by Bobby Adair
Many of the men around the fire chanted with Winthrop, and the mumbo-jumbo noise took on the tenor of a primal song. The soldiers stomped their feet with the rhythm. More men joined in the tune, imagining power in the god-speak language they were repeating. Above the deep voices, Winthrop's voice soared, enormous and loud. He stood and raised his fists at the sky, shaking them and spinning around.
The men swayed, bumped each other, and growled.
Oliver inched toward the fire to get away from the men. He feared he might get bumped to the ground and stomped.
The sound of the battle at the edge of the camp grew louder and spread over a wider area. More demons were coming.
The men around the fire seemed to be falling into a trance, rooted by fear, but growing in courage, a rage at a demon foe hiding its cowardice in the darkness.
Somebody shouted the word "demon."
Winthrop took up the word and all the men chanted it, louder and louder, faster and faster.
A frenzied lust for demon blood.
Winthrop shouted a command in his new gibberish and the men roared and broke into a charge.
Oliver hid from the flow of feet by getting as close to the fire as he dared.
A moment later, only Winthrop was left, chanting at the sky. Women who'd been in the crowd were the only ones left in a ragged, thin circle around the fire. They drew in close with crazed looks on their faces. They were under Winthrop's spell as strongly as the men who'd just charged off.
Oliver took a quick glance around, thinking about taking his big knife and ramming it through Winthrop's ribcage. He knew immediately that he'd never get away with it. Judging by the looks on the women's faces, Oliver guessed they'd catch him and beat him to death. Or throw him on the fire.
Winthrop would have to die another night.
That left Oliver to decide what to do with himself. With demons attacking in growing numbers, he figured his chances of surviving the night would be better if he were surrounded by a couple of hundred angry, armed men than if he was huddling by a fire with an old fool and a dozen women with only their fists for protection.
Chapter 14: Beck
Demons ran through the camp. Beck saw their naked, warty forms and their misshapen heads in the silhouettes of the fires. People screamed everywhere. Some chased the demons. Some fought. Some ran.
Still, there weren't many. Beck only saw seven or eight. He heard a lot more in the camp and in the forest. All around the camp's perimeter, sergeants and officers barked orders, telling their platoons to stand fast, to guard their sectors. Men shouted as they walked among the tents, waking any soldiers who might still be sleeping. Men formed up into squads and platoons near the tents and jogged across the camp, searching for demons.
More screams in the darkness. People were dying.
Beck looked around. No demons or soldiers were near him. The bonfire between his tent and Blackthorn's tent was alive with flames, flowing twenty feet into the air, not only illuminating the council's tents but illuminating Beck. He realized any demon in the woods or running crazy-legged through the camp could likely see him, standing, not moving, not raising a weapon, not running to fight, not running away, waiting for nothing else but to die.
He couldn't let that happen.
It was time to take advantage of an opportunity that might not come again.
Beck ran into his tent and drew his knife. At the tent's back wall, he slashed at the worn canvas, cutting half a dozen gashes big enough for a man to leap through. After the last slash, he climbed through the hole and ran away from the bonfire and into the darkest shadows he could see.
He veered toward the trees, taking time to pause and hide behind tents, looking around and planning his next sprint, his next hiding place.
People and demons ran in every direction.
The thunder of hooves rumbled through the ground. The cavalrymen still in camp were mounted and hunting.
Or General Blackthorn was returning.
Or the cavalry Blackthorn had taken up the road had been slaughtered, and the horses were stampeding back to the camp, covered in blood and whinnying in fear.
Beck wasn't sure.
He wasn't going to find the answer to that question. He bolted across the last patch of dry, brown grass and came to a stop behind a thick tree trunk. He peeked into the dappled black shadows. The forest was darker than he'd imagined. He caught his breath.
He didn't see anything moving that wasn't obviously a bush or a branch—at least no demons seemed to be close by. He heard no beasts crashing through the woods.
Beck took a last glance at the camp. The situation was the same, chaotic. He made a choice.
He ran deeper into the woods.
Chapter 15: Oliver
Running near the back of the mob, Oliver didn't realize what was happening until it was near done. The men who'd taken Winthrop's words as courage had spread out into a wide circle that Oliver nearly ran into before a man grabbed him by the shoulder, yanking him back. "Not so anxious there, tyke."
The men in the circle jeered. Two demons in the center crouched and howled. They were afraid, and their animal terror emboldened the militiamen who pointed their weapons and inched closer. Oliver stepped with them, keeping his dagger pointed in an outstretched hand, but having the wherewithal to look behind him as well. These weren't the only two demons in the camp.
The shouting around him grew louder. Men waved their spears and axes, in wild, exaggerated swings.
The beasts turned in a circle, back to back, growling and swiping at the air.
Oliver got squeezed out as the circle shrank. He became surrounded by tall men, able to see only those close enough to reach out and touch.
Metal clanged.
The beasts howled, and men cursed.
Curses turned to cheers as blood lust filled their shouts. The men celebrated and hopped around. Even without seeing what happened, Oliver knew. The two beasts were dead.
He squeezed his way out of the mob. The men were feeling their victory, lopsided though it was. But to kill the beast of their nightmares, even when outnumbering them a hundred to one, had an empowering effect that fascinated Oliver. Men were strange creatures when caught in the frenzy of a mob.
The circle burst apart, and Oliver nearly got trampled again. Six men ran out of the group holding the bloody, malformed corpse of a beast over their heads. Another group of men followed, carrying the second beast. All the men cheered again and ran after the bodies.
Oliver followed. As raucous as these men were, as unconcerned as they were with him, he had no choice but to stay with them. They were his safety.
The men raced through the camp, shouting and losing none of their bravado until they came to the fire in front of which Father Winthrop still chanted with the women huddled close behind him. The men dropped the dead demons on the ground at Winthrop's feet, and all of them formed into a circle again, taking up Winthrop's chant.
Oliver squeezed through the crowd to see Winthrop and to feel the warmth of the fire.
Winthrop fell to his knees and laid his hands on a demon's chest. His voice left him.
The militiamen stopped chanting and shouting. Even their breathing was near silent as they strained to listen.
Winthrop bowed his head over the beast and rubbed his hands through the demon's blood. In a whisper, he said, "You've killed the beast to protect me."
A few men shouted, "We killed the beast."
Winthrop raised his bloody hands in front of his face and looked at them. "You killed the beast to protect The Word."
The men took up the chant.
"WE KILLED THE BEAST TO PROTECT THE WORD!"
Winthrop pressed his hands to his chest, leaving bloody palm prints there. He looked at his hands again and then dropped to his knees to get more blood. Finding a new power in his voice, he raised his bloody hands to the sky. "Demon's blood will protect us. With demons' blood, we will live forever."
"SO SAYETH THE WORD."
Only a handful of men spoke it. Oliver recognized the catechism from Winthrop's religious service.
"Demons' blood will protect us," Winthrop said in a stronger voice. "With demons' blood, we will live forever."
"SO SAYETH THE WORD."
One of the soldiers ran forward and dropped to his knees across the demon's body from Winthrop. "Bless me, Father."
Winthrop stared at the man for a second, as though he'd appeared out of the ether and not from the mob. Winthrop looked around him with crazy eyes that seemed unable to find a focus.
"Bless me, Father, please. Grant me the protection of the demon's blood."
Winthrop pressed his hands to the man's chest, leaving two bloody palm prints.
The soldier jumped up and marched around the circle, showing off his marks and yelling victoriously at the sky.
Another man ran over and dropped to his knees in front of Winthrop, awaiting the same mark. "Bless me with demons' blood father."
Winthrop pressed two bloody palm prints onto the man's chest.
Oliver shivered.
Chapter 16: Beck
Beck stood amongst the trees feeling something he'd seldom felt in his life: inadequate. Somewhere in the general direction behind him, men fought with demons in the camp he was running from. In every other direction, things moved through the forest—big, man-sized things. Some howled. Near. Far. In between. A demon could be lurking behind the tree right in front of him, and Beck wouldn't know it until its warty hands were grasping for his throat and its bulbous head full of bad teeth and stinking breath were leaning in for the kill.
Assuming he lived through the night, could Beck learn how to survive in the forest? Sure. He could develop the skills to defend himself with a weapon. If those dunces in the militia could, then Beck could as well. But because they were all ignorant men with dim thoughts, Beck had always assumed that life outside the circle wall was something he could figure out with ease as he went along. It was the basis of his escape plan: sneak away from the camp and figure it out as he strolled his way back to Brighton. Simple.
Only it wasn't.
In fact, Beck was faced with such a host of little and big problems that he kept thinking the same thought over and over again: that he'd made a mistake that would cost him his life.
The night was getting colder. Beck's coat wasn't thick enough to keep him warm. His first mistake.
Or maybe his second.
He couldn't start a fire to warm himself. The simple truth was that he didn't know how. He'd never done it on his own and had only watched with the vaguest curiosity while a serving girl started the fire in his hearth. But even if he could build a fire, would it be wise to do so? Fire would draw the forest monsters in.
Beck hadn't troubled himself to think about how he'd find his way through the woods. Having lived his whole life with marked roads in a town he knew well, and being a man of high intellect, he assumed he'd figure it out by watching the direction the army traveled. Now he'd lost his sense of direction. The frenzy of the escape had confused him. As he stood in the shadows of the moonlight, wanting badly to go home to Brighton, he had no idea which way to travel. He only knew that the army had marched a half day prior to settling down to set up camp for the night. So Brighton was a half-day in some direction from where he stood in the woods.
On the question of food and water, Beck hadn't had time to grab provisions. The escape had been a spur of the moment decision, brought on by opportunity and fear. If he got lost in the forest and wandered for days, food and water would become an increasingly urgent need. If he came across a river or a stream, he could drink, but he had no clue how to catch a rabbit or a bird. He didn't know what a berry bush looked like. He didn't know which trees bore nuts.
Beck spun in a slow circle, looking at what little he could make out in the dark: trees, shrubs, and shadows.
Could he even find his way back to camp? Had he already lost that option?
He wasn't sure.
Beck chastised himself. To go back was to admit cowardice. It was an admission of failure. It was likely to lead to his death. General Blackthorn might put him on a pyre as punishment.
Beck stepped quietly in the direction he'd been moving.
He decided he'd know where the demons were because they were noisy. Their problem. Beck knew he could be quiet. That was the advantage of intellect. He'd already figured something out that was important to staying alive. Maybe the most important thing. Silence saves lives.
His confidence growing with each step, Beck realized that his worries were magnifying the problems he was facing. He started to keep count of all the noises he heard in the woods. He tried to guess how far they were from him, and in which directions they moved. Tracking all the noises that he assumed were demons, he kept busy until he came to a creek and stopped.
He knelt by the water, feeling pretty good at already having found a solution to one of his problems. Impending thirst.
A sound of splashing from down the creek didn't sound like water running over rocks or cascading off of ledges. It sounded like feet. That got his attention.
For a time much longer than he should have, he squatted on the bank of the creek, watching the water's silvery surface disappear far downstream around a high bank. The sound came from down there, and it seemed to grow louder.
He breathed deliberate breaths and told himself not to let his panic rise again. The sound could be the creek flowing over rocks, and his imagination was making it louder.
Still, he couldn't take his eyes away from where the creek disappeared around a bend.
A howl echoed up the creek.
Beck's breath caught in his throat.
Grunts and yelps mixed with the splashes. A handful of demons were coming up the creek.
It was time to panic.
Beck leaped across the water and slipped in the mud on the other side. He scrambled to hold onto roots and pull himself up the steep bank. Muddy stones rolled down and splashed into the water. A branch snapped in his hand. Dry leaves on a small bush rattled. Beck got a handful of a thorny plant, cursed under his breath as he let go, and rolled onto level ground at the top edge of the bank with his feet still hanging over the edge.
The noise from up the bank stopped.
Beck looked far downstream. Two demons stood in the water, their misshapen, wart-covered heads silhouetted by the moonlight. Beck froze and held his breath. Maybe they hadn't seen him.
One howled and sprinted.
Beck didn't need to know what that meant. Instinct took over, and he scrambled to his feet and ran as fast as he could.
Chapter 17: Melora
When Melora opened her eyes, her brother was slipping back under his blanket.
"William?" she whispered.
She sat upright, certain she was dreaming. But the guilty look on William's face showed her she wasn't. An early morning sun had replaced the moon through the cracks in the ceiling. William's face was red from the cold. He looked around, meeting her eyes for a second before pulling the blanket over his head, lying perfectly still.
"William?" she whispered again.
Melora wiped the sleep from her eyes. She looked through the archway, wondering if Bray or Ella had seen what she had. Ella was facing the other direction under her blanket. Bray sat hunched against the wall, his sword in his lap, his eyes closed.
What had William been doing?
Melora sat upright, contemplating waking the others.
"William?" she whispered again.
No answer.
Maybe he'd been going to the bathroom. That might explain the guilty look in his eyes. Perhaps he was embarrassed.
Melora lay back down on the floor and closed her eyes. She listened until she heard the rhythmic sound of William breathing again. It seemed like he'd fallen back asleep. Whatever he'd been doing, he didn't appear to be hurt.
She'd talk to him about it in the morning.
Chapter 18: Oliver
Ol
iver sat on a log, watching. The sun wasn't up yet, but its light had turned the cold sky from black to gray. The fire blazed tall with branches and logs added through the night. Winthrop, his voice hoarse from babbling, still murmured and laid his hands in the blood of the dead demons scattered around. Earlier, when the sky was still a blanket of black sparkled with stars and the demons still ran through the camp, Winthrop had drafted the women nearby. He declared them priestesses and laid his bloody hands on their cheeks. They followed Winthrop around the fire. They knelt when he knelt. They chanted when he chanted. They stood when he stood.
All through the night, men kept coming in for his blessing. Oliver had no guess as to how many of the militiamen wore Winthrop's bloody handprints on their chests, but it was more than the few hundred that had started gathering around the fire at the beginning of the night.
Curious about the camp now that the morning light was coming, Oliver stood on his log and looked around. The rushing and running had come to an end. No more demons afoot. No more came out of the woods. Men walked aimlessly, some proud and tired, others dragging their weapons on the ground, exhausted by their first night outside the circle wall.
The familiar smell of burned wood and burned flesh floated with the smoke. Demon carcasses were being burned elsewhere in the camp. Nobody was cooking breakfast.
Oliver realized how tired he was after having gone the night without a wink of sleep. He remembered stories he'd heard when he was small about heroes in the cavalry who'd gone days and days without sleep during their demon wars. Oliver didn't see how that was possible at the time.
Now he did.
He looked around for the cavalrymen and saw some on horses patrolling the perimeter. He looked toward General Blackthorn's great tent, standing out near the edge of the camp. Men and horses were there, but they were all too far away for Oliver to identify individuals. Blackthorn might be sitting on his horse there by his tent, or he might be inside, sleeping. Or he might be dead.
Not likely. Half the people in Brighton believed he couldn't be killed.
