Blackthorn

by Terry Tyler

  I wait at South Gate for the two guards assigned to me; when they arrive, I am pleased to see that they're both female. If I can't walk alone, I prefer to go with women. Nothing to do with lechery, I just can't be bothered with the dick swinging competitions that take place on patrol with guys. Who can hit the highest branch, catch the biggest bunny, etc.

  Today I'm with a traveller called Astra, who is stunning, which cheers up the gloomy day. My other companion is a larky, boyish redhead called Fay, a seventeen-year-old trainee guard on loan from the north wall. Boy, is she in for a shock. The north wall is the quietest; there are no settlements for miles and miles. Almost all outliers approach from the south.

  We set off down the usual track, the remains of the old road, to avoid the sodden fields and potential danger lurking in the woods. Astra matches my pace, while Fay hurries alongside on her chunky little legs, occasionally leaping in front when she wants us to listen to her chatter.

  "Okay, so where's all this trouble you brave lot have to deal with?" She gestures at the empty road before us. "I thought the minute we walked through South Gate we'd be socked in the face by a million marauding outliers demanding their lunch!"

  We laugh; as we walk further away from Blackthorn, Astra starts telling us about dangerous situations avoided during her time on the road.

  As we get deeper into outlier territory, I'm only half listening.

  I've got more important things to think about.

  When you're used to patrolling, you get a nose for it.

  Trouble.

  The girls are talking too loudly. Like they're out on a jolly. I've noticed this before; the guards' tunic and belt gives you the illusion of safety.

  But I can see it, just up ahead. The remains of a building. Just a few knackered walls with half the bricks missing, and half a roof with a weedy tree growing through it.

  Enough to hide inside, though.

  Any building can mean trouble, behind or within.

  I run on in front, gesturing to them to slow down but carry on talking, and jerk my thumb back towards the barn.

  Wrong move. Alerting them to possible danger has shut them up. Chatter, then sudden silence―a total giveaway. This is why I prefer to go out alone; I only have me to worry about. I can weigh up in a flash when to hide, when to run, and I run faster than anyone, especially malnourished outliers.

  My eyes strain towards the building―I was right. My nose has not let me down. The long grass going round the far side is flattened, like someone's walked across it not too long ago.

  I signal to Astra and Fay to follow me. I have my sword on my back and a knife in each hand; I creep across that flattened grass round to the side of the building, quick and silent as a ghost.

  And I see them.

  They're no group of bandits, but anyone with a knife is dangerous, and these two men, one woman, and a boy of about twelve are pointing four of them at me. They're dirty and thin, with that all too familiar appearance of utter desperation. The boy and the woman shake, as they cower against their shelter that was once someone's home.

  Out of the corner of my left eye, I take in a broken down old chair, a table.

  I see everything, even when I'm in danger. Especially when I'm in danger. Except I'm not, now. I know I'm not.

  We can handle this, no worries. Hell, I could handle it on my own.

  I stand, knives ready, in my sturdy boots, my leather tunic covering the padded body armour we wear when out on patrol. I'm well-fed, strong and ready to fight. I hear Astra and Fay advance behind me with their swords, see the outliers' eyes darting between us, trying to work out who they should attack first.

  Behind them the sky is dark and forbidding; a gust of wind blows up this lonely road.

  The taller of the two men takes a step back. He knows. There's no point. They're already beaten.

  The wind whistles through the trees, blowing my hair away from my face.

  But it's not over.

  "Aiieee!" The smaller man hurls himself at me with a battle cry, aiming for my chest with his sad little weapon, but he's no threat.

  In an instant, I've dropped both my knives and grabbed his wrists―as soon as I sensed Astra on my near side, saw the glint of her sword out of the corner of my eye, I knew it was safe to drop them, that all I had to do was disable him.

  The outlier struggles, kicking out at me, but my shin pads protect me from pain, and he is helpless.

  "Drop the knife," I say. "Drop it. Now."

  Fay runs up, and yanks it out of his hand. I glance once more at the other, wiser man; he drops his weapon and puts his hands in the air.

  "We're no trouble," shouts the woman. She has long, greying hair, dirty and matted. "We're just hungry!"

  The attacker slumps, giving up the fight, and I let go of his arms.

  Now I have a decision to make. Guards on patrol have instructions from the top, i.e. Wolf North, not to give food to outliers; if they want a handout, they must join the begging queue.

  This is to prevent word getting around that Blackthorn guards are a potential food source to ambush.

  "You can go queue at South Gate," Fay says. "They're giving out enough food for two days, and fresh water. One pack per person. Make it last."

  "Ain't you got no jobs there?" asks the guy who attacked me. His thatch of fair hair is filthy, his sunken cheeks covered in sores. And he stinks; that I know, from being in such close proximity to him. No way would he get a job, even if there were any going.

  "None left," calls out Astra. "I'd go get the food, if I were you, then head down to Lincolnshire; there's settlements in the Wolds. You might get taken on there."

  The four of them stand, dithering. The young boy starts to cry; he doesn't look like he'll make it as far as South Gate.

  Fuck it. Fuck Wolf North's rules, as delivered by Lieutenant Hemsley.

  I reach for the pouch slung across my back under my sword, and take out my chicken sandwich, two oatcakes, apple and a bottle of milk.

  "Hey." Fay put her hand out to stop me. "Don't. You know the rule."

  "I'm a human being before I'm a guard. You should be, too."

  "Yeah, well, I want to stay a guard. That's why I do what I'm told."

  I ignore her, and hold my supplies out to the woman. "Here. Have these. Then get yourself to South Gate."

  She stumbles forward, and snatches them from my hand, her lip trembling. She opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

  Poor woman. She's trying not to cry. I smile at her, and she gives me a half-smile back.

  I wonder what happened to them. I wonder if they're a family, or just random survivors from Central who've teamed up against the world.

  Stinky man edges towards me and picks up his knife, his eyes on me all the time, and the four of them scurry away, round the back of the house and into the trees.

  I turn to Fay. "Don't you ever do that again."

  "What?"

  "Try to call the shots when you're out with me. The only rules you follow when we're out here are mine."

  "Well, the bitch never even said thank you." She folds her arms, kicking at the grass like a moody kid. "And I've only got enough food for me."

  I say nothing.

  "Don't be a cow, Fay," says Astra. "They were hungry. Byron helped. It was the right thing to do." She looks at me. "No worries. I've got enough for two."

  We move on; Fay walks off ahead, sulking. I'm not having her coming out with me again, whatever Hemsley says. Guess she missed the 'teamwork' part of the training.

  The day grows more overcast. We're supposed to walk on into Boltwick, but as it comes into view I sense the likelihood of more trouble than we need. I hear shouts, and screams. People run towards us; I stop a young man in his tracks.

  "What's going on?"

  His eyes are wide, terrified. "Bandits, no one we know. 'Bout ten of 'em. They got machetes and spears, and they're raiding houses. Killing people."

  I drop his arm. "Head for Blackth
orn's South Gate; you'll get food, and you'll be safe there, at least until they've moved on."

  We're not going into the fray; I can see enough to report back. Wolf North likes to know what the climate's like outside the walls, that's all, and ten is more than we can handle. If not for the others I would have gone in to help―alone, I can hide, and make a silent getaway if necessary, but Fay is too inexperienced, and clearly doesn't respect my decisions; she'd probably get us all killed.

  "We'll bypass," I call out to her. "Over the fields to your right; we'll take a look at Mulgrave."

  The fields are a quagmire; she moans non-stop until we reach woodland sloping upwards, dry underfoot.

  We'll do a quick tour of Mulgrave, head back, and then me and her are done.

  High up on my lookout posts, I swelter through summers, squelch when it rains, and shiver through winters. Wandering the countryside alone is the best part of my daily life.

  I'm fairly antisocial at the best of times.

  I am Byron Lewis, fifth of his name, from one of the original Blackthorn families. My great-grandfather, Byron Lewis II, founded Blackthorn alongside Phoenix North, and was all kinds of douchebag, apparently―as was my grandfather, Byron Lewis III, who spawned various kids by different women, one of whom was Byron Lewis IV, my father, now dead; he, my mother and sister all died in the swine flu epidemic of 2132.

  My mother was a nurse, a selfless soul who went down to Shackers' End to tend to the suffering, and brought the disease back with her.

  The only family I have left are a late uncle's wife and two daughters, who see me as a great disappointment to the Lewis name, and my half-uncle, the notorious Jet, from whom I would happily disassociate myself permanently.

  I look like a Lewis, in that I'm fairly tall, with dark hair and eyes, but unlike me the others were true Blackthorn men―knife-wielding, hard-drinking, lady-killing.

  When I was thirteen there was a big do in the Town Hall for old Falcon North's birthday. Dad took me over to greet the old fart, who told me that being the fifth of my name meant something special. Hemsley―then a mere guard, busy brown-nosing his way up the ladder―said that maybe I would be like the fifth King Henry of England, who fought great battles and brought glory to his country.

  Dad glowed with pride, and I went pink and smiled in an embarrassed sort of way, like thirteen-year-olds do, but even then I knew I was not destined for greatness.

  I don't care about leaving my mark on the world. I just want to do my thing. Which is why, unlike Dad and Grandad, I'm still wearing my guard's tunic at the age of twenty-five. Even with my prestigious family name I still have to prove my worth, and I actively go out of my way not to, because I don't want to live in Thorn Lodge or spend any more time around Wolf North than I have to.

  Some of the lieutenants are okay. David Lloyd, Sarah Thomas, Nicky Chen. But then there's Hemsley and his fellow toadies, Parks, Ward and Lincoln, and pond life like Slovis and Ogg. No way do I want to spend my evenings chucking beer down my neck in the Phoenix Tavern with those two, or their low-life protégés: Fisher and the other second lieutenants who police the jail block. They're all regular patrons of Moor House―the brothel―and it's well known that they see female outliers as fair game, whether they say yes or not, and most of them don't.

  Most of all, though, I want to be as far away from dear Uncle Jet as possible. He lives in Thorn Lodge and has the ear of the governor, as he did Falcon's; he's Wolf's 'fixer', who makes stuff happen and people disappear. I rarely see him out and about; I think he just seeps out of a drain when the governor whispers his name.

  I'll stay as I am, thank you very much.

  Life as a guard is better now than it was when my dad was one. There used to be more independent settlements nearby, and guards had to help with 'recruiting' for Blackthorn―uprooting the settlers by force, and burning down their houses if they protested. Boltwick and Mulgrave stood up to them, eventually working out a deal by which they would trade with us and promote the use of Blackthorn currency around the area. Since then, a few more small settlements have sprung up, and they're left alone, too.

  Now, you can be a guard and remain a reasonable human being.

  Patrolling is usually uneventful, which is how I like it. I just wander, and stay out for as long as I dare without Hemsley whining at me.

  The fall of Boltwick and Mulgrave is a great shame. I used to enjoy passing the time of day with the farmers. Some day I'd like to see the settlements down south, too, where I hear the weather is better. I know that I'll take off one of these days, though right now I need to stay; guards like me who don't see the shackers and outliers as insects to be stamped on are outnumbered by those who do, sadly. I'm not ready to abandon this place just yet. And what with the bad crops and Central refugees turning feral, it'd be a bad time to set out on the road. Some refugees have established settlements of their own but starting from scratch doesn't come easy; you need tools, livestock, seeds to grow food, and a place you can make habitable and defend, far enough away from the rat-infested ruins of the old world towns and cities, which were burnt out or bombed by the army during the Fall. Our world is the countryside, as nature reclaims the old towns.

  Being a guard is the best life you can have in Blackthorn, and you get to do some good stuff―like the other day, when I took some shackers out to visit a church. An odd request, I thought, but that prince amongst travellers, Ryder Swift, said that some shackers were interested in the old religion, and he thought it would be educational.

  I'm surprised his request was granted, but he seems to have caught the eye of the governor, the poor bastard. Hope he's wise enough to use it to his advantage, without ending up dead.

  Our party included a girl called Evie; I've seen her around and about, of course, for as long as I've been on the south wall―and admired her legs in shorts in the summer―but we've never talked apart from the odd 'howdy' when I nip into the bakery for something to eat when I'm on shift. She's a bit on the mouthy side―which I quite like―but that day in the church I saw something else. A softness in her expression, when she sat talking to Prince Ryder. She was dressed in the usual scruffy workwear of the shacks, her hair in a long braid that I could tell needed a wash, but I still found myself looking her way. I watched her gazing up at the sun shining through the stained glass window, and there was an intensity in her big brown eyes that touched me, somehow.

  I wondered if conversation might come easily with her. Being the antisocial git I am, it rarely does.

  As for Ryder, I'm not sure about him. Nice guy, but I've always thought he seemed too good to be true. Or maybe I'm just jealous, because Evie spent the afternoon talking to him, not me.

  When we got back, I took Ryder and his chalice to the North private lair. Because of my family I've been inside those high walls a few times, but not since Dad died. It seemed different from how I remembered it; it's a sprawl, all on one level. As a child I thought it was a palace, but now I just thought what a waste of space it was. About fifteen rooms, I believe, for one bloke.

  The guards showed us into Wolf's reception lounge, at the front of the house. His private rooms are on the right of the large entrance hall; on the left he receives guests. I knocked, the door opened, and Hemsley the toad came out; he stared at us with those pin-prick eyes of his, set in that deadpan, anaemic face. He's an odd-looking fucker.

  Wolf was lying on the couch, resting against cushions. He smiled at us, and I had to stop myself visibly shuddering. He makes me think of a snake; I would not be surprised to see a forked tongue darting out of his mouth. His eyes are too piercing, his cheeks too angular.

  When he smiles, he looks demonic.

  "Come in, come in," he called out, though he was looking at Ryder, not at me.

  Ryder dumped his bag on the floor and held out his precious chalice. "Byron thought you might like to see this."

  Wolf's eyes lit up. "I would indeed. Bring it over to me; come sit."

  I offered the bag with the
stuff I'd taken from the church, but Wolf brushed it aside.

  "Put it down there. You can get yourself off now, Byron; I want to have a little chat with Ryder."

  I glanced at Ryder, expecting to see apprehension in his eyes, but he marched forward and sat down in the chair next to Wolf's couch as if he had no qualms at all.

  The guy knows how to play the game better than I do, clearly.

  It's slow going through the woods, but we want to stay hidden; soon enough we come out onto the road that leads to the far side of the village, and we stop by the roadside to eat. Astra shares her food with me; Fay eats one of her cheese rolls then, looking very pleased with herself, tucks the other one back into her pouch for later.

  The clouds grow heavy, the first drops of rain falling as we pass the village sign, a work of beauty carved some years before by a local artist. Fay complains about getting wet.

  The world around us is so still. As we make our way into the village, I wonder if I've ever before felt such bleakness. This is death. The end, rain washing away what little there is left. Dark clouds looming behind broken-down houses that no one will ever live in again.

  Despite the silence we remain alert, weapons in hands. From far away, I hear a child's cry, and my heart surges.

  "It's a cat," says Astra.

  Maybe.

  We pass the ruins of houses left empty for many decades, sad, lonely and thick with vegetation, into the centre of the little village, where the settlers worked hard to turn others into habitable dwellings once more. Most are burnt out, now. The village green, once bright with tomatoes, peas, strawberries, is wrecked, the plants destroyed.

  In a garden I see two bodies, covered in blood. Fay protests when I say we must inspect them, but we have to; they might still be alive.

  They're not.

  We find others in the remaining houses, already attracting rats.

  We kick the vermin away and Astra starts dragging one out, but I stop her.

  "This place is gone; better if we burn the houses, rats and all."