The Betrayed: Book one of The Lost Words

by Igor Ljubuncic

  The command staff let him be. No one interfered in his wild affairs, not even Colonel Marco. Mali kept her distance. He knew she watched his every step, but did not try to stop him. Not even once.

  A delegation of priests arrived in the camp on a cloudy, humid day. The patriarchs seemed impressed by the Eracian effort to check the Caytorean offensive. The eight men and women blessed the soldiers and doled out little clay charms. As their bags slowly emptied of figurines, customary copper from the common ranks and silver from the officers replaced the weight.

  Adam watched, fury crawling up his gullet.

  “Tell our men that no one is to talk to the priests or accept anything from them,” he told his new captain, Shendor.

  Shendor swallowed. “It’s bad luck to refuse welcome to servants of the gods, sir.”

  The Butcher sighed. “All right, then. It’s an order. Tell them that whoever disobeys it is dismissed from the regiment.”

  His captain watched him with a look of dismay. “Aren’t you afraid of the gods, sir?”

  Adam’s face turned to stone. “The gods do not exist. And if they do, they’re a horde of selfish, heartless bastards.” The gods could not exist.

  Shendor paled. “How can you say that, sir?”

  “What god would let a mother abandon her child on the footsteps of an orphanage? What god would let children die? Only a cruel, morbid monster of a god.” His eyes glistened.

  Something savage lit in Adam’s eyes. Shendor cringed and took a step back. “Right, sir. No man will talk to the priests.” He walked away.

  A smiling clergyman headed his way. The man was wearing a purple robe, stained with road dust, and walked holding his paws extended, greedy for the offerings. Adam followed the man like an owl watching a mouse. The innocent little donations were nothing but emotional blackmail.

  And for what? So men would kill other men with yet more glee, their conscience unburdened from the horror of their deeds. A soldier fought another soldier because he was told to. There was nothing noble about it. A farmer cut the harvest when the time came, no questions asked. When you sweetened murder with blessings, you turned a grim job into a sadistic pleasure.

  Once a man started loving death, he became a monster.

  If things were only slightly different, the priests would be hollering their accusations against the Eracians, calling them heathens and sinners. But now, they sanctioned the same murder and even offered the simple man an easy escape from the moral obligations of killing.

  That was all that would-be gods were. Prostitutes for the highest bidder.

  “Get lost,” Adam growled.

  The priest stopped walking, staring at Adam, convinced he had misunderstood. The paws twitched lightly with uncertainty. After a moment he recovered, and his mouth opened in the monotonous drone he had been reciting the entire day.

  “Blessed be, brave warrior of Eracia. Accept this humble token, a charm to boost your strength and grant you luck in the hour of peril. Our mighty gods and goddess approve of your holy mission.”

  “Get the fuck away from me,” Adam whispered.

  The man was not stupid. He saw the murderous look on Adam’s face and said nothing. He turned and walked away.

  Within moments, the rumor spread. A palpable wave of outrage and confusion washed the camp. Once again, the command staff remained quiet and let the issue sort itself out. But from that moment on, he had earned another nickname. Adam the Godless.

  A respite from gossiping and boring labor came when a messenger arrived in the camp and informed the commander of the arrival of the Third Independent Battalion. Men whooped, cheered, and laughed.

  Adam naively thought the spirits were buoyant because the influx of reinforcement meant less daily chores, more free time, and, most importantly, a greater chance to survive the war. But he did not ask and waited for the truth to present itself.

  Not surprisingly, Lieutenant Gerard came to talk to him, a huge grin on his face. He felt privileged that his men dared approach him directly and speak their mind.

  “I need to ask you for a favor, sir.”

  Adam smirked. “Well?”

  Gerard squirmed like a little boy. “Now that the battalion is here, I was wondering if you could let the men have some time off.”

  Adam made a blank face, hiding his ignorance of the subject. “Not before I see the battalion myself.”

  For some reason, this made his subordinate laugh. “All alone, sir?”

  “Come on. Show me.”

  Adam had to admit he was shocked. He had expected many things—but not a full battalion of women.

  He knew that females served in the army, just like men, a relic of desperate times when the Caytoreans outnumbered the Eracian populace four to one and when every able man or woman was called to fight the enemy. Although the odds had evened out since, the tradition remained.

  The women mostly served in auxiliary units, performing miscellaneous duties like cooking, washing, administration, and similar jobs. They were kept far from the raucous, randy border outposts and far from the enemy. But there were a few select units that recruited women exclusively for the purpose of killing.

  Most soldiers never came in contact with the legendary female legions. They were paraded like a rare species about the realm, boosting morale, helping the average countryside woman feel better about herself. Sometimes, though, they did participate in real combat. Rumors had it that the girls fought as skillfully as men, only with far fewer scruples and much less mercy.

  As Gerard led him toward the trophy, Adam listened to his soldiers’ excited babbling, picking up bits here and there and piecing them into a story. The Third Battalion was supposed to be the most famous and ferocious female unit.

  They had already appropriated a section of his camp. Men stood in a semicircle about the battalion, staring, hooting, yipping, clapping hands, calling names. Adam plowed his way with growing difficulty, his rank exercising little influence on the hot-blooded males.

  His expectations shattered to bits as he glimpsed the women. They were all dressed like men, in simple drab uniforms that mostly concealed their contours. Quite a few had their hair cropped short, to fit better under the helmets. Some had scarred faces or were missing a finger. Most were fairly tall and looked menacing, hardly the popular image of feminine fragility.

  Adam could smell trouble as surely a mosquito could smell blood. “Listen to me, Gerard. Inform the captains that I have ordered the men to keep away from the women unless invited. There’ll be no molestation.”

  Gerard coughed. “Sir, the men are eager. We haven’t had any fun in weeks.”

  “I’ll personally execute any man accused of rape,” Adam stated coldly. “There will be no misconduct in my camp.” His eyes were cold and hard.

  Again, instinct registered what the common senses could not. Gerard nodded. There was something dangerous in the depths of his commander’s soul, a darkness that must never be disturbed.

  Day after day, Adam incited small revolutions, shocking and outraging officer and private alike. His little rules stirred rumor and dissent but also awe and respect. His nicknames sprouted like mushrooms after rain, Adam the Butcher, Adam the Godless, Adam the Protector of Women.

  His fame grew by the hour, even as people stood and watched a legend in the making. He was fearless. He made his superiors scream like beasts, but never flinched. He killed people without blinking if they disobeyed his orders. And he let go every whore in the camp, with a fistful of coins.

  No one really knew what to make of him. He was a gentle madman, totally unpredictable. His ultimate confidence inspired his warriors greatly. They stopped loving their former gods and started worshipping him, a mere man of flesh and blood. His counterparts envied him and hated him and despised themselves for their impotence.

  Adam savored every spun word, every little lie, every gossip and every hard truth about him and his deeds. He knew the enemy listened and was afraid. For an unknown, sadistic reas
on, buried deep down in the filthy layers of his battered soul, this brought him immense joy.

  One evening, he got invited to dine with Commander Mali.

  He was not supposed to make anything of it, since most officers chanced to eat with their commander sooner or later. She sometimes held private dinners. On other occasions, she entertained small groups of her majors and colonels. In most cases, these dinners were an opportunity to discuss the affairs of war informally.

  Adam found the whole issue a bit surreal. A war raged in the outside world, soldiers stood guard all around the camp, nodding in and out of fitful sleep, while he lounged with his superior, sipping wine and eating a meal that most people would consider luxurious.

  In his whole life, Adam had never refused a meal. As a whore, he had not had the privilege to be choosy. He had eaten rats with the same mechanical passion as he had eaten trout or roast pork ribs. Survival did not require you to enjoy it. He had grown to treat food as another of life’s necessary annoyances, just like crapping. His obvious apathy seemed to annoy Mali.

  “You don’t seem to like the food,” she suggested.

  “It’s all right,” he said, munching on an oversalted potato. “As good as any meal I’ve eaten.”

  One of Mali’s trimmed brows arched. “That’s an interesting attitude.”

  He wiped his hands on his trousers. “Perhaps.”

  “You’re an interesting person, a phenomenon,” she said.

  His perfectly cool composure melted slightly as he concentrated on his hostess and let the image of her wash his eyes. She had that aura of power about her that unnerved him. Most people would probably not call her beautiful, but that was the special part of her beauty. Maybe it was his weakness as a whore, to be attracted to powerful women.

  “Life’s a tree, and we’re fruit,” he chimed.

  “I do not wish to talk to you about military affairs tonight,” she told him.

  Adam picked at a chicken wing. “Good.”

  They ate for a while in silence. A soldier waited on them, pouring wine and clumsily handling the platters, his big hands unsuited for the gentle task. Mali dismissed him before dinner was over.

  They finished eating. Adam folded his hands in his lap, ruminating. Mali drank wine, her eyes sparkling, alcohol taking effect, a veil of mischief wrapped about her.

  “Well, shall we?” she said, stretching.

  Adam made a blank face. “What?”

  “Fuck,” she said, as if stating the obvious.

  “Why do you think I would want to do that?” Adam played along.

  “Come on, everyone wants me,” Mali said, her eyes agleam.

  Ah. He rose from the table. “Well, in that case, I will retire.” He turned and started to walk away. Something hard and metallic hit him in the back of the head. A well-aimed goblet.

  “Ow. What are you doing?” He turned.

  “Cheeky bastard! Where do you think you’re going?” she fumed.

  “To sleep.” He rubbed his scalp. A welt was swelling under his fingers. He had survived weeks of war without a scratch. Women.

  “You will stay here and fuck me. That’s an order, Major!”

  Adam snorted. “You cannot force me. You presume too much, Commander.”

  She sniffed. “Come on, everyone wants me!”

  The former whore wagged a finger. “No, everyone wants me.” They came closer. His heart raced. He could smell her skin. Gently, he tackled her legs and lowered her onto the cool ground.

  “Here, put on one of these,” she said, handing him something soft and filmy.

  “No, these things are horrible. It’s like humping a hole in a wall,” Adam protested. He hated the frogskin sheaths. “I’ll come on your belly,” he pleaded.

  She chortled. “Oh sure, that’s what all of you say. Now, stop fretting, and put it on.”

  For the first time in a long time, Adam smiled genuinely. “Yes, Commander.”

  CHAPTER 21

  General-Patriarch Davar watched a horde of men dismantle the Grand Monastery. It was not very different from watching ants shred a dead beetle.

  Oxen pulled giant ropes, trying to dislodge the tall columns. Stone groaned and creaked. Men hammered with sledges against wall corners, trying to help the effort. Sapping was a dangerous business, Davar noted. Quite a few soldiers had been killed when pieces of masonry toppled on their heads.

  Burning the monastery was not enough. It had to be destroyed. Any gold and valuables had long been stolen.

  Talmath was his, a sweet victory. After the conflagration had died, his forces had stormed the city and captured it. Now, there was the grueling task of killing everyone. His troops had hoped to have the women spared so they could rape them. But he would not let them. Women were insidious. They could easily subvert the minds of men. All worshippers of the false gods had to be destroyed, even if they might prove useful for a while.

  He was differently inclined toward the Outsiders. These rabid dogs could serve a purpose, perhaps even convert truly.

  A ragged cheer broke as one of the columns cracked and shattered. A cloud of dust and splinters billowed out of the shattered doors of the monastery.

  Talmath still burned, but it was a controlled destruction. The Feorans were marching the streets, looting and burning houses. It would probably take them an entire week to scour the city clean, but it was necessary.

  Most of the patriarchs had escaped before the final assault. They had found a few, hiding like rats in cellars. Others had donned civil clothes, hoping they would be missed and spared. But no heathen soul was to live.

  His troops were killing people, a slow and exhausting task. Davar intended to repopulate Talmath in the future, so leaving the bodies inside the city was out of the question. The executions were being carried far from the city, in the fields.

  Only the false clergy had been put to death and on display in Talmath, as an example. The general-patriarch had had all of them nailed to big logs and placed in squares and junctions, where everyone would witness the glory and wrath of Feor. To his utter disgust, the patriarchs had wept and begged far more than ordinary people. Maybe because they knew their false gods would not help them, while the deluded masses still clung to some hope.

  But even this great victory could not bring a smile to his face. Feor was continuously testing the strength of his conviction. While he won battles in the west, his armies were losing in the east, near the border. A creature that called himself Adam the Godless was inflicting heavy losses on Davar’s Feorans.

  He did not know much about this strange, frightening character. His spies knew the names and faces of most of the Eracian high command by heart, but they had never heard of this Adam. He had appeared suddenly, out of nowhere.

  It was a test, he knew.

  Rumors about the man’s savageness were outrageous. Davar did not try to dismiss them as nonsense; it would only heighten the fear among his troops. But for all their zeal, the news about Adam the Godless wore on their morale like a toothless dog, slowly, persistently. It worried him.

  The best he could do was match the man’s alleged cruelty. The Eracians were not known to defile the bodies of the dead. It was against the religion of their false gods. Still, they had all seen the wagons full of severed heads. No one could deny those. And there was the letter.

  Feor was testing him, that’s all.

  Maybe Adam was not an Eracian at all? It would explain a lot of things.

  “Holy one, we have found some more heathens,” one of his officers reported.

  A band of soldiers was leading a ragged lot of children out of a semiruined house. Their eyes, wide and glassy with fear, stood out like pebbles on their soot-smeared, emaciated faces.

  “Gut them like the rest, holy one?”

  Davar was silent for a moment, then nodded. “But do have their heads cut off and sent to Eracians. I wish their commander to receive them as a personal gift.” His eyes rolled over the scrawny lot. “Wait.” He pointed.
“That one. No. Yes. Spare her. I want her in my collection.”

  Even Feor had to have a weak spot for beauty.

  A wing of the monastery came crashing down, an avalanche of huge blocks. Men screamed. More victims of careless architecture destruction, he thought.

  The day was drab and cold. Livid clouds threatened with rain. Davar prayed for a storm. It would cleanse the city of the stench of war. A solid, almost living miasma of blood, death, and smoke veiled the city, refusing to leave.

  Adam. His thoughts strayed back to the godless bastard. Whoever he was, he was a menace, a threat to the Movement. Even if only a tenth of the rumors and reports were true, he’d managed to win battles despite overwhelming odds, gained advantage through treachery and brutality. He had to be stopped.

  At his side stood the solution to his problem.

  Like always, his great friend, the cofounder of the Movement, had been more than ready to provide help. This time it was in the form of a Pum’be assassin. These were extremely difficult to hire. There were so few of them left, they were impossibly expensive, they were overworked, and worst of all, they often turned down assignments that did not intrigue them.

  But he had one at his disposal.

  The creature had arrived that morning, slipping unseen past every sentry. He had said nothing so far, merely watched passively the comings and goings of a freshly captured city.

  “How do you like Talmath so far?” he asked.

  The assassin said nothing.

  Davar started walking away from the monastery, his interest in seeing it topple having worn off. He followed a cobbled street, past bodies still not cleared, past husks and hissing skeletons of houses and shops. The Pum’be walked after him with the curious gait of a dwarf.