by Bobby Adair
He’d never suspected he’d lose him to a pack of war-crazed men.
Beyond the thick barrier of woods, a clear section of forest dotted with pine trees and needles came into view. A little farther on, Bray knew, was a stream. He’d take a quick break, fill his flask, and splash water over his sweat-ridden clothes.
He’d just reached the other side of the thicket when he heard a snuffing noise. Bray froze and peered through the forest. Perhaps some half-dead demon was taking its final steps. He stalked quietly through the forest, aiming to surprise whatever it was as he hid behind a crowded section of pines. On the other side of the trees, the forest curved down a narrow bank and toward the stream. Pine needles tickled his face as he kept cover between the branches.
Pushing aside the thick foliage, he caught sight of three large shapes lurking by the stream. He froze. Adrenaline made him clench his fingers on the sword. He watched as the shapes lifted their monstrous, elongated snouts and glanced behind them. They snuffed again.
They weren’t monsters, at all.
Horses!
Bray lowered his sword, the surging adrenaline of battle changing to another strategy. He crept through the pine needles, making his presence known, trying not to alarm them.
“Easy, boys,” he told them, sneaking closer.
He scooted down the bank until he was ten feet from the horses. They eyed him wearily but made no move to run. Blood striped the fur on their flanks, and saddles clung to their backs.
Bray rarely saw horses in the wild. In fact, the few he’d come across had been so startled that they’d fled faster than he could catch up with them. It’d been years since he’d owned a horse. He hadn’t ridden one since he was hunting with his father, back when he was learning to become a Warden. The only people who owned horses were cavalrymen, or merchants rich enough to stable and feed them.
Looking around, Bray didn’t see anyone who might own these horses.
They must belong to the cavalry.
Judging by the blood on their sides and their spooked demeanor, he guessed that whoever had ridden them had been killed. Bray took another cautious step until he was close enough to grab hold of one of the reins. He led the horse gently over to the other two, careful not to get in the path of a kick.
Horses would be a huge advantage in keeping up with the army. Bray smiled. Maybe his luck was turning around.
After securing the horses’ reins, Bray filled his flask and splashed his face in the brook.
Chapter 34: Fitz
Fitz looked around at the women of the New House, the servants, and the novices. After more arguing, some crying, and finally, a nervous acceptance, calm had settled over the meeting room as they tried to determine a plan to bring to the people of Brighton.
“What do you think we should do?” One of the women from The House of Barren Women, Ashley, asked as she looked at Fitz from across the table.
“We need to convince the townspeople that we have to keep the gates closed until we figure out what’s going on,” Fitz said. “We can’t let those men back in town to destroy it. We especially can’t let Winthrop set foot in here.”
No one in the room disagreed.
“We’ll need weapons,” Fitz continued. “Even if we don’t use them, men respect them. And men from war will especially be used to swords and spears.”
Several nodded.
“We have the swords of Tenbrook’s soldiers,” one of the Strong Women said, patting the sword scabbarded at her side.
“Yes, but we’ll need a lot more.”
“Maybe we can collect weapons in town,” Ginger suggested. “Most have been taken with Blackthorn’s army, but some things are bound to have been left behind. If the people understand the threat against us, you should be able to convince them to share their arms.”
Fitz nodded.
“The families of the blacksmiths might be able to assist us in making some things we can use,” Ashley said. “They won’t have the experience of the men, but they’re sure to have knowledge that will be helpful.”
“One of my neighbors was a blacksmith,” one of the Strong Women spoke up. “I’ve been to his shop plenty of times. Swords would be ideal, but it takes a lot of metal to make a sword. We might be better off making spears.”
“That way we can arm more people,” Fitz said, running with the idea. “More bodies with spears will do better than a handful with swords.”
“How will we intimidate them, if they can’t see us over the wall?” Ashley asked. “The wall is smooth at the top. There’s no place to stand that is protected. We’d have to stand in the open.”
“We’ll have people in the guard towers,” Fitz said. Turning to Ginger, she asked, “How many women do we have watching for demons?”
“Only a handful,” Ginger answered.
“We’ll get everyone else ready behind the gates, when the time comes.” Fitz nodded as the plan solidified. “The rest will be in the towers. Most of The People in Brighton are inexperienced, but there are bound to be some older men that have fought in wars. They can teach the women and children.”
“We won’t have much time,” a woman said.
“Of course. But it will be better than being completely unprepared,” Fitz answered.
“How will we know which gate Winthrop will march on?” one of the Strong Women asked.
“I know Winthrop. He’ll march through the front,” Fitz said, without hesitation. “He won’t be expecting a reception like this. He might be expecting Tenbrook and his men, but he won’t be concerned about a few hundred soldiers.” Her face twisted as she recalled Winthrop’s greasy, soft fingers and his narrow eyes. She never wanted to see him up close again, unless she was shoving a blade into his stomach. “Even still, we should plan on guarding the rest of the gates with equal numbers of people, just in case.”
“We’re talking as if the townspeople have agreed to this plan,” one of the Strong Women said. “But we still have to tell them. And none have heard the news.”
“Some might not believe it. Others might panic, the way we did, at first,” the Strong Woman said matter-of-factly.
“Having a plan will help them digest the news,” said Fitz. “We need to convince them we can be strong, just like we’ve done before.”
“Do you know what you are going to say to them?”
“Yes,” Fitz said, standing. “I think I do.”
Chapter 35: Bray
Bray sat tall atop one of the horses, leading the others behind with a rope he’d found in a saddlebag. It was a lucky find. The rope would enable him to lead the horses as a train, one behind the other. He’d ride one horse until it got tired and then switch off to another.
He smiled at his luck. It was good to get off his feet for a change. The soles of his boots were worn from the constant hiking. His heels were cracked from the cold.
He’d been keeping as close as he dared to the army, tracking their movements by the insistent chanting. Bray hadn’t seen many demons since the cluster of bodies he’d discovered earlier. Maybe the army had driven most of them south. Or maybe the ignorant men and women were driving the demons closer to Brighton.
Whatever the case, he couldn’t wait to be rid of their annoying singing, which would surely plague his dreams. He followed a game trail as it curved through foothills and ran mostly parallel to the army’s path. The horses quickly fell into a rhythm of riding behind one another. Bray stayed in forests thick with oaks and maples, skirting the meadows, only crossing in the open when he had no other way. The army had passed the ruins outside the city and was traveling toward the mountains. The ground was leveling off, and the mountain tips were creeping above the tops of the trees. Bray knew the route well.
The army was marching toward an ancient road that zigzagged up the face of the mountain bef
ore cutting into a long canyon over an ancient bridge.
Bray had passed through the area many times. If the army were headed through the canyon, it wouldn’t be wise to follow. Sprawling valleys and hills would leave him exposed. In certain places, the terrain narrowed too much to leave him any escape, should Winthrop’s mob see him and choose to come after him.
His horses snorted and clopped as they obeyed the pulls of his rope. He led them to a clearing in the trees, through which he had a better view.
Coming to the edge of the forest, Bray crested a hill that rose taller than most in the area, catching sight of men streaming across a field that stretched for a mile, stomping down the ancient, overgrown road as if they had made it themselves, heading toward the road up the mountain.
There must be thousands of them, Bray thought.
He watched them swing their spears and swords as they marched, bellowing chants of war. In the middle of one group was the row of horses that contained William and Winthrop. He couldn’t see much more than Winthrop’s flowing white robe, the clusters of men and women surrounding him, and the blood-printed people marching in front and behind, trying to keep close. They were treating Winthrop as if he were an ancient god come to life. Bray shook his head in disgust. He’d need to pursue them in a different direction. He’d have to head north. If he could cut through the forest, he should be able to push his horses faster than thousands of marching men, circle around the canyon, and come out the other side and catch up to them. Unfortunately, that would mean he’d have to wait until the army passed. And he’d have to go up a mountain. That would mean he’d have to rest his horses more.
A glimmer of movement drew his attention back in the direction of the Ancient City. Seeing the towers at a distance, it was easy to imagine they weren’t crumbling, that the Ancients were still there, building all of their magic machines in the dark tunnels and sunny spires. But across the tan grasses of the rolling plain between Bray and those ancient megaliths, some of the dark patches of forest seemed to move and flow, oozing down a hill, flowing through a late afternoon shadow into a gulch, like a discolored blanket, some kind of parasite eating the land. Some Ancient monster that Winthrop’s band of imbeciles had awoken in the ruins.
Bray felt the hair on his neck prickle.
He had the urge to spur his horse and race to the trail that the smugglers took to get through the mountains.
Whatever was coming frightened him.
Bray sat up straight on his horse and watched, straining his eyes to determine that the nightmare shadow wasn’t one thing, but a herd, a mass of beasts bigger than any he’d ever seen.
Demons.
Holy shit.
Bray felt a new surge of fear ripple through him. His hand instinctively went to his sword, as if he might need it, even though he was well hidden and far enough away that the demons weren’t an immediate threat. He’d heard stories of war from his father, tales of hordes of demons large enough to swallow the earth. But he’d never laid eyes on a group that large himself. The demons were following the army. Were they stalking Winthrop and his men? Or was it a coincidence?
Maybe his earlier premonition was true, and the army was leading them back to Brighton.
His urgency renewed, Bray looked up at the face of the mountain range, eyeing the cut where the canyon spilled the river down to the plain. Winthrop’s ragtag army would get there long before Bray had any chance at rescuing William. An attempt at night would be equally risky. If the demons pursued Winthrop’s army into the canyon, it would be suicide for Bray to follow. He’d have Winthrop’s zealots in front and what looked like every demon in the world behind.
Bray was too smart for suicide.
He turned his horse, pulled the reins, and led the other horses through the forest. As soon as the army cleared, he’d ride as far and as fast as he could and circle around the canyon. He just hoped William lived long enough to see the other side.
Chapter 36: William
After riding for most of the day and fighting several small bands of demons, the army began to tire and the horses were panting, slowing their pace, and fidgeting. They’d taken several breaks along the way, filling their flasks in a small stream and allowing the horses to drink. William watched the setting sun from atop his steed.
Next to him, Phillip turned to Winthrop, suggesting, “We should stop soon.”
Winthrop looked annoyed, as if he’d been broken from whatever reverie he’d been in. “We marched farther on the way into the city,” he complained. “I don’t remember stopping near here.”
“The army is tired,” Phillip said. “We’ve been fighting demons every night since we marched out of Brighton. Even with the sleep we got in the dome, the army needs more. And I don’t think the horses can go much farther.”
“They seem fine,” Winthrop said, slapping the flank of his own panting beast.
Phillip pointed ahead, where an enormous mountain rose into the distance—the same mountain they’d descended on the way to the Ancient City, as he’d told William. The long, winding ancient road leading up it was filled with turns, turns that would be even more difficult to travel on the way back.
“Maybe we should camp at the foot of the mountain,” Phillip said, pointing to a clearing at the mountain’s base.
Winthrop nodded. “So be it.”
The priests called out orders to the closest men, who passed the information along to the rest of the army. Soon they’d reached a clearing at the base of the mountain and were hopping from their horses, setting up bags, and gathering kindling in the nearby woods. William tied up his horse with the others in a small cluster of trees and helped find wood for the fires. By the time the sun had set, fires dotted the valley, and men hovered around them as they cooked the bodies of the demons they’d killed during the day.
The priests had created a fire that was impressive, though much smaller than the massive one they’d built at the dome. Winthrop sat close to the flames, eating something his priestesses had provided from one of his bags. Several of his priests conversed with him about travel plans for the next day.
William sat with Jasmine and Phillip.
“I’m tired, but I can’t imagine how you must feel,” Phillip said to Jasmine, who had kicked off her boots and was rubbing the blisters on her feet.
Jasmine smiled. “I’ll survive. Though a rest will be nice.”
William nodded. He felt bad that he was on a horse, while the priestesses and so many others were forced to march. “Winthrop insisted only one man ride each horse,” he said, feeling the need to explain.
“I understand. They’ll grow less tired that way,” Jasmine said. “Besides, the horses are reserved for the men. Either way, we’ll get back to our families soon.”
Turning from Jasmine to Phillip, William said, “Do you have a family waiting for you at home?”
Phillip shook his head. “My wife and son perished in the last round of illness.”
“The Cleansing, you mean?”
“No. They died of fever. The last winter was harsh.”
“I remember,” said William.
And he did. Too many people had died during the coldest months. It had taken a while to bury them, between the frozen ground and the woodworkers struggling to keep up with caskets.
“Your family is dead?” Phillip asked, lowering his voice and his gaze.
“Yes,” William said without elaborating.
Everyone knew about Davenport. He didn’t need to explain. He watched Jasmine and Phillip in the flickering light of the fire.
He didn’t feel like he was lying. For the most part, William’s family might as well be dead. His mother and his father were gone. He doubted he’d ever see Melora, Ivory, or Jingo again. And Bray might as well be some ghost, carrying around the secret of why he’d slain Ella.
<
br /> William thought more about that.
Bray had done something terrible. But as the days passed, William found himself having glimpses of memory from that dreadful afternoon. In the preceding days, William had been unable to focus on anything but Ella, but now he recalled seeing something else, as if it were some part of the dream he’d been missing.
The look in the Warden’s eyes after it happened came back to him.
Bray had been just as shocked as William, Ivory, or Melora.
Maybe it had been a terrible accident, after all.
Maybe he hadn’t coerced Ella into anything.
Looking back at Jasmine and Phillip, William was surprised to see Phillip giving Jasmine the same look that Bray had given his mother all those days ago, on the steps in front of the ancient building. William had interrupted them, confused, angry. He didn’t feel that way now.
He watched Jasmine and Phillip for a moment, deciding he didn’t mind.
Chapter 37: Jingo
Jingo sat in a chair, watching the embers glow in the fireplace. It made him think of Beck, up in the tower, freezing in the dark, taking his turn at the watch. All the others were asleep, bundled against the cold, except Kirby. She rolled and rearranged herself countless times, sighing and staring at the dark ceiling.
“If you can’t sleep,” Jingo told her softly, “why don’t you come sit with me and we’ll talk until our minds are too tired to hold the thoughts that bother us?”
Kirby sat up at she looked over at Jingo. “It’s these damn lumps down my spine. I used to sleep on my back. Now I can’t.”
“You’ve had them for a long time,” said Jingo. “Seventeen years now?”
“Yes, that’s when they started,” Kirby conceded as she pulled off her blanket and stood up. “But it’s only been five or six years since they’ve grown large enough to make it painful to lie on my back.”
