The Ruins Box Set

by T. W. Piperbrook

  “Filthy wild men!”

  “Sons of pigs!”

  A few of the Halifax women without guns returned angry words that Bray couldn’t understand. They clashed swords. He had no time to watch. Three men ran up on Bray, almost quicker than he could raise his gun. He shot one of them in the stomach, stopping the man with a curt scream, and then his gun was making useless sounds. He stuffed it into his holster and dodged a slice from the second man’s blade. But the third man was too close, swinging and cutting Bray’s arm. Bray roared in anger as the sword reopened an old wound. Leaping back, Bray countered with a backward slice of his blade to the third man’s face, tearing open his cheek. The man shrieked and held his face as the second man took his place. Bray recovered from his swing in time to clang blades with the second man, engaging him in a struggle as they pushed against each other’s swords. The third man, seeing Bray occupied, ran at Bray from the side, intent on spearing him.

  Bray roared in vain as he prepared for a stab he couldn’t block.

  “Dirt scratchers!”

  Someone jabbed the third man in the back. The man gasped. Samron pulled his sword from the man’s back, roaring with anger. “Cowards!” he shouted.

  Inspired, Bray found a burst of strength, pushing away the second man with whom he had clashed blades. He swung several times, slicing the man’s shirt, spilling his insides. The man tumbled to the ground.

  “Are you all right?” Samron asked, noticing blood on Bray’s arm.

  “It is shallow,” Bray said. “I’m fine.”

  Samron broke off, battling another incoming soldier. Bray looked around, noticing bodies sprawled everywhere under the light of fallen torches. Men and women fought fiercely all around him, but much of the gunfire had stopped. A few men still used guns, but most had resorted to swords.

  With no one nearby, Bray stopped to reload next to a tree, keeping to the shadows.

  Setting down his sword, he pulled out the extra metal Kirby had called a magazine, struggling to get the first one out. In the distance, he heard shouts he could understand.

  “Forget the bridge! Go the other way!”

  Bray bent down as he managed to get the first magazine out.

  A few people ran past Bray, not seeing the small gun he held in his hands, or perhaps more focused on the commotion in the distance, not recognizing him in the shadows. He straightened as they kept going. Gunshots boomed from the direction of the bridge. Several more men that were clearly soldiers ran past him, and he bent down to avoid being noticed, so he could finish with his gun. The bridge was around another few curves, invisible from here, but he didn’t need to see what was happening to know he needed to help Kirby.

  They needed to win the battle here and get to the bridge.

  He was just trying to put the new magazine in the gun when someone strode in his direction at a fast walk.

  Bray stuffed his gun back in his holster, picked up his bloodied sword, and waited for the person to pass him by, like the others. The person stepped over a body in the street, bending down to pick up a knife and stuff it in his pants. The flames of a nearby torch revealed a familiar face.

  Bartholomew.

  Mistaking Bray for a soldier in the dim lighting, Bartholomew said, “You’re going the wrong way, soldier! The enemy is close behind you!”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Bray said.

  Chapter 73: Kirby

  The surprise of the initial attack was long gone. Distant soldiers took control and barked orders, preparing a charge that would easily wipe out Kirby and her men, guns or not. Her grenades were gone.

  The smoke had dissipated.

  A few Halifax men had already stopped shooting, out of ammunition and struggling to reload. They’d expended most of the rifles’ thirty shots. Those shots had gone even faster than Kirby expected. Arrows flew past her horse as some of the island bowmen started a long-range attack that would quickly become short range, once they decided no one else was coming and realized she was out of grenades. One of the arrows struck a Halifax man next to her in the shoulder, and he cried out, dropping his gun. With a cry through gritted teeth, he bent down and recovered his weapon.

  We’re doomed, thought Kirby.

  New cries split the air.

  From the other side of the bridge, men fell, and loud bursts of gunfire echoed off the walls. The whoop of many new men and women punctuated the bridge as a new group of attackers entered the fray, and the silhouettes of the islanders turned around to face many more attackers than Kirby’s men.

  A realization became a hope.

  Enoch.

  “Enoch!” she yelled aloud.

  Finding new strength, the Halifax men next to Kirby whooped into the air, bellowing similar cries of war. They quickly used the distraction to reload new magazines. Across from them, the islanders were in a new panic as many were gunned down. New confusion sent some fleeing back to where Kirby, Flora, and her men picked them off. Reinforcements or not, soon the islanders would realize that Kirby’s side of the bridge were the easy targets. They needed to get into the battle.

  “Let’s go!” Kirby shouted, spurring her horse.

  Flora rode next to her, while the Halifax men charged toward the other end of the bridge to enter the fray. Kirby’s heart raced as her horse’s hooves clomped the pavement. They stepped, or galloped around the dead bodies of the islanders as they made their way from the front half of the bridge to the middle. Several new clusters of islanders ran up the sloping road to charge into battle. Kirby knocked back some islanders with her horse, trampling them under its hooves. With her horse at a gallop, it took little time to outpace the Halifax men. Inadvertently, she got ahead. Flora kept to the northern wall of the bridge, riding a little behind Kirby and on the opposite side. Kirby lost track of Flora.

  A Halifax man screamed behind her.

  She turned her head in time to watch a man fall, writhing in pain, no one around him. He clutched what might be bullet wounds in his chest.

  Someone else was shooting. She glanced down the descending road, enough time to get a brief glimpse of what was coming.

  A voice she recognized shouted an order.

  Deacon.

  A cluster of soldiers came up the sloping road, flanking a lone man with a gun—the only one on the islands. Her gun. Bullets split the air as Deacon opened fire and the Halifax men behind her screamed and fell. She heard the whinny of Flora’s horse.

  And then Kirby was back in the thick of battle, surrounded by islanders trying to get her from her steed.

  Chapter 74: Bray

  With a feral cry of rage, Bray charged at Bartholomew. Bartholomew’s face registered surprise for a brief moment before he brought up his sword. They crashed blades, grunting and heaving as each tried to get the upper hand.

  “You’re a fool to come back here!” Bartholomew shouted.

  “And you’re a fool to stay,” Bray spat, as he pushed. “Cowardly pig. Where are your soldiers now?”

  They pushed until they were away from each other. Bray swung again. Metal scraped metal. The swords slid off one another. Rage drove Bray as they struck several more times, each vying for the superior position. Bray’s arm bent as he pushed against Bartholomew’s blade, cracking open one of his old wounds. The sting drove more anger as he shoved Bartholomew away, gaining enough distance to circle and stare in the light of the moon and several fallen torches.

  Noticing the gun at Bray’s side, Bartholomew said, “You should have used your god weapon!”

  Bray gritted his teeth. He hadn’t had time to finish reloading.

  “I don’t need it!”

  He charged.

  They struck swords again, grunting as they fought. Bray swung for Bartholomew’s stomach, then his face, but each time Bartholomew moved aside, countering with swings of his own. Bartholomew swiped sideways, catching Bray’s left sleeve, tearing fabric but missing skin.

  “Son of a bitch!” Bray cried.

  Behind them,
cries of war continued as Halifax men fought the islanders. Bray had no time to guess what might be occurring behind him. To look away was to die.

  Bray stabbed hard, but Bartholomew leapt backward, avoiding it and countering. Sweat ran down Bray’s forehead as he jumped back. His clothes reeked of the river he crossed, reminding him of the raging current, dragging him away. Rage found its way into Bray’s sword again as he ran and swung hard, catching Bartholomew’s upper leg with a deep slice before he could block. Bartholomew cried out in anger, but he got up a sword before Bray could finish the job. He pushed Bray backward.

  Knocked off kilter, Bray fought for balance.

  Bartholomew charged.

  This time Bartholomew knocked into Bray, sending him to the ground and landing on top of him. Bray’s sword fell from his hands, clattering on the ground. Bray shot up an arm and grabbed the wrist of Bartholomew’s sword hand, managing to keep him at bay, but he had no control over Bartholomew’s other hand, which found Bray’s neck. Bray struggled to breathe as Bartholomew squeezed. Robbed of air, Bray clasped at the hand around his windpipe, staring at the man atop him, whose angry face was illuminated in the light of a fallen torch.

  “I will make sure William dies screaming,” Bartholomew spat, his eyes filled with a hateful satisfaction.

  Bray tried retorting, but couldn’t.

  Renewed rage filled Bray, but it was rage with no outlet. His pulse thudded in his neck as he tried to breathe. He was losing his grip on Bartholomew’s sword hand. His right hand was free, but Bartholomew was pinning him in a position where he couldn’t reach his knife, and he was still trying to breathe through Bartholomew’s vice-like grip on his neck. Giving up on prying loose Bartholomew’s fingers, he swung at Bartholomew’s face, but his blows were weak and ineffective.

  He’d survived the attack of Bartholomew’s soldiers.

  The river.

  Flora.

  Perhaps this was the moment he failed.

  Bray stopped weakly hitting Bartholomew as the last of his air left him and his eyes glazed. His hand hit the ground, and something hot singed his fingers. The pain snapped him alert.

  An idea became a hope as he found a last burst of strength, located a torch’s handle, and closed his hand around it. He shoved it sideways into Bartholomew’s face and held it there. He didn’t need much strength. Flesh met fire. Hair singed. Bartholomew screamed as the hot torch sizzled his skin and scalp. He let go, staggering to his feet and shrieking. His sword fell.

  And then Bray was free again.

  He sucked in precious gulps of air.

  Rolling to the side, some of Bray’s strength returned, and he forced himself to his feet, staggering over and retrieving Bartholomew’s dropped sword. Bartholomew screamed and held his face. Seeing Bray coming, Bartholomew stopped his screams long enough to look up. In the light of several other torches, Bray saw the flames had found Bartholomew’s eye. Blackened, burnt skin marred half of his face. He blinked with his good eye as he looked for a weapon, amidst more screams.

  It was time to end it.

  With a vengeful cry, Bray ran at Bartholomew with Bartholomew’s sword, spearing him deep in the stomach and leaving the sword there. Bartholomew gasped and doubled over as the sword cleaved his flesh. He spat blood and fell to his knees, gasping for air. Bray stepped back as Bartholomew found the strength to look up at Bray, as if this was somehow a mistake, and he was still on top of Bray, choking him, instead of dying. He pried at the sword still stuck in his belly.

  Bartholomew had made a mistake by letting Bray go.

  Bray wouldn’t repeat it.

  Pulling out the knife at his side, the only thing left after he’d been thrown in the river, Bray sliced Bartholomew’s throat.

  Chapter 75: William

  William rode his horse slowly through a dense cluster of trees. Thick, looming shadows from the moonlight surrounded him. Despite the intermittent gunfire in the distance, and the faraway shouts and screams, he felt completely alone. In fact, he was lonely. Bray and Kirby were dead. They must be. He wondered if this was what death felt like—not the arrow or gun that would ultimately end his life, but the hollow feeling of being lost, with nowhere to go.

  Soon, war would reach him. War touched everything around it. William had seen the bloodied bodies on a battlefield. He’d seen the tears on the women’s cheeks, before and after war, and heard the wails of children who had lost relatives. He’d killed enough people of his own, since leaving Brighton.

  He’d hoped to escape war, but here it was, coming to grab him.

  William steered the horse through more trees, looking for somewhere to find respite, until he could figure out what to do. The horse swayed nervously as it weaved through the forest, picking a path between the trees.

  William was on the western portion of the island. That was all he knew. He looked for houses, or people, but saw neither. A memory hit him. He recalled Bray sharing a story of his travels that first day on the island, when William had lain in bed, and Bray had gone exploring. Bray had talked about some of the remote farms on the banks of the river, far away from the road and heading toward the second island. If William continued southwest, perhaps he could find a place to hide. Perhaps he could wait out whatever was happening.

  Riding in the opposite direction of the noise, he rode until he reached a clearing. The moon cast a white glow over rows of choppy, uneven dirt that looked like they held crops. The horse contended with the bumpy terrain, making its way across the field as William looked out for torches. The field was vacant. Soon he’d reached the other side. He saw no buildings, but something glistened, past a small cluster of trees and down a slope.

  The river.

  Thinking he might get a glimpse of something that would help him, William rode through a copse of trees, stopping on the root-covered riverbank, looking across the river. He saw nothing but a dark patch of forest on the opposite shore. The current foamed and spat, seemingly much quicker and stronger than it was in most places he’d looked on the second island. Crossing it wasn’t an option.

  He knew better than to try.

  Looking right, he saw the outline of the bridge deep in the distance. A few pinpricks of light burned in various spots as men and woman shrieked. More guns cracked. William backed his horse away.

  Something moved across the river.

  A handful of silhouettes emerged onto the opposite bank, yowling as they looked across the river, probably drawn by the noise. William’s horse stamped the ground and stepped backward.

  William’s brothers.

  He stared at the twisted men. They would never make it across, but they would try, if he told them.

  They would die for him.

  More guilt hit him.

  He couldn’t get the gurgling, dying scream of the first, drowning demon out of his head, or the shrieks of the second demon that had fought the second island’s soldiers. Two of his brothers had fallen, because of his judgment. Those deaths are my fault.

  William looked down at the black, raging current.

  He looked back at his brothers. He couldn’t kill more of them. They might be all he had left.

  Without a word, he backed up and rode in the opposite direction.

  Chapter 76: Kirby

  Kirby rode through a tangle of battling, screaming men and women. She felt as if she were in a dark maze of wails and bloodshed. Her life was one giant battlefield, killing and defending, one she’d been trying to escape. But this was a new battle, and she’d die if she didn’t keep fighting.

  She’d lost track of the rest of the Halifax men with whom she’d initially charged.

  She’d lost track of Flora and Deacon.

  An islander ran at her, his face streaked with blood as he finished an altercation and found her. She shot him in the shoulder, pitching him back and into another skirmish. The horse plowed through several more islanders, knocking them to the side. One man latched onto her boot as she rode past, but she kicked him off a
nd kept riding. More people jumped out of the way as she rode faster. To stop was to die.

  Her rifle was almost out of rounds.

  She fired at several more islanders, killing them with shots to the head, or the chest, before her gun was empty. Reloading was a nearly impossible feat, on the back of a running horse, in the midst of a raging battle. She kept the horse moving as fast as she could, trampling those that she could steer into. She drew her pistol as the horse clopped over scattered bodies.

  Some people battled by the sides of the bridge, swinging their swords as they overlooked the water; others spilled out in all directions, blocking her way. She knocked a few more men aside as the horse squealed and spit.

  Three islanders ran toward Kirby, screaming as they tried to take her from the horse. She fired, sending two of them reeling backward, wounded. One man tripped over a dead body. Some Halifax men nearby quickly finished him off.

  More and more gunfire subsided as Enoch’s men ran out of bullets, reloaded, or abandoned the idea of the guns, taking to their swords. She looked for Enoch, but couldn’t find him. She rode the horse wherever she had an opening, or to wherever she could help, sometimes riding diagonally, but always forward. She shot an islander in the leg who was charging a Halifax man, sending him sprawling. She shot another two men before they could attack a lone Halifax woman, who ran in the other direction once she was free, finding another target. Kirby watched as a Halifax man lifted a short, skinny islander, tossing him off the bridge. His cries quickly vanished.

  An islander ran at Kirby from the right flank, swinging his sword at her leg, but she got her gun up in time to shoot him, sending him tumbling. Her pistol had even fewer shots left than her rifle. She needed to reload soon. Kirby fought her way through more men, trampling some, and shooting others, making her way toward the other end of the bridge, and what looked like a clearing.

  Enoch’s men had killed most of the islanders near the boulders at the eastern entrance, creating an opening. Perhaps she could battle her way around them and take a moment to reload. Bodies lay everywhere, mostly dead islanders who had fallen under the initial gunfire. A few wounded men crawled away from her horse and toward the sides of the bridge.