Good Blood

by Billy Ketch Allen

  “Everyone down,” Spade commanded. “Quick. Get everyone downstairs.”

  A stampede of panic filled the inn, screams coming from every direction. A man fell at Ara’s feet, an arrow shaft lodged in his head.

  “We’ll never make it in time,” someone called.

  “Shut up and move.”

  Rebel archers shot out the windows, but the constant flurry of arrows kept them back.

  They’ll never stop. Ara stood up. Arrows whizzed overhead. The Temple Army was too strong. They’re going to kill everyone to get to him. And even if they did escape, the Faith will never stop hunting them. Not as long as Ara was with them.

  “Ara, no.” Spade dropped to a knee; her hand moved to her sword. “I can’t let them have your blood.”

  But there was no other choice. No one else is going to die because of me.

  “It’s over,” Ara said. “They won.”

  Ara ran out the door waving his arms high in the air. Arrows pounded into the door behind him. One sliced his shoulder, narrowly missing his neck.

  “Hold your fire!” a voice commanded.

  The arrows stopped. A line of guards pointed their weapons at Ara, their arms tense, ready to fire. But no more arrows came. Ara covered his eyes from the bright torchlight.

  “You made the noble choice,” the long-haired guard said. He waved his hand, beckoning Ara to come closer.

  The inn door slammed shut behind Ara, the lock clicking into place. It did little to dull the cries inside.

  No turning back now.

  All eyes were on him. Ara walked towards the Temple guards who he had spent so long running from. Each step bringing him closer to his fate. Ara had spent days locked in a wagon cell; he’d been imprisoned in a tower, cut off from all others, but he’d never felt as alone as he did at that moment.

  From atop his horse, the guard leader stared down at him. His uniform stained with dirt and blood. “You’ve caused a lot of trouble, boy. I hunted you for months.”

  “Well, you finally got me.”

  “Yes. Yes, I did.” The guard leader shifted in his seat, his long hair whipping behind him like a noose. “The Highfather wants you real bad. He says your blood is something special. Perhaps we should test it, first.”

  The man’s boot smashed Ara’s cheek. He hit the ground, the bones in his face shattered like glass.

  “I’d hate to bring him the wrong boy.”

  Ara lifted his head. Blurry shapes approached. More Temple guards, their heavy armor and boots thundering with each step. “No…please,” he whimpered.

  Then, they were upon him.

  Briton awoke to footsteps in the inn above. The floorboards bowed under the weight of what must be a considerable gathering. Geyer and Cambria were already up, standing at the bars.

  “Something’s happening,” Cambria said.

  Briton straightened from his spot on the cell floor; his back let out a series of cracks. “Maybe they’re arguing over the most painful way to execute us.”

  “No,” Geyer said. “They’re afraid of something.”

  Feet shuffled and the floorboards overhead creaked louder. It couldn’t be morning, yet it seemed the inn was full of anxious bodies. Briton leaned on the stone wall and pulled himself to his feet. His body cursed him for all this travel. If I ever get out of this, I’m going to settle down in a library with a comfortable chair and never leave.

  Geyer shook his head. “Only one thing would get Descendant rebels this stirred up,” Geyer said.

  “Temple guards,” Briton said. “Did they follow us?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m sure we’ll be blamed either way.”

  The cellar door opened, and a man came down the stairs followed by a line of people. Geyer was right; fear was all over their faces.

  “What’s going on?” Briton called, but the man ignored them. He helped a woman and baby down the cellar stairs. Screams rang out from above. Someone pushed forward, and people toppled down the stairs. An old man cried out as people piled on top of him.

  “Slowly,” the first man shouted, supporting the woman to the cellar floor. The old man howled in pain. His leg was bent at an unnatural angle. He couldn’t stand.

  “Let us out,” Cambria said. “I’m a doctor.”

  The first man studied her and then Briton and Geyer, as if weighing whether or not to let them drown. More people flooded down the narrow stairs; the pandemonium was more than he could handle.

  “We can help,” Briton said.

  The man unhooked the keys from the wall and tossed them across the room. Geyer caught them through the bars.

  “We’re leaving,” the man said. “We need to get these people out of here.”

  Geyer unlocked the cell door and pushed it open. Cambria raced to the old man’s side and felt his leg. Geyer moved to a bench that held their belongings. He tied his sword and belt to his waist.

  “I need cloth and something straight for a splint,” Cambria shouted to Geyer.

  Geyer scanned the room then broke a leg off a stool, bringing her the straight piece of wood.

  “What’s going on out there?” Briton asked as people filled the small cellar.

  “The Temple Army is here,” the man said. “Hundreds of them.”

  This was it. After all their running, the Faith had finally tracked them down. Briton breathed a small sigh of relief at one thought: At least they didn’t have Ara.

  A high wail shook Briton back to the moment. At the top of the stairs, a woman held a baby over her head, the infant screamed, its face burning red. “Hurry,” she yelled. “They’re going to burn it down. Please, no. They’re going to burn us!”

  At the far wall of the cellar, Geyer helped the man tear boards from the wall. They were nailed over some kind of passageway.

  “Stand back,” the man ordered to the crowd pushing against them.

  To Briton’s left Cambria helped the old man to his feet, taking his weight on her shoulders.

  “We’ll never get everyone out in time,” a voice cried. “They’ll kill us all.”

  Chaos and fear were everywhere, and Briton was useless. An old man who had spent his life studying. What use was that in the real world where people were hunted and babies’ lives were threatened by armed soldiers?

  Briton had sat safely in Carmine Castle while the world inflicted terror and injustice. He’d been in the throne room as the poor and sick were turned away because they had no worth. He’d lived within the walls that regularly practiced the torture and beatings of Descendants; that tore children from their mothers’ arms. And what had he done? What had all his knowledge accomplished?

  Briton’s body tightened like a fist. Before he knew it, he was climbing the stairs, squeezing past people stuck with no room to descend. The panicked sounds seemed to dim, and everyone’s movements slowed as Briton’s pushed through. He faintly heard his name called but didn’t look back.

  Briton stepped up the final stair into the inn above. All around him, people crammed towards the cellar stairs, but Briton found his way through. Descendant rebels stood at the windows with bows and swords ready. Weapons that would be useless in Briton’s hands. The rebel that held the door said something, but Briton pushed him away. He was a wave, gathering momentum. If he stopped even for a moment, fear would catch up to him. He had to buy them time. Even a few minutes could make the difference. Could save another life.

  Briton threw the inn door open and stepped out into a night lit by a hundred fires.

  The first line of guards stopped, raising their swords to him. The torches in their hands illuminated their white armored figures. They hesitated for a moment as if deciding what to make what this feeble unarmed figure before them.

  Briton gulped, the wave of courage washing away as quickly as it had come. This would have been better with a plan.

  “Who’s in charge here?” Briton called with all the authority he could muster.

  A few heads turned towards a dark man on horseb
ack, his hair fell behind his back in a long braid.

  “Who are you?” the man asked.

  “I am Briton Moonglass, chief advisor to House Carmine. You are carrying out an unlawful raid on northern lands and I demand that you leave these hills at once.”

  More heads turned towards the man on horseback. This guard leader, whoever he was, beckoned his horse forward. The man’s face was hard, unswayed. Briton knew his ploy wouldn’t work, but if he could keep them busy, he could maybe buy a few more lives.

  Geyer, you stubborn wretch. You better get these people out of here.

  “House Carmine, you say?” the man called, approaching Briton from on high. “And what authority do you think a member of a dead house has over the army of the Faith?”

  “Dead house?”

  “Oh, you haven’t heard?” The man’s grin was even nastier than his hard face. “Carmine was murdered in his chambers. Betrayed, it seems, by one of his closest advisors. That couldn’t be you by any chance? The same man hiding out in a rebel fort?”

  Carmine’s breath caught in his throat. Can it be true? Oh, Jonathan.

  “You know, I think it is you. What luck that we get to dispatch of you and these Descendant scum all at once.”

  “You won’t win,” Briton said. “You think you have the power; you think you’re invincible, but one day your empire will crumble to dust like all the others.”

  “But you see. We’ve already won.”

  The man waved a hand and two guards stepped forward, dragging something in their arms. Briton strained to see the shape in the darkness; then he saw what it was.

  “Ara!”

  The boy raised his head. His eyes bruised and swollen. Ara hung in the guard’s arms, his hands and feet chained. “Briton?”

  Briton fought back the defeat weakening his knees and nodded. I am here for you. I will always be here for you.

  “I’m sorry,” Ara groaned. “I shouldn’t have let them get me. It’s all my fault.”

  “No,” Briton said. “It’s not over. You’ll find a way. There’s always an answer.”

  “Not today, there’s not,” the long-haired guard said.

  “Let him go,” Briton said.

  “And why would we do that?”

  “Because he doesn’t belong to you.”

  The long-haired guard signaled to a nearby guard. The armored man nodded and strode to Briton.

  “No!” Ara kicked and squirmed. The guards hoisted him off the ground.

  Briton looked at Ara. His last student. He’d given everything up for him: his title, his wealth, his life. And it had been worth it.

  They got away, Briton told himself. Geyer and Cambria, they got all the people out of the building.

  It worked. It had to.

  Silver light flashed in the darkness. Briton stumbled back. He looked down and saw how dirty his clothes were. Blood poured from his chest, staining the stiff fabric.

  “Noooo,” Ara cried, and then he was at Briton’s side, grabbing at his chest and the hole cut into him. Guards seized Ara, but the boy shook them off, clinging to Briton. Holding him up.

  “It’s okay,” Briton said, blood garbling in his throat. He touched the boy’s face; he wiped away the tears. “We…saved them…saved…”

  Released, Briton Moonglass fell to the ground, his body laid open like an unfinished book.

  Briton’s body lay on the ground, unmoving. Blood pooled from his torn body. Ara’s scream came out a choked gasp. His lungs were still recovering from the beating. Guards yanked the chains on his wrists, dragging him away.

  “No, let me give him blood!” Ara sobbed, tears running down his swollen face. “Please.”

  But it was too late. Briton was gone.

  “His death was not some noble sacrifice,” the long-haired guard said. “He was only the first of many.” He pointed to the Descendant inn. “Burn it to the ground. Kill anyone who tries to escape.”

  Ara went limp. He’d watched Briton slaughtered before him, and now more would burn. His heart could take no more.

  “No, you can’t.” This time the words were not Ara’s. Lord Gorgen stepped forward, flanked by his personal guards in purple shirts. “My Descendants are in there. You have the boy, leave the others to me.”

  “They are rebels and terrorists. Their sentence is death.”

  “But…they’re worth a fortune!”

  “You’re welcome to go collect, Lord Gorgen,” the man smiled. The Temple guards moved forward.

  “Please, no,” Ara begged. “You have me, let them go. Please…”

  Guards tossed torches onto the roof of the inn. Arrows flew from the windows, taking down a few guards, but more rose up to take their place. Flames leaped up, illuminating the night sky. The arrows stopped flying.

  The guards tossed Ara into a caged wagon and locked the doors. Hands bound, Ara struggled up to his feet as the wagon pulled away. Through the bars, he watched The Last Drop burn. He thought of the people trapped inside. The Descendants he had brought there. All of Spade’s rebel army. All gone.

  Then another, horrible realization speared through his gut.

  If Briton was here…then the others…Spade’s prisoners!

  “Geyer!” Ara screamed into the distant flames. “Cambria! Noooooo!”

  That was it. The last of Ara’s strength escaped in a tortured scream of agony. He crumbled to the cage floor, a hollow shell. He wished his memory would disappear once again, taking all of this pain with it. Burying this moment deep underground where Ara could never find it.

  Ara lay bent and wilted, unable to think. While all around him, his world burned.

  33

  The distant light of dawn sparked over the western mountains, ending a night that seemed to last forever. The final few villagers stumbled out of the underground tunnel; the number of survivors was too small.

  Cambria hurried to those who suffered coughing fits from smoke inhalation. Lucky for them, the mountain had plenty of Barthillo root to go around. She mashed the soft root with a stone and mixed it with water in a bowl from her pack. She raced around with the concoction, treating people and trying to keep her mind off what had happened.

  But it was no use.

  Briton was dead. Ara, taken.

  The woman leader, the one called Spade, stood with her people discussing what to do next. Once they looked like a powerful band, but after seeing the Temple forces, it was clear just how small and weak the rebellion was. Down the mountain, smoke drifted from the remnants of their burned village. Slain bodies still lay on the ground, crows pecking at their flesh. The Temple guards had moved on. There was nothing left to destroy.

  Cambria finished her rounds then crossed to the far side of the hill. She found Geyer sitting alone. He leaned forward on his sheathed sword, his finger flicking the wheel on its handle. He didn’t look up as she approached.

  “What do we do now?” Cambria asked. Geyer stared at the spinning wheel. “Geyer.”

  “There’s nothing to do,” he said. “It’s over.”

  “You’re giving up? After what they did to Briton? They took Ara?”

  “These aren’t some bandits, Cambria. This is the entire Temple army.”

  “Yes, and now we know where Ara is.”

  Geyer grunted. “You don’t understand. Look at them.” Geyer nodded to the surviving Descendant rebels scattered along the hillside. “Their lives were dedicated to fighting the Faith, and even they know it’s over.”

  It didn’t matter to Cambria what the rebels were going to do. Every moment that passed, Ara was carried farther and farther away. She couldn’t just abandon him to torture at the hands of the Faith. No matter what the odds were.

  “I can’t believe after everything you fought for—you and Briton together—that you’re giving up. You’re going to go about your life drinking in taverns, knowing Ara’s in the temple being cut and drained? I can’t believe you’re going to let them win.”

  Geyer tapped his finger
on the wheel of his sword handle. “They were always going to win. Briton knew that. You can’t fight fate.”

  “You can always fight!” Cambria felt the tears coming to her eyes. Hopelessness suffocating her like a heavy sheet. “Win or lose, you can always fight. That’s something a knight should know more than anyone.”

  “I’m not a knight. Not anymore.”

  Cambria stepped back as if Geyer’s despair was contagious. She’d seen what happened to people who lost all hope. Despair ate at the human body like any other disease, sucking it dry until there was no life left. She refused to give up.

  “Then I’m going alone,” she said.

  The old knight didn’t try to stop her. That he didn’t believe her—that he thought this is was the bluff of an angry child—doubled Cambria’s resolve. She was sick of being told she didn’t understand how the world really worked. Looking around at the broken people scattered on the grass like tombstones, Cambria saw what kind of world people settled for. This was not the world she would live in.

  Cambria picked up her pack; she checked her water skin and her medical tools then headed down the hill. She didn’t know the way to the Temple. She didn’t know what she would do if she ever got there. But she knew to stay here was death.

  Halfway down the hill, a voice called for her to stop.

  Spade descended the hill towards her. “Where are you going?”

  “Am I still your prisoner?” Cambria asked bitterly.

  Spade stood tall before her. Despite losing so many of her people, Cambria saw the fight still in the rebel leader’s eyes.

  “I’m going to the Temple,” Cambria said. “I’m going to get Ara back.” The words sounded foolish even to Cambria’s ears. But there was no look of mockery on Spade’s face.

  “You would risk your life for him?” she asked. “What does a Descendant’s life mean to you?”

  “He’s my friend,” Cambria meant to yell it, but the words stumbled out of in pieces. Tears formed on the edges of her eyes, and she hated herself for it. “Whatever you think he is or can do for you, I don’t care. He’s my friend, and he would do the same for me. He did the same for me.”