by Bobby Adair
“Are you feeling okay?” Franklin asked, concerned. “With the early snow this year, people will start to get sick.”
Oliver rubbed his belly to keep up the pretense. “Something I ate, I think.”
Franklin handed him the shopping basket and led Oliver out of the market.
“What do you have in here?” Oliver asked, moving a loaf of bread to the side to see what was in the bottom of the basket.
“Honey.” Franklin grinned. “A whole jar of it.”
Oliver spotted the large jar tucked among some half-wilted vegetables. He shook his head, “Father Winthrop doesn’t like honey. Even I know that.”
Franklin said nothing but strode on ahead.
Oliver caught up and said again, “Father Winthrop doesn’t like honey. You know what happened last time we put it on the table.”
“I forgot.” Franklin looked down at Oliver with fake innocence. Oliver almost laughed. Franklin said, “I suppose we’ll have to do something else with it.”
“I love honey,” said Oliver, thinking of his empty stomach, though they’d eaten a meager breakfast just before leaving for the market.
“I know,” said Franklin. “Maybe if you eat enough of it, we can fatten you up a little. With winter here, you need something besides that threadbare coat to keep you warm. Maybe a little fat on you would do it.”
Oliver smiled, thinking Franklin was the best friend he’d ever had. He carried that feeling with him out of the market, down past the merchants’ district, and over near the plaza, when they passed in front of two of the city guard, leaning against a wall, looking surly. Oliver turned away at first, then realized they were the pair he’d run into the night before.
One of them coughed loudly and Oliver looked up to see the man turn away. The other looked at the ground, and Oliver realized the impression he’d made on the two the night before had stuck. They weren’t fearful, but they were wary. Oliver took a deep breath, steeled his confidence, picked one of the two guards and glared, hoping to seal his reputation with them, should he happen to come across them on another late-night errand.
After glaring at the guard for a moment, Oliver finally caught the man’s attention. Oliver held his stern gaze. The guard immediately turned away and pretended to be looking at something else.
Oliver kept walking, his confidence growing with each step. Maybe he really was somebody.
Once back at the temple, Franklin stored the morning’s shopping in the kitchen and found some left over bread in a cupboard from the morning meal. He said, “Father Winthrop won’t be here for the midday meal.”
“We won’t need to cook, then?” Oliver asked.
“No,” said Franklin. “He didn’t leave any instructions for us, either.” Franklin opened the jar of honey and sat it on a small table. He placed the bread beside it. “Eat up.”
“Really?” Oliver asked. He looked over his shoulder, a habit beaten into him by Father Winthrop. Every time Oliver had a thought about doing something he thought he ought not to do, he looked.
“He’s not here,” said Franklin. “Eat what you want. We’ll cook later.”
Oliver gorged himself on bread and honey until he felt like he could stuff no more into his mouth. After cleaning up the kitchen and hiding the remainder of the honey in a cupboard, he went back to the room he shared with Franklin. With no chores to do, he lay on his bed, and though he hadn’t intended to, he quickly fell asleep.
Chapter 58: Ivory
The air had grown still and left a blanket of clouds across the sky. With no wind to chill him, Ivory sat on an enormous slab of flat stone. He often stopped in this spot on the first day during his journey to the Ancient City. He sometimes imagined the slab of stone was a tabletop that belonged to a giant who lived at the top of the mountain, in a time so long ago that even the ancient men didn’t know of him.
The slab of flat stone lay among a field of stones and boulders that covered a bowl-shaped formation at the head of the valley. To Ivory’s left and right rose tall mountains, shrouded today by the low clouds. Behind him, maybe a half-mile up the slope, lay a crest that he had to cross over before making his way down into the forest on the other side.
Ivory had spent a good part of the afternoon hiking up through snow on the valley floor that seemed to get deeper with each step. In the mountains the snow always came earlier in the winter and melted later in the spring. But it wasn’t quite winter yet, and he was only in the foothills. Up over the passes, it was likely to be very cold. He hoped the snow wasn’t so deep so as to make the trails impassable.
As he rested, he thought a lot about his short visit in Brighton. It bothered him that he wasn’t sad over Muldoon’s death. Ivory had cried when his mother died on the pyre. He’d cried when his uncle died. His uncle was more a father to him than Muldoon, though. Ivory and his uncle were two of a kind. Muldoon was, if anything, quite the opposite: a simple man who spoke in curt phrases and had a weakness for gambling and a propensity for losing. He was a hard man to like.
Ivory mulled over the opportunity that Minister Beck laid out for him. Should he join the academy? That was a dream come true for so many. To spend the rest of his life without the worry of digging in the dirt to plant seeds, hauling in loads of heavy grain at the harvest, or shoveling smelly dung out of pigpens. Now that was a life. He’d never have to pretend to hunt rabbits again. He’d never have to risk his life smuggling metals into Brighton to pay Muldoon’s gambling debts. Of course, Muldoon wouldn’t be incurring any more debts now.
What worried Ivory, though, was that he’d lose his freedom, and that the academy could turn into a prison from which he’d never escape. Sure, he wouldn’t be locked in, but it’d be a prison just the same. He’d slowly get saddled with responsibilities and guilt. He’d marry and have children, and then his choices would disappear entirely. He’d be a scholar, but he’d have to stand on the perimeter of the square twice a year and watch his beloved wife peel off her clothes and pray that she didn’t get sent to the fire. He’d suffer the anguish that his children might burn and he’d hear their screams and see their tears.
How do parents bear it? He wondered.
Concentrating on his thoughts, he ate the bread and jam he’d planned for his first day of the journey. Eventually, bored with going over the same thoughts again and again, he stared at the beauty of the dusted white forest. Up the mountain slopes, the boughs of tall evergreens sagged under wet snow. The valley floor was layered in white so smooth he imagined a single slip might send him sliding over its crunchy surface and halfway back to Brighton. Only his single line of tracks marred the pristine white. Only…
Ivory stopped chewing. He sat up straight and stared down into the valley.
What’s that? A bear?
Way down the valley, far enough away that it would be invisible except for the contrast of brown bulk against white snow, something was coming, following his tracks through the snow. It was walking on its hind legs. That ruled out the possibility of its being a bear, and left only one creature—a man, a very large man.
None of the smugglers Ivory knew were large. They were all of average size. One of them was tall, but that man was too thin to be the man following the tracks. Still, if the man was bundled in layers of thick fur…
Ivory shook his head. He was telling himself stories. He didn’t know who that man was coming up from the valley. He didn’t know why he was following in the tracks Ivory had left. He only knew one thing for sure—the follower might be dangerous, and Ivory would have to lose him. The snow would make evasion difficult.
The rock Ivory was sitting on had very little snow on it. The wind had whipped it clean. The stone was a light color, not much darker than the snow. Ivory looked down at his cloak and realized it was as dark brown as the one worn by the bear-sized man. Would the man mistake him for a shadow
or a bush? Ivory wasn’t sure. He did know that once he started to move, if the hiker was looking his way, he’d spot Ivory with the same ease with which Ivory had spotted him.
There was nothing to be done about that. Ivory only had one choice.
He had to move.
Chapter 59: Bray
Bray sliced into the first soldier before the men knew he was there. The soldier, an older man with gray hair, shrieked as his hand fell from his wrist. He dropped his sword to the dirt, grabbing at the wounded stump. Bray booted him in the chest, knocking him backward and into the fire. Then he leapt at another.
He sliced a second soldier’s throat, watching blood spurt from the man’s opened neck. The man gurgled. Another soldier came at Bray. This one was farther back and more prepared. His eyes narrowed into slits as he prepared to strike. One of his comrades ran from the edge of the forest to join him.
“It’s one of the Wardens!”
“Who cares? Kill him!”
The two soldiers took preparatory jabs at Bray, snarling in anger, circling. Bray heard a crackle behind him. In his peripheral vision, he saw Ella burst from the trees.
“Forget about me! Go find William!” he shouted. “They went that way!”
He heard the crackle of brush as she darted into the woods and followed the disappearing soldier. The two soldiers glared after her, considering pursuit, but Bray swung his sword, interrupting their decision. He clashed blades with the first man, his muscles heaving as he tried to push the man backward. But the man was heavier than Bray and he pushed back with equal force. They struggled and fought for several seconds before the other leapt in, swinging his sword at Bray. Bray leapt back, narrowly avoiding the slice.
“You’ll be spiked for this!” the larger man growled. “I’ll see it done myself!”
The second man swung again. He was tall and lean, his shirt bloodied from whatever carnage he’d been involved in. Bray evaded the swing and countered with a strike of his own. The blow struck the man’s sword, knocking it from his grasp. Bray felt a stroke of satisfaction. But it didn’t last.
The larger man charged Bray. He knocked into the Warden and toppled him backward, heaving him into a thick tree. Bray grunted from the impact, the breath exploding from his lungs. The soldier stepped back, raised his sword, and aimed for his head. Bray dodged, but not in time to avoid the tip of the blade. Pain seared through his ear. Wet blood ran down his face.
Bray gritted his teeth.
Channeling the pain into anger, the Warden ripped himself from the tree and circled the men. The soldier he’d disarmed had reclaimed his weapon, and the large man stared at him with sadistic eyes. They pushed him backward, edging him toward the burning house. Flames filled the air with an oppressive combination of smoke and heat. Bray gagged and his eyes watered. In the distance, he heard sounds of commotion. Ella? William?
There was no time to speculate.
The large soldier ran at him. Bray sidestepped. At the same time, the tall soldier jabbed at the Warden’s midsection, catching him in the leg. Another jolt of pain tore through Bray’s body as his calf was cut open. He cried out in frustration and anger. Had it not been for the disorientation of the fog, he would’ve bested these men already.
He refused to die.
He shouted and swung again.
This time he caught the tall soldier in the upper arm. The man cried out as his skin tore open. Bray wrenched the blade back and forth, deepening the wound. Then he retracted his sword. Before the man could recover, Bray kicked him into the fire. The soldier roared in agony as the flames grabbed hold of him.
Bray stepped back, his face dripping sweat. He wiped his face on his sleeve, nearly forgetting his nicked ear. Blood soiled his shirt. Adrenaline flowed through his body.
The large man stood silent, his mouth agape. He gritted his teeth, trying to summon his courage, but Bray could sense he was scared. Without his comrades, the man was as weak-hearted as the rest of the townsfolk. He wasn’t suited for battle, not without the swinging swords of his fellow men.
Bray ran at the man, holding his sword at chest-level. Instead of fighting, the man turned and ran into the trees. The Warden ran after him, limping on his wounded leg, his anger as strong now as it had been minutes earlier. The torched house spit and crackled behind him. Bray chased the man until the heat on his back had dissipated. The large man huffed and panted, dashing with all his energy, but his legs were shorter, and Bray easily caught up.
When he reached the man, he stabbed without aiming, goring the man in the back. The man fell flat on his face, grunting in pain. Blood ringed the back of his blue shirt.
“Please…” he spit into the dirt.
Bray looked down at the man, hatred filling his insides. The image of the burnt settlers was still stuck in his mind. “I can have you made Captain,” the soldier pleaded.
Bray paused.
The offer was alluring. As dispassionate as he was about fighting for someone else, Bray would be paid handsomely.
“A minute ago you said I’d be spiked,” Bray said through gritted teeth.
“I just… I didn’t mean…” the soldier trailed off.
Bray cocked his head for a moment. The man would die before he could make good on his word. With a shrug, he sliced off the man’s head.
“Bray!” A frantic voice called his name.
Ella. Bray darted from the bloody scene, making his way toward the commotion. He ignored the pain in his face and his leg, repressing the anger that had consumed him before. The fog was still thick and unyielding. He needed to focus if he wanted to defeat whatever was out there. Demons. Soldiers. Whatever it was.
The sounds of struggle seeped through the forest. Bray evaded branches and bramble, finally making his way to a clearing between the trees. Ella was screaming, watching in horror as one figure stabbed another. It was William, and he was hovering over a soldier, plunging his sword repeatedly into the man’s chest.
“I can’t stop him!” Ella cried.
Bray approached William. The boy continued stabbing the lifeless body. Only when Bray was closer did he recognize the soldier’s marred, bloodied face. It was Theodore Marks.
“William!” Ella said again, her voice wavering. It looked like she was afraid to go near him.
Bray stamped the dirt. “William!” he shouted with authority.
This time the boy looked up. William’s eyes were wide and rabid; his face was covered in blood. Bray held up his sword, prepared to use it if necessary. William stared at the Warden for a long moment, as if trying to formulate a sentence, but not quite conjuring the words. Then William dropped his sword.
The weapon clanked to the ground.
“It’s over,” Bray said, watching him intently.
The boy looked between Ella and Bray. Then he walked over to his mother. He breathed heavily, as if he’d forgotten how, then opened his arms and hugged her.
Chapter 60: Ivory
Hiking up the sloping side of the bowl directly toward the crest was hard going. Usually when Ivory made his way up to the end of the valley, he zigzagged back and forth across the slope, stepping carefully over the rocks, some the size of a man’s head, some the size of a pig. It made for difficult walking and every step had to be taken with care. So far removed from town, a slip and a twist of an ankle could be a life-ending mistake.
With the bear-man coming up his path, though, Ivory didn’t have the luxury of zigzags; he needed to be over the crest, down the long rocky slopes on the other side, and into the forest before his pursuer crested the slope behind him and spotted where he went in. If the bear-sized man had to search for his path into the forest, it would delay him and increase the chance that Ivory could escape. With any luck, more snow would come, covering Ivory’s tracks, and making him safe.
Snow filled e
very crevice, and unfortunately, many of the rocks wore a thin glaze of frost from where the first of the snow had melted on the last of their summer warmth. The air was cold enough to refreeze it, making some of the rocks dangerous.
By the time Ivory neared the crest, he wondered if his choice to come straight up had been wise at all. He was much more tired than when he zigzagged, and he wasn’t sure that he’d saved any time, with having to stop for frequent breaks to catch his breath. He turned to gauge the bear-man’s progress and was astonished. Somehow, the bear-man had crossed half the length of the snowy valley while Ivory was negotiating the rock field.
Ivory grimaced and pushed on. He needed to make it to the crest.
Why would somebody follow him? In all the times Ivory had taken this trail over the years, both with his uncle and on his own, he’d only seen another person a handful of times, and he’d never seen someone so close behind, following the same path. A new thought occurred to him. Was it possible the other traveller was someone who’d come across his path in the snow, and had already been traveling in roughly the same direction? Was it possible it was someone seeking the company and safety of a traveling companion? Given the early snow, was that such a stretch?
Ivory shook his head and grumbled to himself. He hated not knowing. He hated being fearful. Still, one of the most important lessons his uncle had taught him was to be careful.
Given the mystery of the man behind him, Ivory pushed onward. Evasion was the most cautious path.
When Ivory finally reached the crest, he looked down over the long, sloping rock field on the other side. His heart sank. It was covered in snow from the rocks along the crest all the way down to the trees far below. Ivory cursed the sun and he cursed the wind that would leave one side of the crest relatively clear and the other snowy. Worst of all, he saw the tips of some of the rocks peaking out through the snow, meaning that not only would the snow show every step of his escape path to the bear-man, but it wasn’t deep enough that he could avoid the risk of twisting an ankle on the rocks underneath. In fact, he wasn’t even sure it was safe to cross.
