"Deacon!" Enoch shouted, projecting his voice as he'd done on the Halifax platform.
The word was lost in the commotion.
A few of Deacon's men, standing guard near him, spotted Enoch coming before he got close, shouting warnings to their leader. Deacon spun and aimed his lightning weapon. Enoch's men, hoping to protect him, ran out in front.
"No!" Enoch shouted, as Deacon used his weapon, killing two of his men with loud cracks.
The other two men fell back next to Enoch as he approached Deacon, stopping within twenty yards.
"You are a coward!" Enoch shouted.
Deacon's face was hard in the light of several fallen, burning torches as he turned his gun on Enoch, and his men moved in a position to defend him. Enoch clutched his sword. He wasn't stupid enough to run to his death. But he wouldn't give in to this man, lighting weapon or not.
"Coward!" Enoch yelled again. "We want what your people stole!"
Surprise crossed Deacon's face as he heard Enoch speak his language.
"Have your people come for another mark of failure?" Deacon let one hand off his gun to point at his forehead, smiling. "I will make sure your women, your children wear the same mark. We will burn it into their skulls, as our people did in the beginning."
"You will step over our bodies before that happens."
Rage built in Enoch as he gripped his sword. Footsteps pounded the bridge behind him, and he spun to find a group of several more Halifax men breaking from other battles, ready to join him. More of his men warded off any who tried to get near the impending altercation. Deep in the distance, Enoch heard more of his men fighting the islanders down the sloping road.
They were brave.
Many years ago, his people had named him The Bravest One.
It was time to show the reason for that name again.
Enoch nodded at a group of five of his brothers, who had joined him, clutching their swords. He stared at the man with the lighting weapon. They were out of the metal pieces in the objects called bullets. But it was no matter. If they would fail, they would fail together.
Enoch screamed some words in their language. "For The Holy One!"
Deacon looked confused at the words he didn't understand.
Enoch and his men charged.
The Halifax men ran alongside him, bellowing chants of war as more cracks from Deacon's lightning weapon filled the air, felling some, but not all. Some of his men reached Deacon's. They screamed and fought as they crashed into Deacon's men, and Deacon. One of the Halifax men cried his death throes as Deacon shot him and broke free of the commotion. Enoch kept course for Deacon, raising his sword with a war cry he'd been saving most of his life.
Deacon raised the lightning weapon.
A crack split the air.
Pain sparked through Enoch's eyes as metal from the lightning weapon struck him in the side, hard, but he kept running until he was on top of Deacon, knocking the weapon from his hands with a slash of his sword. Deacon fell back against the bridge wall. Enoch ignored the burning pain in his side as he elbowed Deacon in the face once, twice. Deacon grunted as blood sprayed the air, splashing Enoch.
He struck Deacon with the hilt of his sword.
And again.
Deacon kneed Enoch in the groin.
Losing his wind, Enoch doubled over, new pain hitting him as Deacon shoved him away, scrambling for his dropped gun. Before Enoch could get ahold of him, he retrieved it and raised it at Enoch's face from just a few feet away.
Enoch cried out in anger as the pain from his wounded side caught up to him. He stared at Deacon with hatred, fighting for breath.
His last moments wouldn't be spent doubled over, begging. He would fight. He raised his sword. Out of his peripheral vision, Enoch saw a few of his men running to his aid.
"Enoch!" they yelled.
But none of those mattered to this moment.
Deacon would use his lightning weapon.
Or Enoch would win.
A horse squealed.
Deacon looked away from Enoch, distracted by hooves clomping across the stone bridge. Fright crossed Deacon's face as he moved away from Enoch, picking a new target. The lightning weapon cracked several times as a horse got close enough that Enoch could hear its frantic breath and its whine. Enoch got out of the way just in time to turn his head and see a galloping steed, Flora in the saddle, raising her sword, come to help him.
Or perhaps come for revenge.
She cried out in anger as she rode straight for Deacon, prepared to slice, to kill.
She held her sword high in the air.
But the horse wasn't faster than the lightning weapon. Deacon used the gun several more times, aiming for Flora, but hitting the beast instead. The beast swayed as pieces of metal tore into its neck, it lost its gallop, and stumbled. The momentum kept it coming.
The horse crashed into Deacon.
Deacon screamed.
Deacon fell backward, and the horse and Flora fell forward, over the edge of the bridge, in a tangled mass of screams and whinnies, toppling from sight.
Enoch's men cried out in surprise.
Several crashes hit the water, hard.
And then they were gone.
Some of the commotion resumed.
Pain blazed behind Enoch's eyes as looked around, not believing what he'd seen, that Deacon was gone. And so was the girl he had trusted, Flora.
"Flora," he whispered.
Enoch lowered his sword and clutched his side as men rushed to his aid, helping him stand amidst the crack of lightning weapons and the clang of swords all around them.
Chapter 79: Kirby
The cry of a horse and screams drew Kirby's attention.
Slamming the magazine into her pistol, she spurred her steed, riding back around the boulders and reentering the bridge.
Some of the frenzy seemed to have died down as Kirby rode, passing mostly bodies, but a few small skirmishes that were still taking place as Halifax men took care of some of the remaining islanders. On the sloping road, visible off the bridge's edge, she saw islanders and Halifax people dueling, mostly with swords, about halfway down. The war had moved. But what had that noise been? She looked in front of her.
No horse. No Flora.
Near the middle of the bridge, several Halifax men gathered. She rode toward them, ready to battle, if that was what was happening.
She galloped faster, weaving around the war's casualties, able to ride unhindered without as many obstacles.
She reached the middle of the bridge.
A group of men gathered in a circle, mostly Halifax men. Pulling up alongside them, she recognized a few of the men as those with whom she'd marched. Enoch was in the center, bent over and bleeding.
"What's going on?" she asked.
Enoch gasped for breath as one of the Halifax men held up a torch, revealing a hole in the side of his stomach, leaking blood.
"Deacon hit me with the lightning weapon," he said.
"You need a healer," Kirby said. "You're shot."
"I am not likely to get one," Enoch said. "And besides, the war still rages, with Deacon dead."
"Dead?" Kirby felt as if she had missed something. She looked around for Deacon, the horse she'd heard whining, and Flora.
"Dead," Enoch repeated, raising a shaky arm to point off the edge of the bridge. "Flora charged him before he could kill me. She knocked him off the bridge with her horse. But she and the horse fell."
"The horse…Flora…" Kirby repeated, as if she might make sense of it.
Her mouth opened and closed as she followed Enoch's finger to the side of the bridge, seeing nothing but a wall and a few dead, scattered bodies. An emotion she couldn't process hit her in the stomach as she rode to where he was pointing, looked over, and saw nothing but a steep drop and the dark river, cutting through the land.
"She's gone," Enoch called, "and so is the island leader. But our men still fight. If we don't get to the road, they will die, and we w
ill have come here for nothing."
Kirby felt an irrepressible anger in her stomach. She wanted to shoot Deacon. She wanted to punish him for the loss of someone with whom she'd rode just moments before, another loss compounded in her memory for which she felt responsible. If she had stayed with Flora…
"You have been injured, too," Enoch said, interrupting her thought, pointing at the piece of arrow still stuck in her leg, some of which she had broken off, but which she knew she would need to remove later, if she survived that long.
"You have come here for the boy, William," Enoch said. "Let us fight our way to him."
Kirby nodded, choking back an emotion she hadn't expected to feel.
"Flora was true to her word," Enoch said. "Our people will mourn her. Let us go, while we still have a fight left to finish."
**
Kirby rode the horse next to Enoch and a group of fifty Halifax men as they turned down the sloping road to join the others. Most of the skirmishes on the bridge had ended. Dawn approached, casting a backlight over the long, descending road, and the swaths of people that fought at the bottom. The majority of Enoch's Halifax men had left the bridge, battling a defensive line of soldiers, peasants, and some women. Most of the gunfire had ceased. Every now and again Kirby heard a crack, but for the most part, the battle was a struggle with swords. Kirby rode with her horse over several broken bows, along with some swords lying next to bodies that no longer needed them. One of the Halifax men handed a blade to Kirby, who took it gratefully. Kirby was down to the last of her ammunition.
"Our men need our help," Enoch proclaimed as he limped down the road, projecting bravery, even though he was clearly injured.
As it looked, the disproportionate number of islanders might end them all. Kirby stared past the colliding groups, hoping to see a sign of Bray and Samron, but still nothing. A building fear got worse—what if they had perished somewhere in the island's middle? Reaching the fighting, she raised her gun and steeled herself for battle as Enoch and the Halifax men ran to join their brothers and sisters, swinging their swords with renewed vigor.
She couldn't stop thinking of Flora.
Kirby rode into the fray, shooting the islanders and casting aside people with her horse, fighting through a tangled crowd that felt too thick to defeat.
Chapter 80: Bray
Having reloaded once, and spent the rest of his ammunition, Bray relied on his sword as they fended off the islanders running out at them from the woods. The street was a chaotic mess of bodies, swinging blades, grunts, and heaves. The Halifax men were tired. Their swords didn't swing as fast, and their war cries had died, but they fought with a quiet vigor that impressed Bray as morning light crept over the fight.
The islanders the Halifax men battled now were clumsier, less used to fighting. They had been trained, but they weren't used to warfare. The guns had given the Halifax men an advantage in the beginning—as shortly as it lasted, they had taken out most of the soldiers and patrols.
Bray figured the rest of the soldiers were at the bridge.
But there were still plenty of men left to fight.
Every so often, a Halifax man would break his silence with a dying scream, or some new group of islanders ran from the woods, brandishing crude weapons, yelling loudly enough to put a new surge of adrenaline into the fight. Bray could no longer tell how many people they'd lost, or how many people they'd killed.
A dropped house torch caught a house on fire, illuminating the chaos as light licked the walls and smoke billowed over the street. Bray coughed as smoke entered his lungs. He swung his sword at a short, stubby soldier, straining to see through some drifting smoke, besting the man with a slash to the stomach. The man crumpled and didn't get up. Bray looked around him at the Halifax men, who were holding their ground, but getting more tired.
Finished with his opponent, Bray leapt into battle to assist Samron, who was fighting off two men at once. An apron of blood stained Samron's shirt as he grunted and swung, fending off a tall, dark-haired attacker, while Bray took his friend, a fat man who seemed more confident with a sword. Bray parried with the man for several moments before ending him with a jab to the chest.
Finished with the immediate skirmish, Bray and Samron looked around.
"We need to get to the bridge," Bray said, catching his breath through the smoke.
"It has been too long," Samron agreed. "But how can we move? There are too many islanders."
They watched as a new group of six islanders ran from the forest, slow to battle, or perhaps scared. Men and women that looked like peasants, or farmers, stopped at the edge of the road, staring at Bray and Samron. They assessed the scene, the Halifax men, and the guns. Bray recalled what Flora had said about the people who had been taken in against their will.
Maybe they didn't need to fight them at all.
Clearing his throat, Bray pulled his empty pistol. He pointed it at them, hoping words could turn into a weapon.
"Most of your soldiers are dead!" he shouted, nodding at the bodies around him. "Will you come out to die with them? Will you fall to the god weapons?"
Fright crossed a few of the people's faces as they reconsidered their decision, swords shaking in their hands. Bray took another step, waving his empty gun. This time the people didn't hesitate. They ran back into the forest.
He looked at Samron, who smiled.
"Perhaps you have a good idea," Samron said.
"That will even the odds," Bray said. "Tell your men! We can drive them away while we take the bridge."
Bray looked around. Most of the Halifax men had finished their altercations, clearing a path in the street. A few more men ran at them from the front, but not enough to stop them from advancing. Samron yelled some instructions.
"Gather your men!" Bray yelled. "Let's go!"
**
The Halifax men took to the task with apparent skill, shouting in their strange language, using what must be a frightening appearance to some of the lesser-skilled islanders as they waved their empty guns and swords. A few islanders came to fight, but for the most part, no one was eager to run to their deaths. And who could blame them?
Deacon wasn't standing in the road, enforcing his orders.
Bray knew the realities of war. He knew how easy it was to agree to fight when someone was in a field, sparring with a friend, but when it came to battle, some men and women couldn't face their ends.
Bray no longer heard gunfire from the front of the island. That worried him, though he still heard noise in the distance. Was Enoch successful in the attack?
They passed several tradesmen's houses, the doors left open, the islanders gone—killed, hiding, or fighting at the main bridge. They curved with the road, taking several more bends, fighting a few islanders who were brave enough to come out and face their numbers. Eventually, they reached the first of the soldiers' houses, which were as empty as the tradesmen's. A few open doors swung back and forth with the breeze, the occupants clearly having left in a hurry.
The noise in the distance increased in volume as war cries filled the air.
They neared the last curve.
Stopping, Samron turned to face the men and women behind them.
He raised his arms as Bray had seen Enoch do. Trepidation crossed his face as he faced sudden doubt, reaching for some words to inspire. The men and women sucked breaths of air. Blood and dirt covered most of them; their clothes were tattered and ripped. About a half of them had been killed, maybe more. They were exhausted. They had descended a mountain slope, crossed a river, and fought for longer than any skirmish in recent history, a fight worthy of their ancestors.
Samron looked to the sky, where morning crept in, then back at the people.
He shouted some words.
He shouted them louder.
Men and women raised their swords, yelling something back.
Renewed courage touched some faces as they found a burst of strength.
With loud, determined war cries,
they charged around the curve.
Chapter 81: William
William followed the farmer's fields, riding over mounds of uneven dirt and following the path Bray had described, getting farther from the back of the island. The sun broke over the tops of the trees, filling his surroundings with new light.
Eventually, he came across a large wooden building, the size of several of the island's houses. He looked around. Other than a wooden, square fence nearby, he saw no other buildings. He approached cautiously, prepared to spur the horse and leave, if that became the best option.
He rode around the building until he found a wide, wooden door. He peered through the cracks, looking to see what was within, but he made out nothing. Someone might be hiding, like he was trying to do. Or maybe he'd found his luck, and it was empty.
Taking a chance, William stopped his horse. He dismounted.
Sword in hand, he led the horse by the reins to the door.
A strange noise emanated from inside. William froze. He started for the horse's saddle, ready to ride away and someplace else, when the noise came again and he caught a familiar smell. He smiled. Leading the horse, he cracked open the door, slowly, wide enough to reveal the outline of three animals, staring and shifting nervously.
Goats.
The animals bleated. All were tied to one of the walls with rope. Looking around the room, he saw nothing other than them. The building smelled of hay, manure, and wood. He looked behind him at the empty farmer's fields.
Anything was better than standing in the open, or riding around outside, waiting to be killed.
Leading his horse inside, he shut the door.
After ensuring his steed was settled, William backed up against the far wall, settling on his haunches near several of the nervous goats, petting them. Someone would win the battle.
They always did.
If he were lucky, he would find a way out when it was over.
One of the animals nuzzled against him. William touched its head, unable to stop thinking of those twisted men on the other side of the river, and the dying screams of the ones he'd killed. Guilt simmered in his stomach.
The Ruins Book 2: A Dystopian Society in a Post-Apocalyptic World (The Ruins Series) Page 25
