The Betrayed (37 page)

Mali reeled. The witch gripped her, her stern, creased face suddenly sympathetic. “Don’t despair, lass. He’s a strong, healthy child. You are a strong woman. It’s a gift, a blessing.”

Mali nodded. She had nothing to say.

They left Gasua, heading back to the camp. Alexa rested a friendly hand on her shoulder, trying to comfort her. But all Mali could feel was fatality, inevitable fatality choking her. She had fought so many enemies in her life, but she could not defeat this one.

Adam’s son grew inside of her. It was a terrible thought.

And what about Adam? She still wondered if she had the strength to give Neil and Vince their order. They would obey, she knew.

She did not want him to be the father of her son. She did not want his son. She did not want any son. She was a soldier. Happy families happened to other people. Maybe it was this intimate knowledge that she could never have it that made her so sad.

Should she tell Adam? Should she kill him? Did he deserve to be a father? Did he deserve a son, or love? What kind of man felt sorry for prostitutes and beheaded unarmed prisoners?

They started back toward Roalas, where the father of her child was butchering Caytoreans in their thousands.

CHAPTER 34

A
dam lifted his arm from the paper and grimaced. “How’s that?”

Lisa craned her neck and nodded. “Not bad actually. You’re getting better.”

Adam stared at the squiggly line of letters with skepticism. Lisa had drawn thin, straight lines across the paper so he would keep his rows of letters even and orderly, but he was not being very successful. He was battling the second half of the alphabet.

Following Lord Erik’s advice, he had taken it upon himself to learn to write and read. It was a painstakingly slow progress. People his age were either already well learned in literacy or stayed boors for the rest of their lives.

Still, Lisa did not despair. She was patient, as only women could be.

Adam had gone discreetly about the camp, asking for a scribe. He had not wanted to hire a man, knowing all too well the rumor would be out before the first class was over. When it came to dirty, embarrassing little secrets, you could only count on women to keep them buried.

Luckily, the women of the Third Battalion seemed to like him very much and were more than glad to help him. The personal adjutant of their commander was his teacher now, tutoring him for an hour every day, in the early hours of the evening when most men were too busy eating or tidying the camp for the night.

“I think it looks ugly,” he said, comparing his sheet to Lisa’s work.

She chuckled. “Well, you don’t have the prettiest hand, but it will get better. You simply aren’t used to holding a quill.”

Adam let a flake of self-esteem peel off his hardened hide. “You think so?”

“You will have to try reading soon. That’s the best way to get to know the letters.”

He nodded. “There are so many of them.”

She shrugged. “One for every sound we make.”

The commander of the Carrion Eaters leaned back in his chair, stretching. Writing was a laborious task. Loath to disclose his newly found hobby to too many prying eyes, he kept the lighting inside the tent to a minimum. It made writing more difficult.

He was suddenly aware of Lisa’s breath on his cheek, making the tiny whiskers itch and tingle. She was looking at him intently, but he pretended he did not notice.

Lisa was a lovely girl, young, handsome, with a quick smile and merry eyes. Whenever she looked at him, there was a gleam in her eyes, of adoration and respect, that unsettled him. He was not really sure how he had earned them. But he did know why.

Before joining the Third, Lisa had been a whore, much like himself, much like so many other female soldiers. But before that, she had been the daughter of a well-to-do wool merchant who taught her the art of letters at a very young age. He had expected her to work for him one day, as a clerk, helping with the accounts and contracts. When fire swept through his farm, killing his wife and livestock, he was left a desperate, destitute man with no hope in his heart.

Some men came to him and offered to buy his daughter off him, a burden now that he had nothing to give her. From that day, Lisa had found herself working as a prostitute in one of the port cities of Caytor, beaten and abused by her pimp for four long, savage years before she had mustered courage to flee, following a fleeting rumor of an army unit that recruited women in a faraway enemy land of Eracia. Hating her realm for what it had done to her, she had gone across the border and enlisted with the Third. Her skills as a scribe had helped her gain a respectable status.

She might be a native of a country he now fought, but she was glad for it.

“Do you have a wife? Is she pretty?” she asked him in a hushed tone.

Adam smiled softly, sadly. “No. I don’t have a wife.”

Lisa breathed slowly. It was quiet inside the tent. He could feel the heat of her, could smell her. But his eyes only saw Mali. He gently shook his head, banishing the images away.

“I could be your wife,” she said after a pause.

He still did not dare look at her. “It would not work, Lisa,” he said.

“Why not? I would take care of you, bake for you, and wash your clothes. I would bear you children.” She laid a hand on his thigh. A bolt of fire lanced up his groin. He swallowed.

I cannot love,
he wanted to say. But his mouth refused to open.

“And you would protect me,” she added, lost in her own bittersweet fantasy.

Adam raked his hair, sighing. “I’m not a good man, Lisa.” She closed her eyes. “Yes, you are.”

“No, Lisa, I’m not,” he insisted.

“You can say whatever you like. But I know you better than you think. I have watched you from the first day we arrived. You are gentle and compassionate. We all know what you did for those women, how you gave them money and let them go. Not everyone would do it.”

Adam rubbed his temple. “I have…lived a horrible life.”

“Who hasn’t? We all have our demons. We all have done terrible things we regret. But they don’t matter anymore. Not to me. I know what I want.”

“I cannot give you what you need,” he spoke in a low voice, feeling dark sorrow engulf him.

“You have already given it,” she said.

Her soft hand touched his chin, trying to swivel his head toward his. At first, he resisted, then let her. Her cool lips touched his. She moaned.

Adam saw the ghost of Mali superimposed on top of Lisa’s solid flesh. He felt his body go numb with confusion. Lisa pressed, her kiss becoming more urgent, but he pulled back. It was agony.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

He could not bear to see her crying. He rose and left the tent, coarse anger making his stomach convulse. Adam could hear a ragged breath escape his lips in short hisses. He hastened his pace as rage blackened his sight.

Guided by memory, he waded through the camp toward the siege lines. Even at dusk, his troops were busy harassing Roalas, a city that awaited its doom like an old lion.

Adam was in a murderous mood. He needed discharge. His body ached from sorrow and pent-up frustration. He wanted to go back to the tent, tear the clothes off Lisa, and make rough, wild love to her until a shriek of deliverance burst from his lungs.

But he did not want her to bear the burden of his madness. He wanted some girl he didn’t know, someone he could despise.

His soldiers saw him, their instinct picking up his mood even before they could see his face. A void of caution opened around him, with curious yet cowed soldiers watching him like children watching a cat grapple a pigeon.

Major Lawrence saw him and flinched. Sweet, sweet revenge, Adam thought. The man had called him a madman once. But now, his unit was part of Adam’s killing squads, wrestled from George’s clutches. They were all his, now.

In that moment, his anger deflated. He would be a petty little fool if he sought to vent his anger on his subordinates. Only sadists molested those weaker than themselves. After all, Lawrence had joined his troops out of his own volition.

Ahead of him loomed Roalas, a city wrapped in growing darkness.

“You fat bitch,” he growled, “I’m gonna take you tonight.”

“Commander?” Lawrence said.

“How many Caytorean bodies do we have?”

Lawrence rolled his eyes. “About seven hundred, sir. Doused in vinegar. We’ll burn them tomorrow.”

Adam nodded. “And what about the heads?”

“We stacked them in the wagons, but haven’t sent them to the city yet.”

“Good, good. Now this is what I want you to do,” Adam ordered. “Get all those bodies and cut off their penises. Then, stuff each head with one. After that, we’re gonna launch them into the city.”

The major swallowed. “Sir?”

Major Darin and Captain Shendor joined the lot. Shendor was grinning. Adam blinked in return to his hearty salute.

Adam patted Lawrence’s shoulder. “That’s right. Heads, cocks, together, launch.”

Lawrence seemed pale. “That would be very…unorthodox, sir.”

Adam grimaced. “We cannot wait an eternity for those bastards to surrender. There’s a lot more Caytor we need to conquer before the winter. If we stay entrenched here for too long, we risk major disease. I’ve heard there have been some cases of dysentery, right?”

The major nodded.

“That’s not good. The whole idea of having a large army is the privilege of not having to waste your time playing stupid games by your enemy’s rules. We make the rules here. Let’s give them a taste of what might happen if they persist in their folly. If they still refuse to surrender after tonight’s show, then we charge in the morning and raze it to the ground.”

Major Darin coughed. “Charge the walls, sir?”

Adam spread his arms, as if his suggestion was the most obvious thing in the world. “What are all those mercenaries for? They are getting paid to die. Send the lot of them in the first wave.”

“What about the heads, sir?” Lawrence asked stupidly.

“Yes, see to it.”

Lawrence mumbled a set of orders to Shendor, who merely nodded, a man resolved to the grim task ahead. That man had the guts to be a leader. He would go far in his military career.

It became a morbid ritual, soldiers hacking the bodies to pieces, assembling horrible decorations onto the severed heads. Some vomited. Others laughed hysterically, trying to hide their fear and disgust.

On the parapet three hundred paces away, the Caytoreans watched, trying to perceive what it was the Eracians were doing under the cover of night. A few arrows lanced into the air, on both sides, landing well short of the mark.

Adam stood by a large siege machine and waited. The team of mercenary artillerymen watched him with apprehension. Even their sleazy lifestyle was no match to his cruelty. But let them watch and learn. And remember. It would be a very brave mercenary who betrayed him.

Eventually, a row of baskets waited for the launch by the trebuchet. There was surprisingly little blood. The Caytoreans were long dead, turned ashen blue.

“We launch now,” Adam declared.

Major Lawrence did not argue this time. He barked orders. After a short time, three machines stood ready.

“Launch,” Adam ordered. Huge basketloads of severed head and genitalia flew into the night, the grisly details hidden from the defenders. Which was exactly what he had intended. Heads with no eyes and worms wriggling over rotting skin looked far more impressive under moonlight.

Wet thuds told him the munition hailed on city rooftops. Cries of dismay and rage followed soon thereafter. Arrows zipped and twanged, hitting fifty paces ahead of the Eracian lines. The Carrion Eaters laughed and jeered.

Adam nodded. “Good. Load another volley.”

Like ants, the artillerymen set to load their big catapults again. Wood and rope groaned as men stumbled and strained and cursed. Then, three long moans, like of a cow in a narrow, tall canyon, and another three baskets flew into Roalas. More cries and more arrows.

“Another,” Adam ordered. “Another.”

Mali and Lisa floated before his eyes. They wouldn’t fade away.