The Betrayed (41 page)

Lord Erik shook his head. “It won’t be necessary. This problem can be solved in a rather simple fashion. You need your troops around you. You need to consolidate your victory. The Parusites are merely an annoyance.”

“How so?”

Slightly unsteady on his feet, Lord Erik reached behind him. He offered Adam a large case of wood and leather, like a box used by smiths to carry blades to their customers, only much longer. Inside, resting on a pillow of bloodred satin was a long, slender rod of glass.

The old man bid him take it. Adam reached for the curious device. It was extremely light and cool. But it did not feel fragile. “Glass?”

Lord Erik sat down again, with a small groan in his throat.

“Are you well?” Adam asked him.

“Just a fever. I’ll be fine. It’s not glass, but something much harder. Some call it volcano’s tears.”

Adam stared at the staff in his hand, admiring it from different angles. He liked the play of light, the miniature rainbows sparking up and down its shiny, transparent length. The only decorations were three bear claws on one end, hooked in a triangular fashion and touching at the tips, and a pair of black marks at midheight.

“This thing is called a bloodstaff. It is a weapon that was designed during the First Age of Mankind. It was used to kill countless hundreds of thousands of people.”

Adam was genuinely intrigued. “How…how does it work?”

“You place the blunt part against a body of a newly dead man. The staff drinks his blood and fills up. Then, you level the weapon at your target and press here.” He pointed at the black marks. “The staff will spew solidified blood pellets straighter than an arrow a mile away. You just need to point the Bloodstaff at your enemies. It will do the rest.”

Adam swallowed. “A mile? That’s ten times the best longbow range. And what about penetration? Can it defeat plate armor?”

Lord Erik patted the glassy device with affection. “A blood pellet can blast through an inch of solid metal. There’s no armor that can stop it.”

Adam caressed the staff. “Are you sure it works?”

Lord Erik rose. “How about a demonstration?”

They went outside. Adam was too fascinated by his new toy to care for the wind and the rain. Lord Erik led him away to a small outcropping overlooking the northern flank of the camp outside Roalas. He pointed at a distant grove of trees near the edge of the camp.

“See there?” he said.

The Butcher squinted, trying to discern the detail through the screen of icy spray. Someone was sneaking up on his guards, unseen. It was a very small-looking thing, a child or a dwarf. The sentries were huddling against the cold, oblivious to the grotesque presence in their midst.

“Kill that thing,” Lord Erik offered softly.

“We need blood,” Adam suggested.

“Take some of mine, but be careful to pull away quickly.” A freckled, wrinkled arm was offered.

Adam hesitated, but then he felt his body respond to some bestial urge within him. He touched the blunt tip to Lord Erik’s forearm. The old noble twitched and stumbled, pale as a ghost. Adam yanked the staff away. It had quickly filled to a quarter.

“I’m all right,” Lord Erik hissed, down on his knees.

Adam stared at the Bloodstaff. Syrupy blood glistened inside the crystal hollow of the rod.

“A gentle squeeze on the marks will let go a single pellet. A hard, continuous grip will yield a torrent of pellets. The fully loaded staff can fire almost ten thousand pellets, enough to level an army in seconds.”

Adam stood frozen, unbelieving.

“Come on. Level those claws at that creature and fire.”

Moving like a drunkard, the former prostitute obeyed. He closed one eye and aimed at the dwarf, some five hundred paces away. His fingers closed on the marks.

There was no warning, no feeling, no sound. A frosted ruby exploded from the tip, almost too fast to see arcing away. Adam watched it hammer into the ground near the dwarf, gravel and grass flying. The dwarf jumped, looking around him frantically.

“Again.”

Adam repeated the gesture, just a gentle touch with the tip of his fingers. This time, the compact, cloaked figure fell down, thrown by some invisible force. It stayed down, unmoving.

“Excellent,” Lord Erik said. “Well done.”

“Ten thousand pellets?” Adam repeated, his voice hoarse with childish delight.

“Just make sure you have enough fresh corpses around you. The blood in the bodies must be liquid.” Lord Erik patted him on the shoulder and limped away.

CHAPTER 38

A
rmin had returned to Eybalen several days ago. The bad weather had persisted for a long time, making shipmasters reluctant to undertake unnecessary voyages. This delayed his departure for Ichebor, adding to his anger and urgency.

For the first time in weeks, a weak sun had come out, drying the drenched land, infusing some heat into the pale world. Vapor was oozing from the pores in the earth as it warmed, coating everything in a silvery, woolen, annoying sheen.

Armed with maps and books and several bodyguards, he walked down the docks. Finding a shipmaster willing to sail to the deserted islands was not a simple a task, it seemed. The Caytoreans may have forgotten about Ichebor, but their instinct had not. Deep down in their animal souls, they remembered the horror of ancient ages. Few men willingly sailed toward the islands.

Shipmaster Lloyd refused to talk to him. Most of the guild members avoided him for some reason. It might be the shame that their plots and blunders had brought about the death of his wife. Or the fear that his investigation had bitten too deeply into affairs that should have remained hidden.

Going through the records in the archive had given him many dirty secrets about the dignified and respected merchants in Eybalen. Theoretically, those secrets were a weapon he could use against them. But he was not here to wage a war of principles with the council. The trafficking of children and slaves did not interest him now.

So he sought passage on a ship by peaceful and polite manners, trying to coax and buy them with gold. When he mentioned the deserted islands, they instantly demanded twice the price of what he had to offer, no matter how high it was to begin with, hoping he would refuse. He never did. Armin did not care for trifle expenses.

As the prospect of a voyage to the stormy seas of the cursed, deserted archipelago became real, the shipmasters would start inventing other excuses, claiming disease, repairs, or other engagements. Even money was not enough to overcome their inbred terror of the islands.

Rumor had spread that an eccentric Sirtai was trying to sail a ship toward Ichebor. In order to save their dignity, the seamen made sure they were always too busy to see him, refusing to negotiate.

The combined reputation of a snooping detective and an obsessed man lax with his gold made him an unwelcome sight at the docks. Burly, hard men stared at him with open animosity. But nothing could discourage him. He always smiled at them and never blinked.

As days passed, he grew more desperate. Winter was closing on the city. Soon, the storms would be too high to chance a voyage to the islands. Armin could not afford to wait for spring. Things were happening at a rapid pace. There was no time to lose. Damian was probably free, roaming the world and corrupting souls. The Feoran plague threatened to become a deadly disease that would sweep the whole of the continent, and then maybe Sirtai, too.

Armin admitted he had been wrong to dismiss the religions of the realms as a trivial matter. They were the essence of all good and evil broiling in the world, the core of a great conflict in the making. Eybalen was on the brink of chaos.

Then, of course, there was Inessa, first and foremost.

Armin knew that he would probably not be able to find a candidate among the guild members, so he had turned to the derelict, dodgier parts of the waterfront, on the city’s south side. Most of the ships anchored there belonged to people who did not have enough money or connections to become guild members. Some of them were pirates and smugglers, paying a tribute to the city lawmen in return for turning a blind eye on their shady businesses and a place to repair their ships.

The investigator wondered how highly they valued their gold.

Unlike the council-monitored north harbor, the south quarter was a poor neighborhood, with as many brothels as houses. Armin’s bodyguards had advised him to keep away from the area, but he had ignored them. His wife had died in the rich districts of the city. If someone wanted to attack him here for wearing a cleaner set of clothes than the locals, he would almost be glad for the distraction.

The night before, Armin had gone into several shoddy pubs, putting out a rumor that a wealthy foreigner was interested in a risky voyage, no questions asked. He had also inquired into the names of the more famous mariners frequenting the south quarter, hoping to minimize his search.

One of the names had been repeated more than once.

Armin approached the knot of laborers hauling sacks off a ship’s deck, stacking them by the wharf. They paused in their work and stared at the curious procession, a bald man and four armed guards at his back. They did not seem to like his sort around here.

“I’m looking for Shipmaster Horace,” Armin said amiably.

“Who’s asking?” one of them growled, confirming he had found the right crew.

“My name is Armin,” he said simply. He did not want to frighten them with his surname.

Another figure pushed past the first speaker. “So you’re the posh foreigner we heard about, eh?”

Armin nodded, smiling. “Are you Shipmaster Horace?”

The man spat. “I’m no master of no ship. She’s my mistress. I serve her deck, and she takes me where I need. My men call me ‘Captain’ around here. ‘Shipmaster’ is a nice title for the rich guild boys.”

The investigator noted the obvious animosity toward the council. Maybe this was something he could use to his advantage. “I’ve heard that
Tenacious
is an able ship with an able crew.”

Horace rubbed his cheeks, powdered with coarse black whiskers, the kind that could never be fully shaved. “You heard right. But what is a posh like you doing here? And what’s with those bullies?”

Armin looked behind him. “Juval, you’re dismissed for the moment. Do return in about an hour.”

The commander of his guard was obviously displeased. “Sir, it’s dangerous. The area—”

“I believe I’ll be fine,” Armin insisted, his voice turning stern. “Go now.” After the four guards retreated, reluctantly, Armin spoke again. “The council does not like me snooping around. They are supposed to protect me, but I’m sure they have quite good hearing.”

Horace grunted in agreement. “Bloodsuckers.”

“I must admit I have tried securing a passage on board one of the guild vessels, but they did not seem pleased with my idea. I cannot blame them, though. They must be afraid.”

Horace sat on a crate and pointed at another. Armin creased his forehead in silent thanks and thumped down. Old dried bits of crab caught in the wicker scratched at his legs through the robe.

“What’s that you told them that got them scared?”

“A ship to take me to Ichebor and back to Eybalen, myself as the only passenger. No one else. Half the money now, half upon return. I don’t care if you take cargo as well, as long as it floats to Ichebor as well.”

There was a silence from the captain and his crew. They stood staring at him, with the hard eyes of people who had spent most of their days glaring into the offing, with merciless sunlight blasting their faces.

“Ichebor? The Broken Islands?” Horace said.

Armin nodded. “Yes.”

Horace scratched his neck with a loud noise of nails clicking over wiry hair. “How much?”

The investigator pretended to consider. “I can give you a thousand gold marks.”

Someone whistled. His comrades silenced him quickly. Horace kept his face straight, despite the distraction. He tried to appear disinterested. Armin knew that
Tenacious
itself was worth far, far less.

“When do you wish to depart?” the captain asked.

“As soon as possible. Tomorrow, if your crew can be ready by then.”

Horace grimaced. “A fortnight to the islands, a fortnight back. How long do you need to stay on the island?”

Armin had no idea. “A week or so. But I’ll pay another hundred marks for every extra week.”

Horace rubbed his chin. “Won’t be easy. We’ll be hitting winter gales on our way there and back. The weather is always bad around the islands. And then the waters are treacherous. The lanes around the islands are not very thoroughly charted.”

“I have the maps. You’ll just need to find the one island I’m looking for.”

The captain seemed impressed with Armin’s knowledge. “That makes things a bit better. Still, it won’t be easy.”

Armin slanted his head. “If it were easy, I would not have heard so many refusals, I think. But if you are a man of courage and skill, and you wish to earn five years’ worth of sailing in one month, then you should accept my offer.”