Red Death

by Jeff Altabef

  “Take a look at that board. I don’t remember it being popped open when we searched the place.” She squatted down and examined it. “It’s perfect for a hiding place.”

  Mark swung his flashlight into Piers’s stomach, and Piers doubled over. “My, you are a thin one. I bet I can break your ribs without even trying. Now turn out your pockets, and let’s see what you found.”

  Piers gasped as he sucked oxygen back into his lungs. Having no choice, he turned his pockets inside out, and the photograph and the note from Aaliss fluttered to the floor.

  “What do we have here?” Sarah bent down and picked up both. She read the note out loud, laughed, and handed it to Mark, who also snorted in amusement.

  “What a touching message,” sneered Mark as he popped the note in his mouth and started chewing. “Too bad we can’t let you keep it. It might have had a code from the Dark One. Tell you what? I’m going to take pity on you, Priest. You can have the photo to remember your traitor brother and sister.”

  He took the picture from Sarah, crumpled it in his fist and handed it to Piers in a ball. “You should go to bed, Priest. I’m sure you’ll have a big day tomorrow.” He slapped Piers hard on the back and handed him his flashlight.

  Piers moved past him.

  Before he left the room, Sarah squealed, “Oink, Oink, Priest.” When he jumped, she laughed and said, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Priest.”

  ***

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  Chapter 21 – Fintan

  Fintan stared hard at the yellowed paper in his hand. Someone had torn the page from a book and scratched a message onto it with gray ash. He hoped that if he stared at it long enough the words would change, but he re-read them for the tenth time, and they stubbornly remained the same:

  Prince Fintan:

  I heard you speaking with the Captain last night. Meet me by the Naming Tree after the bells ring tonight.

  The bells had just finished tolling, their echo dying in the wind. They rang twice a day, at midday, and at midnight when the last grains of sand tumbled from the giant sandglass. Four times a year the timekeepers reset the sandglass by using the sundial in the Courtyard, a practice that stretched back further than anyone could remember. Fintan never gave it much thought before, but now that he’d dreaded the bells tolling, he wondered who had come up with the system.

  His head ached. Just a few hours ago, the Feasting Hall had been full and festive, and he had basked in the glow of a conquering hero for the first time. He felt alive and had practically floated in the air. Finally, he had earned the tribe’s respect.

  Eamon, of all people, had persuaded Dermot to open casks of wine usually reserved only for holiday feasts. Fiddlers, guitarists, and drummers filled the Hall with bright, happy music. They played all his favorite songs: the Stronghold and the Siege, the Seven Shield Walls, and the Merry Maiden. The festivities almost reminded him of Dermot’s victory celebrations. But this had been better—this celebration had been about him. And for once, more women lined up to dance with him than for Dermot and Eamon the Handsome.

  As the wine flowed, Dermot had hopped on top of his table, and silenced the Feasting Hall with a wave of his arms. “Lord Fintan, please join me,” he shouted loud enough to be heard by everyone in the Hall.

  Fintan smiled sheepishly and jumped on the table with him.

  Dermot wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “Please regale us with the tale of how you saved our fair sister, the princess. Leave out no details or heroics for modesty’s sake.”

  The crowd chuckled at that, which pissed Fintan off, but he wouldn’t let the crowd’s reaction ruin the celebration. He made believe it didn’t bother him, exaggerated a low bow, and gladly entertained the Hall with his adventure. So what if he didn’t lead his horse through the blue flames? And it might have been a stretch to say that he snatched one of those toy bolts right before it would have sunk into his chest, but he did no harm, and everyone cheered and laughed at the right times. Even some of the old-timers in the King’s Guard nodded their heads respectfully.

  The feasting went on well after the usual time, and they slid tables to one side of the large room to make room for dancing. A spirited game of dice broke out on one end of the hall as some members of the tribe gambled hard-earned coin against each other.

  After the music and merriment stopped, Fintan and Cormac had laughed their way back to the Royal Hall. Fintan, still in high spirits, flung open the door to his room. Waiting for him was a note perched on his bed. At first he’d expected the message to be congratulatory, maybe from Dermot, or a thank you from Gemma.

  It had taken three readings before his cloudy mind understood the words, and his spirit sank like a heavy stone tossed into a river. Just when the tribe had recognized him as a hero, this note blindsided him and threatened to take it all away. That was when the pounding headache began.

  Fintan shook off the memories and sullenly studied the Naming Tree from the far side of the Courtyard, cloaked in deep shadows. The tree glowed silver with an otherworldly shine in the moonlight. The founding members of the tribe had built the Stronghold around that ghost tree. The tribe had no record of it, but nothing else made sense, so the tribe accepted it as truth.

  The founders had carved their names into the trunk in large block letters. Every child learned those names along with the other tribal heroes: Langdon the Large, who successfully held the Stronghold against a siege when the Stronghold had just been completed; Helena the Healer, who found a cure for a disease that threatened to kill the herd; Oisin the Omnipresent, who established the Outpost in the North. They told stories about a dozen more, and the tribe would undoubtedly add Dermot to the list after he went to the heavens.

  As a child, Fintan playfully added his name with those heroes—Fintan the Famous. As an adult, he obsessed over it.

  If he looked carefully, he could see his name carved into the bark. The tree carver placed royal names in the center of the main trunk, so those names did not stretch as high as the others.

  Even though the night seemed unusually quiet, it was never completely silent. The King’s Guard walked the stone wall that protected the city, their boots tapping against the palisade. Others had nighttime business. The Nursery always had life, horses neighed in the Stables, and lovers laughed in the distance. Still, an unusually deep and heavy quiet had settled over the enclosed settlement, as much of the Stronghold had gone to sleep, feeling the drowsy effects of the wine and the merriment.

  Fintan shifted his eyes around the deserted Courtyard, sighed, and left the shadows to trudge toward the Naming Tree and whoever waited for him.

  Dermot is old. Even without the poisoned berries, how much longer can he last?

  He had almost reached the Naming Tree when a young woman slid from behind the wide trunk. She looked familiar, and Fintan wracked his brain to remember where he had last seen her. Then he remembered tripping the Little One at breakfast, and he recalled her—the girl with brown eyes who had been staring at him.

  She twisted her hair and swayed in place.

  She must be anxious.

  He grinned. He could use that against her. “Are you the one who sent me the note?”

  “Yes, Prince Fintan. I overheard your conversation with Cormac about your feelings for the King and what you’re planning to do.”

  The mousy girl’s voice sounded stronger than he’d expected, with an unexpected edge of malice.

  He beamed a bright smile. “You know, I’ve been watching you. You work in the Nursery, right?” He leaned toward her as he spoke.

  The girl blushed and swayed in her spot, her dress puffing outward. “You know who I am?”

  He inched closer to her. “I do. I’ve been watching you. I saw you today at breakfast.” He paused and shot her his most sincere look, his eyes wide and unblinking. “Being a royal prince is hard sometimes. Everyone is always watching me. It’s hard for me to talk to the special girls.”

  Her eyes
narrowed. “You’re not angry about the note?”

  “Angry? How could I be angry?” He leaned forward until only a few inches separated them. “Without the note, I might never have gotten the courage to talk to you. The way I see it, this is fate.”

  She returned his smile, but it looked calculating and not fully genuine.

  “I’ve always known you were special.” He gently brushed a loose strand of hair from her cheek.

  She trembled at the touch.

  Encouraged, he continued. “I need a special girl like you—someone smart and ambitious. Meet me tomorrow morning. We’ll sneak away so we can get to know each other, far from the prying eyes of the Stronghold. Just you and me.”

  “But I have to work in the Nursery.” She made a sour face and wrinkled her nose when she said Nursery. “The Master will be very angry if I don’t show up. Unless someone important speaks to him and tells him that I can be excused for the day.”

  The tone in her voice conveyed her unspoken message—that she hated the Nursery and never wanted to go back.

  “Someone special like you shouldn’t be working in the Nursery. I’ll talk to him myself before we go. I’ll make sure it’s all right.” He gently stroked her hair, brushing against her ear, and saw heat blush her cheeks. “Now, my sweet, did you tell anyone else about my conversation with Cormac?”

  “No.”

  “It’s important that you don’t tell anyone we’re spending time together. We’ll have to act like strangers until later, when we can be alone. If the other women know how much I’m interested in you, they’ll do everything they can to keep us apart. They can be so jealous. We’ll have to keep our relationship a special secret between us for just a little bit. Deal?”

  She nodded.

  “Tomorrow at first light then. We’ll leave from the Stables.” Fintan kissed her on the cheek.

  She turned her head, but he backed away a moment before she could reach his lips.

  He turned to leave, and she tugged on his leather cloak, spinning him around. “My name’s Cattie.”

  “Oh, yeah, Cattie’s a lovely name.”

  He turned, but she twisted him around with another pull.

  “I am no fool.”

  “That’s why I like you so much. You’re special. I’ll see you in the morning.” He turned his back and left the Courtyard without looking back. As he returned to the shadows, he smiled at Cormac.

  “Is she the one who overheard us?” Cormac asked.

  “No, she’s just someone who happened to be waiting by the Naming Tree.”

  “Really?”

  Fintan sighed. “No, not really, but don’t worry. I have a plan to deal with her. We’ll have to wake at first light.” He clapped him on the shoulder. “When will Scotty return with the poisoned berries?”

  Cormac shrugged. “It’s hard to say. They’re not easy to find. Probably a couple of days.”

  “Good.”

  “I don’t like the looks of her.”

  Fintan laughed and shoved his big friend. “Neither do I. Leave the planning to me.”

  He sauntered to his room feeling better than he had when he first read the note.

  ***

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  Chapter 22 – Aaliss

  Aaliss fumed over all the mistakes she had made since she overheard the High Priest’s plans to murder Wilky and her.

  I should have killed that blubbery pompous good-for-nothing High Priest and my worm of an uncle before I went to Wilky’s lab. I should never have camped in the terrawk nest or set that trap, or....

  She angrily paced the small cell—four strides from the bars to the wall and four back again. She had lost count how many times she had completed the circuit, but the repetitive motion made her feel better, as though she was doing something positive.

  After they surrendered, Fintan and his party had brought them to the Stronghold on horseback.

  A Guardian captured by Soulless. What would my instructors say?

  Never in Eden’s long history had a Guardian been taken captive. A few had died while fighting Soulless, but none taken. The Guardian’s code could not be clearer:

  Better to die than be taken. When a Guardian dies in service to Eden, all his or her sins will be forgiven. The fallen Guardian will stand as a hero with Jacob in heaven, and will want for nothing. A captured Guardian will spend eternity in hell, and his or her torment will know no end.

  There’s no doubt about it now; she was damned. But it probably didn’t matter, since she couldn’t be damned twice. Her eternal soul was in no worse shape than it had been when she fled Eden and removed the gasmask.

  At least Wilky had made it to the Stronghold safely.

  ***

  Aaliss had experience riding, but her brother had never ridden a horse before, and he shook even when they held the animal steady.

  One beefy horseman reached toward him to hoist him onto the saddle, but she shielded him with her body. “I’ll help him.” Even with her hands bound, she managed to push him into place before she mounted herself.

  Luckily, they didn’t tie Wilky’s hands, so he clutched her waist, pressed his face against her back, and closed his eyes to the world.

  She sighed. It’s better that way.

  The one they called Cormac held their horse’s reins while the other riders penned them in. The arrogant one they called Prince Fintan rode at the point, leading the party triumphantly back to the Stronghold.

  The ride took no longer than a few hours, but the going was rough and awkward. Her back and legs ached, and she knew Wilky felt worse, but he didn’t complain. She added the uncomfortable journey and shabby treatment as one more thing she’d make Cormac pay for—that and the cut on Wilky’s neck.

  She curled her hands into fists just thinking about it. Her list of paybacks had started to become long.

  They cleared the forest and the Stronghold sprang up suddenly in the near distance. A tall stone palisade ringed the crest of a good-sized hill. The roofs of stone buildings rose high above the stone wall, and the branches of a ghost tree towered over the buildings. A wide wooden drawbridge provided entry over deep ditches dug at the base of the walls. The slope of the hill and the ditches made the fortifications appear taller than they were.

  Aaliss had the odd feeling that the Soulless city was older and more solid than the Compound, even though she knew that could not be true. The Book of Jacob identified the Compound as the oldest remaining human settlement—built when the Red Death first plagued the Soulless, after God allowed the Dark One to curse humanity for its wickedness. Still, something about the stone looked tested and secure, and made her certain that men had died in vain attempts to breach its defenses.

  A large flag with a jeweled sword, blood dripping from the tip, greeted them as they trotted over the wooden drawbridge toward the tallest stone hall. Along the way, she caught glimpses of the small city in the twilight: a courtyard, an old ghost tree, numerous stone buildings in which she could only guess at their functions.

  People stopped to gawk at them, and a few pointed at her. They all looked so young it made her feel uneasy. She kept expecting to see gray hair, or the bent backs of the aged, but she saw none here. She should have expected this, but she had never contemplated how the Soulless lived without elders. Here she would be among the adults, which seemed strange, since in Eden she was considered young.

  Fintan reined up close to Cormac. “Let’s take our prizes directly to the Basement. I’ll determine their fate at my leisure.”

  When they dismounted, Fintan led them inside a wide, short building, and Cormac pushed her from behind.

  She skittered to a stop in front of a heavy wooden door with iron deadlocks. As Cormac threw the door open, the stench threatened to overwhelm her. It smelled like death, but not death alone—death mixed with other foul, evil smells.

  She gagged, and cursed herself for the sign of weakness.

  Cormac chuckled and shoved h
er in the back. “You don’t like the Basement? I’m sorry if it isn’t up to your standards.”

  “It smells better than you,” she answered defiantly, bringing laughter from others in their party, as well as a cuff to the back of her head from Cormac as they plodded down the stairs.

  Fintan reached the Basement floor first and barked at the fat jailor. “Keep a good eye on my prizes, Redmond the Round. We freed Princess Gemma from them. Watch out—the girl with the boy’s hair is a wild one.”

  The jailor squinted his eyes and seemed to grasp his keys tighter in the presence of such important charges. Sweat started to bead on his face.

  Aaliss thought he looked far more used to drunken ranchers than prisoners captured by a prince.

  She glimpsed the rest of the Basement before Cormac pushed the siblings into the cell and the metal gate slammed shut, locking them inside. The clanking sound of metal locking against metal felt like a punch to her midsection.

  The long hallway had cells on both sides. Murmured conversations drifted on the stale air and, toward the far end, weeping. Two oil lanterns provided the only light, one placed on either side of the hallway.

  She fought hard against despair, focusing instead on her anger to give her strength.

  Better to be angry than hopeless.

  ***

  Time had crawled since. No one had visited them or paid them the least bit of attention.

  Only the fat jailor sat at the far end of the hallway near the staircase, not far from their cell, his eyelids heavy as his head nodded forward sleepily until he snored himself upright again.

  “We need to find a way out of here,” Aaliss whispered to Wilky. “If the jailor would come close enough, I could cut his throat. He must have the keys to these doors on that giant ring of his.”

  She touched the short, razor-sharp blade she had secreted inside the folds of her jumpsuit, standard equipment for Guardians. These Soulless fools had never bothered to search her. She could throw the knife and sink it into his throat, but he’d die where he sat, and that was too far away for her to grab the key ring.