The Betrayed (50 page)

“What’s that false god called?” Martin asked.

“He’s called Tanid,” Davar said. “He’s always been a crafty bugger.”

Ayrton watched the enemy converge around the commander, about a dozen men in total. Some of them spoke in voices too low to overhear. It was obvious they were a hunting party, after another deity who had fled the city.

Ayrton let the bubbling moral dilemma gnawing at his soul die a silent, impotent death. He could not help Tanid now. The gods had made their choice. His only worry was Elia. No one else mattered.

The group of Feorans grew bored and started to disperse. Men coursed idly through the sparse forest, poking bushes, shaking branches heavy with snow. Davar was speaking to Martin and another man, who were nodding curtly at his fervent, passionate words.

Ayrton held his breath. If Elia and he were lucky, the horde would go away, never knowing about the two refugees. But luck did not seem benevolent that morning. One of the soldiers was following the tumble of footprints the two of them had left.

The Outsider sheathed the sword and drew a short knife.

The Feoran rounded a knot of stunted spruce and saw the two figures huddling in the shadow of a pine. He opened his mouth to shout a warning. Instead of air, a length of cold steel kissed his lips, crushing his tongue and teeth. Gurgling, he collapsed.

Ayrton rushed forward, dragging the dying man into his embrace, crushing his face against the icy snow, choking his wails. Retrieving his knife, Ayrton stabbed the man in the neck, severing his life lines, but not before the muted screams reached the ears of his comrades.

They turned, saw a stranger killing one of their friends, and charged, howling like animals.

Ayrton rose and waited. He had no intention of shouting. It was a waste of good air.

Fortunately, the uneven ground and the foot of drift made their coordinated strike clumsy and badly timed. Instead of attacking him simultaneously, the Feorans fell upon him one after another, their balance shaken by the treacherous pull of the boggy ground. The graceful stances of veteran swordsmen turned into an awkward dance.

Ayrton spread his legs, bracing for the impact. He swung with precision and efficiency, tearing a man’s lungs out of his chest cavity. Losing control of his limbs, the soldier careened into him like a deadweight, toppling him over. The Outsider rolled head over heels, coming up to a low crouch twenty feet downhill. He shook the stinging snow from his hair and ears.

The second man lunged forward, throwing himself into the air. Ayrton sidestepped, let the man fly. The Feoran crushed into the ground belly-first, dashing his ribs against hidden rocks and tree roots. He groaned and did not rise. The third man stumbled, rose, stumbled again, and slipped. Ayrton cut him across both thighs, leaving him in screaming, crippling agony.

Seeing their comrades succumb so easily to the stranger, the remainder slowed their pace, approaching slowly, minding their balance on the slippery white carpet.

Ayrton dug in his heels deeper and waited.

“Who the fuck are you?” one of them shouted.

He said nothing. He watched the blades dance before his eyes, sunlight reflecting off the cold, sharp edges. Uphill, a soldier was kneeling, loading his crossbow.

Davar and Martin were approaching, swords drawn.

A man with an ax swung at him. Ayrton ducked and stabbed. The man folded, holding his guts. Enraged by his efforts, the survivors abandoned their caution and charged wildly again, two men at a time.

Ayrton parried one blow, felt fire spread down his arm as a sword cut into his left forearm. Spinning, he cut the soldier’s head off, hot blood spraying his face, almost blinding him. There was no time to rest. The first attacker battered mercilessly, wide, savage blows that sapped his strength. He was tiring quickly in the brisk cold. Fighting was a dangerous business in the winter.

Timing the intervals between swings, Ayrton waited for an opening. He slashed the man beneath the armpit. Shrieking like a woman, the Feoran toppled, gripping his useless arm.

The crossbowman fired and missed.

The commander of the horde was upon him, swinging with precision and economy. Ayrton staggered a step backward. This man was no amateur. Another glancing cut on his leg, then one across his cheek. Half an inch deeper, he would have been dead, his eyes smoking in the snow.

Then, he saw a movement from the corner of his eyes. Elia.
Oh no!

She had abandoned her shelter and was aiming her little crossbow at the enemy archer. Ayrton saw the man called Davar avert his own gaze, glimpsing the second, unaccounted-for enemy.

And froze.

His sword dropped. The life force in his limbs went down. His mouth opened, framing a word.

Ayrton only let his brow furrow before cold-blooded dedication repossessed him. He swung with all his might.

The tip of the sword caught Davar across the jugular. Ayrton knew the man was dead before he hit the ground.

“General!” one of the Feorans shrieked. It was Martin, Ayrton thought.

Elia fired the crossbow. The bolt went far off mark. The enemy archer fired. He missed again.

Ayrton parried the blow from another soldier and pulled on his left, flailing arm. The dazed man flew forward. The Outsider slammed the hilt of his sword in his nape, drawing dark blood. Weeping and babbling incoherently, Martin lunged. It was a careless move of a suicidal man, Ayrton noted.

Martin’s eyes shot wide open as the entire length of Ayrton’s sword went through his chest. Grunting, Ayrton pushed him off.

The only enemy left was the crossbowman, uncertain whether to cock another bolt or draw his sword. Running away was not an option. No one could run far in the snow, uphill.

Ayrton paced up toward him, holding his backpack in the left arm like a shield against arrows. He panted, each breath an ecstasy for his exhausted body. Blood pounded in his temples. His left eye quivered with hot pain blooming in the side of his face.

The remaining Feoran seemed afraid. His attempt came feeble, awkward. Ayrton parried with the last ounces of his strength. His right arm was almost wooden. But then, his last foe was on the ground, spitting blood, a prayer to Feor quivering on his lips.

Ayrton sat by the dying man, the world spinning before him. Elia was climbing.

“Ayrton!” she called. “Are you hurt?”

“Keep your voice down,” he whispered, too low for his own ears. He fell to the side, almost unconscious with exhaustion. Cold snow melted against his skin, keeping him awake.

“Ayrton!” Elia panicked. She dropped by his side, cradling him gently.

“I’m fine, just a bit tired,” he mumbled. His wounds were not critical, he knew. He had been stabbed and slashed too many times to mistake little nips for fatal injuries. “We must continue.”

“You cannot travel like this! This is terrible,” the woman protested.

Ayrton managed to chuckle, choking on his own spit. “Ah, sweet Elia. You’d be amazed at how resilient and stubborn people can be. I have sworn to keep you safe, and that’s what I’m going to do. Even if I must march bleeding.”

“Why did they try to kill us?” Elia whispered.

“Because life means so very little nowadays,” he countered, dark sarcasm and wisdom blending into his delirium.

“But…why do people live then? Why do they bother to… rise in the morning and fight for their survival? Why should they care?”

Ayrton propped himself on an elbow. He grabbed a handful of snow and licked it. Then, he touched the ball to his cheek, wincing. Gently, he scraped the torn skin and gelatinous strands of blood away, leaving a red cut exposed to the wind. “In the bottom of the pack, a jar of lard.”

Elia fumbled with his stores. She produced a small wooden crock. Ayrton smeared the pig fat on his cheek to keep the frostbite from turning a simple cut into a nightmare.

“Why?” he said, smearing more on his forearm. “Because people are animals, mostly. But some elect to be more. So they embrace ideas. Like gods. Or conquest.”

“And why do you do it?”

Ayrton hobbled up. His left leg screamed in protest. He smeared the fat and bound the wound with a length of linen. It would do until nightfall.

“I used to do it for…the wrong reasons,” he admitted. “Then, I tried to amend my soul by doing the right things. I thought it would work out. One thing would balance the other. But it’s not that simple, it seems. Now, I think it’s something else.”

Elia helped him walk downhill. He smiled. She was helping him! Gently, he pushed her away until he was sure he could support himself. They continued north and west, descending, leaving behind the dead Feorans. Ayrton would not let his mind dwell on the battle. He knew the nightmares would come of their own volition, uninvited.

“Well, what is it? What do you live for?”

He paused. “I think it’s love.”

Elia looked at him, her immortal eyes deep with hidden thoughts. “That sounds like a good idea,” she said after a long pause.

Ayrton smiled. For him, winter was over.

In his heart, it was spring again.

EPILOGUE

M
ali hugged George. They held each other for a few moments.

“This is it?” he said.

“This is it,” she replied.

She was leaving the army. There was no other way. Pregnant women could not lead hordes of soldiers into combat. Even the Third Battalion let its soldiers take a year’s leave when the time came, regardless of their status or rank.

Her army was a shameful fragment of its former glory. Adam controlled most of the Eracian troops. They were no longer Eracian troops, she noted bitterly. They were now the defenders of their new realm, their emperor.

Her decision to raise the child without its father was a wise choice. Adam was a madman.

“The command is yours, whenever you want it,” Colonel George said.

She shook her head gently. “No. You are the commander now.”

George looked grim and sad. “Will you ever come back?”

Mali smiled softly. “No, my army life is done. Please, George, you tell them?”

The colonel nodded. The monarch would not take lightly the desertion of a chief officer. He would declare her a traitor and set a price on her head. Unless she became a victim of the mad war, buried in a nameless grave somewhere. George had promised to tell the tale to anyone who asked, from the lowliest spearman to the ruler of the realm himself.

Mali picked up her meager belongings. Alexa waited some distance away. The two of them intended to strike north, deeper into Eracia. She intended to settle in some small village, ply her craft as a scribe or similar, and raise her child. The other soldier would not part with her, no matter what she said.

“Here,” George said, handing her a purse. “I’ve taken it from the coffers.”

Mali tried to refuse. “It’s stolen. I can’t.”

George chortled. “We have too much money. Three quarters of our army has deserted. We have very few people to pay at the end of the month. One of the bonuses of mass desertion.”

She accepted the precious coin. Life ahead would be hard. She would need every penny she could find.

George leaned forward. “Besides, you’re leaving without your pension. This is the least I could do. Consider it partial reimbursement for all those years of soldiering. It should be enough to buy you a small piece of land somewhere and see you nicely settled for a few years. Until you figure out what you want to do next.”

Mali sighed. “Good-bye.” She fought back tears. She had never cried in her life before. It must have been the baby. She had heard stories about pregnant women going sentimental.

George said nothing. He watched her ride away, her loyal bodyguard at her side. He waited until she disappeared beyond the curve of the land and then turned and headed back to his weak army.

Queen Olga stood on the balcony of her royal chambers, staring at the immaculate gardens a hundred feet below. Marble statues adorned the deep green maze of shrubbery and rare trees. In a land where water was as precious as gold, these gardens were a statement of power.