Ewan was silent for a moment. “I don’t believe you.”
“Ah, young pride. You can believe whatever you wish, but you cannot alter reality. You are my son, whether you like it or not. And just like I have expected, you have come to me, in my greatest hour.”
“What is your name?” Ewan asked after some time.
“My name is Damian, son.”
“You are not my father,” Ewan growled. “You are the Father of Evil.”
“Evil? Evil!” Damian roared. “You call this world evil? Everything you do and see is my creation. Mine! I have molded this world from my ideas and ambitions, made it into something that has meaning. Before that, the world was nothing but a perverse freak show of those monsters that had betrayed me. I created emotions. I invented love and hatred. Without me, humans would be nothing more than animals without a tail.”
“You killed the one you loved,” Ewan said.
“Well, regret is yet another of my jewels. As a god, I had to invent them all, although I must admit, humans have become quite good at imitating me.”
Ewan tried to say something, but Damian interrupted him.
“Enough small talk. We will have enough time to get acquainted later. I need you, son.”
“What?” Ewan growled.
“I need your help, son.”
“I don’t believe you, and I don’t trust you. Everything you do and say are lies.”
Damian laughed maniacally. “On the contrary, son. I am the truth. This world is the mirror of my soul. And I would never dare lie to my son.”
“Stop calling me ‘son’!”
Damian’s cowled form said nothing.
Ewan asked the question that had burned in his soul for quite some time. “How did you escape?”
Damian glided closer. Ewan stepped back again. “You see, son, I was always much smarter than my peers. They have only ever managed to best me with treachery. To bestow one’s power in humans is a very dangerous business. That is what those fools did. But, I knew better. Flesh can be destroyed. But ideas cannot.”
The cowled figure moved away. “I gave away some of my essence to ideas. Murder, jealousy, greed. They are all mine. They are my children, the children of my soul, just like you are the child of my flesh. And like any child, they grew bigger and stronger, feeding me even as I rotted in the Abyss. Until finally, one day, I was able to sneak out of my confinement.
“At first, only a tendril of thought, sometimes a wicked, bodiless idea. I spent centuries studying humans, seeking a pliable soul. But I was too weak. Then, another of my children was born, a noble in Caytor that refused to believe in the other gods.”
Damian’s figure spun. “I spoke to him. I managed to touch his soul. Well, I knew my children would never disappoint me. He accepted the mission I have tasked him with. And like all my children, he was a gifted and powerful man. He stirred a nation. He gave birth to a new god. Feor.” The cowled figure chuckled.
“After so much time, I had human followers again. The Feoran Movement grew from a small band of outcasts into a major religion. Day after day, more people joined the Movement. The simple truth of my ways appealed to the hearts of the simple common men. How could it not? People were tired of generations of fears and lies. The humans I shaped could no longer abide the deceits of my peers. My mankind was never meant to cower in the shadow of invisible gods, fulfilling their whims. My mankind was born to be a free spirit, to be ruled by dreams and passions.”
Damian drifted closer. This time, Ewan did not flinch. “Soon, I was strong enough. But the last chain of my prison still stood. So, I had my son recruit some rich and powerful people in Caytor and mount an expedition to this island. The greedy fools thought they were digging for gold. Even as they cracked open the seals of the Abyss, they thought they would see treasures hidden within. But I was finally free. And this time, the world had no knowledge of me. I was truly, completely free.”
The figure pointed behind him. “I could finally finish the work I had begun so long ago, just before they had all betrayed me.”
Ewan shook his head. “What is it? Your…work?”
The form shivered with excitement, pointing around. “This! This is my work. I have learned that the Abyss could be kept open. A link between the world of the living and the dead can be maintained indefinitely.
“We have always trusted in humans to worship us and give us strength. But that was such a foolish, noble notion. We were vulnerable. We have become the slaves of our slaves. We have given away our lives to the mercy of our toys. We have lost control of the world to the fancies and fetishes of the humans. I have realized this much sooner than they. Luckily, I have managed to give away some of my essence to the ideas. But even this was not enough. Ideas came and went. They died and were born again. I could not trust the future of immortality with human concepts. Humans were finite. I needed something that transpired life.
“So, I embraced death.”
Damian’s figure pirouetted. “Think about it, son! Think! There are only so many living people in this world. But the history of death is endless! People live for a few decades, but they stay dead forever. The number of souls on this side of the Abyss is tiny, insignificant compared to all the dead that have died, from the beginning of humanity till now. And it is growing all the time.
“I have decided to bind the dead to me. By keeping the Abyss open, their link to this world could not be severed and they would forever stay bound to me. But before I could see this genius plan realized, I was betrayed. But now, I’m back. And stronger than ever!
“Think, son. Feorans are just a whim. They will die out eventually. All the other religions, they are all a fleeting passion in the lives of humans. They take their ideals and memories to the grave with them. Only death stays truly endless.
“Now, every single dead becomes my slave. A perfect follower. The dead cannot betray you, son. They will never betray you. Not like gods or people. They will always be your perfect toys.”
Ewan felt a ball of disgust knot in the pit of his stomach. “You would see the world die to serve you.”
The sleeves of the cowl clasped together. “This was my world. I created it. I can also see it die. But it’s for the best, son. This world has nothing worthy to offer. Only betrayal.”
“You are a sad thing,” Ewan spat.
Damian ignored him. “Son, share my vision. We can rule this world together. I know you cannot be killed. You can be my champion. We can do whatever we want. We could slay entire nations. And they would only love us for it. They would worship us forever. With time, I would grow ever stronger, gaining back the powers I once had. I would eventually be able to grant your every wish.”
“This is madness,” Ewan said.
“This is the future!” Damian hollered. “Son, I know how you feel. I can see you have been betrayed, like me. They have abandoned you, your gods and your friends. They have all hurt you.”
Ewan lowered his head.
“You are my special son. You are a god to these people. And they hate you for it. They have outcast you for being different, for being better than they. They have broken your heart. And why? Because they cannot cope with the truth?”
Damian was so close, whispering. “I will never betray you, my son. I will always love you.”
Ewan felt a tear roll down his cheek. To be loved. To belong. It was such a simple emotion.
“Join me, son. Help me. Become my champion. Slay these traitors in my name. Let us rule this world together.”
Ewan sighed. It was such a painless choice. All he needed to do was…simply do nothing. Let Damian be. The god would grow stronger. Or he could try to close the Abyss, sever the link of madness and agony between the worlds.
But why? Why should he bother? Why should he sacrifice himself? What had the world ever given him but pain and betrayal?
Then, just then, he thought of Ayrton, his friend, his true friend. One day, Ayrton would die. And then his soul would be Damian’s. F
orever. It made his choice so very clear. Sometimes, life was…very simple.
He jumped into the Abyss.
CHAPTER 47
Ayrton led Elia downhill. She struggled, unfamiliar with the cruelty of nature. She was an adult with a child’s experience, learning the perils of winter for the first time in her life.
Branches snapped at her, tearing at her clothes—Ayrton’s clothes, mostly. He had relinquished most of his spares to her. Winter had never been an issue in the city. But now, it was a reality, and it bit deeply even into the immortal bones of a former goddess.
Elia was chilled and winded. She was too weak for an arduous trek through the forested hills leading away from the city. Hidden bogs claimed her feet, making her stumble and fall. She tired fast, not knowing how to breathe properly to conserve her strength.
Never once did Ayrton consider giving up. Otherwise, his life meant nothing. Everything would have been just one big joke; his whole life would have become a useless mockery. They had to flee. He could as well be a fool, a fool deluding himself with the notion of life. But it was worth trying.
It was worth dying for.
He hoped some secluded settlements still existed on the shores of Lia Lake. He hoped to find a boat and take Elia away from the madness and carnage. At the very least, he hoped to flee the Territories, into the nomad lands to the northwest. Afterward, they would think of something.
The many years of his dark past came as an advantage now. A simple man would have been quickly, ruthlessly defeated by winter. But he knew how to survive. His only concern was Elia. She could not bear this burden for too long.
It was early morning. The sky was clear, with no clouds to contain the heat, making the day sharp with cold. Crusted snow crunched beneath their feet as they plodded toward the coastal region, slowly descending. The weather was supposed to be friendlier around the lake.
“How much longer?” Elia asked, panting.
Ayrton turned around, his breath fuming around his flushed face. “We must walk at least until midday. We’ll take a short rest in about two hours.”
“My ankle hurts,” she complained.
The Outsider sighed. Another misplaced step. He walked to her and let her lean against him, supporting some of her weight. But it made their progress very slow.
Then, he heard noise—human noise.
“Not a word,” he whispered, drawing his broadsword.
A scattering of figures materialized on the hilltop above them, armed men swathed in furs and leathers. They made no attempt to hide their presence, shouting and cursing in raucous voices, superbly confident in their numbers.
Ayrton swallowed. He had hoped to outpace the enemy, but his hopes had been slim. Elia was no soldier and could not maintain a soldier’s march. Ayrton cursed his own indecisiveness. He had waited for too long, desperately trying to convince the gods to abandon the city. Both of them should have left a long time ago.
Still, he was not really sure this lot was chasing the two of them. The Feorans were prowling the Territories, killing indiscriminately. They were nothing but another random target of opportunity.
Elia backed against a snow-laden pine, crouching beneath its sagging limbs. Ayrton knelt by her side, poised. He reached for the small crossbow hanging from his belt and handed it to Elia. She nodded weakly.
“General Davar, look here!” someone shouted.
One of the men in the lead of the horde turned. “What is it, Martin?”
“A trail, looks like more than a single man.”
The one called Davar waved dismissively. “Probably locals. That’s not our prey.”
Martin seemed unconvinced. “Could be. Maybe that filthy deity banded with someone?”
Davar approached his subordinate. “After thousands of years of deliberate isolation, an escaped god seeks help from the very humans that are trying to murder him? Sounds unlikely, don’t you think so, Martin?”
“That bastard is gone now,” another Feoran piped in, resting by a pine to relieve himself.
“We will find him, and we will kill him, no matter how long it takes,” Davar hissed. “Feor wants them all dead, and dead they shall be, even if we have to poke every foxhole in these hills.”
“What’s that false god called?” Martin asked.
“He’s called Tanid,” Davar said. “He’s always been a crafty bugger.”
Ayrton watched the enemy converge around the commander, about a dozen men in total. Some of them spoke in voices too low to overhear. It was obvious they were a hunting party, after another deity who had fled the city.
Ayrton let the bubbling moral dilemma gnawing at his soul die a silent, impotent death. He could not help Tanid now. The gods had made their choice. His only worry was Elia. No one else mattered.
The group of Feorans grew bored and started to disperse. Men coursed idly through the sparse forest, poking bushes, shaking branches heavy with snow. Davar was speaking to Martin and another man, who were nodding curtly at his fervent, passionate words.
Ayrton held his breath. If Elia and he were lucky, the horde would go away, never knowing about the two refugees. But luck did not seem benevolent that morning. One of the soldiers was following the tumble of footprints the two of them had left.
The Outsider sheathed the sword and drew a short knife.
The Feoran rounded a knot of stunted spruce and saw the two figures huddling in the shadow of a pine. He opened his mouth to shout a warning. Instead of air, a length of cold steel kissed his lips, crushing his tongue and teeth. Gurgling, he collapsed.
Ayrton rushed forward, dragging the dying man into his embrace, crushing his face against the icy snow, choking his wails. Retrieving his knife, Ayrton stabbed the man in the neck, severing his life lines, but not before the muted screams reached the ears of his comrades.
They turned, saw a stranger killing one of their friends, and charged, howling like animals.
Ayrton rose and waited. He had no intention of shouting. It was a waste of good air.
Fortunately, the uneven ground and the foot of drift made their coordinated strike clumsy and badly timed. Instead of attacking him simultaneously, the Feorans fell upon him one after another, their balance shaken by the treacherous pull of the boggy ground. The graceful stances of veteran swordsmen turned into an awkward dance.
Ayrton spread his legs, bracing for the impact. He swung with precision and efficiency, tearing a man’s lungs out of his chest cavity. Losing control of his limbs, the soldier careened into him like a deadweight, toppling him over. The Outsider rolled head over heels, coming up to a low crouch twenty feet downhill. He shook the stinging snow from his hair and ears.
The second man lunged forward, throwing himself into the air. Ayrton sidestepped, let the man fly. The Feoran crushed into the ground belly-first, dashing his ribs against hidden rocks and tree roots. He groaned and did not rise. The third man stumbled, rose, stumbled again, and slipped. Ayrton cut him across both thighs, leaving him in screaming, crippling agony.
Seeing their comrades succumb so easily to the stranger, the remainder slowed their pace, approaching slowly, minding their balance on the slippery white carpet.
Ayrton dug in his heels deeper and waited.
“Who the fuck are you?” one of them shouted.
He said nothing. He watched the blades dance before his eyes, sunlight reflecting off the cold, sharp edges. Uphill, a soldier was kneeling, loading his crossbow.
Davar and Martin were approaching, swords drawn.
A man with an ax swung at him. Ayrton ducked and stabbed. The man folded, holding his guts. Enraged by his efforts, the survivors abandoned their caution and charged wildly again, two men at a time.
Ayrton parried one blow, felt fire spread down his arm as a sword cut into his left forearm. Spinning, he cut the soldier’s head off, hot blood spraying his face, almost blinding him. There was no time to rest. The first attacker battered mercilessly, wide, savage blows that sapped his strength. He was ti
ring quickly in the brisk cold. Fighting was a dangerous business in the winter.
Timing the intervals between swings, Ayrton waited for an opening. He slashed the man beneath the armpit. Shrieking like a woman, the Feoran toppled, gripping his useless arm.
The crossbowman fired and missed.
The commander of the horde was upon him, swinging with precision and economy. Ayrton staggered a step backward. This man was no amateur. Another glancing cut on his leg, then one across his cheek. Half an inch deeper, he would have been dead, his eyes smoking in the snow.
Then, he saw a movement from the corner of his eyes. Elia. Oh no!
She had abandoned her shelter and was aiming her little crossbow at the enemy archer. Ayrton saw the man called Davar avert his own gaze, glimpsing the second, unaccounted-for enemy.
And froze.
His sword dropped. The life force in his limbs went down. His mouth opened, framing a word.
Ayrton only let his brow furrow before cold-blooded dedication repossessed him. He swung with all his might.
The tip of the sword caught Davar across the jugular. Ayrton knew the man was dead before he hit the ground.
“General!” one of the Feorans shrieked. It was Martin, Ayrton thought.
Elia fired the crossbow. The bolt went far off mark. The enemy archer fired. He missed again.
Ayrton parried the blow from another soldier and pulled on his left, flailing arm. The dazed man flew forward. The Outsider slammed the hilt of his sword in his nape, drawing dark blood. Weeping and babbling incoherently, Martin lunged. It was a careless move of a suicidal man, Ayrton noted.
Martin’s eyes shot wide open as the entire length of Ayrton’s sword went through his chest. Grunting, Ayrton pushed him off.
The only enemy left was the crossbowman, uncertain whether to cock another bolt or draw his sword. Running away was not an option. No one could run far in the snow, uphill.
Ayrton paced up toward him, holding his backpack in the left arm like a shield against arrows. He panted, each breath an ecstasy for his exhausted body. Blood pounded in his temples. His left eye quivered with hot pain blooming in the side of his face.
The Betrayed Page 33
