“What do you recall of the battle?”
Sometimes, the truth was the best lie. “I don’t remember much. We were attacked suddenly from the left flank. The convicts were in the lead, and they just fell apart. We could not hold them.”
She continued questioning for some time, asking very vague and then very detailed questions. He sat back and lied, doing what he had been trained to do his entire life.
“What do you think?” George asked her after they left the tent.
“Well, I don’t trust him,” Mali spoke after a while. “He seems well-spoken, has bright eyes, and does look like someone an officer might choose to promote in the heat of a battle. But his story is a bit disjointed.”
“Could be the stress of the battle,” George offered.
“Ah, now you’re taking his side!” She punched her colonel on the shoulder.
George flushed. “Not here. Not in front of my men,” he whispered.
Mali made an indignant face. “Oh, don’t you think the rutting sounds you make in the night are a bit of a giveaway?”
“I don’t make sounds,” he hissed.
Mali sobered. “I have made some serious mistakes back there,” she said, pointing at the gray and blue hills hidden in the mist of a summer day. “I should not have combined troops from different garrisons.”
“We didn’t have the required manpower yet. We had no choice.” George tried to cheer her.
“I got them killed.”
George shook his head. “Kal Armis knew what he was doing when he volunteered to lead that scum. He was a good and brave man.”
Mali ran a hand through her hair. “Has Marco said anything yet?”
George bit a cuticle off one finger and spat it. “He’s sent some men inquiring. Maybe one of the soldiers from the other battalions will be able to recognize this Adam.”
Mali slanted her head. “Did he appoint anyone yet instead of William?”
“Not yet.”
Mali smiled wickedly. “I have a brilliant idea.” When George said nothing, she continued. “This Adam is not someone to have around. We should send him away. Ask Marco to promote him to captain and assign him to the new battalion from Yovarc.”
“More convicts?” George asked.
“Peasants. Then, we send him back to fight the Caytoreans. He’ll have a chance to redeem himself and win the lost ground. If he’s who he truly claims he is, I bet his soul screams for revenge.”
“Won’t that be suicide?”
Mali seemed adamant. “I’m not sure. We need to get past those hills. And I see no easy way of doing it. And if that man has lived through that battle, then he might be blessed by the gods.”
“You’re a vicious one.”
“I’m the commander of Eracia’s South Army. It takes a basketful of balls to lead this lot.”
“I’m not sure Marco will approve. He’s lost a good third of his troops. Now you suggest thinning his forces even more?”
“We’ll give Adam an independent battalion. He’ll report directly to you.”
George puffed. “Marco will hate this.”
“It has to be done.”
“What about kal Armis’s regulars?”
The bulk of professional soldiers that the captain had led before accepting the grisly task of training and leading conscripts had been temporarily assigned as auxiliary troops to other standing regiments. No one seemed to like the arrangement. Local commanders did not feel comfortable babysitting a bunch of well-trained, cocky soldiers, while kal Armis’s men despised everyone for being orphaned from their unit and turned into decorations.
Grudgingly, Mali accepted George’s unspoken plan. “Yes, we could assign them to Adam’s battalion. They, too, must be hungry for revenge.”
“Well, at least he’ll have some normal troops to work with.”
“They won’t like him,” Mali warned. “Some of the lieutenants have been waiting for promotion for years. They will expect one of them to assume kal Armis’s post.”
“This man alone has come out alive from a battle that no one else survived. It must mean something.”
Mali snorted. “He could be very adept at hiding in bushes and donning clothes quickly. But if he’s truly blessed as you think he is, then he has nothing to lose, nor do we.”
Adam thought his scam had been exposed. Calmly, he waited for the officers to return, declare him a traitor or something of the kind, take him outside, and run him through with cold steel. He sat and waited, because there was nothing else he could do. Dead men rarely had options.
Finally, they came in and promoted him to captain.
CHAPTER 12
Ayrton watched the city burn.
A pall of smoke hovered above Talmath, not a puff of wind to stir it. Everyone sniffed and sneezed or coughed, their soft tissues irritated by the smoke and ashes. Tears coursed freely down their soot-smeared cheeks.
Ayrton stared as the lower parts of Talmath died in the red flames of a huge conflagration, dark smoke billowing, blotting the landscape. Unseen behind the thick screen of destruction, the Caytorean forces parked in their thousands, watching the grisly show unravel.
The massive fighting had ended in fires spreading all across the shabbier parts of the holy city. It had been two days since. No one could stop the flames. They burned mightily, consuming everything in their path.
The upper city was crammed with refugees. There was not a soul left in the lower city. Whoever had stayed or failed to flee had perished.
Talmath was in chaos. People had been reduced to animals, fighting for sheer survival. A dream of holiness and peace had turned into a bloodbath. People raped and butchered one another even as a foreign enemy sought to exterminate them all.
Having only a token wall surrounding it, Talmath had always relied on the goodwill of the people to remain a functioning city. Most of it was indefensible. The little force the patriarchs had mustered had been unable to check the Caytorean army. The siege had quickly turned into bitter street-to-street fighting. Ayrton really hoped he would be able to forget some of the images he had witnessed.
The vast, sprawling sea of tents that had run for almost a mile ahead of the city wall had been reduced to crumbs. Most of the wooden huts that housed the poorest of the city’s tenants were also gone, sapped or burned. And the rest of it was burning, houses, temples, shops.
He was not really sure how the fire had started. He even suspected it had been deliberately set by the friendly forces. It had seemed like the only thing that could stop the Caytoreans.
The raging fires had finally convinced the fighting parties to retreat. The enemy had gone back to its camps outside Talmath. And the city defenders had pulled back into the upper reaches of the city, on the hill that gave Talmath its distinctive look. Now, they waited for the fires to die out.
People had congregated in the city center, at the Grand Monastery. The usual city congestion had turned into a hive of madness and despair.
Having nowhere else to go, refugees huddled near siege engines and slept in the gutters. Oblivious, children ran about, emulating the soldiers, earning kicks and curses as they dodged and darted, getting in the way, while their mothers prostituted themselves for crumbs and torn scraps of blankets.
Disease had not yet struck, but it was very close. Having no place to bury the dead, the priests had the dead burned. Food was rationed out once a day, with soldiers whipping hungry masses into some semblance of order. Nonetheless, most of it got stolen right away.
Ayrton watched people around him become savage, ruthless beasts. Outsiders like him almost too eagerly turned back to their old ways. Many of his brothers-in-arms had several women in their custody, whose favors they paid back with shelter and protection. Brawls never stopped as animals fought for territory. Every fifth man ended up stabbed or beaten by his comrades, when they were all supposed to fight together against the Caytoreans.
Ayrton stood on the balcony of a temple temporarily turned into a ba
rracks, watching a team of engineers bring down entire rows of houses in a feeble attempt to keep the fires from spreading. A circle of debris marked the ghostly alley that separated the dead and abandoned lower city from an anthill of refugees.
Three stories below him, an artillery crew manhandled their onager. They were trying to bring it to bear north, with little success. A wagon full of rocks lay nearby, its wheels broken. All around, a sea of refugees sat in tightly packed rows, dozing and moaning or simply staring into nothingness. Soldiers prowled the battered masses, singling out women they could use. Bigger children were put to work, hauling things. Any boy or male adult was conscripted on the spot and given a weapon. Most of the time, they got sent to work in the lower parts, bringing down houses, lugging the dead, or preparing defenses.
It was the spotless image of an unholy city, Ayrton thought.
Ayrton watched it with all the helplessness of a soldier. He had fought dozens of times in his life as a mercenary. He had seen and done horrible things. Never before had his despair seemed so profound.
He commanded a unit of twenty men, a score of saints in the den of filth and sin. In the first days of war, while some sanity still existed, the patriarchs had organized some sort of an army, most of it small, independent groups of former soldiers or menat-arms, supposed to uphold the integrity of the Territories and defend its people. But as quickly as the army was born, it died.
Luckily, he was a commander. Although his appointment had been almost arbitrary, the patriarchs had selected him well among the lot. It had really worked in the first few days. The priests had managed to rally people, instill them with hope and zeal. Now, no one cared anymore what they said. Ayrton felt his authority was in peril. He had no real sway over his soldiers, only a token blessing, granted almost too lightly. Unless he proved a bigger animal than they, they would challenge him sooner or later.
And yet, he had sworn never to do those things again. He had fled to the Territories to never have to do those things again.
But the things had found him.
He knew the only way Talmath could survive was for the patriarchs to take leadership of the people. But they seemed too busy deliberating rather than fighting. There was no real chain of command, no figure of power that the other animals could respect and fear.
Ayrton hoped that other cities fared better. Maybe they had had enough time to organize their defenses properly. Talmath desperately needed leadership. It was almost, if not already, too late.
Screams startled him. Looking down, he saw one of the Outsiders drag a girl from the lot. She protested, kicking, trying to grab hold of people around her. They squirmed like spineless things and let her slip. They watched with apathetic, dumb expressions on their faces.
Something snapped inside Ayrton.
He raced down the stairway, two steps at a time, the sword at his hip clanking and scraping against the wall. He rushed outside, trampling over refugees, plowing his way toward the man and his prey.
“Hey, you, halt right there!” he shouted.
“She’s mine,” the man growled.
Ayrton did not pause. He drew his sword, stepped forward, and stabbed the man in the gut. A look of surprise twisted the man’s features. Ayrton pulled the sword free. The soldier groaned and stumbled. Almost instantly, people started stripping him of his clothes and possessions.
“Enough,” Ayrton howled. Fortunately, he had been blessed with a deep, powerful voice. “This madness stops right now. Soldiers, get these refugees away. From now on, no civilian is allowed within the premises of a military post. Get them out.”
Pale faces watched him. But no one moved against him. Their shock and fear was obvious. Stupid animals.
“Move!” he shrieked.
One of the soldiers sobered. “Who do you think you are, you bas—”
The man never finished the sentence. His severed head hit the wall of the temple and tumbled away.
“We are servants of the gods. Anyone found defiling this holy place with sin will be executed. Get moving!”
The rest obeyed. They milled aimlessly at first, but slowly they formed into a cohesive body and began evacuating the refugees. The people protested, begging for food and the chance to stay, but the soldiers finally managed to push them outside the temple walls. A screen of quiet sanity descended on the little post.
Ayrton glared at the soldiers around him, a horde of fifty former murderers, rapists, and mercenaries. They would shred him to pieces the first moment he showed a hint of weakness. But as long as he remained the supreme beast in the lot, they would follow him.
It’s happening again, he thought sadly.
“We are soldiers of the gods. We serve the Cause,” he intoned. “Repeat after me. We are soldiers of the gods. We serve the Cause,” he continued until his throat hurt. Gradually, an echo rose around him, building up in ferocity. Soon, they were shouting, shivering with incomprehensible savageness that suddenly bound them. It was a morbid sort of deliverance that made his blood curdle. Ayrton craned his neck and shrieked into the sky.
“We have to restore order. We go outside as one group. We start rousing other units. If they disobey or put up a resistance, we kill them. I want this city to become what it used to be. I want Talmath to remain the source of pride and hope for all people in the world. I want the love and fear of the gods in the heart of every sinner in this city.”
As soon as they hit the world outside the temple, their resolve weakened. Ayrton plowed forward, unrelenting. It had to work. It had to. He started singing. Some caught up his zeal and joined him. Most remained silent, seeing no one and hearing no one, empty shells with no hope left.
But the tail behind him grew. People were drawn to the crowd merely because it was a crowd. Sheep followed other sheep no matter where the flock went. The energy of the horde was stronger than their individual will. Soldiers, and even some stray refugees, hurried to his side.
A song in the praise of the gods reverberated through the tightly packed streets. And people succumbed before it, like leaves in a hurricane, their fears gone for a blissful moment. Hope was such a randy bitch, Ayrton thought.
He was tired. He just wanted to lie down and sleep. But he couldn’t. He just couldn’t.
Without thinking, he marched, leading the confused mob. Soon, he realized he was heading toward the Grand Monastery. He could not stop even if he wanted to. Behind him, a flood of flesh rolled, a solid wave of heat and stink.
Some resemblance of order still existed around the monastery. It was probably the monument itself that inspired humility. The Grand Monastery was a huge foundation, made of white and gray marble, with gigantic statues of deities lining in the plaza before the temple. On better days, it would have stolen his breath away. But not today.
Standing all around the monastery were combat priests, the body of professional soldiers acting as apprentices and senior brothers in peacetime. Few people knew the truth about the war monks and their dual identity. For all the peace and serenity that the patriarchs preached, they very much believed in the power of cold steel. The only problem was, they had never prepared to fight entire nations.
The Safe Territories had always existed by the grace of the realms surrounding it. It was a concept that could work only if everyone abided by the agreed-upon laws. Once the ideal shattered, it was total chaos.
Several hundred priests guarded the monastery, wearing the colors of their gods and goddesses and armed with spears. When a wedge of several thousand angry Outsiders and refugees approached the plaza, their composure cracked.
Huddling into a rainbow, the priests stood and waited, barring the way into the temple. Ayrton walked toward them, never slowing.
“You cannot enter the monastery!” one of their lot shouted, a man dressed in green.
“We must see the patriarchs,” Ayrton rasped. His throat was raw. He was parched, but all he could drink was the sweat from his lips and the ashes floating in the air.
“They c
annot see the supplicants now. They are busy debating the matters of war!” the same man shouted again. He looked on the verge of panic. On his sides, men in yellow, red, purple, and black squirmed and jostled.
The tide had slowed somewhat, but there was no stopping it. The rear ranks were oblivious of the front and pushed forward stubbornly. The pressure built. People were shouting at one another and screaming.
“Let us through. For the love of the gods, let us through,” Ayrton pleaded. “If you don’t, it will be a massacre!”
A flake of sanity touched the eyes of the other man. He raised his spear and stepped back. An alley opened in the rainbow wall of cloaks. Cheering, wailing, the crowd stormed the monastery.
Ayrton reached the broad steps first. Turning around, he lifted his sword and shouted, “Silence!”
The mob wavered a little. The soldiers in the front ranks turned around, just like Ayrton, and presented their swords to the ranks behind them. The stampede receded.
“This is a holy place! Anyone caught in the act of stealing, vandalizing, or blaspheming will be killed on the spot. We will enter in an orderly fashion.”
Staggering with exhaustion, Ayrton shuffled past the stunned combat priests. The entrance into the monastery was even more impressive. Huge columns supported an impossibly high vault. Every sound echoed like thunder. Titanic statues were lined at the far end of the vestibule, surrounded by leaping fires of all colors. Once, people had knelt before the statues in prayer.
Except that no one was praying right now. Ayrton had expected to encounter at least one or two patriarchs. He knew there should be a constant vigil of prayer at all times. But not today.
Almost aimlessly, he wandered into corners and shadows, climbed to the galleries above the altar. He found no living soul. There were broken pieces of furniture, pottery, and torn clothing everywhere, a sign of a hasty retreat, but no servants of the gods and goddesses.
White rage threatened to smother him. His knees buckled. He collapsed onto the cold floor and growled with bestial impotence.
The Betrayed: Book one of The Lost Words Page 9