by Bobby Adair
“Good,” Winthrop said. He made a face as if a nasty insect had bitten him.
Winthrop had been growing increasingly agitated over the past few days. He often complained that his boots didn’t fit his feet, and that his robe wasn’t thick enough to protect him from chafing. One time, he ordered the army to stop twice in an hour when he needed a break. More often than not, he was depending on Phillip to make decisions while he tended to his physical needs or his ceremonies. That gave William hope. If Phillip was in the good graces of his god, then William was, too.
“Where will we camp?” Winthrop asked Phillip.
“I think we’re close to the field where we spent our first night when we marched out of Brighton,” Phillip answered, pointing up the road.
Winthrop nodded.
They continued marching until they reached a field of brown, trampled grass on the edge of the ancient road that still bore blackened logs in circular pits of ash, the remnants of their first night’s camp. On a few trees, William saw pieces of fabric, where people had hung clothing or blankets and gotten them snagged before leaving. The area reminded him of some of the ghostly, abandoned structures he’d found in the wild after leaving Davenport, when he’d been traveling with Bray and his mother. It was hard to believe that the army had camped here, and not some settlers that he’d never meet.
Winthrop’s followers hunched around the old campfires, picking through the ashes for sticks they could burn or looking for fresh kindling in the nearby trees. Winthrop fell behind, surrounded by his priestesses and Jasmine, who fielded his complaints. William rode next to Phillip through the field.
“There were a lot more of us last time,” Phillip explained to William.
“I can tell by the fires,” William said. “It is hard to believe the army was so large.”
“It is sad that so many people have died since then,” Phillip said. “I remember we suffered some demon attacks while we were here.”
They rode through the campsite until they found an ashen fire pit that was much larger than the rest, close enough to the edge of the forest to tie their horses. The priests dismounted and secured their beasts, then foraged for wood to burn while they waited for Winthrop. The sun sank below the tops of the trees, giving off an orange glow and creating a dark hue over the campsite.
William walked with Phillip on foot toward the edge of the forest. As they stepped over the bent grass, William noticed a few animals scurrying off into the forest, or birds taking flight. A fetid, cloying odor reached his nostrils.
“What are those mounds?” he asked Phillip, noticing some large shapes tucked behind the first layer of trees.
“Bodies,” Phillip said grimly. “Like I said, we lost some men the last time. We didn’t have time to bury them properly.” Reaching down to pat the blood print on his chest, Phillip said, “But that won’t happen again, now that we are under Winthrop’s protection.”
Chapter 63: Bray
“Still no sign of anyone,” Bray said aloud, as they rode along the side of the ancient road. Since leaving the canyon, they’d been keeping to the woods, trying to take the quickest path to Brighton while still staying out of sight. The road still bore the remnants of Winthrop’s army—boot prints, horse droppings, and an occasional dead demon.
But now, it was getting dark. The chirps of daytime birds had been replaced by the sounds of night owls, and every so often, the flap of wings alerted them to a circling bat overhead.
Kirby grunted, prompting Bray to turn and look at her over his shoulder.
“No more shortcuts,” she said.
“No kidding,” Bray said, trying to hide his stung ego.
“Will we have to rest the horses soon?” Kirby asked.
“Yes. But maybe we can ride through some of the night to get to William.”
“How will we do that?”
“The horses can see better than we can in the dark. I wouldn’t have advised it last night, being in the forest and on a steep mountain, but if we switch to the road after dusk, we might be able to make some progress tonight.”
“And if we run into demons?”
“The horses will warn us,” Bray said. “They sense the twisted men before we do. But we should smell or hear them, too.”
“How long until we reach Brighton?”
“My guess is we can make it before mid-day tomorrow, as long as the horses keep their strength.”
Chapter 64: Fitzgerald
“If you allow Winthrop’s hooligans to tear down the wall,” said Ginger, “I fear most of the people in Brighton will flee. Everybody knows a horde of monsters is coming.”
“That’s not what I mean,” said Fitz, standing up straight as the inspiration unfolded in her imagination. “Those castles in that book, they all had a gate. That was the only way in. The gates often led through a stone tunnel with what they called murder holes cut in the walls and ceiling.”
“Murder holes?” Ginger grimaced.
“The castle’s defenders could shoot arrows or pour burning oil through the holes onto invaders.”
“Ghastly!” Ginger looked toward the gates. “Are you thinking we should build something like that at our gate?”
“We don’t have time for that,” said Fitz. “But if we take the idea of an entrance through which all invaders can be killed, I think we can do something.”
“What exactly?”
“If we’re to win this battle,” said Fitz, “We need the demons to attack here, at this part of the wall, around the main gate. If we concentrate our defense here, and the demons bunch together out in the field, our catapults and our slingers will be effective. If the demons spread out, those weapons become almost useless.”
“How do we keep them bunched up?” asked Ginger.
“We give them a way into Brighton,” said Fitz. “We open the gate.”
Ginger shook her head. “We’ll get slaughtered.”
“Not all the way,” said Fitz. “We swing the gates open just far enough so the demons can see Brighton and us, but only open them wide enough for one demon to enter at a time.”
“What’s to keep the demons from pushing the gates open all the way and pouring in?” asked Ginger.
“We open them this evening to where we want them, and we pile dirt up on both sides to keep them from moving further. If we do that, the demons will bunch up, trying to funnel themselves in through the gate. Our slings and catapults will kill them by the thousands outside in the field as they push through the narrow gap, and, as you said, even a few women with spears and swords can kill them as they come through single file.”
Nodding and smiling, Ginger said, “That could work, but you know the demons will not wait out there all day while we kill them one at a time coming through the gate. They’re animals. They’ll get impatient. They’ll try to climb other parts of the wall, and we’re back where we started.”
“Then,” said Fitz, “we give them more than one way in.” Fitz looked at the wall again and thought for a moment. “We build narrow staircases up to the wall outside—ten, twenty, thirty of them if we can. We give the demons an easy way to climb over the wall. When they reach the top and jump over one at a time, we have women with spears and swords ready to kill them one at a time. Maybe fifty women where each stair spills over the wall will be enough to kill all the demons that flow over.”
“And a few hundred at the gate,” said Ginger, “since more will come through there.”
“Yes,” Fitz agreed. “We don’t depend on an inadequate wall to repel them. We use it as a means to trickle the horde in and slaughter them.”
Ginger giggled.
“What?” asked Fitz.
“I was just thinking,” said Ginger. “It’s a twenty-five foot drop from the top of the wall to the ground. Why let the demons jump from the t
op down to smooth dirt? What if we cover the ground with rocks the size of a man’s head? You know, big enough that it will be impossible to land without breaking an ankle.”
Fitz grinned widely. “I love that idea. Most will get injured as they come over the wall, so we can kill them more easily.”
“If we lay the rocks in a semicircle on this side of the wall, where the stairs spill over, make the semicircle twenty feet across, and put our women along the edges, the demons who do come across uninjured will have no firm footing when trying to attack. They will trip, slip, or fall, and be easy to kill.”
“You have a good mind for this,” said Fitz. “You should have been born a man, a soldier.”
Ginger patted the hilt of her sword. “I am a soldier. I don’t need to be a man.”
Fitz laughed. “I can’t believe I said that.”
“Those kinds of thoughts are beaten into us from the day we’re born,” said Ginger. “Bad habits die hard.”
“We need to get the women started on building the stairs,” said Fitz. “We need to make sure they all understand this tactic so they know it will not endanger us, but bring us victory. We’ll work through the night if we have to.” Fitz turned toward the forest. “Unless Winthrop’s mob diverts, they’ll arrive tomorrow.”
“What are you going to do about Winthrop and his rabble?” asked Ginger.
“I don’t know.”
Chapter 65: William
William looked at the faces around him in the glow of Winthrop’s big fire. The priests spoke about relatives in Brighton, while the priestesses fawned over Winthrop, feeding him dried meat from his personal provisions. Elsewhere, spread out across the field and camped around their own fires, other blood-printed men and women spoke in loud, happy voices, reminiscing about the journey and speaking about what they’d do when they returned.
Soon, they’d leave the wild behind, tear down the circle wall, and strip away the fear that lived within.
They’d start their new lives in Brighton.
The thought was exhilarating to William.
He watched as a few demon carcasses roasted over Winthrop’s fire. Despite the sickness that had plagued the army earlier, Winthrop had insisted they were safe to eat, and William hadn’t argued. The smell of the demons’ burning flesh—although still not appealing to William—had at least become familiar, a scent connected with the journey and the experiences he’d shared with his new brothers and sisters. He could almost disconnect it from the flesh of his old demon brothers.
He located Jasmine, sitting ten feet away on the other side of Winthrop. Every so often she glanced at Phillip and William, unable to suppress the happy grin that came over her face as she listened to the others speak about family. Looking around, William realized he’d always remember this moment—the warmth of the flames, the smell of charred wood, and the happy expressions of people who had something to look forward to.
“Have you ever been to Brighton, Rowan?” Phillip asked.
“No,” William lied.
“What are you most excited for?” Phillip asked.
“A bed to sleep in,” William answered. “Or maybe a plate of potatoes.”
Phillip laughed. “My sisters back home are great cooks. Every week, they bring their families to my house and make a large dinner. They can make even the dullest dish taste better than some of the gruel we’ve eaten out here. You should come join us, after we’re done liberating the township.”
William nodded. “I will.”
Phillip’s face turned guilty as he made a realization. “You don’t have a place to live, Rowan. Your relatives were from Davenport.”
William nodded, trying not to give away his earlier lie.
“With your family gone, maybe Winthrop will find you a place in the Sanctuary. Or maybe you can stay with me.” Phillip patted his arm reassuringly. “Whatever the case, I’m sure you’ll be well taken care of, Rowan, for your dedication to our god.”
“I’m sure of that, too.” William smiled.
Under Winthrop’s protection, he had faith. He’d stick with Winthrop and the other priests and priestesses until they received their rewards.
A loud screech from the forest interrupted those happy thoughts.
William turned away from Phillip.
Voices hushed as other heads turned and the priests and priestesses looked toward the tree line. A few men reached for their swords. William could just make out the silhouette of a few horses twenty yards away, shifting nervously in the moonlight.
A few people turned to Winthrop.
“The horses,” Winthrop boomed confidently over the crackle of the fire.
He smiled and reached out for another piece of meat from his priestesses. The noise came again, louder, and clearly from the woods. More people fell silent as they waited and listened. Even Winthrop stopped and put down his food.
Feet stamped the brush. A horse whinnied in fear.
“Demons are coming,” Phillip said.
“The twisted men are afraid of us now,” Winthrop argued, holding up a brave finger. “We had to chase the ones we came across this morning. They won’t come near our fires.”
Another screech. More feet coming through the brush. And then a large group of demons emerged, howling and hissing as they spilled from the tree line and headed toward the camp.
“Watch out!” Phillip yelled from next to William.
Phillip sprang up and drew his sword. The campsite burst into panic as the priests and priestesses got to their feet and reached for their own weapons. Happy conversation turned to cries of dread. One of the horses at the tree line whinnied and broke from its tether, stampeding madly toward Winthrop’s fire, careening toward William.
“Look out, Rowan!” Phillip grabbed William and pulled him closer to the flames, out of the horse’s path.
The frightened beast changed direction at the last moment, heading for one of the priestesses on the fringes of the firelight, who had gone to get some more wood. She screamed as she leapt to the side, narrowly avoiding a trampling. William listened as the horse’s cry disappeared further into the campsite and other men jumped out of the way.
Several demons entered the circle of Winthrop’s firelight, murder in their eyes, while other demons invaded the campfires around them.
Winthrop got to his feet and staggered backward, protected by his circle of priests and priestesses.
“Stay back!” he yelled, as if the demons might listen.
With an enraged cry, one of Winthrop’s priests ran at the demons, swinging his sword to protect Winthrop. William watched in horror as the priest was tackled to the ground, screaming and flailing. A second demon pounced on him, ripping the flesh from his neck. After a brief hesitation, the other priests leapt into battle, forcing back demons with their swords and spears, slicing and stabbing to keep them away from Winthrop, away from the fire. Phillip drew his sword and stabbed a demon that was running by, sending it sprawling. He finished it off with a jab to the chest. The campsite became a place of chaos as men and women around the other fires fought the oncoming beasts.
“Stay close to the fire, Rowan!” Phillip told William. “Stay close to Winthrop!”
Phillip raced to a nearby fire, helping two women who were screaming and batting away demons.
William backed against the fire. He wanted to help. He wanted to stop the fighting and the bloodshed. Sucking in a breath, he screamed at two demons that were fighting priests on the outskirts of the fire, but the twisted men were too embroiled in battle, and William’s shouts were drowned out by the cries of others.
William looked left, finding Jasmine and Winthrop. With the priests gone, Jasmine and the other priestesses held up their spears and stood in a half-circle, protecting Winthrop. Winthrop hovered behind them, screaming, “Br
ing me the demons’ scalps! Bring me their blood, their hearts! Go now!”
His voice was like a war cry. All around the campsite, men were fighting demons. A woman with tangled hair rammed a spear into a dying demon’s stomach. Another stamped a demon’s face with her boots. With Jasmine and Winthrop safe, William looked around for Phillip.
Phillip was gone.
Close to the fire where he’d last seen him, two women lay on the ground, dead. Had Phillip been ripped into the forest, or gutted? William bolted from the fire and searched for his friend. He ran past people who were spearing demons, or slaying them with their swords.
He went past four campfires before he finally found him.
Phillip was battling a group of four demons that were attacking more of Winthrop’s men. Phillip knocked a demon to the ground, stabbing it with his sword, then pulled the blade loose and swung at another. His grateful comrades hacked at the remaining demons; within seconds, the four demons were dead.
Noticing William, Phillip ran over to him. “I though I told you to stay by the fire!” he said with concern.
“I’m okay,” William said.
Phillip nodded grimly, his face sprayed with blood. “Yes, but others aren’t so lucky. Where’s Winthrop and Jasmine?”
“Back at the fire,” William answered. “They’re—”
A scream interrupted his sentence. William looked across a string of fires, scanning frantically until he found Winthrop’s. The blazing bonfire was about forty yards away. Several men were battling demons in the area between, but Winthrop and Jasmine had been left alone.
William’s mouth hung open as he saw what was happening, what he’d left behind.
Winthrop was holding Jasmine in front of him. Several demons had pinned them by the fire. No other priests or priestesses were nearby, save a few wounded women who were crawling on the ground toward Winthrop, their bodies covered in blood, as if Winthrop might perform a miracle, showing them the light of their god.
