And something would. It always did.
Footsteps.
Too soon.
Bray gritted his teeth as something crashed through the forest on quick feet, breaking through the bramble, coming toward him. He looked around. His sword was lost, probably hanging in the scabbard of one of the soldiers coming to kill him by now. He'd lost the knife he'd managed to unsheathe before he fell. And his bag was gone. Bray slid an arm through the muddy riverbank, reaching for the one knife he had left. Was it a soldier coming for him, or a group? Had they gotten to him already?
Whoever it was had him outmatched.
They'd be on top of him before he reacted. He turned his head back to the forest as a snarl emanated from the tree line.
It wasn't a soldier.
A demon.
A wart-covered head poked through the tree line, scanning the water. The fetid stench of unwashed skin drifted down to where he was lying. Bray held his breath and went stock-still, clutching his knife. The creature hissed as it scoured the banks, looking from the water, to the island in the middle, back to the river's shores. Its eyes stopped on Bray. A look flashed through its eyes that needed no interpretation.
It was hungry.
Bray pushed to get up, but the creature was already smashing through the last bit of underbrush and lunging. He had barely enough strength to roll over before it landed on top of him, biting the air, vying for a taste of his skin. It raked at his wet clothes with dirty hands. Bray stuck out a weak arm, managing to grab the creature's neck with his free hand, keeping its teeth at bay as it snapped, its sour breath filling the space between them. He couldn't stop its prying hands. He felt his skin tear underneath the demon's raking fingers.
Not like this.
The creature stank of rancid meat—whatever it had killed and consumed before. Bray clasped his knife as the creature descended, pushing to get out of his grip and chew his flesh.
He swung the knife in a sideways arc, impaling the demon in the neck. Blood gushed from the puncture wound as the demon bit the air several more times and then stopped, its eyes glossing over. Bray pushed it over and off him. He gasped for breath as he forced himself to his knees, then to his feet.
He looked over at the dead demon. Blood spat and puddled around it. Its mouth hung agape in a death grimace. The ache of his wounds threatened to bowl him over, but Bray forced himself to stay upright.
He needed to leave while he was alive.
Chapter 14: Flora
Flora's backpack was heavy with the weight of several large fish as she lugged it through the forest, done with her fishing. The catch had been better than usual. But it always was after a ceremony. The gods, appeased by the islander's sacrifice, were rewarding them. There was no way they could survive the deadest months without obeying the gods' will. At least, that's what Deacon said.
The path she'd walked earlier in the morning seemed much different now than when she traveled it to the coast. The heavy mist that had permeated the island earlier had retreated, as if it had come to claim Evelyn with wispy fingers, and then drifted back to the heavens. It could just as easily been Flora on that bridge if the gods had whispered a different name in Deacon's ear.
She still wasn't sure what would happen to her.
She had failed the offering. What did that mean for her? She hadn't heard a whisper from the second island since she had escorted Kirby and William to the guards. Watching the strangers had given her a purpose. What was her purpose now?
Would she be the next in some ceremony, or would her fate be even more gruesome?
Flora recalled a time several years ago when she'd been hiking through the forest, heading for one of her usual fishing spots, when she'd stumbled across a trampled path through the weeds. It looked like it belonged to an animal much larger than any she'd seen on the islands. Thinking she might find a spectacular catch, she'd pursued the trail through the woods, carefully stepping through crushed briar and thorny bushes.
The trail had led through a cluster of trees and to a rubble-strewn section of the river. Scraps of jagged, unusable stone from the gods had fallen into that water, or perhaps been thrown there in some distant age. The place was no good for fishing. Everyone knew that. A line was more likely to get snagged than catch a fish.
When she'd reached the end of the strange game trail, she'd found splattered, wet blood on a rock overlooking the river, smeared with human handprints. Several scraps of clothing dispelled any lingering theory that it was an animal.
Men had been here.
She'd turned to leave when one of Deacon's Trusted had blocked her path, surprising her. His bloodstained shirt had told her the story of what happened—or as much as she needed to know. Looking through the forest, she'd caught a glimpse of several other soldiers pulling a man's body through the woods.
"Don't speak a word of it to anyone," the soldier had warned her.
Flora had started through the forest, hurrying to the farthest fishing hole she could find, watching over her shoulder as she cast her line and fished. She hadn't told anyone. Later, she'd discovered one of the hunters was missing. The rumor was that he'd skipped Jax's butcher shop and avoided his tax.
They'd never found him.
Unable to get the memory from her head, she continued down the path, her bag heavy on her back. Would that man be her? She had the sudden urge to get back to Becca and Bailey's, to share a nice meal with them.
Who knew how many more she'd have?
She was almost at the head of the trail when a figure surprised her. Bartholomew walked toward her, his shoulders arched in the position of superiority Deacon's Trusted always carried. Flora tensed as she looked for more soldiers, ready to drag her away.
But Bartholomew was alone.
Stopping ten feet from her, he said, "I have a task for you."
Chapter 15: Kirby
Kirby watched William as she waited for the healer. His hair, long from so many days in the wild, stuck out at odd angles. Most of it was damp from being pressed against the blankets. She wondered how long it had been since he cut it. In some ways, it felt like she'd known him for a long while, but things like that made her recall how little she knew of him.
It was hard to believe William had lived in a township many times the size of Kirby's settlement. If she hadn't seen Brighton, or at least the outside of it, she'd think he was a ward of the wild, living out his life in the forests. She'd grown fond of him in their time together.
A knock at the door drew her attention. It was probably Berta, back again to check on William. Or maybe it was the strange man named Jonas. Uncertainty caused the hairs on the back of her neck to rise as she turned and said, "Come in."
She was relieved to see Berta.
"My apologies for not getting here sooner," the large woman said, shaking her head as she entered. Her cheeks were flush, as if she'd rushed to the room. She carried a sack in her hand that Kirby hoped contained more healing herbs, or medicines, that might help William.
"He's asleep," Kirby said quietly, motioning to William, who had finally succumbed to his exhaustion.
"He must be licked of strength," Berta said. "I haven't seen an illness as bad as his in some time." Berta's brow creased with worry as she crossed the room and stood next to Kirby. "Do you mind if I check on him?"
"Go ahead." Kirby moved out of the way, but not far enough that she couldn't watch what was going on.
Berta bent next to William and felt his forehead. "He's sweating more than before. That's normally the case with yarrow, one of the herbs in the tea I gave him earlier. He needs to sweat through the sickness. Hopefully he'll be through the worst of it soon. Is he still coughing?"
Kirby nodded. "He's had several fits since we came here. Occasionally, they rip him from sleep," she said.
"I remember how bad they were when he came in," Berta said gravely. "He needs his rest."
Pulling a chair from the corner of the room, Berta took a seat and opened her pouch, poked in
side, and rifled through several dried herbs Kirby didn't recognize. She took out a few and laid them on her lap. "These are a few herbs that grow locally on the island. You won't find them in many other places."
"What are they?"
"Candleroot and Popsbill. We use them for our sickest elderly. You can brew a tea with them, when William wakes up." She passed them to Kirby.
"Thank you," Kirby said, grateful for the help.
Berta sighed as she followed Kirby's gaze. "He is a brave boy, to be out in the wild," Berta said. "I'm hoping his strength will allow him to pull through his illness."
"My hope, as well," Kirby said.
"How long were you traveling in the forest?"
"A few days," Kirby said vaguely.
"Looking for someplace better, I assume," Berta said with a knowing nod. To Kirby's surprised reaction, she said, "That's normally why people travel, if they aren't out hunting."
"Have you been outside the islands much?"
Berta looked behind her, as if someone might be listening. After a moment, she answered, "Not in a long time. But I remember what it's like to be out there, searching for a place to settle at night, starting a fire with Savages yowling in the distance. I spent many nights huddled under blankets as a girl, wondering if the cold would take us when the fire burned low, or whether the wild men would chew our toes."
"You mean you didn't come from The Arches?" Kirby asked.
"I arrived here many, many years ago," Berta's eyes looked far away as she recalled something. "The last time I was in the wild was as a girl. I spent almost a year out in the wild before I arrived here."
"So your people are from elsewhere?"
"I am the last of my people. It's been so long, I barely remember my old home," Berta said.
"What happened to your people?"
"They died in an attack by the Savages," she answered sadly. "A few of us survived and took to the forests. Only a few of us lived to make it here. I am the only one left. The rest died of age, sickness, or battle."
"Are other islanders from outside The Arches?"
"We used to take people in, but not in a while. Between the Halifax men and the violent tribes elsewhere in the forest, we are very cautious about outsiders. Not many get close enough to talk to us anymore, unless we are fighting. I can't remember the last time I've seen a visitor here."
Kirby's eyes flicked to her guns. She had a pretty good guess why they'd been let in. "Your people have suffered as many attacks as mine. They aren't quick to trust," she said.
"Sadly true," Berta said. She picked up her bag of herbs from her lap, stood, and returned the chair to the room's corner. "Well, I'm going to check on some others who need my help. If you need me and can't find me, let one of the guards know. They are outside, watching over the building."
"Have you heard anything about Bray?"
"The man who was with you?" Berta asked, shaking her head. "I haven't. You said he left yesterday morning, right?"
"That's right."
"Usually the hunters come back in a day or so, unless the hunt was difficult."
Bray's absence gave Kirby a nervousness she didn't like. "Were you at the ceremony this morning?"
"No," Berta said, pursing her lips as if she was recalling something unpleasant. "I stayed behind."
"I heard about Evelyn."
A look of sadness crossed Berta's face. "I'm going to miss her. We used to take walks out on the island together. She told me about the way the islands looked before I arrived."
"What happened to her?"
"She was in chronic pain that seemed to get worse as the days passed," Berta said sadly. "For a while, I was able to give her some medicines, but her pain didn't ease. She got so bad that she could barely put her hands to her mouth to eat, or dress herself. And she certainly couldn't work. The gods called her to the heavens. If I wasn't needed on the islands, I would've attended the ceremony to say a final goodbye."
"We've all seen too many deaths," Kirby agreed, thinking of the people who had been killed at New Hope. She instinctively looked at William, hoping he wouldn't be the next added to her mental toll.
"I have to get around to a few more people. I'm sure we will get some complaints from the cold. Hopefully, more people won't fall ill." Berta started for the door.
Kirby moved some blankets around William's head, tending to him. She was surprised to find Berta still standing by the door, watching her.
"If you need anything," Berta said with sincerity, "anything at all, let me know."
Chapter 16: Bray
Bray stumbled up the riverbank, clutching his bloody blade. The rush of the encounter had given him the strength he needed to move. Pain seared into his body with each step. He didn't have time to assess why he was alive. He needed to get away from the river, away from the men who were probably already tracking him, and away from any demons that might have heard the commotion. He glanced over his shoulder at the rushing river, as if he might see a cavalry of men wading across it, or a horde of demons, but the forest was quiet and still.
The water between the mainland and the islands was deep enough to prevent that.
Or at least, he'd thought that before he stood up in it.
He slipped on the muddy shore, slapping a hand down to catch himself. After catching his balance, he crested the small slope and gained the protective cover of the trees, leaving the river behind. A sharp pain in his back grew worse. The bitter chill wormed its way into his clothes, leaving him shivering, chattering his teeth. As he wove through the snow-blanketed forest, he cursed his lost bag—all of his belongings: his meat, his blankets, a few spare knives, and his father's map. All were gone, except for the knife in his hand. He had the fleeting thought to go back for them, to scan the river and try to find them, but that was a fool's errand.
Anger seeped through his pain as he recalled the sneering, cowardly faces of the men who had attacked him, carrying out a task that had probably been solidified the second Bray, Kirby, and William had arrived. Each glance, each stare, and every shallow, meaningless word had been a plan to kill them.
Bastards.
We never stood a chance.
He kept his body low to the ground, trying to avoid crashing sounds that would alert men and demons. He needed to get far enough away that he had a chance at surviving, if his wounds didn't kill him. He needed to find a hole that he could crawl into and lick his wounds, pray to the gods, and harbor thoughts of revenge, even though he'd more likely die than get it. If he saw the men a second time, they'd finish him off.
All Bray had was his knife and his hands.
He'd seen men plenty of men hunted down in the Brighton townships by soldiers, begging at the end of a blade, or praying for the gods' forgiveness as some soldier prepared a final slice. A few of them were brave—or foolhardy—enough to stick their chins in the air, glaring or spitting at their attackers as they faced the end.
Bray knew which of those men he'd be.
He trekked through a forest that climbed steadily upward. He'd ended up on the opposite side of the mainland from where he'd entered The Arches, a mountainous region that helped protect the island with its natural barriers, but made it harder for him to get away. He looked upward, where he couldn't see the end of the snow-covered mountain he was climbing. He glanced over his shoulder and looked down at the island across the river. All he saw were layers of trees and bramble that hid anyone who might be looking at him. He needed to go downriver and away from the islands. He needed to get as far away from the bridge as possible, where soldiers might cross and look for him. Taking a southeastern, diagonal course, he moved faster and upslope, gasping.
There was no way to avoid making tracks with a layer of snow on the ground.
Someone looking for him would surely find evidence of his travels. But he couldn't worry about that now. He needed to get farther away.
The pain of his injuries was making it hard to think straight. His legs felt as if they were collaps
ing beneath him, or maybe it was the weight of the river water drenching his clothes, luring him toward a final resting place. He'd be food for a few lucky, foraging winter animals.
No, Bray thought.
He wouldn't stop unless he fell.
**
Bray trekked until his vision swam and he could no longer keep one foot in front of the other. He needed to stop. Anyplace would be better than falling on the ground, where he'd be discovered and killed. Eventually he found what might be a lucky miracle—a small hole, the size of a man, tucked in the side of a small hill and surrounded by trees. An animal's burrow.
Or maybe a demon's.
Blinking away the pain, he held his knife in front of him as he crouched and moved toward it, hoping he wouldn't have to fend something off. He didn't even know if he had the strength to do anything other than collapse. He bent and moved closer, making more noise than he wanted to, hoping he might send something scurrying. Nothing ran out at him.
Bray crouched lower and entered the empty den, surrounded by the smell of damp earth and crushed leaves. He turned and faced the opening, ensuring he wasn't in immediate danger before he fell on his butt. Gasping for breath, he looked up and down his body. His clothes were soaking, torn, drenched with blood. Some of the red stains were so large that he could hardly tell how severe the wounds were. He'd been slashed several times on his arms. A few times on his shoulders. His clothing had protected him to some degree from the swords, but not all.
He was most concerned about his back.
That final, piercing jab was the last thing he remembered before falling into the river. For all he knew, Bray might have spilled his guts behind him on the mountain as he walked. He winced as he bent in a position that allowed him to reach the wound, feeling around carefully, certain that he would find a piece of his insides hanging loose. His vision blurred as the wounds on his arm cracked open and bled again. He cried out, unable to help himself. His back was wet, but he felt only a small, piercing hole.
By the will of the gods, the soldier's sword hadn't punctured him deeply.
The Ruins [Book 2] Page 5
