

Copyright © Igor Ljubuncic 2011

All rights reserved.

_This book is dedicated to my wife_ _for all her love and patience_

**ACKNOWLEDGMENTS**

No man is an island. I did write this book, indeed, but it came to be with some help from others: John, my publishing consultant, Erin the editor who fixed all the English wrongs I put in there, Andrea, Nicole, Margaret, and the rest of the team at CreateSpace.com, who all deserve thanks for their professional touch and patience. But most of all, my wife, my first fan and critic.

**PROLOGUE**

Lord Erik opened the book and read:

"The gods Damian and Simon were best friends. Damian was a hearty kind and a poet. He was a dreamer and a rebel. Simon was quiet and humble and often withdrawn, but he was thoughtful and passionate and full of vision. Together, they helped mankind and worked to create wonders. Damian and Simon made some of the most beautiful things in the world.

"Then, one day, as the two friends traveled abroad from the City of Gods, they met a goddess they had never known before. Her name was Elia, and she was very beautiful. Both fell in love with her instantly. But Elia's heart could only love one, and she chose Simon. From that moment on, everything changed."

Lord Erik flipped a page.

"Grandpa?"

Lord Erik lifted his eyes from the book. "Yes, Rob?"

"You told me that all gods lived in the city. Why hadn't they met Elia then?"

"It is difficult to say, Rob. All books on the affairs of the gods were written by men. It is very difficult to tell truth from tale. But you should not think of the gods' city as a real city or a small town where everyone knows each other. It's more like a large forest, where each...animal controls its own territory. That is why the friendship between Damian and Simon was so special. And that is why when Elia fell in love with Simon, Damian took it so hard."

Lord Erik continued reading: "For countless generations since their makings, the male and female gods lived side by side, in peace and harmony. They protected the world of men around them, and in return, men prayed in their names, adding to their power and honor. Each deity had his or her cult of followers. There was perfect balance in the world.

"There was no envy or ill feelings among the gods. It was a time when humans did not wage war unto their brethren. For when the hearts of the gods were pure, so were the hearts of men. Lies, deceit, and sin did not exist then.

"But Damian's heart was not restful. He was torn between his loyalty to his best friend and the sense of betrayal that he felt. Some say that Damian fathered jealousy.

"Simon was unaware of his friend's ill feelings. He believed there was no bad blood among them. Although the gods rarely fell in love amongst each other, it was not unheard of. Mostly, the gods mingled with their followers and birthed Special Children. Yet, some goddesses gave birth to young gods. But there had never been strife over one's love for another.

"Many years passed, and Damian grew bitterer. He spent time in isolation, in his temple, surrounded by members of his cult. He neglected the company of his friends. But no other deity took these signs of distress as alarming. They all lived in bliss and peace amongst each other. Until it was too late.

"One day, Damian murdered Elia."

Lord Erik wet a fingertip and flipped another page.

"Grandpa, he killed her?" Rob exclaimed, shocked.

Lord Erik held his gaze fixed on his grandson, without blinking. "Yes."

"Grief and panic overtook the City of Gods. No one knew how to cope with murder. It had never been done before. But Damian had no qualms. Heralding unprecedented masses of men and wielding immense power from their belief, Damian swept against the other gods and waged war against them. He ruined their temples and killed their followers. Gods began vanishing as their followers dwindled.

"Some of the weaker deities rushed to his side, afraid of perishing. Unknown feelings of destruction and hatred were born as gods took weapons and turned against one another. As the war raged, pure souls grew corrupt with the poison of doubt and greed and fear. Men followed like sheep, caught in the web of catastrophe that their gods had woven.

"The Age of Sorrow had thus begun and reigned for a thousand years."

Lord Erik flipped a page.

"After an eon of killing, the world was weak. Many gods perished, and those that survived were like shadows. There was little magic and power left in the world. Man almost became extinct. And gods on both sides slowly began to realize the sad truth of their self-destruction and saw Damian as the cause for the looming doom.

"One day, Simon, who now led the other faction in the war against his best friend, sent a secret message to Damian's allies and urged them to meet him. Without Damian's knowledge, the two sides parlayed and decided to bring an end to the war lest they all perish forever. And they agreed to banish Damian from this world forever. The Pact of the Damned, it was called.

"And so it came to pass that Damian was betrayed. His temples were razed and his followers massacred. Almost without any power left and barely alive, Damian was brought before the Great Court of the Gods.

"Reconciliation was called between all of the warring factions. It was agreed that all the surviving gods would help rebuild the torn world. However, the deities also realized that mankind would never be pristine again. Men had known sorrow and evil now. And gods had no power to take those away and start all over again. With great sorrow and reluctance, they decided to leave mankind as it was, forever changed by war and violence.

"Finally, they decreed that Damian would be forever banished from the world. They called his sin the First Sin of the Gods. They banished his soul and sent it to the Abyss of Making, where it wails in impotent anguish to this very day. They tore down his shrines and burned his books and killed all his remaining followers. And his name was not mentioned ever again, except in the secret books.

"Thus came the Second Age of Mankind. It is the age we live in now. And Damian became known as the Father of Evil."

Rob was silent for a moment. "It's a sad story, Grandpa. Damian was...was a bad god, but he was only a sad man with a broken heart. He lost his love."

Lord Erik smiled. Children could be so insightful. Regardless, without Damian, the world would have been such a boring place.

He closed the book.

**CHAPTER 1**

Commander Mali winced as she methodically worked the string wrapped around her fingers. She had noticed a few brown hairs above her upper lip the night before and was now removing the culprits while a ruddy irritation bloomed in their place. Most female soldiers did not pay much attention to their looks, but Mali did not share their sentiment. She believed herself to be good-looking and intended to stay that way, despite her battle scars and the harsh sun, or even more so because of them. Men appreciated good looks. More than bad looks, at least.

She looked away from her reflection in a small wall mirror, toward the slumbering shape of Captain Ralf, her last night's companion. He slept peacefully, exhausted, tangled in sweat-soaked linen, one leg dangling off the bed, a spectacular backside just peeking beneath the cover, taunting her. She smiled.

As a woman, she ought to be settled, a mother by now. As a warrior, she was free of the scruples of womanhood and could enjoy life just like men did. She had always been a bit of a tomboy, and a military career suited her like a glove. While most women came to the army ranks with hatred in their hearts, she came as a free, if rebellious spirit.

She left the room quietly and headed for the kitchen. The guard outside her chambers curtly nodded at her. She winked back.

It was quite early. Very few people were about. The corridors were empty and silent. Entering the kitchen, she scooped a few cakes from a platter, grabbed a pear from a basket, and sat in a corner to eat by herself.

"Morn'," Colonel George greeted her, seating himself on the bench opposite her.

She mumbled a reply, concentrating on her meal. She did not like being disturbed, especially when she ate. But she wanted to hear what George had to report. He was back from a reconnaissance mission at the border. There was grime on his face and neck, road dust mingled with sweat.

Mali poured herself some ale from a pitcher. "Any news?"

The colonel removed his gloves and beat them against the corner of the table. Mali scowled at him. "Sorry," he whispered. He sighed. "Well, yes. I've seen a Caytorean five leaving its barracks in Copper Astar and heading south."

The commander leaned back, surprised. "Five thousand men? South? Why would they go there? It's nothing but leagues of Caytor grassland."

George shrugged. "I'm not sure they intend to stay in Caytor."

Mali looked skeptical. "The Safe Territories? Why?"

"Why would a pigeon shit on someone's epaulets?" George retorted. "I didn't ride up to them to ask."

"Still, sounds like something worth keeping an eye on."

"Could be they were sent to deal with bandits." George helped himself to a mug of ale.

"They would not send a whole regiment after a few thieves." Sorties into neighboring realms were not unheard of. Sometimes parties simply strayed. Sometimes they crossed the borders in pursuit of criminals. It happened quite often. Most realms had no real borders, just invisible lines running through grass or forest.

George nodded. "True. My scouts are watching them. They seem undecided, though. They took their time getting ready to leave. More than a week. Then, they marched south for a whole day. And then, they backtracked almost all the way back to their garrison before heading back south again. Could be exercises."

"Or a well-thought-out plan to throw any spies off guard. Do you have any idea who's leading the five?"

George shook his head. "Nope. I did not want to risk it."

Eracia and Caytor were not exactly on friendly terms. When one side caught another's spy, they made sure it became a public scandal. The perpetrator would usually be marched into city squares, beaten, and humiliated, only to be ransomed for one of their own men held captive by the other side. After many generations of bloody war, the two realms had resorted to diplomacy, which meant cowardly wars without soldiers. But there was always a risk of bloodshed.

"Fine," Mali said, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. Any army movement on the other side of the border always caused a stir. Even if the maneuvers were purely for show, local forces would be alerted. One could never know when the other side would strike, like in the previous eighty wars the two nations had fought.

Mali wiped her hands on her robe and stood up, without waiting for George to finish his ale. He rose clumsily and followed her out of the kitchen. "What do you wanna do?" he asked.

She stopped walking, thinking. "Tell your scouts to stay close, but to avoid any combat. I don't want any incidents. But the moment they cross into the Territories—if they cross—I want the regiments at Baran and Spoith ready to march."

George cracked a knuckle. "As you order. Do we...do we follow them into the Territories?"

Mali rolled her eyes. "If they cross, yes. I want to know what's so interesting that an entire five needs to look for it."

"Do you think they'll cross?" The colonel pleaded for answers.

She smiled. "I have never heard of a five moving from one garrison to another just for sport." The nearest Caytorean encampment to Astar capable of supporting a five was more than twenty leagues away. In her entire career as a soldier, she had never known the Caytoreans to march for fun. They did it only when it was needed. A sad yet fortunately predictable fact.

"They could be moving their troops about."

Mali shook her head. "I'm guessing it's war season again. Well, we didn't have one last year. I was really getting worried the Caytoreans had gone lily-hearted on us. Get the boys ready. Have them dust off their groin caps. They might be needing them soon."

"As you command, Commander."

Mali looked him up and down. "You staying here tonight?"

George smacked his lips. "I'm too tired to ride back. I'll send some men and go back tomorrow."

The commander looked pleased. "Good. Then I can see you later today?"

"Good," George answered.

"Good," Mali said and walked away.

Dawn. In two hours, it would be over. They would hang him. A jealous man, having caught his wife in adultery, had killed her and framed Adam. Well-bribed constables had apprehended him, beaten him thoroughly, and dumped him in a cell. Then, a wellpaid judge had decreed that he should die with a soaped noose around his neck two hours after dawn the next day.

Adam had said nothing during the sentencing. It would have been pointless. His word against the husband's. Even in the best of circumstances, no one would believe him. No one believed whores.

Paroth was not a very kind place to prostitutes. While in most large cities there were guilds that protected the interests of their workers, as well as their patrons, prostitutes in Paroth had to rely on pimps or fend for themselves.

Most male whores worked alone. Unlike women, men in this profession did not bond easily. Mistrust and rivalry ran deep. They were also much less likely to be abused. But at the moment, Adam could almost wish he had a pimp. The thought of having someone at your side at the hour of your demise was comforting. He had no friends or family.

His kin had ostracized him after having learned the truth about his line of work. He was as good as dead to them. As a whore, he was not likely to have any friends, either. What could a male prostitute possibly have in common with a simple, everyday man?

The three drunkards in his cell slumbered happily, oblivious of their fate or surroundings. In a way, the small, dank cell was a definite boon in their useless lives. They did not have to worry about anyone slitting their throats while they wallowed in the gutters, the hay was dry, and they might even get a chance to eat breakfast.

Adam did not think they would feed him. Most jailers preferred if their customers did not throw up on the planks of the gibbets. It kind of spoiled the moment.

Last night, before going to sleep, one of his cell mates had taken the liberty of trying to flirt with him. A well-aimed kick in the groin had forestalled any further advances. Soon thereafter, the three had gone to sleep in a pile of lice and fleas. Adam had stayed up the whole night, unable to sleep, leaning against the hard stone and thinking. Mostly about the pointlessness of life.

The clank of a rusted bar sliding in its groove shook him from his reverie. A door opened. A shuffle of steps transformed into a group of army officers and several constabulary guards. Adam remained seated.

The officers were murmuring softly. Hay and dampness muffled the sound. Adam could not hear what they were saying.

"You," one of them called.

Adam merely lifted his eyes, acknowledging the man. He said nothing.

"What's he in 'ere for?" the man asked one of the prison guards.

"Murder. Killed a woman with a hatchet."

"Oh, a feisty one, ain't he? Hey, you!"

This time, Adam decided to respond. He could tell the officer was quite irritated. And Adam had very good instincts. As a whore, people skills were some of his primary tools.

"Yes?"

"Would you like not to hang today?"

Adam blinked. "Definitely. Sounds like an interesting prospect."

They exchanged glances. The fact he had used the word "prospect" seemed to have impressed them.

"You got any skills with weapons?" The man smiled. "Other than the hatchet." A few other men guffawed.

"I'm not bad with a knife," Adam replied.

"Can you read?" the man asked.

"No."

The officers resumed their murmuring. Adam sat and waited. He made the mistake of leaning forward. Cold pain lanced up his sore ribs, courtesy of the Paroth constabulary.

"Well, here's your choice, lad. There's a war brewing. We need extra men for our troops. If you have a care for your miserable life, then take it. You'll be enrolled as a monarch's man in one of the regiments, and you'll fight for the crown. If you live through it, you'll be honorably discharged and your crimes pardoned."

Adam did not even have to contemplate. A man could only die once. "Sounds good to me."

The officer nodded at one of the jailers. "One less for the gibbets today."

The army camp was just like any other, a big and filthy mess of sweaty men with no apparent purpose in life.

Adam shared a small stretch of mud and feces at the end of the encampment with another three hundred or so former convicts. Like him, most had been rounded up before they could hang and given the choice of bleeding for the monarch rather than bleeding for past sins. Most looked like semi-rabid animals kept at bay only by the fear of being slaughtered by the soldiers guarding them.

For the past three days, Adam had kept to himself. He was careful to avoid eye contact with the monsters surrounding him. He did not speak at all with anyone and ate alone. For protection, he had fashioned himself a crude spike from a willow branch, using a stone to whittle one end. Blessedly, no one had challenged his solitude.

About an hour before noon, a delegation of soldiers arrived at their camp. A soldier placed a crate on the ground, and an officer climbed on top of it. He clapped his hands twice.

"Listen up, scum. Gather around."

The soldiers drew their weapons and stepped forward. The former criminals quickly ceased all their idle doings and bunched up in front of the impromptu podium, nudged by sharp edges of cold steel.

"I am Captain kal Armis, your commander. From now on, you will do everything I say." He waited a few seconds to let the first sentence sink in. "We have saved your miserable lives from certain death. Now it's time you showed some gratitude for our mercy.

"I don't know what some of you scum have done in your past lives—and I don't care. From now on, you're the soldiers of the realm, and you shall fight for the monarch. We have two weeks to train you to fight before we march for the front. Use this time well to learn the skills of combat. You will be given no second chance.

"That said, you are also expected to behave like soldiers. This means total discipline and obedience. You have already been spared once. It won't happen again. Fail to report to the morning call, and you will be hanged. Fail to obey a command from one of your superiors, and you will be flogged. If you steal anything, you will lose a finger. If you rape anyone, we'll castrate you. If you go missing, you'll be declared deserters, hunted down, and killed on the spot. There won't be any trials or bargaining."

Adam stared at his new brothers-in-arms from the corner of his eye. Fear and hatred were plain on their faces.

"If you brawl among yourselves, better keep it low. But if you cause grievous injury to another man, you will be hanged. Remember, you are now the monarch's property and shall remain such until the monarch releases you from your duties.

"Any of you got any questions? Feel free to speak. This is your one chance to say what you think."

No one spoke. No one was so foolish as to mark themselves as a troublemaker. They might speak freely now, but the punishment would surely come, one day.

Adam had nothing to say either. Inside, he boiled. But he had lost his naivety long, long ago. He knew his cry of despair at the injustice being done to him would serve no purpose. For all they cared, he was a murderer, a condemned man, a man without future, a man without life.

Kal Armis nodded to himself, satisfied. "Good. That's settled then. You will now be divided into companies and platoons. You'll report to your sergeants directly. You'll be issued uniforms. Your training begins after lunch."

Captain kal Armis was a man true to his word. They started their duties just after midday. To Adam, it seemed, most of the chores were meant to be nothing more than pure, simple humiliation, intended to break them.

They were tasked with digging the crap pits for the entire camp. And when shovels broke or buckets lacked, they worked with their bare hands. They rose one hour early and went to sleep one hour late. While most soldiers had short breaks in between, they got none.

The only thing they did enjoy like the rest of the troops were the meals. They fed them well so they had the strength to work.

Discipline was razor-sharp. In the first two days, four men had been executed and at least two dozen flogged for a variety of minor infractions. On the third day, no less than seven men had been killed for being too late for the morning call.

The executions were simple. Soldiers would round up the perpetrators and bind their arms behind their backs. Then, they would force them to kneel and stab them through with a sword.

By the fourth day, almost a tenth of the regiment had been killed. They were dying, with no battle in sight. The soldiers hated them with all their souls. Supposedly, they were allies, but they were treated worse than enemies. Adam had never felt so worthless in his life, not even in the darkest hours of his profession.

But he did not despair. There was no point in brooding and lamenting and wishing for what could not be altered or what had yet to happen. All he could do was make his best effort to live through it. He was a dead man four days past, and yet he breathed. That had to count as something.

Their first military training started on the sixth day. Fearing mutiny, they were given wooden weapons to practice. Adam had no doubt the maneuvers were just an excuse, meant to instill them with a false sense of hope. He was dead sure they would be the first line in the first attack to face the full brunt of the enemy force.

They were not very good at marching, but at least they could retain some sort of formation. A veteran regiment could maintain their battle order for miles without end. Mediocre troops doubled the space between ranks every three miles walked. Their regiment lost cohesion after only a mile. But they were not likely to live that long in a battle anyway. Still, it was some sort of progress. Perhaps they would be able to keep formation for two miles before the training ended, a week away. The double spacing was the fatal difference between an effective picket and rows of men awaiting harvesting by angry horsemen slipping through their loose defenses. It was called the Cornfield Syndrome, their sergeant, a quiet man by the name of Nigel, had told them.

They were segregated into platoons and companies. Each had its own banner and a commander. His company was named the Miscreants. The other two were Bandits and Villains. Such poetic names, Adam thought. He was not sure whether they were supposed to boost morale or mock them.

On the tenth day, their training slacked and became slops hauling once again. Bitterness was palpable in the air. Adam would not be surprised if some sort of riot erupted.

The very next day, he had his first encounter with one of his comrades. A burly man with almost no teeth in his mouth and a large scar that ran across half his face approached him just before sunset. Adam pretended not to see him and remained casual, but his right hand closed on the short spike hidden in the sleeve of his shirt. The brute just stood there and leered, dark, beady eyes agleam with serious mischief. Adam did not really wish to contemplate what the moron was thinking.

The former prostitute looked around him. There were no spectators. Good. This meant the man acted alone. The soldiers guarding them were looking the other way.

Adam timed his moment carefully. As the other man moved, the barest twitch of the shoulders, Adam struck. The short, yet painfully sharp, spike dug into the man's thigh. The brute groaned with pain. Adam twisted. Growling softly, the man sank to his knees.

"Stay there." Adam uttered his first sentence in more than a week. "Understand?"

The other man said nothing. A look of surprise and fear masked his homely features. He had not expected his fairskinned, soft-featured victim to lash back. A typical coward, Adam thought, disgusted.

Adam pulled the spike out with a sick, wet sound. Dark blood gushed like marmalade. The other man's eyes narrowed with hatred. But he could see that Adam would stab him again the moment he moved. Flint-hard resolution in Adam's eyes broke him. He lifted one arm in a semireconciliatory gesture.

"Press on the wound. It'll help stop the bleeding," Adam advised almost friendly-like. He knew this coward would use the first opportunity to avenge himself. The moment they left camp, Adam would have to kill him. He did not look forward to killing anyone, but he was no stranger to death. As a whore in Paroth, he had faced the bitter choice quite a few times. Paroth was not kind to its prostitutes.

The next morning, he found out he would not have to worry about revenge. His attacker had bled to death overnight. The soldiers dismissed the case as an injury by a tool, most likely a shovel or something, and dumped his body onto a pile outside the camp, where it would burn with several others.

Despite his stoic stand the night before, Adam felt shaken. Working knee-deep in other people's shit did not help soothe his spirit. He was in a fidgety mood. He decided to do something about it.

Cleaning himself perfunctorily of the feces, he strode toward Sergeant Nigel's tent. Like most real soldiers, their commander did not have any real work to do. The former convicts did all of the hard labor. The soldiers did not train much either, conserving strength for the expected march.

"Permission to speak, sir," Adam chanced.

Sergeant Nigel did not seem to mind the smell. He did not look at Adam. He was busy shaving himself, using a piece of tinfoil as a mirror. "Go ahead."

"I believe we would benefit more from extra training with weapons rather than the menial jobs. Maybe the troops could share a bit of the burden..."

"No."

"Sir, permission—" Adam couldn't finish the sentence. Sergeant Nigel punched him in the stomach hard, deflating all air from his lungs.

"You heard me. Don't ever doubt or question my decisions. You will do as you are told, and you will never think twice about it. Do it again, and I'll make sure you are flogged senseless." The quiet Nigel spoke softly, in an even, calm voice, but his eyes blistered with unbridled hatred.

Adam was shocked by the sudden ferocity of the man's response. He could feel the disdain of the common soldiers, but he had not expected the same kind of revulsion from the officers. How could a man command a unit without believing in his soldiers?

Gasping for breath, Adam retreated, doubled over. Slowly, he recovered. As he finally managed to straighten up, he saw her.

She was a striking figure among the mounted warriors approaching. She was dressed in simple riding clothes and displayed no marks of authority, but the officers around her deferred to her. Adam stared with growing fascination at the woman.

The camp parted to let her through. She rode at ease, oblivious to the bustle around her. As she dismounted near the large tents of the top brass, he lost sight of her. Only the ripple of excitement among the soldiers told someone really important had just arrived.

Power and beauty, Adam thought. Such an unexpected and refreshing sight on an otherwise shitty day.

**CHAPTER 2**

Ewan had never seen an army before, although he had read about them in books. There was no army in the Safe Territories. It was one of the founding principles of the country. People who wanted to live without violence came to the Safe Territories to escape the brutal world out there, be they refugees or criminals. No one asked any questions. Everyone was welcome, as long as they swore to leave their former lives behind and start afresh.

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**

General-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 foot-hold 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.

The longing for destruction was in the hearts of men. Denying one's nature was denying one's existence. The rapists and murderers all over the Territories could fool no one but themselves. They simply waited, waited to be liberated of their self-imposed imprisonment.

Davar wondered whose side they would take.

But if the patriarchs managed to conscript even a tenth of their number, his armies would have to face quite a large force. Then again, he had never promised anyone an easy or a bloodless war.

Most of the Territories would be easy prey, though. Most of the people in the Territories would never lift a finger to save their hides, even as they got slaughtered. But one could only hope.

The sun would set in about an hour. Most of the troops had arrived in the camp. Latecomers consisted mostly of long, lumbering supply convoys.

The General urged his horse off the knoll, following a winding, dusty trail back to the valley.

Commander Mali did not care for formalities. She ushered the scout into her tent and let him drink from her own flagon. The man did not look particularly exhausted, but he did seem parched; it was very hot outside.

"Where do you hail from?" she asked him as he slowly recovered.

"Near Bakler Hills, sir," the scout reported.

She had long ago established that her inferiors should use "sir" when addressing her. It had been one of her little battles at neutering her rank and authority and making the soldiers accept her as just another officer—not one with tits.

"The enemy has moved about ten miles into the Territories. They burned a few villages and such, nothing significant. But people are afraid and fleeing toward the cities. The patriarchs are trying to assemble troops."

Mali looked at a map, marking the Bakler Hills in her memory. "How many?"

"Well, I heard ten garrisons or so, sir. Copper Astar on the west flank, but many others further east. I have seen two camps, must be like two or three days old. They send foraging parties and such, and they raid villages for women, but they have made no major moves."

"So they are massing up." The commander looked at her officers, spread about the tent. They kept silent, contemplating their enemy's motives.

Mali had sent tens of scouts south and east, probing into the Territories and Caytor, trying to weigh the situation. Confusing reports poured in, but in the blur, a misty truth was slowly unveiling. Large bodies of Caytorean forces had crossed the border into the Territories, but only just. And apparently, they were waiting for yet more forces. Or perhaps, waiting for her.

She was not sure why the Caytoreans had suddenly decided to invade. She had sent inquiries to the political echelon, hoping for some kind of an answer. But she was not optimistic. She suspected the leaders of the nation would take this act of aggression as a sweet excuse to begin yet another series of bloody wars with Caytor, finally hoping to win. Not that it had worked in the last seventy wars or so.

The two countries had warred for so long, no one really remember why. But they had realized they could never win a true war without a professional standing army—instead of levies and occasional men-at-arms mustered by the local lords.

Since, they had both established academies for officers in the big cities, built series of massive strongholds along the borders, and paid silver to young men to enlist and become men of war for life, training and fighting even when no war loomed.

Absurdly, the massive buildup of forces had brought an end to real wars and turned them into scuffles and skirmishes that came and went like summer drizzles. The two nations had yet to blood their huge arsenals in a real, total war. Mali was afraid that too many people yearned to see it happen.

Still, she was glad for the tense standstill. With every passing hour, more Eracian regulars and chance conscripts arrived, beefing up her forces. The Baran regiment was still a few days off. In the meantime, she had three full regiments under her command, although almost a third were convicts and peasants. The enemy outnumbered her three to one, but most of the Caytorean forces were spread further to the east. At the very least, she could face the regiment from Astar on roughly equal terms.

If it came to that, she could move at any moment, two days to cross into Caytor and officially start a war, march another two or three days to the border with the Territories, and strike at the enemy from behind. Or, she could advance south, cross into the holy land, then veer and slice into the enemy's right flank. She could save a whole day this way, while provoking an unprecedented scandal of her own. The Territories were sacred.

But she was reluctant to try anything. She needed to know what her counterpart, some general or such she had not yet heard of, intended to do. Why had he crossed into the Territories in the first place? It appeared, for the first time in ages, that Caytor did not seem intent to wage war on her traditional neighbor. And that worried her more than anything. What kind of a scheme was the enemy brewing?

"Thank you. Go rest for a while." She dismissed the scout.

The man saluted and walked out of the tent. Mali beckoned her officers closer. It was time to debate.

Adam watched the scout leave. He pretended to shovel shit while his eyes drank in every detail. He had seen tens of scouts come and go in the last two days. Something serious was afoot.

Indeed, two weeks sharp from his redemption, they had left the garrison and marched south and east, moving at a relatively brisk pace. Most of the convicts were too weak to follow the regulars, despite the brief training. Adam had counted another fifty or so deaths during the short march toward the border.

Now, camped a stone's throw away from the ridge of hills that marked the official border between Eracia and the holy land, they simply waited. It had been several days.

Adam appreciated the respite. His officers seemed as preoccupied as everyone else, allowing him to indulge in the mind-numbing routine of shit-shuffling without additional humiliation. After a few tense weeks of focused hardship, they had been given some unintentional slack. As long as they performed their mucking duties well, they were left in peace, earning a couple of golden extra hours when they could merely pretend to work. Their shifts were less strictly regulated.

The former prostitute believed it was the effect of the march. Away from civilization and the sharp walls of barracks discipline, men naturally slid into semichaos. Order had significantly eroded since leaving the garrison. Adam wondered if he could somehow exploit the situation to his advantage. On the other hand, he was more alert than usual. He knew that bored soldiers could be quite a lot of trouble, and without anyone to rein them in, they could become really dangerous. And he could not think of a juicier target than the lot of former subhuman criminals he belonged to.

As if his very thoughts were a self-fulfilling prophecy, he saw a staggering, drunk soldier enter his field of view, walking toward him. Adam checked his little spike was in place.

"Hey, you," the soldier mumbled, a mere two yards away. "You got a pretty mouth."

Adam merely nodded, slowly shoveling manure. He waited.

"Come with me," the soldier said. It was not a suggestion.

The former prostitute looked around. No one seemed particularly interested. Most of the men were sleeping, drinking, or gambling, wasting their time and keeping away from the hot summer sun as much as possible.

"Someplace quiet, please?" Adam meekly suggested.

The soldier grunted and waved for him to follow. They crossed a few rows of tents and finally burrowed into one. Mechanically, the soldier let his breeches slide and stood there in the middle of the gloom, waiting. Adam knelt in front of the man, thinking, thinking.

He had already died once. The whore from Paroth was dead. There was no going back.

With a shit-stained hand, he gripped the soldier's member while his other sought the worn, smooth, reassuring texture of the willow spike, hidden at the small of his back in a bundle of rags. He withdrew it. He checked the point was sharp, pricking his own thumb.

His molester groaned with anticipation and closed his eyes. Unceremoniously, Adam rose and buried the spike in the man's neck, below the jaw and close to the ear. A jet of hot blood sprayed his face. The weary, sweaty look of drunkenness became one of pale shock.

Adam shifted his grip from the waist to the man's mouth, clamping it shut. "Shhhh," he said softly, watching the life twinkle out of the soldier's eyes. The life quickly ebbed, and the body slumped, dropping into bloody heap.

Without wasting a moment, Adam assailed the body, rummaging for valuables. He found a moldy purse and three copper coins in it. He placed the empty pouch back. He considered taking the sword, but it was too big to conceal. Instead, he took a short, curved knife and hid it where the spike used to be. Finally, he had a real weapon. Within two breaths, it was over.

He left the tent without a backward glance. He held the shovel in both hands, walking slowly toward his crap pit. The blood blended well with the other dark stains on his ragged tunic.

Shovels were very useful. They marked him as a man with a task on his hands. They could also be used as a weapon. But most of all, they smelled bad and repelled most people.

Adam finally let himself look around. Nothing had changed. The flies buzzed. The soldiers laughed and shouted. The world held its steady, lazy course. Then, he saw Sajan, an old, toothless convict who had arrived with him, staring at him from his own crap pit some distance away, eyeing him with a slick, all-too-knowing glare of a carrion eater.

That night, Sajan crawled up to him. Adam pretended to sleep, waiting. When Sajan laid a clawed hand missing a small finger on his chest, Adam placed the tip of his newly acquired knife under Sajan's chin and waited. Sajan froze, a hiss of bitter surprise escaping his dry, puckered lips. Adam opened his eyes.

Sajan was like a giant rat, poised to gnaw on some old bone. Adam felt compelled to slice his throat, knowing he would have to do that sooner or later, but he stayed his hand. Killing a soldier had been enough. There was nothing to link him to the man's death. His comrades would probably suspect a brawl gone wrong. But if he killed Sajan right now, there was no way to elegantly disentangle himself. Worse, some of the animals sharing his company might see him and mark him as a threat. He had blissfully stayed invisible for the last few weeks and intended to remain that way.

Adam palmed one of the stolen coins into Sajan's extended hand. The man exhaled a fetid gasp of genuine shock as he grasped the texture of cold metal in his hand. The former prostitute placed a finger over his lips. Sajan nodded curtly. Adam withdrew the knife. The little rat sidled away.

Adam went back to pretending to sleep.

In the morning Commander Mali gave the order to march.

**CHAPTER 4**

"This is _The Book of Lost Words_ ," Lord Erik told his grandson. "It's one of the most precious books in the world. A long time ago, it belonged to the White Witch of Naum. This is the original work. There are no copies."

Rob's eyes were big with astonishment. "Where is Naum, Grandpa?"

Lord Erik smiled. "It's a land far, far to the north, thousands of leagues from here." The man put the book onto the table before him. It was an ordinary swath of papers, with no decoration whatsoever, though well kept.

Lord Erik lowered his voice conspiratorially. "The four men who wrote the books were powerful wizards. They used blood of newborn babies to write the text and placed devastating spells on the pages to prevent anyone from copying them. Then, they killed themselves so the spells would never be extricated from them. It is said that anyone who tries to copy but one lost word will perish on the spot."

Rob moaned with excitement. "How did you get the book, Grandpa?"

The grandfather gently patted the boy's head. "That's a story for another time." He opened the book. "During the Age of Sorrow, the gods and goddesses were terrified and lost. Never before had they had to face such uncertainty, and they burned to know what would become of them. But the flow of time was unknown to them, even though they were divine and immortal."

"But aren't gods supposed to be almighty?"

Lord Erik shook his head, lips pressed tightly. "Not really, Rob. If they were almighty, they could spawn other gods, or even other worlds, and unmake their own existence. But they can only control the world of men, not their own. No one really knows how gods came to be or what the true extent of their power and purpose is.

"Some say that the gods unmade their almightiness when they created men. They gave mankind belief, but they also gave humans imagination. Once men started inventing their own worlds and their own gods, the power of the true gods waned. They became the instruments of their own creation. It is no different from what people do all the time. They fashion tools to serve them, but these tools can only do as well as they were made. Think of a hammer. You cannot use the hammer to...bake bread, even if you really wanted."

Rob nodded, fascinated.

"The first men were very different from us, Rob. They were like sheep, dolls in the hands of gods, created by the gods out of a desperate need for self-approval. But Damian changed all that. He gave men passion and greed and envy, and from them bloomed the darkest dreams the human mind could concoct.

"And so, mankind changed its own creators, gave them strengths and weakness. There is Zoya, the goddess of time. But she masters the time of the humans, not her own."

Lord Erik put the book on the table once again. "In the Age of Sorrow, the gods faced destruction. But they could not tell what the future would bring. Some of them decided to sacrifice their immortal existence to help their cause."

"Grandpa, you just said the gods cannot kill themselves."

"They did not kill themselves. They gave away their essence to a few select men, hoping that, through their minds, future truths would unravel themselves. These men became known as prophets.

"Again, some say these were lunatics. And many, indeed, were, for the human mind cannot cope with such terrible knowledge. There were also many false prophets, charlatans and tricksters and pretenders, who used people's fears and doubts to fuel their own goals and ambitions.

"The prophets would tell people about the future, which they saw in bits and glimpses as their minds fought madness. Some told clear truths; others spoke in riddles of events unknown. Most of the time, prophets did manage to foretell the future, but people mistook their clues and did things the wrong way or at the wrong time, undoing the success of the tellings."

Rob scratched his head. "So the prophets knew everything?"

Lord Erik nodded. "Yes, but they could not use this vast knowledge. It's like seeing someone else's dreams. The words and images and feelings are there, but if you cannot relate them to your own life, they are mostly meaningless. People can comprehend only what they already know."

"So the gods and goddesses gave away their essence for nothing?"

"Not entirely. Of all the thousands of people who had been blessed with the total knowledge of all times, there was a special group of prophets who managed remarkably well. These were scholars, men already possessing vast knowledge. On top of that, they were also wizards, people born with a tinge of divine blood and capable of tampering with the sources of elements.

"The wizards could unravel the mysterious divinations far better than most others. They also let their pupils study the prophecies, which sometimes helped pinpoint the location and time of the events. Still, many prophecies remained completely unsolved. It was said that people would be able to decipher them only when what was foretold was actually happening, if not afterward.

"When the Age of Sorrow ended, the prophets became a liability. Mere words started horrible wars. Fearing another catastrophe, the gods urged their followers to put to death all of the prophets so that the divine knowledge would not be misused. The loyal wizards knew they had been betrayed and that their end was coming soon. But before they perished, they decided to do one last thing. They had their vast knowledge committed to writing. When it was done, the master wizards killed all their apprentices and young wizards and finally themselves, burying with them the truth of their deed. This grim, blood-soaked work became known as _The Book of Lost Words_."

"And you have it, Grandpa," was all Rob managed to say.

"It's a literary masterpiece," Lord Erik said in a lighter tone. "Reading the book is great fun, if one does not try to solve the mysteries of the divinations. These prophecies are very dangerous and best left alone. It's much better if one reads them as pure prose."

"Do any prophets live today?" Rob asked, intrigued.

"No one really knows. There are always people who would claim this or that, but no one can tell for sure. There are madmen all about, preaching and foretelling doom, but no one really takes them seriously, especially since most people today have never heard of the real prophets."

Rob was silent, contemplating. Lord Erik was proud of his grandson. The boy had a sharp mind. His ability to soak up new information, even difficult adult ideas, seemed limitless.

"Can I read one of the prophecies, please?" the boy asked finally.

Lord Erik looked uneasy for a moment. His grandson was just mastering his letters. He was eager to try his new skill. The old man was not really sure if Rob should be reading on his own just yet, but it would not hurt. No, it would not hurt.

He opened a page at random and held the book in front of the boy. Then, he hesitated. "Now, Rob, I told you no one must copy this book. But languages evolve over time. Words lose meaning. Things and places and people change. So how do you think the book remains relevant?"

The boy's eyes were wide as he fantasized the answer. "Because...because it's written in magical words, Grandpa?"

Lord Erik felt immensely proud. "Yes, Rob. The men who wrote the book knew that if they let people make copies, with time, changes and errors would creep in, translations would be made, some good, some bad, and eventually, no one would remember the original meaning. And so the book is written in the divine language so everyone can understand it, no matter what corner of the world they come from. And the original message never gets lost."

"Really?" The boy looked pleased.

Lord Erik nodded. "Here you go."

Rob's lips moved as he read slowly, frowning. _The Book of Lost Words_ was difficult, even to patient scholars. The boy finished the short paragraph and raised his face, wreathed in confusion. There was a moment of silence.

"That's it, Grandpa?"

Lord Erik grinned. "What did you expect, Rob? Prophecies are short and very vague."

"I thought it would be more like a story." The boy seemed disappointed.

Lord Erik sighed. Perhaps the book was too sophisticated for Rob after all.

**CHAPTER 5**

Two days after Ayrton left, Ewan got sick. He broke into a sudden, violent fever that made him incapable of leaving his bed. He sweated through every pore of his body. His joints hurt and felt hollow. Other young brothers tried to help him, rubbing his body with wine and soaking his feet in potato peelings, but the fever did not seem to abate.

He watched them through half-lidded eyes, purple flashes of pain clouding his vision anytime he moved his head, anytime they opened the small shutters to the chamber to let the foul odors out, anytime they changed the linens or propped him up to use the pot.

But the worst were the nightmares he suffered. Day after day, they came, the same, repetitious, attritive dreams that gave him no rest. He saw the dreaded, predictable images every time he dozed off. They floated above and behind his eyes, like a leaden weight, pulsating in rhythm with the spasms that riddled his jellylike muscles.

It was always the same scenario. He stood in a gray world, shimmering silver and black shadows dancing at the edge of his vision, surrounding him, denying him any sense of bearing. In front of him, an oval frame showed a flickering gallery of morbid pictures, which he could not identify, but which left him with a cold knot of foreboding every time he saw them.

After staring stupidly at the images, he would start walking into that frame, never quite reaching it. The shadows would twist and engulf him, nausea stabbing through. His footsteps echoed, becoming a drone of slow drums. Then, his breath would join in. And then his heartbeat.

And then, he was running, running for his dear life, looking back. But all he saw was a raging, hungry blackness, a void that threatened to suck him in. He ran, ran across dead earth covered in little rocks and fragments of bones.

His chest threatened to burst, but he could not stop sprinting. The agony was unbearable. After an eternity of pain, he would collapse and start clawing at his chest, drawing blood. He would stare at his own fingers, broken and smeared in blood, and recoil at the revulsion he felt. Then, he would see his rib cage jutting out beneath his shirt and cry in dismay.

He awoke, a shrill, raspy scream jammed in his gullet. He spat blood on the floor, near a pool of old vomit. His throat burned. The sockets of his teeth were raw with pain from the acids of his stomach. He wished he were dead.

"Have some water," Adrian, one of his friends, suggested.

Slowly, Ewan reached with a feeble, trembling hand to discover he did not have enough strength to lift a small pewter cup. Involuntary tears slid down from the corners of his eyes. His cheeks were already white with salty trails.

Adrian helped him drink, sip after agonizing sip. The air in the room stank. Bowls of vinegar had been placed in the corners of the chamber in an attempt to kill the humors.

"I want to die," Ewan whispered.

"Be strong. Everything will be all right," his friend reassured him.

Ewan nodded and collapsed back onto the clammy, tangled sheets. The world of darkness engulfed him once more.

When he woke again, he realized he had not dreamed that stupid nightmare again. He had slept without dreaming, the deep, blank sleep of recuperation after severe exhaustion.

Tenderly, he sat up. He had expected horrible pain to wreath him, but blessedly, he felt merely sore from lying in bed for some time. There was obvious weakness in his body, but new tendrils of strength were coursing through his mangled flesh, growing thicker. He was hungry.

As he slowly regained his senses, the acrid smell of smoke registered in his brain.

Wobbling, he walked to the shuttered window and peered through a slit in the wooden fixture. Thick gray smoke curled outside. He could hear wood crackling as it burned—and people screaming. Armed horsemen in black uniforms were riding in circles, wielding swords and torches. They hollered like animals.

A whole party of them erupted from a burning plum orchard that Ewan could see from his window, dragging a body of one of the patriarchs behind them. Unseen people cried in pain. Metal rang.

Ewan stepped back.

Terror granted him the power he did not know he possessed. He quickly moved about the room, seeking items that he could take with him. He found a loaf of bread on a platter, hidden from the flies by a piece of cloth. A door banged further down the corridor, startling him.

He dropped the bread and ducked below his cot, hoping he would not be seen.

Several moments later, the door to his chamber crashed, one of the hinges flying off in a wad of splinters. One of attackers peered inside, saw no one and nothing of any value, and went further down the corridor.

Ewan dressed while almost fully prone, trembling with fear. Eventually, he scooped the loaf and took a hurried bite. He chewed quickly and swallowed even faster. A few more mouthfuls, and Ewan felt some strength returning to him. He tucked what was left of the bread into his shirt and dared leave the shelter of his cot.

His eyes started to water as ashes began billowing into the corridor. The air was hot and thick. Ewan crawled, moving slowly. He saw bodies of his friends sprawled in other rooms, mutilated. Above him, the burning roof cracked and hissed. Coils of smoke were snaking up the ceiling. Old tar had melted and was dripping onto his back.

Dizzy and nauseated, Ewan finally reached one of the smashed doors leading outside, at the back side of the monastery. He slipped into a bank of trampled nettles, ignoring the stings. On his bruised elbows and knees, he advanced like a slug across turf and debris, getting further away from the burning monastery. Only after he had slipped beyond the outer hedge did he dare look back.

The gently sloping meadows swarmed with black figures of the attacking force, whoever they were. The orchards, the lovely orchards Ewan could see and smell from his chamber on the northeast corner of the monastery, had been burned to the ground. The beds of flowers and herbs were gone.

Some of the attackers had dismounted, running after pigs and chickens that had fled the coops. The stables were burning. Their two mules, Perdy and Wanda, were being led away by one of the soldiers. The old donkey Trip lay dead, transfixed with arrows.

On the meadows and all around the monastery, slain priests and brothers lay. Near the ruined building, bodies were sprawled in thick, almost concentric circles. As his gaze strayed farther, the carnage thinned. Some of his friends had run as much as a hundred paces before the enemy had run them down.

Ewan's vision blurred as tears flooded his eyes. Except for the attackers, there was no living thing in sight.

Ewan felt fury building up inside him. Blood pounded in his temples. He dug his nails into his palms, drawing blood. The feeling of impotency that washed over him was worse than any fever. His thoughts strayed to his friend and mentor Ayrton.

Now that the slaughter was almost done, the soldiers had gathered in front of the monastery. Some were showing off their loot. Others were laughing. A few were still busy ruining the temple, throwing torches onto the burning husk.

The young brother watched, unable to avert his gaze. He saw a pair of the black killers appear from the direction of the meadow, bringing a living person before the horde. Bound and hobbled, the man wore a uniform. They made him kneel, and then they decapitated him.

After almost an hour, the riders departed.

Ewan hid for some time before he went back to the monastery. He thought of digging graves for his friends, but there were so many. He knew he would die before he buried them all. As he stood and watched the monastery burn, his emotions drained. Empty of feeling, he went about, turning bodies over, trying to identify the victims.

The night was fast approaching. Not knowing what to do, Ewan sat in a field, nibbling on the remainder of the bread. He heard a rustle to his left. He let his body collapse into the soft grass like a dead weight and waited.

The newcomer was a small, short figure, and it was crying. As the orange glow of the cinders lit its face, Ewan recognized him as Bojan, one of the youngest brothers.

"Bojan, it's me, Ewan," he spoke softly.

The boy yelped and began to run in Ewan's direction. Ewan caught him by the shoulders. "Don't cry. It's me, Ewan."

Bojan curled up and whimpered, eyes tightly shut. Ewan held him, cooing softly. After a while, the inarticulate cries subsided, but the moment Ewan slackened his grip on the boy, Bojan started mumbling again.

Ewan woke with a start as a crow shrieked. It was dawn. The sky was ruddy, thin clouds scudding. Bojan was sleeping deeply, wheezing through his nostrils.

Ewan stretched, his cramped muscles screaming in protest. The monastery still burned, pale smoke curling between collapsed beams and walls. A wild dog was worrying the leg of one of the bodies, fighting a crow over the carcass. There were birds everywhere, pecking, feasting.

The young brother rose, left Bojan sleeping, and walked away to relieve himself. Then, he went back to the monastery. He shooed the dog away, pelting it with stones. His parched throat burned. Miraculously, the well had not been spoiled. He hauled a bucket and drank, cautiously, drops of cool water settling like rocks in his belly.

"Ewan!" someone called.

He looked away, toward the sound, and smiled.

Adrian and Tomas were the first to return. Then, other stragglers appeared, a total of nine brothers. No patriarchs.

Most of them had been working in the fields when the alarm bell rang, which allowed them to escape unharmed. Ewan listened to their stories, wondering at the sheer, unbelievable magnitude of his own luck.

Duvall, a senior brother, told them he had seen some of their own people skirmish with the invaders before they had been over-whelmed. Prompted by his tale, they wandered farther afield and found still more dead people. These were all armed men.

"What do we do now?" Adrian asked.

"We must go to Chergo and warn them," Tei suggested.

Ewan glanced south, doubt heavy in his heart. The trail of the battle led from the village toward the monastery. Less than two miles away, Chergo could not have avoided the carnage, he thought.

"We should go to Talmath," Rais offered. The big city sat a day away as the sun set.

"Ewan!" Bojan screamed, running toward him. The boy hit him like a boulder, almost toppling him. "Don't leave me," he whispered.

Duvall seemed to gather his resolve as he listened to the young brothers debate. "We must leave here. It's dangerous. We shall go first to Chergo."

"I don't think the enemy will be coming back," Ewan said. "They would not have burned the monastery if they intended to come back."

"Who were they?" Adrian asked. His question faded unanswered.

"We need weapons," Ewan suggested. Duvall eyed him curiously.

This task proved very simple. The fields all around the monastery were littered with slain soldiers. Like wild dogs and crows, they assailed the bodies, stripping them clean of knives, swords, and boots. Not one of them had any skills with arms, but they all armed themselves with this or that weapon.

Going back to the monastery for the last time, they tried to salvage what little food was still left untouched by fires, collected some herbs, and started toward Chergo.

Bojan would not part from Ewan and cried whenever Ewan let go of his hand.

They saw no one on their short trip to the village. Disturbing signs of evil greeted them as they approached the hamlet. Scattered clothing here, an abandoned basket there, they all spoke of haste and panic. Ewan hoped Chergo had not met the same fate as the monastery. But if it had, he hoped the people had been smart enough to flee.

But it was not so. Chergo had been razed and burned, just like their home. They found no living thing.

As they prowled the ghost village, they saw a wagon on the road, heading away from the village. They called, but the driver only hastened his pace.

Duvall had really gotten into the role of the leader, as the most senior apprentice, and started giving them orders. Both Ewan and Adrian felt angry at his behavior. He was their elder by only a few years.

Toward sunset, they met other refugees. With nowhere else to go, the few survivors had come back to their homes, hoping against hope to find some sanity in the one crumb of the world they knew. They were all younger people who could run.

But unlike the brothers, these people refused to join them or help them. Ewan heard some of them mention the Call. His thoughts strayed to Ayrton again.

Ewan's stomach turned when he realized there were no women among the dead. The attackers must have taken them all away. Then, he remembered that a convent to the goddess Lilith stood by the road to Poereni, just beyond the next ridge of hills. Those women and girls would be defenseless against these murderers.

"We need to go to Speann," he said.

"What are we going to do there?" Duvall protested.

"The convent could be under attack. We must try to help them if we can."

"It's away from Talmath," Rais suggested, siding with Duvall.

Ewan knew they were no soldiers. They were barely adults, some of them. They were weak and hungry and could do very little to help themselves, let alone someone else. But he felt compelled to try. What kind of a man was he if he turned a blind eye to other people's suffering?

"Don't be a fool. We almost got killed. You want to get us killed?" Duvall was on a rampage now, his ego bolstered.

"I'll go," Adrian snapped. "We'll go together, Ewan."

"I'm the most senior brother, and I'll say what we do," Duvall growled.

"The monastery is gone," Ewan said softly. "We're alone."

They all deflated. The last issue was left unsolved, but they turned the conversation to food. They had no bow and arrow and could not hope to catch any game. Their provisions were low, sufficient only for about a day or two. At least the water was plenty, many tiny streams running through the fields.

The group went to sleep in the lee of a semicollapsed barn. Luckily for them, the night was just cool, not cold. Ewan could not stop thinking about what might be happening in Speann.

The morning brought yet another surprise. A pair of soldiers on horses, wearing dirty uniforms with no visible insignia, appeared on the hilltop outside the village. The brothers lurked out of sight, awkwardly gripping swords they did not know how to wield.

The riders eventually decided to enter the abandoned, burned hamlet.

Bojan started to cry. They heard him, dismounted, and drew their weapons.

"Who goes there?" one of them shouted.

Ewan peered around the corner of a house. He could only see one man. Where was the other?

A low curse startled them all. Wheeling about, they saw the second soldier standing behind and above them. The sunlight hid his features.

Adrian lunged forward, trying to stab him with the sword. Cursing again, the man sidestepped, letting Adrian fly. "Stupid children! Stop! Stop!" he bellowed, backing away.

"Adrian, no!" Ewan shouted. It was obvious that the soldier did not want to attack them. He was probably one of the Outsiders, like Ayrton, who had answered the Call.

His friend lowered his weapon. He was flushed and breathed in harsh rasps. A collective knot of bristles, the group of brothers turned to face the two men, while keeping away as much as possible.

"Put those swords down before you cut yourself," the second man growled. He sheathed his own weapon.

"Who are you kids?" the first asked, joining the commotion.

Ewan's eyes sought Duvall; he was nowhere to be found. "We're from the monastery to the god Lar. We escaped when the...those riders attacked us." He paused. "Who were they?"

The two soldiers exchanged glances. "Caytoreans, may the gods curse them forever," the first one said.

"What are your names?" the second asked.

They introduced themselves. The two men were called Boris and Sedric.

Boris, the man who had sneaked behind them, snorted when Ewan finished the story. "You're one lucky bunch. We lost almost all our men fighting the Caytoreans. But they were too strong. They surprised us."

The two men told their tale in bits. A detachment from Talmath, they were patrolling the area, when they were ambushed by a large contingent of Caytoreans. Holding out as long as they could, they fought against impossible odds before retreating to the city to find it besieged. In the end, they were forced to flee toward Eracia. By all accounts, the Caytoreans now controlled the entire region.

"Where is the Caytorean army camped?" Ewan asked.

Sedric punched him lightly on the shoulder. "Think like a soldier, eh? Why, you wanna strike at them?" The two men guffawed.

_I was hoping to avoid them,_ he thought. "No."

"They are everywhere. They got large camps all around Talmath, and small ones along the border. But more of their numbers are crossing every day. It's no longer safe here. We must retreat north and west. Our men are there."

"We must go south," Ewan sputtered. Speann.

"You got a fever, boy?" Boris growled.

Duvall appeared suddenly. He looked winded.

"Who's that?" Boris asked, pointing.

"That's Duvall, he's a senior brother," Rais said.

Ewan kept quiet, his rage simmering.

Ignoring the looks, pretending nothing had happened, Duvall joined the conversation. He instantly agreed with the soldiers.

Ewan shook his head. "I'm going south, alone if I have to."

"What's south that's so important you gonna risk your life for it?" Boris insisted.

Sedric stepped close. "Look, boy. This is not a game. Those Caytoreans ain't here to play. They are sweeping the area, village by village, and killing everyone systematically. They are well trained and heavily armed. A thousand of you would not stand a chance."

The young brother listened carefully. He knew they were making sense, but he could not accept their words for truth. Just could not.

Sedric continued. "They advance northwest, then send battalions flanking back in semicircles, on both sides, closing after the main body. The longer we stay here, there's a fair chance one of the tails is gonna catch up with us. And they could come from both south and east; there's no knowing until too late. That's how we got ambushed. Those Caytoreans know the business of war well."

"We cannot just leave people to die," Ewan spoke, adamant.

"Bloody Abyss, you're hotheaded as a mule, boy!" Boris exclaimed, slapping his thighs. The two warriors exchanged glances. "Let's give him a chance, eh?"

"South," Sedric ceded.

**CHAPTER 6**

Combat was nothing like Adam had expected. They had been roused from bed too early and given real weapons for the first time. Each one had been issued a jerkin of boiled leather, most with steel scales flaking off the cracked, moldy skin, and a ten-foot spear.

Then, they had been boxed together so they breathed nothing but each other's sweat and marched in an unknown direction.

And now they stood, waiting. Slightly taller than the average man, Adam could see ahead of him, a field of parched grass and what looked like a wall of soldiers. No friends of his, he thought. Strangely, he felt unafraid. A twisted feeling of elated bitterness filled him, a privilege reserved for dead men. Indeed, no one could die more than once.

Around him, the other would-be spearmen were not so blissful. The smell of urine and feces was a clear testimony to their lack of agreement with his buoyant mood. He was slightly surprised to see men who had killed and inflicted untold horrors unto others shiver so fervently in the face of death. Apparently, it took a special kind of coward to kill people for fun. When that duty called on them, they seemed reluctant.

Captain kal Armis sat on an armored destrier some distance away, talking to real soldiers, men in smart and mostly clean uniforms and with real steel weapons. Sergeant Nigel was afoot, talking to a group of crossbowmen.

Adam was not sure if his place in the middle of the box was a favorable one. Sweat dripped from his hair into his eyes. He would relish a drink of cool, clear water.

Some time later, Sergeant Nigel climbed on a stool and gave a short speech.

"Listen, you lot. It's time to fight. Do as you're told, and you'll live. Scatter about like girls, and you'll be mowed down before you blink. You don't wanna be a fallen Cornfield, now do you?"

It was not a very moving speech. Very few people seemed to listen. Stark-naked terror gripped them in a senseless vise. Adam seriously doubted their box would remain so uniform ten heartbeats into the fray.

He marked Sajan in the lot. The old man seemed calmer than most of the younger murderers and rapists. Since their encounter a few days ago, they had avoided one another. But Adam had no doubt that Sajan intended to murder him and claim the rest of his prize, no matter what he imagined it was. This battle seemed like an ideal excuse to settle the score.

Shouting. Their box moved forward, men bumping into one another. Some cried like women, others mumbled incoherently, while the rest cursed or prayed. The smell of excrement intensified.

Rubbing against one another, they crawled forward. Then, a tidal wave of fury crashed into them, breaking them apart like splinters. From that moment on, instincts took over. Unfortunately, they had very bad instincts for methodical killing.

Adam could hardly breathe. Stinking men jostled into him from all directions. Arrows buzzed, but none rained on their exposed, unhelmed heads. People shrieked, but there was no blood.

He stumbled over a body. Well, people were dying after all.

Suddenly, the pressure eased. Men strayed from one another. And then, horses rushed them. Shrieking riders milled into their mass, stomping them into a pulp. Adam watched with suicidal dispassion, marking the events with honey-like sluggishness. Heads and arms flew, almost like leaves. Blood was as solid as rags.

He heard someone bellow for them to narrow the ranks, but it was a useless cry. Spears wavered. A second crash. This time, the horsemen came from behind. Adam tried to turn and see, but a churning wave of bloody meat overwhelmed him. He lost footing and staggered.

Sajan was at his right, leveling a spear at his chest. Leaning back, he evaded getting skewered by an inch. Without a second thought, he drew his stolen knife and lashed. The curved tip caught the toothless man just above his jacket. A patch of throat detached. A hollow breath escaped through the sudden gap, followed by lots and lots of blood. Sajan simply sank and was gone.

Something very massive and solid hit Adam from behind. He flew through the air like a doll. Blackness engulfed him as he landed on the soft, blood-drenched ground.

He opened his eyes. He was alive. He did not move. Moving was a bad idea when you did not know where you were. He could only see the sky, as pristine as it was that morning, before the carnage started. If it still were that morning, he corrected himself.

The stench of death filled his nostrils. His other senses came back. The din of battle was there, but somewhat subdued. His body hurt, but he could feel no terrible focused pain anywhere.

After a few long moments, he allowed himself to look around. Slowly, he craned his neck and tilted his head. He lay in a heap with several other men, none as lucky as he. Broken spears jutted, stuck in the ground and human flesh. Flies milled in their thousands, relishing the feast.

Adam could not see beyond the immediate pool of bodies. He rolled over, waited. Nothing happened. He gently lifted himself on one elbow.

All around him, the defeated regiment of the finest Eracian scum and peasantry lay slaughtered, feeding the worms and flies and crows. Some distance away, flying under the pennants of the Caytorean army, hordes of riders were milling, wheeling away from the battlefield, leaving the scene of massacre.

Adam let them dwindle to a cloud of dust and a growling echo of sound. He propped himself up, scanning for any movement, any alien presence. There was no living man about. He was alone.

He knelt and still waited. The field was silent save for the shrill croaks of birds.

Standing up, he limped away from where he had slept, idly moving about, seeking familiar faces. He found Sajan ten paces away. The man's empty grin mocked the world. Other murderers were close by, strewn about in obscene poses.

Adam snorted. Their fortnight training had not paid off well, it seemed.

Then, Adam stumbled upon someone he had not expected to see in the death toll. Their precious Captain kal Armis. He was not that different from the so many men he had scorned, a useless doll of meat and torn clothing. He seemed to have died from a crossbow bolt through his chest.

He moved on.

Groans startled him. He cued their direction and advanced cautiously, not sure what to expect. It turned out to be another officer, with a lieutenant's marks on his shoulders. The badge of his unit was different from that of their former captain.

The man lay curled like a baby, tenderly gripping his middle. Adam knelt by his side. The officer twitched and looked up. "Help me."

Being dead made you passive and emotionless. Adam was thinking, thinking. "What is your name?"

The lieutenant did not seem to mind. He probably did not understand who stood before him. "I'm Lieutenant Bruce...of the Twelfth Light Infantry."

"Where do you hail from, what garrison?" Adam insisted.

"We came from Penes." Bruce extended a hand. "Help me."

Adam appraised the wound. He was no expert, but anyone could tell the officer was done for. No one could live long with half his intestines feeding ants. Even if Adam could help him, there was nothing he could do. And he had just enough to save himself.

"Who was your commander?"

"Captain William."

"Your sergeants?"

"Thomas, Edwin...Roland," the lieutenant whispered. "Help me."

Adam rolled the names in his head. He made a decision.

"I will." He picked one of the many swords so freely available and finished the dying man.

He started stripping Bruce of his armor and tunic. It was not an easy task. His motions were limited, his back rigid like a log, but slowly, he peeled the sweaty, bloody clothes off.

He found a flask and emptied it in one gulp. Some of his vitality returned instantly. Still looking about for potential danger, he started removing his own clothes. And within seconds, he was a new man.

Field-promoted Lieutenant Adam.

He went back to kal Armis and took the man's sword, then, thinking more carefully, discarded it and chose a simple one from a dead footman. As he buckled his new prize, a hand grabbed his leg. Hackles rising on his neck, he sidestepped.

Sergeant Nigel was clawing at him impotently, sprawled under a mass of dead men, pure hatred clearly visible in his eyes. Adam smiled softly, sadly. Such were the ways of the world.

Nigel died then and there.

Adam estimated his whereabouts by the late afternoon sun and struck north, where he hoped to find some survivors of the Eracian army. He was exhausted, and his every muscle hurt, but he persisted. He walked slowly, limping, inching his way back toward his newly birthed future.

**CHAPTER 7**

Armin Wan'der Markssin believed he was one of the more talented people in the world. Not surprisingly, he had felt honored and challenged by the letter he had received one day, signed by the posh and nob of the Caytorean society, asking him to investigate a series of mysterious murders of power figures in Eybalen, their capital. He had instantly accepted the commission from the High Council of Trade and sailed forth from his homeland of Sirtai, bringing along his three wives and seven children and his priceless knowledge as an investigator.

He had spent his first week in the big city as a tourist, learning the environment, the people, the political currents. Then, the day after, he had left his wives and children in the rented mansion and reported for duty before the guild masters of Eybalen.

They had eyed him like some rare species of wildlife, not quite sure what forensics or analytics were, but took him for his word. As the founder of the Academy for Criminal Reasoning in Tuba Tuba in Sirtai, his fame preceded him. He was known as the man who left no crime unsolved. Whenever powerful and rich people needed help in solving difficult legal problems, they turned to Armin for help. They were convinced he would produce a long list of facts and artifacts he called evidence, which would overwhelmingly prove someone's guilt and bring a peaceful and just end to their conflicts of interests.

Sirtai society had changed because of him. No longer were murders or blackmail conducted in blatant and careless ways as before. Whenever rich men contracted an assassin to dispose of one of their rivals, they made sure the crime could not be traced back to them. Because Armin could and would find the guilty party and expose them to the world.

Even though he was their greatest menace, he was also their greatest ally, a token of stability and balance, a pillar. They counted on him to protect them as much as they feared him and his devilish ways of ferreting out the truth.

The transition had been almost instant. One day, the academy had been merely a very expensive school for eccentric scholars. The next, it was a stable, breeding some of the best investigators in the world, cherished by the rich like jewelry.

In order to survive both as a person and an idea, he had fought tooth and nail to keep the academy neutral. Luckily, he was a rich man himself, and his own capital and influence allowed him to stay afloat in the turbulent waters of Sirtai politics. Huge wealth, amassed in many a successful endeavor by his colleagues and himself, had helped him expand his services, recruit more investigators, and even establish a sort of an independent police that protected the academy.

Today, Sirtai was a civilized society. Political murder had replaced physical murder. While rich people would always dread ostracization and bankruptcy, they could now almost be sure to stay alive even if their rivals stripped them of their last shred of honor and money. As a backlash, the new reality had also bred some of the most cunning criminal minds and most spectacular crimes, but these only served as inspiration for Armin Wan'der Markssin.

In Eybalen, they had armed him with letters of recommendation to ensure cooperation by various circles of the city's officials, and a fair sum of gold to grease the axles of a rusty society.

His first target for today was the House of the City Watch. Customarily, dead people were a private matter of concerned families. In the streets, beggars and thieves made sure the bodies vanished before they started to stink. But sometimes, when murder struck, and the victim was a person of some notice, the City Watch took it upon themselves to mark the crime in their ledgers and round the usual suspects.

Armin hoped he did not look too much out of place wearing a simple linen robe that was the traditional garb in Sirtai. Most Caytoreans preferred clothes with details and wore them in cumbersome layers.

The investigator entered the House. A bored clerk sat behind a table, pretending to scribble on a paper.

"Greetings," Armin spoke in accented, yet clear Continental.

The official looked him up and down. "Not from around here, are we?"

Armin produced one of the fat letters from a binder he carried beneath his armpit and placed it on the desk. The clerk briefly read the endorsements. His brows involuntarily jumped when he noted the waxed seals on the bottom.

"What do you need?"

Armin opened the binder a second time and produced another paper. "I need information on the deaths of several city dignitaries."

The clerk took his time reading. "Shipwright Boune, Shipmaster Perano, master of the guild of miners..." He frowned. "That's quite a list."

Armin nodded enthusiastically. "Indeed. And I have been told that you keep record of these deaths in your archive. I would like to see them."

"It could take a few days to rummage through the piles," the clerk offered with obvious distaste.

"I would like them as soon as possible." He placed a silver coin on the desk.

The clerk looked around before palming it. "I will see what I can do."

"Good, thank you. I will return on the morrow."

Armin believed that the first step to solving a crime was motive. He was not yet sure what eight people from almost completely unrelated industries had in common, except their deaths. But it was obvious the merchants and the nobles were terrified of the trend.

In the week since his arrival, he had learned that no rich man walked the streets without the protection of a bodyguard nowadays. Most stayed indoors. While this storm of panic passed by completely unnoticed by the common folk, it was the highlight of the higher circles of society in Eybalen.

The clerk had been able to retrieve all eight reports. They had been written in haste, by someone who did not really care. The reports stated where the deceased had been found and in what state. But beyond that, there were no details whatsoever. This meant he would have to visit each scene and start from scratch.

Today, he was in the harbor. Like Tuba Tuba, Eybalen was a port city. The stench of fish and exotic spices overwhelmed the place. Hundreds of workers milled, laboring, loading and unloading cargo into the ships of a dozen nations.

A few well-placed coins had pointed him to Shipmaster Lloyd...just Lloyd. Coming from a very ancestrally oriented culture, he found the lack of family names in the continental realms a bit offensive.

He found the man supervising the loading of a barge, standing by a cask of wine, one leg propped, the squinted eyes of a seasoned, sun-blasted mariner scrutinizing the work of his sailors.

"Greetings," Armin called, still some distance off.

Shipmaster Lloyd looked at him, but said nothing. He did take his foot off the cask, though.

"I am looking for Shipmaster Lloyd," the investigator declared cheerfully.

The shipmaster took his time, estimating Armin. Convinced that the man in funny robes posed no threat, he decided to own up. "Found him, need a passage?"

Armin smiled. "I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about your friend, Shipmaster Perano."

Lloyd frowned. "Who in the name of the purple squid are you?"

Armin softly slapped his forehead. "Ah, forgive me. Investigator Armin Wan'der Markssin, of Tuba Tuba. I have been employed by the council to investigate the deaths of several important people in—"

"What's there to investigate?" Lloyd cut him off.

Armin was completely unperturbed. "There is reason to believe these people were killed under no ordinary circumstances."

A ghost of a pain crossed the man's features. "Not here. Let's talk elsewhere."

Luckily, the port had inns open at all times, even early in the morning. Ships came and went round the clock, and sailors could not waste time waiting on brothels and eateries to open; after weeks and months in the open sea, they demanded instant satisfaction. Anything else would have resulted in riots.

Armin let himself be led to one of the establishments. They ordered ale, and Armin paid for it. Sitting in the corner of a large, dim room, the investigator waited for the shipmaster to speak first.

"Perano was killed one night not far from here. We found him in the morning. He lay sprawled in his own blood. They said it was revenge for a gambling debt."

"Do you believe that?" Armin asked.

Lloyd spat on the floor. "Perano never owed anyone a copper."

"Would anyone have a reason to kill him?"

"No more or less than any of us. Perano was a good man. He did bicker and fight, but no more than a sailor's usual."

"Was any of the crew suspected?" Armin ordered another round of drinks.

"They loved him like a father."

Armin nodded. When men had such strong convictions about things, it was useless probing any further. Lloyd believed no sailor had killed Perano. He would have to examine the crew factor from a different angle.

"Do you know how he was killed?"

The shipmaster spat again. "Stabbed through from behind with a sword or like. Right through the heart. Bastards."

"What happened to his crew and the ship?"

Lloyd averted his gaze, obviously uncomfortable by the question. "The council seized the ship and dismissed the crew. It says so in the contract. Some of us took Perano's men on board our own vessels."

Armin's head was racing, searching for clues. "Do you know what cargo Perano dealt in?"

The shipmaster shrugged. "We're all guild members. We do as needed. It's all in the ledgers. The port master has it all written down neat. You can ask him."

They parted with a shake of their hands, something Armin was not used to in his homeland. He left the pub no smarter than before. Apparently, Perano had been a meticulous guild member who paid his bills. No one seemed to have gained from his death. Money was not the motive here.

He would have to dig further.

His next target was much less cooperative. The widow of the dead chart-maker, Nespos, of the guild of scribes, refused to meet him. He left a note with the head servant and departed.

Armin decided to go back to his mansion on foot. It was a bright, sunny day, and he wanted to see some of Eybalen's streets. While most locals probably thought the weather was hot and sultry, he found it refreshingly cool compared to his home island. Eybalen was not a pretty city, but it was not ugly either. But then, Armin believed in anthropology as the highest form of entertainment. Walking the streets would be great fun.

About half an hour before reaching his rented mansion, he realized someone was shadowing him. The person was quite unobtrusive, and most people would have never noticed. But Armin was a world-class investigator and could tell a hundred little clues from seemingly innocent objects and scenarios. He was absolutely sure the other man was not merely casually there, going the same way he did.

It was perhaps the sheer luck of his decision to walk, because otherwise, he would have never spotted the stalker. But now he knew. After a single day of work, Eybalen already had a keen interest in his deeds. The murder case seemed all the more enticing than before.

**CHAPTER 8**

"Don't move or make a noise until we tell you to do so," Boris warned in a low growl that was supposed to be a whisper.

Duvall nodded. Ewan noticed the beads of sweat on his forehead. It was not that hot. The senior brother was terrified.

They had gone south, keeping well off the roads. After Chergo, they found no more signs of struggle. The roads were empty. The good weather had abandoned them overnight, turning into a light summer rain that persisted well into the morning. The world turned from sultry to cool.

Weak and hungry and burdened with three small children, the group made slow progress. But finally, they had reached the convent to find it blissfully quiet and whole. The sky was a sheet of beaten lead, keeping the sun at bay. They were soaked to the bone, and the chill ate at their resolve.

Ewan could not believe the Caytoreans had not attacked this place. If what the two soldiers claimed was true, hordes of the enemy forces had moved up these roads, heading for Talmath. Leaving such a succulent prize intact seemed unbelievable.

His eyes scanned the surroundings, desperately seeking signs of struggle. But he found nothing but empty rolling fields of thick, wild grass dotted with bushes and stunted trees.

"There seem to be no Caytoreans around," Duvall murmured, reassuring himself.

"Quiet, lad," Boris chided. Sedric had slipped away, reconnoitering.

Ewan had no knowledge of the two men and did not trust them. They had the same air of dark past about them, just like his friend Ayrton. But unlike him, they lacked his kindness, his apologetic manners. They looked like bloodthirsty animals, glad to be free of their cage for the first time in years. The thought disturbed him.

Ayrton would have never refused to go to Speann and help people, no matter the cost.

Adrian knelt near him, clutching a sword he was not quite sure what to do with. Ewan knew they were deluding themselves with empty heroics. But there was no other way.

The stupor and shock of the terror he had lived through in the last two days were slowly receding, leaving behind a hollow feeling of despair laced with anger. Alongside guilt and a dull yearning for revenge, his fever came back.

It was much weaker than before, but it crippled him somewhat nevertheless. He sweated and coughed. His chest hurt from suppressing the coughs in an attempt to conceal his state from the other brothers. They did notice, but kept quiet.

Again, last night, he had dreamt that same boring nightmare, waking drenched in cold sweat and rain. He was so angry when he rose that he'd punched a rock, flaying the skin off his knuckles.

He shivered gently and his joints hurt, but he could ignore the discomfort enough to focus on the task at hand, although he seriously doubted he had enough strength to lift a sword.

"Are you all right?" Adrian asked him.

Ewan nodded, sweat dripping from his hair. Or maybe it was rain. "I'll be fine."

Adrian did not seem convinced. "You are very pale."

"Silence," Boris warned.

In the vast open fields about them, nothing stirred. There was no sign of human life anywhere around the convent.

In contrast to his former home, this temple had a breast-high wall encircling its vegetable gardens, presenting a barrier against intruders. Ewan hoped this was enough.

He knew some of the sisters in the convent. Although the patriarchs insisted on keeping boys and girls apart until a certain age, the inevitable encounters happened all the time. Whenever the boys were sent to nearby villages to trade for goods, they would often meet their female counterparts. Ewan had even kissed one of the girls, Sarith. But he had not told his superiors about it. Only Ayrton.

Sedric suddenly rose from the tall grass, waving at them.

"Let's move," Boris urged. The group left their hiding place, heading for the temple. They walked briskly, alert, feeling exposed in the empty, quiet world. The dark sky overhead pressed uncomfortably.

Boris carried a heavy riding crossbow on his back, but now he cradled it in his armpit, the string drawn taut, the groove loaded with a fat, thick bolt.

Ewan walked, slightly swaying, his legs soft and trembling. Then, suddenly, racking pain lanced up his back, stealing breath from his chest, paralyzing him. He yelped and collapsed, shaking violently, curled in a ball of pain.

"Ewan!" Adrian shouted.

"Bloody child," Boris cursed, running back.

They stood above him, staring helplessly. He watched them, unable to open his mouth and say anything, his body out of control. The pain was agonizing. After an eternity, the fit ceased. He found himself sprawled on his back, his nails chipped from digging, his mouth awash in blood. Gingerly, he touched his bitten tongue and spat. As he smelled the contents of his mouth, he retched dryly, his stomach having nothing to give.

Ashamed, he leaned back again, groaning, wiping threads of mucus and bile that marred his face. His body screamed at him, muscles burning, but at least he could feel them again.

"What's wrong with him?" Boris asked in a threatening voice. He looked afraid.

Duvall grimaced. "We don't know. His fits started a week ago. They had him confined to a bed in the monastery. We thought he had healed, but it seems we were wrong."

Ewan watched as people talked about him, like he was a piece of furniture worth commenting on.

"It could be plague," Rais hissed softly.

"Don't be a fool," Adrian barked.

"Keep your voices down, fools. We don't know who's in that convent!" The pale Boris looked like a man on the verge of panic.

"We got company!" Sedric yelled.

All of them, minus Ewan, spun to see a flock of women in purple robes leave through the vine-adorned gates of the little wall surrounding their abode, spreading about. Sedric stood with his sword raised, hesitant.

"Put your sword down," one of the women called.

Boris hitched his crossbow up and aimed. Bojan was crying again, and so were the two other youngest boys, named Deron and Maximilian.

"I will not warn you again, soldier. Put your weapon down," the female said, her tone sharpening.

"Who are you?" Sedric yelled back.

"I'm Matriarch Elena of this convent to the goddess Lilith, praised be her name. Stand down, or you shall be hurt." She turned toward the hysterical children. "Brothers, are you prisoners of these two men?"

"No, no, put your weapons down." It was Adrian. Duvall was silent. "We're all together."

With abnormal powers he did not know he had, Ewan climbed up onto his wobbly feet. The world swam about him in a green vertigo.

The matriarch seemed alarmed. "What's with that boy?"

Boris spat. "We don't know. He looks possessed." He still held the crossbow aloft. Sedric had turned the tip of his glaive down.

"He has a fever, that's all," Adrian cut in.

"Sisters, bring those children here," the matriarch ordered. The girls headed for the three youngest. Bojan screamed and refused to budge, but Deron and Maximilian calmed.

"Let him be," Ewan rasped. The girl dragging Bojan released her grip. The boy catapulted toward Ewan and snaked his arms about his leg. Ewan almost fell again.

"Were you attacked by the Caytoreans?" Duvall finally spoke, flakes of his courage returning.

"We are in plain sight here," Sedric whined. "Let's go inside. There could be enemies out here."

Elena waved her hands in protest. "You cannot enter. Only the children."

"We are starved and exhausted, and there are thousands of Caytorean scum invaders in the fields all around us!" Sedric shouted.

The woman shook her head. "You are an Outsider. You may not enter."

Sedric spat. "I have not given up my life for this! I am a soldier of the Cause."

The matriarch did not seem sympathetic. "Yes, you are. Behave like one."

A moment of silence stretched, thin and taut like a drawn bowstring. Then, Sedric lurched forward and grabbed Deron. The sister holding him fought back, but the man was much stronger. He yanked the boy away like a doll, then shoved the woman, hard.

Boris had his crossbow up as the group of women hissed and moved forward.

Ewan watched, bile rising in his throat. He no longer saw the world in color. Duvall was edging away. Adrian watched, confused. The other brothers all stood like stupid statues.

"You'll give us food and water and money. And if you have horses, them too." Sedric held the boy in a tight clutch, the cold steel of his sword pressed against his belly. Boris side-stepped, never lowering his crossbow, until he stood at his comrade's side.

"Put that boy down!" the matriarch shrieked.

"Give us coin and food!" Sedric growled like an animal. A bestial glow lit his eyes.

"Murderer, you have sworn an oath," the woman spoke.

"What do you say, Boris? We take our chances? What about this convent?"

"So many fine young girls," the other soldier agreed, leering.

Ewan tottered forward, a man in delirium. Bojan stood, weeping. Step by step, Ewan made his way toward the two soldiers. As he registered in their vision, Boris turned, leveling the crossbow at his chest.

"That's far enough, boy," he warned.

Ewan heard him as if his head was submerged in a bucket of water. The world felt like a cube of frosted bone marrow. It jittered and wobbled, solid lines coalescing into blurred shadows. The young brother retched again, but never stopped moving.

He felt the tip of the crossbow touch his skin, just below the rib cage.

"Let...go...of...that...kid," Ewan intoned, every word a slow, mad agony.

"You have one second to get the fuck away from me, or I'll shoot you," Boris whispered.

Ewan did not move. The crossbow sang. There was a loud crack, like hammer hitting wood. Bojan shrieked. Adrian cursed. The women were running forward. Duvall was running away.

Then, the world stopped.

As one, the spectators all froze in their tracks, staring at Ewan. The crossbow bolt had splintered into a thousands slivers, some falling like sawdust, others lodged in the ruined fabric of his robe. Inside one of the rents, the mangled tip was a wad of black iron, pressed against Ewan's skin. With a sucking sound, the tip detached, like a mollusk pulling off a pier, and fell to the ground. There was a coin-sized ruddiness on Ewan's ghostly pale skin, but not a drop of blood or a flake of shredded skin.

Ewan's arm came up in a wide arc, hitting Boris on the side of his head. Lobbed by his own teeth, Boris flew, turned over in the air, and collapsed a full ten paces away. Blood gushed from his ears.

Ewan stood there, his arm raised.

Then, he collapsed as the world lost its monochrome madness and became black.

**CHAPTER 9**

King Vlad the Fifth was not going to let anyone best him.

He owed his perfection to his sire, King Vlad the Fourth, who had taught him to be the best in everything. When he was five, his father had taken him to see executions to harden his resolve. He had been beaten every day, regardless of what he'd done, to instill a good measure of humility and prudence in his skin. They would pepper his tongue and pour onion juice into his eyes and let small embers cool on the skin of his belly to make him immune to pain. He had slept with cloves of garlic stuck up his nose to make him invulnerable to disease.

As the direct result of his flawless education, he was the smartest man in the kingdom. He was also the toughest and the bravest, too.

He always won the jousting tournaments and archery contents during the Spring Festival. Maidens all over the realm swooned at the mere mention of his name. He had whole chambers decorated with mirrors so he could bask in the resplendence of his immaculate image.

He was definitely not going to allow Eracians and Caytoreans to best him in matters of war.

News of hostilities had reached him on a swift rider earlier that morning. He was furious that they had decided to go to an all-out war without inviting him.

"I'm going to kill them all!" he shouted.

"Yes, dear," his wife said.

"How dare they start a war without me!" he continued.

"Shame on them," his wife added. She sat by the fireplace, knitting.

King Vlad walked about the large royal bedchamber, fretful and restless like a beast in a cage, naked except for a crown on his head and a sword in his arms. His wife, Olga, ignored him, knitting a light winter tunic.

King Vlad paused, adjusting the crown on his brow. The mirror reflected his spotless image back. Servants polished that mirror with reindeer skin seven times a day.

He could not believe how handsome he was. He had once thought of executing all the ugly people, until Olga told him that this would mean the death of more than half the kingdom's population. So, reluctantly, he had let the ugly people be.

"We need to summon the nobles. We need to levy the serfs," he went on.

"Don't forget it's the autumn harvest soon. We need the peasants in the fields." Olga drank from a goblet of wine.

King Vlad spun, his sword chinking one of the bedposts. "No, I will not levy the serfs. It's harvest time soon. We will starve in the winter if we leave the fields unharvested." He looked at his wife. She was chubby and with enormous breasts, the way all women should be. She so reminded him of his late mother, gods bless her soul.

Once, he had considered banning small breasts, until his wife had explained that breasts grew as women got older.

"I'll muster the retainers! And all freemen!"

"Could you not shout, dear? I hear you all too well."

King Vlad the Fifth went to a small table in the far corner of the chamber. A map lay partially unfurled on top of it, held from curling by a pair of goblets. He started tapping heavily.

"I'll muster thirty thousand men and march north, into the Territories. I will strike at the Caytorean and Eracian bastards and teach them humility."

"I suggest you leave Archduke Vasiliy in charge as your steward. He's a very able man."

"Who will stay here and protect the kingdom? Maybe Duke Vasiliy? Yes...probably him."

"You should ask for the blessing from the patriarchs. That way, the people will be more content. They will accept the war toll more easily if they know it's for a holy cause." Olga looked up from her handiwork at the icon of her favorite goddess, Diana, laid on top of the austere marble mantelpiece.

"I will talk to the patriarchs today. See that I get their blessing for this war. I've heard that Caytoreans and Eracians are razing the holy places, burning the shrines and temples, and killing priests. They must be punished."

"This is a very good opportunity to grab some more arable land. We lack in rich wheat and rye fields like the Caytoreans have. After you crush their forces, you could move across the river and take some of the Caytorean lowlands. Even better, you could take hold of the eastern Territories and leave troops there as protection against Caytorean aggression. Appoint one of your less loyal dukes as provost marshal. It would be killing four birds with one stone. You'd gain fame among your nobles, you'd subvert a possible traitor while getting him far away from the throne, and we'd be able to enjoy the spoils of farmland in the Territories and yet be loved and cherished for it."

"That's it!" Vlad shouted. "I have a devious plan."

Olga sipped more wine. "Please tell me, dear."

"I will move into the Territories and send the godless scum scurrying back to their ratholes. Then, I'll leave some of the forces near the border permanently, as a shield against the Caytoreans. And send one of my two-faced aristocrats to run the show. It would give us access to vast resources."

"You'll be a hero. No one will begrudge you for it. Within a generation, you'll be able to establish a small autonomy there, with the blessing of the patriarchs, of course. If they prove too difficult to appease, you could always hire mercenaries to stage border incursions and get them convinced. Or we could milk some of our treasury now and grant it to the temples. We'll have the support of the clergy for many years to come."

"I'll be a hero!" the naked king hollered, jousting with invisible enemies. His naked member flopped happily with his erratic motions.

"When you meet the priests, you should let them know of what you intend to do, but keep the little annexation business private for now. They do not need to know that until we have our legions in the Territories. After this war ends, there will be hard facts in the field of battle, and that's what matters."

Vlad spun with sudden, mad clarity in his eyes. "But we will be stealing from the gods. Won't the gods object?"

Olga put the wool and needles down. She extended her arms in a hug. "Come here."

The king walked up to his wife, knelt, and let himself be embraced. Some of her hair caught in his crown, disturbing it. Almost panicking, he rose, readjusting it, making sure it never fell off. He would not let go of the sword either.

"They will not object," Olga spoke quietly, patiently, almost like a mother soothing a child after a nightmare. "But I will talk to Goddess Diana for you and ask her."

"Will you talk to her?" Vlad asked.

"I will," she said, nodding deeply.

The mask of fury twisted her husband's features again. "I'll be a hero!"

"You remember how the Safe Territories came to be, don't you? It was a consensus. The leaders of the realms decided to protect the gods. In return, the patriarchs have agreed to speak in their favor and allay the fears of the common man. We gave them land and protection, and they gave us support. Now, we need a little bit of land, and they need some support from us. The patriarchs are smart. They will understand."

Vlad started pacing again. "I need to—" There was a knock on the chamber doors. He threw on a robe and turned around. "Enter!"

A pair of children came in. Sasha and Sergei were their children, twins, almost eleven now.

Olga looked up from her knitting. It was that time of the morning again. "Hello, children."

Almost mechanically, King Vlad went to a rack of swords adorning one of the walls and drew a long wooden stick from the mass of blades.

"Sasha, you first!" the king said. The girl approached and stood before her father. He lashed. The cold, polished wood slammed into the side of her left leg with a loud, wet sound. Sasha flinched, but did not make a sound.

"Education is important," the king mumbled, almost in a trance.

Sergei came second. When his father struck him, he yelped. A tear rolled down his cheek.

"Stop crying! You embarrass the family!" Vlad roared. "Be strong, like your sister. You must be strong."

Whispering good-byes, the two children retreated almost as suddenly as they had come.

"Do you think it helps?" Olga asked him for the thousandth time.

"Definitely! It builds their character! Look at me!" He shrugged off his robe and punched his chest proudly.

"You are the instrument of your father's education, that's for sure, dear!"

Vlad harrumphed triumphantly. He resumed his irritating stroll, to and fro, to and fro.

"Let no one say that King Vlad stood idly while the other nations clashed!" he yelled.

"Yes, dear," Olga said, knitting.

**CHAPTER 10**

Armin felt like a man falling down a bottomless pit. For the last two weeks, he had been investigating the murders of the eight council members, with very little success. The murders had no pattern and seemed random. There was little or no connection between the victims. They had shared almost no history together, had done business with one another just as often as they had done it with hundreds of other merchants. Worst of all, there seemed to be no motive whatsoever.

The eight had been prominent citizens, yet not so prominent as to invoke fury or jealousy. They were just moderately powerful, only a bit influential, and no richer than many of their still-living-and-breathing comrades. No one could tell of any vendettas or bad blood. And although a few of them had shared some of the more exotic passions of Eybalen's nightlife, they had not caused any great grief or scandal.

It seemed like a dead end. But for Armin, it was pure ecstasy.

For him, challenge was the greatest stimulant in the world. Even his three wives barely compared. Since having discovered he was being stalked, he had reemployed his youngest spouse, Inessa, as his bodyguard. She had been a policewoman once, protecting the academy, until she had fallen in love with its striking founder. Now, the mother of his youngest son, she had gladly embraced the opportunity to be at his side as a soldier once more.

They did not mingle together in public, but she was never more than ten steps away. The people watching him changed frequently, but he was almost always aware of their discreet presence. He wondered if they were aware of Inessa.

No leads, no motive. He was walking down one of the broad cobbled streets of Eybalen, engrossed in thoughts, when he stumbled upon a small gathering. A knot of people was blocking half the road, with curious citizens converging toward the crowd.

A fervent fan of anthropology, Armin decided to participate. He casually drifted toward the assembly, assessing the situation. The people seemed calm. It was not a rally or a brawl that had attracted them. It seemed something that appealed to their intellect. As he neared, the din of traffic subsided, allowing him to hear a clear voice droning, a speech, delivered by a figure in front of the crowd.

"...are false. For they are afraid. Why would they be afraid? For they are false." The voice rang, sharp, authoritative, not a hint of doubt in it.

Armin assumed a passive stance in one of the back rows and watched. A man, as bald as himself, stood on the second step of a short flight leading into a temple of one of the continental deities, preaching to a crowd of onlookers.

The man must have been some sort of a priest or a holy man, the investigator noted. However, unlike most clergy Armin had met in his life, this one dressed in snug leather rather than robes. While robes were meant to symbolize purity and simplicity, the gleaming oiled leather spoke of power, of unchecked lust and unbridled emotion.

The man was holding a crystal orb in one of his arms. The free one was lashing in quick gestures that contrasted the slow and deliberate speech. Armin switched his gaze to the crowd. They appeared to be a mixed lot, but mainly the common hardworking men and women of the middle and lower classes. Their faces were locked in thought, an apparently rare experience for most of them. There was a glimmer of hope there, too, and just a hint of anger.

"The false gods have abandoned us. They no longer mingle among us. They no longer listen to men. They have scorned us. Their power is waning. Look behind me. I'm at the steps of one of their temples. Where is the cheer and pride of this god? Where are his followers? The temple is an empty shell. And I am freely mocking it. The false gods have no sway over me. And they will not have any sway over you if you convert."

A few faces bobbed in agreement. Armin rubbed his spotless chin. A rare disease had robbed his skin of all his hair in his late teens. He was as smooth as an egg, something his wives seemed to like.

The preacher smiled. "You can be free. You can live your lives without fear, without check. You can enjoy life. The false gods have burdened you with meaningless laws and wreathed you with empty promises. To follow their rules is to deny your own humanity. Man was meant to be a free creature, to live freely.

"But you are not free. Even as I speak to you, city guards are watching us from across the street. They wish to control you and curb you and bend your will to their own whims. You live your lives in the shadow of the rich and powerful. You live by their creed, denied of your true nature and desires."

Armin tilted his head. On the opposite side of the avenue, a squad of city guards stood, watching the show. They did not seem interested or concerned. But they were there, to see and be seen.

The Sirtai investigator was amazed by the gap in his education. There was a whole layer of social currents here he had not been aware of. He knew it was his own fault. He made a mental note to get more deeply involved in the issue at hand.

The narrator was very skilled, he had to admit. All of the charisma and charm were there. He had a striking, daunting presence. And he spoke of simple, everyday things that lifted people's hearts.

"Mighty is the worm that gnaws at rotted roots," the saying said—and it could not have been truer.

Religion had never really bothered him much. Sirtai did not believe in gods the same way as continental people. They believed in spirits and forces of nature, in harmony and balance of all things. The continental folks seemed hung up on believing in ultimate powers.

On the other side, a small yet luxurious chariot stopped by the group of constables. A delicate hand wrapped in lace and frill beckoned one of them, possibly a corporal, near. The man listened for a while, eagerly nodding. The chariot pulled away. The corporal clapped his hands and started across the street. His gang followed, hands casually caressing hard oak batons at their flanks.

Seeing the militia approach, the trance of the crowd shattered. People instinctively started to disperse, like a bubble exploding. A few drifted away, a few merely moved out of the way of the armed men, but most stayed, just like the narrator. Armin stayed, too.

"Time to leave, people. Nothing to be seen here. Let's go," the corporal shouted, waving his hands.

"Will you not let the people hear the truth?" the priestlike figure asked, his crystal voice shaming the constable's attempt.

"Get off those steps and head back to your warren, priest," the corporal warned.

The man in leathers seemed to deliberate. He eyed the five guards carefully. Then, he stepped off his little stage. A murmur spread through the wavering crowd. The knot of focused interest had become a handful of leaves, fluttering in the wind.

"One day, you will regret this," the priest told the corporal, face-to-face.

"Don't push your luck, priest. Get lost."

In the corner of his eye, Armin saw a second group congregate, just behind the corner of the avenue. This pack wore leather, just like the speaker, and seemed far more determined than the casual crowd. Armin saw more of their kind coalesce from other streets, in ones and twos, merging into a solid body of palpable fury.

Scrolling through images engraved in his memory, he realized he had seen quite a lot of their kind in the recent days, but had dismissed the fad for local fashion. Well, apparently, it was not just fashion.

The corporal did not look like a stupid man. Middle-aged, he had the traits of a low-profile criminal who had found employment in the City Watch and now stared down his former allies through the monochrome eyes of petty authority. But he had enough experience to sense the change and back down.

He stepped back and led his squad away, pretending he had never seen the priest.

Just as quickly as they had appeared, the various leather-clad men dispersed, blending back into the crowd. Life resumed its normal course in the streets of Eybalen.

"The Children of the Ways win again," the priest intoned and was moving away, a few of the spectators trailing after him.

As the crowd started to melt, Armin reached gently, touching one of the participants on the shoulder. "Greetings, citizen. Could you please tell me who this man was?"

The other person eyed him with shock. Noticing his strange robe, the curious accent slowly registering, the man recovered. "You are not from around here?"

"No, I'm from Sirtai."

"That was a priest of Feor," the man spoke, reverence clear in his tone.

"Feor?" Armin had never heard of Feor. His ignorance of continental religions bit him again.

This seemed to anger the man. Growling a curse, the man nudged past Armin and strode away hurriedly.

Armin lingered after the last of the onlookers had gone away. He stared at the temple and started to notice alarming signs—broken glass lying at the foot of gaping panes, stones and rotten vegetables littering the patio in front of the large double doors. It did not look like the vibrant, cheerful place of prayer that temples were supposed to be.

Prompted by a strange new passion, Armin abandoned his quest for murderers that afternoon and spent hours patrolling the city, visiting holy places and large squares. He saw another three priests of Feor, delivering speeches very similar to the one he had heard. He found most of the temples closed, with battered facades.

He also suspected the presence of city guards was much heavier than it should be in a relatively peaceful capital city. Then, news of a war in the west reached him, and another tile of understanding fell away, leaving him all the more confused.

He cleared his schedule the next day and decided to do two things: visit a library and read about Feor, and hire himself an informant.

His first task was a very simple one. There were no books about Feor. Whoever this deity was, he or she did not star in the scrolls and annals of Caytorean history. Even the most recent works, written merely a few decades before, were empty of any record of Feor.

Intrigued to the point of madness, he left the vestibules of the large City Library and headed for the City Market.

Just like in the richer parts of the capital, people in the leather clothes were everywhere, only thrice as many. It was obvious that common people liked the priests and their speeches much more than their rich cousins.

He was also shocked to discover that the poor people in Caytor were much poorer than the poor people in Sirtai. And he was absolutely disgusted by their poor hygiene. Despite its magnificence and size, Eybalen had no underwater canals for sewage, save the most luxurious parts, like the one he stayed in. There were tiny gutters at the edge of the roads, which connected to other gutters in other streets, all eventually leading to the sea. But the gutters were open and reeked awfully. People crossed them many times a day, often stepping in their own feces. Rats shared the streets with humans, big, ferocious, and unafraid.

The city slums were even worse. Their gutters were clogged with dead dogs and ancient garbage. The streets were muddy from overspilled crap. But no one seemed bothered.

The market was a chaos of screams, people hawking a thousand goods. Walking in a straight line was impossible. People rubbed into one another like fish in a net, flopping and squirming while gulping for air.

Armin had no clear destination, but he was sure he would know his goal once he saw it. He had taken only a few coins with him and carried them in a closed fist, knowing he would lose his purse the moment he stepped into the market.

After a few minutes of meandering among the city's finest, he reached an isle of sanity, some empty space around an old, broken spout covered in a thick layer of bird droppings. Cowering in the shade of the debris, several scrawny street urchins were gambling, betting with rat paws and tails.

Armin casually dropped one of the copper coins into their midst.

"You," he declared, pointing at the fastest urchin.

The boy looked alarmed and poised to flee, but the hairless, smooth-featured face of the stranger stayed him.

"Don't be afraid. I mean you no harm. The coin is yours. You have earned it."

"Mine?" the boy repeated, unsure. Such a price was not something he would usually earn without a bitter fight.

"Your money," Armin said. "And I have more if you are willing to help me."

The boy grinned. Most of his milk teeth had fallen out, and the new ones had not grown yet, turning his mouth into a grotesque grimace.

Armin stepped away. The boy followed him. So did all of his friends.

"What about my gang?" the boy inquired.

"Oh, you have a gang. Very nice. What's your name, boy?"

The little thing patted his thin chest. "You can call me Squiggle."

Armin smiled. Such an apt name. "Well, Squiggle and the gang, I would like to employ your services. I want you to be my eyes and ears and help me around the city."

The boy merely blinked. "How much you pay us?"

The investigator made a face, pretending to think. "A copper a week for all of you. And if you bring me good and valuable news, another copper."

Squiggle snorted. "Five coppers."

Armin shook his head. "Two, plus one for every piece of good news."

The boys looked at one another. "Done." Squiggle spat in his palm and extended it.

"Done," Armin said and patted the boy on the shoulder. "You will meet me every morning near the docks, where I will give instructions for that day. Then, the day after, you will tell me of your success and be paid. Do you understand?"

Squiggle nodded. "When do we start?"

Armin smiled. "Right now."

Walking back to his mansion, he continued wondering about Feor. The boys had offered him very little useful information on this subject. Moreover, he did not trust their judgment to accurately evaluate the political situation in the city.

Then, an old memory tickled him. He almost missed a step. Chart-maker Nespos, of the scribes' guild. The scribes and chart-makers were people who wrote recorded history. If anyone could help him, those were surely the members of the scribes' guild.

One of the people in leathers passed him by, almost colliding with him. Armin frowned at the obvious lack of civility, but said nothing. The man had a saunter typical of young peacocks and drunkards, people who sought trouble for free.

Once you spotted them, your eyes never stopped seeing them, he realized. He was getting more and more sensitive to the sight of priests and their followers, wearing varying degrees of leathers. The cleaner ones looked like clergy or distinguished members of this mysterious religion. Those who wore tatters that resembled leather looked like new converts. But still, they were a complete and utter mystery.

"Hey, you," someone called, and he knew that they hailed him.

He turned to see a trio approach him. They were dressed in rags and smelled of feces. They looked like fine candidates of the city's lowest society.

"Greetings," Armin welcomed. He was unarmed. Inessa was not with him today. She had a very painful menses and could not accompany him.

"I heard you was doin' business in my part of the city today. And I don't remember giving you permission to do business in my part of the city."

"Apologies if you were offended, good sir," Armin started.

"We hear you has money you give to urchins. But I don't see you give any money to me."

Armin realized this little show was an elaborate extortion. Maybe a threat and maybe a message. Local gang leaders, like gang leaders anywhere, did not approve of trespassers in any way. The investigator realized he may have committed a serious error, but he was not sure how this should end. He had no experience dealing with Caytorean criminals. Especially not the poor ones.

"We wants money," another gang member volunteered in a raspy voice.

He did not have any money about him. And he knew that if he succumbed to their threats and paid, he would forever hinder his work in the city. And yet, he did not feel like bleeding his guts to death in some foreign place.

"I believe we can try to reach some sort of an agreement." He stalled.

"Deal is, you gives me ten gold now, and we let you go. Then, you gives me another ten every week, and we let you employ the urchins. How about that?"

Armin realized they did not know who they were harassing. Again, it was his own doing. His plain clothing and the choice of transport had undermined his image. Rich people did not walk, nor did they wander into the poor regions of the city.

In Tuba Tuba, things were so different. The word "poor" had a whole other meaning in Caytor. People like his assailants were nothing but nameless slaves in Sirtai. Back home, poor people did not try to attack their superiors. They would either get killed or enslaved for life, a price too steep to pay, especially when one always had food, shelter, and clean streets beneath one's soles.

Armin did not know what to do. He was not skilled in combat. He knew his valiant stand would end in him getting killed very quickly. If something like this had happened back home, the casual onlookers would attack the assailants and beat them senseless. Crimes in Sirtai had classes, just like the people.

Here, the few people present did their best to pretend nothing was happening. They turned the other way and hastened their pace. There was no City Watch in this part of Eybalen.

As he stood facing his death, he realized his approach had been wrong all along. He had always suspected the deaths of the city's rich had been carefully planned deeds of their comrades. Now, the options seemed limitless. Anyone could have done it. Anyone with enough money and a solid opportunity. There was nothing stopping people like his nemeses from taking a knife to a throat of some noble for a sufficient sum of gold.

Armin felt naked. And ashamed of this alien society. Where were the good citizens to protect him, to protect one another from harm?

Having nothing to say, he stood and waited, his stomach muscles bunched, anticipating a spike of cold steel. Instead of attacking him, the three villains seemed reluctant to attack. Afraid? They stepped back.

Armin dared breathe again. A sixth sense made him aware of a presence behind him. Slowly, very slowly, he turned and saw a man, dressed like a gentleman, standing several paces behind him, staring at his three antagonists.

"We is very sorry, sir," the leader mumbled, taking another step back.

Shocked, Armin just nodded. Was he being rescued by a gallant citizen? No, he realized, he was being rescued by one of his stalkers.

The gangsters ran off, never looking back.

"I would like to thank you," Armin told the man.

"Next time, ride in a chariot," the man said and was gone. Armin stood there, with more unanswered questions than before.

**CHAPTER 11**

Adam made his way back into the camp, walking slowly and slightly limping. No one dared approach him. Although the patrols had spotted him quite some time ago, he was all alone on the dusty trail leading to the Eracian camp.

He hobbled past multiple rows of stakes, past small towers crammed full with archers. Everywhere, soldiers stood and stared stupidly. A cloud of stunned silence preceded him to be replaced by a turbulent wind of hushed talk.

A knot of officers waited for him in one of the camp centers. As he neared, he rehearsed the same lines for the thousandth time. He had been a soldier in Captain William's battalion. After Bruce and his three sergeants died in combat, the captain had promoted him to an acting lieutenant.

It should work.

Finally, a man approached him, offering him a skin. He nodded his thanks and drank.

"Are you wounded?" the soldier asked.

Adam shook his head. "I don't think so."

The man pointed at his soiled tunic. "You have a huge stain of blood there."

Adam smiled softly. "I don't think it's mine."

The spell broken, people flocked toward him. He cringed under the sudden onslaught. But all that came were gentle, almost cautious touches to his arms and legs, as if they wanted to make sure he was not an apparition.

"Enough, stand back," one of the officers barked. The sea of armed men retreated.

Adam stood frozen for a moment. Then, he noted the two copper leaves on the man's shoulders. He remembered from his days in Paroth that two coppers meant captains. He recovered and saluted wearily.

"No need for that, man," the captain said in a much softer voice.

"Who are you?" another captain inquired.

This was it. Adam took a deep breath and gave birth to his new self. "I'm Acting Lieutenant Adam, sir. Served under Sergeant Edwin in Lieutenant Bruce's company. When they both got killed, Captain William promoted me."

He waited. Nothing happened.

"Are you the only survivor?" the second officer asked, after a short pause.

"For gods' and goddesses' sake, let's not make a parade out of this. Bring that man into the tent," a third voice boomed.

Gently, as if he were some rare beast, he was ushered into a tent, given a stool and a flagon of wine. He drank slowly, biding his time.

"He must be in shock," he heard someone comment.

"Do you remember the...battle?" the second officer persisted.

Adam put down the flagon. It was time for the second act. "Not really, no, sir. I remember bits of it. I remember we were marching when the enemy ambushed us. Our flanks were exposed. And then, it was chaos."

Mali's brows jumped at the news. "What? A survivor?"

Colonel George shrugged. "It seems to be. No one can believe it. Looks like a miracle."

"Where is he now?" Mali asked, already rising from her chair.

"My captains are with him now. He claims to be one of William's men. Field promoted some two or three ranks. I find it highly unlikely."

Abruptly, Mali stopped walking. George bumped into her. "You think he's a spy?"

George puckered his lips. "I'm not thinking anything. It's just weird, that's all."

"I want to speak with him," Mali said.

"Wait, let me make sure he's not armed," George said and rushed ahead of her.

"So now he's an assassin too?"

Adam was surprised by his own calmness. He sat in a crowd of complete strangers, people who would have his head instantly should they know the truth, and yet, it hardly mattered to him.

His act seemed to have convinced them. He was a bit hesitant, a bit vague, making them believe he suffered from shock and exhaustion. Still, wariness remained. Adam knew more than well not to push his luck. This was no different than being a whore. You had to let your customer warm up to you.

The tent flap stirred, and another group of officers entered. A tall, imposing man with a black beard led them. He stood there, scowling, as his eyes adjusted to the murk. Then, they found Adam.

"Welcome," he said, his voice pleasant.

Adam tried to rise from the chair, but the man waved a hand at him. "No, please, remain seated. You must be terribly exhausted."

"Thank you, sir," Adam mumbled. His rival had the eyes of a fox, gleaming and knowing.

"Can you tell me what happened?" the man asked almost too casually.

As agreed, Mali had remained outside the tent, eavesdropping through the thin canvas.

She admitted the First Battle of Bakler Hills had been an utter disaster. After some debating, she had decided to move south and meet the enemy face-to-face. Being significantly outnumbered, she had hoped to gain some higher ground before meeting the Caytoreans.

But her scouts had done a lousy job. A huge force of enemy cavalry had slipped past west and then backtracked in a wide circle from the north, attacking her exposed flank. She had been able to regroup and pull the mainstay of her forces back to her original position, but the vanguard of light infantry had been cut away. With no help from the heavy shock, the skirmishers and former convicts had been decimated easily. Instead of securing a foothold in the hills, she now faced a fortified enemy, with a thousand less spears than she had had a week ago. Partly, it was her fault. She should have sent dragoons instead of the rabble.

The battle must have been a total disaster. She did not know all the gory details of the fiasco. But she knew that the troops from Penes had been training to harry infantry and stragglers—not to fight heavily armed Caytorean cavalry. Kal Armis's men had been there just for show, three ragged companies of fodder and some regulars.

And on top of all that, the Caytoreans had a nasty habit of slaughtering all captives. They did not believe in the prisoners-of-war approach.

One of the soldiers beckoned her to enter, a sign from George that it was safe for her to meet the stranger. She realized she had missed most of the conversation, her thoughts sidetracked by self-pitying reflection.

Adam's heart quickened as the woman entered. It was her. The one he'd seen the day he'd gone to talk to Sergeant Nigel.

Despite the uniform and obvious manly ego she had acquired as the leader of so many men, she had a strong feminine presence that you could almost smell. She had dark brown hair and dark brown eyes without a flake of mercy in them. This woman did not cry into her pillow.

"What's your name?" she asked him without any pleasantry.

"Adam," he said.

"Where do you hail from?"

"From Penes," he mumbled.

"Your town of birth," she insisted.

Adam realized it was best to stick with the one city he really knew. "Paroth."

"A city boy," she said, a hint of mockery in her voice. "Show me your hands."

Icy fire lanced down his back as she took his hands in a firm yet cool grip and examined them. For the first time in weeks, he was glad for the blisters and calluses from the shit-shoveling.

"What do you recall of the battle?"

Sometimes, the truth was the best lie. "I don't remember much. We were attacked suddenly from the left flank. The convicts were in the lead, and they just fell apart. We could not hold them."

She continued questioning for some time, asking very vague and then very detailed questions. He sat back and lied, doing what he had been trained to do his entire life.

"What do you think?" George asked her after they left the tent.

"Well, I don't trust him," Mali spoke after a while. "He seems well-spoken, has bright eyes, and does look like someone an officer might choose to promote in the heat of a battle. But his story is a bit disjointed."

"Could be the stress of the battle," George offered.

"Ah, now you're taking his side!" She punched her colonel on the shoulder.

George flushed. "Not here. Not in front of my men," he whispered.

Mali made an indignant face. "Oh, don't you think the rutting sounds you make in the night are a bit of a giveaway?"

"I don't make sounds," he hissed.

Mali sobered. "I have made some serious mistakes back there," she said, pointing at the gray and blue hills hidden in the mist of a summer day. "I should not have combined troops from different garrisons."

"We didn't have the required manpower yet. We had no choice." George tried to cheer her.

"I got them killed."

George shook his head. "Kal Armis knew what he was doing when he volunteered to lead that scum. He was a good and brave man."

Mali ran a hand through her hair. "Has Marco said anything yet?"

George bit a cuticle off one finger and spat it. "He's sent some men inquiring. Maybe one of the soldiers from the other battalions will be able to recognize this Adam."

Mali slanted her head. "Did he appoint anyone yet instead of William?"

"Not yet."

Mali smiled wickedly. "I have a brilliant idea." When George said nothing, she continued. "This Adam is not someone to have around. We should send him away. Ask Marco to promote him to captain and assign him to the new battalion from Yovarc."

"More convicts?" George asked.

"Peasants. Then, we send him back to fight the Caytoreans. He'll have a chance to redeem himself and win the lost ground. If he's who he truly claims he is, I bet his soul screams for revenge."

"Won't that be suicide?"

Mali seemed adamant. "I'm not sure. We need to get past those hills. And I see no easy way of doing it. And if that man has lived through that battle, then he might be blessed by the gods."

"You're a vicious one."

"I'm the commander of Eracia's South Army. It takes a basketful of balls to lead this lot."

"I'm not sure Marco will approve. He's lost a good third of his troops. Now you suggest thinning his forces even more?"

"We'll give Adam an independent battalion. He'll report directly to you."

George puffed. "Marco will hate this."

"It has to be done."

"What about kal Armis's regulars?"

The bulk of professional soldiers that the captain had led before accepting the grisly task of training and leading conscripts had been temporarily assigned as auxiliary troops to other standing regiments. No one seemed to like the arrangement. Local commanders did not feel comfortable babysitting a bunch of well-trained, cocky soldiers, while kal Armis's men despised everyone for being orphaned from their unit and turned into decorations.

Grudgingly, Mali accepted George's unspoken plan. "Yes, we could assign them to Adam's battalion. They, too, must be hungry for revenge."

"Well, at least he'll have some normal troops to work with."

"They won't like him," Mali warned. "Some of the lieutenants have been waiting for promotion for years. They will expect one of them to assume kal Armis's post."

"This man alone has come out alive from a battle that no one else survived. It must mean something."

Mali snorted. "He could be very adept at hiding in bushes and donning clothes quickly. But if he's truly blessed as you think he is, then he has nothing to lose, nor do we."

Adam thought his scam had been exposed. Calmly, he waited for the officers to return, declare him a traitor or something of the kind, take him outside, and run him through with cold steel. He sat and waited, because there was nothing else he could do. Dead men rarely had options.

Finally, they came in and promoted him to captain.

**CHAPTER 12**

Ayrton watched the city burn.

A pall of smoke hovered above Talmath, not a puff of wind to stir it. Everyone sniffed and sneezed or coughed, their soft tissues irritated by the smoke and ashes. Tears coursed freely down their soot-smeared cheeks.

Ayrton stared as the lower parts of Talmath died in the red flames of a huge conflagration, dark smoke billowing, blotting the landscape. Unseen behind the thick screen of destruction, the Caytorean forces parked in their thousands, watching the grisly show unravel.

The massive fighting had ended in fires spreading all across the shabbier parts of the holy city. It had been two days since. No one could stop the flames. They burned mightily, consuming everything in their path.

The upper city was crammed with refugees. There was not a soul left in the lower city. Whoever had stayed or failed to flee had perished.

Talmath was in chaos. People had been reduced to animals, fighting for sheer survival. A dream of holiness and peace had turned into a bloodbath. People raped and butchered one another even as a foreign enemy sought to exterminate them all.

Having only a token wall surrounding it, Talmath had always relied on the goodwill of the people to remain a functioning city. Most of it was indefensible. The little force the patriarchs had mustered had been unable to check the Caytorean army. The siege had quickly turned into bitter street-to-street fighting. Ayrton really hoped he would be able to forget some of the images he had witnessed.

The vast, sprawling sea of tents that had run for almost a mile ahead of the city wall had been reduced to crumbs. Most of the wooden huts that housed the poorest of the city's tenants were also gone, sapped or burned. And the rest of it was burning, houses, temples, shops.

He was not really sure how the fire had started. He even suspected it had been deliberately set by the friendly forces. It had seemed like the only thing that could stop the Caytoreans.

The raging fires had finally convinced the fighting parties to retreat. The enemy had gone back to its camps outside Talmath. And the city defenders had pulled back into the upper reaches of the city, on the hill that gave Talmath its distinctive look. Now, they waited for the fires to die out.

People had congregated in the city center, at the Grand Monastery. The usual city congestion had turned into a hive of madness and despair.

Having nowhere else to go, refugees huddled near siege engines and slept in the gutters. Oblivious, children ran about, emulating the soldiers, earning kicks and curses as they dodged and darted, getting in the way, while their mothers prostituted themselves for crumbs and torn scraps of blankets.

Disease had not yet struck, but it was very close. Having no place to bury the dead, the priests had the dead burned. Food was rationed out once a day, with soldiers whipping hungry masses into some semblance of order. Nonetheless, most of it got stolen right away.

Ayrton watched people around him become savage, ruthless beasts. Outsiders like him almost too eagerly turned back to their old ways. Many of his brothers-in-arms had several women in their custody, whose favors they paid back with shelter and protection. Brawls never stopped as animals fought for territory. Every fifth man ended up stabbed or beaten by his comrades, when they were all supposed to fight together against the Caytoreans.

Ayrton stood on the balcony of a temple temporarily turned into a barracks, watching a team of engineers bring down entire rows of houses in a feeble attempt to keep the fires from spreading. A circle of debris marked the ghostly alley that separated the dead and abandoned lower city from an anthill of refugees.

Three stories below him, an artillery crew manhandled their onager. They were trying to bring it to bear north, with little success. A wagon full of rocks lay nearby, its wheels broken. All around, a sea of refugees sat in tightly packed rows, dozing and moaning or simply staring into nothingness. Soldiers prowled the battered masses, singling out women they could use. Bigger children were put to work, hauling things. Any boy or male adult was conscripted on the spot and given a weapon. Most of the time, they got sent to work in the lower parts, bringing down houses, lugging the dead, or preparing defenses.

It was the spotless image of an unholy city, Ayrton thought.

Ayrton watched it with all the helplessness of a soldier. He had fought dozens of times in his life as a mercenary. He had seen and done horrible things. Never before had his despair seemed so profound.

He commanded a unit of twenty men, a score of saints in the den of filth and sin. In the first days of war, while some sanity still existed, the patriarchs had organized some sort of an army, most of it small, independent groups of former soldiers or men-at-arms, supposed to uphold the integrity of the Territories and defend its people. But as quickly as the army was born, it died.

Luckily, he was a commander. Although his appointment had been almost arbitrary, the patriarchs had selected him well among the lot. It had really worked in the first few days. The priests had managed to rally people, instill them with hope and zeal. Now, no one cared anymore what they said. Ayrton felt his authority was in peril. He had no real sway over his soldiers, only a token blessing, granted almost too lightly. Unless he proved a bigger animal than they, they would challenge him sooner or later.

And yet, he had sworn never to do those things again. He had fled to the Territories to never have to do those things again.

But the things had found him.

He knew the only way Talmath could survive was for the patriarchs to take leadership of the people. But they seemed too busy deliberating rather than fighting. There was no real chain of command, no figure of power that the other animals could respect and fear.

Ayrton hoped that other cities fared better. Maybe they had had enough time to organize their defenses properly. Talmath desperately needed leadership. It was almost, if not already, too late.

Screams startled him. Looking down, he saw one of the Outsiders drag a girl from the lot. She protested, kicking, trying to grab hold of people around her. They squirmed like spineless things and let her slip. They watched with apathetic, dumb expressions on their faces.

Something snapped inside Ayrton.

He raced down the stairway, two steps at a time, the sword at his hip clanking and scraping against the wall. He rushed outside, trampling over refugees, plowing his way toward the man and his prey.

"Hey, you, halt right there!" he shouted.

"She's mine," the man growled.

Ayrton did not pause. He drew his sword, stepped forward, and stabbed the man in the gut. A look of surprise twisted the man's features. Ayrton pulled the sword free. The soldier groaned and stumbled. Almost instantly, people started stripping him of his clothes and possessions.

"Enough," Ayrton howled. Fortunately, he had been blessed with a deep, powerful voice. "This madness stops right now. Soldiers, get these refugees away. From now on, no civilian is allowed within the premises of a military post. Get them out."

Pale faces watched him. But no one moved against him. Their shock and fear was obvious. Stupid animals.

"Move!" he shrieked.

One of the soldiers sobered. "Who do you think you are, you bas—"

The man never finished the sentence. His severed head hit the wall of the temple and tumbled away.

"We are servants of the gods. Anyone found defiling this holy place with sin will be executed. Get moving!"

The rest obeyed. They milled aimlessly at first, but slowly they formed into a cohesive body and began evacuating the refugees. The people protested, begging for food and the chance to stay, but the soldiers finally managed to push them outside the temple walls. A screen of quiet sanity descended on the little post.

Ayrton glared at the soldiers around him, a horde of fifty former murderers, rapists, and mercenaries. They would shred him to pieces the first moment he showed a hint of weakness. But as long as he remained the supreme beast in the lot, they would follow him.

_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**

East.

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.

"And then, there would be rages. They call them 'the black rages.' Terrible things would happen. But the man with the fever would not be able to remember them."

"What then?" he said when he realized the woman would not speak any more.

"I don't know. You must find out for yourself. The books don't say."

"What did I do?"

"You killed a man."

Disgusted, he ran out of the room again.

He was just tall enough to see beyond the breastwork. Standing on a cobble amidst a patch of onions, he stared at the vast expanse of the Territories, summer heat beating details into vapor. Not a soul stirred outside the convent.

"You were very brave that day," the familiar voice said again.

Ewan smiled. "Hello, Sarith." He felt a tear slip down his cheek. Ashamed, he wiped it away quickly.

"I know they won't tell you, because they are afraid. But I'm not."

He turned to regard her. She was so sweet and lovely, fragile and coy, just like that day in the village market.

"Please, I don't remember anything," he rasped.

Sarith hopped from one cobble to the next, coming closer to him. "You came to our convent, the lot of you. We saw you, but we stayed hidden, not knowing who you were or why you came. We saw the two soldiers with you, and we thought you were the enemy. But when we saw the children, Matriarch Elena let us out."

Sarith smiled sadly. "Our matriarch refused entrance to the soldiers. One of them grabbed a boy and threatened to kill him if we didn't let them in."

Ewan listened raptly. This was complete news to him.

"Then, you staggered. They said you had a plague, but I didn't believe them. You...you approached one of these soldiers. And he...fired a crossbow at your chest."

Ewan's hands rose up involuntarily, touching solid, unscathed flesh beneath the shirt he wore. A flash of an ugly dream flashed inside his head. That dark feeling of despair wrapped him again.

"But you didn't die. You...you didn't even flinch. The arrow just splintered, like you were made of hard rock. And then you hit the soldier and broke his neck."

The young brother did not know what to say.

"After that, you fell down. That other soldier surrendered, but Matriarch Elena ordered him stoned to death. We buried them there, outside the wall." She propped up on her toes and pointed. Ewan leaned. A pair of long lumps of freshly overturned earth, like big loaves of bread, could be seen by one of the walls.

"Matriarch Elena asked the girls to stone the soldier. But I refused."

She played with her fingers nervously, staring at them. "We then brought you all in. You were unconscious. Matriarch Elena wanted you stoned as well, but Lora would not let her."

"Who is Lora?" he heard himself say.

"The blind hag. She is our convent's protector."

Ewan nodded. "Besides, she said we couldn't stone you even if we wanted to," Sarith continued.

"They think you are a monster, Ewan. But I know you are not. But Matriarch Elena wants to expel you. You cannot stay here. And we will be going as well."

"Why? Where?" Ewan frowned.

"Lora says our protection is failing. It has kept us safe from the infidels so far, but it will not last much longer. We will go to Jaruka. Matriarch Elena wants to take the brothers with us."

"Where am I supposed to go?" Ewan said in a barely audible tone. "What am I? What protection?"

Sarith gave him another sad smile. "Lora protects us from outside harm. But she can no longer do it. Her goddess has no power left. We must go before the infidels find us, Matriarch Elena said."

The sun was arcing toward the horizon.

"Are you allowed to talk to me, even?" he blurted.

She shrugged. "I don't know. Probably not. But I don't care."

Ewan looked behind him. Small girls played outside, but far from him. Several sisters stood guard over the kids, watching him with suspicion and fear. He had so many questions.

_Where will I go?_

He looked at the world's corners. Of all, east seemed like the best choice. He did not know why.

Sarith and he stood in silence, watching the quiet world. Gradually, the shadows lengthened. The sun slipped behind the bulk of the convent.

Gently, he poked a finger against his own forearm. It felt no different. The white smudge quickly faded as blood returned to it.

"I don't know what to do," he confessed.

"I believe in you, Ewan. I know you'll be fine. Just pray to the gods, and they will guide you."

Ewan nodded feebly. He was shaken to the core of his existence. He knew he was in shock. Most of what he had heard had not yet fully registered with his dull mind.

More people came outside, Matriarch Elena with them.

"Sarith, join us for the evening prayer," she ordered.

"I will never forget you," Ewan whispered. He fought tears back.

"Sarith!" one of the girls yelled.

"And I won't forget you," she mouthed without saying it, retreating hastily.

"Be gone," an anonymous face shouted at him.

"You are a disgrace to the gods and goddesses, an unholy thing," someone else said.

Some of his friends came out, too. Duvall was there, sneering. He waved at them. They just looked away, ashamed. He no longer had friends. He was all alone. Bojan squirmed in Rais's grip, trying to run toward him, but they would not let him.

"I'm a servant of the gods, just like you," he tried feebly, but it was of no use. He closed his eyes. East. He let the purse with coins drop at his feet. Without a thing on him except a threadbare tunic and trousers, he exited the convent and started pacing into the dusk, never looking back.

Half a mile from the convent, he collapsed on the ground and cried.

**CHAPTER 14**

"What do you want to do, sir?"

"I don't know. You tell me." Adam stared back, unrelenting.

There were many ways to kill a man, he thought. You could stab him, but you could also shove him into a bear pit.

He was not really sure how well his resurrection had succeeded. He was a captain now, and ten times more likely to get killed than ever before. Worse, he knew nothing about the business of war.

Luckily, kal Armis's men were seasoned soldiers, with many a border skirmish under their belt. And they burned to wash away the shame and the dishonor of their officer's death and defeat. Deferring to them was not a natural thing to do, but it worked.

They hated him. They saluted him and sirred him, but they spat and cursed behind his back. There was no outright mutiny, but it came quite close to that. Adam believed the only reason they had not yet killed him was because they wanted to kill Caytoreans first.

It would be pointless to try and win them over. His lieutenants considered him a stranger and a usurper, claiming a lucrative post they had hoped to gain one day. Reflecting the feelings of their immediate superiors, the sergeants, and in turn, the entire battalion, saw him as a leech.

This was his new nickname: Captain Leech.

Absurdly, his lack of military knowledge became his strongest advantage. He gave them an almost free hand running their units and consulted them on every little thing. At first, they had been extremely cautious and suspicious of his benevolence. Now, they were under an impression that he respected them and truly believed they knew best what their troops needed. Their hate had lessened somewhat since.

"It's madness," Lieutenant Gerard said.

Adam grimaced. "We have to take that hill."

Three miles ahead of him, a Caytorean camp slept under the summer night, confident in its supremacy of the region. Scouring the land free of Eracian troops, the Caytoreans had established a number of outposts that controlled the passages over the hills to which, on a daily basis, reinforcements poured in and fresh detachments came out of, streaming into the Territories. The enemy convoys went almost straight west, heading for Talmath. They did not seem to worry about the Eracians on their north flank about twenty miles away, considering them defeated.

Adam was no expert, but he believed that the Eracians had made a long series of errors in the first days of fighting. They had not scouted the region properly, missing entire regiments of enemy troops much deeper inside the holy land than they had expected.

The Eracians had lost quite a few battles, the one he had participated in being just one in a long series of ambushes that his fellow troops had suffered. Now, the Caytoreans were a black presence in the entire region, a wedge that sliced into the heart of the Territories and threatened one of its most important sites. The Eracians were an embarrassed pocket of beaten dogs, stranded near the common border of the three realms, with insufficient forces and morale to do anything.

Worse, no one could even begin to guess what the enemy was doing further south, toward Poereni or Mista, the other large pilgrim cities in the east of the Territories. It felt like the brilliant beginning of a spectacular defeat.

Adam had not been surprised when they had asked him to move his battalion south and capture one of the outposts, disrupting the enemy supplies and slowing their advance.

Some weeks ago, the grassy expanses of the border region had been devoid of almost any army presence. Now, enemy strongholds dotted the countryside like poisonous mushrooms, blistering bigger and bigger.

He parked now not very far from where his previous battle had been fought.

Under the cover of darkness, he had moved in, bringing along only the regulars. There was no purpose to lugging the hundreds of useless peasants. At best, they would be a hindrance. At worst, they would compromise his rather suicidal mission.

If they failed to achieve their goal, they would be left with no reserve in the middle of enemy territory, more than a day's march from any friendly forces. Then it would truly be suicide.

"Madness or not, we have to do it," Adam said again.

Lieutenant Shendor spat. "I don't like this one bit."

Adam sighed. "Nevertheless, what do you think is the best way to do it?"

A flash of respect lit the faces of the three officers. They did not like him, but he seemed to like their ideas.

Gerard leaned closer. "We should strike just before dawn, from the west. The guards will be staring at the rising sun and not into the dying night's gloom."

Adam nodded. "Sounds reasonable. Do we split our forces?"

Lieutenant Beno shook his head. "We're too few. But we can send some archers onto the roads to cut down anyone trying to flee. That way, they don't bring word of the attack to other camps."

"How many are they?" Adam asked.

Shendor rolled his eyes, as if it helped him think of numbers. "Round five hundred."

It was almost twice the number of what he had. And from what little he knew about wars, you never attacked unless you had at least three times as many spears as the defender. It would be suicide.

"Mostly low-quality troops, some artisans and such," Beno added.

"All right then, archers on the roads, we move as one body. No shouting and yelling. We kill them quick and quiet. Don't burn any supplies. We'll need them."

They crawled back to their troops. As one, they wore soft green and brown leather that blended well into the surrounding, with breastplates of good steel underneath. Their helms and gauntlets were painted ash-black and did not reflect the light unnecessarily.

The archers departed first, two teams, a score of men each. Half an hour later, a dozen men specializing in infiltration departed, armed with crossbows and knives. Their task was to dispose of the perimeter guards.

The remaining two hundred warriors waited, hiding in the tall grass and bushes, the night sky turning silver with dawn haze as time slipped onward. No one spoke. They were professionals, oiled with cold revenge. They had waited a long time for this chance to redeem themselves.

Adam sat in their midst, a stranger with no knowledge of combat. And yet, he was just as calm as they, life such a simple menu of choices before him.

He was still learning about the units he allegedly commanded. He knew the names of the individual companies and their mascots. He knew the names of all the sergeants. He had even mastered the pyramidal hierarchy of his troops. Three squads a platoon, led by a corporal, a dozen men strong; three platoons in a company, three companies per battalion, plus auxiliaries, scouts, and other detachments. All in all, he commanded roughly five hundred people.

Tonight, he only had half that many. Teams of his soldiers had been left behind, watching the roads to make sure no Caytorean bastard crept up behind them. Still more had been left at their bivouac, with the conscripts. If everything went well this morning, they would march forward and join up gloriously. If not, they would wait for stragglers and turn home for the main camp, with another defeat under the belt of the dispirited Eracian army.

Well, you could only die once. After that, everything was simple.

A fake birdlike call was the signal they waited for. With the eastern horizon blushing pink and orange, they rose and ran in total silence, trotting toward the sleeping enemy camp. Adam gripped his sword hard. He did not know how to use it.

His troops poured into the outpost. At first, there was no sound but the ripping of canvas and soft, wet sounds of men dying in their sleep. But then, someone shouted, and someone else screamed, a pan clattered, and then, it was total chaos.

Adam pulled a long hunting knife from the sheath on his left hip. It was his kind of weapon, a whore's weapon.

Naked and semidressed Caytoreans rushed out of their tents, running into the flood of Eracians. Blood turned the soft ground into mud.

One of the men came at him. Adam sidestepped. The man tackled a crate and fell. Adam ran him through from behind. He stood there, amazed, staring. Killing was so simple, so mechanical. He felt no emotion.

He saw Beno nod at him and rush forward. Adam came after him, pretending to swing his sword.

With the sun barely half a disc above the teeth of the hills, the battle was over.

Adam stood in the center of the camp, panting, his uniform black with blood. He had killed two men. Veteran soldiers had fallen to his tricks. It was almost too embarrassing.

"Report," he said in a barely audible whisper.

Shendor grinned like a lunatic. "Seventeen dead on our side. Hundreds of Caytorean mongrels gutted. We got some prisoners, too."

Adam nodded. When you lacked in skill, you compensated with ferocity. "Show me."

They had gathered the survivors on the west edge of the small camp. The enemy had all been blindfolded and had their arms bound in the front.

Lieutenant Beno commanded the small group of men guarding the prisoners. There was a strange shimmer in his eyes. "We take 'em home with us, sir?"

Adam shook his head. "Kill them all. Cut their heads, load them on a wagon, and send them back to Caytor. Leave one alive so he can drive."

A low murmur of panic erupted from among the prisoners. Eracians began beating them with spears.

Adam noticed Beno had paled. "What's wrong?"

"Sir, we thought we would...take them back for interrogation. And maybe use them as hostages."

"Did they leave anyone alive in the First Battle?" Adam spoke softly, a small dog with a big bite.

A shadow of pain crossed the lieutenant's face. "No, they didn't, sir."

"Then it's settled. Lieutenant Gerard!"

"Sir?"

"Dispatch a pair of riders with an order for the auxiliary to move. And send another to the main camp with a message to Commander Mali that she has a foothold in the Bakler Hills if she pleases to visit it." Adam did his best to avoid the risk of having to write the message; he would not know how.

Gerard nodded. His three officers looked slightly stunned.

They had probably never hacked off a prisoner's head before, he thought. The concept was probably alien to them. Border skirmishes were a good way of gaining experience, but they were horribly low on brutality.

But it was well said in Paroth never to invoke the wrath of a whore. Whores had no mercy.

The wagonload of severed heads departed several hours later. The neatly piled stack reminded Adam of cabbages.

Lieutenant Beno came to inform him of their spoils. The little camp was equipped with fresh stores for the front, with three carts full of crossbows, two carts of full armor plates, another loaded with wine casks, and a small field forge. It also had a stable with seven horses.

Adam's head swam. He was on a roll.

"Issue those crossbows to all the men. They are to fire one or two bolts to get acquainted with the weapon. Use the enemy bodies as practice targets. Then, I want you to send scout parties as far as three miles away, in groups of four, all armed with crossbows, plus at least one archer. They will wear Caytorean uniforms."

Beno and Gerard listened in perfect silence. After a while, Gerard gathered his wits. "How will we be able to recognize our men when they return from patrol?"

Adam rubbed his nose as he thought. "A sort of a password. And they are to approach with weapons sheathed and waving their arms. Otherwise, they get shot. I want two score on the watch at any given moment, crossbows in hand. And I want those horses out there, patrolling, as well."

Lieutenant Gerard shrugged. "Sounds good to me."

Beno nodded. "A bold plan, sir."

Within several hours, the little camp was alive again. The bodies had all been neatly stacked against one of the picket lines, doused in vinegar to keep disease away while soldiers fired bolts at them from fifty and a hundred paces away. Almost two thirds of the force had crossbows now, in addition to their swords and knives.

Guards surrounded the camp in two circles. At least fifty scouts were prowling the fields with an order to kill anyone and anything that came across the hills.

Adam knew the shipment of heads would infuriate someone, whoever received them. He was not sure what kind of reaction his deed would spark, but he hoped it would stall the enemy long enough for the Eracian reinforcements to arrive. Or force them into an early attack with insufficient forces.

His lieutenants set the remainder of the force to hard work. Some started digging trenches around the camp, expanding the defensive perimeter. Others were busy cutting down a small grove of trees nearby, while a third group shoveled blood, debris, and body parts away from the middle of the camp. Lieutenant Shendor had suggested erecting a small tower to allow them a better view of the region. They were going to do it later that day.

Another unexpected trophy was three camp followers they found hiding behind a stack of empty crates. The women were scrawny and dirty and looked like peasant girls snatched from some village.

"We give them over to our men?" Beno suggested.

Adam went cold. "Release them."

"Our troops would appreciate it," Shendor piped in. One of the sergeants, Niso, had ventured close by and was grinning lewdly.

"They got new weapons, and there's plenty of wine. That should do."

The icy warmth he had felt from his men seemed to evaporate instantly. "They won't like it."

Something snapped inside Adam. "Any man seen cohorting with a whore will have his oysters cut off. Is that understood?"

Niso overheard him and paled. His grin gone, he shrewdly retreated.

Adam approached one of the women and placed a copper coin in her palm. "Go."

The soldiers watched him with thick confusion clouding their eyes. They were not sure what to make of Captain Leech any more.

Being a captain was almost like running a brothel, he noted maniacally. It was a precarious mix of pleasure, fear, and deceit. You just had to make sure you were deft enough to balance all three.

Men started to drink too much too quickly. He would have no scouts for the third shift, he realized. Very fast, the casks of wine were put under guard. This evoked quite a lot of protest. But Adam brought a swift end to it when he ordered five random men to be lashed.

A grim atmosphere set on the camp, one of drunken sullenness, pride, and ecstasy of victory, and morbid horror and fear that their captain radiated. He was dangerously emotional and unpredictable.

His five hundred peasants and the rest of the regulars arrived the next day after noon. The camp got really crowded and even busier than before. While half the men slept or ate off the ample reserves the Caytoreans had left them, the rest dug like grave robbers, turning the turf over almost a full hundred paces around the camp. The trenches were too wide for a horse to jump over and too deep for men to clamber in and out. The mounds of earth served as extra barrier against possible attacks.

In the fields, his scouts put the crossbows to good use. They shot three enemy riders and captured another two, who revealed no important information while they poured boiling lead onto their feet and smashed their fingers with a smith's hammer.

There was no response from the main camp. Commander Mali had not yet deigned to acclaim his victory and march forth.

Adam spent his time patrolling the camp, too excited to sleep or rest. After flies started to swarm over the bodies, they were finally taken out and buried in a mound some distance away. The stench of death was everywhere.

The second day in the camp was uneventful. The men had gotten used to the grueling routine and worked without complaining. The crossbows sang, bringing down another six men, with one confirmed escape. He had no knowledge how many Caytoreans had actually managed to slip past his troops and spy on him.

From the moment they had arrived, the peasants started training for war. The real soldiers protested, but Adam ignored their jeers and taunts. He was not going to waste five hundred spears.

The peasants were made to march back and forth, veer to and from, dash, spread, regroup, turn about, all the little tricks and maneuvers that made the cardinal difference between a solid pike line and minced meat. The progress was extremely slow, since most men hardly knew left from right. Meanwhile, the regulars dug and shoveled. Adam could almost smile at the bitter twist of fate. Wine was rationed sparsely.

On the third day, he started to worry. After consulting with some of the border veterans, he learned that the wagon of heads must have reached an enemy position. This meant that there could be a massive attack within just a couple of days.

The digging and the training continued.

Then, on the fourth day, his troops sighted a large body of soldiers approaching from the north. Tension eased as friendly colors were recognized.

Adam stood just outside the camp, a crossbow in hand, waiting. Riding side by side, Colonels George and Marco and their female commander approached his little den warily, their faces expressionless.

"Welcome," he said, voice dripping with haughtiness.

Mali nodded. "Busy, eh?"

"Here's your foothold, sir."

"What's it called?" Mali asked, dismounting.

Adam smiled sadly. "I call it Virgin's Blood." As he relished in his macabre ingenuity, another scout arrived. The reinforcements had arrived just in time. An enemy five was thundering down the West Road, looking very pissed. They were less than half a day away.

Captain Leech smiled. A man could only die once.

**CHAPTER 15**

The street urchins proved to be valuable. They were not very accurate regarding the finer details, but they could sniff the atmosphere better than any hound. They told him of high tension running in the city, between the low- and highborn. The merchants and nobles were living in almost complete self-imposed sieges, which had started soon after the murders. The wealthy only moved when under heavy protection and leased almost all of their commerce outside Eybalen. The city's lower circles were deeply suffering because of this, which only increased the mistrust. This gave the followers of Feor an almost free hand to incite against the rich.

Armin found this interesting. Could the Feor priests have paid assassins to murder a number of high-ranking city officials in orders to create distrust and panic? This seemed like a powerful motive.

Feorans—that's what they called themselves—were a powerful, unstoppable phenomenon. He still dearly lacked almost any information of the Movement, but he had learned that it was a bright new religion promising ultimate freedom for nothing in return. It had started as an echo of a grudge against the old gods and soon flamed into a conflagration of zeal that had swept across Caytor. The rich had been completely surprised by the fever, totally unprepared to act against it. Arrests, curfews, even outright purges had not been able to suppress the burgeoning of the new religion.

Despite the obvious power, it seemed the fervor of the Movement was channeled outside Caytor, which made Armin doubt the priests had concocted the murders. He still lacked many pieces of the puzzle, but he believed that the Feorans were not the only culprits in the story.

After many talks with various petty officials all over the city, he had learned that Feorans were also zealously opposed to literature. They never wrote their dogmas down and even burned libraries when they could. Curiously, the scribes had also been threatened by other religions to never put down a word about Feorans into writing, lest the heresy spread into future generations. In this regard, the two sides seemed equally fanatic.

This frustrated Armin very much, because he lacked two decades of social progress in Caytor to help him understand the present. He knew all these events were related, only not how or why.

Armin reported his progress every week to the council. They seemed flustered by his lack of success almost as much as he was. Yet, they continued to pay, convinced he would unveil the mysteries.

Just as he was about to leave, one of the local officials called him to his office. "You are doing this the wrong way," the stranger told him.

"Greetings. I'm Armin Wan'der Markssin," the Sirtai offered.

"I know who you are. I'm Henrik. Nespos was my brother-in-law."

"What can you tell me about Nespos?"

Henrik had closed the door of his office and sat opposite the investigator. His office was crammed to bursting with books of all kinds and heaps of documents.

"I married his sister seven years ago. He was a good man. Polite, accurate, very meticulous. Dedicated. He was a great explorer and chart-maker. He had sailed almost the entire coast of Caytor and Ichebor in the north."

A spark exploded in Armin's head. "Was Nespos anyhow related to...religious texts? Did he write books about religions or religious movements?"

The official frowned. "Not that I know of, no."

Armin deflated. Another dead end. "Did he have any enemies?"

Henrik steepled his fingers. "Well, there was always some rivalry between explorers. But it was only good sportsmanship, nothing more. Nespos and his friends made sure they could each have a piece of glory. So when Nespos sailed north, another sailed south, and a third man went inland."

"I was not able to talk to his widow yet," Armin stated.

"Cybilla? Oh, she's a difficult woman. You'll be hard-pressed to ever get her audience. But I believe I can help. I'll try to arrange something."

"Thank you for your help."

"I would like to know who killed Nespos. It irks me. My wife has nightmares. We need closure."

Armin leaned forward and lowered his voice. "I need access to the city annals."

Henrik did not seem surprised by the request. "What would you like to know?"

"Well, I am interested in learning more about this Feoran Movement. And I would also like to know about the business transactions the eight victims had prior to their death. The more the better. Do you keep such records?"

The other man sighed. "By law, we are obliged to document every single deal done by one of our members. But some of the deals are considered very secret and very discreet, and only guild members have access to them."

Armin nodded. "I understand. But I would appreciate if you could help me." He had, of course, on the first day of the investigation, asked for help from the council. But the clerks were not forthcoming with what was considered the guilds' internal affairs before a complete stranger. His letters of recommendation did not help at all.

He had spoken with friends and relatives of many of the victims, spoken to their employees and colleagues. He had received lots of mixed and conflicting information. The guilds wanted the murders solved. But everything had a price.

"Let's meet tonight, two hours after sunset. In the Black Swan Inn, by the Fountain of Heroes. Do you know where it is?"

Armin nodded. "Thank you."

Armin left the House, swimming in new clues and leads. He had ridden in a chariot since the day of his almost death. He had not told his wives of the attempt on his life, not wishing to make them worry or make Inessa feel bad about not being at his side at the time. He had told the council about it, to which they had responded with shock and outrage. They had provided him with an escort, a well-trained assassin and bodyguard who also doubled as his coacher.

He was contemplating visiting one of Feor's temples, but the followers guarded the places against intruders. Only the converts were allowed in. Even the City Watch did not meddle. After a botched raid called the Night of Red Lilies, there had been no more attempts to storm any of the shrines. Armin was not quite sure what had happened on that night, some five years ago, but the rumor spoke of blood running like summer rain and houses burning bright and orange in the night, a thousand tarred heads on pikes, a month-long blockade in the port. He had also heard of the event called the Night of Victory, but he was not sure who the victors were. No one readily spoke about it. And there were no scrolls to read from.

He hoped things would change tonight.

In the rich parts of the city, there were no Feorans. The old temples had their doors open, and people trickled in and out. But beyond a certain invisible line, no sane priest trod alone, without a heavy escort of armed men.

That evening, he met Henrik in one of the more respectable inns in Eybalen. The place looked rich, with incense burning in gilt sconces and handsome waitresses gliding to and fro, serving delicacies on tiny porcelain platters.

Henrik sipped wine, while Armin drank brandy hailing from his own isle.

"Here," Henrik said, handing him a key. "This opens the Grand Archive in the House. I suggest you visit after the workday ends. Most of the guards will turn a blind eye if you pay a handsome sum. For the risk involved, they will probably demand gold."

Armin nodded. "Thank you."

"I have also spoken to Cybilla. She has agreed to meet you."

The investigator nodded in appreciation, impressed. One found allies where one least expected them.

"What can you tell me about the Feorans?" he asked after some small talk between them. The alcohol had settled, and they had both significantly relaxed, almost forgetting the grim reality surrounding them.

"A curious lot, by all means," Henrik spoke, his eyes locked on the fire in one of the ornamental fireplaces. "They came like a plague, out of nowhere. And people flocked to their side like a long-awaited redemption. I was a young man, just started in the services to the city. I remember the fear, the expectations, the horror. No one had believed it possible."

"Is there any hierarchy to the Movement?"

Henrik grimaced. "Non-Feorans know very little about them. They do have priests, but it's difficult to tell them apart from common followers. They all dress the same, in those filthy leathers. But the outfit means little. You can see beggars who are priests and people in rich leathers who are nothing but new converts."

Armin tried to speak, but Henrik continued. "The rich and the noble have tried to eradicate the Feorans, under the blessing of the old gods. But it was impossible. You could not tell them apart. They looked the same. Now, it's too late."

"What happened on the Night of Red Lilies?"

The other man emptied his glass in one gulp. "Ah, ancient history. Well, at first, no one took the new faith seriously. But people listened. The common folk. The masses. The Feorans told them they should live their lives free of the chains of bureaucracy that we, the rich, have imposed on them. Slowly, the Movement gained momentum.

"When they declared the other religion false, an upheaval erupted. The patriarchs demanded the Feorans to be abolished. Most of the rich people answered the call gladly, for they feared this new faith. In the eyes of the people, this only proved the Feoran theories all the more right."

Armin scooped a squid tentacle from a plate before him and dipped it in a sauce of mayonnaise and bread crumbs.

"One night, the Feorans barricaded themselves in one of the manor houses in the city, demanding legal recognition. The council threatened with military action if the Feorans did not disperse. After a tense standoff that lasted almost a week, the council decided to act. Some of the nobles mustered their men-at-arms and knights and brought them into the city. And then, they stormed the manor house.

"It was carnage. Thousands of people were in and around that place, and the soldiers killed them indiscriminately. It was said that almost no one survived. And then, the council had the bodies decapitated and the heads displayed as a warning in front of all the city gates.

"Instead of curbing the movement, this only enraged the Feorans more. Worse, most of the city folk were sympathetic with the Ways of Feor, and when the Feoran leader called for a total boycott of the city industries, the people took to the streets, tens of thousands of them."

Armin listened, fascinated. He wondered what the political advisors in Tuba Tuba were doing. None of this had reached the ears of any of the important figures in Sirtai leadership. It seemed his nation had decided to ignore the continental folk almost entirely. But this ignorance could be lethal.

Feor sounded like a concept that the slaves would very much like. Maybe this was why Sirtai had been isolated from this critical news.

"The council tried imposing curfews, but nothing helped. A thousand skirmishes broke out inside the city. Eventually, the council realized they would have to kill the entire city before the Feorans yielded. For a whole month, the people refused to report to their workplaces. Ships in the port were burned and sunk, and no trade came and went for weeks. Some of the merchants lost all of their wealth in this rebellion.

"Finally, left with no option but to starve or raze the city, the council decided to allow Feorans to reside in the city and build temples, but only in the lower parts. Still, this was a complete victory for them. Word spread like wildfire. In the countryside and in other cities, purges ceased. The patriarchs were livid, but there was nothing they could do.

"Since, the situation has only gotten worse. Most of the military converted to the Ways of Feor. The noble retainers are still loyal to their lords, but the professional army is becoming more and more a tool of the Feorans. Some say that the western provinces are in total anarchy, ruled by the Feorans. We even fear a coup here in the capital."

"What do these Feorans want?" Armin asked after a long pause. With the entire army at their side, the Feorans were the effective rulers of the realm. And that seemed like a troubling prospect.

"We do not know."

"And who is this leader you have spoken of?"

"We do not know. They seem to have several leaders, in fact, high priests of some kind, but they keep their identities secret for fear of assassination. Only the followers really know who they are, and then not all. The army jealously protects these priests."

_I need a name, something to work with_ , Armin pleaded silently.

He emptied another glass of brandy.

**CHAPTER 16**

Queen Olga and Archduke Vasiliy stood on the parapet, waving.

Beneath the sandblasted walls, a huge host had assembled, milling like ants in a thousand colors. Summoned by their king for the war council, the dukes had arrived, bringing along thousands of knights and footmen and convoys of armor and weaponry miles long.

A city of tents had sprawled outside Sigurd, housing the armies of her demented husband's ambition. But it was slowly receding, just like the sea tide, leaving behind nothing but debris.

Mornings were brisk in most of Parus all year long. Wrapped in one of her own pullovers, Queen Olga watched the brilliant pinks and yellows of dawn slowly coalesce into the pale creamy miasma of another scorching day. Within hours, it would be almost too hot to stay outside, and she would retreat into the cool recesses of the castle, now entirely her own to rule.

Vlad the Fifth and his entire council were on the plains below, readying to leave. Most of the light units had already departed, a smudge of road dust on the horizon, heading north. As custom decreed, he had bedded her last night, her sad excuse of a husband, grunting like a pig, droplets of sweat raining on her bored forehead. She sincerely hoped she would not have to bear another child, another poor thing that would have to suffer the abuse of his madness.

She had drunk her potions for quite some time, knowing what to expect of him the night of the departure, but there was no knowing. Even the seed of the Vlad lineage was crazy. Well, at least he did not bother her often. Vlad the Fifth found the notion of copulation unwholesome. It drained his good spirits, he said.

All of the patriarchs and matriarchs in Sigurd had come to bless the king on his new endeavor. They viewed him as the savior of faith, a champion of the gods. His quest was a holy mission to destroy the infidels who had dared invade the Territories.

Olga hoped he would remember what his true goal was. Parus was not a land blessed with good soil. Most of it was hard limestone that would not let roots of many plants take hold. Parus traded for many of its goods by sea and with the dark peoples of the south. But the key to true power was independence. If ever Parus was to become the one true kingdom, it had to have everything. The Territories had lots of rivers and green pastures; they could breed horses for their knights and sow grain and barley.

She had devoted the last three weeks of her time to negotiations with her husbands' men and the religious leaders in the city, making promises that her husband could not think of or would not bother offering. She believed that when Parus won the war and seized half the Territories for its own, there would be no one to protest.

The lords had been rather easy to bribe. They were all hungry for more power, more land. The notion of carving the Territories into fresh duchies sounded very appealing. She had only had to send whores to bed one stubborn fool to make sure he would not get confused.

The patriarchs and the matriarchs had been much more difficult to appease. Luckily, she was well-known and loved among the clergy, especially the women. Her rumored gift, the ability to talk to her goddess, had made her very famous and even feared.

Women in Parus did not have many rights. Although both the Eracians and the Caytoreans worshipped the same gods like the Parusites, there was a world of difference between the status of women in the other two realms and her own. Parusites had their ancestry in the nomadic peoples of the Red Desert, who treated women as property, equal to household animals. Although both sexes were equal before the gods, the old, primitive tradition was deeply rooted in the souls of men. Generations of belief in the true gods and goddesses had not changed that.

In Parus, women had always had to use cunning and subterfuge to see their plans through. Fortunately, men regarded the warm cubbyhole between a woman's legs almost as sacred as the sweet gods themselves. It took very little to persuade them.

Wise and strong queens had always been able to achieve more than their weak, mentally fragile husbands ever could. For generations, her predecessors, unknown, unnamed ladies of the court, had kept Parus alive and breathing while Vlads of all sorts ran off to foolish wars.

It was her time now.

And so, she had promised a lot. To the patriarchs, she had promised many new temples and shrines and libraries and monasteries all over Parus. To the matriarchs, she had promised one simple thing—the right to dissolve marriages.

It had never been done before, not even in the two other realms. But if Sirtai could do it, then so could the continental peoples. Once married, a woman was destined to live with her master for the rest of his or her life, whichever came first. But if a woman fornicated and got caught, she was to be killed. On the other hand, men could love and fuck whomever they pleased. It was simply unfair.

It had been almost too easy. The eagerness, the hope...it had felt almost like cheating.

She knew it would take many years, maybe all the years of her life. But it was her own war, her own dream. Vlad was such an amenable creature, even if he did not know it. He was so easily manipulated.

At first, there would be all sorts of decrees from various houses of goddesses. Then, there would be a royal blessing of the changes. It would take time. And time was the only thing a married Parusite woman could call her own.

Archduke Vasiliy stood by her side, holding a parasol above her head. Usually, it was the job of a lady-in-waiting, but she had dismissed them all. She wanted the two of them to be alone.

In a pompous ceremony, Vlad had appointed Vasiliy to be the steward of the kingdom and given him the chain of office, which had been kept locked in the royal coffers until such a time came. Vasiliy had spent the night in prayer and fast, to cleanse his sins and clear his mind for the somber task ahead. It was all a splendid farce.

Vlad had taken the ceremony much more seriously. He had had a pair of oxen slaughtered and their entrails read by a blind child. Then, he had spent the night in a tub of cows' blood, praying.

This morning, he was kneeling naked on the sand while patriarchs and matriarchs came and poured oil and wine and water on his head and blessed him. A black stain of mud marked a very long procession of clergymen. His nobles sat on their mares and watched passively, their identities hidden beneath gray and beige desert burnooses.

She was dressed like a distressed queen ought to be, in black. On her side, Vasiliy was handsome in the steward's uniform, a dark purple robe, the thick gold chain with the ornamental keys to the royal coffers round his neck.

Parusites never traveled in full armor. The heat would be disastrous. Instead, they wore light garbs and ferried their chain mail and coifs in wagons. Almost every aristocrat had two or three full wagons of weapons. They made for very long convoys.

"I want to touch you," Vasiliy whispered, looking forward.

"Soon," she whispered back. "But not here. Someone might be watching." She had dismissed the servants, but they hovered in the nearby shadows like ghosts. Olga was not sure if Vlad did not have spies following her. He was so unstable he might as well have spies following himself.

Vasiliy had promised to kill his wife if she ever became a widow. She loved him and trusted him. They had been together for almost their entire adult life. If Vlad the Fifth had not chosen her to be his wife, she believed she would have been with Vasiliy now, openly, without shame or fear.

But she could not. Not in Parus, ruled by male stupidity and prejudice.

She could almost feel sorry for Nadia. But the woman was barren. Vasiliy had no heirs, and it pained him gravely. Killing her would be a matter of mercy. The woman had never wronged her, she was always shy and polite, but there was no place for her in Olga's world.

The blessings were over. A pair of retainers was scrubbing Vlad clean. He stood with the crown tilted on his head at an absurd angle, holding the sword aloft like a child would wield his favorite toy.

Shortly thereafter, he was dressed in a cream-colored robe, just like so many of his men. He turned toward her and shouted like an imbecile.

"Farewell, my lady queen. I will return victorious and bring you glory!"

"Farewell, my king. Be safe!" she shouted back.

Vasiliy and Vlad exchanged no words between them. Public displays of emotion between men were not encouraged. Trumpets and drums sounded. Units stirred, like living carpets, snaking over the arid ground. It was getting hot already.

A ragged crowd of commoners cheered, assembled before the fat curtain wall of the castle-city. They looked like a stain of dirt from high above, the grease and axle of her kingdom.

One by one, nobles led their men away, toward war, banners flapping limply. The noise soon became one long groan of metal and wood. A cloud of dust rose, obscuring everything. Her eyes watered.

"Let's hope he gets killed this time," Olga murmured.

"Yes. Let's hope so," Vasiliy said.

**CHAPTER 17**

They called it the Second Battle of Bakler Hills.

Mali sat near the scribe, dictating her own part in the story. The little man's head bobbed with excitement as he devoured the details and spun them into heroic verses.

Not far away, Adam stood, old blood drying on his face and pulling at his skin. The stench of death filled his nostrils.

He had lived through another battle, unscathed, when so many had perished, on both sides. It had been a gruesome battle, lasting for almost an entire day. The enraged Caytoreans had stormed the camp, without resting or sketching a plan, believing it defended only by a small garrison of Eracians.

The use of the enemy uniforms to disguise the scouts had proved extremely effective. The Caytoreans mistook them for their own, which lulled them into a false sense of security.

While waiting for the enemy, the Eracians had concocted a solid defense strategy. They would pack all of their ranged troops inside the camp, including the pleasant addition of crossbows, and fill the trenches with spearmen. The cavalry and shock infantry would retreat to the north and south of the camp, beyond the hills, waiting to pounce on the enemy from the flanks.

And so it had happened. Expecting an easy prey, the enemy had charged almost straight for the camp. The bows sang, felling the first ranks of knights. Next the crossbows fired, at point-blank range, puncturing thick plates like paper, devastating the enemy cavalry in a single swoop.

Then, the Eracian troops had attacked, hurling into the sides of the Caytorean charge, biting hard and deep. Crumbling before the powerful onslaught, the enemy had finally retreated with the dusk, sunset and arrows in their eyes, a carpet of bodies leading across the hills. The trenches were fronted with a thick mass of bodies that looked like a heap of swept leaves.

For his fellow countrymen, the battle had gone remarkably well. Their losses had been heavy, but the enemy had lost ten times as many. Most soldiers were cheering, dancing, and drinking, celebrating the victory. Adam just felt empty.

It was Adam who had suggested the strategy of their defense, using nothing but his common whore's sense of survival to plot the best way of defending one's own skin. And it had worked all too well.

He had thought Commander Mali and her colonels would object. But they had simply nodded and given him the command of the battle order. Having taken the camp seemed to have impressed them mightily.

Lieutenant Beno was wounded, hit by a chance arrow in the leg. He managed to limp about, a grin of pride twisting his features.

Shendor came to deliver the damage report. Adam frowned at the strange look on the man's face. Beneath the veneer of grime, blood, and sweat, there was a genuine mask of respect, one Adam had never expected to see. The officer saluted.

"How are we doing?" Adam asked.

"Doing good, sir. We got forty-nine dead, seventy-seven wounded, mostly the peasants, sir."

"They are soldiers of the realm, serving the monarch, just like you and I," Adam spoke in a low, clear voice.

"Sorry, sir. Yes. We got off lightly."

"What about the enemy?"

Shendor grinned. "Different story altogether. Most, if not all, of their cavalry broken, a thousand dead, maybe more. Again, we got some captives, about a hundred of them."

Adam nodded. "You know what to do."

The lieutenant swallowed. "Sir, Colonel Marco said we ought to keep them."

"Just do what you're told." Adam rubbed at a smear of blood on his neck, trying to wipe it off.

Less than half an hour later, Colonel Marco, followed by a heavy retinue of officers of all ranks, including Commander Mali, came to see him. Adam was sitting on an empty crate, drinking lukewarm water from a skin. A loaded crossbow rested on the ground near his feet.

"A word with you, Captain," Marco said, still some distance off.

Adam remained seated, ignoring the man.

"I heard you have given an order to execute the prisoners, contrary to my order and contrary to the creed of the Eracian army. Is that true?"

_Die only once..._ "Yes," Adam said, simply, dryly.

"You're overstepping your authority, Captain," Marco growled, annoyed.

Adam stood up. "This is my camp, my victory. My rules, Colonel."

Marco's mouth drew taut. His face reddened.

"Insubordination is a dangerous thing," Commander Mali warned. "In times of war, the penalty is death."

Very slowly, Adam drew his knife and cut his shirt. He pulled on the two ends of the fabric, tearing a wider gap down his chest. "You can kill me right now, if you want."

His audience seemed stunned, even the rock-hard Mali. "You must be tired, Captain," she said.

"I'm perfectly rested," Adam retorted. "I want the prisoners executed. I want all the Caytoreans' bodies collected, heads cut off, loaded onto wagons, and sent back across the border. That's all."

They were all silent. Adam noticed that quite a few men in their vicinity had stopped doing whatever they were doing and were listening intently. His wounded lieutenant was no longer grinning.

"Why do you want to do this?" Colonel George asked after a long pause.

Adam smiled mirthlessly. "Why not? The corpses do not need the heads. But when the enemy receives the shipment, they will get upset, or maybe even scared. And then, they will get reckless again, and we'll have another victory. That is what we want, isn't it, another victory?"

Commander Mali regarded him quietly, her face perfectly emotionless. "It has not been done in a long time. Mutilation of corpses is a thing of the past."

Luckily, Adam was familiar enough with Eracian politics; some of his former customers had not been able to keep their dirty daily work away even from the bedsheets. "We've been fondling one another like a pair of retarded children, us and them, for too long. It's time to stop playing. This is war, and we need to win it. And if it means besting the enemy's atrocities, then so be it."

Mali nodded, her thoughts drifting. The bloodbath wars of the past had become almost gentlemanly clashes in the recent years. With real, professional armies on both sides, the conflicts had turned into skirmishes. A certain code of honor was maintained.

Colonel Marco snorted. "So you think to scare the enemy with some heads. Is that your idea?"

Adam did not blink. "I have many more ideas."

"The Caytoreans take no prisoners," Shendor volunteered bravely, and Adam decided to promote him to first lieutenant. A wave of agreement blasted through the crowd of spectators, officers and common warriors alike.

"When they realize we take no prisoners, they will fight all the more ferociously," George said.

"When they realize we take no prisoners, they will think twice before fighting," Adam countered. "No man wants to die, no matter what his superiors say."

"The patriarchs will oppose," Colonel Marco spoke. "They will not allow bodies to be defiled."

Adam spat. "I'll decide what to do with their souls, and no one else."

A murmur of dismay spread about. Adam's words were borderline heresy. Even the soldiers, most of whom were only loosely religious, did not find his saying entertaining. It was an ill omen to speak of the gods in such a way.

"Any other day, I'd have your brains lopped off," Mali said. "You must be in shock."

Adam smiled. "The world has never been clearer to me than today." He was free. A dead man had no fears.

Colonel Marco bit a curse and walked away.

"Spare enough Caytoreans so they can drive the wagons with the heads back home. Then, find me a scribe. I want a scroll written and given to each driver as a message to deliver when they return. It shall read: 'I'm keeping the souls for myself. If you do not wish any more of your men to spend eternity in the Abyss, turn about and never come back. Signed, Adam the Butcher.' I want that written in blood."

"Yes, sir," Shendor said.

Commander Mali was not stupid. She could see the looks of admiration and terror among the soldiers. "So be it. This is your camp, your rules, Captain."

Adam saluted in blank mockery. "Yes, sir."

Major Lawrence, one of George's officers, spared him a glance full of confusion, hatred, and awe. "You're a madman," the man offered and walked away.

That evening, they promoted him to major.

**CHAPTER 18**

Armin had spent a formidable amount of gold to gain access to the Grand Archive. This time, it was his own gold. He was not sure the council would approve of his deeds right now.

The Grand Archive was a giant library of leather-bound records, documenting all and everything the guilds did, from corn trade to prostitution sundries. It was almost absurd that all of these contracts and transactions would be so neatly and orderly stacked.

He had very quickly learned that there were levels of absurdity, though.

Door after door led into ever smaller chambers, with the content of written material becoming more disturbing the further he went. Then, he reached a door that his key would not unlock. Well, that would have to do, for now.

Armin selected three binders at random, careful not to disturb the fine layer of dust too evenly. He sat behind one of the desks. Inside its glass prison, the White Butterfly from Coled Island fluttered nervously, pale light radiating from its hairy body. Armin had not wanted to risk bringing open flame into this den of paper. He read the documents.

They did enlighten him into the minutes of small scandals between several guilds, and the rising threat of bribes among the City Watch, but there was nothing regarding any one of his victims.

This was his second night in the archive. On the previous occasion, he had very easily found the records about the eight deceased. Their entire history of trade was listed there, arranged by dates. But the latest document was months old, and it bothered him. A few omissions here and there would have slipped his attention. But it seemed the eight men had ceased to exist as important businessmen long before their death. It was no mere coincidence.

Armin reached inside his jacket. He did not favor burglary, but any decent investigator had to be able to get past locked doors in his quest for truth.

Within minutes, he was past his first obstacle. Three more doors yielded before he reached a dead end, a chamber with solid walls on the remaining three sides. He spent more than an hour reading, dark, disturbing reports, none relevant to his investigation. He sighed. Something was wrong; he could feel it.

Slowly, he retraced his steps and was back in the massive main chamber, with titanic shelves spanning into the darkness all around him.

Every business had its secrets. The darkest ones were never committed to writing. But then, sometimes they were. People liked to keep proof of their mischiefs, taunting the world to discover them, convinced they never would be. It was a basic human vice.

Armin had been an investigator for too long to hope to find assassination contracts and letters from mistresses in these annals. These were kept in private safes or not at all. But there had to be a lead, some sort of a clue. His eight victims had not simply stopped working one day, all together. And then died within days of one another.

He closed his eyes. He opened them. He smiled.

He went back to the catalog at the entrance, listing different branches of industry and the sections where the relevant records could be found.

Collective evidence. This was what he needed. One could hide a ship from the world, but one could not hide the world from a ship.

It took him almost two hours, but he found them at last. The monthly ledger from the dockmasters and quay masters. His heart pumped with thrill. Were his enemies smarter than he? He would soon find out.

His fingers flipped the papers, his eyes pored over the neat writing. The butterfly clacked and tapped against the glass.

There it was. He almost laughed aloud. The port master might have forgotten to write the comings and goings of Perano's ship, the _Cormorant_ , and Perano might not have sailed for several months before his death, but the _Cormorant_ did unload cargo at the docks.

Armin grinned like a fool. Dockmasters were among the most anal people in the world. They loved inventory. It was their joy. Woe the dockmaster who forgot to list down the cargo of a ship or didn't find a crew to unload her.

At first, the records were tidy, complete. Slowly, discrepancies began to emerge. The _Cormorant_ sailing to an unknown destination, with three hundred and nineteen souls aboard, no names. Came back with just eighty-four crew and no cargo.

Disease? Maybe some of the people had died from a disease? Armin went back to searching. The logs of the harbor quarantine reported no remanded sailor any time near the specific date. Piracy? He checked for insurance claims by Shipmaster Perano, but there were none. Then, he checked two quarterly pay lists for names of missing crew members. None. The _Cormorant_ had sailed to her mission and come back with every one of her crewmen. So wherever the ship had gone, it had dropped a solid load of near two hundred people.

Reading on, he found another four instances of similar endeavors. The _Cormorant_ would sail into the unknown, loaded with nameless people and crates of unknown content, to return empty.

He remembered something. Again, time passed as he flipped pages, sneezed and sniffed, read, squinting in the pale, ethereal insect light.

He checked his notes. Shipmaster Lloyd had said that the _Cormorant_ 's dissolved crew had been employed by other captains. With painstaking precision, he went through the records of more than thirty other skippers. There had been some minor changes to their roster, the usual come-and-go of workforce, but none had taken aboard even one of the _Cormorant_ 's orphans.

Herbert, master of the guild of miners. There. One of the silver mines outside Eybalen had reported more than a forty percent drop in ore production roughly at the same time Shipmaster Perano had started taking on mysterious cargo. A coincidence?

Flip, flip, flip. Time rushed. It would soon be dawn. He had to leave. Pay lists for miners. No wages to more than half the force for almost half a year. Why?

Stefane, chief engineer of the engineers' and sappers' guild. What did their records have to say? Complaints about the lack of maintenance in some of the less prosperous neighborhoods. A station closed, crew dismissed. Pay lists, nothing of value.

Armin closed all of the binders and then carefully placed them back on the shelves. He would have to come back again. The truth was hidden somewhere in these records. He pocketed the fretful butterfly and left.

Three days later, he was invited to interview the Widow Nespos. His head swam in riddles, clues, unanswered questions, leads that made him twitch and miss hours of sleep at night. The annals were an infinite warren of information. He wished he had some of the young investigators with him, to simply help him bear the brunt of so many details, so much data.

He knew one thing. They were lying to him. Everyone. The council, the guild members, friends and relatives of the murdered. There was lots of money involved in this dark plot, whatever it was.

His carriage arrived shortly before noon. He stepped out, smoothed his robe, and waited for the butler to admit him. The richer Caytoreans loved pomp and etiquette. Much of their wealth was wasted in purely trying to impress others.

Like most nobles, Nespos had carved a statement of his power in marble and alabaster and a miniature forest, all within the walls of his mansion, which vied with hundreds of others for recognition among the finest and richest of Eybalen, on the crest of a hillside overlooking the lower city and the harbor.

Armin had to admit the vista was splendid, though.

"We meet again, sir," the servant said.

Armin ignored him, not sure how to respond to small talk from the help. Sirtai's slaves never spoke to their masters unless spoken to. And then, there was no consideration how one should treat them, although it was unpopular to be rude or savage.

Widow Nespos was called Cybilla. She was a rather surprisingly beautiful and young woman, just a trifle chubby, with a healthy complexion and big, doelike eyes. Like most Caytoreans, her skin was two shades paler than his.

He had expected to meet someone more like his age. This momentarily threw him off-balance.

"Greetings, Lady Cybilla," he said.

"Investigator Wan'der Markssin, it's a pleasure," she replied, her smile and her eyes in discord. She grimaced unconsciously as his name rolled off her tongue. Was it the fact that he had more than one?

They sat on a terrace, beneath an awning of vines ripe with early autumn grapes, sipping wine, eating olives. The whole of Eybalen was before them. The hundreds of docking ships looked like pearls on a cushion of blue suede.

The butler came to ask him whether he preferred lobster or squid. For all the cardinal differences between the two nations, they did share the same sea and the same catches.

"I have heard you are trying to solve the mystery of my husband's death," she said, drinking her third glass of wine. Armin made a quick mental note.

"Including several other murders," he said.

"I wish to help you," she stated dramatically.

Armin would have made his brows arch up—if he'd had any. "I'm grateful."

Cybilla squirmed, recrossing her legs. He could not help noticing how her soft flesh bounced beneath the satin of her dress.

"I will ask you some questions." He produced a mangled booklet from one of his pockets, flipped a few curling pages, and found what he wanted. It took him a moment to translate from Sirtai; he wrote in his native language to reduce the chance of casual spying.

"Was your husband a follower of the Movement, a Feoran?"

Cybilla was quiet for a moment, then burst out laughing. She had a very big mouth and a very annoying laugh. "You must be joking, Investigator Markssin!" Some of the wine sloshed up her nose, and she gargled, "Oh, my husband was not a believer of anything. Like most of us."

Armin let her talk. But this new fact was most intriguing.

"Gods are for the poor and unfortunate. Rich people do not need them. They can make their own destiny. Like myself, like the entire council, Nespos was an atheist."

The investigator ran a quick mental check. "I was aware that most merchants and nobles donated significant sums of money to the houses of gods."

"Definitely" she said, unfazed. "The patriarchs do have their merits, despite their misplaced beliefs. They keep the riffraff in check. Common people are so easily cowed. The clergy make for such splendid chaperones."

Another important fact. "Do you have any idea where he sailed in the last few months?"

Cybilla let her smile fade. "Not really. My husband was not very forthcoming regarding his explorations. He did not want other chart-makers to know exactly where he would be going. But he mostly explored the seas."

"Did you notice anything strange?"

She shook her head, gulping more wine. "Not really. He would leave, then return after several weeks. And I would stay here, all alone and bored."

Armin was not too well-informed in the art of flirtation in Caytor, but he felt Lady Cybilla was much more forthcoming than he had expected.

"I'm a widow now. All I have left is the memory of my husband."

And his entire wealth, Armin thought, perhaps a bit unfairly. "Did he keep his...maps at home, perhaps? Maybe a sailing journal?"

Her mouth full of wine, she shook her head. She was flushed. "Larol, leave us. Do not disturb us until I say so."

Nodding stiffly, the butler retreated.

"Do you know what the most powerful aphrodisiac is, Investigator Markssin?"

Armin wanted to tell her, the blood of the blue lizard from Conoya, but he said nothing.

"It's grief," she slurred slightly. "I'm lonely. I have no one to keep me warm at nights."

"That is very unfortunate, my lady," he agreed formally.

Cybilla let one of the shoulder straps of her dress slip. Armin was fascinated by the soft, pale skin of the continentals.

"Will you indulge a widow, alleviate some of her grief?" she pleaded, doe-eyed.

Armin shrugged. Caytoreans were very conservative regarding multiple partners, but Sirtai knew better. His wives would be proud of him.

**CHAPTER 19**

Ayrton did not know why he had decided to leave the city. Maybe it was his desire to seek out revenge against the patriarchs. Maybe it was the simple need for survival. But he was thinking about it quite a lot as he led a procession of soldiers and refugees away from the ruins of Talmath.

The gods and goddesses must have smiled upon him that day. He had managed to hold that mass of deranged and lost people in thrall, had managed to maintain his authority over them. Perhaps, all people ever needed when in dire peril was someone who looked a little less frightened, a little more confident.

The battle for Talmath was lost. No one would acknowledge it aloud, but it was the bitter truth. It had been a matter of days before the Caytoreans launched the final offensive and captured it. The fires had proved to be a useful distraction. Under the veil of smoke and confusion, he'd led his ramshackle army out of the city under the cover of night, slipping past the thin siege line west of Talmath. He had cut through the Borean Woods, an old forest of oaks and hornbeam, and was now wandering across the vast, rolling plains of the central Territories.

Two days away from anarchy and carnage, they could still see the smoke above the plains, a big blot of gray against the soft blue summer sky.

His convoy was a ragged one. He commanded less than three thousand Outsiders and about five thousand refugees of all kinds. They stretched for two miles behind him, weak, confused, and hungry. Every day, more and more people lagged or got lost. Caytorean parties prowled the region and hunted anyone and everyone mercilessly.

Ayrton knew with ice-cold certainty that before the week's end, most of his refugees would be gone, for better or worse. They would scatter through the countryside, heading toward villages they knew or thought they knew, seeking sanity and help there. Others would perish by the sword and disease and the oncoming autumn cold.

He would have a fool's luck if he managed to remain with as many as half his soldiers. These animals, too, would wander off as his grip on their hides weakened. But he would be a fool if he tried to worry or protect everyone. He was powerless. His best hope was to march west, away from the killing.

Ayrton drank from a skin. Luckily, water should not be a problem. There were many springs about, and rains came regularly in the late summer.

He did not really know where to go or what to do. He could march toward Jaruka, the holiest city in the Territories. But he also felt a need to seek out the patriarchs. His anger was slowly eroding, but the ugly, empty feeling of betrayal sat in the pit of his stomach like a ball of lead. He needed to know why they had abandoned the people in Talmath.

Most of the villages they found were deserted, the inhabitants having fled the rumors of war. The countryside was empty, fields left unharvested. They plucked turnips from the ground and spitted corn over small fires. Ayrton hardly slept four hours a day and found himself dozing while marching. The few soldiers with bows tried to hunt, but found very little game. Animals had much better instincts than people.

As the week stretched out, Ayrton found himself leading a band of pilgrims a third of its original size, most of the refugees gone. Some still hung on, hoping the man in the front had some sort of a plan. Bandits and vagabonds avoided them; they were too large a group to prey on.

On the ninth day of their grueling journey, they encountered the first populated hamlet. The word of fighting had still not yet reached here—or the people treated it with the typical disdain of the condemned. The roads were mostly empty, but here and there, a wagon rolled or a family walked toward one of the shrines, carrying offerings. There was no sign of the great armies of the Cause.

Ayrton wondered where the patriarchs hid. Had they all fled the cities at the first sign of peril? Was the creed so...shallow? People devoted their lives to the gods. People believed and trusted and expected the patriarchs to protect them.

He made his convoy halt half a mile from the village and proceeded on foot, followed by a small band of soldiers. They crossed a short bridge of stone arching over a narrow creek. The village was a random collection of a dozen houses and a mill, yet a large crowd stood in the small square occupied by a shrine.

Coming closer, he could see most of the people wore the smooth, monotone robes of different colors. His blood heated. The patriarchs?

The robed assembly noticed the newcomers and dispersed. A group started in their direction. Ayrton slowed and bade his men relax.

"Greetings," one of the men shouted.

Ayrton raised a hand in friendly gesture. "Greetings," he called back.

"You must be soldiers of the Cause," the man spoke again; his robe was blue and stained with dust.

"We are," Ayrton said.

"I'm Under-Patriarch Lenard," the priest said. "How many are you?"

Ayrton hesitated. "About two thousand or so, including some refugees."

Lenard looked shocked. "So many. Where do you hail from? Are you here to join the march on Talmath?"

The Outsider stared at him stupidly. "We come from Talmath."

Under-Patriarch Lenard seemed confused. "I don't understand."

What in the name of gods was happening here, Ayrton thought, apprehension clenching his gullet. "Talmath is lost. The Caytoreans have overrun it. Didn't you know?"

There was absolute silence on the other side. One of the other robed men sank to his knees and started to pray mutely. Another started to cry.

Lenard was pale as a worm. "Where are the patriarchs?"

Ayrton gritted his teeth. "We don't know. But they have abandoned the city."

Silence, again. "Come with me," the man spoke after a long time.

They were led into the village. Close to a hundred clergymen and clergywomen clustered near the shrine. Some were armed.

Lenard went to talk to a group of priests who stood slightly apart from the rest. An old woman with a definite aura of authority came forward. "I'm Matriarch Alda, serving Goddess Selena, blessed be her name."

The soldiers bowed in reverence. They let her touch their brows and murmur blessings.

"Under-Patriarch Lenard tells me you come from Talmath and that it has been lost," she spoke, her voice sad.

Ayrton matched her gaze. "Yes, holy one. The Caytoreans have breached the defenses. We could not fight them. The lower city was burned to the ground. We fled while we still could."

She took the news with the same blunt shock as Lenard. Her resolve wavered. "We have had no news from Talmath in a while. But we knew that the city was strong with faith. It has...it had thousands of strong defenders."

Mostly peasants, fools, and animals, Ayrton thought.

"You said the patriarchs have abandoned you," she whispered.

"I don't know, holy one," Ayrton managed to say in a composed voice, but it was a strain. "We don't know where they are or when they left. We came one day to the monastery, seeking their guidance. The monastery was empty. Only the combat priests have remained."

A wave of emotion rippled through the colorful lot. Ayrton could almost pinpoint every combat priest and priestess in the lot. The pain and despair that twisted their features was too obvious.

"We thought the patriarchs would have gone west, to warn others and rally more people," Ayrton said.

Matriarch Alda spread her arms helplessly. "We came from Sarid. We visited dozens of villages. Hundreds joined our ranks. They marched east with the love of the gods in their hearts. We met no fleeing refugees. Or our brothers and sisters."

Ayrton rubbed his neck. What was happening? The entire Territories seemed to be one huge cauldron of confusion. What were the patriarchs doing? Who led the people?

_You_ , his soul told him. A headache started to bloom above and behind his ears.

His comrades watched the clergy with suspicion in their eyes. Ayrton prayed for strength. He so needed strength. Animals needed someone to control them.

"Going east is a lost cause," he blurted. "You will find empty villages and roving hordes of brigands and, further still, tens of thousands of Caytoreans intent on bringing death and ruin. You cannot fight them."

"We must fight them," Alda said, but she did not sound convinced. "It has been decreed."

"We must go west. It's our only chance," Ayrton pleaded.

"We need to find the patriarchs and matriarchs from Talmath," she mumbled, almost in a trance.

Ayrton wanted to grab her by the neck and shake her. But he knew it would be a great offense. The patriarchs had left the people to die while running off, saving their own hides. "Our only hope to stay alive is to move west, far from the killing."

"I need to speak to my goddess," the matriarch declared.

Ayrton swallowed. He had lived a life of sin, once. In the great scheme of divine plans, he knew he deserved to die. But he didn't want his life to end in a failure. There must be more to life than dying an anonymous death in a field somewhere. There must be more to life than being just another victim to human greed and madness.

There had to be.

A wall of colors closed on them. "The matriarch will now retreat to her shack. She will pray and fast and seek illumination. You should go back to your people and wait," Lenard said.

Ayrton motioned his men to follow. There was nothing else he could do.

"I don't trust that bitch," one of the soldiers barked as they left the village.

A sharp tip of a sword under his chin made him halt. "Watch your tongue. That's blasphemy!" Ayrton hissed. He lowered the sword and shoved the man hard. "Always remember, we are soldiers of the gods. We serve the Cause!"

The man paled, sobered, and then reluctantly nodded.

Later that day, villagers came with their meager share of bread and salt, offering them to Ayrton's men. They scarcely had enough for fifty, let alone thousands, but it was a gesture of goodwill.

Two days passed without a word from the matriarch. She was still in seclusion.

It would have been so simple to tell his men to pack and leave. They could proceed alone, without blessings from the priests. No one could stop them. But then, what was he going to do? He had no plan.

In the camp, he made his men pray twice a day, at dawn and dusk, and made them sing songs and bring offerings to the shrine in the village. The pile of offerings was almost hip-high, with trinkets of all sorts.

Some of the refugees volunteered to help the local farmers with bringing in the harvest, while others helped the herds with their flock of goats. In return, the local smith offered to sharpen their swords and buff their armor. There was very little violence. The awe of the gods kept everyone in check. But Ayrton feared the moment when this awe rubbed off.

Hundreds of refugees left them, joining little convoys of pilgrims or taking off on foot, striking north and south and west. A pack of savage dogs and people without hope remained.

On the third day, the brothers and sisters slew a chicken, in honor of the gods and goddesses, praying for guidance. But Matriarch Alda still wouldn't come out.

Ayrton sat on a rock, staring at the world. It was so peaceful, immense vistas of green grass fluttering in the breeze, birds spiraling above the fields, hunting mice and insects.

He had no idea what the patriarchs and matriarchs in Jaruka had decreed, but it seemed like a giant mess. The Territories were not ready for an all-out war with a powerful enemy like Caytor. The combat priests and the few unlucky losers like him were not enough to stem that ugly, bloodthirsty war machine. He did not want the responsibility. He did not desire the failure. He wanted hope.

"Convoy approaching!" one of the lookouts shouted.

Ayrton stood up on his little promontory and shielded his eyes. A band of about a hundred, maybe two hundred, people were approaching the village from the northeast. They might have been more stragglers fled from Talmath.

As they came near, he glimpsed robed figures on donkeys, and riffraff in tatters following them.

"Spike, Enrique, with me," he ordered. Two of the Outsiders followed him into the village. Spike was a former rapist, and Enrique was a silent type who no one really knew what he had done in his previous life. But he prayed five times a day, and tears ran down his face every time.

Ayrton's blood heated when he saw the familiar faces among the newcomers. Some of the donkey riders were patriarchs from the Grand Monastery.

Under-Patriarch Lenard and a flock of underlings were already talking to the Talmath escapees. Ayrton shouldered his way through the tightly pressed crowd.

"...has fallen, we were told," Lenard was saying.

One of the mounted figures wore a grim mask on his face. "Who told you that?"

Lenard turned and pointed at Ayrton. "They told us."

"Talmath is safe. The faith is strong in the city. Our soldiers are fighting the Caytorean heathens bravely. The city has not been lost."

Ayrton felt blood in his veins curdle. What the bloody Abyss was going on?

"Who are you, soldier?" one of the patriarchs, the only mounted one in the lot, asked him, his voice stern.

Ayrton swallowed. He bowed. "Holy one, I am Ayrton, a soldier of the gods. I serve the Cause. We have come from Talmath, holy one. The city has been overrun by the Caytoreans."

"Those are words of sedition, soldier!" the priest snapped. "The gods and goddesses protect us."

The Outsider looked at the faces of the people tailing after the patriarchs. They were mostly peasant boys and girls, with naked zeal on their faces, fool volunteers for a fool's cause. His shock twisted into cold rage. "The city is burning, holy one."

"The city is safe!" another patriarch intoned.

"You could not have seen it burn; you fled it," Ayrton whispered.

Murmurs spread all about him. Ayrton felt his callused fingers touch the hilt of his sword.

"Are you accusing us of something, soldier? Do you doubt the divine guidance that we provide? Do you question the gods and goddesses?" the first patriarch boomed.

"I serve the gods!" Ayrton hissed.

The patriarchs turned away from Ayrton, ignoring him. "We have departed from the city some time ago, but Talmath was in the safe hands of our many brethren. We have left to rouse more people to the Cause. But we will return, with strong faith in people's hearts. And we will expel the Caytorean invaders from the Territories!"

A ragged cheer spread through the crowd of priests.

"We already have a hundred brave soldiers with us. And I see you have recruited another hundred," the man continued.

"This man commands several thousands of soldiers," Lenard offered.

The mounted man would not look at Ayrton. "They will, too, join the holy march to Talmath."

Ayrton felt his heart hammering in the pit of his stomach. He was not going back to Talmath. He did not want to die for nothing. But how could he refuse? These men had taken him, saved his life, saved his soul. They had given him a new life, a new hope.

And now, they would take it away.

Ayrton stared at the patriarchs. He knew they were lying. They had fled to save themselves, and now they intended to send thousands of people to a useless death. It was wrong.

He stood there, his blood pounding in his temples, a red haze beating before his eyes. An Outsider only got one chance.

Matriarch Alda staggered out of her hut. She stank. Her hair was disheveled and her eyes full of crust. She looked parched and famished. Tottering slowly, she approached the shrine and lifted the carcass of the slaughtered chicken in the air.

"Goddess Selena has spoken to me! Our gods summon us west! We must go west."

Ayrton closed his eyes. _Thank you, Gods._

**CHAPTER 20**

Adam the Butcher.

The nickname spread like wildfire. Within less than a day, everyone in the camp had heard the name. His soldiers would swear by their mothers and sisters that they had never called him Captain Leech in their lives. His lieutenants vowed to die for him if necessary.

And all Adam was...was a dead man with nothing to lose.

He did not seek glory or power. They came, nonetheless, jeering and taunting. But they meant nothing. He was a rock, rolling down the side of a mountain, such a free and reckless ride. He owed nothing to no one. Death was the ultimate freedom.

As a major, he was privileged to join many of the discussions regarding the art of war in the big command tents. Soldiers served him wine and cheese as he listened to his comrades talk. Most of the time, he listened and learned that war was a very simple thing. What complicated the whole business were human emotions. Once you threw in fear, hesitation, confusion, and greed into the cauldron, it became a whorefest, worse than any he had participated in while in Paroth.

His colleagues despised and hated and feared him. He was a symbol of evil, a mascot of all things wrong. Yet, deep down in their souls, they were glad that he existed, because he spared them the need to be like him, to be the monster.

As the captured hilltop became a major encampment, Adam made sure no hands went idle. He defoliated the entire region as he built the biggest hedgehog of a camp ever made, with so many lines of picket that the foremost rank was out of bow range.

His men were an example for the rest of the forces. They trained from dusk to dawn, especially the peasants and the auxiliary units, which were less experienced. Many regulars grunted at his decision to arm the weakest units with crossbows until he demonstrated the sheer effectiveness of the weapon in the hands of a common man against the bodies of several dissidents.

With peasants turned into a deadly force, morale and loyalty grew. Animosity between units lessened as men scorned for their lack of combat skills became equals with their hard-core trained comrades.

Now that he commanded three whole battalions, the results of his efforts became visible almost instantly. He ordered towers built and mounds erected. Every day, a company spent a day hammering rock with pickaxes, hauling stones half a mile back to the camp and piling them on top of the mounds he had built.

After a week, there was a small quarry just outside the camp. The piles of rock had become a breastwork, encircling the entire perimeter of their position. The tiny supply bivouac had become a small army city, three times its original size.

The Caytoreans had temporarily diverted their forces further south, avoiding him. Scouts reported their movement day by day, even as more Eracians poured into the Territories, strengthening their hold of the northeastern reach. Talmath, Poereni, and other cities were all besieged, yet they held. There was still hope that the Eracians might cut off the Caytorean rear.

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."

"You're an interesting person, a phenomenon," she said.

His perfectly cool composure melted slightly as he concentrated on his hostess and let the image of her wash his eyes. She had that aura of power about her that unnerved him. Most people would probably not call her beautiful, but that was the special part of her beauty. Maybe it was his weakness as a whore, to be attracted to powerful women.

"Life's a tree, and we're fruit," he chimed.

"I do not wish to talk to you about military affairs tonight," she told him.

Adam picked at a chicken wing. "Good."

They ate for a while in silence. A soldier waited on them, pouring wine and clumsily handling the platters, his big hands unsuited for the gentle task. Mali dismissed him before dinner was over.

They finished eating. Adam folded his hands in his lap, ruminating. Mali drank wine, her eyes sparkling, alcohol taking effect, a veil of mischief wrapped about her.

"Well, shall we?" she said, stretching.

Adam made a blank face. "What?"

"Fuck," she said, as if stating the obvious.

"Why do you think I would want to do that?" Adam played along.

"Come on, everyone wants me," Mali said, her eyes agleam.

Ah. He rose from the table. "Well, in that case, I will retire." He turned and started to walk away. Something hard and metallic hit him in the back of the head. A well-aimed goblet.

"Ow. What are you doing?" He turned.

"Cheeky bastard! Where do you think you're going?" she fumed.

"To sleep." He rubbed his scalp. A welt was swelling under his fingers. He had survived weeks of war without a scratch. Women.

"You will stay here and fuck me. That's an order, Major!"

Adam snorted. "You cannot force me. You presume too much, Commander."

She sniffed. "Come on, everyone wants me!"

The former whore wagged a finger. "No, everyone wants me." They came closer. His heart raced. He could smell her skin. Gently, he tackled her legs and lowered her onto the cool ground.

"Here, put on one of these," she said, handing him something soft and filmy.

"No, these things are horrible. It's like humping a hole in a wall," Adam protested. He hated the frogskin sheaths. "I'll come on your belly," he pleaded.

She chortled. "Oh sure, that's what all of you say. Now, stop fretting, and put it on."

For the first time in a long time, Adam smiled genuinely. "Yes, Commander."

**CHAPTER 21**

General-Patriarch Davar watched a horde of men dismantle the Grand Monastery. It was not very different from watching ants shred a dead beetle.

Oxen pulled giant ropes, trying to dislodge the tall columns. Stone groaned and creaked. Men hammered with sledges against wall corners, trying to help the effort. Sapping was a dangerous business, Davar noted. Quite a few soldiers had been killed when pieces of masonry toppled on their heads.

Burning the monastery was not enough. It had to be destroyed. Any gold and valuables had long been stolen.

Talmath was his, a sweet victory. After the conflagration had died, his forces had stormed the city and captured it. Now, there was the grueling task of killing everyone. His troops had hoped to have the women spared so they could rape them. But he would not let them. Women were insidious. They could easily subvert the minds of men. All worshippers of the false gods had to be destroyed, even if they might prove useful for a while.

He was differently inclined toward the Outsiders. These rabid dogs could serve a purpose, perhaps even convert truly.

A ragged cheer broke as one of the columns cracked and shattered. A cloud of dust and splinters billowed out of the shattered doors of the monastery.

Talmath still burned, but it was a controlled destruction. The Feorans were marching the streets, looting and burning houses. It would probably take them an entire week to scour the city clean, but it was necessary.

Most of the patriarchs had escaped before the final assault. They had found a few, hiding like rats in cellars. Others had donned civil clothes, hoping they would be missed and spared. But no heathen soul was to live.

His troops were killing people, a slow and exhausting task. Davar intended to repopulate Talmath in the future, so leaving the bodies inside the city was out of the question. The executions were being carried far from the city, in the fields.

Only the false clergy had been put to death and on display in Talmath, as an example. The general-patriarch had had all of them nailed to big logs and placed in squares and junctions, where everyone would witness the glory and wrath of Feor. To his utter disgust, the patriarchs had wept and begged far more than ordinary people. Maybe because they knew their false gods would not help them, while the deluded masses still clung to some hope.

But even this great victory could not bring a smile to his face. Feor was continuously testing the strength of his conviction. While he won battles in the west, his armies were losing in the east, near the border. A creature that called himself Adam the Godless was inflicting heavy losses on Davar's Feorans.

He did not know much about this strange, frightening character. His spies knew the names and faces of most of the Eracian high command by heart, but they had never heard of this Adam. He had appeared suddenly, out of nowhere.

It was a test, he knew.

Rumors about the man's savageness were outrageous. Davar did not try to dismiss them as nonsense; it would only heighten the fear among his troops. But for all their zeal, the news about Adam the Godless wore on their morale like a toothless dog, slowly, persistently. It worried him.

The best he could do was match the man's alleged cruelty. The Eracians were not known to defile the bodies of the dead. It was against the religion of their false gods. Still, they had all seen the wagons full of severed heads. No one could deny those. And there was the letter.

Feor was testing him, that's all.

Maybe Adam was not an Eracian at all? It would explain a lot of things.

"Holy one, we have found some more heathens," one of his officers reported.

A band of soldiers was leading a ragged lot of children out of a semiruined house. Their eyes, wide and glassy with fear, stood out like pebbles on their soot-smeared, emaciated faces.

"Gut them like the rest, holy one?"

Davar was silent for a moment, then nodded. "But do have their heads cut off and sent to Eracians. I wish their commander to receive them as a personal gift." His eyes rolled over the scrawny lot. "Wait." He pointed. "That one. No. Yes. Spare her. I want her in my collection."

Even Feor had to have a weak spot for beauty.

A wing of the monastery came crashing down, an avalanche of huge blocks. Men screamed. More victims of careless architecture destruction, he thought.

The day was drab and cold. Livid clouds threatened with rain. Davar prayed for a storm. It would cleanse the city of the stench of war. A solid, almost living miasma of blood, death, and smoke veiled the city, refusing to leave.

Adam. His thoughts strayed back to the godless bastard. Whoever he was, he was a menace, a threat to the Movement. Even if only a tenth of the rumors and reports were true, he'd managed to win battles despite overwhelming odds, gained advantage through treachery and brutality. He had to be stopped.

At his side stood the solution to his problem.

Like always, his great friend, the cofounder of the Movement, had been more than ready to provide help. This time it was in the form of a Pum'be assassin. These were extremely difficult to hire. There were so few of them left, they were impossibly expensive, they were overworked, and worst of all, they often turned down assignments that did not intrigue them.

But he had one at his disposal.

The creature had arrived that morning, slipping unseen past every sentry. He had said nothing so far, merely watched passively the comings and goings of a freshly captured city.

"How do you like Talmath so far?" he asked.

The assassin said nothing.

Davar started walking away from the monastery, his interest in seeing it topple having worn off. He followed a cobbled street, past bodies still not cleared, past husks and hissing skeletons of houses and shops. The Pum'be walked after him with the curious gait of a dwarf.

All around, Feorans were busy flushing city folk out of their hiding, separating men from women, armed men from civilians. Despite his order, his soldiers raped with wild abandon. Well, rape was all right, as long as they killed the victims afterward. Bringing along a den of vipers would be a disaster.

They passed a squad of his warriors dragging a bloodied man behind them. A drop of blood hit the assassin's cloak. He hissed something in a foreign language. It sounded like a curse.

The general-patriarch had not yet told the little man about his assignment, although he suspected he already knew it. Otherwise, he would never have come. Pum'be did not travel thousands of miles to hear they needed to kill some old woman or similar nonsense.

Still, Davar did have his doubts. He wanted to meet Adam in combat, face-to-face, and defeat him. Despite the string of victories, the Eracians were outnumbered. Their streak of luck would run out sooner or later.

Yet, this Adam was a frightening phenomenon. He was the inspiration of wild horror stories. Adult men shook with fear when they talked about him. This worried him a lot. Feorans feared no one.

Not far from the hilltop, in one of the squares, a horde of Outsiders was being given the choice. They could forsake their old gods and join the Movement—or die. It was so simple. Davar's smile widened when he saw the bulk of the prisoners step forward. A few romantic fools remained in the back.

"I want you to kill a very special man," Davar told the assassin. Adam had to die, and soon.

The Pum'be grunted.

"He is...a commander of Eracian forces, stationed near the Bakler Hills in the east. He may have advanced his troops after us in the recent days. The man is an apt leader and most likely a very cruel and merciless man. He must die."

The assassin nodded, a twitch of his hood. No one really knew what the Pum'be looked like. They always wore those absurd cloaks and hoods, day and night, summer and winter. The only thing that marked them was the height. All of their assassins were quite short.

When he looked down again, the Pum'be was gone, vanished as mysteriously as he had come. Davar smiled. Well, if the little bugger was half as good as the legends said, Adam was a dead man, enjoying his last hours in the world.

General-Patriarch Davar felt excited by the ordeal. He wanted to go back to his tent and play with his new toy.

Talmath was a sweet victory. But it was only a beginning.

He reached into a pocket and pulled out a small, folded map, written on hard, oily paper that resisted the elements with surprising stubbornness. Another gift from his friend. It was a map of the Safe Territories. But it was different from all the other maps ever made.

On it was sketched a place that showed on no other map.

The City of Gods, his ultimate target.

**CHAPTER 22**

Foolish pride. He wished he had not thrown away the purse with the coins. He had not eaten in four days. He was weak and famished.

Ewan was not really sure where he was, but he followed a road. Roads led somewhere. He meandered east, where he felt he must go.

He had lost track of time, but it was about two weeks since he had been banished from the convent. The days were getting shorter, and the nights were getting colder. He spent them curled into a ball, shivering, sleeping in bogs or bushes.

Today, it rained, an earnest autumn downpour. The world had the color of slate. His shoes sludged, making sucking noises as they parted from a lane of mud. Ewan walked mechanically, step by step. There was nothing else he could do. He was alone and lost in the big, cruel world.

He believed he was in Caytor somewhere, having crossed the border more than a week ago. He had not met anyone on the road he followed, so he was not really sure. In fact, he did not even know what a Caytorean was supposed to look like. Did they talk like him, the same language? But they must. There were many Outsiders from Caytor in the Territories.

He had no map and did not know where he was going, so he imagined what he remembered from history books. The only thing that mattered was that he rose and walked off into the rising sun and that it set behind his back. Something in his innards propelled him east, something sinister that stole the breath from his lungs every time he thought about it.

His fever had come again, weak but persistent. It had lasted for three days. Now, all that was left was random delirium and sweet dreams about food. His last meal had been a frog he'd caught by the riverbank several days back. He knew that frogs should not be eaten, but he had swallowed it whole and raw and then shat himself dry in the middle of the night.

He had no hunting skills. He knew very little about nature. He was afraid to pick berries or mushrooms, knowing that many were poisonous.

Sometimes, he talked to himself while walking. He felt a need to hear a voice, even if it was his own. It sounded loud and crude, like a long-rusted door hinge. Most of the time, his mind was empty save for a primal need to keep walking.

It was midday, the sky wept while thunder groaned. Ahead of him, breaking the boring line of the plains, was a building, a roadside inn. The building was a squat thing with a roof of thatch and a small river mill. There was no light coming from its windows.

Ewan was afraid of human contact after so long, but he had no choice. He had to eat. Shuffling slowly, he approached the secluded hint of civilization. A chained dog barked at him ferociously, its hackles raised. The animal did not like the look of the crazed vagabond who lurked outside.

Other animals piped in, mules or cows penned behind the building.

Ewan approached the door. The mongrel kept barking, but would not come anywhere near him. The expelled young brother pushed the door and stepped in.

An overhead bell rang. Water dripped off him in a spatter.

"Hey, you, get in and close the door!" someone shouted in the Continental he knew so well.

"Hey!" the same voice sounded after a few moments. While before it had been just formal, it had a tint of animosity now. "We don't serve your kind here. Get lost!"

Ewan stood in the warm gloom, blinking. Angry, uncompassionate faces watched him.

Someone shoved him. "Get out. Go!"

Confused, the boy staggered out. What now? He did not know what to do.

He sat on the muddy ground, ignoring the barks. With some surprise, he noticed one of his boots was missing, the sole peeled off like cheese rind. His foot was wrinkled and swollen and cut.

The door opened. "Hey, boy! Can you work?"

Ewan looked up at the dark figure, swathed in a cloak. "Yes, I can."

"Come inside," the man said.

"I don't want that cur in here." It was the same voice that had expelled him the first time.

"Calm down, Casey. He's gonna scrub your dishes later."

The man with the look of an innkeeper about him relented. "All right, damn you."

They let him sit near the fire and eat a bowl of porridge. His benefactor sat nearby, smoking a pipe and sipping ale. Most of the patrons had retreated a row back, repulsed by the stench of him.

"You are a long way from everywhere," the man said.

Ewan nodded. "Thank you, sir."

The man looked at the crowd, pointing at Ewan with his pipe. "And polite, too," he spoke as if Ewan was some rare, exotic creature. The boy ignored the guffaws and continued eating.

"Slow down, or you'll make yourself sick," the man suggested. "What's your name?"

"Ewan."

"Ewan," he repeated. "Where do you come from?"

Primal instincts rising, he knew he had to lie, even though it was a sin. "From near the border. Our village was attacked by those...people in the Territories. I fled."

Someone swore. "Those filthy bastards and their gods! Well, Feor will purge them all!"

Ewan almost retorted, but checked himself in time. He kept quiet and guzzled the hot suet. It layered his belly nicely.

"What village?" the man with the pipe pressed.

Ewan knew he had to be careful. But he did not know the name of a single Caytorean settlement. He blurted the one place he knew of. "Chergo."

Surprisingly, nothing happened. His benefactor merely nodded. No one jumped and called him a liar. He had no idea who these people might be, but they were probably peddlers or travelers. Their kind visited too many places to recall.

"Got your folk, did they?" one of the other patrons said, wicked glee in his tone.

Ewan nodded. "Can I have more porridge, please?"

The man with the pipe sniffed. "Cheeky, too. Kyla, give the boy another portion, will you?"

A serving maid came, her face wrinkled in disgust, and plopped a ladleful of oatmeal into his bowl. Some of it sprayed his face, but he thanked her earnestly. As she retreated, his patron slapped a fat, hairy hand against her rump. She yelped. Everyone laughed, as if this was the most refined sort of entertainment.

"My name is Seamus," the smoker said. He bent down. "Let me look at you." He gripped Ewan's jaw and manhandled him left and right, appraising his features with tiny harrumphs. "You have a decent face under that grit. How old are you, sixteen?"

"Fifteen."

Seamus nodded.

"Now, here's a little beer for you, young man," Seamus said, handing him a pewter cup. Ewan drank, careful not to spill a drop.

After he had eaten, he stayed on the floor, glad for the heat of the fire. Quickly, he found himself dozing off. His exhausted back muscles twitched every time like a whip, starting him awake.

Above him, the conversation continued, ribald jokes and small talk about business and war. Ewan paid little attention, too tired to move or think. The warmth in his belly and the red joy of the fireplace were all he cared for now.

But they did not let him rest for long. The proprietor sent him to the kitchens, where he spent the afternoon scrubbing the floor and cleaning the spit of old grease and tendons. The cook and the two serving maids paid him little attention, probably accustomed to these chance payoffs.

He came back into the common room after the sun had set, his hands raw and aching. None of the regulars had left, but some new faces had joined them. The rain had not abated, tapping against the small windowpanes with fanatic perseverance.

It was hot and rank in the room. The chimney did not filter all the smoke out, and it hung about the room, mixing with the stench of unclean people and spilled drinks. Now that he had eaten and sated his bestial needs, his finer senses had kicked in and complained.

His urgency came back as well. He needed to go east. But he was not sure if Seamus held him in some debt. He was also somewhat glad for the opportunity to think. He desperately needed to think of some plan.

"What's that?" one of the new patrons asked.

Seamus tapped his pipe against the table. In front of him, small piles of used tobacco were everywhere. "One of the kids from the border villages, no family left."

The other man nodded knowingly.

"Seamus the Spider," one of them hissed. Others laughed madly.

"You can sleep in the barn," Seamus said. "The innkeeper will let you if you collect the dung tomorrow. You'll do that, won't you?" The question was aimed at both of them.

The innkeeper just glared at Seamus, but said nothing.

Ewan nodded. He could not think of anything better to do. But after a good night sleep in the dry, he might be wiser. Marching off like a fool with no food and money sounded plain stupid now. And after eating a decent meal for the first time in so long, he genuinely feared it.

Too terrified to try to speak to these people, Ewan bid everyone a good night and left to sleep in the shed.

A dull thud woke him up. He rose, brushing straw from his hair, blinking into the almost pitch-black darkness of the barn. The rain had stopped. He could feel the vibrant heat of the animals around him, a mule, an old ox, and several horses that belonged to the travelers.

There was a movement in the darkness ahead, limned in weak, jaundiced light. Someone holding a shuttered lamp.

"What...who goes there?" Ewan whispered. His heart hammered in his chest.

"Don't you worry, boy," the figure said. It was Seamus.

"Is it dawn yet?" Ewan asked innocently.

"Not yet. Here." Something was tossed on the ground before him. Ewan patted blindly. A piece of leather, beltlike.

"What is this?"

Seamus removed his big, fat overcoat, let it drop on the ground. "Don't you worry about anything, boy. Just something to bite on, if you need."

Ewan backed against the dung-smeared stall. "What are you doing?"

Seamus nodded knowingly, reassuringly. His eyes gleamed in the pale light. "Time to work, boy."

Ewan recalled a conversation he had had with Ayrton a long time ago. His friend had told him that priests sometimes liked to touch boys in an intimate sort of way. He had told him that it was wrong and that he should refuse and even fight back if necessary. Ayrton had told him that if ever a patriarch tried to touch him, he was to tell him. But he wasn't around now.

"Don't touch me," he whispered.

"Now, now, let's not fuss, boy. It won't hurt if you don't resist." Seamus was naked below the waist now. "Turn over, and bite that belt."

Ewan sat frozen, his stomach turning to jelly.

"Come on, boy!" Seamus knelt and reached for him. Ewan started kicking, his face a mask of terror. The big man was impossibly strong. He was on top of Ewan in seconds. Ewan flailed like a fish crushed under a rock.

Seamus drew a knife and sliced his trousers open. Ewan started to cry.

"Be sensible, boy. It won't hurt."

Ewan fumbled in the darkness helplessly for some kind of leverage, some kind of weapon. His hand closed on an old, rusty horseshoe. He swung. Seamus toppled to the side, but rose almost instantly, growling with fury.

A huge fist hammered him in the face. The world exploded in a burst of white light. Ewan found himself breathing dust and straw. He was on his belly now. He whimpered. He started to shake violently.

"Stop fighting me, boy! It will soon be over. Let me have my fun. I've earned it."

Ewan realized his fever was back. Icy beads of sweat broke on his forehead. His shivers intensified. He could feel his thorax bumping on and off the cold floor, making a painful noise.

"Aren't you a fretful one," Seamus complained. "Keep still, boy."

Ewan heard a horrible noise rise in his throat. He had no control of it. He flailed again. This time, his whole body lifted clear of the ground. Seamus flew off like a doll. Ewan slithered away, like a snake.

Seamus rose up, cursing. "All right, this is how you want to play, boy."

Something straightened behind the stall, but it was not Ewan. The face was wooden, the limbs stiff. But Seamus could not see it in the darkness.

"You'll regret this moment," Seamus warned.

Ewan's body did not acknowledge the threat. It stepped forward in a slow, awkward gait. Seamus lunged, a meaty fist connecting with Ewan's face. There was a crack. Moaning in pain, the man collapsed to his knees, his fist a broken, bloody mess. Wordless agony danced on his lips.

Ewan's body punched Seamus in the face.

At least, that was what the frightened mind inside the stony form intended. His fist stove the man's face into his head, breaking it open like a melon. A substance resembling porridge poured through the cracks in the ruined skull, dripping onto the floor.

Ewan stumbled and vomited.

"Don't faint," he told himself. "Don't faint..."

He stumbled out into the cold night. His body felt alien. As he breathed in the crisp air, the steely stiffness in his limbs melted partially. Gradually, the normal feeling in his muscles returned.

Only then did the last few moments register completely and fully. He vomited again.

_I am a killer. I am a monster,_ he thought. _What am I?_

What to do now? He had done it again. If they found him, they would kill him for sure. These people were not his friends. These people were his enemy. They were at home in this strange, brutal land. He was the foreigner. An outsider.

He would have to run again. But this time, he was not going to leave penniless.

He went back into the barn. Bile rising in his throat, he started fumbling about the almost-headless corpse. This Seamus was a rather wealthy type. He had a heavy purse and a watch worked in bronze. Ewan pocketed them shamelessly. He took the man's boots and knife, too.

Finally, he donned the man's big, warm overcoat. It was too wide for his spare frame, but only slightly too long. He was tall, if gangly. The shoes fit perfectly.

Strength came back to him, laced with rage. Ewan stared at the mangled form, without fainting this time now. He felt rage choking him. He spat on the corpse.

Fleeing on foot sounded foolish. These men would find him all too quickly in the morning. But he had never ridden a horse before.

He started rummaging in the saddles laid across a beam in the corner of the barn. They contained blankets, tents, rope, utensils, matches. He needed these desperately. The horses stared at him with clever, accusing eyes.

Eventually, he saddled the mule as best as he could. Just before leaving, a pang of conscience made him pause. He produced a silver from Seamus's purse and tossed it on the ground.

Then, struggling with the wholly alien concept of riding, he fled, riding east. The patient little mule plodded stubbornly while he dug his fingernails into the saddle. East.

**CHAPTER 23**

Armin was back in the Grand Archive, reading.

It was obvious that the eight murders were very closely related, just like the dealings of the deceased, for quite a long time before their death. What he lacked was the grand unifier, the common and mutual motive. And if the entire affair turned out to be just simple greed, he wanted to know who was behind it.

There must be something. Some clue.

Armin rubbed his weary eyes, closing them hard. Purple sparks danced inside his eyelids. All of the activities seemed related. But just like the sum of all ingredients did not make a cake, he knew the separate evidence of a giant plan did not help solve the mystery. As an investigator, he knew the subtle, catastrophic difference between facts and wishful thinking. He wanted the individual businesses to be related.

The records stared at him blankly. They had given him all they've got. There was nothing more. He needed to go one step further. But where?

Unconsciously, he tapped a finger against his front teeth, thinking. Missing people. Lots of workers from several branches of industry seemed to be missing. The numbers fit rather well. It seemed that Shipmaster Perano had ferried the lot of them to some unknown place. Nespos seemed most likely to point in the direction. Then, there was Shipwright Boune. Armin had almost lost the thread of his investigation with him. The man seemed superfluous in the scheme of things. But digging into the old records had finally yielded a useful piece of information. Perano had liked to gamble, after all. He had had a huge debt—to Shipwright Boune. The _Cormorant_ had been mortgaged as partial payment, even though no one among Perano's crew had known that.

Whatever he'd been involved in, Perano had probably told Boune, in exchange for his debt. It felt plausible.

But what? And where?

Armin rose. The Grand Archive had told its story. He needed a new bard.

Two things still nagged him. Money. Someone had paid for all those one-way cruises. Someone had financed the ship to sail somewhere and return empty. And then, there were the Feorans, a dark and unfriendly mystery.

He sat down. Maybe...

It took him an hour to write down a plan. He greatly hoped it would work.

Wearing a disguise was a simple thing. Being a man with a skull that looked like a perfect egg, even a few hairs anywhere about his features made for a dramatic change. Accompanied by his second wife, Galina, he was just an eccentric, rich Sirtai.

Hand in hand, they entered the bank. Armin was convinced banks were a Sirtai invention. They were quite practical at keeping one's fortune safe. And while the rich had considered each other's wealth as potential loot while it had still been kept in the privacy of their mansions, with their gold bunched together in the vaults of banks, they had all begun to protect the collective assets as if they were wholly their own.

Banks were guarded by the finest and most ruthless soldiers who could be hired anywhere in the world. Beneath the offices, where clerks worked and served customers, underground tunnels stretched, layer after layer, with murder holes and traps and fortifications that eventually led to the vaults where valuables were kept.

The best of all, the hired killers worked directly for the banks. They did not answer to any of the nobles. Banks were independent and milked a heavy tax from the posh to stay that way. No one wanted someone else's mercenaries in those tunnels. The nameless, unaffiliated guards were the perfect solution.

In Eybalen, some of the bank chiefs sat on the council. Others felt too powerful to make the effort, knowing the city would not do anything against the interests of the banks. But the fragile link that some of the more meddlesome bank officials felt they needed to exert on the city was Armin's one and only hope now.

If the banks had a say in High Council, there could be records of it somewhere. This could be his grand unifier, the solid grease that oiled the axles.

Galina was wearing a soft green dress with deep cleavage. A strategic weapon. The continentals were conservative people, ashamed of their bodies and carnal urges. They often repressed them behind masks of false morals and excessive clothing. He hoped to catch them off-balance.

"My lord, my lady, can I help you?" a clerk greeted them.

"I would like to consider depositing a hundred thousand gold marks in your bank."

The words worked like magic. Within seconds, they were ushered into a private room, offered drinks and sweets. They were told the bank governor would see them soon.

A door opened. An elderly and well-groomed gentleman entered. He had the look of a reformed thug, one of the ambitious middle class who fought tooth and nail to become higher class. Armin was familiar with the type from his homeland. Weak men could not be bank governors in either Tuba Tuba or Eybalen.

"It is my honor. I am Elliot, the governor of Bank Trust." The man offered his hand.

Armin accepted the customary grip, a strange gesture for him. He could not understand why people had to touch when greeting one another.

"I am Ronald Wan'der Norssin. My wife, Gladiola."

The governor nodded. "Another one of your countrymen is in Eybalen. A famous person."

Armin faked genuine surprise. His false brows did climb this time. "Really, what's his name?"

Elliot rolled his eyes, thinking. "I think it's Armin...something."

"Armin Wan'der Markssin!" Armin cheered gleefully. "A brilliant man." Galina dug her nails into his thigh, below the level of the mahogany desk separating them from the governor.

The bank official smiled for a moment, but no longer than necessary. "My assistant tells me you are interested in depositing a sizable amount of money in our bank. We would like to congratulate you on your choice."

Armin spread his arms. "I have made some checks. You do offer higher insurance claims and better rates, despite slightly higher fees. Your bank seems like a sensible choice for the beginning of my business."

Elliot crossed his legs. "Oh, you're starting business here? If it's not too much to ask, would you mind sharing your idea?"

Armin let his eyes gleam conspiratorially. "It will be of great interest to the city's dignitaries." At his cue, Galina casually leaned. Elliot caught himself staring before he disciplined his eyes straight forward. "Rare herbs, spices, and potions to enhance stamina."

"Stamina?" the governor asked, his eyes clouded.

"Stamina," Armin repeated. Galina squirmed silkily.

"Ah, stamina," Elliot said, understanding dawning. "Very sensible choice."

Galina leaned, whispering something in Armin's ear. He mimicked a fleeting frown. Elliot blinked once, trying to decipher this innocent expression.

"My wife just reminded me, how silly of me. Before we draw an official contract, I will need to ask you a few questions, if I may. It regards some of my smaller endeavors here in Eybalen. I would like to be sure of the status of my Caytorean assets before we proceed."

Elliot spread his arms. "Of course." Men could be very patient when it came to a hundred thousand gold coins.

Armin produced a list from a folder, written in Continental. He handed it over to the governor. The man read carefully, nodding once or twice as his eyes traced a familiar name. Armin had spent a lot of time and work perfecting the details, but with the whole of the Grand Archive at his disposal, it had not been too difficult.

Elliot paused when his eyes read: _Shipwright Boune_.

"Something of a problem?" Armin asked.

The governor hesitated. "I have just...one of our former clients, that's all."

"Former?" Armin let the word sound like a death sentence. Galina leaned back.

"No, you misunderstand. Shipwright Boune was one of our more valuable clients. Alas, he passed away some time ago."

Armin and Galina exchanged a few quick words in Sirtai. He knew that Elliot did not understand it. Squiggle and his gang were very useful in many regards, even when it came to prowling the upper city.

"I was not aware that some of my assets might be in jeopardy," Armin said coldly. He frowned. "Was it not the responsibility of Bank Trust to inform me that a liability has occurred?"

Governor Elliot was not a man to be easily cowed. "I was not aware of any connection between you and late Shipwright Boune, so I cannot confirm your claim. But I will definitely look into it. This might require an investigation."

Armin rose to leave. His wife followed suit. "I suggest you look into this omission. I'm afraid we will not be able to conduct business unless I can be sure there are no monetary issues regarding my assets in Eybalen. As for the investigation, my compatriot Markssin is one of the finest minds in the world. You might want to lease his services."

Elliot quickly suppressed a look of panic. He had not yet seen a copper from this new, eccentric customer, but he could smell money. Besides, whenever people preferred their pride over money, it was always a bad sign.

Then, his head rolled the names of other people working with Ronald Wan'der Norssin. The sums rose frantically. He succumbed. "Please, my lord, have a seat. I shall remedy the situation immediately."

Armin remained standing for a second, then sat down. People like Elliot wanted things to go their way, even if they did not know their way was someone else's. To leave now would have angered the thug. People with power did not like to be snubbed.

"Ian!" Elliot shouted. A clerk materialized from one of the side doors. "Here's a list. All transactions for the past..."

"Year," Armin added.

"Year. Now."

Ian disappeared.

They sat for a while in silence. Galina stared at Elliot without blinking, even when he met her gaze twice before lowering it uncomfortably.

The governor gathered some of his earlier composure. "What kind of business did you conduct with late Shipwright Boune?" he asked casually.

"He built and leased me his ships. Some of them were new keels, others were carracks captained by a variety of Eybalen shipmasters. I would use them when and how I saw fit."

Elliot nodded. Sometimes, all people needed was a flake of thyme in a bowl of shit to think it was broth.

It took almost an hour for Ian to return. Armin managed the small talk quite well, giving away very little, never letting the other's curiosity draw him toward uncharted territories. The bank clerk was followed by another man, both of them buckling under the weight of documents.

"I will keep these in my office. You are welcome to come by any time you need," Elliot assured him.

"I might send some of my slave accountants," Armin said, as if the matters of small numbers were too trivial for him. "What I would like to know now is the status of my assets with late Shipwright Boune."

Elliot handed him the file. Armin suppressed a smile and opened it. He began reading patiently, going over details he had seen in the Grand Archive so many times. But now, the items had a different face, one marked in numbers.

Expenditures, earnings, loans...he pored over the pages. Here and there, he paused, wrote something in a notebook, as if he had stumbled upon a minor accountant's mistake.

Suddenly, figures began to rise, dramatically.

"I do not recall making any large payments to Shipwright Boune on this date." He pointed. Then, he produced a number of false accounting reports from one of his own binders, all written in Sirtai, and began to compare. Elliot was overwhelmed with details.

"Ian, here," the governor barked. "My assistant will check if that sum was deposited in your name." He leaned forward. "Usually, we have a very strict policy regarding the privacy of our customers. But I believe it is in the best interest of both our sides that we start our cooperation with a clean slate."

Armin smiled. "Your effort is highly appreciated."

Ian returned and placed a folded note before the governor. Elliot smiled. "It appears that Shipwright Boune had other investors besides you."

The investigator nodded. "That's understandable."

"We also believe that Shipwright Boune conducted business through several banks and not just our own. Therefore, I cannot guarantee that the information you will receive here is complete. But the balance is positive, and there are no known debts in our records."

Armin leaned back. "That's reassuring. Of course, my accountant will have to check all of the records in detail, but the matter of Shipwright Boune's death worries me."

"Of course," Elliot agreed, encouraged. He felt there could be a nice juicy deal after all.

Armin looked at his wife. "There's one last thing."

The governor kept his smile pasted. "Yes, Lord Norssin."

"That figure stands apart from the rest," Armin said, pointing at the solitary line again. "I would appreciate if you could tell me who financed Shipwright Boune on that particular occasion?"

Elliot blinked with shock. "I...I believe I cannot divulge that information."

Armin cracked his knuckles in feigned irritation. "You see, round that particular time, I lost a very important business deal. I would be most interested to know who my rivals are. Now, I'm aware that you must preserve the privacy of your other customers."

Galina bent and reached for the small bag Armin had brought with him. Unconsciously, the governor straightened in his chair, craning his neck ever so slightly. Armin's wife placed the bag on the desk.

"Inside this bag is a letter of credit worth twenty thousand gold marks. A payment of goodwill that should guarantee a fruitful business relationship."

Elliot did not touch the bag, but his mind was racing. Armin was well aware that even the most decadent popinjay in Eybalen could not easily shrug off such a sum.

The governor clicked his tongue. It was his turn to attempt blackmail. "How can Bank Trust serve your interests?"

Armin looked the governor in the eye without blinking. "My analysts estimate that the demand for rare spices and potions is absolutely staggering. My intentions are to establish a trading post in Eybalen, with exclusive distribution rights for at least a decade."

"How would you choose the distributor?"

"Most likely a public tender, but with worthy partners and a strong business relationship established beforehand, it might not be necessary."

Elliot's blank expression was ridiculous. "What are your demands in return for your initial deposit?"

Armin rolled his eyes, as if recalling a careful calculation. "Thirty to one, with seventeen marks per thousand annual interest, with fifty marks per thousand share after the third year of distribution."

Elliot whistled without a sound. "Three million marks is a considerable sum even for some of the oldest and biggest guilds in the city."

"With the expected yearly circulation of more than two, I believe the initial investment should not matter much."

That was it. Armin had spent the best part of his cunning both as an investigator and a rich Sirtai. Now, he had to hope that the bank governor would be greedy enough to forfeit the traditions of his bank and tell Armin what he needed to know.

Elliot was not writing, but he was calculating. His eyes flitted rapidly as he crunched numbers. Armin knew that his little show would not survive the scrutiny of a team of seasoned accountants, but he did not need it to. He had no intention of elongating the short and mythical life of Ronald Wan'der Norssin. It was an outrage and a diplomatic scandal, but those things should never bother a real investigator.

The governor sighed. His hand reached and drew the bag closer. Armin's price for a name. People got killed for far, far less.

"Please, I must insist, this conversation never took place."

Armin nodded. "You have my word."

Elliot handed the folded note. Armin took it and read.

It said: _Davar_.

**CHAPTER 24**

Ayrton was not sure why Matriarch Alda had decided to heed his advice in the end. For some reason, she must have realized going back to Talmath would be suicide. He did not believe she had really spoken to her goddess, but he was grateful for it nonetheless.

He hated the patriarchs from Talmath, though. He was shocked by their blatant hypocrisy, by their disregard for the lives of the people who trusted them. The patriarchs were supposed to defend the people from the perils of the world; they were not supposed to hurl their souls into the Abyss.

Their motivation for lying and deceiving the people still eluded him. Twisting reality to boost morale was a known trick. Denying reality was suicide. The Caytoreans were just too strong.

It was obvious that fewer people would answer the Call if they knew the Cause was lost. But what were the patriarchs trying to achieve by sacrificing these people? Stall the enemy? Hurt him as much as possible before the imminent defeat?

Whatever the reason, the patriarchs did not relent. They went into villages, blessed people and held speeches, rousing the young and the foolish to a doomed campaign. The convoy would march on west, while masses of badly armed peasants walked into the jaws of death in the east.

Small groups of fighters passed them all the time, every day. Bad news of the war had not yet reached the western parts of the Territories. People were buoyant and defiant. No one spoke of the tens of thousands of refugees and the countless dead left to rot in towns and villages. Hordes of soldiers of the gods, many of them Outsiders, rode to fight the invaders, unaware of the horrible fate that had met so many of their comrades.

Ayrton was convinced that within days defections would begin, turning to outright mutinies and brigandage. Unfortunately, too many Outsiders had not really given up their former ways, mainly pushed them away, out of sight.

But he would not let that happen to him. He had sworn.

His little army was down to only about a thousand people, soldier and civilian alike. Most of the refugees had melted away. Those who remained followed his lead because they had nothing else left in their miserable lives. Yet others followed only because someone led and made the decision for them. And there was a group Ayrton did not like, a group of men with avaricious looks on their savage faces, who respected only fear. His domain over them was flimsy at best. He knew he could not control them indefinitely. Sooner or later, they were going to challenge his authority, and then blood would be shed.

Sheep and wolves, all following a fool.

His self-spelled portent of doom came two days later. A band of Outsiders tried to rape Matriarch Alda.

Ayrton awoke to a torrent of screams and shouting. He ran out of his tent into a rainy night, naked, with a sword in hand. Several Outsiders lay dead or dying, their blood mingling with rainwater. Sloshing through mud, he fought his way toward the epicenter of calamity.

Torches sputtered, trying to survive the storm, making the weakest of lights by which he navigated his way around wagons and tents. Not far from where he slept, a group of patriarchs had taken shelter under the thick branches of an old chestnut that provided some lee from the elements.

Now, the ancient tree was a witness to a gruesome fight, unarmed patriarchs and several soldiers fighting a horde of monsters intent on rape. Matriarch Alda was in their hands, and they struggled with the choice between stripping her clothes off and fending off men who opposed them.

Unseen by either group, Ayrton hopped toward the carnage and hid behind a tree. They had camped at the outskirts of a forest, where they had hoped to avoid the worst of the bad weather that had haunted them for the last several days.

Matriarch Alda was screaming madly. People were cursing and growling like animals. Swords rang. Ayrton waited for a few moments, breathing hard and deeply, trying to get his bearings. The illumination was horribly weak. He could guess shapes at best. Still, he did not hesitate when he rushed from his hiding.

The first man never saw him coming, only felt a cold length of wet steel through his neck. Ayrton did not waste time talking, negotiating, or merely wounding. He cut through flesh and bone as efficiently as possible. The second man collapsed.

The remaining three noticed him, let go of the matriarch, and charged together. He spun and slid in the mud, collided into the chestnut with his back and shoulder, cursed silently as blades rained about him. He was winded within seconds.

But his opponents were drunk. Their movements were sluggish, inaccurate. The third man dropped dead, clutching his guts. The remaining two yielded.

Suddenly, the enraged and shocked crowd of onlookers became a mob of rabid animals. Picking up dead branches and stones, they attacked the two Outsiders. Ayrton found himself defending the very men he had tried to kill only a moment earlier.

"No! No! Stop. They must live so we can hang them before all!" A fist punched him, tearing open his upper lip. A stone bounced off his shoulder. "The justice of the gods must be served." He stood over the two cowering drunkards, sword poised to strike if need be. The crowd lost its momentum. Ayrton almost dropped to his knees, exhausted.

Matriarch Alda rose and started wiping clots of mud off her shredded dress. It was a symbolic gesture. She looked him in the eye. "Thank you, soldier. You are a true servant of the gods."

Ayrton nodded mutely, too tired to speak anymore.

In the morning, they hanged the two offenders. There was a shortage of rope in their camp, so they used a chain, hanging the matriarch's would-be rapists in turns. All of the patriarchs, including the survivors from Talmath, presided over the executions. They preached for a long time on morality and compassion. Ayrton listened to the empty words with growing anger. The people, who had abandoned an entire city and left its souls to die, dared tell others about morality and compassion. After the sermon came a series of prayers.

While praying, Ayrton let his eyes survey the Outsiders, watching the lips that moved and lips that stayed still. He could see derision and disbelief written plainly on some of those grubby, unshaven faces.

Ayrton wondered if his life were not an illusion. If the Territories were not an illusion. He had honestly believed that people deserved a second chance, believed that there was always something good in the world, no matter what evil things people did. He was the living proof. He had come to the holy land and asked for forgiveness. And they had given it to him freely, unreservedly, a gift of life.

When they had called him to join the Cause, he had ridden gladly, honored to be able to give back some of the love they had shown him.

Now, he could see that it had all been a farce, a farce that worked while everyone had their bellies filled and a roof above their heads. But the moment they faced a test of faith, they shed their hides of pretense, and vile, foul, selfish beings rose from within.

Ayrton did not presume to be able to understand the grand schemes of the gods. The patriarchs and matriarchs would do everything to see the Safe Territories survive this ugly war. But the price was too high. They sent people to their deaths without blinking. Worst of all, they gave people false hope, the most horrible kind of treason.

The leaders of the land had failed. They did not seem to have a vision, no clear goal. The recruitment of fodder was sporadic, unorganized. Bands of soldiers wandered aimlessly like headless chickens. The Safe Territories would not survive if this mess continued.

The patriarchs had to unite the people, the entire people. But all they had were the confused and idealist fools like himself. And the first moment they could, they fled, leaving the people to die.

Soon after the hangings, the patriarchs summoned him.

His heart hammering with dread, he walked into the forest, where they waited for him. Matriarch Alda was with them, her face bruised from the beating she had suffered last night. Ayrton's lip was swollen, impeding his speech.

"You are a brave man," she said.

He was quiet.

"You have saved us from those infidels. The gods and goddesses are grateful."

Ayrton could not stand it any longer. "Why have you abandoned Talmath?" he whispered.

Their pious faces darkened. "Have faith in the gods, son. They have a plan."

"You left a whole city to die," he spoke in a barely audible tone.

The same priest who had accused him of sedition smiled softly. "Everyone has their place in the plan. Some people have to die so others can live. There are so many things you do not know. I can understand your anger."

"Everyone deserves a second chance," he hissed.

"You are a good and a passionate man," Alda said. "My goddess says so."

Ayrton felt a chill go down his spine. "Why have you fled the city?"

"We have not fled Talmath. We left because we were ordered to do so."

"Why? By whom?"

"People must have hope," the priest said.

"What do you want from me?" Ayrton growled.

"We want to charge you with a holy quest," Alda said. "Goddess Selena has a mission for you."

"I will not give my life over to some nameless Caytorean so you can flee again," he said.

"My goddess told me a very special man would come. One who holds dear the lives of others above his own. A man of virtue. When you came from Talmath, leading those refugees, I was hopeful. But after you saved my life last night, I knew for sure."

Ayrton felt his throat constrict with fury. "Why are you sending all those fools to die? They cannot defeat the Caytoreans. The enemy has a well-organized, professional army. You are sending bands of simpletons to fight them. All those people going east will die."

The patriarch who accused him before bore a look of pain and sympathy on his face now. "We know that, son. We know. It hurts us, but we have no choice. They must die so we can save others."

"Why?"

"They must die so you will have enough time."

Ayrton felt his head spin. He was an Outsider, a man who had fled to Territories to escape atrocity, to escape horror and pain and responsibility.

"You let Talmath die on purpose?" he whispered.

"It could not be defended. You have been there; you have seen it yourself. But had we ordered the city to evacuate, the Caytoreans would have been now before the gates of Jaruka, with everyone from Talmath to here dead."

"Our people must fight, even if it's a hopeless war," Alda added.

"The Safe Territories have become a slaughterhouse," he groaned, confused.

"Yes. Many will die. But we shall know the true from the false. We shall know the righteous from impostor. Thousands will die, but thousands more will live. Your mission is more important. You have to save the Territories."

Ayrton shook his head. "The Caytoreans cannot be defeated by us. We cannot stop them."

Alda nodded sadly. "Eventually, they will overrun every city in the land. It cannot be prevented. The Safe Territories will cease to exist as a land, but the idea must live. You must save the essence of the Territories. That's the only thing that really matters."

The Outsider had never been so confused in his whole life. His anger was waning, to be replaced with despair. "What do you want from me?" he groaned, defeated.

"We want you to go into the City of Gods and save the gods," Alda said.

Silence. "The City of Gods is a myth," Ayrton said after a very long pause. He took a step back, stumbling on a branch. "You are mad."

"There is more to life than just our petty needs. You may hate us and think us for liars and cowards, but that does not matter. All that matters is that you save the gods," the patriarch spoke, his voice soft and compassionate.

"You are the servants of gods. Why don't you save them yourselves?"

Alda stepped forward quickly, grabbed his hand between her soft palms; her skin was cold. "We are doing our duty. You must do yours. You must find the city and save the gods."

"I don't believe you," he croaked.

The patriarchs closed on him, encircling him, a wall of rustling silk and color. He felt disoriented, dizzy.

Another nameless face spoke, "Whenever a believer dies, a deity loses some of its power. The Caytoreans are slowly killing the gods. When the gods have no more believers left, they will die."

A second voice piped in, "As long as there are believers somewhere, anywhere, the gods will live. The enemy cannot kill every believer in the world. But this war is weakening the gods. Whenever a temple falls or a shrine is razed, our creators lose more of their power. Soon, they will become so weak even humans will be able to kill them. You must save them. You must find the gods and save them."

"Men cannot kill gods," Ayrton growled, terrified.

"Men can kill the body that hosts a deity. A strong god would simply seek a new vessel, take a new form. But enfeebled as our gods are becoming, they might not have the necessary strength to do it one more time. They would become disembodied spirits. Their presence in our world would fade. They would soon become forgotten. Slowly, with time, religion would die out."

Alda stroked his cheek, like a mother. Her eyes were wet. "Our prophets have tried to warn us, but no man knows the future until it has already happened. We have only one hope left. It's you."

Ayrton sank to his knees. "I don't believe you."

"As long as the City of Gods stands, living men cannot enter save one, a man whose heart is true and pure. You must find the city; you must enter and warn the gods. They will not have known about the wars. It has been a long time since the gods took interest in the world of men."

The priests stood all around and above him. He struggled to breathe. This was a nightmare. "You must find the gods and convince them to flee. You must save them."

Alda patted his head. "In Jaruka, it will all become clear to you."

**CHAPTER 25**

Mayhem in the camp. Adam woke from his sleep, lights dancing before his eyes.

A few moments later, the tent flap stirred. "Sir, sorry to wake you up," one of the night guards announced. "I have an important message."

"I'm awake," he murmured, pinching his nose bridge. His neck hurt.

"A Caytorean messenger wishes to speak to you," the guard said. "He says he's got a message for you and will not deliver it to anyone else."

Adam sobered almost instantly. "Don't hurt him. I'll come out soon." Lumbering about in almost total darkness, he found the washbasin by feel and splashed his face with a few lukewarm drops.

Several minutes later, he came out, hastily dressed and unarmed, his hair disheveled, a stain of spittle on the collar of his nightshirt. Around him, a circle of cressets made him squint.

There were soldiers everywhere, in a mixed state of curiosity, alertness, and anxiety. The night was annoyingly warm. Adam walked past the sputtering torches, following Lieutenant Gerard, who had also been roused. A knot of crossbowmen closed around him in a protective loop.

"What's going on?" Adam asked, his voice casual.

"A man arrived half an hour ago, from the east, claiming he carries an important message for you. He is dressed in plain gray clothes with no insignia. He says he's a Caytorean, but he does not serve in the army."

"An assassin?" Adam asked.

"We thought so. He does look quite benign, which, frankly, really bothers me all the more."

"Let's see what he wants."

His men took no chances. They had erected a cage around the messenger. It was a simple structure of linen sheets, but it obstructed the man's view and would stop darts, needles, knives, or any other kind of ranged weapon. Lieutenant Gerard had had the man stripped, but found nothing on him.

Close to fifty soldiers encircled the absurd cage. Adam tried to approach, but Lieutenant Gerard would not let him.

"Hey, you! Major Adam is here. Deliver your message."

There was a silence from the behind the sheets. "Greetings, Adam the Butcher," the man spoke, evoking a wave of murmurs among the Eracians. "I'm here on behalf of Lord Erik, a Caytorean noble who wishes to speak to you. He wants to meet you now, several miles east of your camp."

"Maybe I could just kill myself," Adam suggested.

"Lord Erik would like you to believe his words, but he does not know of any possible way he could convince you. This is no trap."

Adam stood like a statue. "Lower the sheets," he said.

Lieutenant Gerard looked like a man about to cry. "Please, sir, no. It's dangerous."

Adam grabbed the man by the shoulders and moved him sideways. "There, now you'll be my shield."

Two soldiers cautiously approached the cage, as if a rabid beast hid inside, and released the sheets.

The Caytorean was naked and bound, hand and foot. Massive chains were snaked around his wrists and weighted down by a heavy stone. Rags were wrapped around his hands to keep him from scratching anyone deliberately; poison could be hidden beneath the nails.

"I'm here," one of the soldiers said, pretending to be Adam, another precaution by his men.

The confused, if determined, messenger turned to face the pretender. No bolt of lightning shot from his mouth when he spoke. "Lord Erik begs that you meet him."

"You can tell Lord Erik to come here, then," Lieutenant Gerard piped in.

The man was adamant; Adam admired his bravery. "Lord Erik insists that you meet in person, tonight, away from too many eyes and ears. He guarantees your safety."

Adam leaned and whispered in Gerard's ear. "Prepare an escort party."

Gerard groaned. He motioned for his men to cover the messenger again. The soldier threw the linen over his head. He stood like some ridiculous statue, naked and patient, the roundness of his head gently bobbing with slow breaths beneath the white cloth.

"You cannot go, sir. Please."

"I believe this meeting could be important."

"It's a trap."

Adam pointed at his subordinate. "Somehow, I don't believe it is. But I sincerely appreciate your worry. Now, let's get going. I want to meet this Lord Erik. He seems to have something very important to tell me. I want to see him and get back before dawn."

Lieutenant Gerard swallowed, his face pale. "Aye, sir."

"You're in charge of my security. Organize the best escort you can think of, but make it small and efficient. Let's keep this whole affair quiet. I don't want any of the colonels interfering."

Gerard took the task seriously. He mustered a hundred cavaliers and armed them with crossbows. Then, he dispatched more than a dozen scouts east to patrol the area and search for a Caytorean ambush. Finally, he forced Adam to wear the heaviest hauberk and helmet he could find.

They set out quickly, a sizable portion of the camp wide awake and watching them with curiosity. Luckily, most of the commotion was restricted to his part of the camp. Mali and her officers slept quietly on the far end of Virgin's Blood.

He knew that word would spread in the morning. By then, he would know what he needed to know.

Adam sweated in the heavy outfit. His shoulders ached, unaccustomed to the feel and weight of the thick plate. Anxious soldiers trotted about, scouting into the night, crossbows cocked and ready. They took twice the time needed to cross the short distance.

One of the scouts came back and reported the presence of a small body of men not far from their position. Lieutenant Gerard ordered the group encircled.

Whoever Lord Erik was, he took the little show rather stoically, patiently waiting for the menacing group of Eracians to completely surround him and level their crossbows at his heart. The dozen men in his company did not move, standing idly about like some moronic honor guard. A single torch burned.

Adam found the scene surreal. He dismounted, despite vehement protests from his officers, and started forward. The helmet irritated him, and he took it off. Several soldiers rushed to his side, physically blocking his path, shielding him from potential threats.

Adam had to push and shove. Finally, they relented and let him walk. He came within about four paces of Lord Erik and paused.

The man facing him was a friendly-looking grandfather, with silver hair and mustache, and smart spectacles on his eyes. By his side stood a little boy, his eyes huge with curiosity, but no fear. Adam waved his men lower their weapons. They only half listened; the crossbows now threatened everyone's genitals and the boy's head.

"What a splendid demonstration of Eracian military prowess. I'm impressed," the man spoke in perfect Eracian dialect. "I'm Lord Erik. This is my grandson, Robin. But you can call him Rob."

Adam nodded. "I'm Adam the Butcher."

Lord Erik snapped his fingers. One of the Eracians almost jumped. "Ah, yes. I heard you coined that name. Very subtle."

"What is the purpose of this meeting?" Adam was slightly impatient. The man's obvious indifference at the heavy presence of enemy soldiers irritated him.

"I would like to congratulate you, Adam the Butcher. You're doing a splendid job."

"You could have written that in your message."

Lord Erik snapped his fingers again. "But then you would not have really paid attention to my words. Now that I have it, I want to offer you a bargain."

Adam considered killing the small group of Caytoreans and leaving, but some deep instinct stayed his hand. "Go ahead."

"I would appreciate if less people heard the words I'm about to say," the friendly grandfather suggested. "I know you find it highly suspicious, but this is no ruse. My smile has nothing but the most benign of meanings. Please order your men to step back a few paces. I'd like to talk to you alone."

Adam looked about. A hundred Eracians had their weapons ready. If anything happened, no one would survive.

"Let us take the boy as a hostage," Lieutenant Gerard offered.

Lord Erik bent slightly. "You see, Rob? Imagination is the most vicious weapon of all. I am an old man, and you are a child, and yet they fear us more than a whole five of Caytor's best."

Adam thought the man was a lunatic. But he was not really sure.

"I will not let my grandson be touched by your troops," Lord Erik said. "He will remain by my side. If you find him or me too threatening, then do retreat. Be aware that I'll never again approach you with my offer, though."

Lieutenant Gerard tried to speak. Adam raised a hand, silencing him. "Everyone take ten steps back. If anything happens, kill these people. Watch for any signs of an enemy force approaching."

Slowly, reluctantly, the cloying ring of men parted. An island of peace opened around Adam and the stranger. Only the faint stink of sweat remained.

Lord Erik reached forward. He held a book in his hand. A simple, ordinary book.

"What is that?" Adam asked, his suspicion boiling again.

"I believe you can tell a book by its shape," Lord Erik said, the tiniest trace of mockery in his clear, beautiful voice. "I know you are an illiterate man. Perhaps this book will prompt you to learn to read and write. No man can be a great leader if he lacks education."

Adam did not reach out his hand.

"This book is a gift, given freely. Take it."

Adam's fingers closed on the old volume. It felt as ordinary as a piece of wood.

"Do not give this book to anyone or let anyone read it. It's meant for you only, once you master the letters. I hope you are a curious man."

"Why do you want me to read a book? Why are you giving it to me?"

Lord Erik smiled reassuringly. It was the loving smile of the best grandfather in the world. "I want you to know what's written in that book. It's a gift for your great military achievements in the last several weeks."

"I'm killing Caytoreans." Adam stated the obvious.

"I need to tell you some things," Lord Erik continued, without missing a beat. "Like Eracia, Caytor pools its soldiers from the commoners. The noble retainers are a thing of the past in both our countries. Most of the army men are simple people, peasants and small townsfolk with little wealth and few worries beyond their immediate needs.

"Such people do not like complexities. They tend to overlook them, to ignore them. On the other hand, when something very simple, very primal comes their way, they tend to take it very seriously. That's one of the reasons why most soldiers are...very mediocre people. Smart people have qualms when it comes to hacking bone and muscle every day."

Adam listened, his fascination growing.

"In Caytor, a religious faction appeared out of nowhere twenty years ago. This faction follows a god called Feor. A god that was unheard of until that time. Feor is a very simple god. A very simple god for very simple people."

"I've heard of Feor," Adam said. Like most Eracians, they treated it as another exotic, faraway fad.

"Most of the Caytorean common folk worship Feor, including the military. You could almost say that the entire army is under the spell of this new god and his protagonists. The Caytorean higher society does not like this situation."

Around him, the night was silent, save for the nervous whinnies of horses and the short staccatos of hooves on soft ground.

"Most nobles and rich people in Caytor are very secular. Even before the Movement of Feor rose, we paid very little heed to the religious institutions. But now, our interests are in jeopardy. Most of the countryside is virtually ruled by the Feorans. Other than in the large cities, we hold almost no sway over the commoners. Our resources are getting thinner. So, we lack the manpower to purge this epidemic."

"What has all this got to do with me?"

"Here enter you, Adam the Butcher. You are a vile Eracian soldier, inflicting huge casualties on the Caytorean army—and indirectly, to the Movement. You are decimating the ranks of our very enemies. The Feorans are no longer so convinced in their supremacy. The campaign in the Territories is not progressing so well. There are rumors that Feor disapproves of the war, that he even favors you."

"That's nonsense," Adam snapped.

"Definitely. But most people spend their entire lives wrapped in a bubble of nonsense. Regardless, you have given hope back to the Caytorean nobility. We thank you for it, and we wish to help you succeed."

"I wonder who the traitor would be. You, for helping an enemy, or me, for accepting that help."

Lord Erik touched his spectacles, pushing them higher up his nose. "Neither. We both act in the best interests of our realms. You are fighting an enemy and winning. You have restored the glory and pride back to the Eracian ranks. On the other hand, we have a secular champion who manages to do what we cannot."

Adam rolled his eyes as he considered this.

Lord Erik continued, "When the fighting ends, the Eracians will find themselves a nation led by secular elements, reasonable and rational elements. You might bring about the first real attempts at peace between our realms."

"Why would this war be any different from those we've fought in the past?"

Lord Erik cheered at the cue Adam provided. "Because back then, Eracia did not have a secular, rational leader."

Adam's breath caught in his throat. "You are proposing that I betray the monarch."

"Not at all. You will be helping your monarch. Have you not noticed that there has been very little involvement from either the council in Eybalen or the monarch in Somar? That's because our leaders are weak, terribly weak. They lack the charisma and the power to inspire people. And you have them both. You can change the course of history."

"You suggest that I dispose of the monarch?" Adam fumed.

Lord Erik's brows shot up. "No, no. I suggest that you destroy the Caytorean army. The nobility will support you. And when you win the war, they will be very grateful. You will have brought peace to our realms, but more importantly, you will bring about the new era of sanity to the world, a world ruled by people of reason and wit, a world without foolish notions of divinity."

Adam found himself nodding. A world without gods. It was such a splendid idea. But something was wrong.

Lord Erik sensed it. "If you win this war, no one will be able to oppose you, not even the monarch. There will be a huge opposition to your campaign once you unleash it, but once they realize you're winning, they'll flock to your side like dearest sons."

The grandfather patted Rob's head. The boy was listening raptly.

"We will help you. We will channel weapons and information. Now, tell me. What was your next move? West, against the forces besieging the holy cities?"

That was the plan. Mali had sketched it, and her officers agreed. "Yes."

Lord Erik shook his head in disapproval. "I think that would be a grave mistake. Leave the holy cities to burn. What do they mean to you anyway? If you attacked west, you would win a few easy victories against the Caytoreans, but you would not have secured the border. You will gain so much more if you invade Caytor and move against Roalas. It's one of the largest cities in the west of Caytor. It is also one of the few cities we nobles no longer control. It's a nest of Feoran infection. If you raze it, you will have dealt a colossal moral blow to the Movement and probably gained control of the entire region. The Feorans will be in panic."

Adam looked at Lord Erik's men. They stood like servants, arms folded in front of them, eyes locked into infinity. The Eracians looked like a flock of sheep guarding wolves, on the brink of panic. The horizon twitched with the comings and goings of riders. Still, there was no sign of an ambush.

"If I accept this, what then?"

"We will give you money and weapons. If you attack Roalas, siege machines, too." Lord Erik made a small gesture. Two of his men stopped being statues and approached the black carriage that stood behind the old man and his grandson, opened the door, and produced a heavy chest from within. Staggering under the weight, they hobbled up toward Adam and let the chest drop. It clinked. One of them unlocked it and flipped the top open. Pure gold smiled at Adam.

"We will finance mercenaries for you, if you'd accept them. We intend to supply you with five thousand crossbows within two weeks. Our armories are bursting with weapons. We have the tools, but we lack users."

Adam's head swam. A world without gods. It sounded like a mad dream.

"You seem like a man without purpose in life. Most people without purpose are either very happy or very sad." Lord Erik paused. "And you do not look happy. This is your chance to avenge yourself. This is your chance to strike out at the gods and the people who have given you nothing."

For just a split second, Adam considered ordering his men to fire. It would be so easy. On the other hand, dead men had nothing to lose.

He opened his mouth and said, "I accept."

**CHAPTER 26**

General-Patriarch Davar crushed the report in his fist, threw it on the ground, and stepped on it. Feor was always testing him.

Adam the Butcher had surprised him again. Instead of moving west into the Territories, he had taken his forces into the heart of Caytor, away from the war. It seemed he had underestimated his opponent.

He had deliberately stalled his advance against the heathens and fortified his positions in and around Talmath, expecting the Eracians to attack him. The entire operation had been in vain. The Eracians were marching into Caytor, against Roalas, one of the strongholds of the Movement.

Davar could abandon the holy war and retreat, closing on the Eracians from behind. The enemy would be caught in a vise, between the battlefront veterans and the defenders in the homeland. Or he could move west, against Jaruka and other unholy cities in Talmath, leaving Caytor to fend for itself. This would severely cripple his rear, thinning his reinforcements and supplies.

All evidence pointed in the direction of the first choice. But he knew this was not what his god wanted. Feor wanted him to destroy the Territories, to destroy the false gods.

Still, deep inside, he itched to meet this Adam, burned with desire to defeat him in combat, personally. It was almost an obsession. He even dreamed of that godless bastard.

Yet, he did not know what to make of Adam. He was extremely popular among the soldiers. But the rumors said the patriarchs viewed him as a menace of the worst kind, even worse than Feorans and this new war. While the Feorans sought to exterminate followers of other religions, they still believed in a deity. Adam professed godlessness, the gravest of sins. Despite his valiant stand against their enemies, the patriarchs still considered excommunicating him.

If Adam were a Feoran, he would have been a great leader. But he was not, and therefore, his ungodly ideals had to die.

At least the conquest of Talmath, Poereni, and Mista were done. The dens of evil in the eastern Territories had been purged, hundreds of temples and shrines burned and toppled, tens of thousands of false believers put to death. Feor was mightier than ever.

His fives were consolidating, merging into a huge, invincible army south and west of Talmath, converging onto the blood-soaked plains of the central Territories. A huge garrison still remained in the city, prepared to check any flanking attack by the Eracians, but it seemed this would never come. Quite the opposite, the Eracians seemed intent on waiting for him, having set up a chain of forts in the Bakler Hills, all the way to the border.

After he purged the Territories, there would be another war waiting for him. He would have to dislodge the Eracian infestation in the northeastern Territories, maybe even fight to reclaim some of Caytorean soil that could be lost due to the pesky invasion. But that could wait.

Rumors of an ever-growing conflict had reached him, although he could not be sure if they were true. The Eracian monarch seemed to have started taking interest in and liking this war. If that were, indeed, the case, that was bad news. Davar did not favor another front, a direct conflict between the two realms. The Eracian Eastern Army would strike directly into northern Caytor, where the presence of the Movement was relatively small. Such an act would serve the purposes of the decadent and corrupt and ungodly nobility of Caytor, shift the odds in their favor and against the Feorans. They would blame the Movement for the war, turn the people against the one true religion. He could not let that happen.

His Pum'be assassin would be really busy in the following months.

All signs indicated that he should retreat and defeat the Eracians. But he knew what his god desired. He did not know why Feor had chosen him. Maybe it was his fervor, his commitment. Of all people, Feor had spoken to him.

Twenty years ago, he had been afraid and skeptic. Now, he had no doubts or fear left. The path before him was clear.

The sun was setting, lighting the patch of forest behind him on fire. The first signs of autumn were already visible. It was colder, it rained more often, and the trees were changing their colors. Days were getting shorter too. Soon, marches would become slower and more difficult. Storms would turn the roads to mud, making passage for carts and mules riskier.

He had to conquer Jaruka within a month and begin the hunt for the false gods.

Despite their crushing defeat in all the major cities, the people of the Territories still came against his forces, breaking their teeth against the stone-hard hide of the Feoran war machine. Sporadic encounters were reported daily, with small groups of fanatics and desperate Outsiders. These mosquito bites were annoying, but could do nothing to change the fate of the Territories. The false gods were doomed.

For all their misplaced zeal, the people of the unholy land were pragmatic. Many Outsiders, mostly Caytoreans in their former lives, were flocking to his side, begging to join and convert. Davar commanded several large units of these criminals. They were very eager to prove their worth in combat. He called them the Reformed.

A horn sounded. The lookouts warned of an unknown party approaching. The camp around Davar stirred to lazy alertness as bored soldiers abandoned dice, cards, and drinking. Last night, a special delivery of Feoran whores had arrived in the camp, to the great delight of his troops. Having been forbidden from keeping infidel female prisoners for their amusement, the soldiers had been extremely testy in the last few weeks. Davar had funneled that primal, bestial anger against Talmath.

The former city of false gods was now a new, clean place. All relics of the old religions had been destroyed, stone by stone. No temple or shrine had been left standing. Just as it had died, Talmath was being born again, with new faith coursing through its veins. It would be a military city for some time, but eventually it would be a pilgrim site for Feorans, a monument of love and dedication to the one true god, a monument of victory.

"Protect the general-patriarch," one of his senior officers barked.

Several bodyguards detached from the crowd of filthy furs and leathers and rushed forward to block the path toward Davar. A cloud of dust on the horizon slowly transformed into a single rider, galloping toward him. The guards briefly halted the man, then let him through.

General-Patriarch Davar waited. Another messenger? He had not expected so many urgent dispatches. The army was well coordinated, most units in place.

The young Feoran approached, bowed, and handed him a hide tube. Davar fished inside, producing a roll of waxed paper. He unfurled it and read. A hint of a smile twitched his lips. It was not a grimace of joy; it was acceptance of one's fate.

The report spoke of fifty thousand Parusites riding north. They had defeated the Caytorean garrison in Mista and taken the city. The southern Territories were lost to King Vlad the Fifth, the current incarnation of Parusite royalty.

It was all a test.

**CHAPTER 27**

King Vlad rode in the front, surrounded by his nobles and his best bodyguards. Behind him, a thousand knights followed, a thunder of hooves. Ahead of him, half a mile away, several thousand Caytoreans were on the retreat, fleeing the battlefield.

Mista had fallen in a matter of days, so great his brilliance as a war leader was. The battered enemy had abandoned the city and congregated near the border, hoping to escape the wrath of the ferocious enemy. But Vlad was not going to let them escape. He would not allow them to sit out the defeat and then scurry into Caytor.

The trapped enemy was now inching toward the bridge that spanned over the Telore River, the natural border between the Territories and Caytor. Parusite troops were on both banks.

The Caytoreans had nowhere else to go; the bridge was the only crossing point for many miles. Anticipating the cowardice of his foes, Vlad had sent a large contingent of his forces across the Telore, into Caytor. They now held the bridge, with hundreds of pikemen waiting for enemy flesh, with rows of archers and mangonels aligned in the rear. The neighboring Caytorean villages were charred ruins, smoke eddying from their split carcasses.

Having witnessed the ferocity of the Parusite attacks in the city, the enemy knew they had no choice. They had to cross the river and escape—or die. The bridge was of sturdy but narrow construction, wide enough to allow maybe four armored soldiers abreast. With close to a whole five of stragglers, the Telore River was going to stream bright red by nightfall, King Vlad knew.

"My king, please slow down. Our troops cannot follow you," Duke Maris, one of his lieges, shouted.

Vlad looked behind him and cackled. It was only natural that he would outpace everyone else. He was the best rider in the realm, and he had the finest horse. His bodyguards were desperately struggling to keep up.

He had only allowed the mounted archers to outflank him so they could harry the enemy troops. But no one else was to taste the blood of his foes before him.

The farthest ranks of the fleeing enemy were near the river now. Some soldiers were shedding their armor and jumping into the cold water, trying to swim to the far shore. Others were wading aimlessly in the shallows, trying to hide in the reeds. Already his archers were peppering them with high-lobbed shots, which made the river look as if it rained.

Mangonels twanged, hurling rocks into the cold, gray autumn sky. Pikemen pressed into a tight bunch, waiting for the first Caytoreans, halfway down the bridge.

The enemy was pushing and shoving, a hive of frantic human bodies jammed against the narrow throat of the bridge. A giant rock landed amidst the Caytoreans, scattering them like rats. Bodies were falling into the Telore.

Vlad wheeled his approach so he was near the center of the enemy force. He wanted to plow a straight line through all that flesh and bone and join with his forces on the other side. The enemy was only a few paces away.

The Caytoreans were turning, trying to make a stand, lifting a spear or a sword, trying to knock a bow with bleeding fingers. They had very little strength left.

Crushing into a sea of meat was no different than jumping onto a fat feathered mattress. You dove in deeply, softly; then you bounced. Men and animals wailed as they were pressed into a cauldron of blades. Bones snapped like twigs; droplets of blood sprayed like a flurry of gentle snowflakes. Screams rose to an inarticulate crescendo, a steady wail of sore, breathless throats.

Vlad lowered his sword and began to hack. He chopped indiscriminately, clearing a path as if he were a trailblazer in a forest. His retainers pressed close on his sides, imitating him. He laughed.

Count Nicola dropped, skewered by a spearman. Other men closed in on the Caytorean, bashing his brains with sword and mace. The smell of blood and feces hit his nose like a solid wall. His guts roiled.

The bridge was an inferno, packed with bodies to the last inch. Motion shuddered through the mass of men as if it were a caterpillar. For those trapped in the middle, there was no room to breathe.

Archers were spreading across the banks, firing into the succulent press of writhing bodies on the bridge. An artillery team was trying to manhandle their huge weapon closer to the bridge so they could hurl the rocks directly into the enemy force. Bodies bobbed in the water, slowly washing away.

Vlad could not move. His mare tried to buck and kick, but it was jammed tight in the wall of flesh around her. Horses were getting skittish, the stench of so much blood too much even for their war-trained nostrils.

The repositioned mangonel fired, a grapeshot of fist-size rocks, point-blank, against the horde on the bridge. A whole swath of soldiers fell and tumbled into the river. Stepping over the bodies, others rushed to fill the space.

After an impossibly long time, the pressure began to ease. Vlad could move again. Like a buffalo dislodging its fat limbs from the muck, the king surged forward, his best and most loyal men at his sides, there to witness the glory of their king.

The enemy's left flank had collapsed. Panicked men were running away, away from the bridge and salvation, chased by his knights, savaged like animals. The smart ones fell to their knees and yielded, hoping for the best.

Arrows began to rain. Vlad frowned. He was very close to the bridge now. Parusite bodkins were falling around them.

The bannermen were waving their streamers frantically, trying to signal the friendly troops to cease their fire. One of those monster machines belched. A giant rock arced into the sky and began to fall, growing bigger. It crashed into the ground not twenty paces away, mangling men into a pulp. A spasm exploded beneath their feet, felt even high up in the saddle. Another projectile followed, a bale of oiled, smoking straw.

The bale disintegrated, cinders and ashes falling all around them. The air was suddenly full of acrid smoke. Men began to writhe, their hair and capes on fire. Arrows zipped with soft, feathery noises.

Vlad fought to dislodge his sword from a man's collarbone. The dead, limp body danced on the end of his blade.

Gradually, the friendly fire abated. Once again, the battlefield was a slaughterhouse, with Caytorean meat on the chopping block.

There were few enemies left, mostly dispersed in the blood-soaked fields, trying to outrun the horses. A small knot of determined, suicidal men still fought on around the bridge. But their fate was sealed.

Fania, his trusted mare, stepped onto the bridge. The thud of hooves turned hollow. The bridge was slick and bright red, awash in human debris. Blood trickled from its sides like melting snow. The footing was treacherous. Metal clanged, but it was symbolic now. Vlad slowly approached the remaining Caytoreans, their back to him, gently stabbing them through the neck or between the shoulder blades. He lopped the head of the last man, bringing the battle to a halt.

Rising in his stirrups, he stabbed at the sky and howled. His dukes followed suit. A cheer went up among his knights and infantrymen.

Night fell. The prisoners were busy collecting the bodies and dragging them to a giant pile, where they would be burned. The Parusites were celebrating their victory, drinking, and torturing the captured officers.

King Vlad the Fifth had postponed his own celebration for the time being. He wanted to question his prisoners.

Followed by most of his nobles, he walked up and down the line of beaten, humiliated Caytoreans, from ten-man leaders to thousand-man leaders.

Vlad was repulsed by the notion of professional armies. Such armies could not have the loyalty or the ferocity of retainer armies. Only through one's unreserved love for the king could a soldier truly become a real warrior. His noblemen adored him and would give up their lives for him. These men were paid to fight, and there was no price higher than staying alive.

Vlad bore down on the highest-ranking captive. The man had been wounded and then beaten. He stood at a crooked angle, nursing his arm and leg, with blood and bandages marring his figure. His face was swollen, one eye shut tight.

"You," Vlad said.

"Who are you?" the soldier whispered.

Maris whipped the man across the calves. Wailing weakly, the enemy officer collapsed. "Watch your tongue, cur. You will show humility when you talk to King Vlad!"

The man panted, slowly recovering. "I want to speak to Adam the Butcher," he croaked.

Vlad frowned. "What?" Maris raised the whip for another blow, but the king waved his hand.

Defiant despite the pain, the thousand-man lifted his eyes. "I want to speak with the commander of the Eracian army."

Vlad stood frozen for a few moments. Then he kicked the man in the stomach. "Eracian army? You fool. You have been defeated by the glorious Parusite King Vlad the Fifth!"

The Caytorean lay, bunched into a knot of agony, gasping for breath. After a while, he hissed, "Well, you'd better pack and run, Parusite. When Adam the Butcher finds you, you won't be so confident."

Furious, Vlad stomped away. Maris drew a knife and sliced the officer's throat.

"War council! Now!" Vlad shrieked.

His nobles ran after him. Their king was in a very fragile state. They kept back, out of his sword reach.

"I will not be overshadowed by some Eracian mongrel! Find out who this Adam is! I want him dead."

Archduke Radik coughed. "My lord, there have been some rumors—"

Vlad threw his sword on the ground. "I don't want rumors! I want facts! Send your spies into enemy camps. I want to know everything about this man."

"It is done, my lord," Radik murmured.

Several nobles exchanged worried glances. They were in the Territories to take land, not to fight phantom enemies. This was not what Queen Olga had promised them.

One of the patriarchs approached. Vlad knelt and let the man bless him. He turned from a rabid dog to a docile puppy in a blink.

"What do you intend to do with those captives, son?" the patriarch asked.

"I want them skinned and a coat made from their hides," the king said.

"You must not desecrate the bodies," the priest chided.

The dukes watched with worry. Egor, Borislav, Vanya, they all looked nervous. They had opposed to bringing the clergy along, knowing they would sanction many of the war's most alluring prospects. But Vlad wanted to be blessed every morning and every night.

"We will interrogate them," Duke Borislav muttered. "We must learn as much as we can about the heathens. We must know our enemy." Rumors of the Movement had reached their ears. The archdukes feared a religious war.

Vlad rose, his eyes bright with firelight. "Have the prisoners tortured. I want to know everything. And find me this Adam. I want him dead!"

The nobles dispersed in silence.

**CHAPTER 28**

Ewan stood on the hillside by the winding road and stared at the magnificent city before him. Eybalen, the capital of Caytor.

The foul weather had not yet touched the sprawling port city. The sea was calm and reflected the sunlight like a sheet of beaten tin, with a thousand twinkling lights. Hundreds of ships moored in the harbor, their masts a forest of leafless trees. Closer, dappled over the gentle, low hills of the bay, the houses and palaces of Eybalen rose, in all forms and colors and wrapped in a miasma of a busy, swarming hive of human life that blurred details.

The road descended toward the city's western quarter, built mostly of low houses. On the hills to the north rose big, brilliant mansions and villas. Carts and people on foot passed him in their hundreds, coming and going. No one paid him any attention, a nameless form in a worn overcoat.

Ewan had never seen a big city, only read about them and imagined them. The view was breathtaking. And...he was afraid.

He was afraid to step into that cauldron of humanity. He was afraid of the intensity of the city, of the claustrophobic density that radiated from the narrow streets. He did not want to be among so many strangers.

The incident at the inn five weeks earlier had left him profoundly mistrustful of humans. He eyed men as predators, never trusting their smiles and open, friendly gestures.

No one had come after him. Apparently, the other patrons found the comfort of the hot inn more appealing than looking after the murderer of their companion. It had come as a shock to him that a man's life could be so trivial. He had seen murder in his monastery, but this was different. This time it was he who had killed.

The fact he was a murderer had been slow in sinking into his bones. Ewan was almost afraid of the apathy he felt, the almost boring emptiness. Taking a life felt very simple, very rudimentary. There were no nightmares or qualms. The mind stupefied itself against self-defeating grief. Survival was the only thing that mattered. This was probably what being an animal, an emotionless automaton, was like.

But he had learned one thing. People preyed on his fresh, innocent face like hawks hunted mice. The scavenged money had come as a blessing. Without it, he would have starved and died. He bought his way into other roadside inns, a different man than the bedraggled kid he had been.

He would speak to no one, avoid eye contact, and sit as close to the door as possible. He paid for his food and bed in advance. When he'd go to sleep, he would barricade the door, propping chairs beneath the doorknob or jamming the bedside chests against the frame, knife at his side.

Only once had one of the patrons tried to molest him. A drunk man had tottered to his table and helped himself to a chair, uninvited. Ewan had gripped the knife so hard his knuckles had hurt. And when the fool had tried to fondle him, he had pressed the sharp tip against the man's gut. The man had quickly retreated to his own table.

The past five weeks of bad weather and harsh roads had hardened him. His face was young, but creased with lines. His hair now hung down his neck, giving him a wild look. The dirt on his face, the grit beneath his nails, his mane, and the oversized cloak made him look like a poor vagabond. But it was for the better. No bandits had accosted him on his travels east. Innkeepers grumbled when he showed at their doorstep, but the cold texture of copper and silver silenced their mouths. Times were rough, and people had no time to look dainty, they would mumble to themselves.

After a week, he had lost his mule. Sometimes his travels ended with no place in sight, so he would sleep beneath the stars. One night, he had forgotten to tether the mule, and in the morning, it was gone. Since, he had walked on foot, sometimes hitching a short ride in the back of a peddler's cart. He had stumbled across several villages, offering coin in exchange for some food and a dry place in a barn. Most of the times, the villagers had turned him down when they'd seen their dogs slinking away from him, hackles raised and tails tucked between their legs.

He had come across one other large city and given it a wide berth, sleeping in the surrounding forest, beneath trees and in foxholes.

Rain and sleet had followed him east. He treaded in mud most days and slept shivering, his wet clothes plastered to his skin. His fever would return, every few days, now a gentle annoyance that made him weak and hungry but nothing more.

And now he had no choice. He had come as far east as he could. Ewan had to enter Eybalen and seek a ship. The tug in his bones was growing stronger. He had to go somewhere beyond the livid blue horizon.

Resolved, if frightened, he followed the mass of newcomers. It was a strange procession, man, horse, cow, and goat.

Ewan walked past a broken shrine, frowning. Another one. He had walked past so many sites, all derelict and abandoned. It seemed that the Caytoreans had turned their back on the gods. It was an especially unpleasant notion.

There was no real marker beyond which the city began. The stench gradually rose until they became solid. And then, he was walking the squelching muck lanes, colliding into people, his head swimming. He was terrified.

His eyes tried to register everything everywhere, but it was impossible. Finding a side alley devoid of people, he paused for a moment, breathing hard, gathering his wits. At least no one had tried to rob him yet. Remembering Ayrton's stories about big cities, he had hidden the coins in his loincloth. They felt very uncomfortable against his privates, and they made his member smell like copper, but it was the only way to make sure his purse would not be pilfered.

He fought his way on, not really knowing where he was going, past stands of pigs' heads and herbs and bales of clothes, past strange priests who preached on an unknown, unholy religion, and women who sold their bodies.

The sight of prostitutes sparked some alien hunger inside of him. He knew he was growing into a man. He had had the urges. But now they were getting deeper.

One night, just before going to sleep, he'd remembered Sarith, her sweet, compassionate face, the kiss they had shared. Almost without volition, he had reached for his member and stroked. And although he vaguely remembered the patriarchs mentioning something about chastity, he had spilled his seed on the grass, with Sarith's imagined body floating before his eyes.

Once undammed, the urges came more often, stronger, brighter. He had lost his trepidation and shame and relished in the pure, careless pleasure that those few minutes could bring him.

Ewan shook his head, clearing his mind. He could not allow himself to daydream.

Slowly, he plowed his way toward the waterfront. People ignored him, just like they ignored one another. Still, he searched their faces for some sign of malice.

Then, he stopped. He realized he did not know where he needed to go. He had no idea what lands lay beyond Eybalen. Approaching one of those seamen and asking them to take him just...somewhere sounded ridiculous, even to himself.

But what was he going to do?

The harbor was crammed with inns, serving the thousands of hungry sailors. He chose a tavern at random and clambered inside. The patrons did not look at him weirdly as he shambled in. Ewan realized many of them looked far worse than he did.

"A bird," one of their kind spoke in a rough, sore voice. "What d'you want, birdie?"

Ewan frowned, gulped. "I need a place to sleep for a few days. And food."

The man, who had the look of a tavern owner, spat between Ewan's legs. "Go to your mommy's nest, boy. Don't fuck around. I ain't got time for pranks."

Ewan produced a silver coin from his trousers. "I can pay," he whispered. He knew that everyone was watching him now, a boy with a coin.

"Stole that off some rich ass uptown, have ya? What now?"

"That money is mine. I earned it," Ewan said, hurt and terrified and madly proud.

"Whatcha you do, eh? Polished some bugger's knob?" the man said. Everyone snickered.

Ewan knew he could not back down now. They would wrestle him for that coin, stab him if need be. Once in the open, it was no longer his. If he showed weakness now, they would take him for a petty and dumb thief and quickly disown him of his prize.

"I killed the man who wanted me to polish his knob," Ewan whispered, a far throw from the innocent boy he had been just a few weeks back.

The tavern owner watched him carefully, weighing his words. Finally, he spat and spoke. "All right. You got some feathers, birdie. Three nights, three meals, no trouble, or I'll have your guts stuffed with goat meat, d'you understand?"

Ewan was surprised by his own courage. "Four days, two meals a day."

The tavern owner picked the coin from the table, let it roll in his palm. "One scary sparrow you are, birdie."

The room he was given was small and not very clean. Pigeons roosted on the sill of a small window overlooking the docks. Below the window was a drop of quite a few yards, not a wise escape route.

Ewan was restless. He could not stay in the musty, dark room. The walls pressed on him.

He did not know what do. But being idle seemed like the worst idea. He left the tavern. Outside, he marked its name, Blue Bottle, so he could find his way back. He decided to wander about the nearby district, get to know the surroundings.

It was less than an hour later that he was attacked. The street he followed was relatively deserted. It was unpaved, like most other streets, with pocks filled with piss and old rain. He never saw the assailants come. Whether they had followed him from the inn or just chanced upon his innocent, foreign face, he never learned.

Something hard slammed into his back. A yelp of pain, a gasp of surprise. None his. Turning around, he saw a rough piece of wood with nails on one end lying on the ground. A man clutched his wrist, nursing it. Three others stood, watching him with ashen and dumb faces, their hands holding clubs and knives.

Ewan felt panic surge up his throat just before the fever took him.

His predator saw him buckle and kneel. Their toothy yellow grins returned. Another club swung. Ewan winced, lifting an arm to protect his face. The hard wood slammed into his forearm and splintered. Ewan vomited on the ground.

"Let's go," one of the four hissed. "Quick."

Ewan had seen those faces before, the faces his friends and the sisters in the convent had shown him. Repulsion laced with terror.

Three of the attacked ran, never looking back. The fourth hesitated, holding the knife in an unsteady hand before him. "What are you, freak?"

Ewan stumbled up, weak, disoriented. His vision narrowed, darkened. He gulped air, desperately trying to stay conscious. His limbs moved in a wooden, alien fashion. They felt numb.

He lumbered forward, his knees locked. The bandit edged backward, his eyes fixed on Ewan's, unable to turn and run. His comrades had long run off.

Ewan felt anger rising inside his body, like heat bubbling up through a crust of ice. It imbued him, empowered him, made him stronger. Sensation crept back to his body, tingling. How could people be such monsters? They would kill an innocent man just to steal his clothes and maybe some coins, but they called him a monster.

Human life felt so cheap, so meaningless. The spell of dizziness was gone. His skin was icy, prickled with sweat, but otherwise he felt fine. Deep fear welled beneath the storm of his fury, but he suppressed it. One day, he would find the answers to his identity, this strange curse the gods had given him. Now, his soul screamed for revenge.

Ayrton had once told him that honest people never wasted time gloating and contemplating. They did what was necessary and paid the price of their conscience later.

Ewan swung. His fist crashed into the assailant's shoulder. Bone crunched. The man spun like a weightless doll, performing a full turn and dropping into a heap. The man howled a bloodcurdling shriek of agony. His arm was twisted out of its socket.

Ewan staggered slightly, quickly recuperating. "I will let you live so you can tell the others," he said.

The street was now completely empty, people having fled the scene of violence. Ewan stood above the weeping man, breathing hard, trying to rein in his wrath. Why did they keep attacking him? He had done nothing wrong, harmed no one. What was wrong with all these people?

"Leave me alone," he said to no one particular, walking on. The wounded bandit was crawling away, his sobs and screams mixed into incoherent yammering.

A man in shock, Ewan waded back into one of the big streets. The crowd enveloped him, erasing his identity. He became another senseless drone in the hive. No one looked at him strangely; no one really saw him. The little alley did not exist; the attack had never happened.

Ewan shook his head. If this were what the world had to offer, no wonder his friend Ayrton had fled.

**CHAPTER 29**

For the first time in her life, Mali was afraid. Her menses had not come.

She was not a woman prone to hysterics. But a second week had gone without a drop of blood, and she was beginning to worry. Her menses were always regular, as precise as the fullness of the moon.

She was always very careful and made sure her lovers wore a frogskin. There was always some risk involved, but the thin sheaths had never let her down. But like all things with Adam, there had been an unpredictable result.

Mali believed herself a fairly experienced lover. She had bedded many an officer. Most men were almost the same when it came to sex; they sweated and grunted and plowed the furrow like a stubborn farmer.

Adam had been different. She still recalled their union with something of shock and wonder. She had never believed a man could be so attentive to a woman's needs, so confident, so unafraid to explore and try things. Mali had never before had a man bury his face between her legs. Most men were afraid of the cunt, as if it were a vicious, hairy little dog.

She had left his back gouged with tales of her passion. Somehow, during the coitus, the frogskin must have slipped or gotten torn. A disaster.

Despite his impressive skills, Adam's manner left her disturbed. He was a keen lover, but his heart did not beat in rhythm with his loins. It had felt like a duty, a precise and wondrous duty. Just before they had mated, he had smiled, the first time she had seen a genuine expression on his face. But then, his soul had retreated into its deepest recesses and a shadow emerged, an emotionless, colorless ghost that turned his flesh into a puppet.

Mali believed it was that icy, uncaring composure that had attracted her in the first place, apart from the obvious good looks. She was a warrior, a commander, and some bit of her maniacal ego had craved the attention, compelled her. Few men could resist her, but he had, luring her into his net.

She had slept with him and no man since; the war would not let her.

Now, her world was tumbling down.

She had to admit she was losing control of her army. The Eracian Southern Army was her command, her people, but their hearts belonged to Adam.

After another phenomenal series of victories against the Caytoreans, she had been forced to promote him to a colonel. It had been chaos. Marco had threatened to resign. Only the love for his country and monarch had kept him from abandoning the cause.

Mali did not know how such a young and inexperienced officer like Adam could hatch such brilliant plans. They were simple, if cruel, but they worked. His gift for timing the attacks and defenses, for boosting morale and sowing terror, for using the right tactics in combat was extraordinary. What kind of a mind did it take to be so cunning?

Despite the recommendations by George and Marco, Adam had refused to leave camp and move against the tail of Caytorean forces in the Territories. They had urged him to strike before the enemy could solidify its positions. But he had forsaken Talmath and just waited.

Indeed, soon enough, the Caytoreans had launched a number of surprise attacks against Virgin's Blood and the dozen smaller adjacent camps. But Adam had been ready for them. Thousands of crossbowmen had lain in wait and unleashed death, once again decimating entire regiments of Caytorean's finest cavalry and heavy infantry.

Then, he had ordered the combined forces of the Eracian army into Caytor, plain disregarding the very commanders of others units. Worst of all, the soldiers followed his lead.

The last time an Eracian force larger than a company had prowled the land of their quarrelsome neighbor had been more than a generation ago. It was a scandal of unprecedented ferocity. But Adam had simply laughed, scorning their cowardice and lack of vision.

He had launched several pinpoint attacks against enemy supply routes, severing them, weakening the enemy, taking rich spoils for plunder. His soldiers were the best-armed lot in the army. Then, he had sent saboteurs into enemy camps, to poison wells with dead rats. Every sane soldier feared disease more than any sword, but Adam did not seem to care.

Whatever spies and informants he had, they were tremendously effective. He knew when and where to attack, always surprising the Caytoreans. They went down in their hundreds and thousands, terrified of this godless Eracian. His foul touch was everywhere. No one could escape him.

And now, he led the wedge of Eracian troops against Roalas, one of the major trade cities in Caytor. Ironically, it was not much different from what the enemy had done in the Territories, except that Roalas was five times bigger.

Even the craziest army commanders in Eracian's bloody history had not attempted something so maniacal.

Whatever Adam's intentions were, they seemed to work. There were rumors that the monarch was mobilizing forces back home. Some believed that the High Council of Trade considered pleaing with the invader, even negotiating for peace. Most outrageous of all, there were whispers about Parusite forces stirring in the south. The last thing everyone needed was that mad king fighting for his crumb of glory.

The small, symbolic border skirmish was blooming into a major international war, a thing of the dark, forgotten past. Many saw Adam as the embodiment of the old evil, something they had never expected to see in their lifetime.

It was only a couple of months ago that Mali had met the handsome, confused lieutenant, the sole survivor of the First Battle of Bakler Hills. Now, he was the de facto leader of the Eracian army, a merciless man who frightened her.

The father of her child. It was an inconceivable thought.

Adam had become a stranger, a passive and peaceful enemy among his own countrymen. He was dangerous and unpredictable and threatened the high command of the entire army with his presence. But the common folk adored him.

His horrible presence attracted violence. Mercenaries flocked to his side, attracted by the coin he spent so freely. Mali did not know where he pooled his wealth from. Those plunder missions must have been extremely successful.

Some of the new Eracian troops were soldiers and refugees from the Territories, fled from the war and bent on revenge. Many others were former criminals, delighted to have a chance to take up their old ways again. Yet others were strange and dark people from remote corners of the world, drawn by the smell of freshly spilled blood.

The Eracian army was losing its identity. It was becoming a horde of anarchists, a union of people who fought for the sake of fighting.

Mali knew she would have to kill Adam.

At least, that was what she had thought until several days ago. Now, her entire world had shattered. Could there be love between them, reconciliation, friendship? Could rivals love one another? She did not care for him; she barely knew the man. And Adam did not look like someone who could love.

Worst of all, she did not know what to think of the thing growing inside her. She prayed it would turn out to be some god's prank. But what if she were truly pregnant? What then?

Few warrior women wanted to be mothers. They had no illusions of what the world had in store for their children. She had seen so many young men die, weeping and crying for their mothers, all alone and abandoned on the cold earth as their comrades and enemies rushed about them. That was not the dream of life a woman could give to her child.

The truth of her calamity would not stay hidden for long. Within several weeks, signs would begin to show. She might even have to relinquish her command. Mali wondered if there were any witch women in Caytor. Maybe they could charm the growing spirit out of her womb.

Adam was concerned. He had a war to run, people to kill. Roalas stood before him, a big fat whore, all moist and ready for him. Caytor was aflame with terror and confusion.

His soldiers were building siege weapons, assisted by the mercenary engineers Lord Erik had sent him. Naturally, Adam was slightly suspicious of the strange help, but his doubts were slowly melting. His new ally was true to his words. Money, weapons, tools, information, they all poured like rain. The Carrion Eaters, a division now, were the best-equipped Eracian force in the entire army. Every soldier had a crossbow now.

His peasants had come a long way. They had started as disgruntled, bitter, frightened fools with mismatching uniforms and token weapons. Today, they marched proudly, never breaking formation, with shiny breastplates and helms and long pikes in their arms and crossbows on their back.

Victories had almost become a habit. Adam could hardly keep track of how many battles his people had fought, how many thousands of heads he had ordered severed. But no matter how big or small the fight, the wagons were always there, loaded with heads, with a lone lucky survivor riding home to tell the tale. It just had to be done.

The Caytoreans were afraid. Most of the time just sighting the red banner was enough to send them scurrying away. Whole units surrendered to him, hoping against hope they would be let to live. And let them live he did. Adam was no fool.

He would disarm them and let them go, despite outrage and protest from his own troops. Ignoring the grievances of his men, he would tell the enemy to go back to their comrades and tell them there was still some hope for them, that if they gave up their already lost war against him, he would let them go back to their homes and families. This broke their resolve even more than the severed heads. The Caytoreans now knew they had a choice. It gave them hope. And hope made people hesitate. It bound and chained them.

The Feorans might be fierce, just like their imagined god, but they were still only Caytoreans. And for countless generations, the Caytoreans had been taught to believe that spirits of desecrated bodies were doomed to rot in the emptiness of the Abyss for all eternities. It bit hard into their courage, melted the marrow in their bones.

Despite his duties, he often thought about Mali.

Her strength fascinated him. She was a free woman, unafraid, resolved. To a whore like himself, it was one of the most beautiful things one could see.

The night of their union had been...special. He had felt so relaxed, so serene with her. But as they'd started to make love, the ghosts of his past had come back, taken over his body. He could still remember humanity oozing away.

He sighed. Dead men could not love. Even if he wanted, he would not know how.

Adam shook his head, trying to disperse the morose thoughts. Ragged shouting and cheering stole his attention. A group of mercenaries and some of his troops were clustered around something, their faces twisted into the bestial rictus that children had when they tortured insects.

Adam felt the anguish of his memory coiling inside his belly. He needed deliverance, an excuse. He started toward the group.

Indeed, the soldiers were busy torturing a small dog, having hung it upside down from the wash lines and poking it with embers. The furry little thing squealed and trashed. Adam's blood chilled. The ghosts of past burns on his back tingled.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

The group sobered instantly. Smiles vanished; guffaws choked.

"We were having some fun, that's all," one of the mercenaries hazarded.

"Poking one another's arses would be called fun," Adam offered, smiling softly.

"What's wrong, sir? It's just a stupid little dog," the mercenary said.

"Just a dog," another soldier offered, shrugging.

Adam took a deep breath. "Just a dog."

Half an hour later, all the members of the little group were hanging upside down, ropes coiled about their feet, already turning black from the lack of blood. They wept and begged as Adam's men readied hot pokers. One of them was already unconscious. A huge crowd had gathered. No one said a single word.

"If I ever witness a man torturing an animal—or another human—he should better kill himself before I get to him. Do you understand? Good."

Whispers spread like wildfire.

A mercenary captain was heading his way. The man had a strut of one very displeased. Adam turned to face him.

"Who gave you permission to torture my men?" he said.

Adam did not even blink. "Would you like to join them, Captain Franco?"

The mercenary sniffed sharply. "Commander, what is the meaning of this?"

The former whore nodded to himself. "Ah, 'commander,' that's better. Your men presumed the life of a small dog was less important than theirs, so they decided to torture it. They are being reeducated as we speak. I believe they see the errors of their ways."

The captain flushed with rage. "Release them at once!"

Adam rolled his eyes, pretending to think this over. "No."

The mercenary looked around him. Hundreds of Adam's men stood all about. They all had the same insane look in their eyes. They worshipped this lunatic.

"You torture men over something as insignificant as a little fucking dog. You are mad," the captain spat.

Adam smiled again. "Maybe. But you are a presumptuous animal to think that a dog is less important than yourself. You are an animal, Captain. Don't delude yourself. At least the dog has some dignity. Now, get lost before I lose my temper."

The captain gritted his teeth, swallowing hard. He was weighing his options.

Adam decided to help him. He reached into his pocket; he always had coins there. He threw a fistful on the ground before the hireling. "Dance for me, fool."

Captain Franco eyed the coins, but didn't move to pick them up.

Adam made a derisive shooing motion. "Go on, fuck off."

Biting off a curse, the captain stalked away. Adam was not worried. The cur would serve him, because he paid him money. It was as simple as that. And he would never dare betray him, because he knew Adam was a greater monster than he'd ever be. His soul would eat itself for it, but he would stay and fight and die for Adam.

He nodded. The three masked men lifted the pokers from the fire and began their grisly work. Screams shook the camp.

Adam did not stay to watch. He had a reading lesson to attend.

**CHAPTER 30**

Armin sat in the foyer of the City Library, reading.

Discovering the name of the sponsor had opened a whole new world of possibilities before him, a completely new lead in his investigation. Now, slowly, the loose ends were finally coming together.

Davar. A simple name of a simple man. He had paid handsome sums to dozens of clerks all around the city, discreetly inquiring about this person. The truth had trickled like honey, drop by lazy drop.

Twenty years ago, Davar had been a minor noble in Caytor, not far from Eybalen. Then, one day he had sold all of his property and started the Movement. With the money he had, he bought friends and the first followers and built shrines. The founder patriarch of the Feoran religion.

Armin's mind refused to accept the facts at face value. Something was terribly odd. Why would a religious zealot of a sect that professed against the rich and noble give money to his very opponents?

The reason eluded him for now. Whatever Davar intended, he kept it well hidden. As the years progressed, the Movement had grown, becoming the menace that held Caytorean society in thrall. Most of the time, Davar had been in Eybalen, manipulating, sending his underlings across the realm to lure and convert people. And then, one day, less than a year ago, he had vanished, just as suddenly as he had come.

Rumors held that he was in western Caytor, rousing people to his cause. About the same time, the eight murder victims had begun their strange businesses, ferrying people and goods to an unknown location, with Davar's gold in their pockets.

Ronald Wan'der Norssin had disappeared, too, leaving behind a lot of outraged and angry bank managers, but he had discovered Shipwright Boune had not been the only person to collaborate with the patriarch. Most of the deceased had received payments from him.

Armin wished he had some access to the Feorans. He burned to know where they pooled their resources, where their money came from. They did tax the followers symbolically and gladly welcomed donations. They also plundered other temples and orchestrated small crimes. But most of their shady finances went into the establishment of new shrines and temples, into buying weapons. There was no way the Movement could support the huge endeavors the eight dead men had done.

This made Armin believe there was yet another actor in the story, one who pulled the strings of its puppets.

This time, he had no luck. Davar was a dead end.

Another investigator might have given up, but not Armin. Lacking a lead, he searched for one. There was always something, some giveaway. People were creatures of history; they lived in the past and shaped their future with memories. Things always had a reason, always a precedent.

So now he was in the library, poring over books.

The ascension of the Movement intrigued him. If it had happened once, it must have had happened before. He had begun delving into the history of Caytor. And when it had proved boring and uneventful, he'd started reading about religion.

Finding good sources on the houses of the gods had been a tricky one. The patriarchs did not seem too keen to share their annals with the public. A part of their power came from the mystery of the past, the uncertainty of old testaments and faded writings.

Still, even the most dated books drew a very simple picture of the world. The gods and goddesses had always been there, as long as humanity had existed. The names of the deities and characteristics were consistent as far back as the books went.

None ever mentioned Feor.

Armin found it even more intriguing that both the Feorans and the old religions tried to keep Feor from the books as much as possible. There must have been a reason, more than just plain disdain. If they did not want you to read something, it meant there was something that they did not want you to know about.

It seemed like a dead end. But then, he started thinking about the names. Most names had no meaning in the modern Continental, people's as well as those of their creators. And suddenly, a new god had risen, and it had a name, an old name.

Names got changed down the pathway of time. Only very sophisticated and powerful societies managed to keep their identities from being eroded by the winds of time. Sirtai had their family lines worming into ages long forgotten. It was a testimony to their power and integrity.

The continentals were shallow nations, contemporary, fleeting, cultures that would vanish with the years, assimilated into newer, better, stronger societies. They even had no family names. And when an old name emerged amidst their lot, there was a reason for it.

The City Library had a whole section on languages. Armin had spent the last week hunting down dictionaries, trying to decipher names. Every hour took him further into history. Books became vellums and parchments and strips of leather, even pieces of rotting wood.

He sat by a large desk of polished oak, heaps of books surrounding him. He found vague references and similarities, even managed to decipher the names of some of the goddesses, like Lilith and Selena. Feor was a mystery.

The sun was setting. They were going to close the library soon. It would be another day without success.

Maybe it was sheer luck, or his superior intellect, but he found himself holding a derelict Keutan dictionary, tracing entries with a finger. He dared not touch the brittle pages. He barely dared breathe. The letters were the same, most of them, but the words had no meaning in Continental. Even the translation was alien to him. He had to use several books to finally understand what the words meant.

Then, he found it. Feor.

He leaned back, smiling. Another piece of the mystery unraveled.

Gently, he placed the dictionary on the table and rose, stretching his weary limbs. He began pacing around the foyer, thinking. Keutan was a very old language. The last time it had been spoken was thousands of years ago. People who had used it, the forefathers of modern Caytoreans, were long, long gone, another speck of dust in the passage of time.

Armin went to see one of the librarians. "Excuse me," he said.

"We are closing very soon, sir," the man stated in a cold, emotionless voice.

"Indeed. I need books on Caytorean history, the oldest you have."

Grudgingly, the librarian abandoned his post and led Armin to a warren of shelves and ancient manuscripts. Maybe it was Armin's foreign look that intrigued him.

Hidden in a corner of cobwebs and bird droppings, there were some of the most derelict books on the history of the Caytor nation. Armin took his time, prying the books from the sediment, turning pages with his heartbeat skipping as they crackled and crumbled.

Finally, he managed to find several intact volumes. There was not much time. He skipped over pages, struggling with the archaic dialects. He could have easily found most of what was written in them in new, preserved books, but he had no interest for the obvious.

He just wanted to know how far the annals went. Dates. He searched for dates, for monumental and epic events that marked changes in history and the passing of eons. There were mentions of wars, great and small, but nothing that seemed extraordinary.

Caytor changed its name and shape on the sketched maps as history faded into ancient oblivion. Armin found the texts fascinating. He knew he would be back to read in earnest. But for now, he just needed to know what the historians had to tell him.

A bell tolled. They were closing the library. Librarians rose from their desks and began ushering people out. A cough startled him. The same man who had helped him earlier stood nearby, impatient, stern. Armin placed the books on the heap, thanked the man, and went outside.

All of the books had been written in Caytorean, albeit an ancient form that made his eyes water. But they were all dated much after Keutan had died as a language. He was not going to find what he needed in the City Library.

He doubted he would find what he needed in Eybalen. History was a human thing, something that existed because of people. Without people to relate to events, history was just a collection of fancy tales.

As a nation, the Caytoreans could not care less about those who came before them. It was not their story to tell. Armin vaguely knew that the ancient nations of the continent had been pagan, worshippers of demons and spirits and idols. They could not merit mentioning in the world shaped by the gods and goddesses. So, the Caytoreans ignored them and allowed their stories to be forgotten. It was not different from what Sirtai had done to the natives of the islands, or from what had happened to the nomadic peoples in the Red Desert.

However, as long as somewhere a book existed to tell the tale, those long dead and vanished could not be completely forgotten. They existed in those books.

Sirtai vaults were deep with knowledge about the continental peoples. And while the Eracians and Caytoreans hid dark and horrible truths about their past though forgetfulness, Sirtai scribes had written their stories down without sentiment. The real truth about Caytorean history was kept in Tuba Tuba.

Armin had to return home.

Hopefully, he would learn about Feorans, about the Movement, the sudden appearance of this new god. He would learn why an atheist noble had turned into the most fervent protagonist of a savage, young religion.

He hopped into his carriage. Inessa sat reading a book by the light of a small lamp. He kissed her. They started their way back to the rented mansion. Some time later, the carriage lurched and stopped.

Armin peered outside. "Why have we stopped?" he asked Gustav, his bodyguard. The man was not seated behind the team of horses. He stood by the carriage, a short sword in his hand.

"Everything is fine. Stay inside, investigator."

Shouting. Clangs of metal. Armin felt his blood chill. Inessa drew her poniards and dashed outside without a word. Armin ran after her.

Gustav was dancing, his sword flashing, fighting two men further up the street. Dark figures were running toward the coach. "Inside, Investigator!" another voice shouted. Two more secret agents the council had appointed him came out of their hiding, brandishing swords and knives. One of them pushed him back toward the carriage.

Armin watched the horrible battle evolve. Inessa threw one of her knives. A man went down, clutching his face. Another brute came at her. She glided past him, burying the second poniard in his neck.

A crossbow bolt slammed into the carriage near him, chipping paint. He winced and went down into a protective huddle, knowing full well that his symbolic act couldn't stop the thick quarrels.

People shrieked as they died, mostly the assailants. He saw one of Gustav's comrades stumble, pierced by one of those deadly bolts. Then, Inessa fell down, and his world shattered.

He ran toward her, oblivious of the swords flashing about him. He did not care. He did not care. He collapsed at her side, knowing with cold, heart-piercing certainty that she was dead. Her eyes were open and glazed over. The shaft of the bolt jutted from her chest; it had gone straight through her heart.

Footsteps. Shouts. The assailants were running away. Further down the street, a squad of city guards appeared, racing up toward the ambush. Gustav leaned against a wall, nursing a gash in his arm. Another council-appointed bodyguard dragged the body of his dead friend toward them. Bodies littered the cobblestones. Blood, black and slick, shimmered in the yellow lamplight. Madness.

"Investigator, we must take you to safety," Gustav spoke, his voice laced with pain.

Armin held his tears back. Now was not the time to mourn. He touched his wife's face, parting with her one last time. Gently, he closed her eyes.

"Investigator, please," another face mouthed at him.

"I can walk," Armin snapped, shrugging off the arm that helped him up to his feet. Inessa was dead.

Gustav was back on the carriage, along with a pair of city guards. The other bodyguard was waving at him frantically, urging him to rush. Armin had no reason to rush. They had killed his wife.

What would he tell Doris and Galina? That she had been his bodyguard for so many years, without so much as a scratch, and that she had died in a foreign city to a foreign arrow? It was supposed to be just another investigation, a battle fought with intellect.

The dazed Sirtai climbed into the carriage.

As it sped away, he allowed his tears to run free in the dim light of Inessa's small lamp.

**CHAPTER 31**

Ayrton had expected an almost ecstatic thrill to envelop him once he stepped into Jaruka, the holiest of the holy cities, the seat of all the houses of the gods, the place where the destiny of mankind had been shaped.

Instead, he felt empty, almost depressed.

The city was recuperating from the Autumn Festival. It was officially autumn now. Days were getting shorter and colder. Rain came almost every day, drizzles, sleet, tiny storms, almost a portent of things to come.

Walking down the busy, chaotic streets, Ayrton could not shrug off the uneasy feeling of being in another Talmath, another place doomed to spiral into depths of despair. Refugees were everywhere, keeping the locals from being completely immersed in their blissful ignorance.

Despite the war and madness, pilgrims came, people from Eracia and Caytor and even Parus, to pray or beg for favors. Outside the city, the largest single force of Outsiders he had yet seen was assembled, a meager ten thousand supposed to stall the Caytorean war engine while he labored toward the City of Gods. If it weren't so sad, he would have burst out laughing.

There was nothing more pathetic than seeing doomed people delude themselves. The wise and the cowardly had already fled, including most of his comrades, soldiers of the Cause. Stories said that when the infidels charged the holiest of cities, many of the Outsiders would be there to raze and burn and rape. Well, when a man could so easily shed his former life without ever looking back, he could do it again, even more readily.

Ayrton still could not grasp what his place in this ugly scheme of things was. Why him? He had been an evil man. Was this a part of his eternal punishment?

He had been separated from the rest of the convoy last night. His only companions were patriarchs and matriarchs and dozens of brothers and sisters, people he had never seen before in his life. Yet, they seemed to share some secret he was not part of, some great joke at his expense. He felt like a goat led to the slaughter.

Last night, just before he'd gone to sleep, Matriarch Alda had come to him, red-eyed. She had told him her goddess had not spoken to her to since that day in the little hamlet. Her power was weakening. There was very little time.

Now, they were leading him before the heads of the houses, the arch-patriarchs and arch-matriarchs, the people who played with the lives of nations. He felt merely annoyed.

The Grand Monastery in Jaruka dwarfed the one huge monument he had known. It was colossal, awe-inspiring, meant to humble a man before he dared enter. Combat priests stood in thick, ceremonial rows, making sure no simple man passed through. Inside, Ayrton craned his neck to see the heads of the titanic statues of the major gods and goddesses, but they were lost in the gloom of the vault. There was no sound, except the soft clicks of soles on flagstones and the beating of wings of birds nesting in the balconies above.

A group of people stood at the footsteps of giants and waited for the procession.

Ayrton considered dropping to his knees.

Instead, they bowed to him. "Welcome," one of them said.

"Please follow us," another added.

They took him down a long, dimly lit corridor, then up a grand stairwell, down the length of another corridor, up again, always up. Time stretched. Finally, the gloom of the infinite passages was replaced by a bright, blinding glare. Squinting, he followed the priests outside, onto a giant balcony, high above Jaruka.

The balcony stood well over a hundred paces above the ground. People looked like ants, milling, pushing, oblivious to their puniness.

No one said anything. They waited for him to speak.

"What is the meaning of all this?" he ventured after a long time mulling over what he should say. Even so, his question sounded petty, irritating him.

One of the priests reached with an arm, slowly sweeping across the horizon. "The world our gods and goddess shaped is threatened by a force of unbelievers. The people you see below, they are all doomed. In just a few months, Jaruka will no longer exist. But there is still hope."

"You may cut down a tree, but if the roots exist, it will live," another intoned.

_As a barren stump, a mockery,_ Ayrton thought, but said nothing.

"As long as the gods and goddesses are with us, there is hope. The enemy may kill our people and burn our homes, but there will always be faith. People will find a new, more peaceful land to erect temples in the glory of our creators.

"But if our gods...are destroyed, the faith will wane with time, become a ghost. There will be no belief left, no hope. This world will wither and become something dark and sinister."

Ayrton sighed. It already had.

"You are the only one who can save the world now."

"I don't understand," he whispered.

"He must see! He must believe!" one of their lot persisted.

"Follow us, son," someone said.

They led him away, this time, into a chamber, round, with walls covered in rusty sconces and foul-smelling torches burning. On the floor, seated on a mat of wool, was a girl, about ten years old, making funny noises to herself. She yammered, ululated softly, spoke so rapidly her tongue lashed out of her mouth.

Ayrton felt repulsed by the sight. "Who is she?"

A friendly hand touched his shoulder. "In the ages past, the gods and goddesses lived among men. And sometimes, they took a liking to some of the humans. Sometimes, the gods and goddesses made love to human flesh. From the union of this love came the...Special Children."

The narrator paused, removed the hand, and began a slow stroll across the chamber. "But then, there was a great war. Some gods and goddesses were unmade as their followers were all killed and their temples all ruined. Afraid of what the future might bring, some of the deities gave away their beings to the Special Children so they could become leaders of men and help win the war."

Ayrton felt they were not telling him everything, but he listened.

"Some of those children became champions of great wisdom and strength. The gods used them to defeat unearthly evils that were hatched into the world, defeat the forces that human swords and axes could not destroy.

"Other children became wizards and sorcerers and witches and used their skills to heal or render great fires and lightning. And some of those Special Children were gifted with insight into the rivers of time. They could unravel the everlasting thoughts of the gods and see into the future. They became prophets.

"But the human mind cannot cope with such enormity without consequences. Most prophets lost their human identity, becoming deranged souls. For most people, prophets are just hopeless madmen. On the other hand, whenever we hear a tale of a lost soul, we make sure it is brought here so it can serve the gods."

Ayrton felt cold comprehension dawning. "That girl is a prophet?" A ragged doll, playing in a pool of its own feces?

"She foretold your arrival," one of them said.

Ayrton shook his head. The world's hope hinged on a crazy child and a former mass murderer. He wanted to close his eyes and sleep, never waking up.

"She is a Special Child, have no doubt. Sometimes, the gift can skip entire generations, roll down a lineage for centuries, before sparking true and strong when least expected, but most needed."

The Outsider rubbed his temples. His head was beginning to ache. The stink in the room was oppressive.

"After the great war, the gods were weak. They could no longer work miracles like they had before. The world that survived the war was no longer the humble, peaceful creation of theirs. The human soul had become corrupt, foul with greed and treachery. Belief was very weak. Appalled, shocked, exhausted, the gods retreated to their city and erected barriers to keep men from ever entering. They would only ever talk to their Special Children and pure souls, disdaining the rest of mankind."

Ayrton listened, his blood curdled to ice. How could anyone be a believer after hearing all these tales? How could one face the crowds and lie so blatantly? Where were the kind, compassionate deities he heard of in prayers?

"But not all was lost. Some good humans would not let the world deteriorate to an obscenity. They established the houses of the gods and built temples all over the world, spreading faith by fire and sword. They purged the wicked and unfaithful."

Ayrton reeled. He had vaguely known the tales of nomadic wars and great purges.

"And then, they marked the Territories, a pure land in honor of the gods, where people could find respite from the sins of the world. And they became the patriarchs and matriarchs of the nations, the pillars of morality for all to worship."

Alda filled his vision. "One day, the gods will forgive us and return to us. One day, the world will be hale again, whole and pure. There will be no more wars, no more poverty, no more jealousy. We wait for that day.

"We must build more temples, make people believe. Only through the strength of faith will the gods be strong again. But now, everything is at stake. Everything. The gods are too weak to fight themselves. We must fight for them. But we cannot win the battle. Our only hope is to save our creators so we can begin again somewhere else."

Ayrton had never wanted to commit suicide so readily.

"My goddess no longer speaks to me. She's too weak. The barriers are crumbling. You must go to the city and warn the gods, rouse them, and take them away, far from destruction and death. If the barrier falls, every evil soul will be able to enter the city. If that happens, all will forever be lost."

"It is up to you," someone else said, "you and the Special Children. We have saved the world in our time. Now, it's your turn."

"Why can't you do it yourself? Go to the city? You have lived lives far more...pure than mine."

One of them shook his head. "We have very little time, so we cannot tell you everything. But our souls are not pure. After the war, the gods decreed their Special Children a curse and had them executed."

"But just like the gods in the ancient times," another voice added, "we had no choice. We disobeyed. We harbor those that they deem cursed. Our souls are tainted."

"My soul is not pure," Ayrton croaked.

"It is, son. It is. We know you harbor dark secrets in your heart, and they can never be erased. But you have given up those ways, given up the old sins and become a new man. You have saved thousands of people from death in Talmath. Surely that matches up somehow to your past sins?"

"If my soul is not pure enough, I will die," he said.

"No, you will not. You must have faith."

"The goddess Selena showed me. I was doubtful at first, afraid and hesitant. But then you did all those things. And I knew it was you."

"Showed you what?" Ayrton asked, confused.

"Purity. A pure soul. There are very few of them left in this world. Very few."

A pair of sinewy, frantic arms gripped him. "There are many people who have come to the Territories, repenting for their evils. But they are all peddlers. They do not really believe. There is always a trace of doubt left in their souls. They would rather go back to sin than die for justice. But you are pure. You have the courage. You are a leader."

"You are our only hope," someone repeated.

Ayrton nodded, disoriented. The ghosts of his past danced around him, cackling. He would never go back. Never. That man was gone.

He shook his head. _Am I what they say, or just another convenient scapegoat? They have lied and manipulated before. What's so different now?_

He wanted to believe them, wanted to think his life had not been one useless tragedy. But then he remembered Ewan. He had had very little time to think about his friend, a student, a would-be son. Ewan deserved a better world. With heart-racking ache, he wondered where Ewan could be. Another nameless corpse littering the fields of the Territories? It was unthinkable.

Ayrton stared at the crazy girl. She was oblivious to the crowd around her, her head bobbing slightly in rhythm with her gurgling.

He did not understand so many details. Things just did not fit. They were lying to him, he was sure, manipulating him. He did believe them on one account; the gods were weak, and they could not save them.

All hopes now hung on what people thought were divinations, where they could be nothing more than dreams and hopes of desperate men. It was ridiculous that the gods and goddesses lived not far from this city, in some enchanted little place, begrudging the world like a wicked toy gone bad.

It had to be real. It had to be true.

"Where is the City of Gods?" he asked.

They handed him a map.

**CHAPTER 32**

Ewan took a deep breath and started across the street. Halfway to the mark, he hesitated, halted, faltered, turned around, and walked back.

He came to this place almost every day, sitting on the steps of a derelict, abandoned temple, staring at the little establishment across the narrow road. People and animals buzzed before him, a stream of colors. He waited, munching on a slice of pork pie.

It must have been coincidence that he'd met Vicky.

Shortly after arriving in Eybalen, he had decided to make a fool of himself and had gone to one of the seafaring captains after all, inquiring about the price of a passage to the lands east of Caytor. The impatient man had waved him away, telling him he had no time for stupid pranks.

Smartened by the experience, he'd gone to another shipmaster the day after, offering to work on the deck in exchange for transport. This time, he had not been shrugged off instantly, but he had had no luck either. Appraised like a horse for sale, Ewan had been turned down for being too scrawny, too delicate for the rough lifestyle on a ship.

Several more shipmasters turned him down, pretty much consistent with their arguments. He lacked the sinew they needed in deck boys. One of them had offered him to serve as the plaything for the veteran seamen. Ewan remembered to stay away from the skipper of the _Little Wavebreaker_.

After learning the only inhabited land east of Caytor was called Sirtai, he had begun visiting the docks again, trying to secure a passage. But the prices were far too high, much more than the small and dwindling hoard he possessed. And whenever he had offered to work the rest of the price, they had turned him down. They left him with no choice.

The nagging in his marrow would not leave him. There was something beyond the waves calling to him. He did not understand what it was, no more than he understood the strange ailment that had possessed him. Ewan had no doubt the two were related, that the answer to his questions was out there.

He wasted little time wallowing in self-pity and remorse. When his bouts of fever racked him, his resolve weakened, and sometimes he would cry, mostly because he was alone. He longed for Ayrton, longed for human company.

It was the loneliness that had brought him to the footsteps of this place. That, and his curiosity.

Until he saved enough gold for the voyage, he was forced to stay in Eybalen. Fortunately, the dockworkers were glad to offer him a job. He was apprenticed to a group of laborers,who earned their living breaking their backs with sacks of goods loaded on and off the ships. They were a hard and dour lot, spoke very little, and never joked, but they did not molest or harangue. He shared the load as best he could, and that was enough for them.

Very soon he had learned that he would spend ages hauling cargo before he saved enough for the journey. It felt as if he were doomed to spend his life in Eybalen. But it did not sound right. There must be something more.

At night, before sleep, he prayed to Lar. But his god never gave him answers, only left him teary-eyed with empty, hollow questions. Whatever fate Lar had in store for him, he kept it to himself like a bitter old man.

The first days had been torture. His frame was not used to lifting such enormous weights. He was weakened by the long travel to Eybalen, losing what little muscle he had had on his bones. But even when his palms bled and his ribs creaked, he did not complain, fighting the jute sacks with the ferocity of a badger.

The silent, morose dockworkers would say nothing, and they never helped him. But they shared their meals with him. The taste of raw clam had repulsed him at first, almost making him gag. Soon, he had grown to appreciate the abundance of strength they gave a man during the long, grueling day. Within only a few weeks, he had grown back the old muscle. He could feel he was getting stronger, filling up with stubborn cord.

One stormy day, with the harbor businesses banked to a low fire, he'd met Vicky.

Girls of all ages came to the harbor often, hawking their bodies to hungry sailors. On the rainy days when ships failed to make port and dockworkers scurried into warehouses to gamble, drink, and snore, they poured out of their brothels, preying on idle men.

The first time he'd seen her, his breath had died on his lips.

She was a gentle, fragile thing, thin and frail, and it pierced his heart to see burly, hairy brutes take her away. Vicky was not very beautiful or well-built, like some other women, but she had some sad quality about her that made his soul ache.

His loneliness had brought him to her. Sarith had faded to the back of his memory, the experiences of the big city washing parts of his innocence away. Still, he could not ignore the pang of guilt that burned in his gut when he had approached her, his heart hammering.

He would pay her the coppers she took for an hour with the customers and take her to the old wharves, away from the tumult of the harbor. There, amidst the skeletons of ruined fishermen's boats and hills of torn netting, they would sit and talk, just talk.

At night, in his musty little rented room, he would pleasure himself. He no longer begged forgiveness from Lar for his weakness. He no longer thought of Sarith. It was Vicky who floated before the eye of his mind.

And now, he wanted something else.

Ewan was not sure if what he intended to do was wrong. He wished Ayrton was by his side to tell him. But he wanted her, desired her. His urges were strong, almost crippling him when he gave them too much thought.

He believed he loved her. He was not really sure, never having experienced love before. The money in his callused palm felt like a sin, though. But she depended on that coin to live. She had nothing else in her life. If he paid her, it did not mean he didn't love her, did it?

He started across the street again. Wicked Filly, the place was called. A score or so of girls worked inside, servicing the entire south quarter of the harbor.

The burly man called Anton barred his way. One of his huge, tattooed arms came to rest on Ewan's chest. "Where to, young man?"

"I want to...see Vicky."

Anton grunted. "Don't you all? Where's your coin?"

Feeling ashamed, but unable to stop himself, Ewan showed the fistful of coppers. Anton let him in.

The Wicked Filly was a clammy, airless place. It was unnaturally hot inside. Seminaked people moved about, followed by Vicky's friends. Another large man sat by the door, watching the customers with the eye of a bored lion. Ewan felt his heart thud.

"Welcome, sailor," an older woman greeted him. Her gentle hands guided him deeper into the cauldron of sweat. Small, steep stairways spiraled upward, toward the rooms.

Ewan took a deep breath. "I want to see Vicky."

The woman smiled; she missed quite a few teeth. "Vicky is busy. Maybe another one, hm?"

Ewan watched a huge wave crash into his sandcastle of hopes, leaving behind a mangled pile of mud. "No, I'll be going." Fire lanced up his loins, jeering him, _Stay, stay, stay_.

"No reason to be so desolate. There are so many pretty girls for you. Maya! Don't fret. You will enjoy her. You have earned it."

Like a man in a trance, he felt his palm open and spill the coins into the matron's palm. They vanished from sight. Ewan began to sweat. He did not want to...He wanted Vicky.

Maya came and laid a soft, cool hand on his nape, stroking the ends of his wild hair. He felt fire course down his back. He felt something old, primal, manly awake inside of him. He swallowed hard, the sides of his jaws tingling strangely. Blood pumped in his neck.

Maya led him upstairs. She was a petite thing, with tiny breasts but a large rump, her hair dyed a dark hue of yellow. As they clambered, she held his hand, almost afraid he would run away, turning and smiling at him encouragingly.

Ewan felt dizzy. _What am I doing here?_ But he watched, unable to turn away his eyes, just like men relished the sight of a corpse. It appalled him, yet it fascinated him. There was something ethereal about it.

Maya closed the door behind him and latched it. She waited for him. "Your first time?"

He nodded like a stupid man.

"Don't worry. I'll take care of you." She removed her flimsy, slightly filthy gown.

Ewan watched her undress him. His member stood up, stiff and swollen, pulsing with the onrush of blood. _Vicky,_ he thought _. I don't want this._

Maya grinned. "It will be all right."

She pushed him onto the bed and climbed on top of him, straddling him. He closed his eyes and envisioned Vicky. Several gooey moments passed, the intensity of detail burning into his scalp. Then, he felt a watery rage build inside of him. His muscles tightened.

_Forgive me, Lar_ , an echo of a thought exploded in the back of his mind as color fled his world and he reeled in sensationless ecstasy, a bittersweet agony coursing through every inch of his being. He wanted it to continue forever.

Finally, he managed to breathe, swallow tacky, unclean air. He opened his eyes. He lay, staring at the ceiling, his body weak and soft like dough.

Gently, he arched his neck. Maya was up, wiping the milky substance on her thighs with the hem of her gown. "That was quick, but you were good," she said.

Ewan watched her without comprehension. "Good?"

She nodded. "You still have plenty of time left. Fancy another?"

The coarse bliss melted away. He felt cold. He stumbled up, dressing. "I'm going."

Maya squared her shoulders. "You're welcome anytime, honey."

Ewan fled the Filly, ashamed.

He met Vicky three days later. Her expression was unreadable. They sat, sharing some of his clam chowder lunch. Dead boats watched them.

"Maya told me you came to the Filly a few days ago."

Ewan froze. "Yes," he admitted after a few moments.

"Did you enjoy it?" she asked, her voice low.

"I'm not sure," he admitted. "It was strange. I don't know."

Vicky spoke as she chewed. "First times often are. But you will like it more the next time."

He nodded.

"You shouldn't have left so early, though. Erika was angry with her. She thought you weren't satisfied with the service."

Ewan frowned. "Who's Erika?"

"Our matron."

"I wanted to see you, but you were busy with another customer," he said, careful to keep the string of pain from his tone.

She said nothing.

"I think I love you," he blurted.

Vicky turned to face him. Her face was young. She wasn't much older than himself. But her eyes gleamed with sad wisdom beyond her age. "Foolish boy, how old are you?"

Ewan squirmed. "Sixteen," he lied.

"I'm twenty-three next month, and I have seen a hundred men break their hearts pledging love to one they could never have."

His eyes moistened without his volition. "No, this is different."

Vicky stroked his check. "Loneliness is not love. This is not love. It's not."

Ewan shook his head stubbornly. "No. I know what I feel. No one can deny me that."

The whore lifted his chin so he stared into her eyes. "I have nothing to give you, Ewan. My life belongs to the Wicked Filly. That's where I belong; that's who I am." She paused. "You will find the one who will love and cherish you, a decent girl. You are an honest person, Ewan. You deserve better."

The world had turned into a river. He blinked away the tears. "I don't want better."

Vicky put down the empty bowl. "I must get back. The hour is almost over. If I don't return, Anton will come after me." She rose.

Ewan wanted to say something. But he had nothing to offer her. He was a monster. He had no money. What would he give her? At that horrible moment, he realized he would never see her again.

When he returned to the docks, his friends stopped hauling, watching him carefully. Then, they looked at one another and nodded.

After work, they would not let him go home. They took him to one of the pubs they liked to frequent and filled him with so much wine that he could hardly remember his name. And they paid for the drinks.

"The gods made women so they can break our hearts." They shared their pearls of wisdom.

"She might be the first to break your heart, lad, but sure as the Abyss, she ain't the last."

"There's nothing wine can't cure, boy."

Ewan swayed like a ship's mast. "My name is...I'm a monster."

"Now, lad, don't be so harsh on yourself. Here's another gallon of ale. Drink."

He drank and wept until the world turned black.

**CHAPTER 33**

Mali knew she was being foolish, but she had no choice.

She had temporarily relinquished her command to George, with strict orders to leave Adam alone. She did not want Eracians killing Eracians in her absence. Even so, his command was tenuous. Most of the army paid little or no respect to the other officers anymore. Adam was their idol.

It seemed absurd that people who had fought with her for years could become so easily besotted with a young upstart, but he had some undeniable charisma that lit up their simple hearts, some magic that neither she nor any other of her old cadre could ever hope to have.

Adam was only a division commander, with barely five thousand regulars, but he had also annexed most of the auxiliary units, all of the peasants, and commanded another five thousand mercenaries. There was a rumor that the Third Independent Battalion had gone over to his side, smitten by his gentlemanly ways and respect for women. And even those who still reported to George and Marco and others adored him.

He had close to thirty thousand souls, and somehow, Mali knew, this was hardly the end.

While he besieged Roalas and a dozen nearby villages, she had slipped out of the camp unnoticed, dressed as a civilian, with only four people to protect her. She had chosen two specialists and two of her most loyal female soldiers.

She knew she risked more than just her hide. If she were discovered, there would be an outrage. They might even charge her with treason. But she did not care. She had to do this.

Roads were dangerous these days. Rabid hordes of bandits roamed the countryside, preying on the weak and unprotected, raping and pillaging and taking respectable-looking travelers for ransom. Even though trade had died to a trickle because of the war, this did not keep them from trying. Soldiers were busy fighting an enemy; they had no time for tiny miscreants.

Now, inside Caytor, stakes were higher than ever. No one could easily tell her heritage, but her looks were well-known in the realms. Some of the brigands might recognize her. And then, there would be nothing in the world that would stop them.

Keeping off the main arteries, traveling mostly by night, her little group inched north and east into the enemy realm, heading for the little village called Gasua. Adam might be killing his prisoners, but Mali was careful to interrogate them first. In the recent days, her one and only interest was the whereabouts of a village where she might find a witch. After many hours of torture, she had finally learned a name.

It was a slim chance, she knew. By the time they reached the place, there was a high possibility that it had been burned, its people killed and scattered. But she had no choice.

They had met a party of brigands only once, a gang of ten souls who rushed against them from the dark of a forest as they halted for the night, wielding clubs and rusty swords. The rabble had been no match for professional soldiers armed with good steel and crossbows. They had killed seven before they had even reached them. The remainder had died in a quick, efficient fight. Mali had wasted no time burying or burning the bodies; they had left them in the forest, for wolves and worms to pick.

She wondered what George would say if he knew what she was doing. Escorted by two soldiers from the Third and a pair of her special troops, she seemed every bit a lunatic, a crazy woman possessed. But maybe that was who she was.

Gasua was before them, intact, peaceful for now. The villagers had erected mounds of earth around their meager hamlet and studded them with saplings. Men with scythes or pitchforks stood symbolic guard, day and night, accompanied by a ragged assortment of mongrels.

Convincing the villagers they were not bandits would be tricky, she noticed.

"I'll go alone," she whispered.

Neil, one of the specialists, shook his head. "No chance. We're coming with you."

Mali grimaced. "Poor, worried peasant women do not bring a cadre of soldiers with them to see the witch. I must play the part."

"What good would your part be if you get killed?" Vince, the other specialist, said.

She gave them a long look. Both men were combat assassins, charged with donning enemy uniforms during battle, infiltrating their ranks and murdering officers in the resulting fray. They feared nothing and no one. And yet, they dreaded a village of poor, unarmed Caytoreans.

"That's the enemy," Vince said, pointing, reminding her.

"I'll take only Alexa with me. She will be my half sister."

"Cousin, some sort of a cousin," the woman corrected her. Alexa was blonde and ruddy, with a soft, chubby face. They could not belong to the same parent, ever.

Mali rubbed her forehead. Was the thing growing in her belly fuddling her mind? She prayed that this whole affair was just a big, sour joke, a test of her nerves and resolve. She did not want to be pregnant.

Neil sighed. "All right. But if you're not back within an hour, we're charging in."

The two women left their hiding. It was early morning, a reasonable time for a pair of women to be found on the roads. Mali rehearsed her story. They had scouted the area, trying to learn the names of the villages. Maybe the witch would not be too intrusive. Mali hoped she would not need to lie too much. Women who came to see witches outside their village wanted discretion.

The guards squirmed seeing two huddling, hooded figures on the road. When the two women removed their capes, they relaxed a little.

"Where to, women?" one of them called.

"To the witch woman." Mali let Alexa speak. The soldier was of low birth and had a better chance of posing as a poor, inflicted peasant.

Several children were outside, and a few older women, but no young men or women. The fields around the hamlet were empty of souls, the animals all safely penned close to the huts. They all stared at the two strangers with small, suspicious eyes. One of them made a warding sign.

The witch had a derelict little cabin to herself at the end of the hamlet, adjacent to a pigsty. The whole place was just a stone's throw across, but her secluded little hut had an aura of foreboding about it. Mali thought it must be the flayed cat skins, or the skulls of many rodents, piled in front of the door.

The woman sat outside, despite the chill, peeling willow bark off some branches.

"What you want, lass?" she said without lifting her eyes. "Got trumped up by a pretty farmer boy?" She looked up at Alexa. The soldier blushed, squirmed, pointing wordlessly at her superior.

The woman snorted. "Ah, the old filly. Married?"

Mali nodded.

"But it ain't your husband's, eh?"

Mali nodded again. The witch grunted indignantly.

"What you got for me?" she asked, throwing a naked branch aside. Mali produced a pair of Caytorean silver marks. The witch sniffed her palm. "All right, inside."

The hut was dark and smelled of too many herbs.

"Undress," the witch ordered.

Mali looked around her. Well, this was no time for privacy, she thought. It bothered her that she cared now of all moments, when so many men had seen every little bit of her skin.

She stood there awkwardly, naked and tall and muscled. The witch appraised her with one eye closed. "Gangly filly, ain't you? Those hips of yours ain't good for breeding. Got any whelps?"

Mali realized she had better not lie on this subject. She shook her head. The witch sniffed in harsh disapproval. "Must bear offspring when you're young. They don't come out pretty when you age."

Mali swallowed.

The witch approached her, staring up at her. "Got a tongue, girl? Speak."

Mali took a deep breath. "My husband's gone to war. I...He will know when he returns."

The witch nodded. "Ah...I see." She shook her head. "Let's see what you got."

Mali felt her blood chill as those alien hands touched her, pinched her sides, cupped her breasts. She felt like an animal on sale. The woman rolled her callused fingers over her gums, sniffed her ears.

Some of the witch's anger dissipated. "Well, you eat good, I can tell. Got a good skin, strong body. But you ain't one to hatch many daughters. You got a man's hips." She approached Alexa and slapped her large rump. "This one can birth them without blinking."

"Am I pregnant?" Mali whispered, pretending to be abashed; she hoped she was pretending.

The witch sucked on her lips. "We'll see. Here." She handed Mali a small bowl. "Piss in it."

Mali let her brows scramble up her forehead. "Here?"

"No, you go outside so them fools can see you. Come on, filly."

Heat flaring up her cheeks, Mali made a small, stupid stand in the center of the little cabin, holding the bowl beneath her like a leprous supplicant. Embarrassment, she realized, came from very small, trivial things.

The gurgling noise made the witch smile. Surprisingly, her mouth was full of strong white teeth. Mali handed her the bowl. The witch reached for some herbs, spicing the urine. She stirred the cocktail and drank from it, without as much as a grimace. Mali felt her own bile rising. The witch spat back into the bowl, her head bobbing with thought.

"Now, this will hurt a little. Don't squirm."

Mali kept her eyes closed as the witch violated her. She would not cry now. She hadn't cried when they had pried a hooked spear from her thigh.

The witch clapped. Mali opened her eyes. "Am I pregnant?" she whispered.

The woman snorted. "You bear a son, a strong child. His father is a feisty bastard."

_I know_ , Mali thought. "I don't want the child," she said.

"Nothing can be done," the witch said.

Mali felt her face drain of blood. Her world spun.

"That whelp is too big for herbs and charms. Lodged in that womb fast. He's a stubborn one."

Mali felt her eyes water. "I don't want the child," she repeated.

"The goddess has given you a gift. Don't shun it. Love it," the witch offered in a quiet voice.

"We serve Feor," Alexa said almost automatically.

The witch spat. "Feor? That bastard is good for them men and their wars. But what does he know about birth? Ever seen men at birthing? A bunch of frightened fools! It's a woman's job to nurse the womb, and no Feor or any other male will tell me otherwise."

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**

Adam 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.

**CHAPTER 35**

Home.

They had held the funeral rite for Inessa two days ago. It had been a large ceremony, attended by a large number of friends, relatives and dignitaries, all outraged by the brutal tragedy that had beset Armin. Some had begged him to let them avenge her in his name, but he had politely declined. This was a war he had to win alone.

Although he was still formally grieving, Armin was back at work. Usually, it would be inexcusable, but since his work also entailed revenge, the honor of his dead wife had not been blemished.

Besides, it kept his sorrow at bay until he gathered enough courage to face it.

Autumn storms were closing on Tuba Tuba. Sleet was hammering on the large colored panes of the major vault of the Tolabad Museum, deafening all other sound. To Armin, the undulating rush of ice hitting glass was soothing.

He sat in one of the private cells branching out of the large main chamber, where people could retreat to study and read in peace. Screens of cloth kept other visitors away.

On the desk before him lay several books, the rarest collection of works on continental history and theology, presented to him by the curator himself. The curator was a personal friend. These books were out of the reach of most people.

The investigator did not know who wanted him dead. But the fact that he'd been attacked meant he was getting dangerously close to discovering the truth. And he would. He would crack this case, like all the other cases.

_Theology of the Continental Realms_ , the first book, told the tale of the houses of the gods and their bloody roots in the horrible days after the Great Court, with all the horrid, uncensored detail. The continental people lived an illusion of passionate and peaceful history, unaware that the foundation of their faith was a massive bloodbath of treachery. Their good and benevolent gods had done all in their power to kill just about anyone and everyone, perpetuating the very evil they had tried to exterminate.

The Age of Sorrow. An age that had begun with betrayal and ended with more. And the focus of it was a god called Damian, the founder of the modern, sophisticated man who hated and stole and killed. His name had been stricken out of the living memory of the continental peoples.

But he had remained in the books, survived oblivion, stayed in the souls of the people he had created, even if they called him by other names. It seemed that the essence of human nature was Damian's work. The prototype man created by his peers had been an almost soulless thing, a puppet in the hands of the gods, without any free will or feelings. Damian had given men passion and love and anger.

Reading the tale of his failed love, Armin could almost feel sorry for the doomed deity. Almost. It was a dangerous emotional trap.

The second book was a simple, unadorned book, full of short paragraphs that made no sense whatsoever. He had no idea what the book signified, but it was meant to be important. The investigator held it in one hand, briefly going through the verses. A work of lunatics, by all accounts. He put it away.

A small, thin volume was labeled _Special Children_. Intrigued, Armin picked it up. He started browsing. It seemed to be a philosophical piece on offspring born of coitus between gods and humans. Armin considered giving up, but then a sentence caught his eye.

The writer noted that there could be several kinds of Special Children, all blessed with certain divine powers, supernatural strength, prophetic skills, sorcery...This was an interesting claim. Armin knew people capable of performing magic, had seen magic performed. He read on.

He reached for the first book again, frowning and smiling as he started noticing important details he had completely missed earlier. The _Theology_ was awash with references to Special Children, offspring created in the hour of need to help better the odds of war. Both sides had had them birthed, in the thousands, only to have them all butchered after the war had been won.

But the book also mentioned bloodlines. The great extermination of the children had been a failed task, born out of flawed thinking. Blood was a mysterious fluid. Sometimes, characteristics skipped entire generations, staying hidden, only to show again many years later. Most of the children had been murdered, but all those bearing the blood of the gods in their veins, yet without any special powers, had been completely missed. In their families, the divinity survived, coming to life every once in a while. These people had become wizards and monsters. And today, all that was left was a vague rumor of a story no one believed any longer.

The author also claimed that while the war was over and the urgency for victory long gone, the need had stayed fresh in the blood of the remaining Special Children. In an hour of dire need, their heritage, their instincts would come alive again.

Armin wrote this down in his notebook. It might be important.

The last book was a collection of maps, showing the migration of the peoples of the realms throughout the ages. Remarkably, it had records dating back to the late days of the Age of Sorrow, showing progress and retreat of embattled factions, the demise of cities and whole nations.

Armin stared at the maps. The contour of the land was similar. Sirtai had been a largely unexplored territory then, called the Wild Islands, perhaps indicating why Sirtai had escaped the yoke of continental theology.

Marked on the ancient maps were locations of different cities held by the gods. Armin grimaced. Some important detail etched in the back of his memory screamed for attention.

He picked up the _Theology of the Continental Realms_ again and flipped the pages. He used feathers to mark important sections. At the end of the war, Damian had been deceived by his own allies, who had turned against him and banded with his enemies. The Pact of the Damned. He was tried and banished from the world, his temples ruined and his followers forcefully converted. The Great Court of the Gods had been held.

His blood froze.

He reached for a small stack of books on the far edge of the desk, a collection of works from Eybalen. He reached for the ancient Keutan dictionary and carefully paged until he'd found Feor again.

Armin hardly dared breathe. It seemed he had solved the case. But he did not dare let his emotions get in the way. Not yet.

Groaning with exhaustion, Armin leaned back, rubbing his eyes. This was the most dangerous juncture of his investigation. He must not make any mistakes now.

Taking a deep breath, Armin reread his notes, the culmination of his work in the recent months. Chart-maker and explorer Nespos. The man had spent quite a lot of time sailing up and down the coast of Ichebor, an archipelago of uninhabited isles north and east of Caytor. Shipmaster Perano had sailed _Cormorant_ toward an unknown destination many times, ferrying people and cargo away, always returning empty. The people and the cargo so neatly summed up to the workers and goods missing from the businesses of the other victims. Shipwright Boune had provided his docks and warehouses for the clandestine marine voyages.

They had all been financed by Patriarch Davar, the founder of the Movement of Feor, a man supposedly completely opposed to their ungodly way of life.

Any other investigator would have given up long time ago. But not him.

"Feor" stood for "betrayed" in Keutan, such a simple and seemingly innocent word. A god called Betrayed. Armin stared at the map showing the location of Damian's stronghold during the thousand-year war. It was located on one of the many islands of a large chain, roughly two hundred miles from Caytorean northern shores. It was also the location of the Great Court of the Gods, which had tried and banished him.

And the Feorans were fighting to see the old gods exterminated. If rumors were true, the Caytorean army, predominated by Feorans, was thundering across the Safe Territories, killing people who still believed in their gods and goddesses, and tearing down their temples.

Armin was not surprised to find the City of Gods marked on the map roughly in the same place as the Territories.

It all fell into place.

Cold glee began to emerge, like a stubborn baby creeping out of the womb. Armin smothered it quickly, letting stark reason lead him. He closed his eyes, pressed his palms against his ears, and thought aloud, moving his lips in rhythm with silent words booming inside his head.

Davar had hired atheists to work for him, people who did not believe in or care for divine matters. He had sent them on a mission to Ichebor, the ruins of Damian's fortress and his unholy affairs, the soil that had drunk the blood of Damian's soldiers and seen his soul flayed to nothingness. There could be only one reason for that.

Damian was trying to flee his eternal prison, if he had not been successful already. He fed on the faith of a new religion to boost his power. How simple and convenient, Armin realized.

A vengeful god was on the loose in the world, tracking down his former enemies and methodically killing them. Worst of all, no one in the continental realms had any clue as to who Damian might be. He had been forgotten.

The curator of the museum approached and bowed.

Armin lifted his eyes from the book. "You need me, Wilhelm?"

Wilhelm bowed stiffly; he was a tall man with a small hump on his back. The flowing gray robes and the gloves on his fingers meant to keep smudge and grease from the delicate paper gave him a frightening look. "Your guest has arrived asking for your audience."

The investigator nodded. "Yes, please. Send him to me."

Several minutes later, a nondescript man in robes and a heavy fur coat approached, dripping rain onto the carpets. Beads of ice were caught in the ermine, slowly melting in the heat of the museum.

Like Armin, the guest had no hairs on his head, but for him, it was a choice. His pate was marked by a pair of blue-ink tattoos.

"Greetings, Investigator," he said, hands clasped in front of him, bowing slightly.

Armin rose from the chair and bowed in return. "Greetings, Lucas. I hope your trip was satisfactory."

Lucas smiled gently. "The weather was dogged, but otherwise, it was uneventful."

Armin sat down and reached for a small case resting against one of the table legs. He placed it on the desk and opened it. Inside, a broken crossbow quarrel lay, tarred in old black blood. Gently, Armin reached for it and held it out.

"This is the arrow that killed Inessa," he said.

His guest extended one of his own hands and picked up the quarrel between two fingers. He rolled it between his fingers, sniffed it. "I will find them," Lucas promised.

Armin swallowed, his soft features turning hard and sour. "You will make them suffer, Lucas. You will make them regret the day their mothers bore them into this world."

"Whoever they are, wherever they are, the murderers will not escape justice. I will hunt them down."

"You must not kill them right away. I need to know who sent them. I need the names of the people who sealed the fate of my wife."

Lucas nodded again. "Vengeance will be yours."

Armin felt his lower lip quiver with emotion. He took a deep breath, settling down. There was no escaping blood magic. The murderers of his wife were linked to her death by a special bond that went beyond time or simple evidence. Blood magic was an old and unpopular practice, scorned by most Sirtai, but not the Anada wizards, the servants of justice. They judged the world by different standards.

The investigator wondered if Lucas were one of the Special Children.

The price was high. Armin's eldest son would have to be apprenticed at their secluded university for a year when he reached maturity, in payment for the favor done here and now. But it was worth it. Inessa would be avenged and her honor restored.

"The murderers and their sponsors are hiding in Eybalen. You will find them there."

Lucas placed the tip of his tongue to the mangled tip of the bolt, tasting the blood. "This weapon was blessed by a god. It was fired by a man of great conviction," the wizard said, his eyes rolled back in their sockets.

Armin sighed. It all led back to Damian, the forgotten, betrayed god. In his profession, criminals were ordinary men of flesh and blood. How could one hold a deity accountable for earthly sins? How could one see a god punished for his crimes?

He stared at the ancient maps, the alien alphabet marking Damian's nest among the scattering of islands. The place where his friends had forsaken him and turned him over to the enemy. The place where he was undone and sent away to the Abyss.

If things were only slightly different, the investigation would have been concluded. He would have presented his findings to the council and claimed the remaining fee. Let them dwell on his terrible conclusions. But the death of his third wife made it different, made it personal.

Criminals had to pay for their misdeeds. Even if they were divine by nature. Damian had committed a crime. Armin always saw his suspects indicted and tried.

He rose. Lucas stood nearby, watching him with unblinking pale eyes. "We shall sail to Eybalen together," the investigator said. "I have unfinished business there. A criminal." This time, he was going alone. His wives and children would remain in Tuba Tuba.

"One of the Caytoreans?" Lucas asked.

"One of their gods," Armin answered.

**CHAPTER 36**

"This is as far as I can go," Dorian said.

Ayrton nodded. He shook hands with the wizard, and they parted ways. For a few long moments, Ayrton stood on the hilltop, watching the robed figure of the priest shamble down the road, disappearing in the forest.

The patriarchs had assigned Dorian to guide him toward the city, at least as far as the magical boundary. Dorian had been supposed to protect him from dangers that his sword could not defeat. The spells had changed the environment, both plant and animal alike, and there was no knowing what lurked in the shadows.

But the journey had been uneventful. Dorian had led him north and west of Jaruka, down old, unused paths winding over hills and through ancient forests. They met no human on the road. People felt the urge to stay away from the city, even if they did not know it was there.

Ayrton took a deep breath and started downhill, into a broad, forested valley. He came to an old, worn monolith, stabbing through the ground like a spiteful tooth, overgrown in moss. This was the border of the City of Gods. No unclean soul could go any further.

He stepped forward. Nothing happened.

As he followed the grit trail into the valley, he noticed pale remains of bones scattered by the roadside. Kneeling, he brushed some of the soft earth away, exposing a leering skull, a rib cage. The bones looked old, very old. He looked behind him at the monolith.

The dreary autumn day cleared. Sunshine erupted through the scattering clouds, and the hue of the anemic sky turned bright, deep blue. It was getting warmer. The air began to smell of sweet flowers.

Less than a mile from the marker, he walked in a vale, basking in the resplendence of a virgin spring. The earth was a carpet of marvelous colors. He had never seen grass so green. Birds sang.

_This must be the work of the gods,_ he thought.

Crisp air soothed his worn soul, washing away pain and worry and the gloom that weighed it down. He felt hale and freshened, almost carefree. His concerns sluiced away. Ayrton could have lain down and slept the sleep of a child in his mother's arms.

The sounds of man-made labor kept him focused. He followed the noises, the rhythmic beat of tools. He crested a ridge and paused.

Before him stretched another valley, full of animals, thousands of them. They were all frozen, perfect sculptures of every living thing possible, carved from wood in absolute perfection. Like a child, he waded into the field of still shapes, caressing them. A porcupine stared at him, every bristle on its back accounted for, fashioned in perfect detail. He was afraid to touch the thin needles, lest they shatter. He felt it would be blasphemy to spoil these wondrous creations.

Animals big and small watched him, silent, unmoving. The sound led him on.

Seated on a rock, a man held a log in his lap and was chiseling a new form from its texture. He worked with no tools, only his fingers. Feather-thin shavings wept from the wood, onto the ground at his feet. Ayrton reeled.

He realized the man was not sitting on a rock; it was a huge pile of chips and splinters and wood dust, a testament to his work.

Ayrton swallowed. What now?

"Hello," Ayrton said.

The man ignored him, as if he did not exist. He continued his peaceful, monotonous work of beauty. He seemed to be making an otter out of the wood.

"Hello there," Ayrton repeated.

This time, the man lifted his eyes. Again Ayrton felt his breath catch in his throat. He had no fancy for males, but the person before him was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Every line of that delicate, ageless face was in immaculate order. Eyes that looked like the mirrors of a soul stared at him for a few moments without recognition, then dropped back to the handiwork. Ayrton felt sadness crack through his heart for not being acknowledged. He wanted to cry.

Slowly, he recovered and moved on, knowing with certainty that the carver would never respond. It tore his soul for some strange reason.

Then it struck him. Was that a god?

He looked behind him, apprehension turning his muscles to slush. The carver continued working. He walked on, like a stupid man, unable to stop.

A silly tendril of doubt crept into his mind. Maybe the god had not understood him? If the gods had stayed isolated in this place for so long, maybe they no longer understood the modern language. Ayrton felt despair wash over him as he contemplated communication with divine beings, separated from him by a chasm of thousands of years of culture and intellect and power. But there was nothing to it. He'd have to find a way. He plodded on.

Very soon, he lost sense of time and space. He believed he had walked only a few hundred paces, but when he looked behind him, there was no sign of the animal sculptures or their mysterious creator. A perfect valley of spring bloom stretched endlessly, not a soul in sight.

He heard water gurgling. He reached the edge of a small cliff and saw himself staring at a waterfall. The air was sprinkled with spray, elusive rainbows dancing before his eyes, icy-cool droplets touching his skin as tenderly as a lover's kiss. By the bank of blue pebbles below, at the edge of emerald green water, a woman sat.

Ayrton started down the side of the ridge, toward the pool. His boots dislodged stones, made a lot of noise. But the woman never stirred, not even so much as blinked. She kept staring at the water, hugging her knees.

Deep down in his soul, some primal instinct warned him from trying to disturb her. He just nodded politely and walked on.

One by one, he passed strange, eccentric hermits, people of exquisite beauty and complete blankness of soul. They either did simple things, like collecting flowers or dancing, or they sat staring at nothing. Several lay in the grass, sleeping.

Then, he noticed, despite their perfection, that they were all thin, almost haggard.

Dread began warming up in the pit of his stomach. Were these his makers, the deities he believed in?

"Welcome," a female voice said in clear Continental.

He almost panicked, hackles rising on his nape even as relief stabbed him through. Perhaps communication was not going to be an issue after all. He felt stupid. Gods must speak in some divine language. They must understand everything. They were gods, after all.

A small, perfect woman stood before him, wearing a simple white gown, her hands clasped in front of her. Like all other inhabitants of this valley, she was breathtakingly beautiful. There was not a speck of blemish on her face. Humans had spots, freckles, scars, whiskers, discoloration, wrinkles. Her skin was as pure as a pleat of cream velvet. She almost looked engineered.

In contrast to her friends, she looked healthy. She was full-bodied, her skin pale but flushed. Compared to her, the other...people looked like emaciated, bloodless ghosts.

"Have you no tongue, creature?" she asked.

Ayrton sobered. "Hello."

"Welcome to our city. You are one of the men," she said, stating something so simply obvious.

The Outsider touched his chest, as if affirming his existence. "I'm human, yes."

She nodded. "We have been waiting for you. Come." Like a little girl, she pivoted and scampered away. He followed her. Even her walk unnerved him. She glided over the ground like someone who knew what her steps would be before she placed her feet on the earth.

Time and space spun again, leaving him confused. The landscape shifted, too fast, too much for the simple distances he had walked.

They reached a small wooden cottage. "Come inside," she called.

Ayrton entered. There was a solitary bed in the cabin. Lying on top of it was an old woman, sleeping. Ayrton approached and looked at her. She looked so much out of place in this wondrous valley of perfection. The skin of her face was wrinkled, desiccated, and sallow. She looked all too human. She looked sick.

"That is Selena," the ageless woman at his side said.

Ayrton swallowed. "The goddess Selena?"

The woman giggled. "Yes, silly. Who else?"

Stating the obvious, he thought dourly, _Am I dreaming? Is this real?_

Ayrton rubbed his temples. "She looks very old."

"She's dying," the woman said. "They all are."

He had nothing wise to utter.

"Selena was the only one who cared. The rest would have nothing to do with the world of men any longer. We all felt his return and knew that another war was coming. But they wouldn't listen to her. She desperately wanted to know what the future holds. So she sacrificed herself."

Ayrton did not really understand what she was telling him. "Sacrificed herself?"

The beautiful woman nodded. "Yes. Even we cannot see what the great river of time has in store for us. Even the gods are blind before the uncertainty of things to come. But we can trade our souls for that hidden knowledge, by giving up existence that has yet to be."

"That...happened to her?"

"She gave away her immortality for the knowledge about the war. She saw what would happen. And she knew that we could not prevent it. Our only hope was men...again. So she broke the eons of silence and spoke to her devoted."

Ayrton tried to absorb the flood of things, hoping to patch some sort of logic from it. Alda.

"Now, Selena feels the flow of time just like men."

"Is that why she's in bed?"

"No, silly." The woman giggled. "Her followers are dying. Her power is weakening. She fell unconscious several...days ago." She frowned. "Yes, days. Weeks? Weeks! If she were immortal like us, she would...lose her essence, become less. But as a human now, the ebbing of her essence comes through aging. When the gods are unmade, they simply vanish. She will die like men die, of old age."

Ayrton felt sad. It seemed his choices in life were never simple.

"I did not know the gods could...really die. The patriarchs told me that bodies can be killed, but the soul remains."

"In the First Age, many of our kind gave away their immortality to help win the war. Dozens of my kin perished so they could steal the knowledge of the future."

"First Age?" he blurted.

The woman stared at him with those bottomless eyes. "The memory of men is very short."

Ayrton shrugged. "I don't understand."

"It's all right. I will tell you."

"I...have to save the city, save the gods."

She smiled softly. "Selena told me. I was waiting for your arrival. You are our only hope now."

Ayrton took a deep breath. This all looked like a very bad dream.

"What is your name, man?"

"Ayrton," the Outsider said. Something he had seen and heard from her finally registered. "Those gods outside, they are dying. But you are not...You do not look like them," he hazarded.

"My story is different than those of my kin."

Ayrton nodded. "What is your name?"

She smiled again. "I'm Elia."

**CHAPTER 37**

From his platform of stacked crates, Adam watched the field of crunched earth and mud vanish from his sight as people pressed closer, ever more tightly, around him, the blot of human ink growing and spreading. He floated above them, an isle of serenity and calm terror, as they crashed and frothed at his feet, thousands of worried, pale faces.

It was drizzling, a needle-sharp rain driven by wind, making everyone scowl. Adam was as exposed as his audience, with only a light cloak to shield him. He did not want to hide. He wanted to be seen.

The populace of Roalas had been instructed to leave their homes and assemble outside the city's ruined gates in the fields outside, watched by thousands of Carrion Eaters. Unsure what horrible end awaited them, the Feorans did not seem so brazen all of a sudden, their faith in Feor broken to pieces, just like the defense of their city. To Adam, it seemed, every man was the same when it came to small, basic things. They were all cowards.

Three days earlier, Roalas had surrendered. The bombardment of heads and penises seemed to have convinced even the staunch-hearted, ferocious Feorans that prolonging their stubborn and futile resistance would only result in a horrible massacre of unprecedented scale.

Adam was not a fool. No matter how avidly he desired the death of every man and woman in the city, he had stayed the hands of his butchers. For the first time in this long, brutal campaign, his enemies were starting to show wit, not just as small groups of terrified fools, but as a whole, the concept of the invincibility of Feorans torn and shattered and the new one, of the invincibility of Adam, born and growing.

Thus, instead of laying waste to Roalas, he had merely placed it under curfew, instructing all armed Caytoreans to lay down their weapons and await further instructions. With the exclusion of several sporadic fights with stubborn defenders in some of the city's districts, the city had yielded peacefully.

His men were angry and frustrated, but they knew better than to disobey his orders. His reputation was a legend now, all across Caytor and Eracia. No sane man crossed Adam the Godless.

The mercenaries had protested most of all, infuriated that all the fine, sweet spoils were left untouched, just out of the reach of their avaricious, treacherous hands. With the sell-souls, Adam had been far less forgiving. He had hung a dozen of them before the growls and shouts of their dissent had subsided to apologetic murmurs.

Everyone was tense, the people, the soldiers. All except Adam. He was as calm as only a dead man could be. He had no doubts, no qualms, no regrets. The life was such a simple, straightforward affair.

They all knew his speech was going to be something phenomenal, monumental. The citizens of Roalas would learn if they were going to live today. The Carrion Eaters would learn if there were going to be any carrion for dinner.

Adam stood and waited. Very soon, close to fifty thousands souls were gathered about him. He knew his voice would not carry far in the rain, but he trusted good ole rumor to take its wing. Within an hour, everyone would know what he wanted.

The people jostled and pushed, encircled by a wall of steel. Most of the Eracian army was not participating in this event. The regiments were building fortifications all around Roalas, establishing new strongholds and barracks for the troops. Winter was coming.

Soon, the marches would become a nightmare of icy slush and ferocious winds. Food supplies were scarce. Adam had no intention of starving his army to death. Roalas would safely house them all through the cold months of the new year. It would be a great opportunity to rest and rearm before launching a new campaign in the spring. By then, Roalas would become a major center of operations, the staging area from which he could command the war.

It would also give him an opportunity to negotiate with the Caytorean nobility. Lord Erik's spies had brought him messages from the High Council of Trade, which both praised his actions and asked for consideration of future business. Adam hadn't dismissed their pleas.

He would establish the legitimacy of his legend in more than one way. Sitting through the winter would mark Roalas as a permanent monument of Adam's conquest. But trade and political recognition were even more important. They would be the official statement of his victory.

Adam was not a great statesman, but Lord Erik seemed to be. His advice was sound. Longtime enemies could be friends after all, if banded together against a common threat.

"Such a sordid day," Adam began, silencing the crowd around him. He smiled. He could see his words spreading in a wave across the sea of humans.

"But it is a great day, nonetheless. You probably ask yourself why we are gathered here. Well, Roalas is now mine. I have taken it from Feor, struggled it out of his reach."

He waited. There were no murmurs of outrage, only deadly silence. "I'm here to offer you a chance to redeem your souls. For the past twenty years, you have been led astray, made to believe in a false idea called Feor, an infatuation that you see now melting at your feet.

"To call Feor a god, a false god, would be misleading. He is nothing but a sad joke, a prank. You have lived the last two decades worshipping another group of fools. Beforehand, those were the patriarchs and matriarchs who fooled you with empty promises and threats of punishment from gods none of you have ever seen. And then, the Feorans came, offering you freedom from the old yoke in exchange for a new one. And what have you done? You've taken it, like cattle."

Adam turned to face another segment of the broad circle around him. He could hear hushed whispers multiplying, an echo of his words, lashing though the throng.

"And what did the Feorans offer you? More fear, more doubts, new false hopes. You were still being told what to do by other people calling themselves priests, just like their predecessors, preaching in the name of some unseen, unknown entity.

"Where has this belief led you? To a defeat. A colossal defeat. Your mighty armies have been crushed by Eracian peasants. Caytorean cities have not been taken by an enemy force for countless generations. Yet, today, Roalas is an Eracian stronghold, in the heart of Caytor."

He turned again. "Feor is nothing but a lie. Just another lie. He is nothing but a tale, invented by other people to control you, to use you. And you, poor fools, you have accepted it. You let them rape your minds."

Adam shook his head. "I'm here to offer you a choice, the first real choice in your miserable lives."

He lifted his arms aloft. "Forsake Feor and all the other god and goddesses. They do not exist. They are fictional. Embrace the law of men, the creed built by fire and sword. Embrace disbelief in its fullest. Embrace reason."

The former prostitute from Paroth lowered his arms. "Look at me. I hold your lives in my grip. I control your fate. Whether you live or die today is my choice. Mine. For all practical purposes, I am your god today. And I'm just another man like everyone else.

"You can stop believing in nonsense and become people of reason and law. My law. You will be my citizens, and I will protect you from evil and hunger. I cannot promise you any miracles. It will be a hard life I offer you, full of misery and pain. And you will never be truly your own masters. There will always be someone bigger and stronger than you telling you what to do. But at least your souls will be free. You will pay no tribute to anyone for your sins and lies. You will ever only answer the law for your crimes."

Adam waved violently. "You may wonder why I have given you this offer. Well, it's simple. You have seen the futility of belief in one horde of gods once already. You'll be able to do it the second time so much more easily. You know what false promises and hopes are."

Silence. Utter silence. Only the wind and the rain. But no human spoke. Adam knew most of his soldiers were battling the same dilemma. Adam had no doubt what their choice would be. They believed in him more than anything or anyone else, the culmination of human nature at its best.

"If you decide to forsake Feor, you will be allowed to live, stay in your homes, and retain your property and your businesses and your fields. You will be my people."

Something incredible happened. Someone raised a hand in the crowd. Adam looked down at the supplicant, a simple man in simple clothes, a hero by all standards.

"Permission to...ask you a question, my lord?"

Adam nodded. "Go ahead."

"We have been given promises before, by Feorans and the...patriarchs before them. How can we know what you tell is truth now?"

Adam smacked his lips. "What's your name?"

The man saluted awkwardly. "Jerome, a blacksmith, my lord."

Adam smiled. It was true what they said about blacksmiths. They forged more than just iron; they forged wisdom. "I have no divine bribes to offer you, no fears of retribution should you refuse to believe my words. As one man to another, all I can offer you is my best guess, my desire. I wish to see this world rid of empty belief, of the filth of divinity which people use to cover up for their vile crimes. No woman has ever been raped in the name of mankind, always in the name of the gods. Mothers would abandon their children and blame the gods. Where are the gods for them? Do gods only serve the rich and powerful? Where is Feor when you need him today?"

Adam turned to face the crowd again. "I'm offering you the same filth, the same pain, the same shit you've been eating your whole lives. But it has no flavor of gods. Only the simple human taste of crap."

The fervor of tension felt like a solid wall of thick, sweaty air. The people before him would either see reason or turn to a river of blood. There was no other way. There was no going back.

"If you still believe in Feor, stay on your feet. Everyone else, kneel and acknowledge me as your ruler."

Slowly, the forest of humans went down, one after another. There was no one left standing.

Adam clapped once. That was settled then. "Rise, citizens of Roalas, the first free city."

Back in his pavilion, Adam sat in front of a brazier, trying to warm up his body. The hours of standing in the cold had exhausted him.

Lord Erik sat on a chair not far away, drinking some wine, looking slightly pale and worried. His grandson was playing with a wooden horse on the carpets, lost in some world of his own.

"You look tired," Adam noted.

The grandfatherly figure smiled softly. "Nothing major. Just a bit of a cold."

Adam threw a pair of drenched socks in front of the coals. They hissed and smoked. "Any news?"

Lord Erik coughed. "Indeed. The council is relieved to hear of your success. The fall of Roalas allows them to pull away their private armies from central Caytor and move into Eybalen. They intend to snuff out the last wisps of the Feoran plague and restore the city to their rule."

Adam wrapped another blanket around his shoulders. "What about the forces in the Territories?"

Lord Erik grimaced. "That cannot be helped now. The Territories will be overrun. The reign of the old gods and goddesses will be destroyed. But this is something the council has hoped for, for a very long time. The removal of religion from politics is a very important achievement."

The commander of the Carrion Eaters was not fully convinced. "I would still like to go after them and crush them."

"You would abandon your strategic victory here, then. The nobles would no longer feel compelled to negotiate with you. They might even try to regain the lost land. And you would merely be helping the patriarchs survive. It would undo your gains in the last six months."

Lord Erik rose slowly. He looked exhausted. "This way you enjoy the favor of the Eracian monarch, you have the fear and respect of Caytorean merchants and nobility, the Territories will be destroyed, all religion significantly weakened, and the Feorans would stay trapped between Eracia and Parus, with a mighty enemy keeping them from returning to Caytor. You will have removed the poison of the Movement from the realms, trapped it in a neutral land. What more could you ask for?"

"I wonder what the monarch would try to do."

Lord Erik shook his head. "I believe he will move more of his forces into the Territories, strengthening the border region. Who knows, he might even try to take the Territories completely, at least the eastern provinces."

"And what about the war in the north?"

"Another good thing. The nobles will have to divide their forces between watching you, exterminating the Feoran rebellion, and making sure the rest of the Eracians do not invade. This would keep them busy, allowing you to continue with your peace campaign without interruptions. This might even lead to some permanent sort of an agreement between the realms. You might become the instigator of the first real peace treaty between Eracia and Caytor ever."

Adam stretched back on the hard cot. "I still fail to understand why you want me to succeed so much."

Lord Erik sighed. "An ever-thinking mind. I have told you many times. I see the threat of religion as far more significant than simple human affairs. Religion is the seed of evil in the realms. You may have taken a parcel of my country, but the benefits are huge. Instead of seeing Caytor deteriorate into civil war, we will be free of the yoke of the houses and the Movement. Our trade will blossom. We will be a smaller nation, but more powerful than ever."

Adam tried to sip wine while prone, finding it difficult. He sat up. "Sounds reasonable."

"Definitely. Oh, there's one more thing."

Adam stiffened. Lord Erik never brought trifle news. "What is it?"

"My spies report a huge Parusite army in the south of the Territories, moving north and east. Toward you. I believe King Vlad has heard of your conquests and feels extremely jealous. He's not the kind to take another's successes lightly."

"Sounds like a nutjob," Adam offered.

"He is that, but he does command close to fifty thousand warriors. They will prove a terrible threat to your army. After all, they outnumber you almost two to one."

Adam smiled. "Then this calls for some really cunning strategy on my behalf."

Lord Erik shook his head. "It won't be necessary. This problem can be solved in a rather simple fashion. You need your troops around you. You need to consolidate your victory. The Parusites are merely an annoyance."

"How so?"

Slightly unsteady on his feet, Lord Erik reached behind him. He offered Adam a large case of wood and leather, like a box used by smiths to carry blades to their customers, only much longer. Inside, resting on a pillow of bloodred satin was a long, slender rod of glass.

The old man bid him take it. Adam reached for the curious device. It was extremely light and cool. But it did not feel fragile. "Glass?"

Lord Erik sat down again, with a small groan in his throat.

"Are you well?" Adam asked him.

"Just a fever. I'll be fine. It's not glass, but something much harder. Some call it volcano's tears."

Adam stared at the staff in his hand, admiring it from different angles. He liked the play of light, the miniature rainbows sparking up and down its shiny, transparent length. The only decorations were three bear claws on one end, hooked in a triangular fashion and touching at the tips, and a pair of black marks at midheight.

"This thing is called a bloodstaff. It is a weapon that was designed during the First Age of Mankind. It was used to kill countless hundreds of thousands of people."

Adam was genuinely intrigued. "How...how does it work?"

"You place the blunt part against a body of a newly dead man. The staff drinks his blood and fills up. Then, you level the weapon at your target and press here." He pointed at the black marks. "The staff will spew solidified blood pellets straighter than an arrow a mile away. You just need to point the Bloodstaff at your enemies. It will do the rest."

Adam swallowed. "A mile? That's ten times the best longbow range. And what about penetration? Can it defeat plate armor?"

Lord Erik patted the glassy device with affection. "A blood pellet can blast through an inch of solid metal. There's no armor that can stop it."

Adam caressed the staff. "Are you sure it works?"

Lord Erik rose. "How about a demonstration?"

They went outside. Adam was too fascinated by his new toy to care for the wind and the rain. Lord Erik led him away to a small outcropping overlooking the northern flank of the camp outside Roalas. He pointed at a distant grove of trees near the edge of the camp.

"See there?" he said.

The Butcher squinted, trying to discern the detail through the screen of icy spray. Someone was sneaking up on his guards, unseen. It was a very small-looking thing, a child or a dwarf. The sentries were huddling against the cold, oblivious to the grotesque presence in their midst.

"Kill that thing," Lord Erik offered softly.

"We need blood," Adam suggested.

"Take some of mine, but be careful to pull away quickly." A freckled, wrinkled arm was offered.

Adam hesitated, but then he felt his body respond to some bestial urge within him. He touched the blunt tip to Lord Erik's forearm. The old noble twitched and stumbled, pale as a ghost. Adam yanked the staff away. It had quickly filled to a quarter.

"I'm all right," Lord Erik hissed, down on his knees.

Adam stared at the Bloodstaff. Syrupy blood glistened inside the crystal hollow of the rod.

"A gentle squeeze on the marks will let go a single pellet. A hard, continuous grip will yield a torrent of pellets. The fully loaded staff can fire almost ten thousand pellets, enough to level an army in seconds."

Adam stood frozen, unbelieving.

"Come on. Level those claws at that creature and fire."

Moving like a drunkard, the former prostitute obeyed. He closed one eye and aimed at the dwarf, some five hundred paces away. His fingers closed on the marks.

There was no warning, no feeling, no sound. A frosted ruby exploded from the tip, almost too fast to see arcing away. Adam watched it hammer into the ground near the dwarf, gravel and grass flying. The dwarf jumped, looking around him frantically.

"Again."

Adam repeated the gesture, just a gentle touch with the tip of his fingers. This time, the compact, cloaked figure fell down, thrown by some invisible force. It stayed down, unmoving.

"Excellent," Lord Erik said. "Well done."

"Ten thousand pellets?" Adam repeated, his voice hoarse with childish delight.

"Just make sure you have enough fresh corpses around you. The blood in the bodies must be liquid." Lord Erik patted him on the shoulder and limped away.

**CHAPTER 38**

Armin had returned to Eybalen several days ago. The bad weather had persisted for a long time, making shipmasters reluctant to undertake unnecessary voyages. This delayed his departure for Ichebor, adding to his anger and urgency.

For the first time in weeks, a weak sun had come out, drying the drenched land, infusing some heat into the pale world. Vapor was oozing from the pores in the earth as it warmed, coating everything in a silvery, woolen, annoying sheen.

Armed with maps and books and several bodyguards, he walked down the docks. Finding a shipmaster willing to sail to the deserted islands was not a simple a task, it seemed. The Caytoreans may have forgotten about Ichebor, but their instinct had not. Deep down in their animal souls, they remembered the horror of ancient ages. Few men willingly sailed toward the islands.

Shipmaster Lloyd refused to talk to him. Most of the guild members avoided him for some reason. It might be the shame that their plots and blunders had brought about the death of his wife. Or the fear that his investigation had bitten too deeply into affairs that should have remained hidden.

Going through the records in the archive had given him many dirty secrets about the dignified and respected merchants in Eybalen. Theoretically, those secrets were a weapon he could use against them. But he was not here to wage a war of principles with the council. The trafficking of children and slaves did not interest him now.

So he sought passage on a ship by peaceful and polite manners, trying to coax and buy them with gold. When he mentioned the deserted islands, they instantly demanded twice the price of what he had to offer, no matter how high it was to begin with, hoping he would refuse. He never did. Armin did not care for trifle expenses.

As the prospect of a voyage to the stormy seas of the cursed, deserted archipelago became real, the shipmasters would start inventing other excuses, claiming disease, repairs, or other engagements. Even money was not enough to overcome their inbred terror of the islands.

Rumor had spread that an eccentric Sirtai was trying to sail a ship toward Ichebor. In order to save their dignity, the seamen made sure they were always too busy to see him, refusing to negotiate.

The combined reputation of a snooping detective and an obsessed man lax with his gold made him an unwelcome sight at the docks. Burly, hard men stared at him with open animosity. But nothing could discourage him. He always smiled at them and never blinked.

As days passed, he grew more desperate. Winter was closing on the city. Soon, the storms would be too high to chance a voyage to the islands. Armin could not afford to wait for spring. Things were happening at a rapid pace. There was no time to lose. Damian was probably free, roaming the world and corrupting souls. The Feoran plague threatened to become a deadly disease that would sweep the whole of the continent, and then maybe Sirtai, too.

Armin admitted he had been wrong to dismiss the religions of the realms as a trivial matter. They were the essence of all good and evil broiling in the world, the core of a great conflict in the making. Eybalen was on the brink of chaos.

Then, of course, there was Inessa, first and foremost.

Armin knew that he would probably not be able to find a candidate among the guild members, so he had turned to the derelict, dodgier parts of the waterfront, on the city's south side. Most of the ships anchored there belonged to people who did not have enough money or connections to become guild members. Some of them were pirates and smugglers, paying a tribute to the city lawmen in return for turning a blind eye on their shady businesses and a place to repair their ships.

The investigator wondered how highly they valued their gold.

Unlike the council-monitored north harbor, the south quarter was a poor neighborhood, with as many brothels as houses. Armin's bodyguards had advised him to keep away from the area, but he had ignored them. His wife had died in the rich districts of the city. If someone wanted to attack him here for wearing a cleaner set of clothes than the locals, he would almost be glad for the distraction.

The night before, Armin had gone into several shoddy pubs, putting out a rumor that a wealthy foreigner was interested in a risky voyage, no questions asked. He had also inquired into the names of the more famous mariners frequenting the south quarter, hoping to minimize his search.

One of the names had been repeated more than once.

Armin approached the knot of laborers hauling sacks off a ship's deck, stacking them by the wharf. They paused in their work and stared at the curious procession, a bald man and four armed guards at his back. They did not seem to like his sort around here.

"I'm looking for Shipmaster Horace," Armin said amiably.

"Who's asking?" one of them growled, confirming he had found the right crew.

"My name is Armin," he said simply. He did not want to frighten them with his surname.

Another figure pushed past the first speaker. "So you're the posh foreigner we heard about, eh?"

Armin nodded, smiling. "Are you Shipmaster Horace?"

The man spat. "I'm no master of no ship. She's my mistress. I serve her deck, and she takes me where I need. My men call me 'Captain' around here. 'Shipmaster' is a nice title for the rich guild boys."

The investigator noted the obvious animosity toward the council. Maybe this was something he could use to his advantage. "I've heard that _Tenacious_ is an able ship with an able crew."

Horace rubbed his cheeks, powdered with coarse black whiskers, the kind that could never be fully shaved. "You heard right. But what is a posh like you doing here? And what's with those bullies?"

Armin looked behind him. "Juval, you're dismissed for the moment. Do return in about an hour."

The commander of his guard was obviously displeased. "Sir, it's dangerous. The area—"

"I believe I'll be fine," Armin insisted, his voice turning stern. "Go now." After the four guards retreated, reluctantly, Armin spoke again. "The council does not like me snooping around. They are supposed to protect me, but I'm sure they have quite good hearing."

Horace grunted in agreement. "Bloodsuckers."

"I must admit I have tried securing a passage on board one of the guild vessels, but they did not seem pleased with my idea. I cannot blame them, though. They must be afraid."

Horace sat on a crate and pointed at another. Armin creased his forehead in silent thanks and thumped down. Old dried bits of crab caught in the wicker scratched at his legs through the robe.

"What's that you told them that got them scared?"

"A ship to take me to Ichebor and back to Eybalen, myself as the only passenger. No one else. Half the money now, half upon return. I don't care if you take cargo as well, as long as it floats to Ichebor as well."

There was a silence from the captain and his crew. They stood staring at him, with the hard eyes of people who had spent most of their days glaring into the offing, with merciless sunlight blasting their faces.

"Ichebor? The Broken Islands?" Horace said.

Armin nodded. "Yes."

Horace scratched his neck with a loud noise of nails clicking over wiry hair. "How much?"

The investigator pretended to consider. "I can give you a thousand gold marks."

Someone whistled. His comrades silenced him quickly. Horace kept his face straight, despite the distraction. He tried to appear disinterested. Armin knew that _Tenacious_ itself was worth far, far less.

"When do you wish to depart?" the captain asked.

"As soon as possible. Tomorrow, if your crew can be ready by then."

Horace grimaced. "A fortnight to the islands, a fortnight back. How long do you need to stay on the island?"

Armin had no idea. "A week or so. But I'll pay another hundred marks for every extra week."

Horace rubbed his chin. "Won't be easy. We'll be hitting winter gales on our way there and back. The weather is always bad around the islands. And then the waters are treacherous. The lanes around the islands are not very thoroughly charted."

"I have the maps. You'll just need to find the one island I'm looking for."

The captain seemed impressed with Armin's knowledge. "That makes things a bit better. Still, it won't be easy."

Armin slanted his head. "If it were easy, I would not have heard so many refusals, I think. But if you are a man of courage and skill, and you wish to earn five years' worth of sailing in one month, then you should accept my offer."

Horace watched Armin carefully, weighing him. He turned to his men. "That foreigner's got a tooth for bargaining, eh? Fine, I accept." He extended a big hand. This time, Armin did not hesitate with the barbaric custom.

Ewan paused in his work and listened. Someone was talking to Horace, trying to buy himself passage toward some unknown land. But it was not Sirtai. This made his heart beat faster.

Unsure whether it was chance or luck or a strange twist of fate that had led him to the _Tenacious_ that morning, he let go off his bale of herbs and walked closer to see and hear what the man wanted.

The potential passenger was a strange-looking fellow with no hair on his face, not even eyebrows, which made him look alien and perplexed. He was too dark, even for most sailors. The flowing robes he wore marked him as one of those adulterous Sirtai; his friends had told him all about the islanders.

Horace seemed hesitant to take the man's offer. The crew stared, torn between avarice and fear.

"Ichebor," Ewan heard the word. Something stirred inside him, some wild instinct in the depth of his soul.

The two men shook hands. The smugglers visibly relaxed.

"We'll be ready to sail with the tide tomorrow. Don't be late," Horace told the foreigner.

"There are fifty gold marks in the pouch," the Sirtai said, handing a purse over. "Call it an advance payment. I will bring the rest tomorrow. As to being late, I do believe you will find it prudent to wait for me."

Horace guffawed coarsely, amused by the man's sharp remark. Like all sailors, the smuggler captain was a harsh man with a harsh sense of humor.

"Another fifty marks," the foreigner said, throwing Horace off-balance, "to make sure nothing makes me miss the voyage."

The sailors stiffened once again. For such a huge amount of money, they would kill everyone in the docks to keep their valuable passenger unscathed.

The Sirtai retreated. Four men detached from the boredom of their waiting a hundred paces away and joined him.

Ewan waited for a moment before he started to run.

"Caution, sir, someone approaching," Juval said. He did not draw his short sword, but he put his hand on the hilt. A boy was running toward them.

"Halt right there, lad," Juval warned.

"Please, sir, may I talk to you?" the boy asked, panting.

Armin frowned. "Are you one of Squiggle's lads?" he asked.

"What? Who?" The boy seemed confused. "Please, sir, hear me out." He stepped closer.

"Back off, lad," Juval warned.

Armin saw the boy regard his bodyguard with apathy. His eyes fell on the sword. There was no fear in them, only mild resignation. The investigator found this most intriguing. Most low-born people feared their superiors, even more so their armed guards. They had too often, and sometimes quite wrongfully, tasted the sharp end of a sword.

Not this boy. For all his ragged looks, he did not look like someone who had grown shadowed by violence and cruelty. His eyes saw no danger in the gleaming length of steel. It was a very unusual reaction for a long-limbed, wild dockworker.

"What is it, boy?" Armin asked, raising a hand to keep Juval in check.

The boy let loose an enormous sigh. "Thank you, sir. My name is Ewan. I need to travel across the sea, but I do not have any money to buy myself passage on board one of the ships. I have noticed you need to travel east, but not to Sirtai. I was wondering if I may join you, sir?"

"Smack him on the head, sir?" Juval pleaded, enraged by Ewan's audacity.

Armin looked at his bodyguard sideways, silencing him with a harsh stare. "You _need_ to travel east?"

Ewan sighed. "Yes, sir. I don't know quite where, but I can feel it."

The analyst squatting inside Armin's head clapped with excitement. "You don't know where, then. Can you show me where you feel you _need_ to go?"

Ewan pointed toward the leaden-colored horizon, hidden in the mist veiling the city. North and east. Armin could have sworn the boy's finger pointed straight toward Ichebor.

"How old are you?" Armin demanded.

Ewan swallowed, and this time, he did not lie about his age. "Fifteen."

Armin nodded. "And have you always worked at the docks here?"

Ewan squirmed, contemplating an answer. He decided to stick with the truth, at least bits of it. "Hardly, sir. I have been in the city only for a few weeks. I started working at the docks hoping to earn enough money for the fare, but it will take me ages. I...I must go east. As soon as possible."

"Northeast," Armin corrected him. "What you're telling me is very interesting, Ewan."

"I know it sounds strange, but—"

"No, it doesn't sound strange." Armin cut him off. "Your story is fascinating."

Ewan looked at him expectantly. The boy had intelligent eyes. It was obvious he had seen and heard quite a lot of things in his young life. Despite the grime of grueling labor, Ewan had delicate, scholarly features and a matching physique. He did not look like a typical gutter rat.

Memories coiled in Armin's head like snakes, stirring, hissing. Things he had read in the chronicles about the gods and their Special Children burned raw and bright before him. _In the hour of need, they would present themselves, driven by the blood of their forefathers..._

"So, you would like me to pay for your passage, too. What would you give me in return?"

Ewan squirmed. He opened his mouth, unsure what to say.

Armin lifted a finger, stalling him. "How about...you tell me the whole truth about yourself? And afterwards, if I need anything else, you will become my assistant. You'll help me if I need anything during the voyage. Reasonable things, of course."

The boy hesitated. He did not wish to divulge his secrets, just as Armin had expected.

"You can tell me on the ship, while we sail for Ichebor," Armin said, relenting. A real investigator would not destroy evidence over pride.

Ewan grinned like a fool. "Thank you very much, sir. I don't know what to say."

Armin stepped closer, staring the boy in the eyes. "Be on time tomorrow. If I catch you lying, stealing, or doing anything of that sort, you'll be swimming back to Eybalen. Do you understand me?"

Ewan nodded.

Armin stood, watching Ewan scamper away. Some dark load that had weighted his soul had been lifted. Juval glared after the departing boy, daring him to turn back. The investigator touched the bodyguard on the shoulder, breaking his childish reverie.

"Focus on the docks. Everyone has seen me dig purses full of gold from my pockets. They might decide to take my robe and search for more. Let's make sure nothing bad happens."

Taking the suggestion like a battle order, the four men spread about Armin, flanking him, short knives drawn.

Shadowing them were dozens of sailors, Horace's men all, watching their new, precious passenger with all the care of the dearest parents in the world.

**CHAPTER 39**

Davar sat in his tent, naked. Three children sat on small stools several paces away from him.

"Come on, the first one to touch my knee gets a roast chicken leg," he said.

Behind him, a table stood, loaded with platters of meat, bowls of fruit and sweets, and pitchers of drinks. The children had not eaten a whole day, which only made the game all the more interesting.

Davar waved the chicken leg tantalizingly. The three children watched the food with half-sad, half-glad eyes, their limbs twitching with fear and hunger.

A pair of Davar's trusted soldiers stood nearby to make sure the boy and the two girls did not try to escape. The boy stood up. Davar could feel his heart quicken.

"That's right, very good, boy. Come here."

Just then, blackness erupted before his eyes. His vision fled, replaced by a void so dark, it sucked at his soul through the eye sockets. Gasping for air, senseless, paralyzed, Davar stumbled forward, flailing on the floor, thrashing like a fish. The children screamed, scrambling away.

One of the bodyguards rushed to help their commander. The general-patriarch's arm rose and, despite the blindness, uncannily grabbed him by the throat and flung him away.

"Leave me," he rasped.

Soon, the tent was empty.

Davar found himself kneeling, weeping, his eyes shut, nails of pure darkness riveted into them, boring into the depths of his skull.

"My god," he whimpered with adoration and panic.

A presence coalesced from the pitch clogging his brain, becoming a solid form of dark grays, just a hint of hues lighter than the infinite blackness surrounding it. "My god," Davar repeated, weeping with ecstasy and terror, "you have come back to me."

"I see you have much free time on your hands." A hollow voice without sound exploded in his brain.

"Innocent meditation, my god," Davar pleaded.

"You will have time for your little games later, after your mission is finished," the voice chided.

Davar sobbed, his mouth working wordlessly. "I'm sorry, my god," he wailed faintly.

"You are forgiven. But your task is far from finished. The City of Gods still stands. The guards are still in place. Tell me of your progress."

The general-patriarch laughed hysterically. "We took Jaruka a few days ago, my god. The patriarchs gave us a fierce fight. We lost almost ten thousand souls in the attack, but we overwhelmed the defenders."

"Your losses are of no consequence."

Davar nodded. "Of course, my god, of course. Jaruka is ours now. We have slain all of the Outsiders and several thousand pilgrims. My forces are currently hunting the stragglers all around the city."

"You must destroy every temple and every shrine. You must kill every clergyman and clergywoman. After that, you must put to death every soul in Jaruka. No one must live. The city must be erased from the maps of humanity."

"We are doing the best we can. But they are so many, my god. My men work in three shifts, slaughtering them."

"You should not complain, Davar. You are doing your god's bidden work. You should be glad."

Davar whimpered. "Yes, my god. I am happy. I am glad."

"After you have killed everyone in Jaruka, the defenses around the City of Gods should fail, and you'll be able to pass through. It is essential that you do not linger. You must complete the conquest of Jaruka as quickly as possible."

Davar wept. "Anything you say, my god."

"Bring me the heads of the false gods," Feor said, fading away.

Davar collapsed. Light blasted into his eyes once again, temporarily blinding him. Slowly, he regained his senses. He was lying on the ground, wallowing in his spit and blood. A hot trickle oozed from his nose and from a bitten-through lower lip.

Groaning, he tottered up, dizzy, nauseated, weak. He walked to the table, reaching for a goblet of wine, and drank generously. Fire spread through his belly, warming him up and strengthening him.

He exited the tent, fully dressed and recovered. His bodyguards waited, holding leashes that connected to the scrawny necks of the three children.

"General-Patriarch, do you wish to resume your game?" one of them asked.

Davar shook his head. "No, we don't have time. Put the kids back in the cages and give them something to eat."

"Can we use this one for a little sport, me and my men?" the same man asked, pointing at a girl, the one Davar had found in Talmath. Something akin to jealousy bloomed in Davar's throat.

"She's mine," he stated coldly. Still, he could not blame them. He'd forbidden coitus with infidel women. The very least he could do was offer them the captured children. But if he could not have his fun, then no one else could. "We have work to do. Pleasure comes second. Lock them up, and join me in the city."

With great reluctance and a coil of pent-up energy in his belly, Davar walked toward Jaruka. Soldiers automatically fell behind him, forming a sort of a ceremonial procession.

Although his game had been spoiled, Davar felt buoyant. His god had spoken to him again. For a time, he had been worried, thinking he might have fallen out of Feor's favor. But now, his faith had been rejuvenated, reinforced. He was doing Feor's holy work.

The first time Feor had spoken to him, Davar had cowered in his own feces, crying incoherently like a baby, too terrified to trust his eyes and ears. The encounter with divinity was a terrible ordeal. Many lesser men would have gone mad.

But he was strong, of body and will, and he had slowly recovered. Feor was a gentle, forgiving god. He had not begrudged Davar for being so frightened the first time. He had let him grow into the acceptance of truth.

For days without end, Feor would come to him, telling him of his great plans, of his divine vision. Davar had not believed his great fortune, the sheer magnitude of trust and respect of being honored by a god to become his champion.

Guided by Feor's all-knowing hand, he had abandoned his former life and become the founder of the Movement, a trifle sect of derided fools who had become the major force of faith in the realms, the hammer that beat the anvil of destiny for all the people of the known lands. Within just two short decades, he had seen Feor's might take hold of the world. Only a true god could have accomplished something so grand, so impossible.

Recently, Feor's visits had decreased, becoming seldom, irregular. His god would only come to him once in a while to make sure he did not deviate from his mission, to march west and destroy the City of Gods. But in the moments of loneliness that stretched for hours and days without end, Davar would go to sleep weeping, feeling abandoned by his god's love, feeling he had somehow failed Feor, had done something sinister and horrible that would make his god forsake him.

And every time, his god would come back to light his world with hope and joy and reinstate eroded confidence.

All around him, his soldiers were busy killing the people of Jaruka in every which way possible. They had them stretched on racks; they had them in pillories, raped and burned and hacked to pieces. Groups of men congregated about their victims, exercising their sadism and inventiveness.

It was taking too much time.

"Summon Faithful Ainsley," he ordered.

The leader of one of his legions soon showed up, his furs matted in blood. "Yes, General-Patriarch?"

Davar made a dour face. "These inane killings must stop."

Faithful Ainsley frowned in confusion. "My lord? We must kill the infidels."

"Definitely, we must kill them. But not like this. It's taking too much time. We must make haste. Feor has tasked us with an important mission, and there's no time to lose. See that all men stop playing with the captives and begin executing them quickly and efficiently."

The subordinate seemed disappointed. "As you order, sir."

Davar scratched his head. He had to think of a simple, orderly way to kill tens of thousands of people. Something that would take only a few hours rather than days or weeks.

The war was almost over. Most of the Territories were under Feoran control. Davar had to admit his forces were stretched a bit thin and most of the land they had occupied lay deserted, with not enough troops to man every village. But all that mattered little, paled by comparison with the great goal ahead: the City of Gods, the den of all evil and corruption.

Davar had never been much of a believer in his former life. Most rich families in Caytor paid only token service to the houses, mainly with coin and never with deeds. The patriarchs were a useful distraction for the poor and the common, but the powerful and the wealthy did not need deities on their side. They made their own rules.

Now, Davar knew why he had been chosen. His lifestyle had very closely resembled the creed of Feor. He had drunk and whored and lied as much as he could, and he had liked it. Feor told his followers to embrace their instincts, to succumb to their needs and urges, and to enjoy them. Feor was a god of passion. Just like Davar had been a man of passion.

Feor was the natural choice for mankind. He was the god who loved man's nature and did not try to smother it like the false gods did. Men were born to loot, rape, and murder. They loved it; they enjoyed it. There was no sin in pleasure.

Men with hammers were attacking shrines, trying to bring them down. Houses were being burned down methodically, emptied of any valuables that could be found. Jaruka was dying and, with it, the old faith.

Davar had to admit his troops were becoming more and more efficient at ransacking large cities. Unfortunately, there were no more cities left. But there was no knowing where next their godly work might take them. Parus was a nation of ardent followers of the false gods. They needed be taught a harsh lesson.

Davar recalled the terrible dilemma he had faced when news of the Parusite invasion into the Territories had reached him.

In the south, a new threat had emerged. King Vlad had chosen to defy Feor and try his ugly luck against the true god. Davar had begged his god to let him crush the Parusites, but Feor had been adamant. The only thing that really mattered was the city. West, he had to go west.

After his victory, Davar intended to reclaim the lost lands. He was not really sure what to do yet, but he knew he would devise a wicked plan soon. Feor would inspire him.

He could move his forces against Parus or strike back at Mista. Whatever his course of action, Adam's forces in Caytor had to wait. He had not yet received any message from his Pum'be assassin. But the dwarf must have succeeded. Pum'be never failed.

It was later that day that one of his other officers, Zealous Martin, came up with an idea how to murder the infidels quickly and efficiently. By nightfall, half of Jaruka were lying dead or dying, silent moans from their slashed throats filling the night.

**CHAPTER 40**

Mali could have sworn she had returned to a different world.

She had expected Adam to continue his legacy of terror and leave Roalas a city of ghosts. Instead, Roalas was bustling with life and commerce. Except for the pocked curtain walls and an odd burned-down building, one would be hard-pressed to guess a siege had just ended.

It was hard to believe what he'd done. But like anything else he had attempted, it made people love him and adore him even more. He possessed some uncanny ability to reach out to the hearts of simple men and stir deep and primal emotions that burned in their souls.

Mali had quietly slipped back into the ranks, pretending nothing had happened. Then, she had gone out into Roalas, trying to see for herself the creation of her supposed subordinate.

Adam had long ceased to report to her. He treated the entire army as his own, paid no heed to the plans and missions devised by other colonels, as though he were the only one. He plain and simple ignored them, steering his war machine by a scheme only he knew.

The Eracian army had been split, with a symbolic part of it still loyal to its old officers and the majority converted to this morbid semianarchy that Adam ruled. No one seemed to notice. It was an almost too natural process. People had simply drifted to his side, while still wearing Eracian colors, drawn by the simple, raw truth of his creed.

Every day that passed thinned her ranks further. Adam's life force sucked on her troops, luring them into his web. She realized she would have to sever her contact with Adam before the Southern Army disappeared from the maps, in name and allegiance, if not in numbers and presence.

The most sensible thing she could do was take the few regiments she still commanded and return to Eracia, or at least remain lodged in the northeastern Territories, waiting for a word from the monarch. By all accounts, her ruler did not seem interested in the holy land. His eyes were turned to the northern reaches of Caytor and the negotiations that might stem from his menacing presence at the border, the first real leverage the Eracians had gained in generations. It was a dream of fragile peace, molded by a man of war.

Despite the logic, she could not do it. Not yet. She felt a part of this madness. A part of her made her stay and participate, another puppet in Adam's show.

And then, there was the colossal issue of his legacy. He was the father of the thing growing inside her belly. He was this alien, harsh, unloving creature who had planted his evil seed in her womb, the man who had dashed her career, her hopes. She wanted him dead, wanted his creation dead, but she could not bring herself to lift a sword or utter the command to one of her assassins.

To make everything worse, the Parusites had joined the war. The Territories were being carved up into fat, juicy slices, and they did not want to be left out. They had taken the south of the holy land from the Feorans. Rumors had it they were now marching into Caytor, against Adam, with twice the troops he had. While his forces were tired from a long series of battles, the Parusites were fresh, unscathed.

It would be another bloody campaign. Worst of all, she had no idea what Adam would do.

Instead of attacking the Caytoreans in the Territories from behind, he had turned into their homeland, clashing head-on with the stubborn defenders of their cities. And he had managed to defeat them. He had succeeded where the finest commanders had failed, one after another, generation after generation. His gamble had proven legendary. No one really knew why the Caytorean forces around Talmath and Poereni had not turned and gone after him. It would have been the most logical thing to do, head back for home and defend their villages, just as Adam's move had been the most ridiculous move in the history of warfare, exposing all of his flanks to the enemy, hurling himself into the heart of danger.

Somehow, perversely, it had worked. The Caytoreans had stayed in the Territories and let him be. Unchallenged, he had moved into their land to find emptied barracks and token units facing him. And then, to make his gamble even more dramatic, he had taken Roalas in a matter of weeks, where most experts had expected the campaign to prolong into spring.

And now, it was his city. Madness.

**CHAPTER 41**

Ayrton sat on a boulder, staring at the beautiful nature. He could understand how a mind, any mind, could get immersed and lost in this sublime tranquility.

Elia sat by his side, caressing a bunny. The furry thing sat patiently, docile, content.

"Both Simon and Damian loved you?" he asked again.

"Yes. And I loved Simon. Damian could not accept that. So he killed me."

Ayrton arched his brows. "But you are alive."

"He thought he killed me. In the First Age, before...the First Sin, we were not aware of our own immortality, our own flaws. When time has no consequence for you, you live your life in the now, never caring for the past or the future. We didn't know."

She let go of the bunny. It ran off into the tall grass. "Damian killed my body. I found myself floating in the emptiness of the Abyss, devoid of feeling, devoid of any knowledge of the world. But after the war ended, I was remade.

"Then, I discovered that I was different from the other gods and goddesses. Many have perished in the war, their temples burned and their followers killed to the last, but their souls have been retrieved, forged into new bodies with the faith of new converts."

"What about you?"

Elia stretched her hand. A sparrow landed on her palm. "Everyone thought Damian had killed me, gods and men alike. I was mourned and forgotten. My faith died with my body. But immortal souls cannot be killed. After Damian was banished, his deed became undone.

"I came back, but no one remembered me anymore. My followers had long died off, for the war stretched for many generations of human life. Even some of my kin had a difficult time remembering me."

The bird flew off in a flutter of wings. "I have become sort of an outcast. I am still immortal, but I have no power in this world anymore. The lives and deaths of men no longer affect me."

"What about Simon?" Ayrton asked.

Her smile faded. "He forgot me, too. I don't blame him. He thought I was lost. No one believed that gods or goddesses could be remade until after the war was over and they forced Damian's followers to convert. So he found himself another love, a human girl."

She looked up at the sky. "I used to be the goddess of poetry and song. I have not written or sung ever since."

Ayrton felt really sorry for Elia. "Didn't they try to...bring you back like the others?"

"I don't know. I believe they did try, but my death was not an act of faith, so it didn't work. No one knew what murder was until Damian invented it. He invented so many terrible things. He took the mankind we had created and perverted it into something horrible, sinister, wicked, and utterly, utterly clever."

She stood up and began pacing, leading him toward a small lake of crystal-pure water.

"After the war was over, the gods believed that things could go back to what they used to be a thousand years before. But the world was changed beyond recognition. Humans changed. The Second Age of Mankind had begun, the age of Damian's men.

"We were afraid. We could not learn fast enough to adjust to the changes. We found ourselves being ridiculed by the very thing we had created. People lied to us, led us astray. Our Special Children turned against us. Our champions became tyrants and demigods. Prophets used their knowledge of the future to twist events to their needs."

She sat by the pool and dipped her bare feet in the water. Ripples spread over the surface. "We were very weak after the war. We had very little power. We could only make small changes, affect insignificant events.

"Fortunately, there were still some good men, people of virtue, who still believed in the grace of their creators. They feared and worshipped us. So we ordered them to cleanse the world of Special Children, to remove the seedlings of chaos and strife from among men.

"It was a war that never got written down in the books. Our knights fell upon the world and purged it. They cleansed the lands of those evil, decadent, and unfaithful. When the horrible battle was over, there were very few people left in the world. But they were now under the stern yoke of believers. In our honor, they marked a holy land and built temples all over it so that people would never forget the world belonged to the gods."

"How did you win that war? You said you were weak."

Elia hesitated for a moment. "Some of the gods gave away their essence to create terrible weapons. We used them to...kill the enemy. Hundreds of thousands of souls."

"What happened after the war?"

"The world was ours again. But we did not want it. We were disgusted and disappointed. Our dreams were shattered. We decided to abandon mankind for good.

"We built ourselves our little valley of peace and perfection and shielded it with powers to prevent impure souls from entering. Only people who possessed the grace of the first man could pass through the barrier and survive. Like you. Unholy people perished trying."

She paused for a moment. "It was our parting gift to the few good souls that still remained. Whenever they needed a respite from the burdens of the ugly world, they could come to our valley to rest, to rejuvenate their hearts."

Ayrton scooped icy water into his palm.

"After several centuries, by human reckoning, our anger faded somewhat. We thought the world was healed and tried to return to it. But we were still hesitant and afraid of what we might learn. It was Tanid who braved the feat.

"He left the city and ventured into the world of men." She shook her head. "It was too late. Too much time passed from the last time a god had walked among men. People no longer recognized their creators.

"Confused and hurt, Tanid came to a group of people and introduced himself. Instead of fearing him, those humans laughed at him. They scorned him, calling him a madman. No one believed him any longer. Tanid returned to the city and vowed never again to deal with the world of men, whatever happened. Most of the other gods followed his suit. It has been so ever since."

Ayrton nodded to himself. Tanid, the god of weather. The gods were petty children.

"With time, most gods forgot who they were. Without a purpose to bind them, and time to urge them, they drifted away, becoming recluses. They mostly do the things they love, like fish or paint or tend to deer."

"Or carve in wood," Ayrton added.

"Others are just meditating, lost in their thoughts. Very few still bother to talk to one another."

"You seem not to have been affected like them," he said.

"Neither was Selena. I don't know why."

Ayrton plucked a stem of grass and placed it between his teeth. The gods were no different than the men they so vehemently scorned. The majority were just empty-headed fools.

Elia got up, leading him away again. Ayrton followed her. It was a sort of an unconscious ritual of hers that she repeated every few hours. She would follow an invisible trail that marked some sort of a private queendom, checking on little things.

"How am I supposed to save them if they won't even acknowledge their own existence?"

Elia shrugged. "You must find a way."

Ayrton looked at her. "If the barrier collapses, the Caytoreans will be able to come here and kill your bodies. Aren't you afraid to die...again?"

She shook her head. "No. I have died already once and come back to a world that no longer remembers me. There's more to life than just being alive."

"Is there anything that might make a difference?"

Elia did not seem very optimistic. "Even his return did not seem to stir them up."

That vague reference again. "Him? Who is this...person that you talk about?"

She looked at him as if the answer was the most obvious and logical thing possible. "Damian."

Ayrton blinked. "Damian managed to escape the Abyss? How?"

"We don't know. But we all felt it. Selena was terrified."

"How's that possible?"

"Damian was always the one to think of something new, something the world had never witnessed before. He must have thought of some way to retain his presence in this world and bide his time until he could return."

A vengeful, clever god on the loose, against a bunch of pathetic, self-defeated juvenile deities. It sounded like a very bleak scenario. And he had to save the gods, save the world.

Ayrton realized these gods could never defeat the evil they faced by themselves. They were too stupid to do that. Immortality was their greatest undoing. Unfettered by time, they felt no urgency to evolve. On the other hand, humans fought like rabid dogs for their scrap of knowledge and status in the short span of their lives. It was always the hungriest who made the best hunting tools.

With rising dread, Ayrton realized that many things Elia had told him were probably a twisted, naive interpretation of a much grimmer, darker reality. Take the Special Children. They had massacred half the world to get rid of their foul, gifted offspring, only to be defeated by miracles of birth dozens of generations later. Hidden in the blood of commoners, the gift traveled from one soul to another until it manifested in an age when neither god nor man could do anything about it. The memory of the mad girl in Jaruka haunted him.

There were monsters walking the world, Ayrton realized, and no one could tell them apart from ordinary humans. A few sorry souls served the houses of the gods, but what about those wizards and prophets who got born far from the influence of the patriarchs and matriarchs?

If he'd been a god, Ayrton thought in a moment of mad glee, he would have done it very differently. If he'd been a god, he realized, he would have made sure simple death of his followers would not have been enough to defeat him. He swallowed. If a common man like himself could think of such simple ruses, there was no reckoning what a god like Damian might conceive.

"When did this happen?"

She shrugged. "About a year ago, by human count. We felt a terrible blast of power. He tore a hole in the fabric of the Abyss and fled."

Ayrton stared at the valley locked in never-ending spring. He knew Damian would not have forgotten his kin throwing him into the Abyss. Time was meaningless in the Abyss, from what stories told. Damian was coming after the City of Gods, with no one the wiser to stop him.

Ayrton felt time slipping between his fingers even as the perfect world around him stood still, frozen in a bubble of eternal beauty. He had to evacuate the city, take the gods and goddesses to safety. There was very little time left.

And he didn't have the slightest idea how to do it.

**CHAPTER 42**

Far from civilization, at the mercy of cruel nature, strange souls tended to band together. There were no secrets aboard a crowded ship.

Out of loneliness, or maybe curiosity, Ewan came to see Armin often, a polite, humble, withdrawn boy with lots of questions. Ever an investigator, Armin dug for information, slowly peeling layers of secrecy off the boy's soul.

Their bonding was interrupted during the second week of their voyage. Ewan fell sick, to the great dismay and alarm of the superstitious crew. Disease aboard the ship was one of the greatest perils, save maybe fire and storms. The boy would drift about aimlessly, lost in some inner trance, impervious to the caress of the stinging sleet and howling wind, burning hot to the touch. The sight of him wandering around the deck, steam rising off his shoulders as snowflakes hissed, melting against his skin, made the stalwart and veteran crew of the _Tenacious_ turn grim and dangerous.

Luckily, Captain Horace was a man of vision, a man who valued gold more than anything else, it seemed, and he made sure the discipline and morale remained high, even when the ship's doctor's attempts to cure Ewan failed miserably. Not even the leeching of his blood helped much.

Armin saw the week of fever as a test of his own endurance and negotiation skills. Using the best social tactics he could spin, he tried to assuage the sailors, wielding his knowledge against their primal fears.

The tense situation reached an apex after Ewan failed to show on deck one day, staying below and murmuring in some strange language. That day, Armin learned two things: that Captain Horace had some of his men flogged and that Ewan could speak Keutan when semicomatose.

Armin's resolve almost faltered soon thereafter. He began to worry about a mutiny. Some of the sailors would be more than satisfied with half the payment he had already given their captain. The prospect of a violent, bloody rebellion became a palpable danger. The weather deteriorated, adding to their misery. They were all alone, with not a speck of land in sight.

Fortunately, Ewan came out of his delirium the very next day, slightly pale and thin, but no different than he had been just a few weeks earlier. His almost nonchalant demeanor unnerved even the most ferocious would-be mutineers. The sailors started to fear him, avoiding him, even so much as eye contact. Only Horace would talk to the boy.

Ewan's isolation strengthened his relationship with Armin. The investigator took pity on the boy and gave him some of his books, after being pleasantly, if not really, surprised that the boy was literate. Cuddling in the dark, narrow cabin they shared, Ewan wasted candle fat reading the rare scripts. He never said anything, but his face spoke volumes.

The turn of the year was only days away. On the ship, the sense of time eroded, becoming a dull monotony between shifts. Horace gripped Armin's maps like a sacred artifact, navigating toward the unfriendly destination. By all estimates, Ichebor's treacherous waters were only leagues away.

Ewan and Armin shared each other's company on the deck. The boy was dressed in a light, salt-eaten jacket, oblivious of the ravaging chill. Armin wore layers of fur and wool, his teeth chattering. A native of mild, rainy winters in Sirtai, he found the open-sea desolation a torment for his bones.

"I think I'm a monster," the boy blurted.

Armin looked at him, but Ewan evaded eye contact. "I would not say so."

Ewan closed his eyes. "What else? I hardly feel the cold. I do not sleep at night. Sometimes, I even forget to eat. The only thing that reminds me to is seeing you do all those things."

Armin patted the boy on the shoulder. "Don't despair. You are not a monster."

"I have read the books, sir. I know what you think. But I'm not a Special Child."

Snowflakes flurried in a torrent, making him scowl. Armin huddled deeper inside his cowl. "My profession is a criminal investigator, Ewan. I'm not a man of feelings and hunches. I am a man of facts, solid facts, evidence, and logical relations between people and events. I do think that you are a Special Child. I find the evidence highly supporting that...theory."

"What am I supposed to do then?" Ewan croaked.

"That is for you to find out. Soon." They turned toward their invisible goal. "But there must be a reason. We have not met by chance. You have not come all the way from your monastery to Eybalen by chance. Some deep, hidden instinct guided you."

Ewan's lower lip quivered. "I...Several times, people tried to attack me. And every time, some sort of fever seized me. I would lose control of my body and...when they tried to hurt me, my body was like stone. Last night, I tried to hurt myself. I took a hammer and hit myself on the knee. It was as if a mosquito bit me. I hardly felt the blow that should have shattered my leg. If I didn't know what I was doing, I might have never even felt it."

Armin would have been shocked only a month ago. But no longer. Losing a wife took away something from you, some simple innocence. What remained was hard, cold dedication.

"Why do people want to hurt me?" the boy whispered. "I have done nothing wrong."

"People are people. They usually divide strangers into two groups. They see you as either prey or a predator. I think that all your attackers thought of you as prey. Even easy prey. But then, since you are a Special Child, you proved to be nothing such. This is very difficult for others to accept. When the hunter becomes hunted, his hatred is tenfold stronger, and he is more prone to retaliation."

"How am I supposed to live my life then? Will I be treated this way everywhere I go?"

Armin smiled sadly. "The Sirtai people do not believe in your continental gods, but we have our own faith. We believe in cause and effect, in reason and result. We believe that everything in this world has a place for some reason, some purpose. Sometimes, we know of the result, but not the reason. Sometimes, it is the other way around. I believe you will find your reason, even if you do not understand the result yet. You have been blessed with your special gift for a reason."

Ewan squared his jaw. "I don't want it."

Armin would not look away. He waited until Ewan met his stare. "I have lost my wife trying to decipher the murders of several rich Caytoreans. I arrived to Eybalen for work...and my wife was killed before my eyes. Life is a hard and cruel affair. Wanting it to be otherwise has nothing to do with the way it is. But you can try and make a difference. You can embrace what life throws at you and give it a meaning. You will find the reason. My wife did not die without a reason. And if I have to go to Ichebor to find out, then I will go to Ichebor.

"Our meeting wasn't by chance. In the last days, ever since hearing your story, I've come to realize that. I suspect that I am supposed to take you to Ichebor. There, my purpose in this quest will be fulfilled. By then, you will have realized yours."

This seemed to cheer the boy a little. He grunted, his spirits slightly lifted.

"What do you expect us to find on the island?" Ewan asked.

Armin frowned. "Some link to all the events unraveling before us in the world, the wars, the destruction of the Territories, the rise of Feor, your own change. The books indicate that Damian's fortress was located at the very island we are now seeking. It is also the place of his trial and banishment. Many things lead to these abandoned isles."

"You think Damian and Feor are one and the same, sir?" Ewan asked, his politeness returning.

Armin rubbed his baby-smooth chin. "Evidence shows this to be true."

"Why don't the gods interfere? Why don't they protect us?" the boy wondered, mostly to himself.

The investigator had no answer. He stood by the rail, staring into the leaden horizon, watching the clouds and sea collide into a single mass of depressing gray.

"Land ahoy!" the morning lookout shouted.

The deck exploded into a ripple of thuds, sailors rushing toward the called sighting. Slowly, excruciatingly slowly, the ashen blush spoiling the monotone horizon coalesced into a solid mass of jagged rock. The first of the hundreds of the Broken Islands loomed before them.

"Spit my liver, the charts are correct!" Horace cried.

Armin felt a weight lift off his chest. Up until this very moment, the chance for trouble aboard the ship had been quite high. Smugglers were hard and unforgiving people, driven by greed. Their hope of a good profit was their only motivation.

Now that their hope had been restored, Armin found it easier to concentrate on the grim task ahead.

Horace let his men celebrate for a short while before sending them back to their posts. The easy part of the voyage had been completed.

The captain was a successful smuggler for the simple reason of being thorough and careful. He liked the maps he had, but he preferred solid, firsthand experience. Until he had personally sailed the narrow channels between the blasted deserted islands, he would not be fully at ease.

Holding the map before him, Horace steered the ship himself, slogging at a snail's pace, most of the sails furled. Speed was a killer in uncharted shallows. Lookouts craned over the ship's sides, staring at the water, trying to glimpse the bottom. However, the sea was choppy and dark and unforthcoming.

Silence and professionalism engulfed the ship as veterans set to their tasks. They inched forward, battered by wind and snow and waves that hurled spray over the deck, but the elements slowly tapered off as the _Tenacious_ waded into the protected canyons between the islands.

At night, they anchored. Horace did not wish to risk his ship. Getting stranded meant a certain death in these cursed waters.

Three days before the turn of the year, they approached their destination. It looked no different from the dozens of similar formations all around, a gray heap of ragged peaks and rocks and sparse vegetation, without a bird in sight.

"That is our island," Ewan murmured in a quiet tone.

"There," one of the lookouts cried.

Squinting against the wind, they stared, trying to discern the details. On a rocky beach about four cables away, an old abandoned wharf stretched, half its timber washed away or collapsed. It looked like half the jaw of some gigantic beast. Beside it, like shells of huge mollusks, broken carcasses of old boats lay in ruin atop the scree.

"That is our island, indeed," Armin whispered.

Before them, tiny teeth of submerged land poked out of the water surface. Horace brought the _Tenacious_ to a groaning halt and would not go any further. This was as shallow and as far as he would sail. Armin knew well that this was far more than any guild shipmaster would dare.

"Two weeks," Horace said.

"And then you send a party looking for us," Armin emphasized.

It would be horribly easy for the captain to abandon them on the island. The investigator hoped the man had some honor—or that he loved gold so much he would never turn away from it. In the past weeks, Armin had done his best to convince the captain, in the most benign and unthreatening ways, that he was a highly influential man in Sirtai, with deep political and military connections. He said nothing of the wizard or the spells that had been placed on him for his protection in the hour of need, but he hoped his cover story was enough to make Horace believe betraying him would cost him more than just losing half the payment. Armin also made sure the captain knew Armin was on this mission on behalf of many other people, all of whom would notice and mind his disappearance.

One of the rescue boats was prepared for them, loaded with provisions, firewood, lots of blankets, grapnel hooks and spears, and even a crossbow.

"We'll stay here," Horace said. He did not like the idea of his ship being static and vulnerable, even if it were hundreds of miles away from civilization. On their way to Ichebor, they had seen no other ship, not even pirate vessels. No one dared or cared to go that close to the cursed archipelago.

The truth was probably more the latter, Armin thought. Some deep instinct was ingrained in the soul of every god-fearing continental. They did not know why these islands were considered so unlucky, why they were feared and shunned and never populated, but they could feel there was a reason, just like a man could feel someone watching him at night.

Ewan clambered down the rope ladder. Armin followed. His generous swaying made some of the mariners chuckle with glee. Finally, there was something they had bested the landlubber at, finally a weakness that cracked his smooth, composed behavior. The investigator ignored them.

The two of them took some time adjusting their rhythm, rowing in opposite directions and wrong sides of the little boat, making it zigzag. The waves brought them up and down, making Armin almost sick. On board the ship, he had found the stay inside the cabin, without any visual reference by which to gauge the undulation, intolerable. Despite the cold, he had spent most of the time on deck, except when he needed to read, afraid to wet his precious books.

He found the experience of rowing the boat more bearable, but only just. Ewan did not seem affected, but he'd been ignoring most of nature's influences lately.

They rowed until their boat groaned to a halt in a bed of pebbles. After jumping into the icy water, they dragged the boat away from the tide line, the two oars drawing random lines in the gravel.

Their island was a huge affair. It looked at least several miles across. Hills, heaped atop one another as if in panic and rush, bubbled away in a haphazard fashion. There were no trees anywhere, only scrawny bushes.

Armin made another mental check mark. Another mystery solved. One of the victims had been a chief carpenter for the carpentry and woodwork guild.

Hiking large packages onto their backs, the two men headed inland, their feet skidding on the knife-sharp shards of rock. Dark, forbidding, jagged hills watched them silently.

**CHAPTER 43**

King Vlad was furious.

"How could this have happened?" he shouted.

Archdukes Radik and Alexei stood nearby, quiet, watching their king oscillate from murderous rage to panic. At their feet lay the bodies of the small and entire group of priests in Vlad's retinue, all of them with their throats sliced.

"We have no idea, Your Highness," Radik said.

"This might be the work of enemy assassins," Alexei offered in a low tone.

Vlad grimaced. "Who?"

Other nobles were approaching, congregating on the slaughter, apprehensive looks masking their faces. "Maybe those were the Eracians. Their leader is a godless man. It stands to reason that he might try to murder the clergy," Alexei said.

King Vlad spun around. "Assassins in our camp," he growled. Suddenly, he reached for the hands of one of the soldiers guarding the perimeter and wrestled a crossbow from his hands. The council of Vlad's lieges stiffened.

"Anyone could be an assassin," the king said, looking around him, whipping his head about violently. "There," he said, pointing at one of the soldiers. "That man could be an assassin." He aimed and fired. And missed.

The lords cringed as the crossbow twanged. They all let out a small sigh of relief as the bolt flew off mark. The soldier started, yelped, and dove for cover.

"That man is one of our soldiers, Highness," Duke Maris spoke in a soft tone, as if berating a demented child, which was not far from the truth, he thought.

"Enemy assassins would make sure to stay out of plain sight," Radik added.

"You can put down the weapon, my king. We are safe here," Alexei pleaded.

King Vlad the Fifth looked at his men. Finally, he gave up the crossbow. "This is an ill omen. Maybe the gods are telling us we should not proceed with the attack."

Duke Maris made half a step forward. "On the contrary, Your Highness. These foul murders are an act of desperation by our enemies. They know we are here and that they cannot defeat us in open combat. So they resort to cowardly acts."

A few weeks earlier, the lords had been vehemently opposed to any attempt of fighting the Eracians. Their goal was to plow into the Territories and carve up new arable duchies for themselves. This was the promise Queen Olga had given them.

After their king had vowed to move against the godless leader of the Eracian forces, despite their best attempts to dissuade him from straying from the original plan, they had all begun to fear the war to be spinning out of control, becoming a religious quagmire instead of a simple military conquest. But their alarm had been quickly quenched.

The Eracians, for all the wild rumors of their successes and horrors, were a small army, with half its forces consisting of peasants and mercenaries. All combined, they were only half as many as the Parusites, with just a tenth of the cavalry they possessed. The odds showed a promising outcome.

Their initial opposition had subsided. But their aversion to the patriarchs had not. The nobles all knew that it was the priests who had convinced their king to attack east. It was sheer luck their gamble had paid off in the end. But their next move might have been suicide. This was why they had to be removed.

Archduke Radik had sent envoys to the mercenary leaders in Adam's camp, offering them gold and amnesty if, at the crucial moment in the upcoming battle, they decided to change their allegiance. To his great surprise, the envoy had never returned. This was a distressing development of events. Mercenaries never refused money.

Still, despite the small setbacks and occasional qualms, the Parusite lords were not really worried. The Caytoreans seemed to have vanished, having abandoned the eastern and central Territories, moving their forces even further west. This allowed the Parusites to advance into Caytor without the fear of exposing their flanks. In the north, the Eracians seemed reluctant to budge from their enclave by the border.

The only real problem remaining was Adam the Godless, with his twenty thousand men, lodged in and around a large city called Roalas. Despite his impressive record of victories against the Feoran rabble, this man had no chance against the superb Parusite knights. They only needed to defeat him, and then both the eastern Territories and a sizable chunk of Caytor would be theirs. Plus, they would have defeated the heathens, a real boon for Parus.

This campaign, which they had believed to be a curse, was turning into a blessing. And now, the patriarchs were all dead. There was no one left to drip poison into their king's ear. He would heed only their advice now.

"Our scouts report a force of twenty thousand men at most, half of them peasants," Alexei said.

"They have almost no cavalry or heavy infantry," Radik suggested.

"By defeating this Adam, we will have assured our claim on the captured Territories. Neither the Caytoreans nor Eracians will have any strength left to challenge our presence. And we will have gained twice the territories originally intended."

"And we will have defeated all of these infidels. Our gods will be pleased."

The last sentence seemed to trigger something in their king's head. It perked up on its neck. "Yes. That's it. I have a plan," he whispered. "Summon the war council."

Within minutes, all of the nobles were gathered in their king's tent, staring at a map of western Caytor. "My scouts report a weak and tired force of maybe twenty thousand men," Vlad spoke, pointing at the large chart. "They have just taken a city and must be suffering from many casualties. This is an ideal time for an attack. Before they can consolidate or fortify their positions."

Duke Maris waited for his lord to let him speak. "Indeed, my king. That is a very wise plan. The scouts report most of the enemy forces camped outside the city. They must be busy pillaging and raping. They surely do not expect an attack from the southwest. Their flanks and rear will be totally exposed."

Vlad waved a short stick he used as a pointer, obviously excited. Some of the aristocrats around him backed away from the stinging lashes.

"Our scouts have reported little or no patrols. All of them have come back safely. This means the enemy is completely oblivious to what happens just a few miles behind them," Alexei spoke.

"We will crush them in one sweeping blow," King Vlad said loudly, almost shouting.

And that concluded the council. In the morning, the command was issued for all troops to prepare for battle. The day turned into a frenzy of preparations, with smiths hammering fresh blades and shields for the soldiers. Fletchers slew geese and dried their feathers before making fresh swaths of arrows for the archers.

The Parusite lords assembled their forces and, under their colorful banners, led them into Caytor. They kept in tight formations, keeping the flank and van forces close by. They did not wish their advance to be detected by the Eracians. They expected to arrive within just a few miles of the enemy positions by nightfall and rest for the last time before striking at dawn.

All indications showed the Parusite army would be victorious by tomorrow evening.

King Vlad rode Fania at a light canter, keeping somewhat ahead of his troops. They had urged him to stay behind, but he refused. He never let them bundle him into the rear, like some coward. He was the best warrior Parus had ever had. He was invincible.

And tomorrow morning, he would kill thousands of infidels.

With a smile, he headed for Roalas.

Adam did not share the same sentiments as the Parusite king.

Having been informed of the enemy move, he had deliberately toned down the ferocity of preparations for the inevitable clash, making the enemy patrols believe he was a complacent, deluded little warmonger, enjoying his little victory.

His men gnashed their teeth whenever a Parusite scout came and went away unscathed, but they never once doubted his judgment. Even the mercenaries were afraid of him. Genuinely, deeply afraid.

Like any dog who could not intimidate his foe with his barking, Captain Franco had come to him with his tail tucked between his legs, begging forgiveness and acceptance. The grisly murder of the animal torturers and the head and penis display over Roalas had convinced the last of the sell-souls that crossing Adam would be the worst mistake they could ever make.

It came as no surprise when the mercenary captain came to inform him of the envoy, offering money in exchange for betrayal. A hireling had turned into a devoted follower. If he were not a dead man, Adam would have almost been impressed with his ability to render miracles.

Just to spite the Parusites, Adam had ordered the envoy fatally detained. The enemy had no idea whether the soldiers of fortune would bet their luck and side with them during the battle.

Today, it would all end, Adam knew.

The air reverberated with the chaotic clop of thousands of hooves of Parusite cavalry, moving closer toward Roalas. Adam had his regiments feign a panicked scramble to arms, with people running all about the camps, ringing bells and shouting. The day was clearing, the dawn mist and light rain receding. The smudge on the horizon was forming into a solid mass of enemy troops.

Despite his reassurances, Adam's soldiers were quite apprehensive regarding the battle. They realized the enemy was much stronger, and they could not ignore the feeling of doom at being deliberately assembled in an inferior fighting position. But Adam insisted it was necessary for the complete victory he had planned.

Adam stood alone on a platform erected especially for what he intended to do. A far shot from the prostitute he had been in his former life. Behind him, a river of people flowed, all of them counting on him to save them, trusting him with their lives. It was a madness only a dead man could embrace with ease.

He gripped the bloodstaff, waiting. The ancient weapon excited him in an almost sexual way. The sleek, cool glassy texture had an almost divine quality about it. A weapon that could destroy armies. What was someone wielding it expected to feel?

Adam knew his military conquest would end today. There would be no more pointless wars. The streak of his perverted genius and impossible luck would not run forever. And even if it could, he did not want it anymore.

Killing gave him little pleasure or purpose. But a realm based on his principles was something to strive for. His speech before the city folk of Roalas had imbued him with a strange sense of fulfillment. He had delivered the speech as a sort of protest against the world and the gods that had abandoned him and so many like him. He had not expected his own words to work on him as well.

Adam could see himself building a nation of people who believed in reason and one another rather than fictional phantoms and false creeds. He possessed the military power to make sure his ideas were upheld. His forces would fight to the death to see his dream realized.

But while troops could keep away foreign armies from retaking the lost land, they could not build a nation. Only he was capable of that. Without him, the brilliant conquest would wane in the history books to become a lucky tantrum of a single madman.

He had the chance to forge peace with the Caytoreans and see the rise of their secular nobility to greater power. He had the chance to forge peace between Eracia and Caytor, something no politician or a general had ever accomplished. And on top of all that, he had the legitimacy to build a new world for simple people who wished to live without the hypocrisy of religion.

Once the Parusite forces were obliterated, there would be no one left to challenge him. The Feorans were a rabble, slaughtering across the Territories. Most of the Eracian army was his. The few men who still remained loyal to the monarch cowered in the safety of the border forts, without leadership or purpose. All that was left was King Vlad and his troops. But they would all die today.

At his feet lay a bound criminal who had stolen from the people of Roalas despite Adam's explicit ban. He was one of twenty others to be used as ammunition for his bloodstaff. Despite Lord Erik's suggestion to use fresh corpses, Adam chose to combine the destruction of the Parusite army with an unusual execution of the condemned prisoners. They, much like him, were already dead men, even if their hearts were still pumping warm blood through their veins.

He waited for the Parusites to come within a mile of his position, then three quarters of a mile, half a mile.

Adam laid the butt of the bloodstaff against the bound man. As the blood lanced into the staff, the man gasped and froze as color drained from his skin, leaving him a bluish-gray corpse. Holding the weapon beneath his armpit, Adam leveled it at the Parusite swarm, aimed, and squeezed.

Nothing happened.

He looked down at the crystal rod in his arms. In the heat of the moment, he had laid his fingers too far from the black marks. Readjusting his grip, he pressed again.

A torrent of blood jewels exploded from the tip, arcing toward the enemy in a sweep of red meteors. Adam gripped the deadly weapon in his arms and watched with a macabre, emotionless passion as the hail of rubies slammed into the enemy force.

They went down like rye under a scythe, a whole regiment flattened into a heap of still bodies. Adam aimed to the left and right, sweeping across the enemy front. Men died in their hundreds and thousands.

He could only imagine the magnitude of horror blasting through the Parusite ranks. But it was happening too fast for the enemy army as a whole to grasp their destruction. Fresh fodder streamed forward, unaware of the bloodbath happening just a few yards ahead of them. There was no sound to Adam's destruction, only the fast flashes of red.

The bloodstaff sputtered. Without hesitation, Adam motioned for another prisoner to be placed before him. Then another. By the time he was finished with half the condemned, the battlefield was still and quiet.

Masses of his soldiers, conquered Caytoreans, and mercenaries were pouring toward the platform, shocked, speechless men witnessing history. They tottered like drunkards, dragging their bodies. The world was impossibly quiet. It was almost unbearable.

No one could believe fifty thousand Parusites had perished in just a few minutes. They all saw it, but their minds refused to register the holocaust. The scene was too surreal.

Adam turned to face his people. All standing together, murderers and children, soldiers and women, their faces pale, their eyes agleam with something he had never seen before: a sort of a panicked adoration that zealots reserved for their illusionary gods.

"The war is over," he said. His voice carried over the silent, shocked mass. "Our enemies are dead. We can now lay down our weapons and begin our lives as free people, a new nation. You will be my people, and I will be your leader and protector."

He lifted the bloodstaff aloft, holding it in both hands. "I hereby declare the birth of Athesia. It will be a land of men without religion. You do not need gods. You only need me."

Silence. For a long while, no one spoke.

Then, as one, the crowd saluted and cheered, "Long live Adam! Long live Athesia!"

As the crowds roared, tears welled up in Adam's eyes at the realization that on the day of Athesia's birth, he, too, was born anew.

**CHAPTER 44**

Ayrton felt lost. Lost in time.

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**

It 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.

Davar looked behind him. A score or so of frightened young men waited, mainly fresh converts. This was their chance to prove their faith. He had explained to them, if their love for Feor was great enough, no harm could come to them.

He sought the most desperate face. "You, man," he said, pointing.

A pair of veteran soldiers pushed the pale convert forward. He was breathing in short pants, rivulets of sweat rolling down his cheeks despite the cold. He swayed like a drunkard.

"Easy now." One of the veterans steadied him.

"Go beyond that marker," Davar instructed. "It will be all right. Feor will protect you. If you truly love him, you have nothing to fear. You do truly love him, don't you?"

The man nodded weakly. Then, he doubled over and retched on his own boots. Steam rose from the slush. Davar rolled his eyes. Some people were just too weak. Several volunteers who had decided to decline this marvelous opportunity lay in the snow some distance away, turning blue with frost. The Movement had no place for weaklings.

It took several moments before the lad could stand again. He sobered, took a deep breath, and tottered forward. He passed the old, weathered marker. Nothing happened. He turned and smiled.

Davar motioned for him to move forward. "Go on. Go on."

The soldier trod slowly, as if the ground were treacherous. He paused after every step, anticipating something dreadful. But nothing happened. His feet touched the sprawled figure of one of the first volunteers.

The general-patriarch and several of his most senior zealouses waited, hardly daring breathe, lest they spoil the fragile balance of the moment. They waited and hoped. Had the barrier collapsed?

Buoyant with confidence, the volunteer advanced ahead of the last of the victims. Still, nothing happened. He walked faster now.

"What do you feel?" Zealous Leonard shouted.

The volunteer turned, smiling. He did not seem to have heard the officer. His hands trailed shapes in the air. His face was locked in wonder, seeing things they could only guess. Which probably meant the magic was still in place. It was only the matter of time.

A bloodcurdling shriek startled them all. The volunteer went down, gripping his chest, howling. His screams dwindled to a gurgle, trailed away into silence. The thrashing form became very still.

Davar pouted. The man had managed another ten paces. A new record. It was obvious the magic was failing, but it was still strong enough to murder anyone within fifty paces of the marker. They had to wait. Another hour.

Davar had no idea what the most sensible time interval was, but an hour seemed like a reasonable choice. This way, he could still keep his eagerness sated without losing too many men.

Suddenly, he lost his vision. He found himself on the ground, biting the frosty mud, flailing without control. Feor had come to him again.

"Take me to my tent," he rasped. His soldiers rushed to him, lifted his twisted form, and led him to the warmth and seclusion of his pavilion. They laid him gently on the carpets and retreated.

"My god," he wept.

A gray shape floated inside his head, possessing him. "You have come so far. I am pleased."

Davar whimpered with ecstasy. "Yes, my god, yes. I have obeyed your every command! The cities have all been razed. Jaruka is a charred ruin."

"You have served me faithfully. You will be rewarded for that," Feor said. Davar whimpered some more. "Has the barrier collapsed yet?"

"Not yet, my god. But soon, it will come down soon. My troops are roaming across the Territories, burning villages and killing anyone they encounter. Soon, the last of the people in this unholy land will be dead."

"Very good. Now, this is the most crucial part of your mission. You must not fail now."

Davar shook his head vehemently. "No, my god. I will not fail you."

"You must kill the false gods. You must find them and destroy them. I have waited a long time for this glorious moment. Your men are doing their job with great success. Before long, the foul magic of the false gods will shatter. You must storm the city and kill anyone you find."

"Yes, my god, I will. No one will live."

"I will remain inside your head. You will share your experiences with me. I want to see the Gods die with my own eyes. I want to hear them scream with my own ears. I must witness this moment of truth."

Davar sobbed. "I'm honored, my god."

"I will surrender your body to your control now. Do not tell anyone of me. They must not know I'm with you."

The general-patriarch gasped as incandescent white light exploded before his eyes, drilling into his skull. He reeled on the floor, slowly regaining his senses. He waited for quite some time before he rose, wiped away his tears, and came out.

Feor was with him, inside his head, a twin spirit that shadowed his own. It felt as if his life echoed itself faintly, every movement, every sight doubling and tripling and replicating into infinity. Everything became blurred and stretched, words, feelings, smells.

Wrapped in the presence of his god, Davar struggled back to the line of his men. They waited.

Davar noticed the time for another attempt was ripe. He turned around. The volunteers stared at him, dread filming their eyes. If they had only known the very god they had sworn to was watching them now.

"Who will come?" he said. _Who will come, who will come, who will come_ ...the words trailed. He waved his arms dreamily, watching their misty silhouettes linger in the cold, crisp winter air.

"You." He pointed when no one stepped forward.

This volunteer was stronger than the one before. He did not try to resist. He walked steadily, staring straight forward.

The man crossed the line. Nothing happened.

He walked forward, never looking back or at the ground littered with his comrades.

"Soldier!" Davar called. The volunteer turned. "What do you see?" he asked.

"Snow, sir," the man offered. "Just snow and dead vegetation."

Davar felt a joy of alien excitement course through his blood, like liquid fire. _The barrier is down._ Bodiless words stirred in his head. _The barrier is down..._

The general-patriarch swallowed.

The soldier walked forward. He passed the last body. Nothing happened.

"Keep walking," Davar shouted. "Keep walking."

A wave of murmurs spread down the line of armed men. Hungry, tired, and cold, they had waited for two long, grueling days in the bitter cold, eating salted pork and drinking melted snow water and knifing chilblains off their feet and palms.

The ranks stirred. Like animals, they could smell blood.

Davar waited, his breath lodged in his throat. Could it be true? Had the barrier really collapsed? The volunteer was almost half a mile away, topping a little crest. He walked with grim determination, as if looking back would undo his tremendous luck of being alive.

_The barrier is down. Go. Murder them_ , Feor spoke. _Avenge me._

Davar raised his sword aloft. The soldiers became quiet. They looked at him, waiting for the word of Feor.

"Commence the attack. Kill anyone you find. Leave no survivors."

A thunderous cheer exploded down the long line of Feorans. They hollered with all their might, a deliverance of caged beasts bursting free. Ignoring their exhaustion of several long months of marches, sieges, and fighting, the soldiers charged forward at a trot, slipping in the mud and fresh snow, trampling the countryside to a brown pulp.

A blanket of fur and leather uniforms crawled over the soil that no human had walked in thousands of years. The magic barrier was gone. The City of Gods was at their mercy now.

_Find the gods and kill them_ , Feor shrieked with joy.

Davar rushed forward.

**CHAPTER 46**

Armin and Ewan walked down a path that had clearly been made by humans, a new road, carved into the cruel face of volcanic rock.

They found discarded tools, clothes, and wagons everywhere, a testimony to the secret of the eight dead Caytorean merchants and their iniquitous business. They found old fire rings, black spots on the dun, lifeless ground. They found tent pegs and coils of rope and shreds of canvas that marked the location of abandoned camps.

As they moved deeper into the island's heart, they began encountering corpses. Most had been picked clean by rain and maggots, leaving behind only bleached bones and cracked skulls. Armin lingered by the skeletons, examining this and that bone. Ewan watched him with morbid curiosity.

"What do you see?" he asked on one occasion.

"Death, violent death," the investigator answered.

The trail of garbage and dead people followed them up all the way to the summit of the mountain dominating the island.

Damian's home was a blasted, inhospitable rock, with a single, crooked, sheared fang in the middle. The human-marked road circled the sharp face of the cliffs, winding up toward the top. They found pieces of scaffolding and ramps creaking in the wind, slowly falling apart as sea salt ate at their joints.

There was no vegetation, no place to hide from the ferocious elements. Armin spent the nights cowering in a cocoon of blankets. Ewan was oblivious to both fatigue and the chill, staying by Armin's side, keeping him warm with his own body. They used bits of old, rotting timber to make fire.

Luckily, the ordeal was a short one. On the third day of their journey, they crested the last twist of the trail. Before them stretched the broken lip of the mountain's summit. And it was no ordinary summit after all, but the edge of a volcano. Rock and more rock stared at them. The wind howled, a thin, sharp, mind-splitting fury. They had to shout in one another's ear to be able to communicate.

Ewan looked at the world. The gray sea, merging into a gray sky, with livid spots where storms raged. Other islands rose from the sea like turds in a pond, ugly and uninviting.

The world around them was cold and dead, a heap of gravel and stone and ashes. They could see the trail they had followed, a snake that had scarred the dead land. A passage of so many people and so many deaths. There were many more skeletons littering the rim of the volcano.

Drawn by the chasm that breathed just on the other side, they walked the short distance toward the inner slope. And paused.

"What in the name of...?" Ewan whispered. But he knew. He just knew.

Armin stared. The center of the bowl was a black hole, a dark black hole that sucked the light from the air.

"Incredible," the investigator said.

The wind shifted. A gust of air whipped out from the bowl, overwhelming them with the stench of old death. Armin bowed and retched dryly. Ewan stood grimacing, but otherwise unmoved.

"That black thing is the Abyss," the Sirtai said and snorted. It was stating the obvious.

Ewan nodded. Only then he noticed how quiet it had become. It was as if they were in the world of the dead already.

The inner slope of the volcano was sheer and steep, insurmountable. Scaffolding led toward its depths, but it looked rickety, with many menacing gaps. It was either chancing it or jumping straight down.

"I must go there," Ewan said simply.

"You cannot," Armin pleaded.

"I must. I know what I have to do. It's clear to me now."

Armin stood silent for a moment. "I will wait for you here," he said at last. If he could survive the cold, that was. But there was nothing else he could do to help the boy.

Ewan extended his hand. Armin smiled softly and gripped the boy's warm, callused palm. The boy smiled back, his face a reflection of sadness of an entire age of humans. They did not speak any more. There was nothing left to say.

With a grim, determined nod, Ewan walked to the edge of the cliff top. Stone crumbled beneath his feet, rolling away into the chasm below. The boy looked one last time at Armin and, taking a deep breath, leaped toward the Abyss.

He landed with a thud. None of his bones were broken, despite his awkward landing. Walking closer to the edge of the black hole, he stepped carefully, unable to fully block the prevailing stench of rotten flesh.

He approached the Abyss. Its impregnable darkness stabbed at his eyes, making them water. The measure of emptiness of that thing was unimaginable. Up close, he could see wisps of smoke trailing out of it, disintegrating and dispersing in the cold air.

Ewan stepped closer.

A black, cowled form materialized before him, blocking his path.

"Welcome, I have been waiting for you," it said.

Ewan stopped. "What...Who are you?"

The form stirred. "I'm your father, Ewan. Welcome, son."

The boy stepped back. "You are lying."

The apparition gave a throaty, disembodied chuckle. "Oh, such presumption. Well, that is to be expected. After all, you are one of my sons. Even if we are distanced a thousand generations apart, I can always tell my own blood."

Ewan was silent for a moment. "I don't believe you."

"Ah, young pride. You can believe whatever you wish, but you cannot alter reality. You are my son, whether you like it or not. And just like I have expected, you have come to me, in my greatest hour."

"What is your name?" Ewan asked after some time.

"My name is Damian, son."

"You are not my father," Ewan growled. "You are the Father of Evil."

"Evil? Evil!" Damian roared. "You call this world evil? Everything you do and see is my creation. Mine! I have molded this world from my ideas and ambitions, made it into something that has meaning. Before that, the world was nothing but a perverse freak show of those monsters that had betrayed me. I created emotions. I invented love and hatred. Without me, humans would be nothing more than animals without a tail."

"You killed the one you loved," Ewan said.

"Well, regret is yet another of my jewels. As a god, I had to invent them all, although I must admit, humans have become quite good at imitating me."

Ewan tried to say something, but Damian interrupted him.

"Enough small talk. We will have enough time to get acquainted later. I need you, son."

"What?" Ewan growled.

"I need your help, son."

"I don't believe you, and I don't trust you. Everything you do and say are lies."

Damian laughed maniacally. "On the contrary, son. I am the truth. This world is the mirror of my soul. And I would never dare lie to my son."

"Stop calling me 'son'!"

Damian's cowled form said nothing.

Ewan asked the question that had burned in his soul for quite some time. "How did you escape?"

Damian glided closer. Ewan stepped back again. "You see, son, I was always much smarter than my peers. They have only ever managed to best me with treachery. To bestow one's power in humans is a very dangerous business. That is what those fools did. But, I knew better. Flesh can be destroyed. But ideas cannot."

The cowled figure moved away. "I gave away some of my essence to ideas. Murder, jealousy, greed. They are all mine. They are my children, the children of my soul, just like you are the child of my flesh. And like any child, they grew bigger and stronger, feeding me even as I rotted in the Abyss. Until finally, one day, I was able to sneak out of my confinement.

"At first, only a tendril of thought, sometimes a wicked, bodiless idea. I spent centuries studying humans, seeking a pliable soul. But I was too weak. Then, another of my children was born, a noble in Caytor that refused to believe in the other gods."

Damian's figure spun. "I spoke to him. I managed to touch his soul. Well, I knew my children would never disappoint me. He accepted the mission I have tasked him with. And like all my children, he was a gifted and powerful man. He stirred a nation. He gave birth to a new god. Feor." The cowled figure chuckled.

"After so much time, I had human followers again. The Feoran Movement grew from a small band of outcasts into a major religion. Day after day, more people joined the Movement. The simple truth of my ways appealed to the hearts of the simple common men. How could it not? People were tired of generations of fears and lies. The humans I shaped could no longer abide the deceits of my peers. My mankind was never meant to cower in the shadow of invisible gods, fulfilling their whims. My mankind was born to be a free spirit, to be ruled by dreams and passions."

Damian drifted closer. This time, Ewan did not flinch. "Soon, I was strong enough. But the last chain of my prison still stood. So, I had my son recruit some rich and powerful people in Caytor and mount an expedition to this island. The greedy fools thought they were digging for gold. Even as they cracked open the seals of the Abyss, they thought they would see treasures hidden within. But I was finally free. And this time, the world had no knowledge of me. I was truly, completely free."

The figure pointed behind him. "I could finally finish the work I had begun so long ago, just before they had all betrayed me."

Ewan shook his head. "What is it? Your...work?"

The form shivered with excitement, pointing around. "This! This is my work. I have learned that the Abyss could be kept open. A link between the world of the living and the dead can be maintained indefinitely.

"We have always trusted in humans to worship us and give us strength. But that was such a foolish, noble notion. We were vulnerable. We have become the slaves of our slaves. We have given away our lives to the mercy of our toys. We have lost control of the world to the fancies and fetishes of the humans. I have realized this much sooner than they. Luckily, I have managed to give away some of my essence to the ideas. But even this was not enough. Ideas came and went. They died and were born again. I could not trust the future of immortality with human concepts. Humans were finite. I needed something that transpired life.

"So, I embraced death."

Damian's figure pirouetted. "Think about it, son! Think! There are only so many living people in this world. But the history of death is endless! People live for a few decades, but they stay dead forever. The number of souls on this side of the Abyss is tiny, insignificant compared to all the dead that have died, from the beginning of humanity till now. And it is growing all the time.

"I have decided to bind the dead to me. By keeping the Abyss open, their link to this world could not be severed and they would forever stay bound to me. But before I could see this genius plan realized, I was betrayed. But now, I'm back. And stronger than ever!

"Think, son. Feorans are just a whim. They will die out eventually. All the other religions, they are all a fleeting passion in the lives of humans. They take their ideals and memories to the grave with them. Only death stays truly endless.

"Now, every single dead becomes my slave. A perfect follower. The dead cannot betray you, son. They will never betray you. Not like gods or people. They will always be your perfect toys."

Ewan felt a ball of disgust knot in the pit of his stomach. "You would see the world die to serve you."

The sleeves of the cowl clasped together. "This was my world. I created it. I can also see it die. But it's for the best, son. This world has nothing worthy to offer. Only betrayal."

"You are a sad thing," Ewan spat.

Damian ignored him. "Son, share my vision. We can rule this world together. I know you cannot be killed. You can be my champion. We can do whatever we want. We could slay entire nations. And they would only love us for it. They would worship us forever. With time, I would grow ever stronger, gaining back the powers I once had. I would eventually be able to grant your every wish."

"This is madness," Ewan said.

"This is the future!" Damian hollered. "Son, I know how you feel. I can see you have been betrayed, like me. They have abandoned you, your gods and your friends. They have all hurt you."

Ewan lowered his head.

"You are my special son. You are a god to these people. And they hate you for it. They have outcast you for being different, for being better than they. They have broken your heart. And why? Because they cannot cope with the truth?"

Damian was so close, whispering. "I will never betray you, my son. I will always love you."

Ewan felt a tear roll down his cheek. To be loved. To belong. It was such a simple emotion.

"Join me, son. Help me. Become my champion. Slay these traitors in my name. Let us rule this world together."

Ewan sighed. It was such a painless choice. All he needed to do was...simply do nothing. Let Damian be. The god would grow stronger. Or he could try to close the Abyss, sever the link of madness and agony between the worlds.

But why? Why should he bother? Why should he sacrifice himself? What had the world ever given him but pain and betrayal?

Then, just then, he thought of Ayrton, his friend, his true friend. One day, Ayrton would die. And then his soul would be Damian's. Forever. It made his choice so very clear. Sometimes, life was...very simple.

He jumped into the Abyss.

**CHAPTER 47**

Ayrton led Elia downhill. She struggled, unfamiliar with the cruelty of nature. She was an adult with a child's experience, learning the perils of winter for the first time in her life.

Branches snapped at her, tearing at her clothes—Ayrton's clothes, mostly. He had relinquished most of his spares to her. Winter had never been an issue in the city. But now, it was a reality, and it bit deeply even into the immortal bones of a former goddess.

Elia was chilled and winded. She was too weak for an arduous trek through the forested hills leading away from the city. Hidden bogs claimed her feet, making her stumble and fall. She tired fast, not knowing how to breathe properly to conserve her strength.

Never once did Ayrton consider giving up. Otherwise, his life meant nothing. Everything would have been just one big joke; his whole life would have become a useless mockery. They had to flee. He could as well be a fool, a fool deluding himself with the notion of life. But it was worth trying.

It was worth dying for.

He hoped some secluded settlements still existed on the shores of Lia Lake. He hoped to find a boat and take Elia away from the madness and carnage. At the very least, he hoped to flee the Territories, into the nomad lands to the northwest. Afterward, they would think of something.

The many years of his dark past came as an advantage now. A simple man would have been quickly, ruthlessly defeated by winter. But he knew how to survive. His only concern was Elia. She could not bear this burden for too long.

It was early morning. The sky was clear, with no clouds to contain the heat, making the day sharp with cold. Crusted snow crunched beneath their feet as they plodded toward the coastal region, slowly descending. The weather was supposed to be friendlier around the lake.

"How much longer?" Elia asked, panting.

Ayrton turned around, his breath fuming around his flushed face. "We must walk at least until midday. We'll take a short rest in about two hours."

"My ankle hurts," she complained.

The Outsider sighed. Another misplaced step. He walked to her and let her lean against him, supporting some of her weight. But it made their progress very slow.

Then, he heard noise—human noise.

"Not a word," he whispered, drawing his broadsword.

A scattering of figures materialized on the hilltop above them, armed men swathed in furs and leathers. They made no attempt to hide their presence, shouting and cursing in raucous voices, superbly confident in their numbers.

Ayrton swallowed. He had hoped to outpace the enemy, but his hopes had been slim. Elia was no soldier and could not maintain a soldier's march. Ayrton cursed his own indecisiveness. He had waited for too long, desperately trying to convince the gods to abandon the city. Both of them should have left a long time ago.

Still, he was not really sure this lot was chasing the two of them. The Feorans were prowling the Territories, killing indiscriminately. They were nothing but another random target of opportunity.

Elia backed against a snow-laden pine, crouching beneath its sagging limbs. Ayrton knelt by her side, poised. He reached for the small crossbow hanging from his belt and handed it to Elia. She nodded weakly.

"General Davar, look here!" someone shouted.

One of the men in the lead of the horde turned. "What is it, Martin?"

"A trail, looks like more than a single man."

The one called Davar waved dismissively. "Probably locals. That's not our prey."

Martin seemed unconvinced. "Could be. Maybe that filthy deity banded with someone?"

Davar approached his subordinate. "After thousands of years of deliberate isolation, an escaped god seeks help from the very humans that are trying to murder him? Sounds unlikely, don't you think so, Martin?"

"That bastard is gone now," another Feoran piped in, resting by a pine to relieve himself.

"We will find him, and we will kill him, no matter how long it takes," Davar hissed. "Feor wants them all dead, and dead they shall be, even if we have to poke every foxhole in these hills."

"What's that false god called?" Martin asked.

"He's called Tanid," Davar said. "He's always been a crafty bugger."

Ayrton watched the enemy converge around the commander, about a dozen men in total. Some of them spoke in voices too low to overhear. It was obvious they were a hunting party, after another deity who had fled the city.

Ayrton let the bubbling moral dilemma gnawing at his soul die a silent, impotent death. He could not help Tanid now. The gods had made their choice. His only worry was Elia. No one else mattered.

The group of Feorans grew bored and started to disperse. Men coursed idly through the sparse forest, poking bushes, shaking branches heavy with snow. Davar was speaking to Martin and another man, who were nodding curtly at his fervent, passionate words.

Ayrton held his breath. If Elia and he were lucky, the horde would go away, never knowing about the two refugees. But luck did not seem benevolent that morning. One of the soldiers was following the tumble of footprints the two of them had left.

The Outsider sheathed the sword and drew a short knife.

The Feoran rounded a knot of stunted spruce and saw the two figures huddling in the shadow of a pine. He opened his mouth to shout a warning. Instead of air, a length of cold steel kissed his lips, crushing his tongue and teeth. Gurgling, he collapsed.

Ayrton rushed forward, dragging the dying man into his embrace, crushing his face against the icy snow, choking his wails. Retrieving his knife, Ayrton stabbed the man in the neck, severing his life lines, but not before the muted screams reached the ears of his comrades.

They turned, saw a stranger killing one of their friends, and charged, howling like animals.

Ayrton rose and waited. He had no intention of shouting. It was a waste of good air.

Fortunately, the uneven ground and the foot of drift made their coordinated strike clumsy and badly timed. Instead of attacking him simultaneously, the Feorans fell upon him one after another, their balance shaken by the treacherous pull of the boggy ground. The graceful stances of veteran swordsmen turned into an awkward dance.

Ayrton spread his legs, bracing for the impact. He swung with precision and efficiency, tearing a man's lungs out of his chest cavity. Losing control of his limbs, the soldier careened into him like a deadweight, toppling him over. The Outsider rolled head over heels, coming up to a low crouch twenty feet downhill. He shook the stinging snow from his hair and ears.

The second man lunged forward, throwing himself into the air. Ayrton sidestepped, let the man fly. The Feoran crushed into the ground belly-first, dashing his ribs against hidden rocks and tree roots. He groaned and did not rise. The third man stumbled, rose, stumbled again, and slipped. Ayrton cut him across both thighs, leaving him in screaming, crippling agony.

Seeing their comrades succumb so easily to the stranger, the remainder slowed their pace, approaching slowly, minding their balance on the slippery white carpet.

Ayrton dug in his heels deeper and waited.

"Who the fuck are you?" one of them shouted.

He said nothing. He watched the blades dance before his eyes, sunlight reflecting off the cold, sharp edges. Uphill, a soldier was kneeling, loading his crossbow.

Davar and Martin were approaching, swords drawn.

A man with an ax swung at him. Ayrton ducked and stabbed. The man folded, holding his guts. Enraged by his efforts, the survivors abandoned their caution and charged wildly again, two men at a time.

Ayrton parried one blow, felt fire spread down his arm as a sword cut into his left forearm. Spinning, he cut the soldier's head off, hot blood spraying his face, almost blinding him. There was no time to rest. The first attacker battered mercilessly, wide, savage blows that sapped his strength. He was tiring quickly in the brisk cold. Fighting was a dangerous business in the winter.

Timing the intervals between swings, Ayrton waited for an opening. He slashed the man beneath the armpit. Shrieking like a woman, the Feoran toppled, gripping his useless arm.

The crossbowman fired and missed.

The commander of the horde was upon him, swinging with precision and economy. Ayrton staggered a step backward. This man was no amateur. Another glancing cut on his leg, then one across his cheek. Half an inch deeper, he would have been dead, his eyes smoking in the snow.

Then, he saw a movement from the corner of his eyes. Elia. _Oh no!_

She had abandoned her shelter and was aiming her little crossbow at the enemy archer. Ayrton saw the man called Davar avert his own gaze, glimpsing the second, unaccounted-for enemy.

And froze.

His sword dropped. The life force in his limbs went down. His mouth opened, framing a word.

Ayrton only let his brow furrow before cold-blooded dedication repossessed him. He swung with all his might.

The tip of the sword caught Davar across the jugular. Ayrton knew the man was dead before he hit the ground.

"General!" one of the Feorans shrieked. It was Martin, Ayrton thought.

Elia fired the crossbow. The bolt went far off mark. The enemy archer fired. He missed again.

Ayrton parried the blow from another soldier and pulled on his left, flailing arm. The dazed man flew forward. The Outsider slammed the hilt of his sword in his nape, drawing dark blood. Weeping and babbling incoherently, Martin lunged. It was a careless move of a suicidal man, Ayrton noted.

Martin's eyes shot wide open as the entire length of Ayrton's sword went through his chest. Grunting, Ayrton pushed him off.

The only enemy left was the crossbowman, uncertain whether to cock another bolt or draw his sword. Running away was not an option. No one could run far in the snow, uphill.

Ayrton paced up toward him, holding his backpack in the left arm like a shield against arrows. He panted, each breath an ecstasy for his exhausted body. Blood pounded in his temples. His left eye quivered with hot pain blooming in the side of his face.

The remaining Feoran seemed afraid. His attempt came feeble, awkward. Ayrton parried with the last ounces of his strength. His right arm was almost wooden. But then, his last foe was on the ground, spitting blood, a prayer to Feor quivering on his lips.

Ayrton sat by the dying man, the world spinning before him. Elia was climbing.

"Ayrton!" she called. "Are you hurt?"

"Keep your voice down," he whispered, too low for his own ears. He fell to the side, almost unconscious with exhaustion. Cold snow melted against his skin, keeping him awake.

"Ayrton!" Elia panicked. She dropped by his side, cradling him gently.

"I'm fine, just a bit tired," he mumbled. His wounds were not critical, he knew. He had been stabbed and slashed too many times to mistake little nips for fatal injuries. "We must continue."

"You cannot travel like this! This is terrible," the woman protested.

Ayrton managed to chuckle, choking on his own spit. "Ah, sweet Elia. You'd be amazed at how resilient and stubborn people can be. I have sworn to keep you safe, and that's what I'm going to do. Even if I must march bleeding."

"Why did they try to kill us?" Elia whispered.

"Because life means so very little nowadays," he countered, dark sarcasm and wisdom blending into his delirium.

"But...why do people live then? Why do they bother to...rise in the morning and fight for their survival? Why should they care?"

Ayrton propped himself on an elbow. He grabbed a handful of snow and licked it. Then, he touched the ball to his cheek, wincing. Gently, he scraped the torn skin and gelatinous strands of blood away, leaving a red cut exposed to the wind. "In the bottom of the pack, a jar of lard."

Elia fumbled with his stores. She produced a small wooden crock. Ayrton smeared the pig fat on his cheek to keep the frostbite from turning a simple cut into a nightmare.

"Why?" he said, smearing more on his forearm. "Because people are animals, mostly. But some elect to be more. So they embrace ideas. Like gods. Or conquest."

"And why do you do it?"

Ayrton hobbled up. His left leg screamed in protest. He smeared the fat and bound the wound with a length of linen. It would do until nightfall.

"I used to do it for...the wrong reasons," he admitted. "Then, I tried to amend my soul by doing the right things. I thought it would work out. One thing would balance the other. But it's not that simple, it seems. Now, I think it's something else."

Elia helped him walk downhill. He smiled. She was helping him! Gently, he pushed her away until he was sure he could support himself. They continued north and west, descending, leaving behind the dead Feorans. Ayrton would not let his mind dwell on the battle. He knew the nightmares would come of their own volition, uninvited.

"Well, what is it? What do you live for?"

He paused. "I think it's love."

Elia looked at him, her immortal eyes deep with hidden thoughts. "That sounds like a good idea," she said after a long pause.

Ayrton smiled. For him, winter was over.

In his heart, it was spring again.

**EPILOGUE**

Mali hugged George. They held each other for a few moments.

"This is it?" he said.

"This is it," she replied.

She was leaving the army. There was no other way. Pregnant women could not lead hordes of soldiers into combat. Even the Third Battalion let its soldiers take a year's leave when the time came, regardless of their status or rank.

Her army was a shameful fragment of its former glory. Adam controlled most of the Eracian troops. They were no longer Eracian troops, she noted bitterly. They were now the defenders of their new realm, their emperor.

Her decision to raise the child without its father was a wise choice. Adam was a madman.

"The command is yours, whenever you want it," Colonel George said.

She shook her head gently. "No. You are the commander now."

George looked grim and sad. "Will you ever come back?"

Mali smiled softly. "No, my army life is done. Please, George, you tell them?"

The colonel nodded. The monarch would not take lightly the desertion of a chief officer. He would declare her a traitor and set a price on her head. Unless she became a victim of the mad war, buried in a nameless grave somewhere. George had promised to tell the tale to anyone who asked, from the lowliest spearman to the ruler of the realm himself.

Mali picked up her meager belongings. Alexa waited some distance away. The two of them intended to strike north, deeper into Eracia. She intended to settle in some small village, ply her craft as a scribe or similar, and raise her child. The other soldier would not part with her, no matter what she said.

"Here," George said, handing her a purse. "I've taken it from the coffers."

Mali tried to refuse. "It's stolen. I can't."

George chortled. "We have too much money. Three quarters of our army has deserted. We have very few people to pay at the end of the month. One of the bonuses of mass desertion."

She accepted the precious coin. Life ahead would be hard. She would need every penny she could find.

George leaned forward. "Besides, you're leaving without your pension. This is the least I could do. Consider it partial reimbursement for all those years of soldiering. It should be enough to buy you a small piece of land somewhere and see you nicely settled for a few years. Until you figure out what you want to do next."

Mali sighed. "Good-bye." She fought back tears. She had never cried in her life before. It must have been the baby. She had heard stories about pregnant women going sentimental.

George said nothing. He watched her ride away, her loyal bodyguard at her side. He waited until she disappeared beyond the curve of the land and then turned and headed back to his weak army.

Queen Olga stood on the balcony of her royal chambers, staring at the immaculate gardens a hundred feet below. Marble statues adorned the deep green maze of shrubbery and rare trees. In a land where water was as precious as gold, these gardens were a statement of power.

_Any time now, any time now..._ she thought.

Rumors about the crushing defeat had been reaching Sigurd for weeks now. Messengers had come, bringing tragic news of the demise of the entire Parusite army. The king was dead.

The king was dead.

Now, a procession was approaching the city, a column of soldiers bearing their fallen king on a pair of stretchers, draped in the colors of the realm. His death was now a finality.

Formal mourning had been forestalled until the king's body was found and brought in. No one truly believed their ruler was dead, despite the overwhelming firsthand reports from the few survivors. But protocol called for a body. Left with no choice, Olga had been forced to suppress her joy, keeping her face stern and wrinkled with worry. It galled her to no end, but she had to play the role of the dutiful wife. For days, the city was a cauldron of tension.

Vasiliy entered the royal chambers, ushered by one of her maids. He dismissed the girl and closed the door firmly after her, sliding the lock in place.

Olga twirled around. Her black mourning dress was resplendent, showing her figure. The rare moment in the life of a Parusite wife when she could afford to provoke and defy the rigid rule of men was her mourning, a sad moment to be yearned for and cherished. A moment of freedom and deliverance.

She could hardly breathe. Her stomach fluttered. "Is it done?"

Archduke Vasiliy smiled handsomely. "It is done."

She rushed to him and hugged him fiercely, kissing his jaw. He gently pushed her away. "Not yet, my love. Not yet, we must be patient. You are a sad widow."

"And you are a sad widower, too," she said.

Vasiliy nodded. He had ridden to his estate last night to murder his barren wife, Nadia. The news of the tragedy would reach him in a few days, as he assumed the role of regent until Sergei reached the age to be crowned. He would feign shock and innocence, just like she had. He would be devastated.

They would claim Nadia killed herself, unable to cope with the fact she could not bear children. It was a great shame in Parus to be barren. No one would think twice about the poor woman taking the easy way out of her misery.

Vasiliy guided the queen onto the balcony. He looked at the gardens, just like she did.

"We shall wait a few months before we marry," she said, already dreaming of the days ahead.

"Yes," he said simply, craning over the balustrade.

She spun again, like a little girl. "I have something to tell you."

Vasiliy leaned against her. "What is it?"

"Sasha and Sergei are yours," she whispered.

The archduke lifted his head and stared at her for a very long time.

"I know," he said eventually.

Olga's question remained unspoken as he suddenly pushed her over the balustrade.

The look of heart-piercing surprise on her face would haunt him forever, he knew. She plummeted wordlessly, cracking her skull on the hard marble below. There were no gardeners present. No one would miss the queen for a few moments.

He went back into the room. A hooded figure waited for him by the bed.

He approached, removed the hood, and kissed his wife, his dear wife. "I love you," he said.

"I love you, my king," she said.

"You must go now," he whispered.

Nadia handed him something. She reached for the lever and cracked open the secret passage. She smiled at him and vanished into the dark.

Vasiliy waited for a few moments before he crushed the onion in his hands and rubbed it below his eyes. Tears welled.

He had always known Sasha and Sergei were his children. He had lived with the regret for eleven cold, hard years seeing his twins being molested by the demented figure who called himself their father.

But now, finally, all the evils would be undone.

The Parusite army was gone. The only fighting force left in the realm were his ducal troops. There would be no one to dispute his claim to the throne, no one to oppose his act of mercy of adopting the orphaned royal twins.

He threw the onion into the fireplace, unlocked the door to the chambers, and then shouted. The startled maids who rushed in found a devastated duke on his knees, weeping like a child.

Ayrton stood at the bow of the small boat, watching the Territories recede behind him.

It was over. His life in the realms was over.

The crew of the small trading boat had taken them on without too many questions, caring only for the gold they were given. They had seen so many people do the same thing in the last few months.

The few wise souls in the Territories had abandoned their hope of salvation, by either the Eracians or the Outsiders, and had fled from the enemy as far as they could. Some of them had wandered into the neighboring realms. Others had paid for voyage aboard nomad xebecs, heading for the strange lands that lay beyond Lia Lake.

A new world. A new beginning. Sometimes, it was the simplest choice.

Ayrton had sworn he would never come back to the madness of the realms, never again be a man of violence and death. For the first time, he had something better in his life, something worth dying for rather than killing for.

Elia joined him. She was cold, like she always was in the alien, wintry world. Her body snuggled against his. "Do you know where we are going?"

He hugged her, kissed her brow. "The sailors say the place is called Batha'n."

"What are we going to do there?" she asked.

"I don't know," he said. "I thought about apprenticing to an armorer."

"I could work too," she offered.

Ayrton frowned. "Really? What kind of work?"

Elia smiled. "Poetry. Or songs. I could write those again. Maybe..."

Ayrton felt his eyes moisten. "But you have not done so in...ages," he whispered.

She wiped away his tears. "I feel inspiration coming back to me."

Ayrton closed his eyes. He was at peace.

He was happy again.

"Why are you crying, Grandpa?" Rob asked.

Lord Erik was on his knees, wailing at the sky.

The boy approached the old man and hugged him. "Don't cry, Grandpa. Please don't cry."

Lord Erik lowered his eyes, staring at the child as if he'd never seen him before. "She's not dead."

Rob touched his grandfather's face. "Who?"

"Elia, she's not dead."

"The goddess from the book?" the boy asked.

Lord Erik buried his face in his arms, sobbing.

_Elia...she lives._
**ABOUT THE AUTHOR**

Igor Ljubuncic is a physicist by vocation and a Linux geek by profession. He is the founder and operator of the website www.dedoimedo.com, where you can learn a lot about a lot. Before dabbling in operating systems, Igor worked in the medical hi-tech industry as a scientist. However, what he likes to do most is write. Passionate about the fantasy genre, he has been writing since the age of ten. You can learn more about Igor's writing on his book series' website, www.thelostwordsbooks.com.
