They passed a squad of his warriors dragging a bloodied man behind them. A drop of blood hit the assassin’s cloak. He hissed something in a foreign language. It sounded like a curse.
The general-patriarch had not yet told the little man about his assignment, although he suspected he already knew it. Otherwise, he would never have come. Pum’be did not travel thousands of miles to hear they needed to kill some old woman or similar nonsense.
Still, Davar did have his doubts. He wanted to meet Adam in combat, face-to-face, and defeat him. Despite the string of victories, the Eracians were outnumbered. Their streak of luck would run out sooner or later.
Yet, this Adam was a frightening phenomenon. He was the inspiration of wild horror stories. Adult men shook with fear when they talked about him. This worried him a lot. Feorans feared no one.
Not far from the hilltop, in one of the squares, a horde of Outsiders was being given the choice. They could forsake their old gods and join the Movement—or die. It was so simple. Davar’s smile widened when he saw the bulk of the prisoners step forward. A few romantic fools remained in the back.
“I want you to kill a very special man,” Davar told the assassin. Adam had to die, and soon.
The Pum’be grunted.
“He is…a commander of Eracian forces, stationed near the Bakler Hills in the east. He may have advanced his troops after us in the recent days. The man is an apt leader and most likely a very cruel and merciless man. He must die.”
The assassin nodded, a twitch of his hood. No one really knew what the Pum’be looked like. They always wore those absurd cloaks and hoods, day and night, summer and winter. The only thing that marked them was the height. All of their assassins were quite short.
When he looked down again, the Pum’be was gone, vanished as mysteriously as he had come. Davar smiled. Well, if the little bugger was half as good as the legends said, Adam was a dead man, enjoying his last hours in the world.
General-Patriarch Davar felt excited by the ordeal. He wanted to go back to his tent and play with his new toy.
Talmath was a sweet victory. But it was only a beginning.
He reached into a pocket and pulled out a small, folded map, written on hard, oily paper that resisted the elements with surprising stubbornness. Another gift from his friend. It was a map of the Safe Territories. But it was different from all the other maps ever made.
On it was sketched a place that showed on no other map.
The City of Gods, his ultimate target.
CHAPTER 22
Foolish pride. He wished he had not thrown away the purse with the coins. He had not eaten in four days. He was weak and famished.
Ewan was not really sure where he was, but he followed a road. Roads led somewhere. He meandered east, where he felt he must go.
He had lost track of time, but it was about two weeks since he had been banished from the convent. The days were getting shorter, and the nights were getting colder. He spent them curled into a ball, shivering, sleeping in bogs or bushes.
Today, it rained, an earnest autumn downpour. The world had the color of slate. His shoes sludged, making sucking noises as they parted from a lane of mud. Ewan walked mechanically, step by step. There was nothing else he could do. He was alone and lost in the big, cruel world.
He believed he was in Caytor somewhere, having crossed the border more than a week ago. He had not met anyone on the road he followed, so he was not really sure. In fact, he did not even know what a Caytorean was supposed to look like. Did they talk like him, the same language? But they must. There were many Outsiders from Caytor in the Territories.
He had no map and did not know where he was going, so he imagined what he remembered from history books. The only thing that mattered was that he rose and walked off into the rising sun and that it set behind his back. Something in his innards propelled him east, something sinister that stole the breath from his lungs every time he thought about it.
His fever had come again, weak but persistent. It had lasted for three days. Now, all that was left was random delirium and sweet dreams about food. His last meal had been a frog he’d caught by the riverbank several days back. He knew that frogs should not be eaten, but he had swallowed it whole and raw and then shat himself dry in the middle of the night.
He had no hunting skills. He knew very little about nature. He was afraid to pick berries or mushrooms, knowing that many were poisonous.
Sometimes, he talked to himself while walking. He felt a need to hear a voice, even if it was his own. It sounded loud and crude, like a long-rusted door hinge. Most of the time, his mind was empty save for a primal need to keep walking.
It was midday, the sky wept while thunder groaned. Ahead of him, breaking the boring line of the plains, was a building, a roadside inn. The building was a squat thing with a roof of thatch and a small river mill. There was no light coming from its windows.
Ewan was afraid of human contact after so long, but he had no choice. He had to eat. Shuffling slowly, he approached the secluded hint of civilization. A chained dog barked at him ferociously, its hackles raised. The animal did not like the look of the crazed vagabond who lurked outside.
Other animals piped in, mules or cows penned behind the building.
Ewan approached the door. The mongrel kept barking, but would not come anywhere near him. The expelled young brother pushed the door and stepped in.
An overhead bell rang. Water dripped off him in a spatter.
“Hey, you, get in and close the door!” someone shouted in the Continental he knew so well.
“Hey!” the same voice sounded after a few moments. While before it had been just formal, it had a tint of animosity now. “We don’t serve your kind here. Get lost!”
Ewan stood in the warm gloom, blinking. Angry, uncompassionate faces watched him.
Someone shoved him. “Get out. Go!”
Confused, the boy staggered out. What now? He did not know what to do.
He sat on the muddy ground, ignoring the barks. With some surprise, he noticed one of his boots was missing, the sole peeled off like cheese rind. His foot was wrinkled and swollen and cut.
The door opened. “Hey, boy! Can you work?”
Ewan looked up at the dark figure, swathed in a cloak. “Yes, I can.”
“Come inside,” the man said.
“I don’t want that cur in here.” It was the same voice that had expelled him the first time.
“Calm down, Casey. He’s gonna scrub your dishes later.”
The man with the look of an innkeeper about him relented. “All right, damn you.”
They let him sit near the fire and eat a bowl of porridge. His benefactor sat nearby, smoking a pipe and sipping ale. Most of the patrons had retreated a row back, repulsed by the stench of him.
“You are a long way from everywhere,” the man said. Ewan nodded. “Thank you, sir.”
The man looked at the crowd, pointing at Ewan with his pipe. “And polite, too,” he spoke as if Ewan was some rare, exotic creature. The boy ignored the guffaws and continued eating.
“Slow down, or you’ll make yourself sick,” the man suggested. “What’s your name?”
“Ewan.”
“Ewan,” he repeated. “Where do you come from?”
Primal instincts rising, he knew he had to lie, even though it was a sin. “From near the border. Our village was attacked by those…people in the Territories. I fled.”
Someone swore. “Those filthy bastards and their gods! Well, Feor will purge them all!”
Ewan almost retorted, but checked himself in time. He kept quiet and guzzled the hot suet. It layered his belly nicely.
“What village?” the man with the pipe pressed.
Ewan knew he had to be careful. But he did not know the name of a single Caytorean settlement. He blurted the one place he knew of. “Chergo.”
Surprisingly, nothing happened. His benefactor merely nodded. No one jumped and called him a liar. He had no idea who t
hese people might be, but they were probably peddlers or travelers. Their kind visited too many places to recall.
“Got your folk, did they?” one of the other patrons said, wicked glee in his tone.
Ewan nodded. “Can I have more porridge, please?”
The man with the pipe sniffed. “Cheeky, too. Kyla, give the boy another portion, will you?”
A serving maid came, her face wrinkled in disgust, and plopped a ladleful of oatmeal into his bowl. Some of it sprayed his face, but he thanked her earnestly. As she retreated, his patron slapped a fat, hairy hand against her rump. She yelped. Everyone laughed, as if this was the most refined sort of entertainment.
“My name is Seamus,” the smoker said. He bent down. “Let me look at you.” He gripped Ewan’s jaw and manhandled him left and right, appraising his features with tiny harrumphs. “You have a decent face under that grit. How old are you, sixteen?”
“Fifteen.”
Seamus nodded.
“Now, here’s a little beer for you, young man,” Seamus said, handing him a pewter cup. Ewan drank, careful not to spill a drop.
After he had eaten, he stayed on the floor, glad for the heat of the fire. Quickly, he found himself dozing off. His exhausted back muscles twitched every time like a whip, starting him awake.
Above him, the conversation continued, ribald jokes and small talk about business and war. Ewan paid little attention, too tired to move or think. The warmth in his belly and the red joy of the fireplace were all he cared for now.
But they did not let him rest for long. The proprietor sent him to the kitchens, where he spent the afternoon scrubbing the floor and cleaning the spit of old grease and tendons. The cook and the two serving maids paid him little attention, probably accustomed to these chance payoffs.
He came back into the common room after the sun had set, his hands raw and aching. None of the regulars had left, but some new faces had joined them. The rain had not abated, tapping against the small windowpanes with fanatic perseverance.
It was hot and rank in the room. The chimney did not filter all the smoke out, and it hung about the room, mixing with the stench of unclean people and spilled drinks. Now that he had eaten and sated his bestial needs, his finer senses had kicked in and complained.
His urgency came back as well. He needed to go east. But he was not sure if Seamus held him in some debt. He was also somewhat glad for the opportunity to think. He desperately needed to think of some plan.
“What’s that?” one of the new patrons asked.
Seamus tapped his pipe against the table. In front of him, small piles of used tobacco were everywhere. “One of the kids from the border villages, no family left.”
The other man nodded knowingly.
“Seamus the Spider,” one of them hissed. Others laughed madly.
“You can sleep in the barn,” Seamus said. “The innkeeper will let you if you collect the dung tomorrow. You’ll do that, won’t you?” The question was aimed at both of them.
The innkeeper just glared at Seamus, but said nothing.
Ewan nodded. He could not think of anything better to do. But after a good night sleep in the dry, he might be wiser. Marching off like a fool with no food and money sounded plain stupid now. And after eating a decent meal for the first time in so long, he genuinely feared it.
Too terrified to try to speak to these people, Ewan bid everyone a good night and left to sleep in the shed.
A dull thud woke him up. He rose, brushing straw from his hair, blinking into the almost pitch-black darkness of the barn. The rain had stopped. He could feel the vibrant heat of the animals around him, a mule, an old ox, and several horses that belonged to the travelers.
There was a movement in the darkness ahead, limned in weak, jaundiced light. Someone holding a shuttered lamp.
“What…who goes there?” Ewan whispered. His heart hammered in his chest.
“Don’t you worry, boy,” the figure said. It was Seamus.
“Is it dawn yet?” Ewan asked innocently.
“Not yet. Here.” Something was tossed on the ground before him. Ewan patted blindly. A piece of leather, beltlike.
“What is this?”
Seamus removed his big, fat overcoat, let it drop on the ground. “Don’t you worry about anything, boy. Just something to bite on, if you need.”
Ewan backed against the dung-smeared stall. “What are you doing?”
Seamus nodded knowingly, reassuringly. His eyes gleamed in the pale light. “Time to work, boy.”
Ewan recalled a conversation he had had with Ayrton a long time ago. His friend had told him that priests sometimes liked to touch boys in an intimate sort of way. He had told him that it was wrong and that he should refuse and even fight back if necessary. Ayrton had told him that if ever a patriarch tried to touch him, he was to tell him. But he wasn’t around now.
“Don’t touch me,” he whispered.
“Now, now, let’s not fuss, boy. It won’t hurt if you don’t resist.” Seamus was naked below the waist now. “Turn over, and bite that belt.”
Ewan sat frozen, his stomach turning to jelly.
“Come on, boy!” Seamus knelt and reached for him. Ewan started kicking, his face a mask of terror. The big man was impossibly strong. He was on top of Ewan in seconds. Ewan flailed like a fish crushed under a rock.
Seamus drew a knife and sliced his trousers open. Ewan started to cry.
“Be sensible, boy. It won’t hurt.”
Ewan fumbled in the darkness helplessly for some kind of leverage, some kind of weapon. His hand closed on an old, rusty horseshoe. He swung. Seamus toppled to the side, but rose almost instantly, growling with fury.
A huge fist hammered him in the face. The world exploded in a burst of white light. Ewan found himself breathing dust and straw. He was on his belly now. He whimpered. He started to shake violently.
“Stop fighting me, boy! It will soon be over. Let me have my fun. I’ve earned it.”
Ewan realized his fever was back. Icy beads of sweat broke on his forehead. His shivers intensified. He could feel his thorax bumping on and off the cold floor, making a painful noise.
“Aren’t you a fretful one,” Seamus complained. “Keep still, boy.”
Ewan heard a horrible noise rise in his throat. He had no control of it. He flailed again. This time, his whole body lifted clear of the ground. Seamus flew off like a doll. Ewan slithered away, like a snake.
Seamus rose up, cursing. “All right, this is how you want to play, boy.”
Something straightened behind the stall, but it was not Ewan. The face was wooden, the limbs stiff. But Seamus could not see it in the darkness.
“You’ll regret this moment,” Seamus warned.
Ewan’s body did not acknowledge the threat. It stepped forward in a slow, awkward gait. Seamus lunged, a meaty fist connecting with Ewan’s face. There was a crack. Moaning in pain, the man collapsed to his knees, his fist a broken, bloody mess. Wordless agony danced on his lips.
Ewan’s body punched Seamus in the face.
At least, that was what the frightened mind inside the stony form intended. His fist stove the man’s face into his head, breaking it open like a melon. A substance resembling porridge poured through the cracks in the ruined skull, dripping onto the floor.
Ewan stumbled and vomited.
“Don’t faint,” he told himself. “Don’t faint…”
He stumbled out into the cold night. His body felt alien. As he breathed in the crisp air, the steely stiffness in his limbs melted partially. Gradually, the normal feeling in his muscles returned.
Only then did the last few moments register completely and fully. He vomited again.
I am a killer. I am a monster, he thought. What am I?
What to do now? He had done it again. If they found him, they would kill him for sure. These people were not his friends. These people were his enemy. They were at home in this strange, brutal land. He was the foreigner. An outsider.
>
He would have to run again. But this time, he was not going to leave penniless.
He went back into the barn. Bile rising in his throat, he started fumbling about the almost-headless corpse. This Seamus was a rather wealthy type. He had a heavy purse and a watch worked in bronze. Ewan pocketed them shamelessly. He took the man’s boots and knife, too.
Finally, he donned the man’s big, warm overcoat. It was too wide for his spare frame, but only slightly too long. He was tall, if gangly. The shoes fit perfectly.
Strength came back to him, laced with rage. Ewan stared at the mangled form, without fainting this time now. He felt rage choking him. He spat on the corpse.
Fleeing on foot sounded foolish. These men would find him all too quickly in the morning. But he had never ridden a horse before.
He started rummaging in the saddles laid across a beam in the corner of the barn. They contained blankets, tents, rope, utensils, matches. He needed these desperately. The horses stared at him with clever, accusing eyes.
Eventually, he saddled the mule as best as he could. Just before leaving, a pang of conscience made him pause. He produced a silver from Seamus’s purse and tossed it on the ground.
Then, struggling with the wholly alien concept of riding, he fled, riding east. The patient little mule plodded stubbornly while he dug his fingernails into the saddle. East.
CHAPTER 23
Armin was back in the Grand Archive, reading.
It was obvious that the eight murders were very closely related, just like the dealings of the deceased, for quite a long time before their death. What he lacked was the grand unifier, the common and mutual motive. And if the entire affair turned out to be just simple greed, he wanted to know who was behind it.
There must be something. Some clue.
Armin rubbed his weary eyes, closing them hard. Purple sparks danced inside his eyelids. All of the activities seemed related. But just like the sum of all ingredients did not make a cake, he knew the separate evidence of a giant plan did not help solve the mystery. As an investigator, he knew the subtle, catastrophic difference between facts and wishful thinking. He wanted the individual businesses to be related.
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