“I cannot give you what you need,” he spoke in a low voice, feeling dark sorrow engulf him.
“You have already given it,” she said.
Her soft hand touched his chin, trying to swivel his head toward his. At first, he resisted, then let her. Her cool lips touched his. She moaned.
Adam saw the ghost of Mali superimposed on top of Lisa’s solid flesh. He felt his body go numb with confusion. Lisa pressed, her kiss becoming more urgent, but he pulled back. It was agony.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
He could not bear to see her crying. He rose and left the tent, coarse anger making his stomach convulse. Adam could hear a ragged breath escape his lips in short hisses. He hastened his pace as rage blackened his sight.
Guided by memory, he waded through the camp toward the siege lines. Even at dusk, his troops were busy harassing Roalas, a city that awaited its doom like an old lion.
Adam was in a murderous mood. He needed discharge. His body ached from sorrow and pent-up frustration. He wanted to go back to the tent, tear the clothes off Lisa, and make rough, wild love to her until a shriek of deliverance burst from his lungs.
But he did not want her to bear the burden of his madness. He wanted some girl he didn’t know, someone he could despise.
His soldiers saw him, their instinct picking up his mood even before they could see his face. A void of caution opened around him, with curious yet cowed soldiers watching him like children watching a cat grapple a pigeon.
Major Lawrence saw him and flinched. Sweet, sweet revenge, Adam thought. The man had called him a madman once. But now, his unit was part of Adam’s killing squads, wrestled from George’s clutches. They were all his, now.
In that moment, his anger deflated. He would be a petty little fool if he sought to vent his anger on his subordinates. Only sadists molested those weaker than themselves. After all, Lawrence had joined his troops out of his own volition.
Ahead of him loomed Roalas, a city wrapped in growing darkness.
“You fat bitch,” he growled, “I’m gonna take you tonight.”
“Commander?” Lawrence said.
“How many Caytorean bodies do we have?”
Lawrence rolled his eyes. “About seven hundred, sir. Doused in vinegar. We’ll burn them tomorrow.”
Adam nodded. “And what about the heads?”
“We stacked them in the wagons, but haven’t sent them to the city yet.”
“Good, good. Now this is what I want you to do,” Adam ordered. “Get all those bodies and cut off their penises. Then, stuff each head with one. After that, we’re gonna launch them into the city.”
The major swallowed. “Sir?”
Major Darin and Captain Shendor joined the lot. Shendor was grinning. Adam blinked in return to his hearty salute.
Adam patted Lawrence’s shoulder. “That’s right. Heads, cocks, together, launch.”
Lawrence seemed pale. “That would be very…unorthodox, sir.”
Adam grimaced. “We cannot wait an eternity for those bastards to surrender. There’s a lot more Caytor we need to conquer before the winter. If we stay entrenched here for too long, we risk major disease. I’ve heard there have been some cases of dysentery, right?”
The major nodded.
“That’s not good. The whole idea of having a large army is the privilege of not having to waste your time playing stupid games by your enemy’s rules. We make the rules here. Let’s give them a taste of what might happen if they persist in their folly. If they still refuse to surrender after tonight’s show, then we charge in the morning and raze it to the ground.”
Major Darin coughed. “Charge the walls, sir?”
Adam spread his arms, as if his suggestion was the most obvious thing in the world. “What are all those mercenaries for? They are getting paid to die. Send the lot of them in the first wave.”
“What about the heads, sir?” Lawrence asked stupidly.
“Yes, see to it.”
Lawrence mumbled a set of orders to Shendor, who merely nodded, a man resolved to the grim task ahead. That man had the guts to be a leader. He would go far in his military career.
It became a morbid ritual, soldiers hacking the bodies to pieces, assembling horrible decorations onto the severed heads. Some vomited. Others laughed hysterically, trying to hide their fear and disgust.
On the parapet three hundred paces away, the Caytoreans watched, trying to perceive what it was the Eracians were doing under the cover of night. A few arrows lanced into the air, on both sides, landing well short of the mark.
Adam stood by a large siege machine and waited. The team of mercenary artillerymen watched him with apprehension. Even their sleazy lifestyle was no match to his cruelty. But let them watch and learn. And remember. It would be a very brave mercenary who betrayed him.
Eventually, a row of baskets waited for the launch by the trebuchet. There was surprisingly little blood. The Caytoreans were long dead, turned ashen blue.
“We launch now,” Adam declared.
Major Lawrence did not argue this time. He barked orders. After a short time, three machines stood ready.
“Launch,” Adam ordered. Huge basketloads of severed head and genitalia flew into the night, the grisly details hidden from the defenders. Which was exactly what he had intended. Heads with no eyes and worms wriggling over rotting skin looked far more impressive under moonlight.
Wet thuds told him the munition hailed on city rooftops. Cries of dismay and rage followed soon thereafter. Arrows zipped and twanged, hitting fifty paces ahead of the Eracian lines. The Carrion Eaters laughed and jeered.
Adam nodded. “Good. Load another volley.”
Like ants, the artillerymen set to load their big catapults again. Wood and rope groaned as men stumbled and strained and cursed. Then, three long moans, like of a cow in a narrow, tall canyon, and another three baskets flew into Roalas. More cries and more arrows.
“Another,” Adam ordered. “Another.”
Mali and Lisa floated before his eyes. They wouldn’t fade away.
CHAPTER 35
Home.
They had held the funeral rite for Inessa two days ago. It had been a large ceremony, attended by a large number of friends, relatives and dignitaries, all outraged by the brutal tragedy that had beset Armin. Some had begged him to let them avenge her in his name, but he had politely declined. This was a war he had to win alone.
Although he was still formally grieving, Armin was back at work. Usually, it would be inexcusable, but since his work also entailed revenge, the honor of his dead wife had not been blemished.
Besides, it kept his sorrow at bay until he gathered enough courage to face it.
Autumn storms were closing on Tuba Tuba. Sleet was hammering on the large colored panes of the major vault of the Tolabad Museum, deafening all other sound. To Armin, the undulating rush of ice hitting glass was soothing.
He sat in one of the private cells branching out of the large main chamber, where people could retreat to study and read in peace. Screens of cloth kept other visitors away.
On the desk before him lay several books, the rarest collection of works on continental history and theology, presented to him by the curator himself. The curator was a personal friend. These books were out of the reach of most people.
The investigator did not know who wanted him dead. But the fact that he’d been attacked meant he was getting dangerously close to discovering the truth. And he would. He would crack this case, like all the other cases.
Theology of the Continental Realms, the first book, told the tale of the houses of the gods and their bloody roots in the horrible days after the Great Court, with all the horrid, uncensored detail. The continental people lived an illusion of passionate and peaceful history, unaware that the foundation of their faith was a massive bloodbath of treachery. Their good and benevolent gods had done all in their power to kill just about anyone and everyone, perpetuating the very evil they had tried to exterminate.
> The Age of Sorrow. An age that had begun with betrayal and ended with more. And the focus of it was a god called Damian, the founder of the modern, sophisticated man who hated and stole and killed. His name had been stricken out of the living memory of the continental peoples.
But he had remained in the books, survived oblivion, stayed in the souls of the people he had created, even if they called him by other names. It seemed that the essence of human nature was Damian’s work. The prototype man created by his peers had been an almost soulless thing, a puppet in the hands of the gods, without any free will or feelings. Damian had given men passion and love and anger.
Reading the tale of his failed love, Armin could almost feel sorry for the doomed deity. Almost. It was a dangerous emotional trap.
The second book was a simple, unadorned book, full of short paragraphs that made no sense whatsoever. He had no idea what the book signified, but it was meant to be important. The investigator held it in one hand, briefly going through the verses. A work of lunatics, by all accounts. He put it away.
A small, thin volume was labeled Special Children. Intrigued, Armin picked it up. He started browsing. It seemed to be a philosophical piece on offspring born of coitus between gods and humans. Armin considered giving up, but then a sentence caught his eye.
The writer noted that there could be several kinds of Special Children, all blessed with certain divine powers, supernatural strength, prophetic skills, sorcery…This was an interesting claim. Armin knew people capable of performing magic, had seen magic performed. He read on.
He reached for the first book again, frowning and smiling as he started noticing important details he had completely missed earlier. The Theology was awash with references to Special Children, offspring created in the hour of need to help better the odds of war. Both sides had had them birthed, in the thousands, only to have them all butchered after the war had been won.
But the book also mentioned bloodlines. The great extermination of the children had been a failed task, born out of flawed thinking. Blood was a mysterious fluid. Sometimes, characteristics skipped entire generations, staying hidden, only to show again many years later. Most of the children had been murdered, but all those bearing the blood of the gods in their veins, yet without any special powers, had been completely missed. In their families, the divinity survived, coming to life every once in a while. These people had become wizards and monsters. And today, all that was left was a vague rumor of a story no one believed any longer.
The author also claimed that while the war was over and the urgency for victory long gone, the need had stayed fresh in the blood of the remaining Special Children. In an hour of dire need, their heritage, their instincts would come alive again.
Armin wrote this down in his notebook. It might be important.
The last book was a collection of maps, showing the migration of the peoples of the realms throughout the ages. Remarkably, it had records dating back to the late days of the Age of Sorrow, showing progress and retreat of embattled factions, the demise of cities and whole nations.
Armin stared at the maps. The contour of the land was similar. Sirtai had been a largely unexplored territory then, called the Wild Islands, perhaps indicating why Sirtai had escaped the yoke of continental theology.
Marked on the ancient maps were locations of different cities held by the gods. Armin grimaced. Some important detail etched in the back of his memory screamed for attention.
He picked up the Theology of the Continental Realms again and flipped the pages. He used feathers to mark important sections. At the end of the war, Damian had been deceived by his own allies, who had turned against him and banded with his enemies. The Pact of the Damned. He was tried and banished from the world, his temples ruined and his followers forcefully converted. The Great Court of the Gods had been held.
His blood froze.
He reached for a small stack of books on the far edge of the desk, a collection of works from Eybalen. He reached for the ancient Keutan dictionary and carefully paged until he’d found Feor again.
Armin hardly dared breathe. It seemed he had solved the case. But he did not dare let his emotions get in the way. Not yet.
Groaning with exhaustion, Armin leaned back, rubbing his eyes. This was the most dangerous juncture of his investigation. He must not make any mistakes now.
Taking a deep breath, Armin reread his notes, the culmination of his work in the recent months. Chart-maker and explorer Nespos. The man had spent quite a lot of time sailing up and down the coast of Ichebor, an archipelago of uninhabited isles north and east of Caytor. Shipmaster Perano had sailed Cormorant toward an unknown destination many times, ferrying people and cargo away, always returning empty. The people and the cargo so neatly summed up to the workers and goods missing from the businesses of the other victims. Shipwright Boune had provided his docks and warehouses for the clandestine marine voyages.
They had all been financed by Patriarch Davar, the founder of the Movement of Feor, a man supposedly completely opposed to their ungodly way of life.
Any other investigator would have given up long time ago. But not him.
“Feor” stood for “betrayed” in Keutan, such a simple and seemingly innocent word. A god called Betrayed. Armin stared at the map showing the location of Damian’s stronghold during the thousand-year war. It was located on one of the many islands of a large chain, roughly two hundred miles from Caytorean northern shores. It was also the location of the Great Court of the Gods, which had tried and banished him.
And the Feorans were fighting to see the old gods exterminated. If rumors were true, the Caytorean army, predominated by Feorans, was thundering across the Safe Territories, killing people who still believed in their gods and goddesses, and tearing down their temples.
Armin was not surprised to find the City of Gods marked on the map roughly in the same place as the Territories. It all fell into place.
Cold glee began to emerge, like a stubborn baby creeping out of the womb. Armin smothered it quickly, letting stark reason lead him. He closed his eyes, pressed his palms against his ears, and thought aloud, moving his lips in rhythm with silent words booming inside his head.
Davar had hired atheists to work for him, people who did not believe in or care for divine matters. He had sent them on a mission to Ichebor, the ruins of Damian’s fortress and his unholy affairs, the soil that had drunk the blood of Damian’s soldiers and seen his soul flayed to nothingness. There could be only one reason for that.
Damian was trying to flee his eternal prison, if he had not been successful already. He fed on the faith of a new religion to boost his power. How simple and convenient, Armin realized.
A vengeful god was on the loose in the world, tracking down his former enemies and methodically killing them. Worst of all, no one in the continental realms had any clue as to who Damian might be. He had been forgotten.
The curator of the museum approached and bowed.
Armin lifted his eyes from the book. “You need me, Wilhelm?”
Wilhelm bowed stiffly; he was a tall man with a small hump on his back. The flowing gray robes and the gloves on his fingers meant to keep smudge and grease from the delicate paper gave him a frightening look. “Your guest has arrived asking for your audience.”
The investigator nodded. “Yes, please. Send him to me.”
Several minutes later, a nondescript man in robes and a heavy fur coat approached, dripping rain onto the carpets. Beads of ice were caught in the ermine, slowly melting in the heat of the museum.
Like Armin, the guest had no hairs on his head, but for him, it was a choice. His pate was marked by a pair of blue-ink tattoos.
“Greetings, Investigator,” he said, hands clasped in front of him, bowing slightly.
Armin rose from the chair and bowed in return. “Greetings, Lucas. I hope your trip was satisfactory.”
Lucas smiled gently. “The weather was dogged, but otherwise, it was uneventful.”
&n
bsp; Armin sat down and reached for a small case resting against one of the table legs. He placed it on the desk and opened it. Inside, a broken crossbow quarrel lay, tarred in old black blood. Gently, Armin reached for it and held it out.
“This is the arrow that killed Inessa,” he said.
His guest extended one of his own hands and picked up the quarrel between two fingers. He rolled it between his fingers, sniffed it. “I will find them,” Lucas promised.
Armin swallowed, his soft features turning hard and sour. “You will make them suffer, Lucas. You will make them regret the day their mothers bore them into this world.”
“Whoever they are, wherever they are, the murderers will not escape justice. I will hunt them down.”
“You must not kill them right away. I need to know who sent them. I need the names of the people who sealed the fate of my wife.”
Lucas nodded again. “Vengeance will be yours.”
Armin felt his lower lip quiver with emotion. He took a deep breath, settling down. There was no escaping blood magic. The murderers of his wife were linked to her death by a special bond that went beyond time or simple evidence. Blood magic was an old and unpopular practice, scorned by most Sirtai, but not the Anada wizards, the servants of justice. They judged the world by different standards.
The investigator wondered if Lucas were one of the Special Children.
The price was high. Armin’s eldest son would have to be apprenticed at their secluded university for a year when he reached maturity, in payment for the favor done here and now. But it was worth it. Inessa would be avenged and her honor restored.
“The murderers and their sponsors are hiding in Eybalen. You will find them there.”
Lucas placed the tip of his tongue to the mangled tip of the bolt, tasting the blood. “This weapon was blessed by a god. It was fired by a man of great conviction,” the wizard said, his eyes rolled back in their sockets.
Armin sighed. It all led back to Damian, the forgotten, betrayed god. In his profession, criminals were ordinary men of flesh and blood. How could one hold a deity accountable for earthly sins? How could one see a god punished for his crimes?
The Betrayed: Book one of The Lost Words Page 25