by T. C. Edge
No further words are needed, and none more come. Linked on that mattress, I drift away into a sleep less dominated by demons, the torment of the last few nights fading as Adryan battles them all away.
In this city he may not be able to stand up like a soldier and fight against those more capable than him. He may not be able to put his bravery into direct service, and take up arms against the warriors born to do battle.
But in my dreams, he stands tall like a knight of old, decked out in wondrous armour and watching the walls of my subconscious with a power to keep all foes at bay.
He holds a giant sword aloft and calls out to my enemies: “You shall not take her tonight!”
He is the protector of that silent realm, that private place where no one else treads. Where my memories take shape as monsters and try to tear down the walls I’ve set up. But not with him standing by, slaying all those who veer too close.
He fights off all-comers that night until my body calls for me to wake, drawing me from my sleep a little before first light as if it’s all too aware of what lies ahead.
I find myself still lying facing the wall, with Adryan’s arm wrapped around my body. Gently, I remove it, and turn to see his face, beautiful and peaceful, softly breath filtering from between his full lips.
I smile at him and whisper: “Thank you, Adryan,” before leaning in and kissing my hero once more.
And as quietly as possible, I move off the mattress, dress in my armour, and set back out to fight another day.
216
As agreed, I meet my brother that morning in the atrium, the main doors to the HQ open and allowing the cool morning breeze to spill into the hall.
It’s busy, but less so than it has been over the past few days. With the ceasefire in effect, no hunting parties and death squads are being sent into Outer Haven, and the main remit of the military has turned from hunting to peacekeeping, a state known well to the City Guards who have joined our cause.
Still, the streets of Outer Haven, while at peace temporarily, are still being held by a mixture of our forces, and those loyal to Cromwell. Most notable on that front are the vast expanses in the east, where thousands of Con-Cops still occupy the food warehouses and factories.
It remains a trump card held by Cromwell, and one he’s unwilling to lay down quite yet. Keeping a tight grip on the food supplies for the entire city will naturally give him some further bargaining power should he need it, a fact that sets my teeth on edge for how manipulative the man is.
Thinking back now to when they first began migrating there just after the High Tower fell, I wonder if this wasn’t his plan all along. He was clearly aware that, in a straight fight against more powerful foes, Con-Cops can hardly be relied on to offer more than minor resistance. In the factories and warehouses, however, they hold important resources, and are far harder to get at.
Moreover, given their total and utter loyalty to their master, and their conditioned willingness to die should he order it, it’s quite possible that they’ve wired much of the eastern quarter to blow. Should we attack, they’d bury themselves, us, and all the food along with them. Now, rather than being mere canon-fodder, they are an important facet within the wider negotiations.
Zander has begun to look increasingly unkempt over the last few days. That morning is no different, his blackened left eye now joined by the right as a display of his woeful lack of rest.
“You should get more sleep,” I tell him, thankful that my own was so free from the usual assaults.
He merely shrugs and grunts something about ‘resting when it’s over’, which I find to be a rather silly comment given we’ve got so far to go. Again, such comments are rare for Zander, so I take it to be another sign of his poor sleeping schedule.
I expect him to warm up a bit soon. Otherwise this trip is going to be torture.
Before leaving, we share a few words with Beckett – he also appears unwilling to rest – who gives us a quick update on the state of affairs through the northern quarter where we intend to travel.
He informs us that there is no unrest at all save the odd gang of civilian looters and opportunists who continue to stake their claim on whatever they can get their hands on. The Voiceless, clearly, haven’t been completely wiped out with the loss of their so called leader, and have probably just elected a new one. Then, there are other independent gangs that have sprung up too, the most morally depraved among the population now creeping to the fore.
We, of course, won’t worry about them. They are nothing but scavenging rats, scuttling in and out of the shadows whenever a person of real power passes by.
With the light of dawn now hitting the tops of the buildings, we venture into the early morning fog and work our way past the rubble-strewn platform that lies ahead. Work has been efficient and steady on clearing it, and now much of what I first saw when I came here several says ago has been cleared away.
We move around it, working west, before climbing into the car Zander seems to have taken for himself, and working our way quickly towards the northern gate into Outer Haven. The journey is short and filled mostly with silence. It’s that time of the morning when we’re both lost in our own thoughts and yet to warm up to the idea of entering into a conversation.
What words are spoken are usually brief and related to the plan for the day. Mostly, it’s me asking and Zander answering, which he does so with a tetchiness that I’m beginning to associate with him.
“We’re going to see Rhoth,” he tells me bluntly. “You know that already.”
I choose not to further my interrogation. I’m still getting to know my twin brother, but one thing is eminently clear – he isn’t a morning person.
Then again, given how he probably didn’t get much, or any, sleep at all, I suppose it’s hard to term the current hour as morning to him. Rather very, very late into the night, when the need for rest is most pressing and, consequently, ones tolerance for bullshit hanging by the thinnest of threads.
By the time the sun has started to climb a little higher, and we’ve left the higher peaks of the buildings that occupy the centre of the city, he seems to be lightening up. Passing through the northern gate and venturing through the war-torn streets of the northern quarter, he glances at me a couple of times as if inviting me to now speak.
I choose not to, rather afraid of getting my head bitten off once again, and merely stare forward through the front window.
My silence and rigid posture bring an unwelcome awkwardness to the car. Neither of us want it, and Zander seems to realise that he’s created it. It’s up to him to sweep it away.
“You excited to see Drum?” he asks me. The tone of his voice has changed and become more inviting.
I finally look at him and see his eyes have changed too, growing a little brighter as if rising along with the sun.
“Yeah,” I say, trying to lift a smile but finding it strangely difficult.
The truth is, while I’m looking forward to seeing Drum safe, it’s hard to look any further than that. It’s not like we’re going to be able to hang out and talk like we used to. It’s not like anything’s going to be like it used to be when we lived at the academy.
As became so very clear last night, I’ve changed beyond all recovery. And I suspect Drum has too.
“What about Sophie?” continues Zander, perhaps trying to work up a more lively response.
I repeat the same answer and then add: “I just hope they get through safely.”
“Well, apparently there are a unit of twenty Stalkers out there. So I suspect that they’ll be absolutely fine.”
“Assuming Cromwell keeps to his word and doesn’t have them all slaughtered as soon as they step out of the mines,” I grumble.
“That won’t happen. No one would gain anything from that.”
It appears that I’ve adopted Zander’s surly mood, a reversal taking place. His face lights, and mine darkens, any talk of our grandfather serving only to dull all good feeling inside me.<
br />
We drive on, working towards the external gate in the north where our own men have now been stationed. Along the way, we pass a cluster of about a hundred of those still loyal to Cromwell, lingering in their makeshift camps and glaring at our car as it passes by.
To them, seeing the likes of Zander and me cruising past in a City Guard car must be a real kick in the teeth. To look upon the northern gate, one controlled by them, and see that it’s now under our jurisdiction is a further bitter pill to swallow.
I look out and wonder how many are actually bad people, and come to the conclusion that those who willingly follow Cromwell, after seeing what they’ve seen, might just be the least savoury of all the denizens of this city.
At least the Savants can hold up the ‘no emotion’ card as an explanation for their lack of empathy. But these men? These regular Hawks and Dashers and Brutes of the City Guard, still standing by Cromwell’s side after everything that’s been brought to light?
And then, my mind switches and Titus stamps into view. On another day, he might have remained with these men in this camp, bound by his duty and unable to break free of the many years of conditioning and propaganda sent through the ranks of the city’s soldiers.
I know he isn’t a bad man, not by a long shot. The same is probably true of most here, just men who are misguided or loyal to a fault. Men who watched the High Tower fall and considered Cromwell the lesser of two evils. Who now look upon us, cruising past in one of their cars, and consider our presence here just as unpalatable as we do theirs.
We pass them all by, and only minutes later come upon the gate, and find the faces of our own people greeting us instead. Only a mile or so separates the two groups, a clear indication that the truce is in effect and in fine order.
Work is busy at the gate and along the wall, the place being fortified and fitted with gun placements, and the garrison here swelling in size to ensure that the extremity of the city is being well watched and well defended.
At our arrival, the gates are opened, and we’re waved through and into the outerlands as the solid foundation beneath the wheels of the car turns to grit and dirt. The vehicle begins to dance, bouncing a little as Zander refuses to reduce his speed until forced to as we leave the old northwest track, and begin moving off the beaten path and towards the church.
We drive off-road, a function not considered necessary when the car was built, working slower now as we cut through and around little thickets, past rocky outcrops, and over old fields and streams. It’s a route I haven’t yet taken to the church, and one that Zander won’t have either. Yet his sense of direction is sufficient to ease us on our way, eventually bringing us to our destination as the haze of the early morning lifts, and a glorious day looks set to blaze.
The rumble of the engine draws Alfred from the church. Warned of our arrival, he looks to have been fretting all morning, twitching as he enters into the cool air, tinged lightly with green, and approaches the car before it even draws to a stop.
The tyres crunch and Alfred waits. Zander steps out and immediately looks around.
“Where’s Rhoth?” he asks.
Alfred’s general state of agitation leads me to think he’s got bad news to spout. Given that it’s the man’s default setting, it’s hard to know until he speaks.
“I told him to…to stay here,” he stammers. “He wouldn’t…l..li..listen….”
Zander steps in and takes possession of the man’s narrow shoulders.
“Where did he go, Alfred?” he asks firmly.
The pointy nosed man lifts a shivering finger towards the western woods.
“Has he returned home?”
“No…no. He just said he was….hun…hunting. Said he’d…return by…mid…midday.”
Zander’s frustration seems to break apart and a laugh escapes him as he gazes up to the heavens.
“Typical Rhoth,” he calls out. “Always trying to get one over on us…”
“What the hell, Zander,” I say. “Why would he go hunting when he knows we need to talk with him?!”
“Power games,” answers my brother. He taps Alfred on the arm. “Don’t worry about it, Alfred. If Rhoth wants to do something, there aren’t many who can stop him. He’s just trying to prove a point.”
“And that is?” I ask.
“That he’s got something we want, and he isn’t going to give it up so easily.”
He turns towards the woods.
“Right, come on sis,” he says. “We’re continuing on foot.”
217
The western woods are a tangled mess of boles and boughs and thick, dripping foliage, still glistening with morning dew that cascades down through the canopy like rain.
I’ve passed through here once before, the place wild and untamed and staggering in scale. Yet it’s not as foreboding as the woods that lie to the north, those that scatter the roots of the mountains and call home to the Bear-Skins. Right now, our people from the mines must be being escorted right through there by Cromwell’s Stalkers. I could hardly think of a less pleasant stroll, though where I am now can consider itself a decent rival.
Were I alone, I’d surely be less at ease and more certain of getting quickly lost. As it is, these are the very same woods that my brother has regularly hunted himself, grounds laid claim to by Rhoth and the Fangs and long considered to be up for dispute with both the hunters from the Nameless, and those from the Bear-Skins.
Fitted in our gas masks to shield ourselves from the thicker fog that lurks in these parts, we move through with a silent grace to ensure that we don’t alert any unwanted beasts to our position. It’s the best we can do, yet there’s little we can offer in defence of our scent, our aromas clearly defined among the staple of smells the beasts are so accustomed to sniffing out.
We begin our hunt for Rhoth with little to go on beyond the direction of Alfred’s finger. Given the fact that it refused to stop shaking, and we were a good couple of hundred metres from the treeline, a single shudder could put us off by several degrees. Extrapolate that and, after a few miles, you might just find yourself well off track.
Thankfully, my brother is a gifted tracker, and well used to searching out the clues to hunt down his prey. Seeing as Rhoth decided to leave with his full party, leaving not a single one at the church, their entry point into the forest is also clearly identified.
The trees start thin, but quickly grow thick. Zander tells me that that’s a good thing, and will make following the path of a grouping of fifty or so men much easier. I have to trust him, because as far as my eyes can see, there’s not a single sign here that anyone has passed through.
“I wish Kira were here,” I hear myself saying out loud.
Zander, casting his eyes ahead, suddenly stops and stiffens.
“I just mean, because of her powers,” I quickly add. “You’re doing a good job, though, bro…really.”
I bite my lip and wait for a word from him. It doesn’t come. I suspect that’s more down to his kinship with Kira, and her recent loss, rather than any withering effect my words might have had on his ego.
I imagine that she probably played quite a crucial role in many a hunting trip in the past. Her ability to use the Sight would quickly bring the entire party to bear on whatever tasty meal they were seeking for dinner. Zander, with only his eyes and wits, surely cannot compete.
He sets about proving me wrong, giving me my own orders as we venture deeper into the web of branches and vines.
“Look out for any threats,” he says. “Wolves, snakes, bears, Shadows…they all lurk here.”
I’m all too aware of that. So far, I’ve had run-ins with all the listed beasts, minus a bear. Although, I’d say Bjorn’s a good enough stand-in, and probably just as large and ferocious.
As my brother continues to lead us on, I set about my task. Not that I was required to be told. This is hardly the sort of forest you skip through on a spring day, hunting for wildflowers.
My ability to watch for dang
er is, however, rather limited here. My eyes are muted by the tangle of trees, and beyond that my senses are no more attuned than a regular person. I sniff and prick up my ears as best I can, but given I’m wearing a gas mask, find the former a pointless endeavour. All I smell is the plastic that makes up the mask’s interior, and the minor burn of the fog that’s able to creep through the cracks.
It is daylight, though, so that’s one thing, and the weather today is currently being kind. Should a heavy cloud rumble over, the light in here will fade dramatically, and within the murk the beasts tend to smile. As long as the sun stays bright, the sky clear, and the breaks in the canopy above plentiful enough to let in the light, we should be fine.
Should…
We don’t talk, not unless we stop to discuss something specific. After half an hour, Zander’s head seems to be turning an awful lot more than it did, swaying left and right and bringing his body with it. He seems confused. This isn’t a good sign.
“What’s the matter?” I whisper.
“The tracks diverge,” he says. “They split here, into three different groups.”
“So…do you know which one to take?”
He leans down and searches some random point in the ground, then points at a portion where the earth has been somewhat impacted.
“This looks like Rhoth’s print,” he says, suggesting with his eyes that I follow the direction of his finger.
I lean in and take a closer look. I can make out a couple of small ridges compressed into the earth, but little more.
“Right…yeah,” I say. “Just like it.”
“You can’t see anything, can you?”
I shake my head silently.
“Well, trust me. It’s Rhoth…well, I think it’s Rhoth’s…”
He seems certain…
“Why are they splitting anyway?”
“Two options,” says Zander, conducting some further searches of the three routes. “One: they’re spreading out to flank their prey and set traps for them to run into. Two: they know we’re coming, and are just toying with us. Given who we’re dealing with, I’d say the latter is a firm bet.”
