The Betrayed (4 page)

People were given a shelter to live in. They were given jobs that fit their skills. Some were even given new names. All sins were forgiven. It was like being born again. And in return, the newcomers promised to live by the Code for the rest of their lives. A fair bargain, by far.

The long train of soldiers was trundling down the Old Road, raising a huge cloud of dust that looked like a sandstorm. It was what had drawn Ewan’s eye in the first place.

“Ewan, you fool, get down here!” Ayrton called in a subdued hiss.

Ewan spun to see his friend standing some twenty paces away, tense and poised to flee, hidden below the top of the hill.

“What’s wrong?” Ewan called back.

“If those soldiers see you, we’ll be in a lot of trouble. Come on. Stop playing, and come here!”

The lad did not leave, but he slowly knelt and blended into the high summer grass. He kept his eye on the jangling snake of men and animals moving ever deeper into the Safe Territories. It was hard to tell details or their exact numbers, but they were numerous. You could feel the heat emanating from that huge train, a collective sweat of thousands of soldiers and pack mules. A solid hum of chaos pervaded the landscape, almost like a fog.

“They won’t hurt us,” Ewan recited.

Ayrton rolled his eyes. “A beast does not care when it steps on an ant. Come here.”

Ewan turned back to see his friend crouching behind him, his face dark. The old, puckered scar down the side of his cheek was whiter than ever before.

The older man was one of the Outsiders. He had come from one of the surrounding kingdoms one day, wearing torn clothing and bleeding from a dozen wounds. He had never spoken of the world he had left, but it was obvious that he knew what armies were. He had been a soldier once. Ewan knew that.

“For the last time, boy, let’s go, or I’ll have to hit you on the head with this.” He shook his quarterstaff.

Grudgingly, Ewan withdrew from the hilltop and let the magnificent view of the army slide away. He was curious and wanted to know more. Never before had he seen something like that. Life in the Territories was peaceful and uneventful.

“What shall we do?” he asked.

Ayrton shrugged. “Nothing really. We’ll let them pass and then get back to the village.”

Ewan pointed behind him. “We should inform the patriarchs. They must know about this.”

The man with the scar smiled softly, as softly as his hard, scarred face permitted. “Son, trust me. They already know.”

Ewan was shocked to see his friend among the dozen or so men readying to leave the next morning. Coming out of the monastery after the Morning Prayer, he found Ayrton in the village square, packing. Dozens of bewildered people, mostly young brothers, stood and stared at the twenty or so men strapping bags and tools to their horses.

Questions rushing like a rapid inside his head, Ewan approached his old friend. Ayrton had been almost like an older brother to him for a decade. A mentor, really. He had taught him so many things about life. And now, he was leaving.

“Good morning, Ewan.”

That seemed to unlock his tongue. “What are you doing?”

“Readying to leave. The patriarchs have issued the Call to the Cause. I have decided to go.” Ayrton closed another bulging saddlebag, fumbling with the straps.

“But you do not have to go.” The Call was voluntary.

“Son, you have so much to learn about life.” Ayrton tugged on one of the straps twice. “When you come to a new place and they welcome you in, give you a home to live in, give you food, treat your wounds, give you a new life, give you a future…do you really think it’s all for free? There’s always a price to be paid.”

Ewan was not really sure what Ayrton was saying. “I’ll go too,” he said after a long pause.

Ayrton did not raise his eyes, but he gave the second strap a powerful, sharp yank, so that it snapped like the tip of a whip. “Ewan, you are a young brother. You have spent your entire life with the clergy. You have already devoted your life to the Cause.” He looked up at Ewan with his sharp, squinted eyes. “Besides, you’re no warrior.”

“But neither are they.” Ewan pointed at a secluded group of about ten men on the far side of the square. “No one is, in the Territories.”

Ayrton smiled. A tooth he was missing made for a macabre grimace. “Look better.”

The young brother shielded his eyes from the morning sun and stared at the other men. At first glance, they appeared to be ordinary people. But then he spotted the same signs that adorned his friend: scars on faces and arms, a slightly crooked gait of people who had spent too much time riding, bearing weapons, and fighting. Just like Ayrton.

“They are Outsiders, too,” his friend spoke in a distant voice, his eyes locked on an old, faraway memory. “And now, it’s our chance to serve the Cause. We must answer the Call.”

“Where are you going?” Ewan’s face fell. He felt devastated. He was confused. Life had seemed so simple only yesterday.

“To the Grand Monastery in Talmath. The patriarchs are assembling the Call there. It’s about a three days’ ride from here.” Ayrton bent down and picked up a bundle from the ground. A sword hilt stuck from one end.

“Is that a sword?” Ewan asked, his voice trembling.

Ayrton pursed his lips and tsked. “Might be. And before you ask, I can’t show you. It’s forbidden, until the patriarchs declare otherwise.” And they will, quite soon, he added to himself silently.

Ewan looked around him. Some of the villagers had dispersed after the initial curiosity wore down. But most of the children and brothers hung around, their eyes gleaming. Never before had they seen anything like this.

Ayrton tied the bundle to the back of the old harness, making sure it did not clink. He lifted the last item still unfastened, a pair of goatskins. “Help me fill these.”

Leaving the small dun behind, the two men walked to the well. They hauled the buckets up, and carefully filled the two bags.

Ewan stood aside, staring at his friend from the corner of his eye. He had never seen Ayrton wear such an outfit before: leathers, boiled and hard and covered in coarse hide on his shoulders, elbows, and knees. It must be some sort of uniform, he thought. The other men were garbed in much the same fashion.

Ayrton laid a hand on Ewan’s shoulder. It was a friendly pat. “Don’t worry. Everything will be all right. I’ll be back soon. Probably no more than a moon or two. You stay here in the monastery. You’ll be safe. Do your chores and studies, and we’ll meet again sooner than you expect.”

Ewan nodded heavily. He wanted to believe his friend, but he knew Ayrton did not believe his own words either. And there was a lump building up in the pit of his stomach, one of anger, a rare feeling that he had felt only a few times before. The quivering hypersensation of tension that slowly imbued him was almost toxic.

“Don’t do anything foolish,” Ayrton said and squeezed him. He had strong arms. Ewan deflated a little.

Ayrton mounted. He waved once, a short, spartan gesture, and wheeled off to join a growing assembly of men at the outskirts of the village. Flowing from several directions, like the fingers of a great river, the riders coalesced into a solid company. They milled about for a few moments and then rode off, leaving a cloud of dust behind him.

The village square soon emptied. Ewan stood and stared.

CHAPTER 3

G
eneral-Patriarch Davar stood on a little knoll and watched his army converge in the valley below, readying for the night. With the combined forces of Astar and Stabir, he had close to eighty thousand swords under his command. Plus, word was getting out. Knots of mercenaries and scavengers were trickling in, hoping for their share of the spoils.

Davar was very pleased. Only twenty years ago, he had been a fledgling priest of a young new religion being born in the world. Today, he was the leader of the rising, growing Movement of Feor and a commander of vast armies. And the world was yet to witness his true power.

The Movement had burgeoned and spread like fire among the Caytoreans. The Ways of Feor were very simple, and they appealed to the minds of the common people. Feor was a very obliging god. He only asked for devotion. Nothing more.

Feor was much liked by soldiers. He was their kind of god. He let them kill and rape and did not begrudge them for that. The old gods were cruel and demanding. And they imposed difficult moral rules on mankind. Feor only ever asked for people to worship him.

In the beginning, the disciples of the new faith had been scorned by priests of other deities. But as the Movement grew and attracted throngs of followers, the resistance to the Ways became a real menace. The Feorans became hunted like animals. The old priests mustered mobs that would attack Feor’s people and burn his shrines. But the Movement was unstoppable.

Within just a few years, the tide turned. Resentment and fury blistered among the common populace, the army chief amongst them. Soon, angry mobs found themselves facing real soldiers with steel weapons. The hunters became hunted.

A generation ago, no soldier would have sworn by Feor. Within five years from the Awakening, one in five had become a Child of the Ways. Today, most, if not all, of the army followed Feor.

There were rumors that the Movement was grabbing foothold in neighboring realms. Feor’s messengers walked the roads, unafraid, spreading the word of the new, merciful god who let men live true to their true nature.

In the Safe Territories, Feor was a sacrilege. He had no shrines or followers in the Land of the old gods. But it was about to change. There was no denying the truth.

A month ago, General-Patriarch Davar had summoned his garrison at Astar and issued a summons for a holy war. Less than a week later, they had marched out of the barracks, heading for the Territories. Other garrisons had joined in, a total of nine, spread all across the border. More than twenty thousand men had crossed into the Territories, bent on purging the old evils from the world.

As expected, the Eracians had responded with a mobilization of their own. Standing regiments at Spoith, Decar, Tamoy, and other outposts had left the safety and comfort of their stone keeps and moved to meet the Caytorean forces.

So far, the two nations had resorted to passive encounters, letting their scouts prowl the outskirts of each other’s camps. But there was no denying the blood-quickening anticipation of an all-out war sizzling in the air. The general-patriarch could not have been more pleased.

Still, he was moving cautiously. His right flank was undermanned, and he did not intend to let the Eracians gain the upper hand in the first major clash in a generation. So he bided his time, waiting for reinforcement from inland.

The public outcry among the Caytoreans had been relatively small, but Davar wasn’t one to be taking chances. He had ordered most of the city garrisons to remain put, making sure the merchants and nobles, the less fervent followers of the Ways, were not tempted to rebel against him.

Meanwhile, his armies had advanced only a few miles into the Territories, burning a few villages. Davar was waiting for his longtime enemies before he made any serious moves. He bet the Eracians would cross the border into the holy land before the month’s end. And then, he could really strike out.

The first big city of the priests was just five leagues away. Talmath was one of the pilgrim cities where people paid homage to their old, false gods. It was a big, ripe plum, ready for plucking, rich in spoils never touched by war. While most of Eracia and Caytor bore old scars of countless skirmishes, the Territories were as pure and sweet as a baby lamb.

The prospect of plunder made his soldiers salivate. But Davar only cared for the holy places. They had to be ruined. The false gods had to be destroyed.

He was not sure what kind of opposition the patriarchs would put up. Although they professed lies about peace and compassion, they secretly trained armies that were ready to march and crush any opposition to their brutal monopoly. The Feorans had felt their evil, ferocious bite. But they had survived.

Davar also took note of the common people, not just the clergy. Many former criminals had found refuge in the Territories, shedding their sins and former identities in return for a few more years of life in peace. But Davar was unconvinced. Animals were animals, and no gilded cage could change that. Feor knew that and accepted it. And that was the simple reason why people loved him. He was the Truth.