The Betrayed (23 page)

The enemy knew this and massed troops south and east, strengthening their right flank. Another clash was inevitable, soon.

Tales of his invincibility, terror, and fame came and went, most total fables. Soldiers were a bawdy lot and liked to brag. They invented a hundred stories about him. He bedded aurochs and bathed in blood and ate the beating hearts of his enemies for breakfast. Adam encouraged the tales, knowing that for every ten told in an Eracian camp, two reached the ears of his foes.

There was also envy. Other battalions were jealous of his success. His soldiers were the only ones with crossbows. Unlike other commanders, he had specifically ordered his men to scavenge all usable weapons from the corpses of Caytorean soldiers, especially the crossbows. To spite them, he named his regiment the Carrion Eaters and changed the banner to a red crow.

The command staff let him be. No one interfered in his wild affairs, not even Colonel Marco. Mali kept her distance. He knew she watched his every step, but did not try to stop him. Not even once.

A delegation of priests arrived in the camp on a cloudy, humid day. The patriarchs seemed impressed by the Eracian effort to check the Caytorean offensive. The eight men and women blessed the soldiers and doled out little clay charms. As their bags slowly emptied of figurines, customary copper from the common ranks and silver from the officers replaced the weight.

Adam watched, fury crawling up his gullet.

“Tell our men that no one is to talk to the priests or accept anything from them,” he told his new captain, Shendor.

Shendor swallowed. “It’s bad luck to refuse welcome to servants of the gods, sir.”

The Butcher sighed. “All right, then. It’s an order. Tell them that whoever disobeys it is dismissed from the regiment.”

His captain watched him with a look of dismay. “Aren’t you afraid of the gods, sir?”

Adam’s face turned to stone. “The gods do not exist. And if they do, they’re a horde of selfish, heartless bastards.” The gods could not exist.

Shendor paled. “How can you say that, sir?”

“What god would let a mother abandon her child on the footsteps of an orphanage? What god would let children die? Only a cruel, morbid monster of a god.” His eyes glistened.

Something savage lit in Adam’s eyes. Shendor cringed and took a step back. “Right, sir. No man will talk to the priests.” He walked away.

A smiling clergyman headed his way. The man was wearing a purple robe, stained with road dust, and walked holding his paws extended, greedy for the offerings. Adam followed the man like an owl watching a mouse. The innocent little donations were nothing but emotional blackmail.

And for what? So men would kill other men with yet more glee, their conscience unburdened from the horror of their deeds. A soldier fought another soldier because he was told to. There was nothing noble about it. A farmer cut the harvest when the time came, no questions asked. When you sweetened murder with blessings, you turned a grim job into a sadistic pleasure.

Once a man started loving death, he became a monster.

If things were only slightly different, the priests would be hollering their accusations against the Eracians, calling them heathens and sinners. But now, they sanctioned the same murder and even offered the simple man an easy escape from the moral obligations of killing.

That was all that would-be gods were. Prostitutes for the highest bidder.

“Get lost,” Adam growled.

The priest stopped walking, staring at Adam, convinced he had misunderstood. The paws twitched lightly with uncertainty. After a moment he recovered, and his mouth opened in the monotonous drone he had been reciting the entire day.

“Blessed be, brave warrior of Eracia. Accept this humble token, a charm to boost your strength and grant you luck in the hour of peril. Our mighty gods and goddess approve of your holy mission.”

“Get the fuck away from me,” Adam whispered.

The man was not stupid. He saw the murderous look on Adam’s face and said nothing. He turned and walked away.

Within moments, the rumor spread. A palpable wave of outrage and confusion washed the camp. Once again, the command staff remained quiet and let the issue sort itself out. But from that moment on, he had earned another nickname. Adam the Godless.

A respite from gossiping and boring labor came when a messenger arrived in the camp and informed the commander of the arrival of the Third Independent Battalion. Men whooped, cheered, and laughed.

Adam naively thought the spirits were buoyant because the influx of reinforcement meant less daily chores, more free time, and, most importantly, a greater chance to survive the war. But he did not ask and waited for the truth to present itself.

Not surprisingly, Lieutenant Gerard came to talk to him, a huge grin on his face. He felt privileged that his men dared approach him directly and speak their mind.

“I need to ask you for a favor, sir.”

Adam smirked. “Well?”

Gerard squirmed like a little boy. “Now that the battalion is here, I was wondering if you could let the men have some time off.”

Adam made a blank face, hiding his ignorance of the subject. “Not before I see the battalion myself.”

For some reason, this made his subordinate laugh. “All alone, sir?”

“Come on. Show me.”

Adam had to admit he was shocked. He had expected many things—but not a full battalion of women.

He knew that females served in the army, just like men, a relic of desperate times when the Caytoreans outnumbered the Eracian populace four to one and when every able man or woman was called to fight the enemy. Although the odds had evened out since, the tradition remained.

The women mostly served in auxiliary units, performing miscellaneous duties like cooking, washing, administration, and similar jobs. They were kept far from the raucous, randy border outposts and far from the enemy. But there were a few select units that recruited women exclusively for the purpose of killing.

Most soldiers never came in contact with the legendary female legions. They were paraded like a rare species about the realm, boosting morale, helping the average countryside woman feel better about herself. Sometimes, though, they did participate in real combat. Rumors had it that the girls fought as skillfully as men, only with far fewer scruples and much less mercy.

As Gerard led him toward the trophy, Adam listened to his soldiers’ excited babbling, picking up bits here and there and piecing them into a story. The Third Battalion was supposed to be the most famous and ferocious female unit.

They had already appropriated a section of his camp. Men stood in a semicircle about the battalion, staring, hooting, yipping, clapping hands, calling names. Adam plowed his way with growing difficulty, his rank exercising little influence on the hot-blooded males.

His expectations shattered to bits as he glimpsed the women. They were all dressed like men, in simple drab uniforms that mostly concealed their contours. Quite a few had their hair cropped short, to fit better under the helmets. Some had scarred faces or were missing a finger. Most were fairly tall and looked menacing, hardly the popular image of feminine fragility.

Adam could smell trouble as surely a mosquito could smell blood. “Listen to me, Gerard. Inform the captains that I have ordered the men to keep away from the women unless invited. There’ll be no molestation.”

Gerard coughed. “Sir, the men are eager. We haven’t had any fun in weeks.”

“I’ll personally execute any man accused of rape,” Adam stated coldly. “There will be no misconduct in my camp.” His eyes were cold and hard.

Again, instinct registered what the common senses could not. Gerard nodded. There was something dangerous in the depths of his commander’s soul, a darkness that must never be disturbed.

Day after day, Adam incited small revolutions, shocking and outraging officer and private alike. His little rules stirred rumor and dissent but also awe and respect. His nicknames sprouted like mushrooms after rain, Adam the Butcher, Adam the Godless, Adam the Protector of Women.

His fame grew by the hour, even as people stood and watched a legend in the making. He was fearless. He made his superiors scream like beasts, but never flinched. He killed people without blinking if they disobeyed his orders. And he let go every whore in the camp, with a fistful of coins.

No one really knew what to make of him. He was a gentle madman, totally unpredictable. His ultimate confidence inspired his warriors greatly. They stopped loving their former gods and started worshipping him, a mere man of flesh and blood. His counterparts envied him and hated him and despised themselves for their impotence.

Adam savored every spun word, every little lie, every gossip and every hard truth about him and his deeds. He knew the enemy listened and was afraid. For an unknown, sadistic reason, buried deep down in the filthy layers of his battered soul, this brought him immense joy.

One evening, he got invited to dine with Commander Mali.

He was not supposed to make anything of it, since most officers chanced to eat with their commander sooner or later. She sometimes held private dinners. On other occasions, she entertained small groups of her majors and colonels. In most cases, these dinners were an opportunity to discuss the affairs of war informally.

Adam found the whole issue a bit surreal. A war raged in the outside world, soldiers stood guard all around the camp, nodding in and out of fitful sleep, while he lounged with his superior, sipping wine and eating a meal that most people would consider luxurious.

In his whole life, Adam had never refused a meal. As a whore, he had not had the privilege to be choosy. He had eaten rats with the same mechanical passion as he had eaten trout or roast pork ribs. Survival did not require you to enjoy it. He had grown to treat food as another of life’s necessary annoyances, just like crapping. His obvious apathy seemed to annoy Mali.

“You don’t seem to like the food,” she suggested.

“It’s all right,” he said, munching on an oversalted potato. “As good as any meal I’ve eaten.”

One of Mali’s trimmed brows arched. “That’s an interesting attitude.”

He wiped his hands on his trousers. “Perhaps.”