by Bobby Adair
After days of listening from near and far, Oliver started to guess that Melora’s aversion to Jingo’s stories maybe didn’t have as much to do with what he told her, as it did with her mother’s death. Oliver didn’t know if Jingo noticed, but he saw the way she looked at Jingo when she thought he wasn’t paying attention. To Oliver, it looked a little bit like hate. Maybe without the Warden named Bray around—the one she said had killed her mother—she needed someone to blame.
Ivory said, “Maybe the demons killed the woman we saw.”
“Perhaps,” Jingo replied.
Out the gun ports, Oliver watched scavenging animals tear at the bodies, though they were starting to freeze on the ground. The night, like all of them lately, was going to be cold. He didn’t think the woman would be among the dead. When they’d all been up on the rim of the valley, looking down at the settlement, and they’d spotted her, she’d had what Jingo called a gun, the first real piece of Tech Magic Oliver had ever seen.
Well, there was Ivory’s compound bow. That was amazing, but not magical the way a gun seemed.
He was infatuated with it.
He wanted so badly to see the gun up close, to touch it, to see how it worked, and then to use it to slaughter a thousand demons. That’s what the legends said—that guns could spew lighting and thunder and give one man the power to kill every demon in sight.
It was hard to imagine.
But Jingo had confirmed most of the legends about guns were true.
“Jingo,” asked Beck, changing the subject to a more pressing question, “what do you think we should do about the demons?”
They’d been finding the monsters in every tower they searched. The demons were in there, feeding on the dead settlers. They’d been coming into the settlement through the gaps in the stockade, either by themselves or in small groups. It wasn’t a constant stream, but they showed up with such regularity that everyone spent a good part of every day watching for, running from, or killing demons.
“I think the twisted men are in every one of these dwellings,” said Jingo. “They probably believe this is now their home. Or they may move on in the spring when the bodies of the dead have been eaten to bone, or the meat is too rotten. More may continue to come from the woods.”
“Why?” asked Beck. “Surely every demon in the nearby forest has already arrived. The noise from the battle for this place must have drawn them all in.”
“You assume that the twisted men have minds as simple as a beast,” Jingo said. “That is a mistake. Many are much smarter. They communicate in a crude way. Word of this place has spread among them, and they have been coming here to make war on these humans for nearly a generation.”
Oliver was paying attention now.
“What?” Beck’s tone clearly conveyed his disbelief.
“A generation?” Ivory asked. He didn’t believe it either. “Jingo, are you saying this settlement has been here for twenty years?”
“A little more, or a little less.” Jingo shrugged. “The demons think these people were the Ancients.”
“So were they Ancients, or were they not?” asked Ivory. “All of these dead people who lived in these wooden towers?”
Oliver didn’t know what to believe. He’d seen the Ancient City with his own eyes. Even after three hundred years of decay, it was still the grandest thing he’d ever seen. The towers in the settlement were tall, and they were grand, but they were nothing compared to the Ancient City.
“These are not the Ancients as you think of them,” said Jingo. “All of you have seen the Ancient City. The technology and the machines used to build those cities were not used here. As you said, these people lived in towers constructed of timbers behind a wall built of logs.”
Beck asked, “Why do the demons think these are the same people?”
“Because of their weapons,” Jingo answered. “These people must have fought the twisted men with guns. The wounds on the dead are consistent with gunshot wounds.”
Ivory said, “The dead are everywhere, but so far we’ve only seen one gun.” Everyone knew Ivory was talking about the gun carried by the woman who’d disappeared. “If these people died fighting, where are their weapons?”
“I can’t say,” answered Jingo.
“And guns don’t normally disappear do they?” asked Beck.
Oliver was curious about that question too.
Jingo laughed, and Beck became embarrassed.
“I apologize,” said Jingo. “Minister Beck, your question is not a stupid one, not coming from your culture, from a person who has never touched or used a gun. For you, guns are weapons of legend. Some myths your people believe about guns are true. Some are not. Even so, there are many facts about guns that you simply do not know. I laugh because I have a knowledge of guns that is far beyond yours. From my perspective, disappearing guns are not possible. Guns are weapons made of steel, sometimes with wooden or even plastic parts, but mostly steel. They would not disappear on their own.”
“They could rust away, though,” said Ivory, “Right?”
“True.” Jingo nodded. “But we all are familiar enough with metals to know the guns used by these people could not have rusted away before the bodies rotted.”
Nods all around.
“So what happened to the guns?” Beck asked.
“It’s a mystery,” answered Jingo. “As is the woman we saw.”
Chapter 3: William
William flailed his arms and legs as he was carried through the streets. The world became a blur of torch lights and bloodstained faces. He tried to twist away, but the men held him tight, propping him up so he wouldn’t fall. They chanted with loud, confident voices.
“The blood of the demons makes us immortal!”
“We are the children of the new god!”
They’d killed his demons.
I’m alone, he thought.
Fear overtook William’s anger as he caught glimpses of the wide, maniacal eyes around him. Gangly women ran out from the dome, holding demon meat on sticks. They shouted excitedly as they picked up the men’s chant. More people gathered at the dome’s entrance, drawn by the commotion.
A new fear settled in William’s stomach: once they found his lumps, they wouldn’t just kill him. They’d eat him.
He kicked and screamed, but the men wouldn’t let him go. The chant grew louder as William was carried through the dome’s entrance and past several dozen campfires, where more stacks of demon bodies were lined up or roasting.
He was surprised to see several blue shirts running next to him. He was hit with a quick memory of Blackthorn’s army before his attention was ripped back to a group of women unraveling entrails, preparing them for the fire. He screamed louder, begging the men to put him down, but they barely looked at him. Soon they were approaching a bonfire that was larger than the rest, guarded by a chanting circle of men and women. The people parted. William saw women with blood-spattered faces, wearing necklaces made of demon’s ears. The chanting continued as William was dropped to the ground in the circle’s center.
He collected his senses, ready to run, but hands held him in place. Seemingly at the center of everything, he saw a man who looked different than all the others. His head was bowed to the earth; his tattered white robe was covered in red blood prints. Hearing the chants of the others, the man raised his head and focused his bloodshot eyes on William. The walls whispered a name that William recognized.
Father Winthrop.
Chapter 4: Bray
Bray concealed himself in a shadow between two buildings as the mob of blood-printed men carted William away. The remaining soldiers were in the street in front of him, butchering demons, and slathering themselves with fresh blood.
They must be insane.
Only irrational men would paint their bodies
with demon innards. The demons were good for killing and scalping. They were worth a few coins.
That was it.
Bray wanted to leap out and attack, but he was hopelessly outnumbered, and even if he wasn’t, the gash on his left arm where Melora had sliced him still throbbed with pain. His leg and face were crusted with scabs from his hard fight escaping the tower where Ella had died.
Tracking William had been a harder promise to keep than he’d anticipated. William and his demons sometimes moved quickly, hunting and scavenging, resting in buildings that offered enough of a view of the street that Bray feared getting close. A few times, Bray almost reconsidered his plan, thinking that William was too far gone, but whenever he thought that, he’d hear William’s voice giving commands to his demons, and that voice had reminded Bray of the boy he’d taught to track in the forest, and the promise he’d made to himself after accidentally killing Ella.
He’d keep William safe, as long as there was anything left of the boy he knew.
Finding food and water was difficult when Bray needed to keep William close. Once, hunger had gotten the best of him and he’d scavenged the pockets of a dead soldier immediately after William. He’d been surprised by several demons lurking in a nearby alleyway, but he’d scurried off just quick enough to avoid an incident.
If William weren’t surrounded by the demons, Bray would’ve tried butchering them. But nearly sixty demons would’ve been impossible.
Now, none of that felt like it mattered.
William screamed as he was carried farther away. The torchlight and the sparse light of the moon illuminated the remaining men’s faces.
“These demons will feed at least a thousand of us,” he heard one man say.
“Let’s get them back to the fires.”
Bray clutched his sword in disgust as he realized the men were planning on eating the beasts. Who knew what they were planning to do with William?
The men traded orders as they coordinated carrying the bodies. Most demons were carried by two men—one took the arms, the other the legs. A few dragged demons by themselves. The rest carried torches, leading the way. They started down the street, following the group that had disappeared with William. Bray waited until they were far enough away that he could creep out into the road and follow.
He weaved between hunks of ancient stone, stepping between bushes and bramble, keeping enough of a distance that they couldn’t see him if they turned. He had no immediate plan, but he needed to rescue William.
A few times, pebbles underfoot made enough of a noise that Bray froze, fearing he’d given himself away. A few times one of the torches stopped as a man looked around the silent street, suspecting danger but not seeing it.
The soldiers turned down several streets, backtracking to the place where they’d first encountered William. Deep in the distance, Bray saw the gaping entrance of the Ancient Circle. The dome was filled with moving bodies and flickering campfires, but he couldn’t see the details. Were these people from Brighton? He assumed so, though he hadn’t been able to verify it.
The group carrying William disappeared into the mob inside the Ancient Circle. William’s screams faded and all Bray heard was that incessant, annoying chanting.
He snuck closer to the men carrying the demons. He needed to find out whatever he could before they got to the dome. Sneaking behind a large chunk of ancient stone, he peered around the edge, watching one man linger in the back of the group as he dragged a demon. The man was far enough behind that he might not be missed.
Or so Bray hoped.
He needed to take a chance. Heart knocking, he raced out into the street, moving quickly and quietly, gaining distance on the man. The torches bobbed and flickered as the men chanted in monotonous, droning voices. One turned head would be enough to spot him.
One cry would alert the others.
Bray winced as one of his footfalls echoed loudly—too loudly. He came up behind the last man just as the man was turning around and threw him to the ground. The man fought and kicked, but Bray clamped a hand over his mouth and pinned him, heart still slamming. He held still, certain he’d hear shouts of alarm, but the shouts never came. When the chanting was far enough away that he could no longer discern the words, Bray stuck a knife under the man’s chin.
“If you scream, I’ll slash your throat.”
The man gave an exaggerated nod as Bray released his hand.
“How many men are in the dome?”
The man breathed heavily, but he wouldn’t answer.
“How many men are in the dome?” Bray repeated.
“Does it matter?” The man scoffed.
“Whose army is this? Blackthorn’s?”
“The god of war leads us.”
“I’ll cut your throat before you say that again. Whose army is this?”
“We are immortal. We can’t be killed.” Bray could sense the man smiling in the dark. He pressed the knife deeper.
“You can’t hurt me.” The man laughed. “My body is filled with His blood.”
“Whose blood? Blackthorn’s?”
“Winthrop’s. Feel his love, and you too, shall be blessed with his power.”
“Where’s Blackthorn?”
“Blackthorn’s dead. Winthrop killed him.”
The obvious lie pissed Bray off, and he buried the knife in the man’s neck up to the hilt.
Chapter 5: Oliver
Jingo, Minister Beck, and Melora were asleep near the fire in the wooden tower they’d secured to protect themselves. Ivory was keeping watch.
Nobody saw Oliver sneak out.
The night was cold, and Oliver’s breath puffed into white clouds in front of him as he walked through the bright moonlight. He pulled his coat tight around his shoulders to keep the chill at bay. Still, he shivered. Bodies of demons and strangely clad people, all frighteningly thin, all dead for at least a week, lay scattered on the ground inside the stockade.
The town was strange, enthralling, a silent place of the dead where even most of the scavengers took shelter when the sun went down.
With the night cold deepening each passing day, the demons were avoiding the dark, huddling wherever they hid out in the forest and in the other towers where the town’s residents had lived. Oliver figured night was the best time to search for the woman with the gun, as long as he was quiet about it.
The residents of the seaside village had erected a wall of timbers. Whole tree trunks stood vertically side by side to form a barrier twice as tall as the circle wall that kept Brighton safe. The wall was imposing even from up on the hill, on the rim of the valley, where Oliver and the others had been when they’d initially seen it.
But the wall hadn’t been strong enough.
The demons had breached it.
Thousands of their bodies lay on the ground outside the wall, gored by terrible weapons, with wounds that seemed to explode through flesh and bone. Jingo had said that guns caused the wounds. But as powerful as the guns were, they had not saved the people who’d lived behind the wooden wall. Easily twice as many dead demons lay on the ground inside the wall as without. Among them were the corpses of the town’s residents.
Peppered across the ground, enough to make any Brighton man rich three times over, were tiny brass tubes, almost like cups made to fit a squirrel’s hand. The insides were blackened and reeked of a strange odor, but the outsides were shiny. Jingo called the tiny brass tubes casings. He said the Ancients’ guns used them for firing what he called bullets. Bullets made the terrible wounds that had gouged the demons’ bodies, and in some cases, blew their skulls apart.
Bullets were terrible, powerful things.
Oliver wished he could find some casings whole with the bullets still attached and the necessary peculiar powder still packed inside. Then he’d only n
eed to find a gun. But among all these dead people, there seemed to be none. The only gun they’d seen had been in the hands of that woman they’d spotted that first day when looking down from the hill.
Since then, nothing.
It was frustrating, and the main reason Oliver hadn’t been able to sleep. He was in a town stranger than he’d ever imagined existed, and Tech Magic was hidden somewhere within. He couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Brighton’s circle wall was immense. It encompassed an area large enough for fields and pastures to exist outside the town. This settlement’s wooden wall kept a relatively small area safe, leaving no room for fields or flocks inside. Oliver had seen what remained of long, fallow fields outside the wall. He saw no sign of livestock. He wondered if that was the reason all the corpses of the residents looked so thin.
Like Brighton, this strange town had a few streets lined with squat buildings made almost exclusively of wood that seemed to be the place where merchants and tradesmen worked. But some of the buildings held devices large and small that served no purpose that Oliver could guess. One looked like a blacksmith shop, with tools and metal machines that he’d never seen. Others provided no clues.
Through most of the town’s enclosed area stood widely spaced towers, a dozen or so. All the towers were of a similar design, built of thick timbers with a huge, square, communal room at the base. The upper floors of each tower were successively smaller squares.
Probably the strangest thing about the city was what Jingo called the ships and boats. Most were so large that Oliver couldn’t imagine them floating. Most were constructed of metal that was crusted red and orange with rust and flaking paint. All looked liked they’d been hauled from the water and shoved into a jumble along the beach. Some were broken open. All were damaged.
