It was too late for that.
Soon he came upon the main road. Several people pulled empty carts; others shouldered loads of clothing, or gear that might be used for fishing or hunting. They were getting back to work. Bray saw some more carts full of the glass jars that had impressed him and William. That sight gave him a pang of nostalgia.
He was surprised—but probably shouldn't have been—when Bartholomew and Jonathan appeared in the distance, coming down the road from the direction of the second island.
"Bray!" Jonathan called, waving a hand.
He approached cautiously.
"Where are Kirby and William?" he asked.
He waited for an answer other than what Jaydra had told him. If he received one, he'd kill his new friends and find a way off the island. Seeing Bray's tense posture, Bartholomew and Jonathan exchanged a glance he couldn't read.
"They're at the second island," Jonathan said finally. "Your friends are safe. We will bring you to them."
Bray released a breath he didn't know he'd held.
He looked around the road and at the nearby trees. No soldiers. No attackers. Seeing nothing to rekindle his suspicion, he finally said, "Okay. Take me to the second island."
**
Bray kept a few steps shy of his escorts as they walked.
"My apologies for what must've been a confusing tradition for you," Jonathan said as they kept down the road through the thinning fog. "Hopefully our hunters explained what was happening on the bridge."
"They did," Bray said, trying not to cause any more of a stir than he'd raised at the ceremony. "Did you talk to them?"
"We met them at the butcher's shop. They told us you left in a hurry. They said you were worried about your friends."
"How are William and Kirby?" he asked.
"Kirby is fine, but William is still very ill, as you heard," Jonathan said. "He's having delusions. I think our healers will have the best chance at saving him on the second island. He will need time there to recuperate. It is a good thing you ran into Flora in the forests, so she could bring you here."
Bray nodded, still not sure he agreed.
"The wild is no place for a sick boy," Jonathan added. "If he had been out there longer, who knows what might've happened?"
"And our horses?"
"We've been taking care of them," Bartholomew said. "It will be good for them to get some rest."
The air seemed to grow colder as they traveled the island, getting farther from the houses and approaching the farming fields.
"The hunters tell me the trip was blessed," Bartholomew said.
"We had a good take," Bray said.
"They mentioned you had an encounter with some Savages. It is good you disposed of them."
"The only place for the demons is at the end of a sword," Bray said reflexively.
Bartholomew looked at him. "Levi also said you saw a deer." He watched Bray, judging his reaction.
"We did," Bray said.
"But you didn't kill it," Bartholomew said. "You blocked their shot."
"I don't believe in killing them. It's bad luck."
"A misfortune, really. The deer could've fed many more people," Jonathan said wistfully. "Our people believe in working together."
The air took on an aura Bray didn't like as he followed Bartholomew and Jonathan past the frozen farmer's fields. They had left most of the houses behind. The road curved in the distance, winding into an area surrounded with trees. The fog had dissipated.
Five soldiers stood in the center of the road.
Bray looked from the row of waiting men and back to Bartholomew and Jonathan, who had stopped to watch him. He halted.
"They are here to escort us," Bartholomew said simply, before Bray could ask a question.
Bray might've believed these men before, but he recognized a bald-faced lie when he heard one. He looked both ways. On either side of the road were farmer's fields, full of frozen, ragged rows of dirt. Farther down the road, past the five men with murderous intent, was thick forest. He'd never make it that far. They'd catch him no matter which way he ran.
Bray had made a mistake.
He wasn't dying without a fight.
"Throw your sword, and we'll make it quick," Bartholomew promised.
With an enraged cry, he drew his sword and leapt at Jonathan, who had just pulled his weapon. They clashed swords. Jonathan bellowed a war cry as he tried to overpower Bray, but Bray was in better shape. He broke free, swinging again. He missed.
"There's nowhere to go!" Bartholomew warned as he drew his weapon.
Ignoring him, Bray kept after Jonathan, who shrieked as Bray sliced again, catching his wrist, severing it to the bone, causing the man to drop his blade and double over in agony. Jonathan backed away from the battle, clutching a hand he'd never use again. Bartholomew was already swinging from the other side. Bartholomew sliced Bray's upper arm open.
Boots slapped stone as the other soldiers ran to join them.
Bray gritted his teeth in anger. These men had killed Kirby and William. They'd set him up. So had Levi and Hildebrand, who had obviously been watching his every move, waiting to report back to the bridge guards.
Kirby and William were probably dead.
"You pig scratchers!" he spat at Bartholomew, whose face had transformed into an expression of hardened determination.
Bray struck swords with Bartholomew, straining to keep an advantage as the blades slid off one another. He leapt back and swung again. The five running soldiers had caught up to them. Bray backpedaled, trying to keep all the soldiers on one side, but there was nowhere to provide cover, and the soldiers outnumbered him. Bartholomew stepped back, allowing his soldiers to battle. Two soldiers flanked Bray on either side, forcing him to make a defensive choice. They swung at the same time. He blocked one sword but took a slice from another. Searing pain in his left arm made him cry out.
The three other soldiers rushed around behind him.
Bray moved to the side just in time to avoid a stab from the rear, managing to jab one of the soldiers in front of him in the stomach, causing him to keel over. He withdrew his sword and ducked just in time to escape another blow, but took another slice. He wouldn't last more than a few moments.
There were too many.
Bray turned his anger into a charge, rushing at the remaining man in front of him.
Surprise crossed the man's face as Bray crashed into him, knocking him away, and ran. He didn't know where he was heading. He only knew that staying was death. The world became a mess of screaming, agonizing soldiers and boot steps chasing him. Somewhere behind him, he heard Bartholomew barking orders. He kept going through the pain. He was outnumbered. Wounded. About to die. Through his pain-induced haze, he found the forest further down the road and ran for it, his ribs heaving with pain and exhaustion as he veered into a copse of trees. He was surprised that he hadn't received a sword in the back yet. Even if he survived another few seconds, he'd be butchered in the forest. No one would help him.
Kirby and William must be dead.
He was next.
Focusing on keeping his feet moving, Bray ran into the trees, whipping past one after another, heading to where the gods only knew. The cries behind him were close, but not close enough. Were they letting him run? He heard a few jeers over his shoulder, confirming his suspicion.
In the end, he would spin and fight for his last breaths—he just needed a small reprieve from these pig scratchers, who had ganged up on him in cowardly numbers.
Adrenaline gave him a boost of speed, and Bray wove faster as he stepped over tree roots that he barely saw, somehow keeping on his feet and avoiding a fall that would be his last. Growing tired of the game, a few soldiers caught up. He heard a grunt as one of the soldiers tripped behind him—a small favor from the gods, or maybe just a brief respite from the end.
He kept going, ignoring the burn in his lungs and the flowing blood from multiple wounds. He wanted to spit these men's cowardice in
their faces. He wanted to kill all of them. If he could find a place to confront them, maybe he'd have a chance.
He thought of the time he'd slain handfuls of demons on a mountainside, keeping the incline at his back. He'd avoided being surrounded and picked them off one or two at a time. He'd told William that story. But these were men, more sly and strategic than demons.
A break in the trees drew Bray's attention. Was that the river?
A body struck him from behind.
Bray lost his breath as he fell underneath the weight of a heaving, violent man. His sword flew from his grasp. He struggled, managing to roll sideways before taking a blow to the face. Then another. His cheeks stung with pain as the soldier pummeled him with his sword handle. Bray looked for his dropped blade, but blood dripped over his eyes, obscuring his view. The soldiers were catching up, crying out and cursing his name. Some were calling out which parts of him to cut up as they laughed.
He reached for his closest, sheathed knife, but he couldn't quite grasp it.
Anger filled Bray again as he thought of Kirby and William, probably ambushed in the same way. Bucking against the man on top of him, he managed to throw him off and stagger to his feet, taking unsteady steps as he made for the clearing, listening to peals of laughter behind him. Where was his sword? If he was about to die, he wanted to do it with a blade in his hand. Unable to find it, he pulled the larger of his two knives. His heavy bag slowed him down.
The clearing was close. Somehow, in his final moments, he'd run far or fast enough to make it to the river. Or maybe the men had let him, knowing there was nowhere else to go.
He dragged a hand across his eyes, wiping away some of the blood.
Maybe he could make it to the water. It was a last-ditch effort to live, but it was all he had.
"The god weapons won't help you now!" someone sneered.
"Too bad we couldn't have thrown you from the bridge!"
He made it as far as the river's edge before a sharp pain hit his back, his legs buckled beneath him, and he tumbled face first into the current.
Chapter 7: Bartholomew
Bartholomew watched the body ripped away by the swift current, dragged past the partially submerged rocks and sticks and downstream. He spat. His soldiers stood next to him, breathing heavy breaths, recuperating.
"Is he dead?" Bartholomew asked.
"If he doesn't drown, the Savages will get him," the soldier next to him said.
"Deacon will want to be sure," Bartholomew said, annoyed.
"I'll go down the river and get his scalp," the soldier offered.
"Depending on where he turns up, we might not be able to reach him from this side." Bartholomew stared down the river, watching the body spiral around a heap of rocks and tree limbs, swept by the strong water. "We'll need to find where he lands."
"If he hasn't sucked in enough water to drown, he'll bleed out on the riverbank. It won't be worth the resources to send us to the mainland for a scalp," a soldier said, quickly adding, "Unless you want us to, of course."
The man was right. It wouldn't be worth their time.
But maybe Bartholomew could send someone else.
Chapter 8: Jonas The Collector
Jonas peered through the thin fog that surrounded the second island and toward the smaller, wooden bridge, watching the silhouettes of several guards who hung by the closest end, chatting as they waited. The Important Ones should return soon. The elderly—those capable of walking—were probably still making their way back from the ceremony, trudging down the long road, their joints cracking, their backs aching. Jonas figured the only reason they volunteered to watch the ceremony was to be excused from their duties for a day.
Deacon was tolerant enough in that regard.
Jonas had no interest in going to the fog ceremony. He'd seen it plenty of times when he was a wide-eyed child, unable to rip his eyes from the expression of terror on the blessed person's face as they were thrown from the bridge to the river gods. The ceremony was far less fascinating than the relics he studied.
When he was a younger man, he used to listen for screams from the bridge. Occasionally, when the wind was just right, or when Jonas cocked his head the proper direction, he heard the sounds over the distant roar of the waterfall, carrying over to the second island, but not today.
The ceremony was over, he guessed.
The Important Ones were likely halfway home, walking next to the farmer's fields, rounding the bend near the biggest cluster of apple trees. Deacon's Trusted would lead them. The soldiers would herd them across the bridge and back to their beds, where they would rest after what would be the longest trip they'd take in a while. Jonas was good at guessing. His hand went to his pocket as he gripped the ticking timepiece he'd taken from the Treasure Room.
He had already lost too much time doing his chores. He needed a moment to fulfill his other curiosities.
He gave a last glance at the guards and then crept around the side of the building. Only a handful of elderly—the frailest and the most infirm—were on the island. That would make it easier to look around, without being bothered.
Jonas's breath misted the air as he hugged the wall of the second building, his hands stuffed in his pockets. He wished it were warmer. In the warm seasons, he slipped onto the other island, or even more rarely, the forests on the mainland, when Deacon's Trusted found something of interest and Deacon gave him permission.
Last spring, he'd been on an expedition with several soldiers who had reported an interesting find to Deacon. They'd spent several nights camping in the forest under a sky filled with the screams of Savages and animals, huddled in blankets that were never warm enough, sleeping fitfully, before reaching a sprawling valley that housed a decrepit god building, surrounded by overgrown grass. Trees snaked through holes in the roof. The building was battered by time, the roof partially collapsed. When they went inside, Jonas saw an object half the size of his room, preserved better than most things he'd found. Rusted tubes protruded from a large, metal box, which was surrounded by four metal, rusted wheels. A row of pointed metal spikes lined the back wheels. Many of the strange spikes were cracked or shattered. The object had clearly lost its use, and was certainly too heavy to carry back.
But it was fascinating.
The nature of that god object had intrigued Jonas for days. If they had a moving, rolling device like that, they might be able to do any number of things in the farming fields. Perhaps they could dig up the soil, or break something apart—both guesses, of course. He knew that object was past repair for his blacksmiths.
The memory of that finding spurred his footsteps as he walked the length of the second building.
Something much more interesting was right on this island.
Something much more useful than old, rusted relics.
Jonas reached the edge and peered around, admiring the three majestic animals that were tied there, adjusting their hooves and snorting as they ate the hay he'd brought them. He walked up to them carefully, trying not to spook them. The horses weren't used to him.
But of course they weren't. They would be soon.
Jonas spoke gently to keep them calm. He recalled the team of beautiful horses that they'd once groomed and taken care of. It was a sad day when the horses had become infected with the disease that spread from one to the next, causing them to get lethargic, filling their skin with pock marks that seemed to spread in too quick a time. Jonas had assisted in burning the bodies.
The rest had been killed for their meat.
Jonas stroked the side of the largest horse, running his fingers over its coat and feeling its smooth hair.
Chapter 9: Bray
Bray gasped for breath as water filled his mouth and throat. He kicked and screamed, but all that came out was a gurgle. It took him a moment to realize he was submerged. He flailed with his arms, trying to grab hold of something—anything—as his body bashed against sticks and rocks. All around him, water slipped through his fingers. The c
urrent was dragging him, and nothing could save him. His body ached with the pain of more wounds than he could count. He would drown, just like he'd feared when he was a boy, floating down the current in the River of Brighton when he'd waded too far.
His father had saved him.
But no one would pull him out now.
The water felt like a living, breathing entity, fighting against Bray as he struggled and pinwheeled. All around him was a murky blackness that he couldn't make out. His lungs screamed for air. The river jostled him around, spinning him out of control, forcing him into objects with a painful thud. He'd envisioned the end many times, but always in the mouths of demons; never like this.
He had a fleeting thought of the woman thrown from the bridge. Had she died from the fall, or was her fate similar to this? I'm sorry, Kirby. I'm sorry, William.
Bray broke the surface. He spit out some of the water in his throat and sucked in a gagging breath, catching a glimpse of a murky sky before he was dunked under. That glimpse kept him kicking and flailing for air. If he could find purchase somewhere, a way to stop moving, maybe he could stop from sliding further into the river and—
Bray's shirt snagged. His body stopped short, and he swayed with the current. Water churned past his face and mouth. Fighting the rushing water, Bray twisted, reached up, and grabbed hold of whatever had stopped him. A tree branch. Using the branch for leverage, he pulled his head above water and gasped for breath, his shoulder screaming with the pain of fresh slice marks. He ignored it and pulled harder, coughing and spitting. The branch was attached to a tree trunk that had fallen in the river diagonally, half in and half out of the riverbank. He held onto that branch, praying it didn't break as he heaved several more deep breaths.
He might be alive, but not for long.
The Ruins Book 2: A Dystopian Society in a Post-Apocalyptic World (The Ruins Series) Page 3
