Having witnessed the ferocity of the Parusite attacks in the city, the enemy knew they had no choice. They had to cross the river and escape—or die. The bridge was of sturdy but narrow construction, wide enough to allow maybe four armored soldiers abreast. With close to a whole five of stragglers, the Telore River was going to stream bright red by nightfall, King Vlad knew.
“My king, please slow down. Our troops cannot follow you,” Duke Maris, one of his lieges, shouted.
Vlad looked behind him and cackled. It was only natural that he would outpace everyone else. He was the best rider in the realm, and he had the finest horse. His bodyguards were desperately struggling to keep up.
He had only allowed the mounted archers to outflank him so they could harry the enemy troops. But no one else was to taste the blood of his foes before him.
The farthest ranks of the fleeing enemy were near the river now. Some soldiers were shedding their armor and jumping into the cold water, trying to swim to the far shore. Others were wading aimlessly in the shallows, trying to hide in the reeds. Already his archers were peppering them with high-lobbed shots, which made the river look as if it rained.
Mangonels twanged, hurling rocks into the cold, gray autumn sky. Pikemen pressed into a tight bunch, waiting for the first Caytoreans, halfway down the bridge.
The enemy was pushing and shoving, a hive of frantic human bodies jammed against the narrow throat of the bridge. A giant rock landed amidst the Caytoreans, scattering them like rats. Bodies were falling into the Telore.
Vlad wheeled his approach so he was near the center of the enemy force. He wanted to plow a straight line through all that flesh and bone and join with his forces on the other side. The enemy was only a few paces away.
The Caytoreans were turning, trying to make a stand, lifting a spear or a sword, trying to knock a bow with bleeding fingers. They had very little strength left.
Crushing into a sea of meat was no different than jumping onto a fat feathered mattress. You dove in deeply, softly; then you bounced. Men and animals wailed as they were pressed into a cauldron of blades. Bones snapped like twigs; droplets of blood sprayed like a flurry of gentle snowflakes. Screams rose to an inarticulate crescendo, a steady wail of sore, breathless throats.
Vlad lowered his sword and began to hack. He chopped indiscriminately, clearing a path as if he were a trailblazer in a forest. His retainers pressed close on his sides, imitating him. He laughed.
Count Nicola dropped, skewered by a spearman. Other men closed in on the Caytorean, bashing his brains with sword and mace. The smell of blood and feces hit his nose like a solid wall. His guts roiled.
The bridge was an inferno, packed with bodies to the last inch. Motion shuddered through the mass of men as if it were a caterpillar. For those trapped in the middle, there was no room to breathe.
Archers were spreading across the banks, firing into the succulent press of writhing bodies on the bridge. An artillery team was trying to manhandle their huge weapon closer to the bridge so they could hurl the rocks directly into the enemy force. Bodies bobbed in the water, slowly washing away.
Vlad could not move. His mare tried to buck and kick, but it was jammed tight in the wall of flesh around her. Horses were getting skittish, the stench of so much blood too much even for their war-trained nostrils.
The repositioned mangonel fired, a grapeshot of fist-size rocks, point-blank, against the horde on the bridge. A whole swath of soldiers fell and tumbled into the river. Stepping over the bodies, others rushed to fill the space.
After an impossibly long time, the pressure began to ease. Vlad could move again. Like a buffalo dislodging its fat limbs from the muck, the king surged forward, his best and most loyal men at his sides, there to witness the glory of their king.
The enemy’s left flank had collapsed. Panicked men were running away, away from the bridge and salvation, chased by his knights, savaged like animals. The smart ones fell to their knees and yielded, hoping for the best.
Arrows began to rain. Vlad frowned. He was very close to the bridge now. Parusite bodkins were falling around them.
The bannermen were waving their streamers frantically, trying to signal the friendly troops to cease their fire. One of those monster machines belched. A giant rock arced into the sky and began to fall, growing bigger. It crashed into the ground not twenty paces away, mangling men into a pulp. A spasm exploded beneath their feet, felt even high up in the saddle. Another projectile followed, a bale of oiled, smoking straw.
The bale disintegrated, cinders and ashes falling all around them. The air was suddenly full of acrid smoke. Men began to writhe, their hair and capes on fire. Arrows zipped with soft, feathery noises.
Vlad fought to dislodge his sword from a man’s collarbone. The dead, limp body danced on the end of his blade.
Gradually, the friendly fire abated. Once again, the battlefield was a slaughterhouse, with Caytorean meat on the chopping block.
There were few enemies left, mostly dispersed in the blood-soaked fields, trying to outrun the horses. A small knot of determined, suicidal men still fought on around the bridge. But their fate was sealed.
Fania, his trusted mare, stepped onto the bridge. The thud of hooves turned hollow. The bridge was slick and bright red, awash in human debris. Blood trickled from its sides like melting snow. The footing was treacherous. Metal clanged, but it was symbolic now. Vlad slowly approached the remaining Caytoreans, their back to him, gently stabbing them through the neck or between the shoulder blades. He lopped the head of the last man, bringing the battle to a halt.
Rising in his stirrups, he stabbed at the sky and howled. His dukes followed suit. A cheer went up among his knights and infantrymen.
Night fell. The prisoners were busy collecting the bodies and dragging them to a giant pile, where they would be burned. The Parusites were celebrating their victory, drinking, and torturing the captured officers.
King Vlad the Fifth had postponed his own celebration for the time being. He wanted to question his prisoners.
Followed by most of his nobles, he walked up and down the line of beaten, humiliated Caytoreans, from ten-man leaders to thousand-man leaders.
Vlad was repulsed by the notion of professional armies. Such armies could not have the loyalty or the ferocity of retainer armies. Only through one’s unreserved love for the king could a soldier truly become a real warrior. His noblemen adored him and would give up their lives for him. These men were paid to fight, and there was no price higher than staying alive.
Vlad bore down on the highest-ranking captive. The man had been wounded and then beaten. He stood at a crooked angle, nursing his arm and leg, with blood and bandages marring his figure. His face was swollen, one eye shut tight.
“You,” Vlad said.
“Who are you?” the soldier whispered.
Maris whipped the man across the calves. Wailing weakly, the enemy officer collapsed. “Watch your tongue, cur. You will show humility when you talk to King Vlad!”
The man panted, slowly recovering. “I want to speak to Adam the Butcher,” he croaked.
Vlad frowned. “What?” Maris raised the whip for another blow, but the king waved his hand.
Defiant despite the pain, the thousand-man lifted his eyes. “I want to speak with the commander of the Eracian army.”
Vlad stood frozen for a few moments. Then he kicked the man in the stomach. “Eracian army? You fool. You have been defeated by the glorious Parusite King Vlad the Fifth!”
The Caytorean lay, bunched into a knot of agony, gasping for breath. After a while, he hissed, “Well, you’d better pack and run, Parusite. When Adam the Butcher finds you, you won’t be so confident.”
Furious, Vlad stomped away. Maris drew a knife and sliced the officer’s throat.
“War council! Now!” Vlad shrieked.
His nobles ran after him. Their king was in a very fragile state. They kept back, out of his sword reach.
“I will not be overs
hadowed by some Eracian mongrel! Find out who this Adam is! I want him dead.”
Archduke Radik coughed. “My lord, there have been some rumors—”
Vlad threw his sword on the ground. “I don’t want rumors! I want facts! Send your spies into enemy camps. I want to know everything about this man.”
“It is done, my lord,” Radik murmured.
Several nobles exchanged worried glances. They were in the Territories to take land, not to fight phantom enemies. This was not what Queen Olga had promised them.
One of the patriarchs approached. Vlad knelt and let the man bless him. He turned from a rabid dog to a docile puppy in a blink.
“What do you intend to do with those captives, son?” the patriarch asked.
“I want them skinned and a coat made from their hides,” the king said.
“You must not desecrate the bodies,” the priest chided.
The dukes watched with worry. Egor, Borislav, Vanya, they all looked nervous. They had opposed to bringing the clergy along, knowing they would sanction many of the war’s most alluring prospects. But Vlad wanted to be blessed every morning and every night.
“We will interrogate them,” Duke Borislav muttered. “We must learn as much as we can about the heathens. We must know our enemy.” Rumors of the Movement had reached their ears. The archdukes feared a religious war.
Vlad rose, his eyes bright with firelight. “Have the prisoners tortured. I want to know everything. And find me this Adam. I want him dead!”
The nobles dispersed in silence.
CHAPTER 28
Ewan stood on the hillside by the winding road and stared at the magnificent city before him. Eybalen, the capital of Caytor.
The foul weather had not yet touched the sprawling port city. The sea was calm and reflected the sunlight like a sheet of beaten tin, with a thousand twinkling lights. Hundreds of ships moored in the harbor, their masts a forest of leafless trees. Closer, dappled over the gentle, low hills of the bay, the houses and palaces of Eybalen rose, in all forms and colors and wrapped in a miasma of a busy, swarming hive of human life that blurred details.
The road descended toward the city’s western quarter, built mostly of low houses. On the hills to the north rose big, brilliant mansions and villas. Carts and people on foot passed him in their hundreds, coming and going. No one paid him any attention, a nameless form in a worn overcoat.
Ewan had never seen a big city, only read about them and imagined them. The view was breathtaking. And…he was afraid.
He was afraid to step into that cauldron of humanity. He was afraid of the intensity of the city, of the claustrophobic density that radiated from the narrow streets. He did not want to be among so many strangers.
The incident at the inn five weeks earlier had left him profoundly mistrustful of humans. He eyed men as predators, never trusting their smiles and open, friendly gestures.
No one had come after him. Apparently, the other patrons found the comfort of the hot inn more appealing than looking after the murderer of their companion. It had come as a shock to him that a man’s life could be so trivial. He had seen murder in his monastery, but this was different. This time it was he who had killed.
The fact he was a murderer had been slow in sinking into his bones. Ewan was almost afraid of the apathy he felt, the almost boring emptiness. Taking a life felt very simple, very rudimentary. There were no nightmares or qualms. The mind stupefied itself against self-defeating grief. Survival was the only thing that mattered. This was probably what being an animal, an emotionless automaton, was like.
But he had learned one thing. People preyed on his fresh, innocent face like hawks hunted mice. The scavenged money had come as a blessing. Without it, he would have starved and died. He bought his way into other roadside inns, a different man than the bedraggled kid he had been.
He would speak to no one, avoid eye contact, and sit as close to the door as possible. He paid for his food and bed in advance. When he’d go to sleep, he would barricade the door, propping chairs beneath the doorknob or jamming the bedside chests against the frame, knife at his side.
Only once had one of the patrons tried to molest him. A drunk man had tottered to his table and helped himself to a chair, uninvited. Ewan had gripped the knife so hard his knuckles had hurt. And when the fool had tried to fondle him, he had pressed the sharp tip against the man’s gut. The man had quickly retreated to his own table.
The past five weeks of bad weather and harsh roads had hardened him. His face was young, but creased with lines. His hair now hung down his neck, giving him a wild look. The dirt on his face, the grit beneath his nails, his mane, and the oversized cloak made him look like a poor vagabond. But it was for the better. No bandits had accosted him on his travels east. Innkeepers grumbled when he showed at their doorstep, but the cold texture of copper and silver silenced their mouths. Times were rough, and people had no time to look dainty, they would mumble to themselves.
After a week, he had lost his mule. Sometimes his travels ended with no place in sight, so he would sleep beneath the stars. One night, he had forgotten to tether the mule, and in the morning, it was gone. Since, he had walked on foot, sometimes hitching a short ride in the back of a peddler’s cart. He had stumbled across several villages, offering coin in exchange for some food and a dry place in a barn. Most of the times, the villagers had turned him down when they’d seen their dogs slinking away from him, hackles raised and tails tucked between their legs.
He had come across one other large city and given it a wide berth, sleeping in the surrounding forest, beneath trees and in foxholes.
Rain and sleet had followed him east. He treaded in mud most days and slept shivering, his wet clothes plastered to his skin. His fever would return, every few days, now a gentle annoyance that made him weak and hungry but nothing more.
And now he had no choice. He had come as far east as he could. Ewan had to enter Eybalen and seek a ship. The tug in his bones was growing stronger. He had to go somewhere beyond the livid blue horizon.
Resolved, if frightened, he followed the mass of newcomers. It was a strange procession, man, horse, cow, and goat.
Ewan walked past a broken shrine, frowning. Another one. He had walked past so many sites, all derelict and abandoned. It seemed that the Caytoreans had turned their back on the gods. It was an especially unpleasant notion.
There was no real marker beyond which the city began. The stench gradually rose until they became solid. And then, he was walking the squelching muck lanes, colliding into people, his head swimming. He was terrified.
His eyes tried to register everything everywhere, but it was impossible. Finding a side alley devoid of people, he paused for a moment, breathing hard, gathering his wits. At least no one had tried to rob him yet. Remembering Ayrton’s stories about big cities, he had hidden the coins in his loincloth. They felt very uncomfortable against his privates, and they made his member smell like copper, but it was the only way to make sure his purse would not be pilfered.
He fought his way on, not really knowing where he was going, past stands of pigs’ heads and herbs and bales of clothes, past strange priests who preached on an unknown, unholy religion, and women who sold their bodies.
The sight of prostitutes sparked some alien hunger inside of him. He knew he was growing into a man. He had had the urges. But now they were getting deeper.
One night, just before going to sleep, he’d remembered Sarith, her sweet, compassionate face, the kiss they had shared. Almost without volition, he had reached for his member and stroked. And although he vaguely remembered the patriarchs mentioning something about chastity, he had spilled his seed on the grass, with Sarith’s imagined body floating before his eyes.
Once undammed, the urges came more often, stronger, brighter. He had lost his trepidation and shame and relished in the pure, careless pleasure that those few minutes could bring him.
Ewan shook his head, clearing his mind. He could not allow himsel
f to daydream.
Slowly, he plowed his way toward the waterfront. People ignored him, just like they ignored one another. Still, he searched their faces for some sign of malice.
Then, he stopped. He realized he did not know where he needed to go. He had no idea what lands lay beyond Eybalen. Approaching one of those seamen and asking them to take him just…somewhere sounded ridiculous, even to himself.
But what was he going to do?
The harbor was crammed with inns, serving the thousands of hungry sailors. He chose a tavern at random and clambered inside. The patrons did not look at him weirdly as he shambled in. Ewan realized many of them looked far worse than he did.
“A bird,” one of their kind spoke in a rough, sore voice. “What d’you want, birdie?”
Ewan frowned, gulped. “I need a place to sleep for a few days. And food.”
The man, who had the look of a tavern owner, spat between Ewan’s legs. “Go to your mommy’s nest, boy. Don’t fuck around. I ain’t got time for pranks.”
Ewan produced a silver coin from his trousers. “I can pay,” he whispered. He knew that everyone was watching him now, a boy with a coin.
“Stole that off some rich ass uptown, have ya? What now?”
“That money is mine. I earned it,” Ewan said, hurt and terrified and madly proud.
“Whatcha you do, eh? Polished some bugger’s knob?” the man said. Everyone snickered.
Ewan knew he could not back down now. They would wrestle him for that coin, stab him if need be. Once in the open, it was no longer his. If he showed weakness now, they would take him for a petty and dumb thief and quickly disown him of his prize.
“I killed the man who wanted me to polish his knob,” Ewan whispered, a far throw from the innocent boy he had been just a few weeks back.
The tavern owner watched him carefully, weighing his words. Finally, he spat and spoke. “All right. You got some feathers, birdie. Three nights, three meals, no trouble, or I’ll have your guts stuffed with goat meat, d’you understand?”
The Betrayed: Book one of The Lost Words Page 20
