The Betrayed

by Igor Ljubuncic

  If things were only slightly different, the investigation would have been concluded. He would have presented his findings to the council and claimed the remaining fee. Let them dwell on his terrible conclusions. But the death of his third wife made it different, made it personal.

  Criminals had to pay for their misdeeds. Even if they were divine by nature. Damian had committed a crime. Armin always saw his suspects indicted and tried.

  He rose. Lucas stood nearby, watching him with unblinking pale eyes. “We shall sail to Eybalen together,” the investigator said. “I have unfinished business there. A criminal.” This time, he was going alone. His wives and children would remain in Tuba Tuba.

  “One of the Caytoreans?” Lucas asked.

  “One of their gods,” Armin answered.

  CHAPTER 36

  “This is as far as I can go,” Dorian said.

  Ayrton nodded. He shook hands with the wizard, and they parted ways. For a few long moments, Ayrton stood on the hilltop, watching the robed figure of the priest shamble down the road, disappearing in the forest.

  The patriarchs had assigned Dorian to guide him toward the city, at least as far as the magical boundary. Dorian had been supposed to protect him from dangers that his sword could not defeat. The spells had changed the environment, both plant and animal alike, and there was no knowing what lurked in the shadows.

  But the journey had been uneventful. Dorian had led him north and west of Jaruka, down old, unused paths winding over hills and through ancient forests. They met no human on the road. People felt the urge to stay away from the city, even if they did not know it was there.

  Ayrton took a deep breath and started downhill, into a broad, forested valley. He came to an old, worn monolith, stabbing through the ground like a spiteful tooth, overgrown in moss. This was the border of the City of Gods. No unclean soul could go any further.

  He stepped forward. Nothing happened.

  As he followed the grit trail into the valley, he noticed pale remains of bones scattered by the roadside. Kneeling, he brushed some of the soft earth away, exposing a leering skull, a rib cage. The bones looked old, very old. He looked behind him at the monolith.

  The dreary autumn day cleared. Sunshine erupted through the scattering clouds, and the hue of the anemic sky turned bright, deep blue. It was getting warmer. The air began to smell of sweet flowers.

  Less than a mile from the marker, he walked in a vale, basking in the resplendence of a virgin spring. The earth was a carpet of marvelous colors. He had never seen grass so green. Birds sang.

  This must be the work of the gods, he thought.

  Crisp air soothed his worn soul, washing away pain and worry and the gloom that weighed it down. He felt hale and freshened, almost carefree. His concerns sluiced away. Ayrton could have lain down and slept the sleep of a child in his mother’s arms.

  The sounds of man-made labor kept him focused. He followed the noises, the rhythmic beat of tools. He crested a ridge and paused.

  Before him stretched another valley, full of animals, thousands of them. They were all frozen, perfect sculptures of every living thing possible, carved from wood in absolute perfection. Like a child, he waded into the field of still shapes, caressing them. A porcupine stared at him, every bristle on its back accounted for, fashioned in perfect detail. He was afraid to touch the thin needles, lest they shatter. He felt it would be blasphemy to spoil these wondrous creations.

  Animals big and small watched him, silent, unmoving. The sound led him on.

  Seated on a rock, a man held a log in his lap and was chiseling a new form from its texture. He worked with no tools, only his fingers. Feather-thin shavings wept from the wood, onto the ground at his feet. Ayrton reeled.

  He realized the man was not sitting on a rock; it was a huge pile of chips and splinters and wood dust, a testament to his work.

  Ayrton swallowed. What now?

  “Hello,” Ayrton said.

  The man ignored him, as if he did not exist. He continued his peaceful, monotonous work of beauty. He seemed to be making an otter out of the wood.

  “Hello there,” Ayrton repeated.

  This time, the man lifted his eyes. Again Ayrton felt his breath catch in his throat. He had no fancy for males, but the person before him was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Every line of that delicate, ageless face was in immaculate order. Eyes that looked like the mirrors of a soul stared at him for a few moments without recognition, then dropped back to the handiwork. Ayrton felt sadness crack through his heart for not being acknowledged. He wanted to cry.

  Slowly, he recovered and moved on, knowing with certainty that the carver would never respond. It tore his soul for some strange reason.

  Then it struck him. Was that a god?

  He looked behind him, apprehension turning his muscles to slush. The carver continued working. He walked on, like a stupid man, unable to stop.

  A silly tendril of doubt crept into his mind. Maybe the god had not understood him? If the gods had stayed isolated in this place for so long, maybe they no longer understood the modern language. Ayrton felt despair wash over him as he contemplated communication with divine beings, separated from him by a chasm of thousands of years of culture and intellect and power. But there was nothing to it. He’d have to find a way. He plodded on.

  Very soon, he lost sense of time and space. He believed he had walked only a few hundred paces, but when he looked behind him, there was no sign of the animal sculptures or their mysterious creator. A perfect valley of spring bloom stretched endlessly, not a soul in sight.

  He heard water gurgling. He reached the edge of a small cliff and saw himself staring at a waterfall. The air was sprinkled with spray, elusive rainbows dancing before his eyes, icy-cool droplets touching his skin as tenderly as a lover’s kiss. By the bank of blue pebbles below, at the edge of emerald green water, a woman sat.

  Ayrton started down the side of the ridge, toward the pool. His boots dislodged stones, made a lot of noise. But the woman never stirred, not even so much as blinked. She kept staring at the water, hugging her knees.

  Deep down in his soul, some primal instinct warned him from trying to disturb her. He just nodded politely and walked on.

  One by one, he passed strange, eccentric hermits, people of exquisite beauty and complete blankness of soul. They either did simple things, like collecting flowers or dancing, or they sat staring at nothing. Several lay in the grass, sleeping.

  Then, he noticed, despite their perfection, that they were all thin, almost haggard.

  Dread began warming up in the pit of his stomach. Were these his makers, the deities he believed in?

  “Welcome,” a female voice said in clear Continental.

  He almost panicked, hackles rising on his nape even as relief stabbed him through. Perhaps communication was not going to be an issue after all. He felt stupid. Gods must speak in some divine language. They must understand everything. They were gods, after all.

  A small, perfect woman stood before him, wearing a simple white gown, her hands clasped in front of her. Like all other inhabitants of this valley, she was breathtakingly beautiful. There was not a speck of blemish on her face. Humans had spots, freckles, scars, whiskers, discoloration, wrinkles. Her skin was as pure as a pleat of cream velvet. She almost looked engineered.

  In contrast to her friends, she looked healthy. She was full-bodied, her skin pale but flushed. Compared to her, the other… people looked like emaciated, bloodless ghosts.

  “Have you no tongue, creature?” she asked.

  Ayrton sobered. “Hello.”

  “Welcome to our city. You are one of the men,” she said, stating something so simply obvious.

  The Outsider touched his chest, as if affirming his existence. “I’m human, yes.”

  She nodded. “We have been waiting for you. Come.” Like a little girl, she pivoted and scampered away. He followed her. Even her walk unnerved him. She glided over the ground like someone
who knew what her steps would be before she placed her feet on the earth.

  Time and space spun again, leaving him confused. The landscape shifted, too fast, too much for the simple distances he had walked.

  They reached a small wooden cottage. “Come inside,” she called.

  Ayrton entered. There was a solitary bed in the cabin. Lying on top of it was an old woman, sleeping. Ayrton approached and looked at her. She looked so much out of place in this wondrous valley of perfection. The skin of her face was wrinkled, desiccated, and sallow. She looked all too human. She looked sick.

  “That is Selena,” the ageless woman at his side said.

  Ayrton swallowed. “The goddess Selena?”

  The woman giggled. “Yes, silly. Who else?”

  Stating the obvious, he thought dourly, Am I dreaming? Is this real?

  Ayrton rubbed his temples. “She looks very old.”

  “She’s dying,” the woman said. “They all are.”

  He had nothing wise to utter.

  “Selena was the only one who cared. The rest would have nothing to do with the world of men any longer. We all felt his return and knew that another war was coming. But they wouldn’t listen to her. She desperately wanted to know what the future holds. So she sacrificed herself.”

  Ayrton did not really understand what she was telling him. “Sacrificed herself?”

  The beautiful woman nodded. “Yes. Even we cannot see what the great river of time has in store for us. Even the gods are blind before the uncertainty of things to come. But we can trade our souls for that hidden knowledge, by giving up existence that has yet to be.”

  “That…happened to her?”

  “She gave away her immortality for the knowledge about the war. She saw what would happen. And she knew that we could not prevent it. Our only hope was men…again. So she broke the eons of silence and spoke to her devoted.”

  Ayrton tried to absorb the flood of things, hoping to patch some sort of logic from it. Alda.

  “Now, Selena feels the flow of time just like men.”

  “Is that why she’s in bed?”

  “No, silly.” The woman giggled. “Her followers are dying. Her power is weakening. She fell unconscious several…days ago.” She frowned. “Yes, days. Weeks? Weeks! If she were immortal like us, she would…lose her essence, become less. But as a human now, the ebbing of her essence comes through aging. When the gods are unmade, they simply vanish. She will die like men die, of old age.”

  Ayrton felt sad. It seemed his choices in life were never simple.

  “I did not know the gods could…really die. The patriarchs told me that bodies can be killed, but the soul remains.”

  “In the First Age, many of our kind gave away their immortality to help win the war. Dozens of my kin perished so they could steal the knowledge of the future.”

  “First Age?” he blurted.

  The woman stared at him with those bottomless eyes. “The memory of men is very short.”

  Ayrton shrugged. “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s all right. I will tell you.”

  “I…have to save the city, save the gods.”

  She smiled softly. “Selena told me. I was waiting for your arrival. You are our only hope now.”

  Ayrton took a deep breath. This all looked like a very bad dream.

  “What is your name, man?”

  “Ayrton,” the Outsider said. Something he had seen and heard from her finally registered. “Those gods outside, they are dying. But you are not…You do not look like them,” he hazarded.

  “My story is different than those of my kin.”

  Ayrton nodded. “What is your name?”

  She smiled again. “I’m Elia.”

  CHAPTER 37

  From his platform of stacked crates, Adam watched the field of crunched earth and mud vanish from his sight as people pressed closer, ever more tightly, around him, the blot of human ink growing and spreading. He floated above them, an isle of serenity and calm terror, as they crashed and frothed at his feet, thousands of worried, pale faces.

  It was drizzling, a needle-sharp rain driven by wind, making everyone scowl. Adam was as exposed as his audience, with only a light cloak to shield him. He did not want to hide. He wanted to be seen.

  The populace of Roalas had been instructed to leave their homes and assemble outside the city’s ruined gates in the fields outside, watched by thousands of Carrion Eaters. Unsure what horrible end awaited them, the Feorans did not seem so brazen all of a sudden, their faith in Feor broken to pieces, just like the defense of their city. To Adam, it seemed, every man was the same when it came to small, basic things. They were all cowards.

  Three days earlier, Roalas had surrendered. The bombardment of heads and penises seemed to have convinced even the staunch-hearted, ferocious Feorans that prolonging their stubborn and futile resistance would only result in a horrible massacre of unprecedented scale.

  Adam was not a fool. No matter how avidly he desired the death of every man and woman in the city, he had stayed the hands of his butchers. For the first time in this long, brutal campaign, his enemies were starting to show wit, not just as small groups of terrified fools, but as a whole, the concept of the invincibility of Feorans torn and shattered and the new one, of the invincibility of Adam, born and growing.

  Thus, instead of laying waste to Roalas, he had merely placed it under curfew, instructing all armed Caytoreans to lay down their weapons and await further instructions. With the exclusion of several sporadic fights with stubborn defenders in some of the city’s districts, the city had yielded peacefully.

  His men were angry and frustrated, but they knew better than to disobey his orders. His reputation was a legend now, all across Caytor and Eracia. No sane man crossed Adam the Godless.

  The mercenaries had protested most of all, infuriated that all the fine, sweet spoils were left untouched, just out of the reach of their avaricious, treacherous hands. With the sell-souls, Adam had been far less forgiving. He had hung a dozen of them before the growls and shouts of their dissent had subsided to apologetic murmurs.

  Everyone was tense, the people, the soldiers. All except Adam. He was as calm as only a dead man could be. He had no doubts, no qualms, no regrets. The life was such a simple, straightforward affair.

  They all knew his speech was going to be something phenomenal, monumental. The citizens of Roalas would learn if they were going to live today. The Carrion Eaters would learn if there were going to be any carrion for dinner.

  Adam stood and waited. Very soon, close to fifty thousands souls were gathered about him. He knew his voice would not carry far in the rain, but he trusted good ole rumor to take its wing. Within an hour, everyone would know what he wanted.

  The people jostled and pushed, encircled by a wall of steel. Most of the Eracian army was not participating in this event. The regiments were building fortifications all around Roalas, establishing new strongholds and barracks for the troops. Winter was coming.

  Soon, the marches would become a nightmare of icy slush and ferocious winds. Food supplies were scarce. Adam had no intention of starving his army to death. Roalas would safely house them all through the cold months of the new year. It would be a great opportunity to rest and rearm before launching a new campaign in the spring. By then, Roalas would become a major center of operations, the staging area from which he could command the war.

  It would also give him an opportunity to negotiate with the Caytorean nobility. Lord Erik’s spies had brought him messages from the High Council of Trade, which both praised his actions and asked for consideration of future business. Adam hadn’t dismissed their pleas.

  He would establish the legitimacy of his legend in more than one way. Sitting through the winter would mark Roalas as a permanent monument of Adam’s conquest. But trade and political recognition were even more important. They would be the official statement of his victory.

  Adam was not a great statesman, but Lord Erik s
eemed to be. His advice was sound. Longtime enemies could be friends after all, if banded together against a common threat.

  “Such a sordid day,” Adam began, silencing the crowd around him. He smiled. He could see his words spreading in a wave across the sea of humans.

  “But it is a great day, nonetheless. You probably ask yourself why we are gathered here. Well, Roalas is now mine. I have taken it from Feor, struggled it out of his reach.”

  He waited. There were no murmurs of outrage, only deadly silence. “I’m here to offer you a chance to redeem your souls. For the past twenty years, you have been led astray, made to believe in a false idea called Feor, an infatuation that you see now melting at your feet.

  “To call Feor a god, a false god, would be misleading. He is nothing but a sad joke, a prank. You have lived the last two decades worshipping another group of fools. Beforehand, those were the patriarchs and matriarchs who fooled you with empty promises and threats of punishment from gods none of you have ever seen. And then, the Feorans came, offering you freedom from the old yoke in exchange for a new one. And what have you done? You’ve taken it, like cattle.”

  Adam turned to face another segment of the broad circle around him. He could hear hushed whispers multiplying, an echo of his words, lashing though the throng.

  “And what did the Feorans offer you? More fear, more doubts, new false hopes. You were still being told what to do by other people calling themselves priests, just like their predecessors, preaching in the name of some unseen, unknown entity.

  “Where has this belief led you? To a defeat. A colossal defeat. Your mighty armies have been crushed by Eracian peasants. Caytorean cities have not been taken by an enemy force for countless generations. Yet, today, Roalas is an Eracian stronghold, in the heart of Caytor.”

  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.”