The Betrayed (10 page)

About half an hour before reaching his rented mansion, he realized someone was shadowing him. The person was quite unobtrusive, and most people would have never noticed. But Armin was a world-class investigator and could tell a hundred little clues from seemingly innocent objects and scenarios. He was absolutely sure the other man was not merely casually there, going the same way he did.

It was perhaps the sheer luck of his decision to walk, because otherwise, he would have never spotted the stalker. But now he knew. After a single day of work, Eybalen already had a keen interest in his deeds. The murder case seemed all the more enticing than before.

CHAPTER 8

“D
on’t move or make a noise until we tell you to do so,” Boris warned in a low growl that was supposed to be a whisper.

Duvall nodded. Ewan noticed the beads of sweat on his forehead. It was not that hot. The senior brother was terrified.

They had gone south, keeping well off the roads. After Chergo, they found no more signs of struggle. The roads were empty. The good weather had abandoned them overnight, turning into a light summer rain that persisted well into the morning. The world turned from sultry to cool.

Weak and hungry and burdened with three small children, the group made slow progress. But finally, they had reached the convent to find it blissfully quiet and whole. The sky was a sheet of beaten lead, keeping the sun at bay. They were soaked to the bone, and the chill ate at their resolve.

Ewan could not believe the Caytoreans had not attacked this place. If what the two soldiers claimed was true, hordes of the enemy forces had moved up these roads, heading for Talmath. Leaving such a succulent prize intact seemed unbelievable.

His eyes scanned the surroundings, desperately seeking signs of struggle. But he found nothing but empty rolling fields of thick, wild grass dotted with bushes and stunted trees.

“There seem to be no Caytoreans around,” Duvall murmured, reassuring himself.

“Quiet, lad,” Boris chided. Sedric had slipped away, reconnoitering.

Ewan had no knowledge of the two men and did not trust them. They had the same air of dark past about them, just like his friend Ayrton. But unlike him, they lacked his kindness, his apologetic manners. They looked like bloodthirsty animals, glad to be free of their cage for the first time in years. The thought disturbed him.

Ayrton would have never refused to go to Speann and help people, no matter the cost.

Adrian knelt near him, clutching a sword he was not quite sure what to do with. Ewan knew they were deluding themselves with empty heroics. But there was no other way.

The stupor and shock of the terror he had lived through in the last two days were slowly receding, leaving behind a hollow feeling of despair laced with anger. Alongside guilt and a dull yearning for revenge, his fever came back.

It was much weaker than before, but it crippled him somewhat nevertheless. He sweated and coughed. His chest hurt from suppressing the coughs in an attempt to conceal his state from the other brothers. They did notice, but kept quiet.

Again, last night, he had dreamt that same boring nightmare, waking drenched in cold sweat and rain. He was so angry when he rose that he’d punched a rock, flaying the skin off his knuckles.

He shivered gently and his joints hurt, but he could ignore the discomfort enough to focus on the task at hand, although he seriously doubted he had enough strength to lift a sword.

“Are you all right?” Adrian asked him.

Ewan nodded, sweat dripping from his hair. Or maybe it was rain. “I’ll be fine.”

Adrian did not seem convinced. “You are very pale.”

“Silence,” Boris warned.

In the vast open fields about them, nothing stirred. There was no sign of human life anywhere around the convent.

In contrast to his former home, this temple had a breast-high wall encircling its vegetable gardens, presenting a barrier against intruders. Ewan hoped this was enough.

He knew some of the sisters in the convent. Although the patriarchs insisted on keeping boys and girls apart until a certain age, the inevitable encounters happened all the time. Whenever the boys were sent to nearby villages to trade for goods, they would often meet their female counterparts. Ewan had even kissed one of the girls, Sarith. But he had not told his superiors about it. Only Ayrton.

Sedric suddenly rose from the tall grass, waving at them.

“Let’s move,” Boris urged. The group left their hiding place, heading for the temple. They walked briskly, alert, feeling exposed in the empty, quiet world. The dark sky overhead pressed uncomfortably.

Boris carried a heavy riding crossbow on his back, but now he cradled it in his armpit, the string drawn taut, the groove loaded with a fat, thick bolt.

Ewan walked, slightly swaying, his legs soft and trembling. Then, suddenly, racking pain lanced up his back, stealing breath from his chest, paralyzing him. He yelped and collapsed, shaking violently, curled in a ball of pain.

“Ewan!” Adrian shouted.

“Bloody child,” Boris cursed, running back.

They stood above him, staring helplessly. He watched them, unable to open his mouth and say anything, his body out of control. The pain was agonizing. After an eternity, the fit ceased. He found himself sprawled on his back, his nails chipped from digging, his mouth awash in blood. Gingerly, he touched his bitten tongue and spat. As he smelled the contents of his mouth, he retched dryly, his stomach having nothing to give.

Ashamed, he leaned back again, groaning, wiping threads of mucus and bile that marred his face. His body screamed at him, muscles burning, but at least he could feel them again.

“What’s wrong with him?” Boris asked in a threatening voice. He looked afraid.

Duvall grimaced. “We don’t know. His fits started a week ago. They had him confined to a bed in the monastery. We thought he had healed, but it seems we were wrong.”

Ewan watched as people talked about him, like he was a piece of furniture worth commenting on.

“It could be plague,” Rais hissed softly.

“Don’t be a fool,” Adrian barked.

“Keep your voices down, fools. We don’t know who’s in that convent!” The pale Boris looked like a man on the verge of panic. “We got company!” Sedric yelled.

All of them, minus Ewan, spun to see a flock of women in purple robes leave through the vine-adorned gates of the little wall surrounding their abode, spreading about. Sedric stood with his sword raised, hesitant.

“Put your sword down,” one of the women called.

Boris hitched his crossbow up and aimed. Bojan was crying again, and so were the two other youngest boys, named Deron and Maximilian.

“I will not warn you again, soldier. Put your weapon down,” the female said, her tone sharpening.

“Who are you?” Sedric yelled back.

“I’m Matriarch Elena of this convent to the goddess Lilith, praised be her name. Stand down, or you shall be hurt.” She turned toward the hysterical children. “Brothers, are you prisoners of these two men?”

“No, no, put your weapons down.” It was Adrian. Duvall was silent. “We’re all together.”

With abnormal powers he did not know he had, Ewan climbed up onto his wobbly feet. The world swam about him in a green vertigo.

The matriarch seemed alarmed. “What’s with that boy?”

Boris spat. “We don’t know. He looks possessed.” He still held the crossbow aloft. Sedric had turned the tip of his glaive down.

“He has a fever, that’s all,” Adrian cut in.

“Sisters, bring those children here,” the matriarch ordered. The girls headed for the three youngest. Bojan screamed and refused to budge, but Deron and Maximilian calmed.

“Let him be,” Ewan rasped. The girl dragging Bojan released her grip. The boy catapulted toward Ewan and snaked his arms about his leg. Ewan almost fell again.

“Were you attacked by the Caytoreans?” Duvall finally spoke, flakes of his courage returning.

“We are in plain sight here,” Sedric whined. “Let’s go inside. There could be enemies out here.”

Elena waved her hands in protest. “You cannot enter. Only the children.”

“We are starved and exhausted, and there are thousands of Caytorean scum invaders in the fields all around us!” Sedric shouted.

The woman shook her head. “You are an Outsider. You may not enter.”

Sedric spat. “I have not given up my life for this! I am a soldier of the Cause.”

The matriarch did not seem sympathetic. “Yes, you are. Behave like one.”

A moment of silence stretched, thin and taut like a drawn bowstring. Then, Sedric lurched forward and grabbed Deron. The sister holding him fought back, but the man was much stronger. He yanked the boy away like a doll, then shoved the woman, hard.

Boris had his crossbow up as the group of women hissed and moved forward.

Ewan watched, bile rising in his throat. He no longer saw the world in color. Duvall was edging away. Adrian watched, confused. The other brothers all stood like stupid statues.

“You’ll give us food and water and money. And if you have horses, them too.” Sedric held the boy in a tight clutch, the cold steel of his sword pressed against his belly. Boris side-stepped, never lowering his crossbow, until he stood at his comrade’s side.

“Put that boy down!” the matriarch shrieked.

“Give us coin and food!” Sedric growled like an animal. A bestial glow lit his eyes.

“Murderer, you have sworn an oath,” the woman spoke.

“What do you say, Boris? We take our chances? What about this convent?”

“So many fine young girls,” the other soldier agreed, leering.

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

K
ing 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.