Only they did not have a corpse. Tanid’s eternal eyes spoke, We will have to create one.
Ewan stared at the god who called himself Gavril, and did not like him very much right then. If this war was only about him, Ewan would have left him to his own devices and random twists of luck. But it was more than just that. It was about the people of the realms, and for some strange reason, Ewan felt a need to be their champion. The same people who had shunned and feared him.
Human sacrifice sounded wrong, no matter what, even if it meant providing munition for the bloodstaff. The sleek rod was empty. Ewan still had not fully figured out how its magic worked, but the blood part was rather simple. You needed regular supplies of warm red, or it would not fire. The fields around the town were littered with old, bloated, and half-eaten carcasses of both livestock and refugees, but they were not fresh enough, it seemed.
A tiny part of him was excited to see the ancient weapon in action. He wanted to see how it behaved, what kind of damage it could render, what range it had. He was imagining it spewing wild bursts of crimson fire; he imagined it shaking violently in his arms, straining his muscles. He imagined the sound of thunder, great, splitting peals, and a whoosh of air flattening the grass stalks around him and raising a ring of dust. He imagined its red arrows fleeting in a shallow arc halfway across the battlefield and mowing down enemy troops with indiscriminate lack of emotion.
But until he fired it, he would not really know.
“We need a corpse,” Tanid repeated. He looked behind him, below the crest of the hill, where his two constant companions were waiting, the surly ax wielder and the big, shy boy, who seemed to be another Special Child, much like himself.
Scouting missions normally fell on the shoulders of the common troops, hardly the leaders and their hive of trusted guards. But Tanid had wanted to glimpse the movement of the Naum army himself and goad Ewan into using the bloodstaff against the enemy.
Apparently, witnessing the bane of the realms in the flesh made people go beyond logic and healthy precaution. The two Sirtai wizards were there, too, trying to keep their odd islander excitement at bay. The blue-faced man was not trying that hard; the mask of old ink hid his emotions well.
In just a few short weeks, Ewan had turned from a lonely orphan, traveling the dusty trails of the realms, into a god’s companion, cohorting with Adam’s daughter, with the sister of the Parusite king, with a horde of experienced warriors and killers from all corners of the world. Oh, he had missed quite a lot of real life while locked away in the Abyss, and still more searching for answers about himself, dragging Doris and Constance across the realms, going to the Oth Danesh land on a flimsy promise of redemption.
He still was not quite sure what to feel about this latest turn of his fate. He had gone from being a feared tyrant to a grubby pilgrim, and yet, he was at the center of attention once again. He found the interest in him strangely comforting. No more of the blind terror he had suffered in Kamar Doue, just pure, keen fascination with his abilities, and mostly his weapon.
Ewan was slowly trying to piece together the power dynamics between Empress Amalia, Princess Sasha, Jarman, and Lucas. The younger Sirtai wizard was almost giddy with joy over his arrival, as if the bloodstaff signified the solution to all their problems, and Ewan—as the one holding it—along with it. Lucas was more reserved, more cautious, and so was the Parusite Red Caps leader, who did not seem that interested in magical weapons, but she could appreciate the human reinforcements.
Amalia’s regard was the most intriguing of all. She seemed frightened of him, and she hated him at the same time, and he did not know why. Then again, she looked up to him as if he was the one person who could redeem her, who could wash away the last two years of her failure as the Athesian leader. All the while she eyed the bloodstaff with a curious mix of wonder, coveting, and fear. It left him uneasy, and he believed she knew more about this magical weapon than all the others.
Or so he guessed. It was hard to tell with politics so tightly woven into every word spoken, with fragments of ancient truths invading into the modern reality, with his own identity still remaining a painful mystery.
Tanid was too busy, too divine to devote himself to just one man. Ewan was, after all, just a tool.
“Ludevit,” the god called. His voice was slightly muted, as if he feared his voice might carry a whole league away. It was impossible, with the wind slapping the trees senseless and whistling through cracks in the rocks, but the size of the Naum contingent had a humbling effect on everyone, including the deity. “Find a volunteer.” Tanid turned toward Ewan. “Strange. If we were back in our camp, we could just go to the infirmary, ask the warden for someone who is terminally ill and might not live past the Autumn Festival, and bring them over here.” The season would turn in less than a week.
The man with the moustache nodded and struck back down the goat trail, toward the small base in the foothills. It was a small mobile force, with light mounts and supplies for just a few days, enough to see them safely back in Ecol.
When Tanid had asked Ewan to accompany him north on an expedition, the two Sirtai had almost shouted they would be joining the perilous ride. The young man had insisted on seeing the bloodstaff being used. It was a strange combination, his academic passion and genuine lust for violence blended into a passive, rational demeanor. Then, stranger still, the empress had asked to come along and had to be convinced to remain behind, should things turn ugly.
Eventually, Princess Sasha had ordered her vassal to stay in Ecol and help administer the war preparations. Food, discipline, army detail, they needed a lot of attention and trust, and Amalia’s familiar face helped. Red Caps were taking position in the same trenches with the Athesians, and from what Ewan had heard, they had fought each other bitterly only months earlier. Now, they would be defending their land, entrusting their lives to one another.
Beefing up their strength was the Army of the One God, as Tanid called it, which kept on assembling, with the newly arrived forces spreading around Amalia’s town. The pilgrims were an unruly, colorful lot, with an obvious lack of military training, but they shone with zeal and fearless dedication, and that made up for the chaos and squalor they brought with them.
The god shrugged almost apologetically, and Ewan forgot about his daydreaming. “Now, we will need someone to sacrifice themselves.”
Ewan swallowed. Was he going to allow Tanid to murder someone? So he could feed the bloodstaff?
After all, he had come to stop Calemore. He understood the burden and the price. He knew what it would take and that he would be killing people, thousands of them. Why did he feel a sudden flood of disgust at Tanid’s notion?
Maybe because whoever had to die didn’t really have a choice.
“This is wrong,” he said.
The shy boy looked up, his face constricted with guilt. Gavril noticed that, but his expression remained unchanged. “Ewan, we are fighting a war of survival. Everything we do will be wrong to some degree. Our moral compass is steering us through the deep, dark waters of sin and regret. But out of this necessity, a hope will be born. A hope of the realms, for all of mankind.”
“So to survive, we must become…them?” He pointed toward the white enemy.
Tanid smiled, an entire age compressed into a single press of lips. “You understand the threat the White Witch poses. His army will bear us no mercy, will grant no quarter or consideration. True, that does not make our own decisions any easier. But it makes our responsibility greater.”
Ewan stepped off the large, wind-blasted rock and walked toward a scree of stunted trees. At least he would not be able to see the enemy screening force, would not deliberate their deaths every moment while they waited for Bad Luck Ludevit to return.
The part that really saddened Ewan was the intimate knowledge that this was something he had to do. The inevitable sensation of grief throbbed in every fiber of his being, in tune with the ancient instincts and alien knowledge that imbued him. H
is stomach muscles were taut with premonition, except the outcome was obvious. It was just delayed by time, waiting for the future to arrive.
Calemore would not share his doubt, he knew. Damian’s son would not be bothered about human losses. After all, they were meant to be. Mortal creatures were expendable, and in the worst case, you sped up their short lives by a few quick decades. The White Witch had planned the destruction of the gods and their followers for countless centuries. Now, he was bringing the old war to a conclusion.
Ewan just happened to be the unlucky champion of humanity.
The size of the Naum force was truly staggering. The white blotch across the valley was just a tiny finger, milling, probing, exploring the defenses of its foe, coming closer. The nations of the realms were still trying to understand why they were being attacked by some strange people no one had known existed.
Ludevit was coming back from the small camp, a soldier of the holy army trailing after him. Ewan swallowed. He focused on the camouflaged tents, on the muffles covering the horses’ shanks, on the silence and the lack of fire rings, on the erratic lament of the wind. The huddle of scouts was standing, looking up toward the crest, their faces indiscernible, just pale blobs swathed in leather. Ewan wondered what they were thinking. Adulation for being given the chance to sacrifice themselves for Gavril? Something else?
The two Sirtai joined the ax wielder as he climbed to the top of the hill.
“This is Javor,” Ludevit said, short of breath. “He will do it.”
A young man with a broad, sun-blasted face stood near the moustached warrior, looking bright, eager, and completely unconcerned. Ewan wondered if he knew he was giving up his life. Did he understand what they asked of him?
Tanid smiled and laid a gentle hand on the soldier’s shoulder. “Thank you. The gods and goddesses will bless you.”
The young man had tears in the corners of his eyes. “Tell me what to do, Father.”
The god did not hesitate. “Lie down here. There. Just lie on the ground. It will not hurt.”
Ewan glanced at Jarman. The Sirtai did not look comfortable, but he did not look like he intended to interfere with or stop this madness. “You will give away your life willingly?” he asked.
Javor had lowered himself onto the wet grass. “Yes, sir. If my selfless act can save others, why not? And I will be loved by the gods.” His voice trembled at the last word.
Tanid rallied. “We ask soldiers to give their lives in the names of many causes and virtues. We ask them to stand in a line with their comrades and raise spears against the rushing tide of cavalry. Or to slice deep into flesh of other men. To fire arrows against strangers two hundred paces away. How is this any different? Or less noble?”
Ewan looked toward the white enemy. “Are you asking this man to die in order to save the realms or because you want to see how this works?” He hefted the crystal rod.
Jarman looked away. Shame, at least, Ewan thought. But still, not enough, not enough by far.
Tanid stepped closer to the scout and gently caressed his hair. Javor turned his head into the stroke, eyes closed, face ecstatic. The power of religion held him in a warm, beautiful sway, and nothing would change his mind. Once upon a time, Ewan might have invested his soul in prayer, in the love of gods and goddesses, but now he knew different. He had spent eighteen years locked in the Abyss, sharing their thoughts, their fears, their ambitions.
Their greed, their lies, their schemes—they were just like those of ordinary men.
A higher cause or a selfish cause? Ewan wondered, staring at Tanid. Perhaps there was no distinction for the one remaining god, and all he had was raw survival. Even so, it was wrong.
“This is not about you, lad,” the blue-tattooed wizard said. “Not about your morality.”
Ewan was taken aback. But he recovered quickly. “Is it about yours?”
The Sirtai did not answer.
Javor stretched back like he was resting and closed his eyes, eerily serene. Ludevit hovered nearby, watching the crowd carefully. Then, he laid his gimlet eyes on Ewan. The rest followed suit, waiting for him. It was up to him to act now, and bear the guilt, too.
Take one human life so I can take many more? he wondered. His immediate desire was to curse them all and just leave, but he knew it could not be like that. He could disregard petty human motives, but he could not ignore his legacy. He had stopped Damian twice. He had killed him. He had swum to the bottom of that lake on purpose, gripped the ancient weapon, and now carried it with him, because the world had a role in store for him. He would be deluding himself if he thought it would be anything but brutal and grim. This was his legacy, after all.
Ewan toted the crystal staff. “What do I do now? Just press it against the body? For how long?”
Tanid pointed. “Any visible part of the skin will do. The bloodstaff will suck as long as you keep contact. The level of blood will determine how much munition you will have at your disposal against the enemy.”
On the ground, Javor was listening, and his eyelids fluttered once or twice, but otherwise, he was unperturbed. Jarman was carefully watching him, judging, weighing, waiting.
My legacy. Ewan sighed. He looked at the soldier one last time, but there was only blind devotion painted there, too painful to watch. “Are you certain, Javor?” He ignored the nervous, hungry crowd around him.
“Yes, sir. Please.”
Insane.
Corpse, Tanid had mentioned a corpse. But the soldier still lived. So what now? Ewan was going to kill him? Or maybe he could save this fool from his own destruction.
“Must he die?” Ewan grabbed at the last shred of decency still left at the hilltop.
Tanid’s brows shot up. “Well, no. If you’re careful, you can draw only a small amount of blood. But the enemy force is too large. We will need all of it. Javor will give his life for the gods and goddesses, for all of us.”
Why not kill the man first, Ewan wondered. But he knew. They all wanted to witness this magical weapon in action, all of its secrets.
“Please,” Javor insisted.
“Please,” Tanid added, oozing pure, golden compassion.
You have killed before, Ewan’s conscience purred. You have taken life. For no other reason than selfish gratification. You called it survival and justice, but it was your own power, your invincibility exerting its superiority over the world.
He was too tired to be the moral scale for the whole of humanity. It was too much of a task. Deep down, he knew his friend Ayrton would have told all these butchers to go bugger themselves, but then, what good would it do when the white army swept the lands and murdered everyone? They sure had proven their intent in Bassac.
My legacy, he thought, the taste in his mouth bitter, the pain in his chest a surprising token of what little humanity he still had left.
“So be it.” Ewan carefully pressed the butt end against Javor’s upturned palm. The soldier jerked suddenly and gasped, his eyes going wide. A rush of syrupy red filled the rod, climbing fast. Ewan gaped, fascinated; then he realized the scout was still alive, bleeding to death. He yanked the bloodstaff away. Ghostly pale, Javor crumbled into a ball, moaning. Still alive.
“He will live,” Ewan whispered, hopeful. Perhaps you did not need a corpse.
“He will die. You have taken too much,” Tanid told him. “He cannot recover from the loss of so much blood. You should at least use all of it now.” The god pointed toward the almost-unconscious soldier. “Please. Have mercy.”
Ewan tried to control his outrage. “No. Enough.”
The god calling himself Gavril nodded at Ludevit. The man removed his ax from his belt and swung deftly. The halfmoon blade chopped into the soldier’s neck, almost severing it. There was no squirting, no sputters, just a lazy leak of red that colored the grass. The moaning and the spasms ceased.
“Now, please, take the rest of the blood, while it’s warm.”
Ewan wanted to hate Tanid, but it would be pointless. The
god had his own measure of right and wrong, and they went beyond anything Ewan could imagine. Almost in a trance, an oily bubble of disgust wrapping his emotions, Ewan pressed the bloodstaff against the neck wound, and the tendrils of crimson snaked into the staff, filling it up. Soon enough, Javor’s corpse was a wizened husk, dry and the color of old bone.
He looked at the weapon, hating himself a tad more. I am a monster. He looked imploringly at Tanid.
“Level it against the Naum forces. And squeeze the rod in the middle, there.” Tanid stepped back, and everyone else followed suit. Ewan realized he was holding an ancient artifact of magic in his hands, and it could do untold damage.
Ewan turned toward the Naum force. It had advanced half the distance across the valley, and it was probably about a mile and a half away. You still could not tell individual soldiers apart, but their menace was that much bigger, more palpable.
He spread his legs for better leverage and braced himself. Thunder and fire. He pressed. Silence. Deathly silence. A streak of red pellets, almost too fast to see, sped across the gorge and soon became just a shimmering dazzle of crimson dust. The torrent of magical hail crashed into the hillside, halfway to the target, upsetting stone and dirt. But still, there was no sound, no violence.
“Too far, they are too far,” the young Sirtai wizard observed, standing near him, craning forward. “You need to elevate the weapon. Higher.”
Ewan frowned. Like an archer, then. He pointed the bloodstaff toward the cloudy sky.
“Less. About seventeen degrees,” Lucas said, angling his arm in a mock salute.
Ewan closed his fingers on the rod again. More red death sped away at an incredible speed, and then, he noticed the front ranks of the enemy van crumpling, dissolving. You could see a great cloud of debris rising, masking the distant, silent carnage.
“More,” Tanid insisted. “Aim wider.”
Ewan held the weapon at the slight elevation and moved it left and right, spraying magical death against the enemy congregation, watching it diminish, watching it become a still carpet of white on the wet slopes of the nearby hill. Several stragglers were fleeing, beating back toward their encampment, clambering away. He could only imagine the chaos and terror amid their ranks. But from this great distance, with nothing but the wind whistling in his ears, it felt surreal, clean and simple. Quite merciful in a way. Elegant. Noble. The way death ought to be.
The Humbled (The Lost Words: Volume 4) Page 28