The Betrayed (30 page)

Rumors of an ever-growing conflict had reached him, although he could not be sure if they were true. The Eracian monarch seemed to have started taking interest in and liking this war. If that were, indeed, the case, that was bad news. Davar did not favor another front, a direct conflict between the two realms. The Eracian Eastern Army would strike directly into northern Caytor, where the presence of the Movement was relatively small. Such an act would serve the purposes of the decadent and corrupt and ungodly nobility of Caytor, shift the odds in their favor and against the Feorans. They would blame the Movement for the war, turn the people against the one true religion. He could not let that happen.

His Pum’be assassin would be really busy in the following months.

All signs indicated that he should retreat and defeat the Eracians. But he knew what his god desired. He did not know why Feor had chosen him. Maybe it was his fervor, his commitment. Of all people, Feor had spoken to him.

Twenty years ago, he had been afraid and skeptic. Now, he had no doubts or fear left. The path before him was clear.

The sun was setting, lighting the patch of forest behind him on fire. The first signs of autumn were already visible. It was colder, it rained more often, and the trees were changing their colors. Days were getting shorter too. Soon, marches would become slower and more difficult. Storms would turn the roads to mud, making passage for carts and mules riskier.

He had to conquer Jaruka within a month and begin the hunt for the false gods.

Despite their crushing defeat in all the major cities, the people of the Territories still came against his forces, breaking their teeth against the stone-hard hide of the Feoran war machine. Sporadic encounters were reported daily, with small groups of fanatics and desperate Outsiders. These mosquito bites were annoying, but could do nothing to change the fate of the Territories. The false gods were doomed.

For all their misplaced zeal, the people of the unholy land were pragmatic. Many Outsiders, mostly Caytoreans in their former lives, were flocking to his side, begging to join and convert. Davar commanded several large units of these criminals. They were very eager to prove their worth in combat. He called them the Reformed.

A horn sounded. The lookouts warned of an unknown party approaching. The camp around Davar stirred to lazy alertness as bored soldiers abandoned dice, cards, and drinking. Last night, a special delivery of Feoran whores had arrived in the camp, to the great delight of his troops. Having been forbidden from keeping infidel female prisoners for their amusement, the soldiers had been extremely testy in the last few weeks. Davar had funneled that primal, bestial anger against Talmath.

The former city of false gods was now a new, clean place. All relics of the old religions had been destroyed, stone by stone. No temple or shrine had been left standing. Just as it had died, Talmath was being born again, with new faith coursing through its veins. It would be a military city for some time, but eventually it would be a pilgrim site for Feorans, a monument of love and dedication to the one true god, a monument of victory.

“Protect the general-patriarch,” one of his senior officers barked.

Several bodyguards detached from the crowd of filthy furs and leathers and rushed forward to block the path toward Davar. A cloud of dust on the horizon slowly transformed into a single rider, galloping toward him. The guards briefly halted the man, then let him through.

General-Patriarch Davar waited. Another messenger? He had not expected so many urgent dispatches. The army was well coordinated, most units in place.

The young Feoran approached, bowed, and handed him a hide tube. Davar fished inside, producing a roll of waxed paper. He unfurled it and read. A hint of a smile twitched his lips. It was not a grimace of joy; it was acceptance of one’s fate.

The report spoke of fifty thousand Parusites riding north. They had defeated the Caytorean garrison in Mista and taken the city. The southern Territories were lost to King Vlad the Fifth, the current incarnation of Parusite royalty.

It was all a test.

CHAPTER 27

K
ing Vlad rode in the front, surrounded by his nobles and his best bodyguards. Behind him, a thousand knights followed, a thunder of hooves. Ahead of him, half a mile away, several thousand Caytoreans were on the retreat, fleeing the battlefield.

Mista had fallen in a matter of days, so great his brilliance as a war leader was. The battered enemy had abandoned the city and congregated near the border, hoping to escape the wrath of the ferocious enemy. But Vlad was not going to let them escape. He would not allow them to sit out the defeat and then scurry into Caytor.

The trapped enemy was now inching toward the bridge that spanned over the Telore River, the natural border between the Territories and Caytor. Parusite troops were on both banks.

The Caytoreans had nowhere else to go; the bridge was the only crossing point for many miles. Anticipating the cowardice of his foes, Vlad had sent a large contingent of his forces across the Telore, into Caytor. They now held the bridge, with hundreds of pikemen waiting for enemy flesh, with rows of archers and mangonels aligned in the rear. The neighboring Caytorean villages were charred ruins, smoke eddying from their split carcasses.

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.