The Betrayed

by Igor Ljubuncic

  The world had turned into a river. He blinked away the tears. “I don’t want better.”

  Vicky put down the empty bowl. “I must get back. The hour is almost over. If I don’t return, Anton will come after me.” She rose.

  Ewan wanted to say something. But he had nothing to offer her. He was a monster. He had no money. What would he give her? At that horrible moment, he realized he would never see her again.

  When he returned to the docks, his friends stopped hauling, watching him carefully. Then, they looked at one another and nodded.

  After work, they would not let him go home. They took him to one of the pubs they liked to frequent and filled him with so much wine that he could hardly remember his name. And they paid for the drinks.

  “The gods made women so they can break our hearts.” They shared their pearls of wisdom.

  “She might be the first to break your heart, lad, but sure as the Abyss, she ain’t the last.”

  “There’s nothing wine can’t cure, boy.”

  Ewan swayed like a ship’s mast. “My name is…I’m a monster.”

  “Now, lad, don’t be so harsh on yourself. Here’s another gallon of ale. Drink.”

  He drank and wept until the world turned black.

  CHAPTER 33

  Mali knew she was being foolish, but she had no choice. She had temporarily relinquished her command to George, with strict orders to leave Adam alone. She did not want Eracians killing Eracians in her absence. Even so, his command was tenuous. Most of the army paid little or no respect to the other officers anymore. Adam was their idol.

  It seemed absurd that people who had fought with her for years could become so easily besotted with a young upstart, but he had some undeniable charisma that lit up their simple hearts, some magic that neither she nor any other of her old cadre could ever hope to have.

  Adam was only a division commander, with barely five thousand regulars, but he had also annexed most of the auxiliary units, all of the peasants, and commanded another five thousand mercenaries. There was a rumor that the Third Independent Battalion had gone over to his side, smitten by his gentlemanly ways and respect for women. And even those who still reported to George and Marco and others adored him.

  He had close to thirty thousand souls, and somehow, Mali knew, this was hardly the end.

  While he besieged Roalas and a dozen nearby villages, she had slipped out of the camp unnoticed, dressed as a civilian, with only four people to protect her. She had chosen two specialists and two of her most loyal female soldiers.

  She knew she risked more than just her hide. If she were discovered, there would be an outrage. They might even charge her with treason. But she did not care. She had to do this.

  Roads were dangerous these days. Rabid hordes of bandits roamed the countryside, preying on the weak and unprotected, raping and pillaging and taking respectable-looking travelers for ransom. Even though trade had died to a trickle because of the war, this did not keep them from trying. Soldiers were busy fighting an enemy; they had no time for tiny miscreants.

  Now, inside Caytor, stakes were higher than ever. No one could easily tell her heritage, but her looks were well-known in the realms. Some of the brigands might recognize her. And then, there would be nothing in the world that would stop them.

  Keeping off the main arteries, traveling mostly by night, her little group inched north and east into the enemy realm, heading for the little village called Gasua. Adam might be killing his prisoners, but Mali was careful to interrogate them first. In the recent days, her one and only interest was the whereabouts of a village where she might find a witch. After many hours of torture, she had finally learned a name.

  It was a slim chance, she knew. By the time they reached the place, there was a high possibility that it had been burned, its people killed and scattered. But she had no choice.

  They had met a party of brigands only once, a gang of ten souls who rushed against them from the dark of a forest as they halted for the night, wielding clubs and rusty swords. The rabble had been no match for professional soldiers armed with good steel and crossbows. They had killed seven before they had even reached them. The remainder had died in a quick, efficient fight. Mali had wasted no time burying or burning the bodies; they had left them in the forest, for wolves and worms to pick.

  She wondered what George would say if he knew what she was doing. Escorted by two soldiers from the Third and a pair of her special troops, she seemed every bit a lunatic, a crazy woman possessed. But maybe that was who she was.

  Gasua was before them, intact, peaceful for now. The villagers had erected mounds of earth around their meager hamlet and studded them with saplings. Men with scythes or pitchforks stood symbolic guard, day and night, accompanied by a ragged assortment of mongrels.

  Convincing the villagers they were not bandits would be tricky, she noticed.

  “I’ll go alone,” she whispered.

  Neil, one of the specialists, shook his head. “No chance. We’re coming with you.”

  Mali grimaced. “Poor, worried peasant women do not bring a cadre of soldiers with them to see the witch. I must play the part.”

  “What good would your part be if you get killed?” Vince, the other specialist, said.

  She gave them a long look. Both men were combat assassins, charged with donning enemy uniforms during battle, infiltrating their ranks and murdering officers in the resulting fray. They feared nothing and no one. And yet, they dreaded a village of poor, unarmed Caytoreans.

  “That’s the enemy,” Vince said, pointing, reminding her.

  “I’ll take only Alexa with me. She will be my half sister.”

  “Cousin, some sort of a cousin,” the woman corrected her. Alexa was blonde and ruddy, with a soft, chubby face. They could not belong to the same parent, ever.

  Mali rubbed her forehead. Was the thing growing in her belly fuddling her mind? She prayed that this whole affair was just a big, sour joke, a test of her nerves and resolve. She did not want to be pregnant.

  Neil sighed. “All right. But if you’re not back within an hour, we’re charging in.”

  The two women left their hiding. It was early morning, a reasonable time for a pair of women to be found on the roads. Mali rehearsed her story. They had scouted the area, trying to learn the names of the villages. Maybe the witch would not be too intrusive. Mali hoped she would not need to lie too much. Women who came to see witches outside their village wanted discretion.

  The guards squirmed seeing two huddling, hooded figures on the road. When the two women removed their capes, they relaxed a little.

  “Where to, women?” one of them called.

  “To the witch woman.” Mali let Alexa speak. The soldier was of low birth and had a better chance of posing as a poor, inflicted peasant.

  Several children were outside, and a few older women, but no young men or women. The fields around the hamlet were empty of souls, the animals all safely penned close to the huts. They all stared at the two strangers with small, suspicious eyes. One of them made a warding sign.

  The witch had a derelict little cabin to herself at the end of the hamlet, adjacent to a pigsty. The whole place was just a stone’s throw across, but her secluded little hut had an aura of foreboding about it. Mali thought it must be the flayed cat skins, or the skulls of many rodents, piled in front of the door.

  The woman sat outside, despite the chill, peeling willow bark off some branches.

  “What you want, lass?” she said without lifting her eyes. “Got trumped up by a pretty farmer boy?” She looked up at Alexa. The soldier blushed, squirmed, pointing wordlessly at her superior.

  The woman snorted. “Ah, the old filly. Married?”

  Mali nodded.

  “But it ain’t your husband’s, eh?”

  Mali nodded again. The witch grunted indignantly.

  “What you got for me?” she asked, throwing a naked branch aside. Mali produced a pair of Caytorean silver marks. The witch sn
iffed her palm. “All right, inside.”

  The hut was dark and smelled of too many herbs.

  “Undress,” the witch ordered.

  Mali looked around her. Well, this was no time for privacy, she thought. It bothered her that she cared now of all moments, when so many men had seen every little bit of her skin.

  She stood there awkwardly, naked and tall and muscled. The witch appraised her with one eye closed. “Gangly filly, ain’t you? Those hips of yours ain’t good for breeding. Got any whelps?”

  Mali realized she had better not lie on this subject. She shook her head. The witch sniffed in harsh disapproval. “Must bear offspring when you’re young. They don’t come out pretty when you age.”

  Mali swallowed.

  The witch approached her, staring up at her. “Got a tongue, girl? Speak.”

  Mali took a deep breath. “My husband’s gone to war. I…He will know when he returns.”

  The witch nodded. “Ah…I see.” She shook her head. “Let’s see what you got.”

  Mali felt her blood chill as those alien hands touched her, pinched her sides, cupped her breasts. She felt like an animal on sale. The woman rolled her callused fingers over her gums, sniffed her ears.

  Some of the witch’s anger dissipated. “Well, you eat good, I can tell. Got a good skin, strong body. But you ain’t one to hatch many daughters. You got a man’s hips.” She approached Alexa and slapped her large rump. “This one can birth them without blinking.”

  “Am I pregnant?” Mali whispered, pretending to be abashed; she hoped she was pretending.

  The witch sucked on her lips. “We’ll see. Here.” She handed Mali a small bowl. “Piss in it.”

  Mali let her brows scramble up her forehead. “Here?”

  “No, you go outside so them fools can see you. Come on, filly.”

  Heat flaring up her cheeks, Mali made a small, stupid stand in the center of the little cabin, holding the bowl beneath her like a leprous supplicant. Embarrassment, she realized, came from very small, trivial things.

  The gurgling noise made the witch smile. Surprisingly, her mouth was full of strong white teeth. Mali handed her the bowl. The witch reached for some herbs, spicing the urine. She stirred the cocktail and drank from it, without as much as a grimace. Mali felt her own bile rising. The witch spat back into the bowl, her head bobbing with thought.

  “Now, this will hurt a little. Don’t squirm.”

  Mali kept her eyes closed as the witch violated her. She would not cry now. She hadn’t cried when they had pried a hooked spear from her thigh.

  The witch clapped. Mali opened her eyes. “Am I pregnant?” she whispered.

  The woman snorted. “You bear a son, a strong child. His father is a feisty bastard.”

  I know, Mali thought. “I don’t want the child,” she said.

  “Nothing can be done,” the witch said.

  Mali felt her face drain of blood. Her world spun.

  “That whelp is too big for herbs and charms. Lodged in that womb fast. He’s a stubborn one.”

  Mali felt her eyes water. “I don’t want the child,” she repeated.

  “The goddess has given you a gift. Don’t shun it. Love it,” the witch offered in a quiet voice.

  “We serve Feor,” Alexa said almost automatically.

  The witch spat. “Feor? That bastard is good for them men and their wars. But what does he know about birth? Ever seen men at birthing? A bunch of frightened fools! It’s a woman’s job to nurse the womb, and no Feor or any other male will tell me otherwise.”

  Mali reeled. The witch gripped her, her stern, creased face suddenly sympathetic. “Don’t despair, lass. He’s a strong, healthy child. You are a strong woman. It’s a gift, a blessing.”

  Mali nodded. She had nothing to say.

  They left Gasua, heading back to the camp. Alexa rested a friendly hand on her shoulder, trying to comfort her. But all Mali could feel was fatality, inevitable fatality choking her. She had fought so many enemies in her life, but she could not defeat this one.

  Adam’s son grew inside of her. It was a terrible thought.

  And what about Adam? She still wondered if she had the strength to give Neil and Vince their order. They would obey, she knew.

  She did not want him to be the father of her son. She did not want his son. She did not want any son. She was a soldier. Happy families happened to other people. Maybe it was this intimate knowledge that she could never have it that made her so sad.

  Should she tell Adam? Should she kill him? Did he deserve to be a father? Did he deserve a son, or love? What kind of man felt sorry for prostitutes and beheaded unarmed prisoners?

  They started back toward Roalas, where the father of her child was butchering Caytoreans in their thousands.

  CHAPTER 34

  Adam lifted his arm from the paper and grimaced. “How’s that?”

  Lisa craned her neck and nodded. “Not bad actually. You’re getting better.”

  Adam stared at the squiggly line of letters with skepticism. Lisa had drawn thin, straight lines across the paper so he would keep his rows of letters even and orderly, but he was not being very successful. He was battling the second half of the alphabet.

  Following Lord Erik’s advice, he had taken it upon himself to learn to write and read. It was a painstakingly slow progress. People his age were either already well learned in literacy or stayed boors for the rest of their lives.

  Still, Lisa did not despair. She was patient, as only women could be.

  Adam had gone discreetly about the camp, asking for a scribe. He had not wanted to hire a man, knowing all too well the rumor would be out before the first class was over. When it came to dirty, embarrassing little secrets, you could only count on women to keep them buried.

  Luckily, the women of the Third Battalion seemed to like him very much and were more than glad to help him. The personal adjutant of their commander was his teacher now, tutoring him for an hour every day, in the early hours of the evening when most men were too busy eating or tidying the camp for the night.

  “I think it looks ugly,” he said, comparing his sheet to Lisa’s work.

  She chuckled. “Well, you don’t have the prettiest hand, but it will get better. You simply aren’t used to holding a quill.”

  Adam let a flake of self-esteem peel off his hardened hide. “You think so?”

  “You will have to try reading soon. That’s the best way to get to know the letters.”

  He nodded. “There are so many of them.”

  She shrugged. “One for every sound we make.”

  The commander of the Carrion Eaters leaned back in his chair, stretching. Writing was a laborious task. Loath to disclose his newly found hobby to too many prying eyes, he kept the lighting inside the tent to a minimum. It made writing more difficult.

  He was suddenly aware of Lisa’s breath on his cheek, making the tiny whiskers itch and tingle. She was looking at him intently, but he pretended he did not notice.

  Lisa was a lovely girl, young, handsome, with a quick smile and merry eyes. Whenever she looked at him, there was a gleam in her eyes, of adoration and respect, that unsettled him. He was not really sure how he had earned them. But he did know why.

  Before joining the Third, Lisa had been a whore, much like himself, much like so many other female soldiers. But before that, she had been the daughter of a well-to-do wool merchant who taught her the art of letters at a very young age. He had expected her to work for him one day, as a clerk, helping with the accounts and contracts. When fire swept through his farm, killing his wife and livestock, he was left a desperate, destitute man with no hope in his heart.

  Some men came to him and offered to buy his daughter off him, a burden now that he had nothing to give her. From that day, Lisa had found herself working as a prostitute in one of the port cities of Caytor, beaten and abused by her pimp for four long, savage years before she had mustered courage to flee, following a fleeting rumor of an army unit t
hat recruited women in a faraway enemy land of Eracia. Hating her realm for what it had done to her, she had gone across the border and enlisted with the Third. Her skills as a scribe had helped her gain a respectable status.

  She might be a native of a country he now fought, but she was glad for it.

  “Do you have a wife? Is she pretty?” she asked him in a hushed tone.

  Adam smiled softly, sadly. “No. I don’t have a wife.”

  Lisa breathed slowly. It was quiet inside the tent. He could feel the heat of her, could smell her. But his eyes only saw Mali. He gently shook his head, banishing the images away.

  “I could be your wife,” she said after a pause.

  He still did not dare look at her. “It would not work, Lisa,” he said.

  “Why not? I would take care of you, bake for you, and wash your clothes. I would bear you children.” She laid a hand on his thigh. A bolt of fire lanced up his groin. He swallowed.

  I cannot love, he wanted to say. But his mouth refused to open.

  “And you would protect me,” she added, lost in her own bittersweet fantasy.

  Adam raked his hair, sighing. “I’m not a good man, Lisa.” She closed her eyes. “Yes, you are.”

  “No, Lisa, I’m not,” he insisted.

  “You can say whatever you like. But I know you better than you think. I have watched you from the first day we arrived. You are gentle and compassionate. We all know what you did for those women, how you gave them money and let them go. Not everyone would do it.”

  Adam rubbed his temple. “I have…lived a horrible life.”

  “Who hasn’t? We all have our demons. We all have done terrible things we regret. But they don’t matter anymore. Not to me. I know what I want.”

  “I cannot give you what you need,” he spoke in a low voice, feeling dark sorrow engulf him.