The Betrayed (31 page)

“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 overshadowed 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

E
wan 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 himself 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?”

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.