by Bobby Adair
He didn’t care. All he cared about was that he was alone.
The demons were no longer running with him. Their shrieks had long faded as they raced back toward the field, probably heading for whatever scraps were left behind.
William slowed as he reached a patch of forest with tall, wide trees, and a fallen oak, lying sideways. The ground was mostly open and covered with half-frozen moss. He found a narrow section of the fallen tree that was the right height to sit on. William’s lungs heaved from the exertion of running, and his heart thumped rapidly in his chest. He needed to catch his wind.
He bent down, cleaning some of the remaining blood from his hands on some leaves, which were stuck to the ground from the cold. He looked around the quiet forest, then up at the clear sky visible through the tops of the trees. It was almost peaceful enough to make him forget the horrors he’d witnessed on the battlefield.
Something crashed through the forest from the direction in which he’d been running.
William looked around, wondering if his demons had disobeyed his commands. He searched for some sign of them, ready to tell them to go on their way again.
More crashes.
Voices?
He raised his knife.
Flashes of clothing through the trees told him he’d stayed too long. William got up from the log, watching as several blood-printed men ran into the open, catching sight of him before he could duck out of sight.
“It’s the demon boy!” a man exclaimed, surprise lighting his face as he stepped into the open. He was clutching his ear, blood dripping through his fingers as he nursed a battle wound.
“I saw him in the field!” said another man with shaggy hair. “He killed Winthrop! He was helping the demons!”
“He killed our god!”
Fear turned to anger as the men shouted to some others behind them and a dozen others emerged, most covered in blood, theirs and their enemies’. One man was doubled over with bite marks on his stomach, coughing. But most were able-bodied and angry enough to kill William.
“You did this!” said the first man, with the ear wound. “You brought the demons to us. You killed our god!”
“Murderer!”
“God-killer!”
Hearing the shouts of others, several more men charged through the forest, catching sight of what was happening, their fear changing to anger as they found a focus for their retribution.
William backed up and raised his knife.
But the tree was behind him. He couldn’t jump over it and run without turning his back, and if he did, he’d most likely be stabbed.
Twenty men surrounded him, swords drawn, murder on their faces. The demons were gone. William’s twisted men were back on the field, fighting alongside their brothers.
William was alone.
Chapter 101: Bray
Bray and Kirby mounted their horses and headed in the direction in which they’d last seen William going, listening to the distant shrieks of battle. They rode between trees and over beds of frozen moss and curled brown weeds, well outside the trail they’d been riding, into the thick overgrowth. Bray’s arm still blazed with pain, but the strip of fabric Kirby had used to tie it off seemed to have stopped the bleeding. Bray kept his sword in his good hand and used his left to hold the reins, cussing under his breath from the pain of his injury as he guided his beast and the other horses. He watched for demons or danger.
“Are you sure we’re going the right way?” Kirby asked.
Bray didn’t need to ask her to know the double meaning behind that statement. “I know where I saw him,” he said. “I have a good sense of direction, regardless of what you might think.”
For one of the first times since he’d met her, Kirby resisted commenting.
They rode by bodies of dead demons, men, and women who had gotten far enough away from the battlefield to die in the woods. Bray found himself checking the ground as well as the forest between the trees, thinking he’d find a small body lying among the foliage. William might’ve survived the battle outside of the Brighton walls, but Bray didn’t know how long his luck would hold.
He thought back to when he’d seen William running into the battlefield. Was that the last glimpse he’d have?
They’d been traveling for what felt like too long when screams and loud voices echoed through the trees.
Unlike the cries of battle, these were close.
Listening intently, Bray could almost pick out a voice that might be William.
“Up ahead! I hear something!” Bray said, charging through the underbrush and leading Kirby and the horses faster. Kirby didn’t argue. She kept her gun out, clutching her horse’s reins as she followed.
The cries got more insistent, frantic, as Bray and Kirby closed the gap. They saw glimpses of men through the trees, hollering and wielding their swords. Bray kept going, ignoring the pain in his arm and the sting of chafed skin from being dragged by the horse, recognizing the high-pitched voice he heard screaming in the distance. It was the same one who had screamed at him when he’d killed Ella.
William.
“Leave me alone! Get the hell away from me!” William yelled.
Bray wouldn’t let William down again.
He charged through the trees, holding his sword ready as he entered an arena of blood-soaked, mostly shirtless men who had backed William up against a fallen tree. William’s face was plastered with blood. One of the men held a knife that might’ve been William’s, taunting him. Another cocked back a bloody fist, making it obvious he’d already hit William once.
Bray didn’t hesitate. He slashed at the nearest man, cutting the back of his neck before he could utter a warning. Then he swung his sword again, knocking another man to the ground. The others had already turned to find Bray and Kirby coming through the trees.
“Get out of here!” Bray yelled at William. “Kirby, I’ve got them!”
Bray heard the crack of gunfire behind him, but he didn’t stop charging at the men, slashing and fighting at one man who tried to swing at him. He knocked the man back with a slice to the chest, then cut another man’s arm, knocking the sword from his hands. Anywhere he saw flesh, he struck. Having seen William bloodied, his seething rage was a force he couldn’t quell. For too many days, Bray had watched William from a distance, kidnapped by these men, forced into who knew what kind of perversions.
William had always been just out of reach, too far from help, or surrounded by demons.
Bray had been powerless to do anything.
No more.
Bray directed his horse into the middle of the thickest cluster of men, knocking one aside and trampling others. He heard the screams of the men as his horse reared up and hooves met faces. He kept swinging at anything he could see, keeping a tight hold on the saddle so he wouldn’t fall. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw William darting to the other side of the fallen tree and taking cover.
An enraged, bloodied man ran at Bray, but his head exploded before Bray could reach him. Bray didn’t stop, even as he heard Kirby’s ancient gun firing behind him. He charged at the men.
A group of four men coordinated an attack at Bray, running at the horse’s flank. He slashed the air and cut them back, knocking a sword from one man’s hand, cutting another’s hand clean off. The wounded man cried out and stared at the bloody, dripping stump as Bray fought another. Numbers didn’t mean anything to him anymore. He’d make good on his promise to Ella and William.
Soon, he was past the men and turning around for another charge, his breath heaving, his sword dripping blood. On the ground behind him were the bodies of over a dozen men. He watched as Kirby fired on several more wounded who were getting up, knocking them back to the ground for good. And then Kirby was grabbing for something, lowering the gun.
What was she doing?
Four men remained. Their eyes darted from Bray to Kirby as they determined a next move. They were angry. Whether it was misdirected anger at losing to the demons, or the adrenaline of battle, they weren’t giving up.
Bray figured out what they were going to do before they did it. One ran for Kirby, while the other three ran toward the tree and for William.
“Cowards!” Bray roared as he drove his horse after them.
Kirby screamed, “Get William!”
Bray rode at the men, swinging at the closest and knocking him down, then goring the second in the back. The man fell with a muted cry as the horse stomped over him. The last man was already over the log and heading for William, who had managed to get to the other side of it. Bray steered his horse in their direction, intent on leaping over the downed tree and striking him down, before he realized that the trampling, war-driven horse might not stop for William. At the last moment, Bray pulled up his reins and leapt from the saddle, hitting the ground with a thud. The landing shook his shoulder, but he kept going.
William was scrambling from the man’s eager grasp, barely avoiding capture as the man leapt for what he thought might give him a chance at life. William’s face was a bloodied mask of fear.
With a feral cry, Bray dove at the man, catching hold of the bottom of his pants and tackling him to the ground. The man fell with a thud, his wind burst from his body, and his sword flew from his grasp. William scurried just out of reach and to a safe distance in the trees. Bray clawed the man’s back as he scooted up from the man’s legs to his waist, pinning him to the hard ground. The man tried to turn his head as if to utter a plea, but Bray was beyond talk. He raised his sword with his good arm and sliced the back of the man’s neck.
Bray heaved winded breaths as he watched the dead man’s face hit the dirt. He held up his bloody sword.
He looked around.
It was as if he’d broken from a dream.
All over the forest, men lay dead. None moved. None threatened him, or William, or Kirby.
Kirby.
He looked over his shoulder, finding Kirby holding her gun over the body of the man that had run at her. She was grinning and sticking a thumb in the air. “I guess you do know how to fight,” she said.
With the threat past, Bray turned to William.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
William wiped the blood from his face, but he didn’t say anything. He looked as if he were too shocked to speak. His curly hair hung in a mop over his forehead, and his shirt had been pulled down over his back, exposing one side of the lump on the back of his neck. Another fear hit Bray. He recalled the words he’d overheard Jingo speaking in the Ancient City.
“Men descend into depravity after being infected, but some are able to avoid that madness by keeping their distance.”
Was William mad? He considered the way William had run among the demons again in the battlefield. Was William too far gone? What if William’s body was a shell, housing a vicious mind?
Maybe Bray had already failed William—and Ella—a long time ago.
“William?” he asked again, suddenly certain the boy wouldn’t answer, that his suspicions were true.
William stared at him with a blank look, wiping more blood from his face, revealing a gash on his forehead that the men had caused. His eyes were the same brown color that Bray had remembered. He looked like he wasn’t going to speak.
Slowly, the look on William’s face turned to recognition.
“You saved me from those men,” said William simply.
Relief washed over Bray at the sound of William’s voice. “You’re damn right I did.”
“But why? You killed my mother.” William looked confused, not angry.
“It was an accident,” Bray said, looking around, as if more men might show up. “It might be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. I took the most precious thing from you, and all I can do to make up for it is tell you I’m sorry and ask you to forgive me.”
William stared at Bray, no expression on his face.
“Maybe we can talk later.” Bray looked around again. “Right now, you need to believe me when I say we’re trying to help you.”
William watched Bray for a moment, as if he was deciding something. Or maybe he already had. His face bore none of the anger that he’d had when he last saw Bray on top of the tower. He seemed tired, in shock, maybe. The gods only knew what he’d been through.
He looked around at the dead, blood-printed men. Then he looked back at Bray. “Where will we go?”
“Anywhere but here. Let’s hurry, before more of those savages show up.”
William nodded. Then he collected his sword and followed Bray to Kirby and the horses.
Chapter 102: Oliver
The afternoon was waning, and no living demon was inside the circle wall. Any outside had run so far into the forest that no one was worried they’d ever return.
Fitz’s soldiers still stood in the towers along the walls, keeping watch anyway. The cohorts that hadn’t had to fight were stationed at each gate, just in case the battle wasn’t truly over. The piles of rocks keeping the main gates propped open were removed and the gate closed.
All of the wounded were being tended to.
Through it all, Oliver had stayed by Fitz, riding on a borrowed horse as she tended to all manner of decisions.
Finally, she had some time for him, and they’d ridden away from the wall where all of the fighting had taken place. Fitz led Oliver to the temple, where they dismounted and walked up the steps.
Still covered in the grime of the battle, or in Oliver’s case, the dirt of living in the wild for weeks, they both stood there, staring through the remains of the charred doors and into the blackened ruins of the Temple.
Fitz told Oliver the story of what had happened to Franklin, and Oliver cried while doing his best to suck his tears back in and stand straight and stern.
Finally, Oliver asked, “Is he still in there?”
Fitz gestured to the rubble under the collapsed roof, fighting back tears of her own. “Yes, but he’s nothing but ash and bone. At least he’s in the company of people who loved him.”
Oliver nodded through his tears.
“In time, after the first days or weeks of pain pass, maybe that thought will soothe you,” Fitz said. “But right now you need time to grieve.”
Oliver blubbered like a woman, with Fitz’s arms around him. He cried until his eyes hurt, his nose was running, and he couldn’t cry any more. Feeling shame for his emotions, he wiped his face and pulled himself together enough to speak. “I’m not a child. And men don’t cry. I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize. You loved him,” Fitz murmured. “I loved him, too. Crying is what people do. It’s okay.”
Oliver shook his head as he let go of Fitz and turned around to sit on the steps.
Fitz sat beside him, close enough that they still touched. She put an arm over his shoulder. “I know Franklin was the closest thing to family you had. Now that he’s gone, you and I will have to be one another’s family.”
Oliver sniffled and nodded.
“You can be my little brother.”
Oliver put an arm around Fitz’s waist and held her. “Why did Tenbrook do it?”
“Questions like that are only a way to torture ourselves,” Fitz said. “We can’t change what happened. Trust me, I asked a thousand such questions after Tenbrook killed Franklin. I berated myself for my choice to encourage Franklin to be what he was, what everyone in Brighton saw in him. He was a hope for something different, and that hope got him killed.”
Fitz shuddered as she pointed across the square to the Cleansing platform, and the dais where the councilmen sat on Cleansing day. “All of this is evil. We watched while we allowed our
friends and relatives to be burned. We all cried too many tears, and we all walked our sad path because we thought that was the only one ahead of us. Franklin didn’t believe that. He went to the market and talked to everyone who would listen. He taught in the Temple, and he preached in the fields. Franklin was like a light in the darkness, and as I came to realize on all those nights when I was crying into my pillow, there was nothing I could have done to make Franklin anything other than what he was. He was destined to shine so bright that we’d all have to look.”
Fitz was crying by then, unable to speak for all the grief coming to the surface.
Oliver and she sat together, holding one another until Fitz had cried away enough of her loss that she was able to piece her words together again. “Franklin was what Brighton needed. He showed us all the sickness in our city’s soul, and he made us believe we could heal it, even though it cost him his life.”
“Tenbrook killed him,” Oliver spat, without the strength of the hate he thought would come with his words.
“Evil men can’t stand in the light,” said Fitz. “But what the Tenbrooks of the world will never understand is that when everyone heard Franklin speak, they became a part of him, and he became part of them. Tenbrook killed Franklin, but he didn’t extinguish that flame.” Turning to look Oliver in the eye, Fitz said, “Franklin lives in my heart, and your heart, and most importantly, he lives in the hearts of everyone in Brighton. He’s the light in our darkness, showing us the way to reach the dawn.”
Nodding as he dried the last of the moment’s tears from his face, Oliver said, “It still hurts.”
“It will, for a while,” Fitz told him. “Maybe always.”
“So you really are the new General Blackthorn?”
Fitz laughed, though her eyes were still full of tears. “No. I hope not. Maybe I’m the first Fitzgerald.”
Oliver laughed, too, and snot burst out of his nose, which he wiped on his sleeve.
