The Betrayed (43 page)

Davar shook his head. “No, we don’t have time. Put the kids back in the cages and give them something to eat.”

“Can we use this one for a little sport, me and my men?” the same man asked, pointing at a girl, the one Davar had found in Talmath. Something akin to jealousy bloomed in Davar’s throat.

“She’s mine,” he stated coldly. Still, he could not blame them. He’d forbidden coitus with infidel women. The very least he could do was offer them the captured children. But if he could not have his fun, then no one else could. “We have work to do. Pleasure comes second. Lock them up, and join me in the city.”

With great reluctance and a coil of pent-up energy in his belly, Davar walked toward Jaruka. Soldiers automatically fell behind him, forming a sort of a ceremonial procession.

Although his game had been spoiled, Davar felt buoyant. His god had spoken to him again. For a time, he had been worried, thinking he might have fallen out of Feor’s favor. But now, his faith had been rejuvenated, reinforced. He was doing Feor’s holy work.

The first time Feor had spoken to him, Davar had cowered in his own feces, crying incoherently like a baby, too terrified to trust his eyes and ears. The encounter with divinity was a terrible ordeal. Many lesser men would have gone mad.

But he was strong, of body and will, and he had slowly recovered. Feor was a gentle, forgiving god. He had not begrudged Davar for being so frightened the first time. He had let him grow into the acceptance of truth.

For days without end, Feor would come to him, telling him of his great plans, of his divine vision. Davar had not believed his great fortune, the sheer magnitude of trust and respect of being honored by a god to become his champion.

Guided by Feor’s all-knowing hand, he had abandoned his former life and become the founder of the Movement, a trifle sect of derided fools who had become the major force of faith in the realms, the hammer that beat the anvil of destiny for all the people of the known lands. Within just two short decades, he had seen Feor’s might take hold of the world. Only a true god could have accomplished something so grand, so impossible.

Recently, Feor’s visits had decreased, becoming seldom, irregular. His god would only come to him once in a while to make sure he did not deviate from his mission, to march west and destroy the City of Gods. But in the moments of loneliness that stretched for hours and days without end, Davar would go to sleep weeping, feeling abandoned by his god’s love, feeling he had somehow failed Feor, had done something sinister and horrible that would make his god forsake him.

And every time, his god would come back to light his world with hope and joy and reinstate eroded confidence.

All around him, his soldiers were busy killing the people of Jaruka in every which way possible. They had them stretched on racks; they had them in pillories, raped and burned and hacked to pieces. Groups of men congregated about their victims, exercising their sadism and inventiveness.

It was taking too much time.

“Summon Faithful Ainsley,” he ordered.

The leader of one of his legions soon showed up, his furs matted in blood. “Yes, General-Patriarch?”

Davar made a dour face. “These inane killings must stop.”

Faithful Ainsley frowned in confusion. “My lord? We must kill the infidels.”

“Definitely, we must kill them. But not like this. It’s taking too much time. We must make haste. Feor has tasked us with an important mission, and there’s no time to lose. See that all men stop playing with the captives and begin executing them quickly and efficiently.”

The subordinate seemed disappointed. “As you order, sir.”

Davar scratched his head. He had to think of a simple, orderly way to kill tens of thousands of people. Something that would take only a few hours rather than days or weeks.

The war was almost over. Most of the Territories were under Feoran control. Davar had to admit his forces were stretched a bit thin and most of the land they had occupied lay deserted, with not enough troops to man every village. But all that mattered little, paled by comparison with the great goal ahead: the City of Gods, the den of all evil and corruption.

Davar had never been much of a believer in his former life. Most rich families in Caytor paid only token service to the houses, mainly with coin and never with deeds. The patriarchs were a useful distraction for the poor and the common, but the powerful and the wealthy did not need deities on their side. They made their own rules.

Now, Davar knew why he had been chosen. His lifestyle had very closely resembled the creed of Feor. He had drunk and whored and lied as much as he could, and he had liked it. Feor told his followers to embrace their instincts, to succumb to their needs and urges, and to enjoy them. Feor was a god of passion. Just like Davar had been a man of passion.

Feor was the natural choice for mankind. He was the god who loved man’s nature and did not try to smother it like the false gods did. Men were born to loot, rape, and murder. They loved it; they enjoyed it. There was no sin in pleasure.

Men with hammers were attacking shrines, trying to bring them down. Houses were being burned down methodically, emptied of any valuables that could be found. Jaruka was dying and, with it, the old faith.

Davar had to admit his troops were becoming more and more efficient at ransacking large cities. Unfortunately, there were no more cities left. But there was no knowing where next their godly work might take them. Parus was a nation of ardent followers of the false gods. They needed be taught a harsh lesson.

Davar recalled the terrible dilemma he had faced when news of the Parusite invasion into the Territories had reached him.

In the south, a new threat had emerged. King Vlad had chosen to defy Feor and try his ugly luck against the true god. Davar had begged his god to let him crush the Parusites, but Feor had been adamant. The only thing that really mattered was the city. West, he had to go west.

After his victory, Davar intended to reclaim the lost lands. He was not really sure what to do yet, but he knew he would devise a wicked plan soon. Feor would inspire him.

He could move his forces against Parus or strike back at Mista. Whatever his course of action, Adam’s forces in Caytor had to wait. He had not yet received any message from his Pum’be assassin. But the dwarf must have succeeded. Pum’be never failed.

It was later that day that one of his other officers, Zealous Martin, came up with an idea how to murder the infidels quickly and efficiently. By nightfall, half of Jaruka were lying dead or dying, silent moans from their slashed throats filling the night.

CHAPTER 40

M
ali could have sworn she had returned to a different world.

She had expected Adam to continue his legacy of terror and leave Roalas a city of ghosts. Instead, Roalas was bustling with life and commerce. Except for the pocked curtain walls and an odd burned-down building, one would be hard-pressed to guess a siege had just ended.

It was hard to believe what he’d done. But like anything else he had attempted, it made people love him and adore him even more. He possessed some uncanny ability to reach out to the hearts of simple men and stir deep and primal emotions that burned in their souls.

Mali had quietly slipped back into the ranks, pretending nothing had happened. Then, she had gone out into Roalas, trying to see for herself the creation of her supposed subordinate.

Adam had long ceased to report to her. He treated the entire army as his own, paid no heed to the plans and missions devised by other colonels, as though he were the only one. He plain and simple ignored them, steering his war machine by a scheme only he knew.

The Eracian army had been split, with a symbolic part of it still loyal to its old officers and the majority converted to this morbid semianarchy that Adam ruled. No one seemed to notice. It was an almost too natural process. People had simply drifted to his side, while still wearing Eracian colors, drawn by the simple, raw truth of his creed.

Every day that passed thinned her ranks further. Adam’s life force sucked on her troops, luring them into his web. She realized she would have to sever her contact with Adam before the Southern Army disappeared from the maps, in name and allegiance, if not in numbers and presence.

The most sensible thing she could do was take the few regiments she still commanded and return to Eracia, or at least remain lodged in the northeastern Territories, waiting for a word from the monarch. By all accounts, her ruler did not seem interested in the holy land. His eyes were turned to the northern reaches of Caytor and the negotiations that might stem from his menacing presence at the border, the first real leverage the Eracians had gained in generations. It was a dream of fragile peace, molded by a man of war.

Despite the logic, she could not do it. Not yet. She felt a part of this madness. A part of her made her stay and participate, another puppet in Adam’s show.

And then, there was the colossal issue of his legacy. He was the father of the thing growing inside her belly. He was this alien, harsh, unloving creature who had planted his evil seed in her womb, the man who had dashed her career, her hopes. She wanted him dead, wanted his creation dead, but she could not bring herself to lift a sword or utter the command to one of her assassins.

To make everything worse, the Parusites had joined the war. The Territories were being carved up into fat, juicy slices, and they did not want to be left out. They had taken the south of the holy land from the Feorans. Rumors had it they were now marching into Caytor, against Adam, with twice the troops he had. While his forces were tired from a long series of battles, the Parusites were fresh, unscathed.

It would be another bloody campaign. Worst of all, she had no idea what Adam would do.

Instead of attacking the Caytoreans in the Territories from behind, he had turned into their homeland, clashing head-on with the stubborn defenders of their cities. And he had managed to defeat them. He had succeeded where the finest commanders had failed, one after another, generation after generation. His gamble had proven legendary. No one really knew why the Caytorean forces around Talmath and Poereni had not turned and gone after him. It would have been the most logical thing to do, head back for home and defend their villages, just as Adam’s move had been the most ridiculous move in the history of warfare, exposing all of his flanks to the enemy, hurling himself into the heart of danger.

Somehow, perversely, it had worked. The Caytoreans had stayed in the Territories and let him be. Unchallenged, he had moved into their land to find emptied barracks and token units facing him. And then, to make his gamble even more dramatic, he had taken Roalas in a matter of weeks, where most experts had expected the campaign to prolong into spring.

And now, it was his city. Madness.

CHAPTER 41

A
yrton sat on a boulder, staring at the beautiful nature. He could understand how a mind, any mind, could get immersed and lost in this sublime tranquility.

Elia sat by his side, caressing a bunny. The furry thing sat patiently, docile, content.

“Both Simon and Damian loved you?” he asked again.

“Yes. And I loved Simon. Damian could not accept that. So he killed me.”

Ayrton arched his brows. “But you are alive.”

“He thought he killed me. In the First Age, before…the First Sin, we were not aware of our own immortality, our own flaws. When time has no consequence for you, you live your life in the now, never caring for the past or the future. We didn’t know.”

She let go of the bunny. It ran off into the tall grass. “Damian killed my body. I found myself floating in the emptiness of the Abyss, devoid of feeling, devoid of any knowledge of the world. But after the war ended, I was remade.

“Then, I discovered that I was different from the other gods and goddesses. Many have perished in the war, their temples burned and their followers killed to the last, but their souls have been retrieved, forged into new bodies with the faith of new converts.”