by Bobby Adair
Ella’s mouth stuck open.
She didn’t need an announcement to know where they were.
They’d reached the Ancient City.
Chapter 68: Evan
Evan was impressed. At least there was that. Six hundred militiamen lined the road between the edge of town and the circle wall. It ran past The House of Barren Women, which stood out in the field alone. The men lined up at intervals on both sides of the road all the way to the western gate. Out in the fields, twenty cohorts of six hundred militiamen were putting themselves into square formations. Such a large force would not be self-sustaining. They’d need the support of regular townsfolk, doing the mundane things that townsfolk did. A disorganized mass of men and women, tradesmen, shepherds, pig herders, cooks, tailors, barren women, blacksmiths, cobblers, and laborers spread out over a vast area near the circle wall. They’d all be going along with the army, as General Blackthorn had commanded.
In the square, sitting in crisp uniforms with stiff backs, atop six hundred horses, sat the cavalry, either at attention in rows or guiding horses to their places. All were spoiling to get moving, to get to the Ancient City, and to end the demon menace once and for all.
Stopping at the back of the square to catch his breath, Evan saw it all. He’d been out all morning watching the men gather, watching the townsfolk say their goodbyes. There’d been plenty of tears, plenty of good luck kisses and hugs from lover to lover, from mother to son.
Up on the dais stood General Blackthorn, Minister Beck, and Father Winthrop. Neither Captain Tenbrook, nor newly anointed Bishop Franklin was yet there. Evan would need to be there soon, along with the other two, to make the transition of power formal and visible. But Evan had other tasks to tend to.
Of all the last minute arrangements and checks he’d had to make that morning, the most important was that of stopping by the Dunlow’s house. There, nearly fifty of the soon-to-be deserters were hiding from sergeants who were searching their homes, trying to find them prior to the army’s march.
The rebels were stashed in seven locations around Brighton, all in groups that Evan hoped would help them steel their nerves for the fateful action each was taking. As soon as the army marched through the western gate, each of those men would officially be deserters. When the counts and the names were finally gathered somewhere at a campsite up the road, those men would each be condemned to the pyre. Riders would likely bring the news back from the army to Tenbrook. Evan guessed that Tenbrook would take a ruthless approach to dealing with would-be rebels.
What Evan hoped, though, was that the list of deserters sent back would contain more names than just those of the men he’d co-opted. Evan knew others would desert, too. Once those men realized the magnitude of their crimes, they’d have to choose between fleeing Brighton or facing the pyre. Evan hoped to recruit them to add to his force of rebels. Why not join? They’d have nothing to lose in doing so. He’d only have to find them before Tenbrook did.
He hurried off around the edge of the square, making his way to the dais to lay claim to his share of Brighton’s government, such as it was.
Chapter 69: Tenbrook
Impatience was the least of Tenbrook’s feelings at the moment. He wasn’t an emotional man, by any means. He hadn’t expected to be emotional today, the morning he was to accept the reins of the government, to become the most powerful man in Brighton.
He’d dreamed of a day like this since he was a child. What boy didn’t?
However, until Blackthorn had called him in for the private meeting and the burning of the first of those desiccated tongues, Tenbrook never dared think such a childish dream would materialize.
Now, instead of standing on the dais with the departing ministers while the cavalry formed up in the square, Tenbrook was lurking in an alley behind General Blackthorn’s residence, looking at a piece of paper that implored him to meet here at this late hour for a matter of the utmost urgency. Tenbrook told the boy who’d delivered the message to tell the sender that he’d be there. Tenbrook added the extra instruction that if the meeting made him tardy or disappointed, he’d settle his anger with a pyre pole.
The boy ran off in a fright.
Now Tenbrook was waiting, not used to emotions he couldn’t repress under his boot. That made him hate the man for whom he waited. Few things irked Tenbrook more than being out of control of his emotions.
Cocking his head and listening, he heard the stomping of hooves and the rustle of men in their saddles. Orders were still being shouted. The cavalry wasn’t yet formed. The militia waiting past the edge of town was not yet prepared. People were still rushing through the streets to get to some favored place where they could watch their loved ones leave, or just to see the spectacle of so many armed men, marching in formation to some glorious purpose.
If only they knew.
“Captain Tenbrook?”
Startled by the voice, Tenbrook looked up and silently chastised himself. He’d been lost in his thoughts and had stopped paying attention. Tenbrook looked the man up and down.
“I am Tommy Dunlow. I sent you the message.”
“You received my return message then,” said Tenbrook. “I know who you are, and I might ask already, why you aren’t with the militia.”
“I am here to explain that.”
Tenbrook laughed. “This isn’t a matter for explanations. Your choices are duty or flame.”
Tommy Dunlow gulped, gathered his nerve, and proceeded. “You know that my father and my family have long been in General Blackthorn’s disfavor.”
“I’m already thinking of which pyre pole to put you on,” said Tenbrook. “I came here to listen to an urgent message.”
“Please,” said Tommy Dunlow, “I only mention that because I wish to restore my family to favor. We wish to stand shoulder to shoulder with the General and show our loyalty.”
“Most men would actually stand shoulder to shoulder to show their loyalty,” said Tenbrook, “rather than hide in alleyways and talk about it. Why aren’t you with your cohort? Are you a deserter, here to beg forgiveness for your cowardice?”
Shaking his head, Tommy Dunlow said, “I’ve been invited into a plot to overthrow the government during General Blackthorn’s absence. I’ve been assured that the General will not return. I think he will be murdered.”
Tommy Dunlow had Tenbrook’s attention now. “How many people are involved in this plot?”
“Two hundred.”
“All deserters?” Tenbrook asked.
Tommy Dunlow nodded as he said, “All but one.”
“And who is this one?” asked Tenbrook.
“The ringleader.”
“Does this ringleader have a name?”
“He does,” said Tommy Dunlow. “It is Scholar Evan.”
Chapter 70: Oliver
Oliver stood in the temple, watching Franklin pace the stage with an ashen face. Franklin didn’t notice Oliver for almost a full minute. When he finally did, he said to Oliver, “I didn’t see you at the ceremony.”
“When you burned Father Nelson?” Oliver spat the words as a challenge. He hadn’t intended to confront Franklin about it, but his anger won out. “Just because I didn’t let Blackthorn march me out into the square with the rest of you doesn’t mean I missed it. I saw what you did.”
“I had to.” Franklin’s voice trembled.
“You have to do a lot of things you subsequently say you’d prefer not to.”
Franklin turned away and paced to the end of the stage before turning back toward Oliver. The threadbare Bishop’s robe hanging on his shoulders dragged the floor as he paced. In a despondent voice, he said, “I thought you’d left.”
“Soon.” Oliver stepped up the stairs onto the stage, looking Franklin up and down as he did. “Where’d you get that?”
Franklin l
ooked down at himself as he came to a stop in front of Oliver. “I found it in a closet in Father Winthrop’s chamber. It belonged to Bishop Garrett.”
“The Bishop before Father Winthrop?” Oliver asked as he leaned close to sniff.
“He died long before you were born,” said Franklin.
With a sour look on his face, Oliver said, “It smells like Winthrop.”
“Everything in there does.” Normally Franklin might’ve harbored a smile, but not today. Oliver watched him tug the robe to adjust it on his shoulders.
“Are you going to have a new one made?” Oliver asked.
Franklin didn’t answer. He looked toward the temple doors. Oliver followed his gaze. Out in the square, the cavalry was forming up. The ministers were waiting. His face showed his nervousness. Finally Franklin said, “I don’t know that I should.”
“Why?” asked Oliver.
“What if Father Winthrop returns?” Franklin grimaced. “I’m afraid to take the risk. If he thinks I had a robe made for myself because I want to remain Bishop, it’ll go badly.”
Oliver put a hand on the dagger now hanging in its sheath outside his pants. His small knife and his chainmail lay hidden under his garments. “I don’t think Father Winthrop will return.”
“Why do you say that?” His attention roamed to Oliver’s hand resting on the hilt of the dagger. “What are you planning, Oliver?”
“You were always my friend, Franklin. Don’t speak to me like I’m a child.”
Franklin inched closer. “I’m not. I’m speaking to you as your friend. You’ve had hate in your eyes since—”
Franklin couldn’t say it, and Oliver didn’t mind. He didn’t want to hear the words. The memory of Franklin’s betrayal hurt more than the sores still oozing pus down his back. It hurt almost as much as watching what Franklin had done to Father Nelson out on the pyre.
Stoking his courage, Oliver stood up straight. “I’m not running away, not yet. I’m marching out with the militia. And I need you to help me. Remember what you promised me? You said you’d assist me in any way I needed.”
Franklin mouth stuck open in disbelief as he formulated a protest.
Before he could voice an argument, Oliver said, “I need you to send me out with the soldiers. If anyone asks why, say that you sent me with Father Winthrop so I could tend to his needs. No one will question it.”
“They won’t, I don’t think. But why would you want to do that?” Franklin’s eyes turned from worry to pleading. “If you go out with them, there’s a good chance you’ll die.”
“I know that,” said Oliver. “If I was a full grown man, it might make what I have to do easier. But I’ll get it done. I’ll do what I have planned. All I’ll tell you is to make your new robe.”
Oliver turned and walked down the stairs.
“Wait!” Franklin cried, leaving the stage and following after him. “ What does that mean? I have to get out to the dais. The other ministers are already waiting. You can’t leave without explaining.”
“There’s nothing more to be said.” Oliver looked over his shoulder. When he was sure no one was listening, he pulled Franklin close. In a cold, determined voice, one with enough harshness to let Franklin know he was serious, he said, “Out there in the wilds with the militia, I’ll find the right time, and I’m killing Father Winthrop.”
Chapter 71: Tenbrook
Tenbrook stood on the dais between Franklin in his laughable old frock and Evan under his transparent disguise of loyalty. The formalities were all completed. The announcements all made. The cheers that had once echoed off the walls of the square had dampened, giving way to the sobs of crying women and the clomping of hooves.
General Blackthorn rode tall in his saddle toward the road out of town. Just to his right, but definitely behind, rode Minister Beck, looking awkward and pretentious at the same time. Father Winthrop balanced precariously atop the sturdiest horse in town. Tenbrook suspected the horse would not live to see the Ancient City. What horse could bear such a burden for long?
The cavalry lined themselves behind the ministers in double-file, following them out. People up the street cheered anew. Tenbrook felt a surge of elation. He ached for the anticipation of glory that he always felt when he led his squadron out to battle the demons. But he’d have to set those pleasures aside. He was in a new role now, one with exceedingly more complex problems to solve and more devious enemies to fight. He glanced over at Evan. The scholar watched the procession with a placid face. Who else was involved in his seditious scheme? Was Franklin? Were others in the Academy? Tommy Dunlow had said nothing of the clergy, but Tenbrook had already decided he wouldn’t leave that question to chance. He’d find out exactly who the traitors were. He had plenty of ways to convince men to divulge their secrets.
In the coming days, he’d use all of them.
CONTINUED IN “THE LAST COMMAND” BOOK FOUR
The Last Command
A Dystopian Society in a Post-Apocalyptic World
Book 4 of The Last Survivors Series
Preface
Welcome to Book 4! We hope you’ve enjoyed the series so far, and we appreciate you sticking with us.
THE LAST COMMAND is the culmination of several plot lines in The Last Survivors. Answers are revealed. Battles are fought and won, or lost. Motivations change. Several of our characters undergo radical transformations in this book—things we have been leading up to, but that are shocking to us just the same (and will hopefully shock you.) As General Blackthorn leads his army into the wild, intent on delivering his last command, no one is safe.
I wish I could say all our characters will survive.
I don’t want to lie to you.
We hope you enjoy THE LAST COMMAND. Bobby and I agree that it has been one of the most intense of the series to write so far. But don’t get comfortable. The remaining few books will be even crazier.
See you in Book 5.
Tyler Piperbrook & Bobby Adair
January 2016
Chapter 1: Oliver
Mist and drizzle soaked Oliver’s clothes. The air hung heavy and warm, turning to sweat under Oliver’s arms and on his face, leaving him chafing under the weight of his shirt, coat, and mail. Manure dropped by hundreds of horses at the head of the marching column, mixed with road mud, stuck to Oliver’s boots and pants, adding to the stink of nineteen thousand sweating men and women marching three and four abreast in a line four miles long, soldiers and camp followers, the largest army ever assembled, all on their way to the Ancient City to bring a resolute end to the centuries-old demon scourge.
Oliver didn’t care about that. He even had his doubts whether it was true. Too many schemes were at play for him to have faith in the lies on men’s lips.
Oliver had his reasons for sweating under the load of his wet garments and mud-caked boots as he strove to keep pace with full-grown men and women on the march. He was going out as a night thief, intent on finding Winthrop’s tent in a moment when his lazy guards were inattentive. Oliver was determined to sneak into that tent and ram his dagger deep into Father Winthrop’s skull.
Afterward, Oliver would make his escape and find a place far from Brighton where he could grow up without the constant threat of the belt and pyre, without being forced to tend to the needs of a pompous, cruel buffoon, who wore a fluttery woman’s dress that he called a robe.
The march out of Brighton took most of the morning. The cavalry went first, wearing their prissy uniforms atop their fine horses with glimmering swords and colorful flags. The ministers, Blackthorn, Beck, and Winthrop rode among them. And why wouldn’t they? It was the safest place. Everybody in the three townships respected the cavalry’s skill at slaughtering demons.
Blackthorn’s blue shirts filed out next, three abreast, all in step, a thousand toy soldiers, not good enough for the cava
lry, but more than willing to make up for their lack of skill with excessive brutality. They were the city guards, the men Blackthorn called on to enforce his law and keep the townships in line. They rarely had demons’ blood on their hands. They were better at making unarmed men bleed.
The militia filed out next, organized in cohorts of five hundred. They were sloppy compared to the blue shirts—either unwilling or unable to walk in step—not uniformed but wearing whatever clothing kept them warm when they were going about their daily chores. Most carried spears and axes, some wore swords in scabbards on their belts.
Between each of the militia cohorts were several hundred camp followers mandated by General Blackthorn to come in support of the army. They were charged with herding the livestock, hauling the food and supplies, cooking meals, repairing shoes, weapons, and clothes—or, in the case of the Barren Women—seeing to men’s pressing intimate needs. With most able-bodied men having been pressed into service in one of the militia cohorts, the camp followers were made up of aged men, children apprenticed in a trade, and older women.
Oliver walked among this last group, out through the gate leaving the circle wall behind and past the meadows that grew wider with each passing year as men cut more and more timber for Brighton’s needs. They marched into the forest growing thick along the edges of the road, putting the army in the shadow of overhanging boughs. The women around Oliver all carried loads in packs big enough for Oliver to hide inside. None of them paid attention to the forest. Their minds were set on shouldering their burdens and watching the feet of the woman in front or talking about anything to keep their minds off the journey in front of them.
When the first demon cried out, everyone tensed. All chatter ceased. Women stared at shadows in the trees. A few screamed. The woman next to Oliver turned and clutched his arm.
