"If we can win this war, you'll have plenty of prisoners to test your contraptions out on."
"I hope so," said Jonas.
Chapter 40: William
Someone's here.
William arched his back against the wall, balling his fists as he heard footsteps outside the small building, his prison. The food he'd eaten from Berta sloshed around in his stomach. He gritted his teeth as the door opened, splashing light over the room. William's heart hammered as he recognized someone much more menacing than Berta.
Deacon.
William's blood ran cold.
"Good afternoon, William," Deacon said with a smile.
Deacon didn't move. He just stood there, appraising William as if he was a pig with a cracked hoof, living out its final days. William swallowed as he recognized a familiar object slung around Deacon's shoulder—Kirby's long gun. William stayed silent, waiting for whatever exchange came before his death. Kirby and Bray must be dead. Berta's warnings seemed useless now.
Deacon hasn't come to make a request; he's come to kill me.
"Come on outside," Deacon said, in a voice that was too pleasant.
William stayed put. He wouldn't go to his death willingly.
"Let's go."
Deacon watched William patiently. His eyes bore no measure of violence, but William knew how quickly that could change. He'd seen too many leaders grow red-faced and angry, barking orders that carried sentences of death when they didn't get their way. He looked past Deacon, assuming more men were waiting to witness the spectacle, or even take part in it, but he saw no one.
"I'm not going to kill you, William," Deacon assured him.
An obvious lie. Or was it?
William felt as if a small rock had been lodged in his windpipe, robbing him of breath. He was still weak from his passing illness. "I don't believe you," he managed.
Deacon smiled in such a way that William was reminded of that first walk on the second island, when Deacon had told stories of his people, pride filling his words. The sun had shone brilliantly as he'd recounted tales of bravery, tales of men who had protected their families and carved a life without the constant threats of the wild. That was a moment when William had actually believed this might be a good place.
"I won't do you harm, if you come with me now," Deacon said. "That is a promise."
William knew better than to believe such a promise. He looked around the room, suddenly grateful for the walls that he'd hated moments before, as if they might protect them, even though Deacon could just as easily kill him here.
"Come on, William," Deacon said. "I won't ask again."
A sudden, hard look on Deacon's face forced William to his feet. He took several unsteady steps. Perhaps he could figure out a way out of this predicament once he was outside. It was a slim hope even he didn't believe.
Deacon stepped back to admit him outside, making no moves for the rifle slung around his shoulder, or the long sword scabbarded by his belt. Sunlight splashed on William's face, warming his bones from the chill of the cold room. It felt like he had been locked away for weeks, though it had certainly been less.
Tall, thick pines and oaks towered above the small building. It seemed as if the building had been dropped from the sky into the middle of nowhere, far from the head of the island, and even farther from the people who lived in the rest of The Arches. He might as well be a thousand miles from the bridge leading to the wild. He'd never get there. Looking around, he saw no one else.
Maybe he could slip away from Deacon, avoiding the sting of a sharp blade or a bullet from Kirby's gun. But where would he go? The river was an obstacle he'd never get around. Deacon and his soldiers would chase him around the island until they captured him. Perhaps they'd even torture him.
He hated his choices.
He wished he had a horde of demons. He'd command them to strike Deacon down, to tear his flesh while he demanded answers about Bray and Kirby. William wanted to know the truth, even if the truth was an ugly, terrible thing, just like his mother's death.
"Walk with me," Deacon said, his tone strangely calm as he started through the forest, down a path covered in thin, partially melted snow and boot prints. A set of horse tracks led to and from the building, presumably from when William had been brought here.
William complied, taking in his surroundings, looking for a place where he might slip off. His pulse thudded loudly enough that he was certain the man walking next to him heard it, but Deacon didn't seem to notice. He walked as if he were taking a stroll through the forest in good weather, safe from demons.
"My apologies for your treatment," Deacon said. "We do what is necessary."
William hated the words he'd heard too many times in Brighton, but angry retorts would get him killed. He needed to play along with this man, if he wanted a chance at living. "I understand."
"We have a duty to preserve our people's lives, as you know," Deacon said. "We keep them safe from threats, from people who might try to rob them, or take what we have."
William nodded.
"Our people have lived here for years without going hungry, with enough firewood to keep us warm. We have battled off Savages and warring tribes. But the men from Halifax are a growing force that threatens to rip that security away." Deacon watched William, probably judging the effect of his words. "The Halifax men will kill our men, steal away our women, and burn whatever they cannot eat, or take. Have you seen war, William?"
The word triggered memories that William couldn't forget. He nodded. "Yes."
"Then you have seen the affects of war on a people. You have lived, while others have died." Deacon shook his head. "Sometimes that is worse."
William swallowed as he thought of his mother, bleeding out on the top of that building in the Ancient City.
"We live our days to prevent war, though we are ready for it. That is the best thing a ruler can do for his people. We prepare them for danger." Deacon paused for a moment, looking through the trees. "Everyone plays a part in the safety of the rest. Those who don't work together cannot live on the islands."
William couldn't hold back his question any longer. "Where are Bray and Kirby?"
Deacon paused for a moment. "They are being tested," he said finally, "just as I am testing you."
William looked around the trees, suddenly certain that someone else was watching, ready to slice him down at the slightest misstep, or an uttered word Deacon didn't like.
"We are alone," Deacon assured him.
"When will I see them again?" William asked.
"Soon," Deacon said vaguely.
In the time they'd been walking, they'd made it through large sections of forest, tramping down boot prints left by the soldiers, and horse prints in the snow from when William had been spirited away. The two buildings sat in the distance. Several of The Important Ones walked the yard, speaking with one another.
"Those people made it to the second island through their sacrifices to The Arches," Deacon said, pointing at the elderly people. "War is something they can forget, most days. That is their reward. Doesn't that sound like a nice life?"
William couldn't deny that it was a nice thought.
"Perhaps you can earn a reward like that, if you help me." Deacon looked over at William, revealing what was clearly the motivation for the walk. "Will you help my people survive?"
"Yes," William said.
He'd say whatever he needed to say to keep him alive.
"I've heard you have a gift," Deacon continued, clearly pleased. "Flora tells me you can speak to the Savages. She says you have a way with them that she's never seen."
William almost tripped. He should've known Flora would tell the others about his power. Of course she had. Ever since those first days in Brighton, when his lumps had been discovered, he had kept quiet about everything to do with the infection. But this secret might keep him alive.
If he told the truth, he might live.
Unless…
What if Deacon
put two things together and figured out he was infected? What if, by admitting his power, he condemned himself to a burning, or something much worse? The lump in William's throat felt as if it had grown bigger. A lie would get him punished.
But the truth…what would that do?
"It's true. I can speak to them," he said finally. The words felt strange leaving William's mouth. He watched Deacon's reaction, prepared for something terrible to happen.
Deacon smiled more warmly than William had seen. "How does this power work?"
William opened his mouth to describe it, realizing he wasn't sure. He knew that he could speak to demons. He knew they listened. When he was in the forests, those first days after his infection, he'd realized his power, but he didn't have a reason for it.
"I tell them what to do, and they do as I say. I am not sure why."
"You control them," Deacon said, watching William as if he might recant the statement.
"Yes," William said quietly.
"And how did you find out about this power?" Deacon asked.
"I screamed at them when I was in the forests, once," William said. "They went away, instead of attacking. That's how I learned." Something about Deacon's line of questioning made him want to keep some of his secrets. He'd only answer what he was asked.
"Can you teach this power to others?"
William was about to say no when he stopped himself. "It is possible."
Deacon nodded with a look that said he wanted to believe. "That would be a huge help to our people, William. Do you know that?"
"I do," William said, keeping his tone obedient.
"This might be way to drive off the Savages," Deacon said. "Maybe even find a use for them."
William felt a pinprick of hope. Perhaps he'd passed whatever test Deacon had talked about. Walking farther, they exited the forest, heading toward the yard where The Important Ones walked. William was surprised to see only one horse in the distance. The others were gone. He noticed a few guards walking the building's perimeter, but none seemed especially interested in William.
Deacon fell into a reflective state as they traveled over dirt and patchy snow that had been repeatedly walked over. Walking near some of the elderly people, William looked over at them, as if one of the hunched people might have something to say to him, but they only looked away.
Deacon and William walked through the mostly-dirt land, veering toward the second building, which William had never seen. They passed a few more soldiers without stopping, several of whom nodded.
"I think it is time you had a break from that cold, dark room," Deacon said with a smile. "That is no place for a boy recovering from illness."
Opening the door, he held it for William as they walked into a dimly lit hallway. William blinked as his eyes adjusted. The building was certainly warmer than where William had been kept. Torches lit the walls, which were adorned with strange, metallic objects. Wonder made William forget some of his fear.
"What are these things?"
"We don't know for sure," Deacon said. "Things used before our time, left to enthrall us, or perhaps to help us survive. A collection of devices from the gods."
William couldn't keep his eyes off them. Even in the Ancient City, he hadn't seen this many treasures.
"We have a Treasure Room full of these objects," Deacon told him. "I'll show you later. But first, I figured you might want to say hello to Kirby."
"Kirby?" William squeaked the word.
He looked at Deacon as if he'd misheard, but Deacon smiled warmly. Had Kirby passed the test, too? William wouldn't let himself believe it, thought he wanted to.
William nodded as he followed Deacon to a door. Pulling a key from his pocket, Deacon unlocked the door, grabbed a torch from the wall, and escorted William inside. William walked into a cold, hollow room, listening to the door shut behind them as his eyes adjusted to the wavering torchlight.
He froze.
He thought he might die with panic.
Inside the room, two men were chained to the wall, watching William and Deacon with panic-soaked eyes. They wore the markings of the men from Halifax. The men's arms and legs were secured to the wall by linked chains. Masks covered the majority of their faces—pieces of metal sticking from the insides, poking into the men's skin. One man wore a leather collar with twin, sharp spikes jutting from the collar to his neck, placed in such a way that the man would be impaled if he lowered his neck, or relaxed his head to sleep.
In the corner of the room was a chair adorned with metal spikes. The seat was covered in blood.
Nowhere did he see Kirby.
William turned for the door.
Deacon blocked the way. "Stay," he said simply, as he locked the entrance.
William looked around the solid, windowless room and back to the door again. Nowhere to run. His body shook with a fright he'd never experienced as Deacon crossed the room to the first of the men.
"Much as I keep our people safe, I make sure our enemies bleed endlessly," Deacon said, with the same warm smile he'd given William when they first met, or when William had told him about his power. Reaching for the first man's head, he pushed, forcing it toward the spikes in the man's collar. The man screamed as he dug his bare feet into the ground, struggling to stay upright, craning his neck away from the twin spikes on the collar.
"Endlessly, William," Deacon said as he continued pushing. "Do you understand?"
The spikes poked holes into the man's neck, causing trails of blood.
"I understand! Stop!" William cried. "Please stop!"
William might as well have been mute.
Deacon's expression was emotionless as he pushed.
The piercing blades penetrated the man's neck, his body sagged, and the chains settled with a final rattle. Deacon stepped away as the man fell limp. The other man screamed into the metal mask on his face.
"You are either a boon to the islands, or an enemy," Deacon said simply. "Which will it be?"
"I will help!" William cried, tears streaming down his face. "Whatever you need, I will help!"
Chapter 41: Bray
Bray sat in the single room of a house that might've been a peasant's, had he been in Brighton, other than the rows of glass bottles and strange containers that lined the shelves all around the dwelling. Objects that looked like long, unraveled necklaces hung from the ceiling, with strange pieces of metal, or clay beads, wrapped around them. All were different sizes. Bray couldn't determine if they were decorations, or served a purpose. On one wall, he saw an axe, several bows and arrows, and some swords that looked heavily used, none of which were fashioned the same way. It looked as if they had been found in the forests, or taken from various people.
Looted, perhaps.
The man who had led Bray here—the leader of Halifax, assumedly—sat in a wooden chair on one side of a table, the only piece of furniture in the room, other than the chairs. His face was weathered from the sun, but he seemed in good shape, for someone his age.
"Where is Brighton?" the man asked Bray, in an accent that still surprised Bray by its clarity.
"A long ways from here," Bray said honestly.
"I heard some of what happened to you. I heard what the island girl tried to do."
"The people from The Arches took my friends, probably butchered them. They tried to kill me. The girl was sent to finish the job."
The man didn't seem surprised. "Their traditions of violence continue." He settled back in his chair, appraising Bray. "My name is Enoch. They call me The Bravest One."
"You speak the language clearly," Bray said.
"I have picked it up better than others, over the years," Enoch explained, his eyes dark and brooding.
"From the islanders?"
"Them, and other groups," Enoch said with a sigh that showed his years. "We have met many people in the wild. Perhaps even from the place you are from, though I admit I haven't heard the name Brighton."
"No one seems to have heard of it here," said
Bray. "And I knew nothing of your people, or those who live in The Arches, before I came and they took us in."
"They took you in?"
"Yes. They took me in, along with a woman and a boy I was traveling with. I went for a hunt with them. When I returned, they tried to kill me. I'm not sure what happened to the others."
"You would have been better staying away." Hatred burned in Enoch's eyes. "They are cowards, and thieves, as well. They took our lands."
"Your lands?" Bray was confused.
Enoch took a moment to suck in a breath before continuing. "The people of The Arches stole those islands from us, long ago, in a time when our ancestors were alive. We had a different name for The Arches, back then." Enoch shook his head. "We called it The Blessed Land. Now those lands are defiled. The islanders use our crop fields, they inhabit our ancestors' homes; they degrade our memories. That is not the worst of it."
Bray furrowed his brow. Most of the past few days seemed like a lie he was unraveling. "I don't mean to offend you, but a man named Deacon told a different tale. It seemed quite the opposite. He says your people slaughtered theirs, following them from another city, a place called The City of the Gods."
"Deacon tells his people lies to further a war," Enoch said. "The truth is buried beneath the scalps of our people and the blood of our children. Our numbers were much greater than you see here, before Deacon's ancestors slaughtered them." Enoch waved his hand toward the door. "At one time, our people inhabited those islands. We built many of the buildings, or repaired them. The islanders' ancestors raided us, killing most of our men, keeping only the young, the women, or those weak enough to force into slavery. The rest of our people—a few of the sick, or disabled—were sent away into the forests, weaponless and alone to die, with markings burned into their foreheads. They were to be sacrifices to the islanders' gods. The islanders' ancestors told them they would be killed on sight if they were seen again. What they didn't plan on was that some our ancestors would survive. Our people are strong." Enoch's eyes blazed with a deep anger and pride.
The Ruins Book 2: A Dystopian Society in a Post-Apocalyptic World (The Ruins Series) Page 14
