The Betrayed

  SOME OTHER WORKS BY MATTHEW DICKERSON

  In the Daegmon War Series

  The Gifted (2015)

  The Betrayed (2016)

  Illengond (2017)

  Novels

  The Finnsburg Encounter

  The Rood and the Torc: the Song of Kristinge, Son of Finn

  Non-Fiction

  Following Gandalf: Epic Battles and Moral Victory in The Lord of the Rings

  (with David O’Hara) From Homer to Harry Potter: a Handbook of Myth and Fantasy

  (with Jonathan Evans) Ents, Elves, and Eriador: the Environmental Vision of J.R.R.Tolkien

  (with David O’Hara) Narnia and the Fields of Arbol: the Environmental Vision of C.S.Lewis

  The Mind and the Machine: What it Means to be Human and Why it Matters

  A Hobbit Journey: Discovering the Enchantment of J.R.R.Tolkien’s Middle-earth

  (with David O’Hara) Downstream: Reflections on Brook Trout, Fly Fishing, and the Waters of Appalachia

  Trout in the Desert: on Fly Fishing, Human Habits, and the Cold Waters of the Arid Southwest

  THE

  BETRAYED

  THE

  DAEGMON

  WAR: BOOK 2

  MATTHEW

  DICKERSON

  Copyright © 2016 Matthew Dickerson.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Archway Publishing

  1663 Liberty Drive

  Bloomington, IN 47403

  www.archwaypublishing.com

  1 (888) 242-5904

  Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

  Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

  Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

  Cover illustration by Kirk DouPonce, DogEared Design, Woodland Park, CO.

  Illustrated Map of Citadel: Peter Dickerson and William Kittredge

  Map of Gondisle: Mark Dickerson

  ISBN: 978-1-4808-3869-7 (sc)

  ISBN: 978-1-4808-3870-3 (e)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2016917438

  Archway Publishing rev. date: 11/18/2016

  Contents

  Prologue Feathers And Scales

  1 Aftermath

  2 Voices

  3 News And Supplies

  4 Sundering

  5 Descent

  6 Outlaw

  7 Mothers And Brothers

  8 Journey By Water

  9 Return To Citadel

  10 The Dagger’s Water

  11 News Exchanged

  12 Pursuit And Flight

  13 An Ambush

  14 The Practice Of Trust

  15 Kayam’s Choice

  16 The Amanti

  17 Where The Daegmon Flies

  18 Improvisation And Alarm

  19 Fugitives

  20 An Inhospitable Land

  21 Namha’s Tale

  22 Hunter’s Instincts

  23 Inside Knowledge

  24 Escape Plan

  25 The Last People

  26 The Daughters Of Jhon And Maryl

  27 The Evils Of Citadel

  28 A Cold Welcome

  29 Blindfolds

  30 A Short Rest And A Difficult Choice

  31 Departure From Citadel

  32 A Warmer Welcome

  33 Trying To Think Clearly

  34 In The Light Of A Cold Dawn

  35 Kreana

  36 News From Afar

  37 The Ana Notch

  38 The Gaergaen

  39 Defeat

  40 Urgent Plea

  41 Ancient Tome

  42 Into Battle

  43 Fish In A Net

  44 Power

  45 Sacrifice

  For Thomas, Mark, and Peter,

  who continue to inspire me with their

  imagination and artistic creativity.

  Gondisle (and the Surrounding Islands)

  Illustrated Map of Citadel

  Prologue

  FEATHERS AND SCALES

  Somewhere between the great lake Umgog and the eastern edge of the Plains, seven great blue vultures with their iridescent heads circled high in the sky. A day earlier they had been much further east, scavenging among the bluffs at the borders of the land and even venturing south and east over the lowlands where men were more numerous. But some instinct native to their species bespoke of battle and carnage, and they winged their way westward on the updrafts of the warming afternoon air of an early winter day. When the sun fell, they flew through the cooling night.

  Their instincts did not lead them astray. While still high and far away, they spotted the signs of battle in a small grove of trees to the north, for their vision exceeded that of any living being save the song eagles of the northern aeries.

  A strange battle it was.

  Even from their lofty height, they could see the human shapes below: the clothed man-animals who, through their wars, were responsible for more carrion and waste than any other creature of Gondisle. These two-legged multicolored beasts and their wars were good for vultures and their kind.

  If the vultures had been capable of counting—if their minds understood numbers and abstractions—their vision would have told them the humans numbered twenty. Even without counting, they guessed something of the makeup of that company. For these birds with their unrivaled wingspans traveled far and wide, nesting on the cliffs north of the Great Mountain in the early days of summer, hunting the width of the mountains in late summer and fall, and eventually flying to the far south or to islands in the sea to make their winter nests.

  Had it not been for this battle, they would have been winging their way southward even now. And in the spring when it was time to return north, they would divide. For reasons of instinct they did not understand, some flew eastward up the coast around the deserts, circling back to the Great Mountain from the north. Others followed the coast to the west, through lands rich with fish and food but more given to storms. They saw lands far and wide, these great birds did.

  And though the blue vultures cared little for the customs and languages of the man-animals, over their long lives they had come to recognize the differences in the artificial skins with which the two-legged creatures adorned themselves. In the mountains to the east, the strange land-bound creatures wore skins knit of the wools of sheep and gyurts. Even for the great eyes of vultures, it was hard to distinguish sheep from their shepherds when the shepherds were arrayed in undyed wools. But more often the human creatures in that region colored their skins in green and gold and blue.

  To the north, the tribe of man-animals often wore the pelts of furred animals: of deer and bear and wolverine. In the hot desert-lands of the northeast, men wore thin fabrics of light colors, and at night as ai
r grew cold and the vultures settled in trees and rocks to rest, the men wrapped themselves in great squares made of animal skins stitched together.

  Here in land of endless grasses—a land flat and with few trees—the man-animals wore woven fabrics of the many hues of the land around them: brown and tan, beige and chestnut and flax, and the color of leaves that die and cling to the trees when the snow comes. They had a distinct smell, these man-skins of the Plains. They were not like skins worn elsewhere. The fabrics worn here were woven of a mix of the spun hairs of animals and of yarns and threads made of fibers from bolls of plants. They were soft and warm and unusually strong.

  It was an unusual sight, these twenty man-animals now gathered below. Unusual to birds who watched from above. For while most in the battle now forming were covered in those Plains fabrics from here on the flatlands of grasses and grazing deer, there were also bits of man-skins from afar: from the wetlands to the northwest, from the mountains of the Andani and Ceadani, and even from the mountains and deserts of the Anghare.

  These things the vultures took in without thought. Their attention was given to the battle, and the possibility of death and food. It was not the largest battle these long-lived vultures had ever seen, but even so, it might feed them for days. Yet something was strange. These man-beasts were not fighting one another. They were fighting one of the great winged creatures.

  The vultures had seen these fell creatures before. They had appeared on the land just two hatching seasons earlier, bringing death with them wherever they went. For as large and mighty as the birds were, with wings spanning half again the height of even the tallest of men, the scaled winged creatures were many times larger.

  This, and some other premonition—some instinct stronger even than the urge for carrion-food, or the urge to return north in the spring—gave the vultures pause. The winged creature on the ground was wrong. It was unsafe.

  Unnatural. Not like other animals.

  The vultures could smell the difference. These creatures did not eat what they killed. They were even more unnatural than the clothed man-beasts. They made the vultures afraid.

  Yet, like the warring men, the scaled-wings left carnage. Meals for a whole flock of vultures for many days.

  And so the vultures stayed on the wing and watched the battle from afar, though through eyes that saw details even the humans on the ground missed. They saw one great tiger enter the fray, while another slunk through the grasses north of the grotto.

  Often the silent airborne observers had seen tigers hunt and kill, and had swooped down hours later to feast on the remains. But never had they seen a tiger enter into a battle of men. But strangest of all, they saw flames and lights of red and blue.

  Unnatural lights. Lights of power.

  What did it mean?

  And then, too soon, the battle was over. The scaled creature was departing. The promise of carrion and spoil was lost. The vultures would not be feasting as they had hoped.

  1

  AFTERMATH

  On the ground far below the eyes of seven circling vultures, at the edge of a small grotto of trees surrounded by the open grasslands of the Plains, Elynna gazed into the sky in amazement and disbelief. Her black hair hung damp with sweat, and her arms, exhausted from the recent battle, hung loosely at her side. But for the moment she was barely aware of her own state; nor did she pay heed to the vultures.

  She stared through her sea-green eyes at the Daegmon, who was defeated and fleeing, driven away by some new power that had come to the aid of her company. Within moments the great winged shape of her terrible foe had shrunk to a small dot in the northern sky as it sped off across the Plains like a fierce winter gale.

  But something else occupied Elynna’s thoughts. Something other than the relief she should have felt.

  A great cheer rose from her companions—a cry of victory led by the loud voice of Cane. But they had not heard what Elynna had heard—the thoughts of the Daegmon as it flew off.

  “You will all find an eternal home in my master’s dungeons.”

  It was a victory for the company, perhaps. But a temporary one at best. In her enemy’s thoughts there had been no hint of defeat. The Daegmon had been laughing.

  Then she heard another voice. Another call her companions also could not hear. A voice as clear and unmistakable as the thought of the Daegmon and one Elynna recognized, though it entered her mind without sound.

  Help us. You must come back to us. The Daegmon is here. It has taken our Sanctuary and killed our gyurts. My people are dying. Please. Help us.

  It was Cathwain, the young Ceadani girl from Gale Enebe. She was speaking to Elynna. A rush of fear and guilt swept over Elynna. She could do nothing to answer that call.

  Or could she?

  Cathwain’s words were clear—as clear as when they sat side by side in Chal-char’s home dining together. As clear as the thoughts of the Daegmon. So was the need and desperation in her voice.

  But Gale Enebe was a journey of many days beyond the Androllin Mountains and ice field. How was it even possible for Elynna to hear her? And what aid could she possibly send or bring? What did Cathwain want from her?

  Elynna lifted her head and looked at her companions. They were shouting and crying and embracing one another in jubilant sweaty hugs, overcome by joy and relief. Elynna wanted desperately to taste that joy. Instead, she tasted only the fear of Cathwain. And her own guilt.

  “Elynna,” Pietr shouted. “We did it.” He and Falien wrapped their arms around her, almost lifting her from her feet. They were her fellow Westwashers. Though from another village, a coastal town in the north, they shared her features—high foreheads, round cheeks. But they shared more than that.

  Of all her companions, they were among those she had known the longest. The ones with whom she had suffered the most. The ones who should have understood her. She wanted to cry out. To tell them to stop. Had they already forgotten the battle at Gale Enebe? They thought they had defeated their enemy there also. But they hadn’t. This victory was just as hollow.

  “You don’t understand,” Elynna began, but her fellow Westwashers had already moved on. She repeated her warning, but another victory shout from Cane, echoed by more cheers from the others drowned out her voice.

  Cane. The Northlander. Anghare warrior and miner. The one whose understanding she most craved, and the one who understood her the least. Or perhaps he understood her too well. Her fear and her guilt. Feelings he disdained.

  She fell silent, unable to bring herself to tell them of her vision of Cathwain and the plea for help. Not now. Net yet.

  She looked around. Not everybody celebrated. A few yards away, Noaem sat bandaging his brother Noab’s wound with the help of Anchara and Thimeon. Noaem, Noab, and Anchara were Ceadani. The two brothers were among the gifted. Noaem understood the speech of animals, and could communicate with wild creatures. Noab sensed falsehood the way Elynna could sense the presence of the Daegmon. Their village had also been destroyed by a Daegmon, just a few weeks earlier. Their gifts, like Elynna’s, had not been enough to save their friends and families.

  She came up behind Thimeon. He would understand about Cathwain’s voice, she thought. He would know what to do. He would know, with the simple wisdom of an Andani hunter. But would Elynna have the strength to follow that wisdom?

  She bit her tongue. Instead of speaking, she looked down at Noab and winced. A deep gash extended from the top of his ribs on his left side down to his hip. His face was pale and drawn.

  “Though I’m sure you don’t feel so at the moment, you are fortunate,” Thimeon said. “The gash is deep and you have lost much blood, but no organs are severed.”

  Noab ignored him. He was looking at his brother. “The tiger. It returned and fought for us.”

  “Yes,” Noaem replied as he opened a small satchel and removed a bandage and a vial of salve.

>   Thimeon turned to Noaem. “Did you call them? The tigers? Did you summon one to our aid?”

  The question provided a momentary distraction from Elynna’s other concerns. For the first time since the battle ended, Elynna thought of the tigers. The pair of them had come upon the company the night before the battle with the Daegmon. Coming not to hunt but to warn the humans. To ask for help. And Noaem had understood them. It was a gift Elynna already knew about. But could he also speak back to them? Call them from afar? Even command them? Is that why one of the mighty animals had come to their aid?

  A sort of awe fell over her. How she wished she could trade her gift for his.

  Noaem shrugged, and in his halting speech answered, “I wanted to. But I do not know.”

  “If only we had possessed this power when our own village was attacked,” Noab said sorrowfully. He leaned his head back and said something in Ceadani. Then he winced as Noaem applied the salve to the wound and covered it with dressing.

  Elynna looked away, again distracted for a moment from her purpose in approaching Thimeon. Her companions acted as if they’d won a victory, but the Daegmon had simply flown off, leaving at least one of them badly wounded. Still, it could have been worse. Nobody had died.

  A few feet away, Lluach and Alrew—the former soldiers who had deserted Citadel to join the company, and the only two of her companions who had not previously seen the Daegmon—were talking. “I confess,” Lluach said, “until this morning I did not believe what I had heard about that creature. We were told in Citadel that stories of the Daegmon were ignorant myths of villagers. I only came with you because . . . well, I don’t know why I came. Perhaps I did not believe the word of the king or his crooked captains, but neither could I fully believe what I had heard about the creature. Not until today.”