“I’ve been watching over the horses,” Jonas said, seemingly to fill the air.
“They are beautiful animals,” Deacon said. “We want to make sure they are taken care of.”
“I agree.”
“Did you get a look at the god weapons?”
“Only briefly,” Jonas said, some of his fear seeming to melt as the conversation turned to the fascinating devices. “The guns are beautiful in a way few treasures are. I’ve never seen metal devices so intact, that our people haven’t made. I would love to study them further.”
“You will get a chance now,” Deacon said with a firm nod.
They watched The Important Ones trudge to the door of the other building. A thin woman tripped, but not before one of the soldiers caught her arm, preventing a fall that would have put her next in line at the ceremony.
“Have you heard back from Bartholomew and Jonathan?”
“They should have talked to the hunters by now,” Deacon said. “I have given them authority to make a determination on Bray, depending on what they learned. If he cannot be used, they will bring me his scalp.”
Jonas looked away. He asked, “What about the others?”
“Hopefully we can use them, like we talked about. We will enact the plan for Kirby and William, when we are ready.”
Chapter 11: Kirby
“It’s all right, William,” Kirby said, rubbing the boy’s back as she looked around the barren room on the second island, mostly empty except for a solitary table containing a few herbs left by the healer, and a lone, shuttered window high up on the wall in the room in which they were housed. A fireplace in the corner blazed with a heat that warmed the room every minute, but that didn’t seem to be helping William, who was lying in a bed slightly bigger than the one back at the hunter’s house, burning up with a fever that seemed to have gotten worse since he’d woken up this morning.
William’s condition was a concern she’d never expected to have, just as she’d never anticipated traveling with a sick, infected boy, or Bray, for whom she was still waiting to get back from the hunt. Kirby shirked her jacket and laid it on the floor next to her rifle, keeping her weapons close. No one had made any attempts to confiscate her weapons, but she’d seen the guards eyeing them all the way to the second island. She’d even seen a strange man watching her from across the dirt yard as they entered the building. She didn’t like the look he’d given her. She’d been hiding her grenades ever since her trip to the market.
She didn’t trust any of the islanders.
She was worried about too many things.
She looked back at William. Every so often, he murmured an unintelligible phrase, or rolled his sweaty head back and forth on the pillow. Shortly after arriving, they’d met with a healer named Berta, who had given William some herbs Kirby had never seen, and then promised to return.
Kirby hadn’t seen her since.
The ride to the second island had been tumultuous. Several times, while riding next to Flora and Jaydra, and then the other soldiers who had escorted them, Kirby had slowed her horse to adjust William, who seemed always in danger of falling off, too weak to hold the reins, swaying with each jolt, murmuring and blinking. He didn’t know what was happening to him, or where he was going.
She doubted he knew where he was, even now.
Thankfully, the soldiers had escorted them safely to Jonathan and Bartholomew, who had set them up in a room among The Important Ones before heading back to the bridge. Kirby wasn’t sure how long Deacon’s good grace would last—and she wasn’t quite sure she trusted him—but she took the help.
Earlier, she’d heard the shuffle of feet as large groups of people moved through the building’s hallway. It sounded like The Important Ones had gone outside. She wasn’t sure why they’d choose a frigid day over a warm indoors, but many things about this island were new to her. She heard muffled conversation in the hallway, and the sound of doors opening and closing. It sounded like they were coming back.
She needed to limit William’s interaction with people.
She adjusted her shirt, ensuring that her lumps were covered. Both of them had things to hide. With William quiet, for the moment, Kirby stood from the bed.
Where was Berta?
William rolled his head back and forth, breaking the quiet as he murmured, “The Ancients made it….”
“It’s all right, William,” she told him, for what felt like the hundredth time since Berta had left.
“The demons will find the tower…”
“They won’t.”
For a while, she’d tried bringing him back to reality, but now she was simply consoling him.
Kirby needed to find the healer. William needed more herbs.
Retrieving her rifle from the floor, she slung it over her shoulder and made her way for the door.
**
Kirby barely recognized the hallway as she stepped out into it. In the flurry of commotion surrounding William’s arrival, Kirby hadn’t had a chance to take in the building. Her boots clapped against the stone floor as she gently closed the door. Barren walls lined either side, broken by ten evenly spaced doorways, all on the same side. The doors were closed. She didn’t see any of the people she’d heard walking through here a few minutes ago. Neither did she see any sign of the bridge guards who had accompanied them into the building. Bartholomew, Jonathan, Deacon, and even Berta, all gone. Where was everyone?
At the end of the hallway in both directions, corridors connected to what she assumed were other hallways.
Stepping carefully, Kirby fought an uneasiness she didn’t like as she kept her hand close to the pistol at her side and the rifle slung on her back.
She paused next to a few closed doors, listening for noise, but heard nothing. Reaching the end of the hallway, she glanced behind her, torn between leaving William and finding help. She didn’t like the idea of being out of sight of him in a strange place.
But he clearly needed help.
Muffled conversation from a room in the connecting hallway drew her attention. Creeping over, she paused to listen . Two people were talking on the other side of the door, but she couldn’t make out any words. She raised her hand to knock.
Footsteps.
Kirby startled and turned. The skinny, dirty man she’d seen outside in the yard rounded the corner, watching her. He seemed surprised at her presence. For a moment, she thought he was going to retreat, but he stayed in place and called out to her.
“Can I help you?”
Realizing that what she was doing might look suspicious, Kirby stepped away from the door and explained, “I’m looking for Berta. She was supposed to come back and help William, the sick boy who was brought here.”
“You won’t find her in there,” the man answered. “Horace and Genevieve live there.”
“Do you know where Berta is?”
A smile flickered across the man’s face as he approached. Kirby tensed. She didn’t like the idea of being in close quarters with this odd man. If he tried something she didn’t like, she’d draw her gun.
The man crossed the rest of the hallway, stopping a few feet from her and motioning to the door by which she was stationed. “Horace and Genevieve chat while they work. I would think it would be distracting, but it keeps their hands moving. That’s who you hear talking in there.” The man shrugged. “They seem to like each other’s company. They hardly leave.”
Kirby nodded, annoyed at the conversation she hadn’t asked for.
The man continued, “Both of them are afflicted with a similar disease. They can’t move their legs well anymore. Their joints are frozen up from age. Horace uses a small contraption I made for him to walk. I fashioned it out of wood a few years ago, but he doesn’t use it much. Genevieve caught a severe illness last time she went outside. She’s convinced it’s from the cold.”
Kirby nodded. “The cold doesn’t always help illnesses, but I don’t believe it causes them.”
The man looked like
he was impressed, or mulling something over. “An observant thought.” His eyes wandered to her guns. After a moment, he got tentatively closer and said, “I’m Jonas.”
“Kirby.”
“I know who you are,” Jonas said, looking away from her. “You’ve caused quite a stir around here.”
Hoping to redirect this man, who seemed more interested in talking than finding help, she asked, “Can you help me find Berta?”
“She’s probably just getting back from the ceremony.”
“Ceremony?”
“The ceremony of the fog. A final gathering for one of our Important Ones, Evelyn,” Jonas explained. His expression turned solemn. “She passed away this morning.”
Kirby said, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“It is sorrowful, but joyous in other ways,” Jonas said, looking sideways at her. “Only the gods can live forever.”
Kirby nodded. She knew many people believed that. “I heard everyone leaving shortly after we arrived,” she said. “Is that where they went?”
“Yes. The Important Ones walked across the island to attend the ceremony,” Jonas said. “Only Horace, Genevieve, and a handful of others remained, because they are too weak to travel. And a few healers and guards, of course.”
Kirby nodded. She wondered if those words were a warning. She’d seen the guards outside the building, and by the bridge, seemingly keeping too close an eye on things. She sized up Jonas. He didn’t seem like a fighting man. He bore no scars that she could see, and he had the demeanor of one who followed authority, rather than asserted it. “Do you live here?”
Jonas thought on that for a moment. “Yes. I help Deacon take care of things. I live in the other building.”
“What types of things?”
Glancing at her guns, he answered, “I study many of the relics our gods left behind, that our soldiers bring back. As you can imagine, we have pulled numerous things from the rubble. Things almost as interesting as what you carry, but not quite as useful.”
Kirby nodded as he kept looking at her weapons. She didn’t have time for the interest in her guns, which had gotten old the moment she’d stepped across the bridge. “I would appreciate it if you could find the healer,” she said, refocusing the conversation. “I’m going to head back and check on William, make sure he’s all right.”
“I’ll walk with you. Berta is likely to be this way,” Jonas said, taking up next to her.
Keeping an arm’s length away from him, Kirby veered from the center of the hallway to William’s room. “The herbs don’t seem to be working. We’ll need something more.”
“What type of illness does he have?” Jonas asked.
“The Winter Flu,” Kirby said quickly, watching Jonas’s expression. If William’s condition hadn’t been so urgent, she might’ve second-guessed bringing him here, where someone might see his lumps. Reaching the door, Kirby said, “Thanks again for your help.”
Jonas looked as if he wanted to say something else. Before he could invite himself in, Kirby slipped through the crack and shut the door behind her, stopping abruptly.
She gasped.
William stood next to the bed, his blankets in heaps around him on the floor. He was red-faced and beaded with sweat. He reached around the room wildly, clenching and grabbing as if he was in the midst of some hallucination, or warding something off.
“Get away!” he hissed.
“William? What’s happening?”
“Demons…” he told her, his eyes half open as he clawed the air.
“There are no demons here. You need to get back to bed,” Kirby said, hoping she wouldn’t have to fend off a sick, confused boy.
William looked past her, but he didn’t seem as if he was going to rush her. Taking the opportunity, she hurried across the room and took his arm.
“We have to hide,” William said urgently, pulling away as she tried to settle him. “The demons are here.”
“There are no demons, just me. Just Kirby.”
A glimpse of recognition crossed his face. Or was it something else? She couldn’t tell. Whatever feverish thoughts were afflicting him, she needed to get him back to bed.
“Quiet down,” she warned. “You’re going to be all right, William. The healer will be back soon.” William settled down enough to obey, but he was still spouting nonsense. Kirby calmed him down and tucked him under the sheets, blotting the sweat from his forehead.
Then she waited for the healer.
Chapter 12: Jonas The Collector
Jonas listened by the door. It seemed William’s condition was getting worse. He made off down the hallway to find the healer. A dead boy wouldn’t do anyone favors.
His thoughts wandered to the fascinating, metallic guns. He’d tried not to stare too long at them. He wanted to touch them. He wanted to inspect the long tubes and the metal grips, ideally figuring out how they worked. He wanted to take them from Kirby.
Patience.
It was getting near time to put their plan in place. He turned a corner, moving into a more populated section of the building. The hallway smelled like ancient relics that had been exhumed from the dirt. The Important Ones rarely bathed—many were too frail to take off their clothes without assistance. They spent the days in their rooms, mostly working, except for the occasional walk behind the buildings. Jonas hated this building. It reminded him of ceremonies and death. But Deacon had instructed him to keep an eye on the horses, and on Kirby and William, until they were ready. He needed to make sure William was alive.
He rounded the bend of another corridor, searching. A familiar voice called his attention to a nearby room. The door was partly open, allowing Berta’s voice to escape into the hallway.
“It’ll heal soon, Ernie. It’s just a rash,” she said to the man in the room.
The man groaned.
“Berta?” Jonas called, gently pushing open the door.
Berta met him at the threshold, a cloth in her hand, looking surprised to see him in a building he normally kept away from.
“Kirby and William need your assistance,” he said, prompting a look of worry. “I found Kirby looking in the hallways. William’s fever is getting worse.”
“I was afraid of that,” Berta said as she started down the hall in the direction of William’s room.
Jonas watched her for a moment, thinking about following, but instead he walked the last few feet to the end of the hall, opened the door that led outside, and stepped out.
Patience.
Chapter 13: Bray
Bray cracked his eyes and saw nothing. The only hint he was alive was the rushing water behind him, smacking against the soles of his boots. Pain coursed through his body as his wounds caught up to his consciousness. Groaning, he sucked in a ragged breath, inhaling dirt. He was on the ground, he thought. But he couldn’t move.
Was he paralyzed, or was he dead?
Perhaps he was trapped in some hellish nightmare of the gods. Maybe he was doomed to hear the rushing water in the background for the rest of time. He struggled to turn his head, blinking, hoping his eyes would reveal a clue that he wasn’t in some torturous dream. He moved his neck enough to see upward with one half-closed eye. Tree limbs jutted out above him like outstretched arms, waiting to protect or grab him. The sky was an uncertain gray.
The only thing he knew for certain was pain.
He’d made it far enough on the riverbank to avoid drowning, but not much farther. He was lying on a bed of hard, exposed roots that extended over most of the riverbank, sloping upward and into a forest he could hardly see. He moved an arm, wincing at some agony in both his shoulders and his back. He felt the sting of the river water on his drenched shirt, seeping through to his skin, invading his open wounds. He was probably bleeding out. If his injuries didn’t kill him, the winter’s chill would, and he’d freeze.
Bray lifted his head farther. Thick, scraggly brush and trees occupied the area past the slope, which was covered in a layer of snow. Most of the
foliage was leafless, but the tree trunks were thick enough to block his view of anything coming.
And something would. It always did.
Footsteps.
Too soon.
Bray gritted his teeth as something crashed through the forest on quick feet, breaking through the bramble, coming toward him. He looked around. His sword was lost, probably hanging in the scabbard of one of the soldiers coming to kill him by now. He’d lost the knife he’d managed to unsheathe before he fell. And his bag was gone. Bray slid an arm through the muddy riverbank, reaching for the one knife he had left. Was it a soldier coming for him, or a group? Had they gotten to him already?
Whoever it was had him outmatched.
They’d be on top of him before he reacted. He turned his head back to the forest as a snarl emanated from the tree line.
It wasn’t a soldier.
A demon.
A wart-covered head poked through the tree line, scanning the water. The fetid stench of unwashed skin drifted down to where he was lying. Bray held his breath and went stock-still, clutching his knife. The creature hissed as it scoured the banks, looking from the water, to the island in the middle, back to the river’s shores. Its eyes stopped on Bray. A look flashed through its eyes that needed no interpretation.
It was hungry.
Bray pushed to get up, but the creature was already smashing through the last bit of underbrush and lunging. He had barely enough strength to roll over before it landed on top of him, biting the air, vying for a taste of his skin. It raked at his wet clothes with dirty hands. Bray stuck out a weak arm, managing to grab the creature’s neck with his free hand, keeping its teeth at bay as it snapped, its sour breath filling the space between them. He couldn’t stop its prying hands. He felt his skin tear underneath the demon’s raking fingers.
Not like this.
The creature stank of rancid meat—whatever it had killed and consumed before. Bray clasped his knife as the creature descended, pushing to get out of his grip and chew his flesh.
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