Ewan tottered forward, a man in delirium. Bojan stood, weeping. Step by step, Ewan made his way toward the two soldiers. As he registered in their vision, Boris turned, leveling the crossbow at his chest.
“That’s far enough, boy,” he warned.
Ewan heard him as if his head was submerged in a bucket of water. The world felt like a cube of frosted bone marrow. It jittered and wobbled, solid lines coalescing into blurred shadows. The young brother retched again, but never stopped moving.
He felt the tip of the crossbow touch his skin, just below the rib cage.
“Let…go…of…that…kid,” Ewan intoned, every word a slow, mad agony.
“You have one second to get the fuck away from me, or I’ll shoot you,” Boris whispered.
Ewan did not move. The crossbow sang. There was a loud crack, like hammer hitting wood. Bojan shrieked. Adrian cursed. The women were running forward. Duvall was running away.
Then, the world stopped.
As one, the spectators all froze in their tracks, staring at Ewan. The crossbow bolt had splintered into a thousands slivers, some falling like sawdust, others lodged in the ruined fabric of his robe. Inside one of the rents, the mangled tip was a wad of black iron, pressed against Ewan’s skin. With a sucking sound, the tip detached, like a mollusk pulling off a pier, and fell to the ground. There was a coin-sized ruddiness on Ewan’s ghostly pale skin, but not a drop of blood or a flake of shredded skin.
Ewan’s arm came up in a wide arc, hitting Boris on the side of his head. Lobbed by his own teeth, Boris flew, turned over in the air, and collapsed a full ten paces away. Blood gushed from his ears.
Ewan stood there, his arm raised.
Then, he collapsed as the world lost its monochrome madness and became black.
CHAPTER 9
King Vlad the Fifth was not going to let anyone best him. He owed his perfection to his sire, King Vlad the Fourth, who had taught him to be the best in everything. When he was five, his father had taken him to see executions to harden his resolve. He had been beaten every day, regardless of what he’d done, to instill a good measure of humility and prudence in his skin. They would pepper his tongue and pour onion juice into his eyes and let small embers cool on the skin of his belly to make him immune to pain. He had slept with cloves of garlic stuck up his nose to make him invulnerable to disease.
As the direct result of his flawless education, he was the smartest man in the kingdom. He was also the toughest and the bravest, too.
He always won the jousting tournaments and archery contents during the Spring Festival. Maidens all over the realm swooned at the mere mention of his name. He had whole chambers decorated with mirrors so he could bask in the resplendence of his immaculate image.
He was definitely not going to allow Eracians and Caytoreans to best him in matters of war.
News of hostilities had reached him on a swift rider earlier that morning. He was furious that they had decided to go to an all-out war without inviting him.
“I’m going to kill them all!” he shouted.
“Yes, dear,” his wife said.
“How dare they start a war without me!” he continued.
“Shame on them,” his wife added. She sat by the fireplace, knitting.
King Vlad walked about the large royal bedchamber, fretful and restless like a beast in a cage, naked except for a crown on his head and a sword in his arms. His wife, Olga, ignored him, knitting a light winter tunic.
King Vlad paused, adjusting the crown on his brow. The mirror reflected his spotless image back. Servants polished that mirror with reindeer skin seven times a day.
He could not believe how handsome he was. He had once thought of executing all the ugly people, until Olga told him that this would mean the death of more than half the kingdom’s population. So, reluctantly, he had let the ugly people be.
“We need to summon the nobles. We need to levy the serfs,” he went on.
“Don’t forget it’s the autumn harvest soon. We need the peasants in the fields.” Olga drank from a goblet of wine.
King Vlad spun, his sword chinking one of the bedposts. “No, I will not levy the serfs. It’s harvest time soon. We will starve in the winter if we leave the fields unharvested.” He looked at his wife. She was chubby and with enormous breasts, the way all women should be. She so reminded him of his late mother, gods bless her soul.
Once, he had considered banning small breasts, until his wife had explained that breasts grew as women got older.
“I’ll muster the retainers! And all freemen!”
“Could you not shout, dear? I hear you all too well.”
King Vlad the Fifth went to a small table in the far corner of the chamber. A map lay partially unfurled on top of it, held from curling by a pair of goblets. He started tapping heavily.
“I’ll muster thirty thousand men and march north, into the Territories. I will strike at the Caytorean and Eracian bastards and teach them humility.”
“I suggest you leave Archduke Vasiliy in charge as your steward. He’s a very able man.”
“Who will stay here and protect the kingdom? Maybe Duke Vasiliy? Yes…probably him.”
“You should ask for the blessing from the patriarchs. That way, the people will be more content. They will accept the war toll more easily if they know it’s for a holy cause.” Olga looked up from her handiwork at the icon of her favorite goddess, Diana, laid on top of the austere marble mantelpiece.
“I will talk to the patriarchs today. See that I get their blessing for this war. I’ve heard that Caytoreans and Eracians are razing the holy places, burning the shrines and temples, and killing priests. They must be punished.”
“This is a very good opportunity to grab some more arable land. We lack in rich wheat and rye fields like the Caytoreans have. After you crush their forces, you could move across the river and take some of the Caytorean lowlands. Even better, you could take hold of the eastern Territories and leave troops there as protection against Caytorean aggression. Appoint one of your less loyal dukes as provost marshal. It would be killing four birds with one stone. You’d gain fame among your nobles, you’d subvert a possible traitor while getting him far away from the throne, and we’d be able to enjoy the spoils of farmland in the Territories and yet be loved and cherished for it.”
“That’s it!” Vlad shouted. “I have a devious plan.”
Olga sipped more wine. “Please tell me, dear.”
“I will move into the Territories and send the godless scum scurrying back to their ratholes. Then, I’ll leave some of the forces near the border permanently, as a shield against the Caytoreans. And send one of my two-faced aristocrats to run the show. It would give us access to vast resources.”
“You’ll be a hero. No one will begrudge you for it. Within a generation, you’ll be able to establish a small autonomy there, with the blessing of the patriarchs, of course. If they prove too difficult to appease, you could always hire mercenaries to stage border incursions and get them convinced. Or we could milk some of our treasury now and grant it to the temples. We’ll have the support of the clergy for many years to come.”
“I’ll be a hero!” the naked king hollered, jousting with invisible enemies. His naked member flopped happily with his erratic motions.
“When you meet the priests, you should let them know of what you intend to do, but keep the little annexation business private for now. They do not need to know that until we have our legions in the Territories. After this war ends, there will be hard facts in the field of battle, and that’s what matters.”
Vlad spun with sudden, mad clarity in his eyes. “But we will be stealing from the gods. Won’t the gods object?”
Olga put the wool and needles down. She extended her arms in a hug. “Come here.”
The king walked up to his wife, knelt, and let himself be embraced. Some of her hair caught in his crown, disturbing it. Almost panicking, he rose, readjusting it, making sure it never fell off. He would not let go of the s
word either.
“They will not object,” Olga spoke quietly, patiently, almost like a mother soothing a child after a nightmare. “But I will talk to Goddess Diana for you and ask her.”
“Will you talk to her?” Vlad asked.
“I will,” she said, nodding deeply.
The mask of fury twisted her husband’s features again. “I’ll be a hero!”
“You remember how the Safe Territories came to be, don’t you? It was a consensus. The leaders of the realms decided to protect the gods. In return, the patriarchs have agreed to speak in their favor and allay the fears of the common man. We gave them land and protection, and they gave us support. Now, we need a little bit of land, and they need some support from us. The patriarchs are smart. They will understand.”
Vlad started pacing again. “I need to—” There was a knock on the chamber doors. He threw on a robe and turned around. “Enter!”
A pair of children came in. Sasha and Sergei were their children, twins, almost eleven now.
Olga looked up from her knitting. It was that time of the morning again. “Hello, children.”
Almost mechanically, King Vlad went to a rack of swords adorning one of the walls and drew a long wooden stick from the mass of blades.
“Sasha, you first!” the king said. The girl approached and stood before her father. He lashed. The cold, polished wood slammed into the side of her left leg with a loud, wet sound. Sasha flinched, but did not make a sound.
“Education is important,” the king mumbled, almost in a trance.
Sergei came second. When his father struck him, he yelped. A tear rolled down his cheek.
“Stop crying! You embarrass the family!” Vlad roared. “Be strong, like your sister. You must be strong.”
Whispering good-byes, the two children retreated almost as suddenly as they had come.
“Do you think it helps?” Olga asked him for the thousandth time.
“Definitely! It builds their character! Look at me!” He shrugged off his robe and punched his chest proudly.
“You are the instrument of your father’s education, that’s for sure, dear!”
Vlad harrumphed triumphantly. He resumed his irritating stroll, to and fro, to and fro.
“Let no one say that King Vlad stood idly while the other nations clashed!” he yelled.
“Yes, dear,” Olga said, knitting.
CHAPTER 10
Armin felt like a man falling down a bottomless pit. For the last two weeks, he had been investigating the murders of the eight council members, with very little success. The murders had no pattern and seemed random. There was little or no connection between the victims. They had shared almost no history together, had done business with one another just as often as they had done it with hundreds of other merchants. Worst of all, there seemed to be no motive whatsoever.
The eight had been prominent citizens, yet not so prominent as to invoke fury or jealousy. They were just moderately powerful, only a bit influential, and no richer than many of their still-living-and-breathing comrades. No one could tell of any vendettas or bad blood. And although a few of them had shared some of the more exotic passions of Eybalen’s nightlife, they had not caused any great grief or scandal.
It seemed like a dead end. But for Armin, it was pure ecstasy.
For him, challenge was the greatest stimulant in the world. Even his three wives barely compared. Since having discovered he was being stalked, he had reemployed his youngest spouse, Inessa, as his bodyguard. She had been a policewoman once, protecting the academy, until she had fallen in love with its striking founder. Now, the mother of his youngest son, she had gladly embraced the opportunity to be at his side as a soldier once more.
They did not mingle together in public, but she was never more than ten steps away. The people watching him changed frequently, but he was almost always aware of their discreet presence. He wondered if they were aware of Inessa.
No leads, no motive. He was walking down one of the broad cobbled streets of Eybalen, engrossed in thoughts, when he stumbled upon a small gathering. A knot of people was blocking half the road, with curious citizens converging toward the crowd.
A fervent fan of anthropology, Armin decided to participate. He casually drifted toward the assembly, assessing the situation. The people seemed calm. It was not a rally or a brawl that had attracted them. It seemed something that appealed to their intellect. As he neared, the din of traffic subsided, allowing him to hear a clear voice droning, a speech, delivered by a figure in front of the crowd.
“…are false. For they are afraid. Why would they be afraid? For they are false.” The voice rang, sharp, authoritative, not a hint of doubt in it.
Armin assumed a passive stance in one of the back rows and watched. A man, as bald as himself, stood on the second step of a short flight leading into a temple of one of the continental deities, preaching to a crowd of onlookers.
The man must have been some sort of a priest or a holy man, the investigator noted. However, unlike most clergy Armin had met in his life, this one dressed in snug leather rather than robes. While robes were meant to symbolize purity and simplicity, the gleaming oiled leather spoke of power, of unchecked lust and unbridled emotion.
The man was holding a crystal orb in one of his arms. The free one was lashing in quick gestures that contrasted the slow and deliberate speech. Armin switched his gaze to the crowd. They appeared to be a mixed lot, but mainly the common hardworking men and women of the middle and lower classes. Their faces were locked in thought, an apparently rare experience for most of them. There was a glimmer of hope there, too, and just a hint of anger.
“The false gods have abandoned us. They no longer mingle among us. They no longer listen to men. They have scorned us. Their power is waning. Look behind me. I’m at the steps of one of their temples. Where is the cheer and pride of this god? Where are his followers? The temple is an empty shell. And I am freely mocking it. The false gods have no sway over me. And they will not have any sway over you if you convert.”
A few faces bobbed in agreement. Armin rubbed his spotless chin. A rare disease had robbed his skin of all his hair in his late teens. He was as smooth as an egg, something his wives seemed to like.
The preacher smiled. “You can be free. You can live your lives without fear, without check. You can enjoy life. The false gods have burdened you with meaningless laws and wreathed you with empty promises. To follow their rules is to deny your own humanity. Man was meant to be a free creature, to live freely.
“But you are not free. Even as I speak to you, city guards are watching us from across the street. They wish to control you and curb you and bend your will to their own whims. You live your lives in the shadow of the rich and powerful. You live by their creed, denied of your true nature and desires.”
Armin tilted his head. On the opposite side of the avenue, a squad of city guards stood, watching the show. They did not seem interested or concerned. But they were there, to see and be seen.
The Sirtai investigator was amazed by the gap in his education. There was a whole layer of social currents here he had not been aware of. He knew it was his own fault. He made a mental note to get more deeply involved in the issue at hand.
The narrator was very skilled, he had to admit. All of the charisma and charm were there. He had a striking, daunting presence. And he spoke of simple, everyday things that lifted people’s hearts.
“Mighty is the worm that gnaws at rotted roots,” the saying said—and it could not have been truer.
Religion had never really bothered him much. Sirtai did not believe in gods the same way as continental people. They believed in spirits and forces of nature, in harmony and balance of all things. The continental folks seemed hung up on believing in ultimate powers.
On the other side, a small yet luxurious chariot stopped by the group of constables. A delicate hand wrapped in lace and frill beckoned one of them, possibly a corporal, near. The man listened for a while, eager
ly nodding. The chariot pulled away. The corporal clapped his hands and started across the street. His gang followed, hands casually caressing hard oak batons at their flanks.
Seeing the militia approach, the trance of the crowd shattered. People instinctively started to disperse, like a bubble exploding. A few drifted away, a few merely moved out of the way of the armed men, but most stayed, just like the narrator. Armin stayed, too.
“Time to leave, people. Nothing to be seen here. Let’s go,” the corporal shouted, waving his hands.
“Will you not let the people hear the truth?” the priestlike figure asked, his crystal voice shaming the constable’s attempt.
“Get off those steps and head back to your warren, priest,” the corporal warned.
The man in leathers seemed to deliberate. He eyed the five guards carefully. Then, he stepped off his little stage. A murmur spread through the wavering crowd. The knot of focused interest had become a handful of leaves, fluttering in the wind.
“One day, you will regret this,” the priest told the corporal, face-to-face.
“Don’t push your luck, priest. Get lost.”
In the corner of his eye, Armin saw a second group congregate, just behind the corner of the avenue. This pack wore leather, just like the speaker, and seemed far more determined than the casual crowd. Armin saw more of their kind coalesce from other streets, in ones and twos, merging into a solid body of palpable fury.
Scrolling through images engraved in his memory, he realized he had seen quite a lot of their kind in the recent days, but had dismissed the fad for local fashion. Well, apparently, it was not just fashion.
The corporal did not look like a stupid man. Middle-aged, he had the traits of a low-profile criminal who had found employment in the City Watch and now stared down his former allies through the monochrome eyes of petty authority. But he had enough experience to sense the change and back down.
He stepped back and led his squad away, pretending he had never seen the priest.
Just as quickly as they had appeared, the various leather-clad men dispersed, blending back into the crowd. Life resumed its normal course in the streets of Eybalen.
The Betrayed: Book one of The Lost Words Page 7
