The Betrayed (15 page)

It’s happening again,
he thought sadly.

“We are soldiers of the gods. We serve the Cause,” he intoned. “Repeat after me. We are soldiers of the gods. We serve the Cause,” he continued until his throat hurt. Gradually, an echo rose around him, building up in ferocity. Soon, they were shouting, shivering with incomprehensible savageness that suddenly bound them. It was a morbid sort of deliverance that made his blood curdle. Ayrton craned his neck and shrieked into the sky.

“We have to restore order. We go outside as one group. We start rousing other units. If they disobey or put up a resistance, we kill them. I want this city to become what it used to be. I want Talmath to remain the source of pride and hope for all people in the world. I want the love and fear of the gods in the heart of every sinner in this city.”

As soon as they hit the world outside the temple, their resolve weakened. Ayrton plowed forward, unrelenting. It had to work. It had to. He started singing. Some caught up his zeal and joined him. Most remained silent, seeing no one and hearing no one, empty shells with no hope left.

But the tail behind him grew. People were drawn to the crowd merely because it was a crowd. Sheep followed other sheep no matter where the flock went. The energy of the horde was stronger than their individual will. Soldiers, and even some stray refugees, hurried to his side.

A song in the praise of the gods reverberated through the tightly packed streets. And people succumbed before it, like leaves in a hurricane, their fears gone for a blissful moment. Hope was such a randy bitch, Ayrton thought.

He was tired. He just wanted to lie down and sleep. But he couldn’t. He just couldn’t.

Without thinking, he marched, leading the confused mob. Soon, he realized he was heading toward the Grand Monastery. He could not stop even if he wanted to. Behind him, a flood of flesh rolled, a solid wave of heat and stink.

Some resemblance of order still existed around the monastery. It was probably the monument itself that inspired humility. The Grand Monastery was a huge foundation, made of white and gray marble, with gigantic statues of deities lining in the plaza before the temple. On better days, it would have stolen his breath away. But not today.

Standing all around the monastery were combat priests, the body of professional soldiers acting as apprentices and senior brothers in peacetime. Few people knew the truth about the war monks and their dual identity. For all the peace and serenity that the patriarchs preached, they very much believed in the power of cold steel. The only problem was, they had never prepared to fight entire nations.

The Safe Territories had always existed by the grace of the realms surrounding it. It was a concept that could work only if everyone abided by the agreed-upon laws. Once the ideal shattered, it was total chaos.

Several hundred priests guarded the monastery, wearing the colors of their gods and goddesses and armed with spears. When a wedge of several thousand angry Outsiders and refugees approached the plaza, their composure cracked.

Huddling into a rainbow, the priests stood and waited, barring the way into the temple. Ayrton walked toward them, never slowing.

“You cannot enter the monastery!” one of their lot shouted, a man dressed in green.

“We must see the patriarchs,” Ayrton rasped. His throat was raw. He was parched, but all he could drink was the sweat from his lips and the ashes floating in the air.

“They cannot see the supplicants now. They are busy debating the matters of war!” the same man shouted again. He looked on the verge of panic. On his sides, men in yellow, red, purple, and black squirmed and jostled.

The tide had slowed somewhat, but there was no stopping it. The rear ranks were oblivious of the front and pushed forward stubbornly. The pressure built. People were shouting at one another and screaming.

“Let us through. For the love of the gods, let us through,” Ayrton pleaded. “If you don’t, it will be a massacre!”

A flake of sanity touched the eyes of the other man. He raised his spear and stepped back. An alley opened in the rainbow wall of cloaks. Cheering, wailing, the crowd stormed the monastery.

Ayrton reached the broad steps first. Turning around, he lifted his sword and shouted, “Silence!”

The mob wavered a little. The soldiers in the front ranks turned around, just like Ayrton, and presented their swords to the ranks behind them. The stampede receded.

“This is a holy place! Anyone caught in the act of stealing, vandalizing, or blaspheming will be killed on the spot. We will enter in an orderly fashion.”

Staggering with exhaustion, Ayrton shuffled past the stunned combat priests. The entrance into the monastery was even more impressive. Huge columns supported an impossibly high vault. Every sound echoed like thunder. Titanic statues were lined at the far end of the vestibule, surrounded by leaping fires of all colors. Once, people had knelt before the statues in prayer.

Except that no one was praying right now. Ayrton had expected to encounter at least one or two patriarchs. He knew there should be a constant vigil of prayer at all times. But not today.

Almost aimlessly, he wandered into corners and shadows, climbed to the galleries above the altar. He found no living soul. There were broken pieces of furniture, pottery, and torn clothing everywhere, a sign of a hasty retreat, but no servants of the gods and goddesses.

White rage threatened to smother him. His knees buckled. He collapsed onto the cold floor and growled with bestial impotence.

The patriarchs had abandoned them.

CHAPTER 13

E
ast.

Ewan woke up. He lay on a hard cot in a spartan room, badly lit by tallow lamps. The tightly packed straw pallet bore into his back.

Gently, he propped himself up. There was an aftertaste of uneasiness in his mouth, but he could not tell why. His head felt blank.

“Hello,” a girl’s voice at his side said.

He turned. His eyes widened in surprise. “Sarith.”

“You have slept for three days, like a dead man,” the girl said.

Ewan stumbled for words. He remembered the sweet, shy kisses he had stolen. “I’m in the convent?” he managed stupidly.

“Yes. We brought you in after you…” She trailed off.

The young brother frowned. A ghost of uneasiness spasmed in his chest. “What?”

“You did an unholy thing,” an older, scabby voice cracked from the opposite corner of the small room.

Ewan whipped his head about. An old woman, wrapped in rags, sat in a rickety rocking chair, which seemed too small even for her frail form, forcing her to bunch and double like a tortoise. Ewan’s eyes sought detail in the murk-hidden face. He recoiled. The woman had nothing inside her eye sockets.

“Sarith, leave us,” the woman barked.

The girl bit her lip. Ewan wanted to say something; instead, he just stared stupidly.

A look of sadness on her face, the young sister retreated.

“There are things that apprentices are not meant to hear,” the woman rasped. She rocked her chair once, in morbid approval of her own words. Although she could not see, the black pits bore into him like augers.

Ewan thought of fleeing the room. But memories seemed to flood him, incapacitated him. He remembered Adrian and Bojan. He recalled meeting the two soldiers. They had stood outside the convent, arguing, shouting. And then, there was the darkness of the tomb.

“Where are my friends?” he mumbled. “What did I do?”

“You do not remember,” she said.

“Who are you?”

“You have no idea what happened three days ago, do you?”

Ewan let his taut muscles relax. “No.”

“You killed a man,” the hag stated simply.

The room spun. “No…” he croaked. “I did not kill anyone.” He rose from the bed. He swayed, his legs rubbery. “Leave me alone.” He exited the little chamber.

Unaware of his whereabouts, he wandered aimlessly, taking random turns left and right. Running again, he thought.

The convent was not large. The third corner led him into the small backyard. A group of girls were playing in the dust. They saw him and fled. Sunlight glared into his face. Scowling, he tottered, touching a wall for support.

“Ewan! Ewan!” a voice shouted, almost in panic. It was Adrian.

His friend came through the same door, running. Very quickly, a herd of people swarmed the little yard, girls of all sizes and his companions from the monastery. Bojan squirmed past the elders, rushing to his side, and ferociously hugged his leg.

“Keep that thing away from us!” Duvall hissed.

“What’s wrong?” Ewan pleaded.

Adrian swallowed. His friend stood nearby and looked afraid. “You are not well.”

“I feel all right,” the young brother protested.

Rais, Duvall’s shadow, was holding a short knife in front of him. “Come here, and I’ll gut you, you monster.”

Matriarch Elena joined the crowd. “Make way. Step back, children. Brother, put that knife down. You are defiling this holy place. Adrian, Bojan, come here.”

Ewan stood alone, confused, facing a horde of distrusting and frightened faces.

“You must leave us,” the matriarch stated plainly.

Ewan felt color drain from his face. “What did I do?”

Elena threw something at his feet. “Take it.”

He bent down and picked up a little purse; inside were a few coins. “What did I do?” he whispered.

“You must leave before sunset. We have done what we can. It’s up to the gods now. Our duty has been fulfilled,” the matriarch intoned.

Ewan desperately sought some warmth from his friends. But they averted their gaze and would not look him in the eye. Only Rais stared at him, with open hatred in his beady eyes.

“Be gone by sunset,” Matriarch Elena warned.

Like a man in fever, Ewan walked back the way he had come, into the musty little room. The blind woman was there, sucking on her toothless gums.

He plopped onto the hard cot, his eyes watering.

“Are you crying?” she asked.

Ewan did not know if she mocked him or sympathized with him. He just ignored her.

“You must be burning to know what happened. But your friends cannot tell you. They don’t know. And because they don’t know, they are afraid.”

“And you do know?” he asked after a long pause. This time, the woman kept quiet, letting him fret. “No, I don’t,” she said at last.

Ewan felt rage bubble up inside him.

“I can only tell you what they saw,” she spoke suddenly. “I can only tell what they think they saw and believe has happened. But only the gods know the truth.”

The young brother mustered some of his civility and humility. “Please, tell me.”

“In days past, I used to have eyes, before they were taken from me. I have read books. There was a mention of…things like that, but nothing solid, nothing explicit.”

Ewan said nothing.

“A man, usually a young man, would catch a strong fever. And then, it would go away, as if nothing happened. But then, after a few days, a new bout would cripple him.”

The old woman rocked once again. Ewan tried to look at her for more than a moment, but the sight of her horrified him.