you cut yourself,” the second man growled. He sheathed his own weapon.

  “Who are you kids?” the first asked, joining the commotion.

  Ewan’s eyes sought Duvall; he was nowhere to be found. “We’re from the monastery to the god Lar. We escaped when the…those riders attacked us.” He paused. “Who were they?”

  The two soldiers exchanged glances. “Caytoreans, may the gods curse them forever,” the first one said.

  “What are your names?” the second asked.

  They introduced themselves. The two men were called Boris and Sedric.

  Boris, the man who had sneaked behind them, snorted when Ewan finished the story. “You’re one lucky bunch. We lost almost all our men fighting the Caytoreans. But they were too strong. They surprised us.”

  The two men told their tale in bits. A detachment from Talmath, they were patrolling the area, when they were ambushed by a large contingent of Caytoreans. Holding out as long as they could, they fought against impossible odds before retreating to the city to find it besieged. In the end, they were forced to flee toward Eracia. By all accounts, the Caytoreans now controlled the entire region.

  “Where is the Caytorean army camped?” Ewan asked.

  Sedric punched him lightly on the shoulder. “Think like a soldier, eh? Why, you wanna strike at them?” The two men guffawed.

  I was hoping to avoid them, he thought. “No.”

  “They are everywhere. They got large camps all around Talmath, and small ones along the border. But more of their numbers are crossing every day. It’s no longer safe here. We must retreat north and west. Our men are there.”

  “We must go south,” Ewan sputtered. Speann.

  “You got a fever, boy?” Boris growled.

  Duvall appeared suddenly. He looked winded.

  “Who’s that?” Boris asked, pointing.

  “That’s Duvall, he’s a senior brother,” Rais said.

  Ewan kept quiet, his rage simmering.

  Ignoring the looks, pretending nothing had happened, Duvall joined the conversation. He instantly agreed with the soldiers.

  Ewan shook his head. “I’m going south, alone if I have to.”

  “What’s south that’s so important you gonna risk your life for it?” Boris insisted.

  Sedric stepped close. “Look, boy. This is not a game. Those Caytoreans ain’t here to play. They are sweeping the area, village by village, and killing everyone systematically. They are well trained and heavily armed. A thousand of you would not stand a chance.”

  The young brother listened carefully. He knew they were making sense, but he could not accept their words for truth. Just could not.

  Sedric continued. “They advance northwest, then send battalions flanking back in semicircles, on both sides, closing after the main body. The longer we stay here, there’s a fair chance one of the tails is gonna catch up with us. And they could come from both south and east; there’s no knowing until too late. That’s how we got ambushed. Those Caytoreans know the business of war well.”

  “We cannot just leave people to die,” Ewan spoke, adamant.

  “Bloody Abyss, you’re hotheaded as a mule, boy!” Boris exclaimed, slapping his thighs. The two warriors exchanged glances. “Let’s give him a chance, eh?”

  “South,” Sedric ceded.

  CHAPTER 6

  Combat was nothing like Adam had expected. They had been roused from bed too early and given real weapons for the first time. Each one had been issued a jerkin of boiled leather, most with steel scales flaking off the cracked, moldy skin, and a ten-foot spear.

  Then, they had been boxed together so they breathed nothing but each other’s sweat and marched in an unknown direction.

  And now they stood, waiting. Slightly taller than the average man, Adam could see ahead of him, a field of parched grass and what looked like a wall of soldiers. No friends of his, he thought.
Strangely, he felt unafraid. A twisted feeling of elated bitterness filled him, a privilege reserved for dead men. Indeed, no one could die more than once.

  Around him, the other would-be spearmen were not so blissful. The smell of urine and feces was a clear testimony to their lack of agreement with his buoyant mood. He was slightly surprised to see men who had killed and inflicted untold horrors unto others shiver so fervently in the face of death. Apparently, it took a special kind of coward to kill people for fun. When that duty called on them, they seemed reluctant.

  Captain kal Armis sat on an armored destrier some distance away, talking to real soldiers, men in smart and mostly clean uniforms and with real steel weapons. Sergeant Nigel was afoot, talking to a group of crossbowmen.

  Adam was not sure if his place in the middle of the box was a favorable one. Sweat dripped from his hair into his eyes. He would relish a drink of cool, clear water.

  Some time later, Sergeant Nigel climbed on a stool and gave a short speech.

  “Listen, you lot. It’s time to fight. Do as you’re told, and you’ll live. Scatter about like girls, and you’ll be mowed down before you blink. You don’t wanna be a fallen Cornfield, now do you?”

  It was not a very moving speech. Very few people seemed to listen. Stark-naked terror gripped them in a senseless vise. Adam seriously doubted their box would remain so uniform ten heartbeats into the fray.

  He marked Sajan in the lot. The old man seemed calmer than most of the younger murderers and rapists. Since their encounter a few days ago, they had avoided one another. But Adam had no doubt that Sajan intended to murder him and claim the rest of his prize, no matter what he imagined it was. This battle seemed like an ideal excuse to settle the score.

  Shouting. Their box moved forward, men bumping into one another. Some cried like women, others mumbled incoherently, while the rest cursed or prayed. The smell of excrement intensified.

  Rubbing against one another, they crawled forward. Then, a tidal wave of fury crashed into them, breaking them apart like splinters. From that moment on, instincts took over. Unfortunately, they had very bad instincts for methodical killing.

  Adam could hardly breathe. Stinking men jostled into him from all directions. Arrows buzzed, but none rained on their exposed, unhelmed heads. People shrieked, but there was no blood.

  He stumbled over a body. Well, people were dying after all.

  Suddenly, the pressure eased. Men strayed from one another. And then, horses rushed them. Shrieking riders milled into their mass, stomping them into a pulp. Adam watched with suicidal dispassion, marking the events with honey-like sluggishness. Heads and arms flew, almost like leaves. Blood was as solid as rags.

  He heard someone bellow for them to narrow the ranks, but it was a useless cry. Spears wavered. A second crash. This time, the horsemen came from behind. Adam tried to turn and see, but a churning wave of bloody meat overwhelmed him. He lost footing and staggered.

  Sajan was at his right, leveling a spear at his chest. Leaning back, he evaded getting skewered by an inch. Without a second thought, he drew his stolen knife and lashed. The curved tip caught the toothless man just above his jacket. A patch of throat detached. A hollow breath escaped through the sudden gap, followed by lots and lots of blood. Sajan simply sank and was gone.

  Something very massive and solid hit Adam from behind. He flew through the air like a doll. Blackness engulfed him as he landed on the soft, blood-drenched ground.

  He opened his eyes. He was alive. He did not move. Moving was a bad idea when you did not know where you were. He could only see the sky, as pristine as it was that morning, before the carnage started. If it still were that morning, he corrected himself.

  The stench of death filled his nostrils. His other senses came back. The din of battle was there, but somewhat subdued. His body hurt, but he could feel no terrible focused pain anywhere.

  After a few long moments, he allowed himself to look around. Slowly, he craned his neck and tilted his head. He lay in a heap with several other men, none as lucky as he. Broken spears jutted, stuck in the ground and human flesh. Flies milled in their thousands, relishing the feast.

  Adam could not see beyond the immediate pool of bodies. He rolled over, waited. Nothing happened. He gently lifted himself on one elbow.

  All around him, the defeated regiment of the finest Eracian scum and peasantry lay slaughtered, feeding the worms and flies and crows. Some distance away, flying under the pennants of the Caytorean army, hordes of riders were milling, wheeling away from the battlefield, leaving the scene of massacre.

  Adam let them dwindle to a cloud of dust and a growling echo of sound. He propped himself up, scanning for any movement, any alien presence. There was no living man about. He was alone.

  He knelt and still waited. The field was silent save for the shrill croaks of birds.

  Standing up, he limped away from where he had slept, idly moving about, seeking familiar faces. He found Sajan ten paces away. The man’s empty grin mocked the world. Other murderers were close by, strewn about in obscene poses.

  Adam snorted. Their fortnight training had not paid off well, it seemed.

  Then, Adam stumbled upon someone he had not expected to see in the death toll. Their precious Captain kal Armis. He was not that different from the so many men he had scorned, a useless doll of meat and torn clothing. He seemed to have died from a crossbow bolt through his chest.

  He moved on.

  Groans startled him. He cued their direction and advanced cautiously, not sure what to expect. It turned out to be another officer, with a lieutenant’s marks on his shoulders. The badge of his unit was different from that of their former captain.

  The man lay curled like a baby, tenderly gripping his middle. Adam knelt by his side. The officer twitched and looked up. “Help me.”

  Being dead made you passive and emotionless. Adam was thinking, thinking. “What is your name?”

  The lieutenant did not seem to mind. He probably did not understand who stood before him. “I’m Lieutenant Bruce…of the Twelfth Light Infantry.”

  “Where do you hail from, what garrison?” Adam insisted.

  “We came from Penes.” Bruce extended a hand. “Help me.”

  Adam appraised the wound. He was no expert, but anyone could tell the officer was done for. No one could live long with half his intestines feeding ants. Even if Adam could help him, there was nothing he could do. And he had just enough to save himself.

  “Who was your commander?”

  “Captain William.”

  “Your sergeants?”

  “Thomas, Edwin…Roland,” the lieutenant whispered. “Help me.”

  Adam rolled the names in his head. He made a decision.

  “I will.” He picked one of the many swords so freely available and finished the dying man.

  He started stripping Bruce of his armor and tunic. It was not an easy task. His motions were limited, his back rigid like a log, but slowly, he peeled the sweaty, bloody clothes off.

  He found a flask and emptied it in one gulp. Some of his vitality returned instantly. Still looking about for potential danger, he started removing his own clothes. And within seconds, he was a new man.

  Field-promoted Lieutenant Adam.

  He went back to kal Armis and took the man’s sword, then, thinking more carefully, discarded it and chose a simple one from a dead footman. As he buckled his new prize, a hand grabbed his leg. Hackles rising on his neck, he sidestepped.

  Sergeant Nigel was clawing at him impotently, sprawled under a mass of dead men, pure hatred clearly visible in his eyes. Adam smiled softly, sadly. Such were the ways of the world.

  Nigel died then and there.

  Adam estimated his whereabouts by the late afternoon sun and struck north, where he hoped to find some survivors of the Eracian army. He was exhausted, and his every muscle hurt, but he persisted. He walked slowly, limping, inching his way back toward his newly birthed future.

  CHAPTER 7
>
  Armin Wan’der Markssin believed he was one of the more talented people in the world. Not surprisingly, he had felt honored and challenged by the letter he had received one day, signed by the posh and nob of the Caytorean society, asking him to investigate a series of mysterious murders of power figures in Eybalen, their capital. He had instantly accepted the commission from the High Council of Trade and sailed forth from his homeland of Sirtai, bringing along his three wives and seven children and his priceless knowledge as an investigator.

  He had spent his first week in the big city as a tourist, learning the environment, the people, the political currents. Then, the day after, he had left his wives and children in the rented mansion and reported for duty before the guild masters of Eybalen.

  They had eyed him like some rare species of wildlife, not quite sure what forensics or analytics were, but took him for his word. As the founder of the Academy for Criminal Reasoning in Tuba Tuba in Sirtai, his fame preceded him. He was known as the man who left no crime unsolved. Whenever powerful and rich people needed help in solving difficult legal problems, they turned to Armin for help. They were convinced he would produce a long list of facts and artifacts he called evidence, which would overwhelmingly prove someone’s guilt and bring a peaceful and just end to their conflicts of interests.

  Sirtai society had changed because of him. No longer were murders or blackmail conducted in blatant and careless ways as before. Whenever rich men contracted an assassin to dispose of one of their rivals, they made sure the crime could not be traced back to them. Because Armin could and would find the guilty party and expose them to the world.

  Even though he was their greatest menace, he was also their greatest ally, a token of stability and balance, a pillar. They counted on him to protect them as much as they feared him and his devilish ways of ferreting out the truth.

  The transition had been almost instant. One day, the academy had been merely a very expensive school for eccentric scholars. The next, it was a stable, breeding some of the best investigators in the world, cherished by the rich like jewelry.