The Betrayed: Book one of The Lost Words

by Igor Ljubuncic

  The remaining Feoran seemed afraid. His attempt came feeble, awkward. Ayrton parried with the last ounces of his strength. His right arm was almost wooden. But then, his last foe was on the ground, spitting blood, a prayer to Feor quivering on his lips.

  Ayrton sat by the dying man, the world spinning before him. Elia was climbing.

  “Ayrton!” she called. “Are you hurt?”

  “Keep your voice down,” he whispered, too low for his own ears. He fell to the side, almost unconscious with exhaustion. Cold snow melted against his skin, keeping him awake.

  “Ayrton!” Elia panicked. She dropped by his side, cradling him gently.

  “I’m fine, just a bit tired,” he mumbled. His wounds were not critical, he knew. He had been stabbed and slashed too many times to mistake little nips for fatal injuries. “We must continue.”

  “You cannot travel like this! This is terrible,” the woman protested.

  Ayrton managed to chuckle, choking on his own spit. “Ah, sweet Elia. You’d be amazed at how resilient and stubborn people can be. I have sworn to keep you safe, and that’s what I’m going to do. Even if I must march bleeding.”

  “Why did they try to kill us?” Elia whispered.

  “Because life means so very little nowadays,” he countered, dark sarcasm and wisdom blending into his delirium.

  “But…why do people live then? Why do they bother to… rise in the morning and fight for their survival? Why should they care?”

  Ayrton propped himself on an elbow. He grabbed a handful of snow and licked it. Then, he touched the ball to his cheek, wincing. Gently, he scraped the torn skin and gelatinous strands of blood away, leaving a red cut exposed to the wind. “In the bottom of the pack, a jar of lard.”

  Elia fumbled with his stores. She produced a small wooden crock. Ayrton smeared the pig fat on his cheek to keep the frostbite from turning a simple cut into a nightmare.

  “Why?” he said, smearing more on his forearm. “Because people are animals, mostly. But some elect to be more. So they embrace ideas. Like gods. Or conquest.”

  “And why do you do it?”

  Ayrton hobbled up. His left leg screamed in protest. He smeared the fat and bound the wound with a length of linen. It would do until nightfall.

  “I used to do it for…the wrong reasons,” he admitted. “Then, I tried to amend my soul by doing the right things. I thought it would work out. One thing would balance the other. But it’s not that simple, it seems. Now, I think it’s something else.”

  Elia helped him walk downhill. He smiled. She was helping him! Gently, he pushed her away until he was sure he could support himself. They continued north and west, descending, leaving behind the dead Feorans. Ayrton would not let his mind dwell on the battle. He knew the nightmares would come of their own volition, uninvited.

  “Well, what is it? What do you live for?”

  He paused. “I think it’s love.”

  Elia looked at him, her immortal eyes deep with hidden thoughts. “That sounds like a good idea,” she said after a long pause.

  Ayrton smiled. For him, winter was over.

  In his heart, it was spring again.

  EPILOGUE

  Mali hugged George. They held each other for a few moments.

  “This is it?” he said.

  “This is it,” she replied.

  She was leaving the army. There was no other way. Pregnant women could not lead hordes of soldiers into combat. Even the Third Battalion let its soldiers take a year’s leave when the time came, regardless of their status or rank.

  Her army was a shameful fragment of its former glory. Adam controlled most of the Eracian troops. They were no longer Eracian troops, she noted bitterly. They were now the defenders of their new realm, their emperor.

  Her decision to raise the child without its father was a wise choice. Adam was a madman.

  “The command is yours, whenever you want it,” Colonel George said.

  She shook her head gently. “No. You are the commander now.”

  George looked grim and sad. “Will you ever come back?”

  Mali smiled softly. “No, my army life is done. Please, George, you tell them?”

  The colonel nodded. The monarch would not take lightly the desertion of a chief officer. He would declare her a traitor and set a price on her head. Unless she became a victim of the mad war, buried in a nameless grave somewhere. George had promised to tell the tale to anyone who asked, from the lowliest spearman to the ruler of the realm himself.

  Mali picked up her meager belongings. Alexa waited some distance away. The two of them intended to strike north, deeper into Eracia. She intended to settle in some small village, ply her craft as a scribe or similar, and raise her child. The other soldier would not part with her, no matter what she said.

  “Here,” George said, handing her a purse. “I’ve taken it from the coffers.”

  Mali tried to refuse. “It’s stolen. I can’t.”

  George chortled. “We have too much money. Three quarters of our army has deserted. We have very few people to pay at the end of the month. One of the bonuses of mass desertion.”

  She accepted the precious coin. Life ahead would be hard. She would need every penny she could find.

  George leaned forward. “Besides, you’re leaving without your pension. This is the least I could do. Consider it partial reimbursement for all those years of soldiering. It should be enough to buy you a small piece of land somewhere and see you nicely settled for a few years. Until you figure out what you want to do next.”

  Mali sighed. “Good-bye.” She fought back tears. She had never cried in her life before. It must have been the baby. She had heard stories about pregnant women going sentimental.

  George said nothing. He watched her ride away, her loyal bodyguard at her side. He waited until she disappeared beyond the curve of the land and then turned and headed back to his weak army.

  Queen Olga stood on the balcony of her royal chambers, staring at the immaculate gardens a hundred feet below. Marble statues adorned the deep green maze of shrubbery and rare trees. In a land where water was as precious as gold, these gardens were a statement of power.

  Any time now, any time now…she thought.

  Rumors about the crushing defeat had been reaching Sigurd for weeks now. Messengers had come, bringing tragic news of the demise of the entire Parusite army. The king was dead.

  The king was dead.

  Now, a procession was approaching the city, a column of soldiers bearing their fallen king on a pair of stretchers, draped in the colors of the realm. His death was now a finality.

  Formal mourning had been forestalled until the king’s body was found and brought in. No one truly believed their ruler was dead, despite the overwhelming firsthand reports from the few survivors. But protocol called for a body. Left with no choice, Olga had been forced to suppress her joy, keeping her face stern and wrinkled with worry. It galled her to no end, but she had to play the role of the dutiful wife. For days, the city was a cauldron of tension.

  Vasiliy entered the royal chambers, ushered by one of her maids. He dismissed the girl and closed the door firmly after her, sliding the lock in place.

  Olga twirled around. Her black mourning dress was resplendent, showing her figure. The rare moment in the life of a Parusite wife when she could afford to provoke and defy the rigid rule of men was her mourning, a sad moment to be yearned for and cherished. A moment of freedom and deliverance.

  She could hardly breathe. Her stomach fluttered. “Is it done?”

  Archduke Vasiliy smiled handsomely. “It is done.”

  She rushed to him and hugged him fiercely, kissing his jaw. He gently pushed her away. “Not yet, my love. Not yet, we must be patient. You are a sad widow.”

  “And you are a sad widower, too,” she said.

  Vasiliy nodded. He had ridden to his estate last night to murder his barren wife, Nadia. The news of the tragedy would reach him in a few days, as he assumed t
he role of regent until Sergei reached the age to be crowned. He would feign shock and innocence, just like she had. He would be devastated.

  They would claim Nadia killed herself, unable to cope with the fact she could not bear children. It was a great shame in Parus to be barren. No one would think twice about the poor woman taking the easy way out of her misery.

  Vasiliy guided the queen onto the balcony. He looked at the gardens, just like she did.

  “We shall wait a few months before we marry,” she said, already dreaming of the days ahead.

  “Yes,” he said simply, craning over the balustrade.

  She spun again, like a little girl. “I have something to tell you.”

  Vasiliy leaned against her. “What is it?”

  “Sasha and Sergei are yours,” she whispered. The archduke lifted his head and stared at her for a very long time.

  “I know,” he said eventually.

  Olga’s question remained unspoken as he suddenly pushed her over the balustrade.

  The look of heart-piercing surprise on her face would haunt him forever, he knew. She plummeted wordlessly, cracking her skull on the hard marble below. There were no gardeners present. No one would miss the queen for a few moments.

  He went back into the room. A hooded figure waited for him by the bed.

  He approached, removed the hood, and kissed his wife, his dear wife. “I love you,” he said.

  “I love you, my king,” she said. “You must go now,” he whispered.

  Nadia handed him something. She reached for the lever and cracked open the secret passage. She smiled at him and vanished into the dark.

  Vasiliy waited for a few moments before he crushed the onion in his hands and rubbed it below his eyes. Tears welled.

  He had always known Sasha and Sergei were his children. He had lived with the regret for eleven cold, hard years seeing his twins being molested by the demented figure who called himself their father.

  But now, finally, all the evils would be undone.

  The Parusite army was gone. The only fighting force left in the realm were his ducal troops. There would be no one to dispute his claim to the throne, no one to oppose his act of mercy of adopting the orphaned royal twins.

  He threw the onion into the fireplace, unlocked the door to the chambers, and then shouted. The startled maids who rushed in found a devastated duke on his knees, weeping like a child.

  Ayrton stood at the bow of the small boat, watching the Territories recede behind him.

  It was over. His life in the realms was over.

  The crew of the small trading boat had taken them on without too many questions, caring only for the gold they were given. They had seen so many people do the same thing in the last few months.

  The few wise souls in the Territories had abandoned their hope of salvation, by either the Eracians or the Outsiders, and had fled from the enemy as far as they could. Some of them had wandered into the neighboring realms. Others had paid for voyage aboard nomad xebecs, heading for the strange lands that lay beyond Lia Lake.

  A new world. A new beginning. Sometimes, it was the simplest choice.

  Ayrton had sworn he would never come back to the madness of the realms, never again be a man of violence and death. For the first time, he had something better in his life, something worth dying for rather than killing for.

  Elia joined him. She was cold, like she always was in the alien, wintry world. Her body snuggled against his. “Do you know where we are going?”

  He hugged her, kissed her brow. “The sailors say the place is called Batha’n.”

  “What are we going to do there?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I thought about apprenticing to an armorer.”

  “I could work too,” she offered.

  Ayrton frowned. “Really? What kind of work?”

  Elia smiled. “Poetry. Or songs. I could write those again. Maybe…”

  Ayrton felt his eyes moisten. “But you have not done so in… ages,” he whispered.

  She wiped away his tears. “I feel inspiration coming back to me.”

  Ayrton closed his eyes. He was at peace.

  He was happy again.

  “Why are you crying, Grandpa?” Rob asked.

  Lord Erik was on his knees, wailing at the sky.

  The boy approached the old man and hugged him. “Don’t cry, Grandpa. Please don’t cry.”

  Lord Erik lowered his eyes, staring at the child as if he’d never seen him before. “She’s not dead.”

  Rob touched his grandfather’s face. “Who?”

  “Elia, she’s not dead.”

  “The goddess from the book?” the boy asked.

  Lord Erik buried his face in his arms, sobbing.

  Elia…she lives.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Igor Ljubuncic is a physicist by vocation and a Linux geek by profession. He is the founder and operator of the website www.dedoimedo.com, where you can learn a lot about a lot. Before dabbling in operating systems, Igor worked in the medical hitech industry as a scientist. However, what he likes to do most is to write. Passionate about the fantasy genre, he has been writing since the age of ten. You can learn more about Igor’s writing on his book series’ website, www.thelostwordsbooks.com.