The Betrayed (47 page)

The city was a magical, unchanging place. Time had very little meaning for its immortal inhabitants. Someone could easily get immersed in the little intricacies of their souls, easily forgetting about the world that lived and pulsed around them.

It was with an almost military discipline that Ayrton woke every morning, marking the passing of yet another day with a little rent on one of his sleeves. Another day without any success in trying to persuade the gods to abandon their daydreaming and start planning an escape.

So far, he had not even managed to get them to acknowledge him, let alone listen to his arguments. They would continue with their pointless hobbies, uncaring, blind and deaf to his desperate attempts. Before he even began with persuasion, he had to stir them up from their trance.

But the task demanded far more than rhetoric or cunning. It required sheer willpower, which oozed from him like water down an otter’s back. Being in the City of Gods took away his sense of urgency and worry. The fluffy, never-ending spring cocooned the soul in the softness of childlike carelessness. Ayrton found himself often confused and weary. His soul tried to fight him, to surrender to the bliss of the city.

The only thing that kept him sane was the discipline, counting the days, counting the hours, repeating the simple, dull tasks of everyday life that made the subtle difference between a human and a statue. Nevertheless, it was extremely difficult. You began to doubt yourself, to wonder whether the task you have been sent to complete was not futile or self-doomed from the beginning. Giving up seemed like the most sensible thing to do.

Luckily, Elia was at his side, reminding him that he was not insane, that the sweet dream he fought was, in fact, a menacing nightmare. He had no idea what happened in the outside world, but he knew that every new day brought the Feoran horde closer.

The gods were getting weaker by the hour, thinner, paler. Most now slept, comatose in an early death slumber. For them, it was almost too late. But others were still alive, if barely, stupid animated things that kept to themselves and their little arts.

Another monumental difficulty in completing the holy mission was its logic. It lacked any. He was supposed to save the gods. But he had never expected the gods to be these stupid, withdrawn creatures. Ayrton often wondered what it was he was trying to achieve. Suppose he did manage to save the bodies. What about the souls? What about the beings who were the actual gods and goddesses of the realms? Was there any meaning in saving the body if the spirit was already dead?

Again, his only link to reality was Elia. She was as lucid, if naïve, as ever. She did possess some hidden, frightening insight, but her ability to cope with the world’s peril was that of a child. She had very little idea how cruel or crafty humanity really was. She could not fathom the extent of evil and depravity men harbored in their souls.

Every day, Ayrton woke to a world where he was the only human, with a goddess as his only companion. Without ever desiring it, he found himself drawn toward her, toward her simple and soft personality. He found himself falling in love with her.

Ayrton knew he was probably going slightly mad. Humans were sociable creatures. If they had no one to talk to, they started talking to themselves. He had no idea how much of the intimacy he shared with Elia was the manifest of loneliness and how much something else, something genuine. But here and then, he had no ability to gauge his sentiments. They were what they were.

Sometimes, he remembered the horrible black times of his past. He remembered visiting brothels where ugly, shriveled whores had serviced his loins for coppers. He remembered the honest interest and affection he had felt then, because there had been no one else he could have shared them with. Afterward, when the crushing bleakness of his heart would have eased, he had asked himself how he could have possibly been drawn to those women, what he had imagined and deluded himself about.

Maybe it was what he experienced now. Maybe it was all his imagination, a desperate desire to feel belonging. Dream and reality were almost one and the same in the City of Gods.

He hoped it was more than just a dream.

Day after day, he started caring less and less for the zombies around him and more and more for the one living person who shared his fears. He opened his heart to her, told her everything. She never judged him. She had no measure of good and evil to weigh against him. To her, he was just who he was, no more, no less. It was a bliss he had never hoped for.

Still, threads of terror remained in his heart, linking him to the horrible world outside. Now, more than ever before, he had a real reason to see the gods taken to safety, and if not every one of them, then just Elia. It was no longer a simple mission.

His intellect ran out. He had no idea what to do. The gods simply would not listen.

One day, he decided to try something drastic.

“That’s Simon,” Elia said, pointing.

In the vast field of wooden sculptures before them, the carpenter continued his subtle work, chiseling exquisite beauty from raw timber around him. A mountain of dust lay at his feet.

“Hey, you!” Ayrton shouted. The god stirred as if he had heard or remembered something; then he lowered his head back to the wood. Ayrton started toward him, toppling figures as he walked. He reached Simon and grabbed him by the shirt, shaking him.

“Listen to me! The barrier is failing. Very soon, everyone will be able to enter the city! There are humans out there who wish to see you dead. They will come here, and they will kill your body.”

Simon watched with perfect eyes devoid of any understanding.

“You will be cast into the Abyss. You will cease to exist. Faith will cease to exist. Do you understand me?”

Elia stood by Ayrton’s side, watching her former lover. He showed no inkling of recognition.

Ayrton gritted his teeth. “Damian has fled the Abyss. Out there, infidels are leading vast armies of soldiers against your followers. They are destroying your temples and shrines. They are weakening you. And soon, it will be too late for you. For any of you. You will not be remade again. You will forever remain trapped in the Abyss. And faith will die in the realms.”

No sign of comprehension. Then, Simon frowned. “Damian?” he whispered.

Ayrton felt his hope blossom. “Yes, yes, Damian! He’s fled the Abyss.”

Simon gently removed Ayrton’s hands from his shirt. He blinked several times. “Damian?”

Ayrton waited, hardly daring to breathe. But Simon kept staring stupidly into infinity. “Elia is with me, here,” Ayrton added after a while. The goddess at his side squirmed with emotion.

Simon looked at her. He smiled softly, a ghost of a smile. “Elia?” Then, he bent over his tools and continued to chisel.

“Oh, dear gods,” Ayrton growled. He yanked the piece of wood from the god’s hands.

Confused, Simon looked around him, searching for it. His empty eyes came up. “Mine,” he said. He extended a hand.

The Outsider threw the thing on the ground. “Listen to me, you fool! Do you even understand what is happening? Damian has fled the Abyss. Listen to me! Listen to me!”

As if Ayrton was not there at all, Simon went down on his knees, picked up the wood from the ground, rose, and began carving again. “Damian is in the Abyss,” the god said. “He’s trapped forever.”

“He escaped! You have all felt it.”

Simon looked up. “The world is corrupt. Humans are corrupt. We don’t want to go back.”

Ayrton grabbed the god’s thin, bony wrist. If the patriarchs saw him, they would probably grind him to dust for his blasphemy. “Simon, listen to me. You have to focus. You have to think! The world is corrupt, yes. You abandoned it a long time ago. But you are no longer safe here. The humans wish to see you dead. They will soon breach the defenses of the city. They will come after you. Your isolation cannot continue. You must flee again. You must flee mankind once more.”

“We don’t care for men anymore,” Simon said. The god tried to wrestle his arm free, without success. He was so weak.

“Whatever you think or feel about the world means nothing. The armies of unbelievers are on your doorstep, waiting for the magical shield protecting you to crumble. Soon, thousands of them will pour in here and cut your bodies to pieces. Is that what you want?”

“The world of men is dead to us. It’s Damian’s world now. He can do with it whatever he wants.”

Ayrton raked his hair. He felt desperate. This was a lost battle. These gods were doomed. “Forget about the humans! Save yourselves. Save your souls. Do it for your own sake.”

“We are safe in the city,” Simon intoned.

Ayrton shook his head. “The City will fall soon. You will be in danger.”

Simon smiled. “We cannot die. We will be remade.”

The Outsider let go of Simon’s wrists. He retreated a few steps. The god continued chiseling as if nothing had happened. Immortality was a curse. It made the gods stupid.

“There’s no hope,” he croaked.

Elia laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You will figure a way.”

Ayrton sat on the ground, feeling defeated. “They are like children, children who have seen their most precious toy taken away. They will never understand what’s going on. They are lost in some dream of the First Age.”

Elia sat beside him. “You will think of something.”

“Those who do not wish to be saved cannot be saved. You can force the body, but you cannot control the soul. They are doomed. All of them. They refuse to acknowledge reality. And this city is their bane. This city…is frozen in time, just like they are.”

“Dying is a unique experience. It exposes your weaknesses,” Elia said.

He nodded. His mission was doomed. The gods and goddesses would never wake from their slumber of stupidity and denial. If he had a century, then he might have accomplished something. But swaying the deities to forsake ages of timeless ignorance in just a few weeks…it was impossible.

Religion was dead. It had been dead since the beginning of the Second Age, he realized. People simply did not know it. The houses of the gods were an illusion, a human illusion. What people did in the outside world had nothing to do with the gods and goddesses. It was the fruit of their own imagination, their own effort. The world truly belonged to Damian.

The gods were husks, nothing more. A sad memory of a better, more innocent age. But it did not matter, Ayrton knew with sudden clarity. Faith would always be what people thought and imagined. The bodies that represented that belief were meaningless.

Suddenly, he realized he was cold. Very cold. The blissful warmth of the spring was gone, replaced by a biting chill. Elia sat, hugging herself, shivering. Ayrton frowned.

Looking around, he saw the trees and flowers wither. The deep greens turned gray and brown with age and frost. The season turned in a blink. Turned backward. It was winter now, all of a sudden.

He handed his jacket to Elia. She was wearing only a light gown over her perfect form.

Ayrton felt something soft touch his face. Looking up, he saw a light flurry of snowflakes descend from a monotone white sky. Like a child witnessing his first snow, he extended his arms, letting the flakes touch his palms and melt against the heat of his skin.

“It’s snowing,” he whispered.

Elia snuggled against him. He missed a breath. “What is happening?”

Ayrton let his arms drop. He knew what was happening. “The barrier has fallen.”

CHAPTER 45

I
t was almost time, the moment his soldiers dreaded the most. Every hour, on the hour, Davar sent one of his men probing into the magical land of the gods to test the barrier. For the past two days, the experiments had ended with the expected results. Dozens of corpses lay just several yards away, across a span of invisible, magical death.

Slaughter continued all across the Territories. The big cities were all gone, but villages remained, hundreds of them. Bands of Feorans prowled the land, burning and pillaging, killing everyone they found. The roads were still packed with refugees from the towns, fleeing to the countryside. The wise ones had fled into Eracia and Parus, safe for the moment. But the justice of the Way would find them eventually.

Messengers arrived in a continuous stream, reporting on the progress of the extermination. Hamlets burned all over the unholy land. Every death signified another dent in the shield protecting the false gods. Very soon, the facade would crumble.

Thousands of Feorans were poised just outside the magical border, waiting for the signal from their leader to strike, like a pack of hungry wolves, waiting for the fire to die out before they savaged the lone traveler.

The location of the mythical City of Gods was unknown to almost any living man in the realms, but Davar possessed a higher knowledge. He had it almost completely surrounded. His troops were still deploying in the west, toward Lia Lake, fighting the snow and mud.

The turn of the year was almost upon them. General-Patriarch Davar hoped he would see the birth of the new year along with the death of the false gods. It would be his gift to Feor, to the world.