The Last Survivors (Book 3): The Last Humanity

by Bobby Adair

  Winthrop cocked his head toward a line of wine bottles at the foot of the bed. "Fill my cup."

  Franklin did as instructed, filling from a bottle that had been sitting open. He set the cup on Winthrop's tray and stepped back.

  "You intend to watch me eat?" Winthrop asked, irritation seething in his voice as he stabbed his food with his fork.

  "Some things occurred to me this morning at the market that I don't fully understand, and I was hoping you could enlighten me with your wisdom." Franklin hoped he wasn't overplaying the falsehood and flattery. But with Winthrop, was there any limit to false praise?

  Winthrop nodded as he shoveled a mouthful of drippy egg yolks in past his words. "I have my doubts that anyone can appreciate the wisdom of all my years."

  "I wish to try," said Franklin.

  Winthrop stopped chewing, and his hands stopped manipulating the next bite onto the fork. "I have no desire to waste my morning talking the finer points of market vegetables and rotting rabbits."

  "Oh, no," said Franklin, shaking his head vigorously. "I spoke with some people from Coventry at the market. They asked me about Father Nelson and his story of Lady and Bruce."

  That caught Winthrop's attention. "People from Coventry? So it has begun. Blackthorn with his folly."

  "Folly?" Franklin asked, though he suspected Winthrop was referencing something to do with the expedition.

  Winthrop shook his head, gestured vaguely at nothing, and then took a big gulp of his wine. "Put another log on that fire, boy."

  Franklin did.

  Winthrop heaved a labored sigh. "What did these people say about Father Nelson that has unearthed curiosity in your inbred mind?"

  "That story that Father Nelson told us about his adventure into the mountains to find the origins of the Lady and Bruce," said Franklin. "These people from Coventry overheard that I was your Novice and pulled me aside to ask questions."

  "What sorts of questions?" Winthrop asked, sitting up a little straighter in his chair.

  "They admired Father Nelson very much," said Franklin. "They asked me if his story was true, and of course, I said that it was. When I confirmed his story, it was as if his esteem among them grew to godly proportions. They seemed to believe that he was the bravest, most devout of all the clergymen."

  "All?" Winthrop asked, clearly baiting Franklin into a scolding.

  Franklin didn't take the bait. The trap was of his making. He faked a stammer and said, "Except you, of course. That goes without saying, does it not? No man knows The Word better than you. No clergyman has the devotion of the people as closely to his heart as you."

  Nodding, but still irritated, Winthrop crammed a greasy chunk of meat into his mouth. "Of course."

  "I can understand why Father Nelson found it necessary to go on the journey," said Franklin.

  "Do you?" Winthrop asked skeptically, without looking up from his plate.

  "I apologize for saying this, but I think I also understand why he feels the need to tell the story of it so readily to anyone with an ear."

  "That he does," Winthrop grumbled.

  "Any clergyman," said Franklin, "having to stand in the glow of your devotion to The Word must, like any regular man, feel perhaps jealous, less worthy—"

  Winthrop's head snapped up, and his face showed rising anger.

  Before opening the door to Winthrop's chamber, Franklin had decided he had to say what he had to say. He wished he were eloquent enough, imaginative enough, to have thought of a better way to say it. "—and might feel the need to make himself less invisible. I think the story helps salve the weakness in Father Nelson that causes him to do so."

  Winthrop didn't say anything for a moment. Neither did he look away. Franklin grew nervous. Having gambled on speaking badly of one of the other Fathers, he'd in a way elevated his own status. As Fitz had explained it to him, by devaluing Father Nelson, he'd shove himself one step closer to being seen by Winthrop as a kind of peer Winthrop could confide in.

  He hoped.

  Finally, Winthrop said, "Yes. You may be right about that."

  Shaking his head again, Franklin said, "I don't mean to imply that Father Nelson is a bad man. I say these things because I know he is a man who strives to be as devout as you. All men are subject to the temptations that befall them."

  Winthrop nodded.

  "All of us must also accept the limitations of who we are," said Franklin.

  "Meaning?" Winthrop asked, anger growing in his voice again.

  Trying to tamp down that anger, Franklin said, "I speak for myself, mostly. I know I lack in many ways. I suspect the other clergymen feel the same. Perhaps we all cannot help but feel that as we stand in the light of your devotion. What I'm saying is, I wonder if someone as average as myself is to rise to the level of my aspirations, to one day be as devout as you, to one day be loved by the people as you are, I wonder if I should embark on some expedition outside the circle wall."

  Winthrop cringed. "Only demons and fools go beyond the circle wall."

  Pretending meekness at admitting his own failings, Franklin said, "Or those who wish one day, perhaps far in the future, to follow in your footsteps. How else is the average among us supposed to raise himself closer to divinity?"

  Winthrop harrumphed. "None of that matters."

  "I don't disagree," said Franklin. "None of it matters to one such as yourself whose staunch devotion is enough for any thinking man to appreciate. For many of the pig chasers and dirt scratchers, the ignorant ones—"

  "Most of them are ignorant," Winthrop interjected.

  "—are unable to fully appreciate devotion for what it is. For them, the expedition and the bravery of Father Nelson are what they see, what they appreciate. It is regrettable, but in that way, some of them see the two of you as equals."

  "Sheep dung!" roared Winthrop.

  "My apologies, Father," said Franklin, quickly. "I do not mean to imply that any learned man believes that. Just the ignorant ones."

  "I tire of this talk," Winthrop told Franklin. "Is there a question here? Did you not say you had questions?"

  "Yes." Franklin shuffled around nervously, not all of it fake. He pretended to gather his courage. "Being average at best—"

  Winthrop said, "You are nothing special, that is for sure, but you are so much more than the average, even among the clergy."

  "—I ask you if I should embark on such an expedition."

  Chapter 24: Beck

  "This is the place I was telling you about," said Evan.

  Beck looked at the remains of the old structure. The walls were mostly intact. The door and windows were nothing but holes of roughly rectangular shapes. The roof had rotted away a few centuries ago. Even the floor was mostly covered with a layer of dirt and grown in with hundreds of season's worth of weeds and wildflowers.

  Beck said, "But it doesn't have a roof. None of these buildings do. What will we do with them?"

  "The militia…" said Evan, looking cryptically into the gray sky.

  Beck shrugged and wondered why Evan so often assumed others were privy to the conversations going on in his head. "I'm not making the connection between the militia drilling out in the fields and the roofs we don't have."

  "General Blackthorn is drilling those men hard, but he doesn't drill them all day," said Evan. "Most have extra time."

  "And?" Beck asked, getting impatient. He truly hated when Evan got into one of his less socially tolerable savant modes.

  "We can hire those men. They need the coin for drink or to give to their families. The men will build the roofs for us."

  Nodding and smiling, Beck said, "Yes, there are plenty of them around without a lot to do when they aren't drilling. How many of these ruined structures on this street can be used?"

  "Seven to ten," said Evan, "each facing this alley on one side and backing up to the fields on the other. They'll make perfect barns."

  Beck looked up and down the height of the walls. "Tall enough for horses."


  "Absolutely," said Evan. "I've measured them all. Even with flat roofs, we'll be fine."

  "Flat roofs will be the easiest and quickest to construct, correct?"

  "Yes."

  "So," said Beck, "We offer to store and care for their animals, especially their horses, while the army is killing demons in the Ancient City. We offer this service at an attractively small price, and we get all the animals we need."

  "Yes," Evan agreed.

  Beck walked over and laid a hand on one of the walls. "The farmers think these places are haunted because they've all heard stories of them collapsing on somebody's grandparents. They think the ghosts of the Ancients do that." Beck shook his head at the stupidity of it. "It's just that they're old and that eventually happens to all of these old walls."

  "Just because they won't live in these places doesn't mean they'll care if their horses do."

  Beck nodded and stepped away from the wall as he surveyed the remains of the old building.

  "Whichever plan we finalize on," said Evan, "whether it be escaping west with a band of survivors we select, or overthrowing the government here and using these animals to feed ourselves, we'll have the animals we need."

  "And the owners of the animals will never return," said Beck.

  "You believe that to be true?" Evan asked.

  "We've both suspected it from the very beginning," said Beck. "All my doubts are now gone. Blackthorn is smarter than I have long suspected he was. I have no doubt about his ruthlessness. I think he intends to exterminate the excess population while at the same time slaughtering as many demons as possible."

  "Will you be able to avoid riding out with the army?" Evan asked. "That doesn't sound like a safe expedition for anyone."

  "You've seen my escort," said Beck, referring to Blackthorn's four men waiting out in the alley. "They're to ensure that between now and the moment the army rides out, with me on a horse among them, that I don't have the chance to change my mind."

  "What will you do?" Evan asked. "How will you get back here?"

  Beck shrugged and smiled. "Blackthorn is a wily one, but he and his blue-shirted dunces are still no intellectual match for me. I'll take along a handful of strong young scholars who can handle themselves outside the wall. When the time presents itself as we're out on Blackthorn's folly, we'll make our escape and return to Brighton. Then we'll execute our plan. We'll take control and rule these towns as they should have been ruled all along. Famine, thanks to Blackthorn, will be a solved problem for us. So, no need for us to head west to avoid it."

  "Much danger awaits outside the circle wall," said Evan.

  "Every path is fraught with danger," said Beck. "We accepted the risks when we made our choices at the start of this."

  Evan nodded.

  "How is your recruitment effort going?" Beck asked.

  "Aside from Oliver's sudden absence, it goes well."

  "Does Oliver worry you?"

  Evan rubbed his chin, and he spent a moment thinking about it. "I don't worry as to whether Oliver has given us up. I'm worried about him. I'm afraid something may have happened to him."

  "You should stop by the temple to check," said Beck. "What of the recruitment?"

  "It goes quickly," said Evan with a confident smile. "Your intuition on the Dunlows was correct. They do despise Blackthorn for all the mistreatment he has heaped upon their family. They also are in contact with a network of the disgruntled. We have tapped into that, and in a flash, we now have nearly fifty men who will raise their swords to overthrow Blackthorn."

  "Even with the army gone," said Beck, "fifty will not be enough."

  "We have perhaps another hundred that we know of who might join in."

  Nodding and getting hopeful, Beck said, "That may be enough to cut the head off the snake that Blackthorn leaves in his place. As for the cavalry and militia that he leaves behind, we may not need to fight with them face-to-face. If we give them enough of the story about Blackthorn's choice to exterminate so many men at the hands of the demons, they will all come over to our side. That way, when Blackthorn returns with what's left of his precious cavalry, we will either be able to repel them or convince them as well to join us. Then we'll see Blackthorn on the pyre, and a new age of intellectual enlightenment will be born in the three townships."

  Chapter 25: Bray

  Bray studied his dirt-encrusted nails as he warmed his hands near the last embers of the dying morning campfire. His arms were streaked brown. His body had the familiar odor of someone who had been on the move for too long. He was used to the dirt and grime, but he should've jumped into the stream the night before with the others.

  He held his nose from the stench of sweat and rabbit innards.

  "I stink," he muttered.

  He studied Ella's sleeping form by the campfire. Her face seemed to glisten in the emerging sunlight. William and Melora lay asleep next to her. The bath she'd taken seemed to have unpeeled a new woman, one who looked both beautiful and out of place in the overgrown wild. Her devotion to her children seemed to have only deepened through the course of their time together.

  Though he'd grown unintentionally fond of her, he was getting the familiar itch of freedom.

  Besides, she reminded him of a woman he hadn't seen in too long.

  He needed time away. After days of companionship, he was mentally exhausted. His jaw was tired from chatter. His mind tired from the constant explanation of the wild's rules. The bushes and the trees didn't argue with his decisions. They didn't question his every move.

  Flexing his fingers and cracking his neck, he stood and looked out over the tops of the trees. Light seeped through the foliage, giving him an early morning greeting. They were on an eastern course for the Ancient City. Coventry was a short trek north. He considered the pile of skins he had in his pack—enough to buy decent food if he received a fair price for them.

  Definitely enough to purchase a few cups of ale, before visiting one of the finer women in the local House.

  Maybe he'd even bring back supplies if he were feeling charitable. He collected his gear quietly, keeping a watchful eye on his sleeping companions. Melora rested with her bow near her head. Ella's sword was within easy reach. They were learning.

  They'd survive just fine without him. He hoped.

  The rustle of clothing interrupted his thoughts. Ella sat up, rubbing her eyes. She opened them. Observing Bray's posture, she whispered, "You're leaving."

  "I was thinking about it." Bray shifted the pack on his back. He grunted. He wasn't easily guilted, but he felt a pinprick of shame.

  "Where are you going?"

  "To Coventry. I was thinking about getting some food. Trading in the scalps I have in my bag." He motioned toward the charred bones by the fire. "We could use a break from rabbits."

  Ella studied him with an expression of distrust. "How far away is it?"

  "Only a few miles."

  "Were you going to leave without telling us?" Ella asked, though her face said she already knew the answer.

  Bray grinned. "Would you miss me if I did?"

  Ella scowled. "If you're going to leave, at least have the decency to tell me now, so we don't wait around for you."

  Bray's gaze wandered to the figures beside her. Melora slept peacefully. William also looked peaceful, but Bray hadn't forgotten the violence the boy had engaged in. Bray pictured the boy hovered over Theodore Marks in the forest, stabbing and screaming. Then he pictured him looming over Ella. Bray's mistrust made him hesitant to leave them for too long.

  "Don't worry, I'll be back," he said.

  Without another word, he trekked into the forest.

  Chapter 26: Oliver

  Oliver's mind was made up. Now that Franklin had turned on him, he wasn't going to stay in the temple under Father Winthrop's brutish tutelage. He was going over the wall. He'd find one of the unsanctioned villages and live with people who were free from continual abuse. He knew being out in the winter was dangerous. He knew he'
d have trouble with food. He knew he'd have trouble getting a weapon. He'd even have trouble getting a cloak warm enough to protect him from those freezing nights when he had no roof over his head.

  The solution to those problems, he realized, was coin.

  That was something he knew how to get.

  That was the focus of his fantasies every night when his thoughts wandered before he went to sleep.

  Oliver had a plan.

  Franklin was gone. General Blackthorn was in the temple scolding Winthrop, which seemed to have become a daily routine. Oliver laughed at the pointlessness of it all. General Blackthorn was wasting his time trying to find anything but a cowardly bully inside Winthrop's flowing, womanly robe.

  Nothing would ever be resolved. General Blackthorn was a stone wall, used to yielding to nothing. Father Winthrop was a spoiled merchant's little fat kid. He'd cry and snivel and beg to get his way. Neither would surrender.

  Oliver snuck through the narrow servants' hall behind the Temple Sanctuary, walking slowly in the dim light to keep from making any noise that might be heard through the wall where General Blackthorn scolded Father Winthrop.

  Once in the main hall, Oliver ran on light feet. He stopped at Father Winthrop's door, listening to the voices in the Sanctuary.

  Still talking.

  Oliver thought about the risk he was taking. He thought about the consequences, but he was tired of fearing things he could do nothing to forestall. He'd thought it all through a thousand times. He'd already made his choice. He wasn't going to get whipped again. He was going to risk all to avoid it.

  In he went, closing the door quietly behind him.

  The smell of the unwashed chamber pot overpowered Winthrop's usual stink. The room was uncomfortably warm. The fire burned vigorously in the hearth.

  Oliver already knew what he was after: the box of ancient cross-shaped relics under the bed.

  He bounded over to the side of the bed, the place where he'd spotted the box before.

  Franklin had told him the story of how Fitz had come to be in the temple. As soon as Oliver heard about the box, he knew exactly the one Franklin was talking about. He knew where it sat. He could describe it in some detail, having seen it on a hundred occasions, and having looked at it with the hungry curiosity of a boy his age. Thanks to Franklin, he now knew the box contained relics, all wrought from expensive metals and jewels.