He turned again. “Feor is nothing but a lie. Just another lie. He is nothing but a tale, invented by other people to control you, to use you. And you, poor fools, you have accepted it. You let them rape your minds.”
Adam shook his head. “I’m here to offer you a choice, the first real choice in your miserable lives.”
He lifted his arms aloft. “Forsake Feor and all the other god and goddesses. They do not exist. They are fictional. Embrace the law of men, the creed built by fire and sword. Embrace disbelief in its fullest. Embrace reason.”
The former prostitute from Paroth lowered his arms. “Look at me. I hold your lives in my grip. I control your fate. Whether you live or die today is my choice. Mine. For all practical purposes, I am your god today. And I’m just another man like everyone else.
“You can stop believing in nonsense and become people of reason and law. My law. You will be my citizens, and I will protect you from evil and hunger. I cannot promise you any miracles. It will be a hard life I offer you, full of misery and pain. And you will never be truly your own masters. There will always be someone bigger and stronger than you telling you what to do. But at least your souls will be free. You will pay no tribute to anyone for your sins and lies. You will ever only answer the law for your crimes.”
Adam waved violently. “You may wonder why I have given you this offer. Well, it’s simple. You have seen the futility of belief in one horde of gods once already. You’ll be able to do it the second time so much more easily. You know what false promises and hopes are.”
Silence. Utter silence. Only the wind and the rain. But no human spoke. Adam knew most of his soldiers were battling the same dilemma. Adam had no doubt what their choice would be. They believed in him more than anything or anyone else, the culmination of human nature at its best.
“If you decide to forsake Feor, you will be allowed to live, stay in your homes, and retain your property and your businesses and your fields. You will be my people.”
Something incredible happened. Someone raised a hand in the crowd. Adam looked down at the supplicant, a simple man in simple clothes, a hero by all standards.
“Permission to…ask you a question, my lord?”
Adam nodded. “Go ahead.”
“We have been given promises before, by Feorans and the…patriarchs before them. How can we know what you tell is truth now?”
Adam smacked his lips. “What’s your name?”
The man saluted awkwardly. “Jerome, a blacksmith, my lord.”
Adam smiled. It was true what they said about blacksmiths. They forged more than just iron; they forged wisdom. “I have no divine bribes to offer you, no fears of retribution should you refuse to believe my words. As one man to another, all I can offer you is my best guess, my desire. I wish to see this world rid of empty belief, of the filth of divinity which people use to cover up for their vile crimes. No woman has ever been raped in the name of mankind, always in the name of the gods. Mothers would abandon their children and blame the gods. Where are the gods for them? Do gods only serve the rich and powerful? Where is Feor when you need him today?”
Adam turned to face the crowd again. “I’m offering you the same filth, the same pain, the same shit you’ve been eating your whole lives. But it has no flavor of gods. Only the simple human taste of crap.”
The fervor of tension felt like a solid wall of thick, sweaty air. The people before him would either see reason or turn to a river of blood. There was no other way. There was no going back.
“If you still believe in Feor, stay on your feet. Everyone else, kneel and acknowledge me as your ruler.”
Slowly, the forest of humans went down, one after another. There was no one left standing.
Adam clapped once. That was settled then. “Rise, citizens of Roalas, the first free city.”
Back in his pavilion, Adam sat in front of a brazier, trying to warm up his body. The hours of standing in the cold had exhausted him.
Lord Erik sat on a chair not far away, drinking some wine, looking slightly pale and worried. His grandson was playing with a wooden horse on the carpets, lost in some world of his own.
“You look tired,” Adam noted.
The grandfatherly figure smiled softly. “Nothing major. Just a bit of a cold.”
Adam threw a pair of drenched socks in front of the coals. They hissed and smoked. “Any news?”
Lord Erik coughed. “Indeed. The council is relieved to hear of your success. The fall of Roalas allows them to pull away their private armies from central Caytor and move into Eybalen. They intend to snuff out the last wisps of the Feoran plague and restore the city to their rule.”
Adam wrapped another blanket around his shoulders. “What about the forces in the Territories?”
Lord Erik grimaced. “That cannot be helped now. The Territories will be overrun. The reign of the old gods and goddesses will be destroyed. But this is something the council has hoped for, for a very long time. The removal of religion from politics is a very important achievement.”
The commander of the Carrion Eaters was not fully convinced. “I would still like to go after them and crush them.”
“You would abandon your strategic victory here, then. The nobles would no longer feel compelled to negotiate with you. They might even try to regain the lost land. And you would merely be helping the patriarchs survive. It would undo your gains in the last six months.”
Lord Erik rose slowly. He looked exhausted. “This way you enjoy the favor of the Eracian monarch, you have the fear and respect of Caytorean merchants and nobility, the Territories will be destroyed, all religion significantly weakened, and the Feorans would stay trapped between Eracia and Parus, with a mighty enemy keeping them from returning to Caytor. You will have removed the poison of the Movement from the realms, trapped it in a neutral land. What more could you ask for?”
“I wonder what the monarch would try to do.”
Lord Erik shook his head. “I believe he will move more of his forces into the Territories, strengthening the border region. Who knows, he might even try to take the Territories completely, at least the eastern provinces.”
“And what about the war in the north?”
“Another good thing. The nobles will have to divide their forces between watching you, exterminating the Feoran rebellion, and making sure the rest of the Eracians do not invade. This would keep them busy, allowing you to continue with your peace campaign without interruptions. This might even lead to some permanent sort of an agreement between the realms. You might become the instigator of the first real peace treaty between Eracia and Caytor ever.”
Adam stretched back on the hard cot. “I still fail to understand why you want me to succeed so much.”
Lord Erik sighed. “An ever-thinking mind. I have told you many times. I see the threat of religion as far more significant than simple human affairs. Religion is the seed of evil in the realms. You may have taken a parcel of my country, but the benefits are huge. Instead of seeing Caytor deteriorate into civil war, we will be free of the yoke of the houses and the Movement. Our trade will blossom. We will be a smaller nation, but more powerful than ever.”
Adam tried to sip wine while prone, finding it difficult. He sat up. “Sounds reasonable.”
“Definitely. Oh, there’s one more thing.”
Adam stiffened. Lord Erik never brought trifle news. “What is it?”
“My spies report a huge Parusite army in the south of the Territories, moving north and east. Toward you. I believe King Vlad has heard of your conquests and feels extremely jealous. He’s not the kind to take another’s successes lightly.”
“Sounds like a nutjob,” Adam offered.
“He is that, but he does command close to fifty thousand warriors. They will prove a terrible threat to your army. After all, they outnumber you almost two to one.”
Adam smiled. “Then this calls for some really cunning strategy on my behalf.”
Lord Erik shook his head.
“It won’t be necessary. This problem can be solved in a rather simple fashion. You need your troops around you. You need to consolidate your victory. The Parusites are merely an annoyance.”
“How so?”
Slightly unsteady on his feet, Lord Erik reached behind him. He offered Adam a large case of wood and leather, like a box used by smiths to carry blades to their customers, only much longer. Inside, resting on a pillow of bloodred satin was a long, slender rod of glass.
The old man bid him take it. Adam reached for the curious device. It was extremely light and cool. But it did not feel fragile. “Glass?”
Lord Erik sat down again, with a small groan in his throat.
“Are you well?” Adam asked him.
“Just a fever. I’ll be fine. It’s not glass, but something much harder. Some call it volcano’s tears.”
Adam stared at the staff in his hand, admiring it from different angles. He liked the play of light, the miniature rainbows sparking up and down its shiny, transparent length. The only decorations were three bear claws on one end, hooked in a triangular fashion and touching at the tips, and a pair of black marks at midheight.
“This thing is called a bloodstaff. It is a weapon that was designed during the First Age of Mankind. It was used to kill countless hundreds of thousands of people.”
Adam was genuinely intrigued. “How…how does it work?”
“You place the blunt part against a body of a newly dead man. The staff drinks his blood and fills up. Then, you level the weapon at your target and press here.” He pointed at the black marks. “The staff will spew solidified blood pellets straighter than an arrow a mile away. You just need to point the Bloodstaff at your enemies. It will do the rest.”
Adam swallowed. “A mile? That’s ten times the best longbow range. And what about penetration? Can it defeat plate armor?”
Lord Erik patted the glassy device with affection. “A blood pellet can blast through an inch of solid metal. There’s no armor that can stop it.”
Adam caressed the staff. “Are you sure it works?”
Lord Erik rose. “How about a demonstration?”
They went outside. Adam was too fascinated by his new toy to care for the wind and the rain. Lord Erik led him away to a small outcropping overlooking the northern flank of the camp outside Roalas. He pointed at a distant grove of trees near the edge of the camp.
“See there?” he said.
The Butcher squinted, trying to discern the detail through the screen of icy spray. Someone was sneaking up on his guards, unseen. It was a very small-looking thing, a child or a dwarf. The sentries were huddling against the cold, oblivious to the grotesque presence in their midst.
“Kill that thing,” Lord Erik offered softly.
“We need blood,” Adam suggested.
“Take some of mine, but be careful to pull away quickly.” A freckled, wrinkled arm was offered.
Adam hesitated, but then he felt his body respond to some bestial urge within him. He touched the blunt tip to Lord Erik’s forearm. The old noble twitched and stumbled, pale as a ghost. Adam yanked the staff away. It had quickly filled to a quarter.
“I’m all right,” Lord Erik hissed, down on his knees.
Adam stared at the Bloodstaff. Syrupy blood glistened inside the crystal hollow of the rod.
“A gentle squeeze on the marks will let go a single pellet. A hard, continuous grip will yield a torrent of pellets. The fully loaded staff can fire almost ten thousand pellets, enough to level an army in seconds.”
Adam stood frozen, unbelieving.
“Come on. Level those claws at that creature and fire.”
Moving like a drunkard, the former prostitute obeyed. He closed one eye and aimed at the dwarf, some five hundred paces away. His fingers closed on the marks.
There was no warning, no feeling, no sound. A frosted ruby exploded from the tip, almost too fast to see arcing away. Adam watched it hammer into the ground near the dwarf, gravel and grass flying. The dwarf jumped, looking around him frantically.
“Again.”
Adam repeated the gesture, just a gentle touch with the tip of his fingers. This time, the compact, cloaked figure fell down, thrown by some invisible force. It stayed down, unmoving.
“Excellent,” Lord Erik said. “Well done.”
“Ten thousand pellets?” Adam repeated, his voice hoarse with childish delight.
“Just make sure you have enough fresh corpses around you. The blood in the bodies must be liquid.” Lord Erik patted him on the shoulder and limped away.
CHAPTER 38
Armin had returned to Eybalen several days ago. The bad weather had persisted for a long time, making shipmasters reluctant to undertake unnecessary voyages. This delayed his departure for Ichebor, adding to his anger and urgency.
For the first time in weeks, a weak sun had come out, drying the drenched land, infusing some heat into the pale world. Vapor was oozing from the pores in the earth as it warmed, coating everything in a silvery, woolen, annoying sheen.
Armed with maps and books and several bodyguards, he walked down the docks. Finding a shipmaster willing to sail to the deserted islands was not a simple a task, it seemed. The Caytoreans may have forgotten about Ichebor, but their instinct had not. Deep down in their animal souls, they remembered the horror of ancient ages. Few men willingly sailed toward the islands.
Shipmaster Lloyd refused to talk to him. Most of the guild members avoided him for some reason. It might be the shame that their plots and blunders had brought about the death of his wife. Or the fear that his investigation had bitten too deeply into affairs that should have remained hidden.
Going through the records in the archive had given him many dirty secrets about the dignified and respected merchants in Eybalen. Theoretically, those secrets were a weapon he could use against them. But he was not here to wage a war of principles with the council. The trafficking of children and slaves did not interest him now.
So he sought passage on a ship by peaceful and polite manners, trying to coax and buy them with gold. When he mentioned the deserted islands, they instantly demanded twice the price of what he had to offer, no matter how high it was to begin with, hoping he would refuse. He never did. Armin did not care for trifle expenses.
As the prospect of a voyage to the stormy seas of the cursed, deserted archipelago became real, the shipmasters would start inventing other excuses, claiming disease, repairs, or other engagements. Even money was not enough to overcome their inbred terror of the islands.
Rumor had spread that an eccentric Sirtai was trying to sail a ship toward Ichebor. In order to save their dignity, the seamen made sure they were always too busy to see him, refusing to negotiate.
The combined reputation of a snooping detective and an obsessed man lax with his gold made him an unwelcome sight at the docks. Burly, hard men stared at him with open animosity. But nothing could discourage him. He always smiled at them and never blinked.
As days passed, he grew more desperate. Winter was closing on the city. Soon, the storms would be too high to chance a voyage to the islands. Armin could not afford to wait for spring. Things were happening at a rapid pace. There was no time to lose. Damian was probably free, roaming the world and corrupting souls. The Feoran plague threatened to become a deadly disease that would sweep the whole of the continent, and then maybe Sirtai, too.
Armin admitted he had been wrong to dismiss the religions of the realms as a trivial matter. They were the essence of all good and evil broiling in the world, the core of a great conflict in the making. Eybalen was on the brink of chaos.
Then, of course, there was Inessa, first and foremost.
Armin knew that he would probably not be able to find a candidate among the guild members, so he had turned to the derelict, dodgier parts of the waterfront, on the city’s south side. Most of the ships anchored there belonged to people who did not have enough money or connections to become guild members. Some of them were pirates and sm
ugglers, paying a tribute to the city lawmen in return for turning a blind eye on their shady businesses and a place to repair their ships.
The investigator wondered how highly they valued their gold.
Unlike the council-monitored north harbor, the south quarter was a poor neighborhood, with as many brothels as houses. Armin’s bodyguards had advised him to keep away from the area, but he had ignored them. His wife had died in the rich districts of the city. If someone wanted to attack him here for wearing a cleaner set of clothes than the locals, he would almost be glad for the distraction.
The night before, Armin had gone into several shoddy pubs, putting out a rumor that a wealthy foreigner was interested in a risky voyage, no questions asked. He had also inquired into the names of the more famous mariners frequenting the south quarter, hoping to minimize his search.
One of the names had been repeated more than once.
Armin approached the knot of laborers hauling sacks off a ship’s deck, stacking them by the wharf. They paused in their work and stared at the curious procession, a bald man and four armed guards at his back. They did not seem to like his sort around here.
“I’m looking for Shipmaster Horace,” Armin said amiably.
“Who’s asking?” one of them growled, confirming he had found the right crew.
“My name is Armin,” he said simply. He did not want to frighten them with his surname.
Another figure pushed past the first speaker. “So you’re the posh foreigner we heard about, eh?”
Armin nodded, smiling. “Are you Shipmaster Horace?”
The man spat. “I’m no master of no ship. She’s my mistress. I serve her deck, and she takes me where I need. My men call me ‘Captain’ around here. ‘Shipmaster’ is a nice title for the rich guild boys.”
The investigator noted the obvious animosity toward the council. Maybe this was something he could use to his advantage. “I’ve heard that Tenacious is an able ship with an able crew.”
Horace rubbed his cheeks, powdered with coarse black whiskers, the kind that could never be fully shaved. “You heard right. But what is a posh like you doing here? And what’s with those bullies?”
The Betrayed: Book one of The Lost Words Page 27