by Bobby Adair
“Yes,” Evan nodded with solemn determination. “Some days I feel that thinking is at the root of all the problems I face when answering questions about our history as a means to try to understand our future.”
“Yes,” Beck said, hiding his irritation at Evan’s seeming desire to sidetrack the story. “Sadly, General Blackthorn’s wife, instead of getting a big belly with a baby in it, grew gaunt. Her smile seemed to have a more difficult time finding its way to her face. No child came that winter when everyone expected one to arrive. Neither did one arrive that next spring or summer. That autumn, when Cleansing day came, General Blackthorn arrived late. The other two ministers were already in their chairs. The square was full of nervous women and frightened children. General Blackthorn all but dragged his crying young wife into the square.”
“Oh, no,” said Evan.
“It was most unusual. Nothing like it had happened in anyone’s memory. General Blackthorn dragged the girl up the steps of the Cleansing platform, ordered her stripped, and with the angriest face I’ve ever seen on a man, he pointed at the smudges on her back.” Beck shook his head at the memory. “I was in the crowd, near the front and I saw that sad woman, and I almost cried. It was so hard to see that beautiful face without a smile.”
“But she was smudged, right?” Evan asked.
Beck shrugged. “To me, her smudges looked like old bruises. In the months after, it was whispered that the inspectors believed them to be bruises, as well, but no one dared stand against General Blackthorn’s wrath, not in the mood he was in that day. He might have sent us all to the pyre. As it was, his wife and three others burned that afternoon, and the town cried for a week. It was the blackest of times in Brighton. It was if our souls had died that day.”
Beck took a deep breath as the memory of seeing the beautiful woman burn nearly stole away his composure. “Rumors spread through the market after that. Many said the woman was barren, and General Blackthorn, because he loved her so jealously, couldn’t bear to send her to The House to be slobbered on and kissed by stinking pig chasers and filthy dirt scratchers.”
“That’s not love,” said Evan, shaking his head.
Beck simply stared across the square.
Evan asked, “What happened to the others?”
“The second went on to The House of Barren Women and seemed intent on filling the orphanage with bastards all on her own. But the interesting one is the last. She bore a child not eight months after Blackthorn left her on Mary’s doorstep.”
“Eight months?” Evan asked. “Are you saying that he divorced her while she was pregnant?”
“The timing suggests that General Blackthorn’s temper may have been too short on this occasion. However, with the girl in The House of Barren Women, Blackthorn could never know for sure that the bastard she bore was actually his, or the unlucky seed of one of the first men to partake of her services.”
“Unlucky?”
Nodding, Beck said, “The poor girl died of birthing.”
Evan looked toward Blackthorn’s house, dominating one corner of the great square. “The tragedy of it all almost makes you feel pity for him.”
“Almost,” said Beck. “And then you remember what a brute he is.”
“What of the child?” asked Evan. “Did it live?”
“This all happened a long time ago, mind you, but yes, it did live. It grew into a healthy teenager and people said that he bore a strong resemblance to Blackthorn as a boy. As it was, Blackthorn never accepted the child as his own. How could he? The boy was a bastard. But Blackthorn took a special interest in the child. He saw that the boy never set foot in an orphanage. He received the best tutoring, wore the best clothes, and lived in a good home.”
“A good home?” Evan asked. “A merchant’s home? Dunlow the Furrier’s?”
“That would be correct,” said Beck. “Dunlow was having problems with a barren woman of his own, and General Blackthorn convinced him to raise the boy.”
“But?” Evan asked.
“Dunlow found a solution. He remarried, and within a year, his second wife bore him those two twin sons.” Beck pointed at the two well-dressed militiamen.
Evan looked back at the twin young men, swinging their swords in some kind of attack exercise.
“General Blackthorn’s illegitimate child, nearly seven years old when the twins were born, fell into disfavor in the Dunlow house. He was ignored by the man he had come to think of as his own father. He grew troubled. By the time the boy was fourteen, Dunlow had had enough and he pushed for the boy to go into cavalry training early. Blackthorn himself went into training early, did you know that?”
Evan shook his head.
Beck nodded, “That is perhaps why Blackthorn allowed the boy to join the cavalry. He saw himself in the boy. Sadly, it was a mistake. Not a month into his training, the boy was thrown from his horse and broke his neck.”
“He died.”
“Yes,” said Beck. “And General Blackthorn blamed Dunlow. Blackthorn has carried the grudge to this day.” He glanced at the Dunlow twins. “Apparently.”
“That is a fascinating story, Minister Beck, but now that we’ve reached the end, I’m failing to make the next connection. Why did you bring me here to show me these twins? Why did you tell me this story?”
Beck took a slow look around to ensure that no one was close enough to hear what he and Evan were talking about. “Those two will become part of our two-pronged plan. One could safely assume that they despise Blackthorn as much as anyone. One could further assume that grumblers tend to fall in with other grumblers. In other words, if they hate Blackthorn, it is likely they know many others that share this feeling. Those two will provide us access to all of those disgruntled men. And those disgruntled men will raise their swords and axes for us against Blackthorn, if we handle the situation correctly.”
Chapter 23: Bray
Bray lay awake in the dwelling, unable to sleep. It wasn’t the threat of demons or soldiers that kept him up. Memories haunted him.
It wasn’t my fault, he told himself. Bray closed his eyes and fought back the guilt. The settlers had done it to themselves.
They’d told him they were going to leave.
It wasn’t his fault they’d stayed.
The pale light of the sky was fading, pitching the small house into darkness, but Bray could still make out the jagged outlines of the skeletons, their presence a constant reminder of how he’d failed them. He listened to the sounds of Ella and William across from him, their sleep-filled breaths overshadowed by the sounds of the forest. Somewhere outside, a night owl hooted; a small creature scurried through the underbrush. He was used to the noise. He’d made his bed in the wild on more nights than he’d ever slept in a town or village.
He let the sounds soothe him as he dipped into the realm of sleep.
Bray rested in intervals. Rarely did he sleep a full night. Most evenings, he went to bed with sword in hand, prepared to spring from unconsciousness if needed.
He thought of the journey to come, the stash of silver he had hidden in the Ancient City. If the Davenport survivors were headed there, he’d check on it. At the same time, he hoped the survivors hadn’t gained too much ground. The Ancient City was hardly a place for townsfolk, especially peasants who weren’t indoctrinated in the ways of demons.
He pictured the crumbled walls of the Ancient buildings. The intersecting roads between them were fused with weeds and stone. Sharp metal of all sizes lay scattered among the wreckage, providing danger to unsuspecting travelers. Tall layers of Ancient stone curved around the buildings, arching high into the air. It was rumored that the Ancients used those floating roads for travel. Some of them went over the water, while others hung over flat, disintegrating roads. Many of the suspended stone layers were cracked and broken at points. Without proper precau
tion, a traveler could easily fall and break a limb, or worse. And that wasn’t even counting the danger of demons.
Bray was leery of the place himself.
He was just fading into unconsciousness when he heard a noise.
Bray startled.
A scratching arose from the back of the dwelling. He sat up and clenched his sword, heart pounding. Thin, sharp nails raked across the dwelling walls. An animal.
Either that or a demon.
Bray drew to a crouch. Whatever the thing was, he’d kill it. Whether it was a predator or a night critter. He stared into the darkness, trying to pinpoint the creature’s location. Once he got a bead on it, he’d rush outside and attack.
The scratching stopped. Bray padded to the dwelling entrance and peered out into the forest, using the last light of the snowy sky to guide him. The glow provided a thin layer of visibility, but not enough. He saw nothing suspicious. He looked at the weed-covered walls of the dwelling, but observed nothing climbing them. He stepped out and inspected further. The back of the dwelling was dark and looming, but he saw nothing dangerous lurking there. His first instinct was correct. It was probably a night animal carousing through the forest. Whatever it was had left.
He considered lighting a torch, but didn’t want to draw the demons.
Relieved, he ducked back inside the dwelling and lay down. He kept his eyes open, just in case. His thoughts drifted back to his collection of silver and metals. He’d stashed it inside one of the more intact buildings in the Ancient City, covered with rubble and debris. Over the past few years, he’d been adding to his stash, growing it, hoarding it, filling it with the money he was paid by the townships. That, and the money he’d scavenged from other Wardens like Jeremiah.
If he lived long enough, he’d need something to fall back on when his arms and legs grew weak from age.
Thoughts of his belongings lulled him to sleep.
He’d just closed his eyes when he heard a whimper. The noise was soft and high-pitched, but this time, it didn’t sound like a squirrel or raccoon.
This cry was human.
It was coming from the back of the dwelling. Was there a child outside?
Bray arose and crept outside, heading around the small house. After a few seconds, the noise abated. The sounds of the forest resumed, as if the animals were playing some trick on him. Bray stared through the darkness, waiting for the noise to repeat, but the dwelling remained silent. The whimper repeated in his head long after it stopped. The more he thought about it, the more it grew familiar. It sounded like someone he knew.
Harriet.
But that couldn’t be.
The name hit him like a punch to the stomach. He pictured the little settler girl at the river, the bucket he’d helped her carry. The nights he’d spent at the settlers’ dwelling, his grief at finding them dead. But that wasn’t possible. Her body was on the floor next to him, her bones scavenged by animals.
Their burnt bodies had been riddled with slash marks.
But what if she survived? What if… Bray wrinkled his nose, the smell of charred ash reminding him that Harriet was gone—not just gone, but brutally murdered. Darkness encircled the dwelling, and for a second, Bray was certain the building had been transported to some nether region; a place where the living had no control and the spirits reigned. But he couldn’t believe that.
Those were settler’s myths. He’d never bowed to superstition, and he wouldn’t give in to it now.
“Who’s there?” he whispered, waving his sword.
He scrutinized the darkness, but no one answered. He swiveled in all directions, trying to pick out a figure in the blackness. Someone was here. Though he couldn’t see them, he sensed them. Someone was watching him. Waiting. He got to his feet, certain he’d been snuck up on, and that someone was waiting for the right moment to strike. He backed against the wall in an effort to defend himself.
“Who’s there?” he called again, louder. “Show yourself.”
No one answered.
And then a little girl whispered his name.
“Bray….”
“Where are you? What do you want?” he demanded.
He groped around the darkness, trying to find the source of the noise. If a child— Harriet—had found her way inside, he’d locate her. He lowered his sword and stepped forward. His feet stumbled over his bedding, his bag. He fought for balance. He kept moving, thinking he’d run into his companions, someone, but the room was empty. He found no sign of Ella and William. Even the bodies of the settlers seemed to have disappeared. He’d just reached the wall when a cold hand grabbed his wrist.
Bray screamed and swung his sword. The blade struck the wall; the child blared his name. Someone pushed him to the ground. Bray tried scrambling to his feet, but a flurry of hands were pinning him down, forcing him to—
He awoke in a sweat. Bray shot up and swiveled around.
“Bray?” a voice called through the darkness.
“Who’s there?” he asked, shaking.
It wasn’t a child this time. It was Ella, checking on him. He exhaled deeply. It’d been a nightmare. Nothing more.
“Are you okay?” Ella asked.
“I’m fine,” he said, regaining his composure.
“I heard you talking in your sleep.”
Bray grunted. “You must’ve been mistaken.”
He didn’t ask what she’d heard. He didn’t want to know. He lay back down for several seconds, trying to control his heartbeat, and stared at the ceiling. The dwelling was pitch black. The scratches and whimpers he’d heard before had melded into the sounds of the forest. But he still felt the clammy grip of a child’s fingers wrapped around his wrist.
He pictured Harriet’s charred face, luring him into the land of the dead.
“Bray…”
Bray gritted his teeth and cursed at himself. He’d never had nightmares. Not since he was a boy and his father was showing him the forest, not since he’d killed his first demon. The nightmares had long faded, leaving him to face real dangers. He had no time for imagined ones.
Still, he couldn’t wait to get out of this place. It had him rattled.
He set his sword down and listened to Ella fall back asleep. Once she’d quieted, he listened to the animals filling the forest with chatter, calming him.
He lay awake on his bedding until the first rays of morning gleamed through the cracks in the walls.
Chapter 24: Beck
With an ancient book deep in his pocket, bound in old cloth, wrapped in sheepskin to protect it, Beck walked past the stinking skinners’ plots. He thought, as he always thought when he had the misfortune to find himself walking down this particular street, that if the skinners would exercise the good sense to bury or burn the byproduct of their work, rather than piling the rotting bits of flesh behind their houses in open pits, the smell wouldn’t be a problem.
It was morning, and the snow had stopped falling, but it was still cold. At the moment, that was a good thing. The swarm of black flies that usually cast a shadow over this part of town was gone.
Beck recalled how there had only been a few houses and proprietorships in this area when he was a boy, constructed to incorporate large pieces of ancient stone. The stones, made up of every shape and size, stood on edge or lay flat. Some were crumbled into uselessness. Some single stones made solid walls for houses that were built against them. Many bled rust and crumbled away to expose the remnants of metal skeletons inside.
Grandpa Beck, the oldest man Beck had ever known, told him the stones had been made by the hands of the Ancients. The Ancients had learned the secrets of forming stone into liquid, a liquid that they’d pour into molds, like enormous cakes. In the absence of further explanation, Beck guessed there had to have been ovens even larger than the mold in which
to bake the giant cakes into stone. But how could such stones be moved? He shook his head in frustration. Every one of the Ancient stories ended that way, in questions that led to more questions. In the end, they could only be answered with an exasperated surrender to the simple demoralizing truth—that the Ancients had some kind of magic, some special knowledge that made it all possible.
He hated to acknowledge that he and his contemporaries were so profoundly ignorant of the Ancients’ processes. Every fantastical device the Ancients possessed, every marvelous power they wielded, was so far beyond present knowledge that its workings could only be guessed at. All of it might as well have been magic. Tech Magic. At least, that’s what the commoners called it.
The only other alternative was the simple one, that Grandpa Beck and those like him were storytellers with vivid imaginations, shirkers looking for ways to avoid working the field or patrolling the frontier for the monsters.
Some whispers went so far as to claim Grandpa Beck had turned crazy from reading over shreds of ancient books and papers. Beck was a skinny kid back in those days, smaller than most boys, and ignored the jabs when he was able. When he wasn’t, he raised his fists and fueled his strength with thin-worn patience and a growing temper.
Now that Beck was a grown man, sometimes when he was staring at the ceiling in his dark bedchamber, suffering the weight of his failure to unearth any profound ancient secrets, he feared those whispers from his childhood might be true. If so, his life had been and would be a waste of time.
To combat the despair that lay always under the surface of his thoughts, Beck put his hand in his pocket and touched the firm book through its wrapper of animal skin. He looked at the tumbledown walls of ancient stone along Skinner’s Row. The book and the walls were made by the hands of men—men who lived in the same magical age. If Ancient hands could make such things, then so could the hands of future men. It was only the men of the present day who’d misplaced their knowledge of the world’s magical secrets. Finding those secrets was Beck’s goal. That, and ferreting out which of the legends were wrapped around a kernel of truth and worth pursuing, and which were wrapped around a rabbit pellet, exaggerated and not worth anything.
