The Last Survivors (Book 4): The Last Command

by Bobby Adair

  "Tenbrook, sir," Tommy said. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, trying to calm his nerves.

  "Is he expecting you?"

  "I don't think so," Tommy replied.

  "What he means is," Timmy cut in to explain. "We were supposed to meet with him. We just weren't sure when."

  "He'd send for you if you were needed," the guard said with a frown. He spat in the dirt as if he expected them to leave. When they didn't, he asked, "What are your names?"

  "Tommy and Timmy Dunlow," Tommy said without hesitation. He was used to his family name bringing respect. The guard simply grunted as if he'd never heard of them. "Hold on, I'll check."

  The guard dipped inside the door. A moment later, he reappeared.

  "Come in. Tenbrook will see you now."

  Tommy tried to tell himself that they'd passed a hurdle, but he still couldn't stop his heart from pounding as they walked through the threshold. He walked side by side with Timmy, glancing at the gorgeous, high ceilings and the bustling servants. Most were too engaged to notice the newcomers. A few gave casual glances as they carried dishes or piles of clothing from room to room. Tommy marveled at the building's extravagance. An ornate wooden railing ran up to a balcony, which gave way to a series of hallways and rooms. The main room they'd entered was full of furniture of various shapes and sizes, wrapped in fabrics and woven materials that looked like they'd taken weeks to fashion.

  He looked around the main room for Tenbrook as if the General might come out and greet them, but the man was nowhere in sight. The guard motioned them down a hallway on the ground floor, leading them down several more twisting corridors before they reached a thick, wooden door. The guard stopped to open it, ushering them inside without going inside himself. The noise of the servants had died off.

  Tommy and Timmy were left in relative quiet.

  Tommy peered through the doorway, expecting to catch a glimpse of Tenbrook. The room was empty. A long table sat in the middle of the room. Several paintings depicting scenes of battle were hung on the walls. There were no windows. It looked like the room hadn't been used in a while. Tommy wasn't surprised. With as many rooms as the house held, he wouldn't be surprised if some were forgotten.

  Tommy and Timmy edged into the room as if it might be a trap, even though they knew they'd come too far to make a choice. The guard grunted, then left them without another word, shutting the door. The click of the doorjamb was an ominous reminder of the danger they'd put themselves in.

  "Where do you think he is?" Tommy asked, wishing the guards hadn't stripped him of his knife.

  "I'm not sure," Timmy said, matching his nervous tone.

  Neither dared speak anything else, incriminating or otherwise. They looked around the room, torn between the paintings and the doorway. Neither made a move to sit down. They remained that way in silence for several minutes.

  Footsteps in the hall startled Tommy. He strained to hear how many people were approaching—several pairs of footsteps meant there were guards—but heard only one pair of boots. The footsteps ceased. The doorknob turned. Tommy gulped.

  Tenbrook walked in, a half-smile on his face. He greeted Timmy and Tommy, shaking their hands, insisting they take seats at the table. Tommy breathed a sigh of relief. Tenbrook's casual demeanor assuaged some of his doubts, but he knew better than to trust the man. He pulled up a chair next to his brother and waited for Tenbrook.

  "I bet you're wondering what kind of room this is," Tenbrook said, waving at the paintings on the wall.

  In truth, Tommy wasn't, but he knew better than to disagree. "Of course."

  "We call this the war room. We have a few rooms like this, many much larger and used more often. This particular room was used by General Blackthorn's father during the planning of The Great War. Because of that, it has historical importance."

  "We've heard stories of that war." Timmy nodded eagerly as if that fact might increase Tenbrook's respect of him. "Our great uncle fought in it."

  Tenbrook ignored him and patted the table. "Unfortunately, that war had its costs. They all do. As you're probably aware, General Blackthorn's father died during The Great War. And because of that, the General hardly visits this room. I only know this because I inquired with one of the servants. I wanted to make sure the room was available so that I could use it."

  Tommy nodded. "That makes sense."

  "I wanted a room that would make me feel at home here in Brighton since I consider the wild my home most of the time. The pictures remind me of my battles." Tenbrook paused. "And because Blackthorn won't mind if I mess it up."

  Tommy laughed nervously, hoping there wasn't an implied threat in that statement. He looked around the room, noticing a few closed doors, but didn't see any guards. He had the brief thought that he and his brother might be forced into a battle with Tenbrook. Even if they managed to win, they'd never get past the doors.

  "You're probably wondering what took me so long to call you here," Tenbrook said.

  Tommy frowned. Called us here? He wanted to ask why Tenbrook had never sent for them. They had come of their own accord. Perhaps Tenbrook's plethora of new duties had him confused.

  Nodding, Tommy said, "Yes. We wanted to make sure you had all the information you needed."

  "And to ensure we're protected, of course," Timmy said, a little too hastily.

  "Of course." Tenbrook sighed and leaned back in his chair. "As you can imagine, the information you provided was very useful. I'm sorry I didn't send for you earlier. We've already identified the deserters of whom you spoke. And I've been keeping a close eye on Evan. I've had my men following him since shortly after we talked."

  "That's good news," Tommy said. "I'm glad we could be of service to you. He came to visit us once, but we didn't tell him anything, of course."

  "I knew you could be trusted."

  "We're just glad to play our part in keeping Brighton safe."

  "I appreciate that." Tenbrook nodded as if they all shared a sacred duty.

  "When will the deserters be brought in?" Timmy asked. Another hasty question, in Tommy's opinion, but he didn't say anything to correct his brother.

  "I'm not sure we'll bring them in at all." Tenbrook sat back and smiled, making Tommy wonder what sort of strategy he'd devised. He waited for the answer. "As you know, both the pyre and the occasional spiking go a long way toward keeping Brighton safe. With those measures in place, most men don't stray too far beyond the rules. It takes intelligent leadership to turn whispers in an alley into an organized mob."

  "We wouldn't know much about that," Tommy said nervously. "But we'll take your word."

  "It takes even more than that to overthrow a government entirely."

  "That makes sense." Tommy chewed his lip as he followed Tenbrook's logic.

  "I don't need to burn everyone involved to halt the coup."

  Timmy leaned forward. "What you're saying is that now that we've told you Scholar Evan is behind the plot, you can bring him in and dissolve it. That sounds easy enough to me."

  "Yes, if I were convinced he was the only ringleader," Tenbrook said with a shrug. "That's why I've been having him followed, to determine if that is the case."

  Timmy swallowed audibly as he considered their meeting with Evan might've been watched. "If you don't think we're telling you the truth, I can assure you that—"

  Tommy grabbed his brother's arm.

  "I'm sorry for my brother's tone," Tommy said apologetically. "We just want to assure you that we've told you everything you know. Scholar Evan is the one behind it. We told you everything."

  "I mostly believe you."

  "Mostly?" Timmy asked, his voice wavering.

  "I want you to know that I appreciate the information you've given me," Tenbrook said with a solemn nod. "Even though it won't save you from what needs to be done."

  "What do you mean?" Tommy's blood froze as he watched Tenbrook's expression.

  "I've been speaking with your father, mother, and sister. Sadly, I don
't think they know any more than you do. They've convinced me of that."

  Timmy leaped from his chair. "What are you talking about?"

  Tenbrook pounded the table.

  The thick wooden doors in the back of the room opened, unleashing several guards. Tommy shouted as his brother was pulled from his seat. Soldiers pinned his arms. They pulled the kicking, screaming Tommy and Timmy from the war room, dragging them into a dimly lit corridor. Tommy struggled to see, but the frantic commotion made him lose his bearings.

  Suddenly they were in a dank, musty room with devices on the wall.

  Tommy saw his mother, father, and sisters hanging from chains. Their arms were tied behind them, their faces marred with blood and bruises. Several torches lit the room enough for Tommy to see the pain in his sisters' eyes. They screamed into the rags stuffed in their mouths.

  Tommy broke free. He swung his fist at the nearest soldier.

  The soldier grabbed him and wrenched his arm behind him, forcing him to the ground. Tommy screamed in agony. Tenbrook closed the door and joined the others. His voice was eerily calm as he instructed the soldiers to hold down Tommy and Timmy.

  "Oftentimes traitors tell lies," Tenbrook said. "But the screams of a suffering relative compel most men to tell the truth."

  "You son of a bitch!" Timmy swore. "I'll kill you!"

  "If you resist me, your family will die. If you cooperate, I might consider letting them live, but it won't save you from death."

  "We've already told you everything!" Timmy screamed frantically.

  "Then this will set my mind at ease."

  Chapter 62: Jeremiah

  Jeremiah didn't realize he'd slept until the cry of a bird woke him up. He sat up in the chair, knocking the empty flask to the floor. The clatter exacerbated the growing pain in his skull.

  He squinted, groaned, and looked around him. The books were in the same place as he'd left them; several were on the floor. He vaguely remembered looking through them, laughing at the ridiculous pictures. He'd even set a few aside to look at later.

  The sun was gone. It was almost dark. How long had he slept? He'd had too much snowberry. He grunted. The Ancient City wasn't a place he'd wanted to stay so long. But what about the books?

  He looked around at the rows, realizing he couldn't carry them all. Beck had wanted him to count them using lines on a paper.

  Fuck.

  Jeremiah snorted. Between his headache and the volume of books, he had no interest in counting. He'd take a few books back. If that wasn't good enough, then Beck could find the damned stash himself. Jeremiah bent over, scooping up the book with pictures of the strange contraption he'd seen. He'd take that one, for sure. That should entice Beck enough to make him pay any amount of coin Jeremiah demanded.

  He recalled Ivory and the strange demon-man. Had they returned? If they had, he hadn't heard them.

  They probably fled to some distant shore, terrified that I'd catch them.

  Jeremiah laughed. He glanced out the window but saw only the dark blue ocean. No sign of Ivory or the demon-man. He packed as many books as he could carry in his bag and sealed it, flinging it over his shoulder. Then he walked toward the door. A disturbing thought stopped him, making him reconsider his plan.

  What if Ivory and the demon-man were to move the books before he got back? He'd already taken enough to fetch him a fancy sum, but he wanted all of them. Jeremiah couldn't take the chance that the boy and his shit-ridden friend might steal the rest of his riches.

  I'll do one last check to see if they returned.

  If I don't find them, I'll hide the books where they can't be found. Then I'll head back to Brighton.

  Satisfied with his plan, Jeremiah headed for the door.

  Chapter 63: Beck

  By the time it was full dark, all of Blackthorn's cavalry squadrons had come to the top of the grassy hill and set up camp. Blackthorn and Beck still sat on their horses, with two cohorts of Blackthorn's blue shirts camped around their position.

  Below them, all around the perimeter of the hill and about half way up the slope, a ring of bonfires burned. In front of those fires, men toiled in trenches, digging and moving dirt. Uphill from the ring of fires, men worked on another row of trenches. More fires burned on top of the hill. On the backside—the one that faced the river—no one worked. The slopes dropped too steeply down to the river to worry about building additional defenses there. As Blackthorn explained to Beck, that side was naturally defensible. A few hundred men could hold it against any number of demons attacking across the river.

  "You've been silent longer than I've ever seen," said Blackthorn without turning away from the men at work.

  "I have."

  "Are you surprised by what I told you?"

  Beck sighed. "I suppose you're right. I knew. I didn't want to accept it. I'm not ready to die."

  "Perhaps you won't."

  "I thought lies were in our past," said Beck.

  "It is often as difficult to speak the truth as it is to hear it."

  "I need to understand how this defense will work," said Beck.

  "Are you planning to assassinate me and take over?" Blackthorn turned and gave Beck a wicked grin. "You might get away with it. You know better than anyone I can't raise my sword arm. As you said, I'm barely keeping myself in the saddle."

  Beck laughed. "Honesty is an interesting territory to live in. I may learn to like it, I think. But no, I have no plans to kill you. No man is more competent to lead this army than you. As I see it, a living General Blackthorn is my best chance to see the sunrise each morning. The longer you live, the longer I stay alive."

  "Let us hope you're right," said Blackthorn.

  "If you fall, who will take over?"

  Blackthorn looked at Beck again. "Winthrop is insane. You'll be the last minister any man will listen to."

  "Militarily, who will be best to command the army in your stead?"

  "Captain Swan will follow. If he should fall, Captain Vaughan will come next. The cavalry has a chain of succession all the way down to the sergeants. In battle, we need it. We never know whom the demons will take. If the commander dies, the squadron cannot fall apart."

  "Is Captain Swan capable?" asked Beck.

  "He is," answered Blackthorn. "All of the captains are. Of the junior officers, none stands out to my notice. Perhaps Captain Swan will have a recommendation after I am gone. My guess is that if it comes to that, any junior officer will do. We'll likely be trapped on this hill by then with only one decision left to us: stand behind our ramparts and fight until we're all killed."

  "I understand." Beck gulped. He pointed down the slope at the two lines of defense. "Why two? Would it not be better to have a single line higher up the hill? That way we could concentrate our strength over a smaller line of fortifications? I don't see that the second line does us any good."

  Blackthorn smiled. "Perhaps you'd have made a good soldier, had you chosen that path instead. If you had to guess, why would you think we have two lines?"

  Beck looked across the defenses and thought about it. "I suppose if this were Brighton, it would make sense. Defending the town is paramount. It is full of noncombatants. Here we have the camp followers. They are not militiamen, but I think all will fight when the battle comes. So there is nothing to defend but your lives. So, a backup wall of defense seems to do no good, unless you're protecting the cavalry."

  "The cavalry are valuable, and they are worth defending," said Blackthorn. "They can sally forth and kill demons in greater numbers than this militia ever will, but the horses need time to rest. They need to graze and drink."

  "So that is the reason for two lines then?"

  "In truth, no, it is not," said Blackthorn. "I have two lines of defense because I have two enemies."

  "Two enemies?" Beck was lost but only for a moment. "You're putting Winthrop and his followers behind the first wall?"

  Blackthorn nodded. "And many of the weaker militiamen and the remainder of the
cohorts who ran last night. Winthrop will be the death of us all if I don't solve that problem."

  "Do you think Winthrop will understand what you're doing?" Beck asked.

  "Winthrop is lost in a dream." Blackthorn grunted. "I doubt he understands much of anything. But I have had my captains provide to him the rationale that we must defend the cavalry for the very reasons that you and I talked about. They told Winthrop and his men that the hilltops are a relatively safe zone to which each cohort will be rotated during the fight over the days to come. The hilltops are the place where men can rest and regain their strength before returning to the battle."

  "But you won't rotate the men?"

  "No, I won't," said Blackthorn. "Not Winthrop's bloody fools. They and the remainder of the cowards will stay on the line until they die."

  Chapter 64: Oliver

  Oliver was frightened.

  Demons were howling out in the dark, a lot of them, from every direction. It didn't sound like as many as had been in the canyon the night before, but the hour was still early.

  When the sun had been up, and the cavalry squadrons were working their way across the fields between the trees, the demons had been held at bay. Oliver had seen the horsemen kill every band of monsters that threatened Blackthorn's men. None were a match for them. They ran, screamed their demon nonsense, and died.

  Now they were out there massing.

  The cold set in for the night. The men worked in the trenches, trying to dig them deep and trying to connect them into a solid line of fortifications around the hill. They weren't going to finish before the first attacks came. Even Oliver, with his two nights of experience, saw that. No doubt the officers in Blackthorn's army saw it, and all the militiamen saw it too. But they desperately dug, because they knew the fortifications were their best chance of living through the night. Running wasn't an option. They were backed up on a hill that dropped off to a river. Few men in Brighton knew how to swim.

  But some did, Oliver among them. He'd been disobedient his whole life, even when his mother was washing at the river in those years before she'd been taken to the pyre. Superstition frightened most people away from getting into the water, and that made the river all the more intriguing to Oliver. His friends said monsters lived in the depths. Others told of ancient treasures beneath the surface. One kid even told a story of a man his father knew who'd found a trove of valuable steel in the water not far from Brighton. That man's family was never hungry again.