Ewan was surprised by his own courage. “Four days, two meals a day.”
The tavern owner picked the coin from the table, let it roll in his palm. “One scary sparrow you are, birdie.”
The room he was given was small and not very clean. Pigeons roosted on the sill of a small window overlooking the docks. Below the window was a drop of quite a few yards, not a wise escape route.
Ewan was restless. He could not stay in the musty, dark room. The walls pressed on him.
He did not know what do. But being idle seemed like the worst idea. He left the tavern. Outside, he marked its name, Blue Bottle, so he could find his way back. He decided to wander about the nearby district, get to know the surroundings.
It was less than an hour later that he was attacked. The street he followed was relatively deserted. It was unpaved, like most other streets, with pocks filled with piss and old rain. He never saw the assailants come. Whether they had followed him from the inn or just chanced upon his innocent, foreign face, he never learned.
Something hard slammed into his back. A yelp of pain, a gasp of surprise. None his. Turning around, he saw a rough piece of wood with nails on one end lying on the ground. A man clutched his wrist, nursing it. Three others stood, watching him with ashen and dumb faces, their hands holding clubs and knives.
Ewan felt panic surge up his throat just before the fever took him.
His predator saw him buckle and kneel. Their toothy yellow grins returned. Another club swung. Ewan winced, lifting an arm to protect his face. The hard wood slammed into his forearm and splintered. Ewan vomited on the ground.
“Let’s go,” one of the four hissed. “Quick.”
Ewan had seen those faces before, the faces his friends and the sisters in the convent had shown him. Repulsion laced with terror.
Three of the attacked ran, never looking back. The fourth hesitated, holding the knife in an unsteady hand before him. “What are you, freak?”
Ewan stumbled up, weak, disoriented. His vision narrowed, darkened. He gulped air, desperately trying to stay conscious. His limbs moved in a wooden, alien fashion. They felt numb.
He lumbered forward, his knees locked. The bandit edged backward, his eyes fixed on Ewan’s, unable to turn and run. His comrades had long run off.
Ewan felt anger rising inside his body, like heat bubbling up through a crust of ice. It imbued him, empowered him, made him stronger. Sensation crept back to his body, tingling. How could people be such monsters? They would kill an innocent man just to steal his clothes and maybe some coins, but they called him a monster.
Human life felt so cheap, so meaningless. The spell of dizziness was gone. His skin was icy, prickled with sweat, but otherwise he felt fine. Deep fear welled beneath the storm of his fury, but he suppressed it. One day, he would find the answers to his identity, this strange curse the gods had given him. Now, his soul screamed for revenge.
Ayrton had once told him that honest people never wasted time gloating and contemplating. They did what was necessary and paid the price of their conscience later.
Ewan swung. His fist crashed into the assailant’s shoulder. Bone crunched. The man spun like a weightless doll, performing a full turn and dropping into a heap. The man howled a bloodcurdling shriek of agony. His arm was twisted out of its socket.
Ewan staggered slightly, quickly recuperating. “I will let you live so you can tell the others,” he said.
The street was now completely empty, people having fled the scene of violence. Ewan stood above the weeping man, breathing hard, trying to rein in his wrath. Why did they keep attacking him? He had done nothing wrong, harmed no one. What was wrong with all these people?
“Leave me alone,” he said to no one particular, walking on. The wounded bandit was crawling away, his sobs and screams mixed into incoherent yammering.
A man in shock, Ewan waded back into one of the big streets. The crowd enveloped him, erasing his identity. He became another senseless drone in the hive. No one looked at him strangely; no one really saw him. The little alley did not exist; the attack had never happened.
Ewan shook his head. If this were what the world had to offer, no wonder his friend Ayrton had fled.
CHAPTER 29
For the first time in her life, Mali was afraid. Her menses had not come. She was not a woman prone to hysterics. But a second week had gone without a drop of blood, and she was beginning to worry. Her menses were always regular, as precise as the fullness of the moon.
She was always very careful and made sure her lovers wore a frogskin. There was always some risk involved, but the thin sheaths had never let her down. But like all things with Adam, there had been an unpredictable result.
Mali believed herself a fairly experienced lover. She had bedded many an officer. Most men were almost the same when it came to sex; they sweated and grunted and plowed the furrow like a stubborn farmer.
Adam had been different. She still recalled their union with something of shock and wonder. She had never believed a man could be so attentive to a woman’s needs, so confident, so unafraid to explore and try things. Mali had never before had a man bury his face between her legs. Most men were afraid of the cunt, as if it were a vicious, hairy little dog.
She had left his back gouged with tales of her passion. Somehow, during the coitus, the frogskin must have slipped or gotten torn. A disaster.
Despite his impressive skills, Adam’s manner left her disturbed. He was a keen lover, but his heart did not beat in rhythm with his loins. It had felt like a duty, a precise and wondrous duty. Just before they had mated, he had smiled, the first time she had seen a genuine expression on his face. But then, his soul had retreated into its deepest recesses and a shadow emerged, an emotionless, colorless ghost that turned his flesh into a puppet.
Mali believed it was that icy, uncaring composure that had attracted her in the first place, apart from the obvious good looks. She was a warrior, a commander, and some bit of her maniacal ego had craved the attention, compelled her. Few men could resist her, but he had, luring her into his net.
She had slept with him and no man since; the war would not let her.
Now, her world was tumbling down.
She had to admit she was losing control of her army. The Eracian Southern Army was her command, her people, but their hearts belonged to Adam.
After another phenomenal series of victories against the Caytoreans, she had been forced to promote him to a colonel. It had been chaos. Marco had threatened to resign. Only the love for his country and monarch had kept him from abandoning the cause.
Mali did not know how such a young and inexperienced officer like Adam could hatch such brilliant plans. They were simple, if cruel, but they worked. His gift for timing the attacks and defenses, for boosting morale and sowing terror, for using the right tactics in combat was extraordinary. What kind of a mind did it take to be so cunning?
Despite the recommendations by George and Marco, Adam had refused to leave camp and move against the tail of Caytorean forces in the Territories. They had urged him to strike before the enemy could solidify its positions. But he had forsaken Talmath and just waited.
Indeed, soon enough, the Caytoreans had launched a number of surprise attacks against Virgin’s Blood and the dozen smaller adjacent camps. But Adam had been ready for them. Thousands of crossbowmen had lain in wait and unleashed death, once again decimating entire regiments of Caytorean’s finest cavalry and heavy infantry.
Then, he had ordered the combined forces of the Eracian army into Caytor, plain disregarding the very commanders of others units. Worst of all, the soldiers followed his lead.
The last time an Eracian force larger than a company had prowled the land of their quarrelsome neighbor had been more than a generation ago. It was a scandal of unprecedented ferocity. But Adam had simply laughed, scorning their cowardice and lack of vision.
He had launched several pinpoint attacks against enemy supply routes, severing them, weakening th
e enemy, taking rich spoils for plunder. His soldiers were the best-armed lot in the army. Then, he had sent saboteurs into enemy camps, to poison wells with dead rats. Every sane soldier feared disease more than any sword, but Adam did not seem to care.
Whatever spies and informants he had, they were tremendously effective. He knew when and where to attack, always surprising the Caytoreans. They went down in their hundreds and thousands, terrified of this godless Eracian. His foul touch was everywhere. No one could escape him.
And now, he led the wedge of Eracian troops against Roalas, one of the major trade cities in Caytor. Ironically, it was not much different from what the enemy had done in the Territories, except that Roalas was five times bigger.
Even the craziest army commanders in Eracian’s bloody history had not attempted something so maniacal.
Whatever Adam’s intentions were, they seemed to work. There were rumors that the monarch was mobilizing forces back home. Some believed that the High Council of Trade considered pleaing with the invader, even negotiating for peace. Most outrageous of all, there were whispers about Parusite forces stirring in the south. The last thing everyone needed was that mad king fighting for his crumb of glory.
The small, symbolic border skirmish was blooming into a major international war, a thing of the dark, forgotten past. Many saw Adam as the embodiment of the old evil, something they had never expected to see in their lifetime.
It was only a couple of months ago that Mali had met the handsome, confused lieutenant, the sole survivor of the First Battle of Bakler Hills. Now, he was the de facto leader of the Eracian army, a merciless man who frightened her.
The father of her child. It was an inconceivable thought.
Adam had become a stranger, a passive and peaceful enemy among his own countrymen. He was dangerous and unpredictable and threatened the high command of the entire army with his presence. But the common folk adored him.
His horrible presence attracted violence. Mercenaries flocked to his side, attracted by the coin he spent so freely. Mali did not know where he pooled his wealth from. Those plunder missions must have been extremely successful.
Some of the new Eracian troops were soldiers and refugees from the Territories, fled from the war and bent on revenge. Many others were former criminals, delighted to have a chance to take up their old ways again. Yet others were strange and dark people from remote corners of the world, drawn by the smell of freshly spilled blood.
The Eracian army was losing its identity. It was becoming a horde of anarchists, a union of people who fought for the sake of fighting.
Mali knew she would have to kill Adam.
At least, that was what she had thought until several days ago. Now, her entire world had shattered. Could there be love between them, reconciliation, friendship? Could rivals love one another? She did not care for him; she barely knew the man. And Adam did not look like someone who could love.
Worst of all, she did not know what to think of the thing growing inside her. She prayed it would turn out to be some god’s prank. But what if she were truly pregnant? What then?
Few warrior women wanted to be mothers. They had no illusions of what the world had in store for their children. She had seen so many young men die, weeping and crying for their mothers, all alone and abandoned on the cold earth as their comrades and enemies rushed about them. That was not the dream of life a woman could give to her child.
The truth of her calamity would not stay hidden for long. Within several weeks, signs would begin to show. She might even have to relinquish her command. Mali wondered if there were any witch women in Caytor. Maybe they could charm the growing spirit out of her womb.
Adam was concerned. He had a war to run, people to kill. Roalas stood before him, a big fat whore, all moist and ready for him. Caytor was aflame with terror and confusion.
His soldiers were building siege weapons, assisted by the mercenary engineers Lord Erik had sent him. Naturally, Adam was slightly suspicious of the strange help, but his doubts were slowly melting. His new ally was true to his words. Money, weapons, tools, information, they all poured like rain. The Carrion Eaters, a division now, were the best-equipped Eracian force in the entire army. Every soldier had a crossbow now.
His peasants had come a long way. They had started as disgruntled, bitter, frightened fools with mismatching uniforms and token weapons. Today, they marched proudly, never breaking formation, with shiny breastplates and helms and long pikes in their arms and crossbows on their back.
Victories had almost become a habit. Adam could hardly keep track of how many battles his people had fought, how many thousands of heads he had ordered severed. But no matter how big or small the fight, the wagons were always there, loaded with heads, with a lone lucky survivor riding home to tell the tale. It just had to be done.
The Caytoreans were afraid. Most of the time just sighting the red banner was enough to send them scurrying away. Whole units surrendered to him, hoping against hope they would be let to live. And let them live he did. Adam was no fool.
He would disarm them and let them go, despite outrage and protest from his own troops. Ignoring the grievances of his men, he would tell the enemy to go back to their comrades and tell them there was still some hope for them, that if they gave up their already lost war against him, he would let them go back to their homes and families. This broke their resolve even more than the severed heads. The Caytoreans now knew they had a choice. It gave them hope. And hope made people hesitate. It bound and chained them.
The Feorans might be fierce, just like their imagined god, but they were still only Caytoreans. And for countless generations, the Caytoreans had been taught to believe that spirits of desecrated bodies were doomed to rot in the emptiness of the Abyss for all eternities. It bit hard into their courage, melted the marrow in their bones.
Despite his duties, he often thought about Mali.
Her strength fascinated him. She was a free woman, unafraid, resolved. To a whore like himself, it was one of the most beautiful things one could see.
The night of their union had been…special. He had felt so relaxed, so serene with her. But as they’d started to make love, the ghosts of his past had come back, taken over his body. He could still remember humanity oozing away.
He sighed. Dead men could not love. Even if he wanted, he would not know how.
Adam shook his head, trying to disperse the morose thoughts. Ragged shouting and cheering stole his attention. A group of mercenaries and some of his troops were clustered around something, their faces twisted into the bestial rictus that children had when they tortured insects.
Adam felt the anguish of his memory coiling inside his belly. He needed deliverance, an excuse. He started toward the group.
Indeed, the soldiers were busy torturing a small dog, having hung it upside down from the wash lines and poking it with embers. The furry little thing squealed and trashed. Adam’s blood chilled. The ghosts of past burns on his back tingled.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
The group sobered instantly. Smiles vanished; guffaws choked.
“We were having some fun, that’s all,” one of the mercenaries hazarded.
“Poking one another’s arses would be called fun,” Adam offered, smiling softly.
“What’s wrong, sir? It’s just a stupid little dog,” the mercenary said.
“Just a dog,” another soldier offered, shrugging.
Adam took a deep breath. “Just a dog.”
Half an hour later, all the members of the little group were hanging upside down, ropes coiled about their feet, already turning black from the lack of blood. They wept and begged as Adam’s men readied hot pokers. One of them was already unconscious. A huge crowd had gathered. No one said a single word.
“If I ever witness a man torturing an animal—or another human—he should better kill himself before I get to him. Do you understand? Good.”
Whispers spread like wildfire.
; A mercenary captain was heading his way. The man had a strut of one very displeased. Adam turned to face him.
“Who gave you permission to torture my men?” he said.
Adam did not even blink. “Would you like to join them, Captain Franco?”
The mercenary sniffed sharply. “Commander, what is the meaning of this?”
The former whore nodded to himself. “Ah, ‘commander,’ that’s better. Your men presumed the life of a small dog was less important than theirs, so they decided to torture it. They are being reeducated as we speak. I believe they see the errors of their ways.”
The captain flushed with rage. “Release them at once!”
Adam rolled his eyes, pretending to think this over. “No.”
The mercenary looked around him. Hundreds of Adam’s men stood all about. They all had the same insane look in their eyes. They worshipped this lunatic.
“You torture men over something as insignificant as a little fucking dog. You are mad,” the captain spat.
Adam smiled again. “Maybe. But you are a presumptuous animal to think that a dog is less important than yourself. You are an animal, Captain. Don’t delude yourself. At least the dog has some dignity. Now, get lost before I lose my temper.”
The captain gritted his teeth, swallowing hard. He was weighing his options.
Adam decided to help him. He reached into his pocket; he always had coins there. He threw a fistful on the ground before the hireling. “Dance for me, fool.”
Captain Franco eyed the coins, but didn’t move to pick them up.
Adam made a derisive shooing motion. “Go on, fuck off.”
Biting off a curse, the captain stalked away. Adam was not worried. The cur would serve him, because he paid him money. It was as simple as that. And he would never dare betray him, because he knew Adam was a greater monster than he’d ever be. His soul would eat itself for it, but he would stay and fight and die for Adam.
The Betrayed: Book one of The Lost Words Page 21
