4.0 - The Last Command

by Bobby Adair

  Satisfied he was alone, Bray located a thick, latched wooden box with metal hinges on the side. A swell of excitement went through him as he dug a key from his pack and opened the lid, admiring the piles of silver and jewelry he'd collected or stolen over the years. Several were rare—pieces he'd taken from merchants that were too rich to notice. He held up a long, thin necklace, smiling as he envisioned the wealthy woman he'd plucked it from. She'd fallen asleep in the front room of her house and had forgotten to lock her door. Bray had pilfered it from her neck, bristling when he'd heard her husband coming down the road. He'd escaped out an open window in the back of the house. He smiled at the daring encounter.

  Bray breathed a sigh of relief. His stash was safe. That meant he'd have something to sell when he was old and unable to slay demons.

  Reaching into his bag, he pulled out the earnings he'd made since his last deposit, counted them, and tucked them into the box. He locked it.

  Then he headed back to the ancient building.

  Chapter 25: Blackthorn

  Blackthorn watched the licking flames transform an uncertain fire into a raging morning blaze. In a few hours, they'd leave. All around him, soldiers unslung bags and prepared meat. The excited chatter of the day before had settled into road-worn comfort, an acceptance of the mission. It always did. Times like this bred memories of past battles, grim laughter, and recounting of old comrades. Blackthorn often listened to these conversations.

  Not today.

  Blackthorn wasn't thinking of demons or the decision he'd made. He was revisiting his younger years—memories he hadn't considered for some time. He knew that nostalgia was the path to a weak man's heart. His father had taught him that. But the aches and pains in his bones prompted feelings of weakness that he'd buried years ago.

  The disease was consuming him. His legs were swollen. Fatigue rode on his shoulders. He wished he could blame it on fleeting youth, but Blackthorn knew better. He was dying. All that was left for him was to carry out the plan, to save the people who'd grown to fear and hate him and hope they'd remember him as something other than a tyrant.

  Would Tenbrook carry on his legacy in the way Blackthorn hoped? The more he thought on it, the more uncertain he was. He'd given Tenbrook several lessons before he left, but nothing could bequeath the amount of experience he'd gained in his lifetime. Blackthorn's lessons were from riding on a horse, not talking in ornate dining halls and sharing stories that couldn't be seen with the eyes. Tenbrook would substitute his experience for Blackthorn's, coloring it with whatever interests he had in his mind.

  Blackthorn hoped those interests were aligned with Brighton's.

  Stretching his legs by the fire, Blackthorn resisted the urge to massage his swollen skin. Showing weakness would be as good as condemning himself to death. He looked around, but none of the soldiers were paying him attention. He gritted his teeth and numbed his pain with memories of his youth.

  Instead of remembering his father, the man who had taught him to swing a sword, he recalled his grandfather, Phineas, the man who'd cared for him in General Blackthorn's absence. Among the many lessons Phineas had taught, there was still one that confused him.

  **

  Twelve-year-old Blackthorn walked through the forest, kicking off the pine needles that clung to his boots. Phineas followed a few paces behind. Even though they were within the circle wall, Blackthorn envisioned demons lurking behind the trees, waiting to spring. He swung his sword, wishing he were battling them. It wasn't until Phineas scolded him that Blackthorn realized he'd walked several paces ahead of his grandfather.

  "Hold on," Phineas called, limping to keep up.

  Blackthorn spun and found a look of shame as he saw his grandfather hobbling after him. Phineas walked with the assistance of a crutch. The left leg of his trousers was pinned up just above the ankle, the result of a nasty demon bite years earlier. That demon bite had condemned Phineas to a life in town. Or at least, Blackthorn thought of it as condemned.

  "Sorry, Grandpa," he said.

  "I don't have the energy you have," Phineas admitted. "Not anymore."

  Blackthorn didn't answer.

  Phineas took his grandson's side. He never admitted his weakness in town, but every now and again, he slipped up in front of Blackthorn. Perhaps sensing the look of guilt on Blackthorn's face, Phineas reminded him, "I was the General before your father rode out to battle. I taught him everything he knows. Don't forget that."

  "You've told me, Grandpa," Blackthorn said, anxious to get back to his game.

  It was easier to envision his father, the current General Blackthorn, slaying demons and riding out with the cavalry than to imagine his grandfather doing the same. The man had been injured as long as Blackthorn had known him.

  Blackthorn's attention shot to the forest floor as a squirrel ran by. He raised his sword. If only the critters weren't fast enough to outrun him. He chased it back into the trees while Phineas hobbled after him.

  The excitement of chasing the squirrel gave way to the anticipation of what they might find in the snares. Blackthorn smiled excitedly. His grandfather often let him collect the animals, finishing off the ones who were still struggling against the rope and hadn't been picked off by a larger predator. His grandpa had taught him the importance of keeping up with the traps. Full traps meant a fresh meal they could deliver to the cooks.

  "Where do you think Dad is now?" Blackthorn asked.

  "Probably a dozen miles from the circle wall," Phineas said.

  "Do you think he's fought demons yet?"

  "I bet he has. If the forest is filled enough that he had to call up the cavalry, there are bound to be some demons close to the circle wall."

  Phineas' confirmation was enough to make Blackthorn's imagination wander. He pictured himself among the other soldiers, fighting bravely. "I wish I could be there with him."

  "You will, in time. Don't rush your lessons. You'll know all you need to know soon enough."

  Blackthorn's face settled into anxiety. "Sometimes I wonder whether he'll come home."

  Phineas put his hand on Blackthorn's shoulder. "To die in battle is an honorable thing. You know that. We all do."

  "Of course, Grandpa."

  They continued through the forest. This time, Blackthorn stuck close to Phineas. Thick oak and pine trees gave way to a small clearing, and it was at the edge of that clearing in which Blackthorn and his grandfather liked to set their traps. Blackthorn kept his eyes peeled for a splash of movement in the forest, an animal writhing against a rope.

  "Be careful," Phineas warned, as always.

  Blackthorn forced himself to slow down. The presence of a human sometimes caused the rare animal to break free of its binding. He didn't want to risk losing a catch. Creeping closer, Blackthorn's heart pounded as he saw something struggling against a trap. He snuck over to the snare, feeling a jolt of joy. A small rabbit had entangled its leg. Sensing Blackthorn and Phineas, it kicked frantically, spraying up dirt and debris.

  Blackthorn knelt down next to it. He readied his knife as his grandpa taught him.

  "Wait," Phineas said from behind him, startling him. He hadn't even been aware his grandfather had snuck so close.

  Phineas gently pushed him aside and grunted as he set down his crutch. He grabbed hold of the snare, inspecting the rabbit.

  "What is it, Grandpa?"

  "See these wounds?" Phineas pointed at some marks around the rabbit's neck. "It got free once already. It tangled its leg before it could escape again."

  "At least we got it," Blackthorn said with a smile.

  He looked at Phineas, expecting a smile in return, but his grandfather was still watching the rabbit. The animal stared at them with fear-stricken eyes. It kicked its legs as if it might manage a last ditch escape. Phineas turned the rabbit over in his hands, careful not to drop it.

  "It's small," Phineas said. "Too small for eating."

  "The cooks can make soup with it, then," Blackthorn suggested. "It'll
keep us warm when the sun disappears. Isn't that what you always say?"

  "Not this one," Phineas said after a reflective pause.

  "What do you mean?" Blackthorn asked.

  "It's young. Barely old enough to have seen a winter."

  "You always told me never to waste a fresh rabbit."

  "We'll find another," Phineas said assuredly, untangling the rope while the rabbit continued kicking. He held the rabbit as if it were a curious piece of silver.

  Blackthorn's brow furrowed in confusion. He'd never seen his grandfather release a rabbit before.

  "What are you doing?" Blackthorn asked. "The other traps are empty. We won't bring anything back if we let it go."

  For a moment, Blackthorn wondered if Phineas wanted to kill the animal himself. Maybe his grandfather was teaching him a lesson that he didn't understand.

  "You can borrow my knife if you want," Blackthorn offered. He patted the sheath at his side, hoping the suggestion would bring the conversation back on track.

  "We aren't going to kill it," Phineas said again, inspecting the rabbit's raw neck.

  "It's injured, Grandpa. If we let it go, it'll be killed by another predator anyway."

  "Maybe it will," Phineas said, biting his lip. "Maybe it won't. There's a chance it'll survive."

  Before Blackthorn could protest further, Phineas let go of the rabbit, allowing it to dash into the woods. Blackthorn made a move to chase it, but Phineas held him in place.

  "Let it go," he said firmly.

  Phineas kept his hand on Blackthorn's shoulder until the rabbit had disappeared. Then he began resetting the snare.

  "I don't understand why you did that," Blackthorn said, frustration seeping into his voice. "I wanted to kill it. It will die anyway."

  Phineas scratched his chin. "The marks on its neck are proof of the fight it has. Getting its leg caught was an accident."

  "Accidents get people killed, Grandpa. You taught me that. So did Dad. The accident with your leg almost got you killed."

  Phineas frowned for a long moment. He stared at Blackthorn with a scowl on his face, then let his face soften. He gestured vaguely in the direction of the circle wall, which was far enough away that Blackthorn could only imagine it. "Out there in the wild, that might be true. But inside, we sometimes have choices. And those choices are the only things that separate us from demons."

  "But that choice means we won't have fresh rabbit tonight."

  "Maybe not," Phineas stood, grunting as he picked up his crutch and tucking it under his arm. "But we'll survive. We'll kill rabbits tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. But right now, killing that rabbit wasn't the right thing to do. Sometimes, something has to matter."

  Watching his grandfather hobble away, Blackthorn's face remained befuddled. He tested out those words. "Something's got to matter," he murmured, as he watched his grandfather walk away into the forest.

  **

  Blackthorn chewed his lip as he recalled that moment. As a child, he'd puzzled on it for days, coming to no conclusion. Finally, he'd let it disappear in a haze of immature memories, destined never to resurface until now. At the time, he'd wondered if the rabbit had reminded Phineas of himself. Now he wasn't so sure.

  Staring at the fire, the memory returned with such clarity that he turned his head to make sure Phineas wasn't standing next to him. He wasn't.

  Several soldiers broke the silence, boasting about the demons they were going to kill that day. Another talked about his wife. These were the conversations Blackthorn was used to. Not memories of a dead grandfather.

  Still, he couldn't keep from puzzling over his grandfather's words.

  He knew the nineteen thousand men he'd brought into the wild had to die. But still, Phineas's words echoed through his head.

  Something's got to matter…

  Chapter 26: Tenbrook

  Tenbrook swung his sword in the empty courtyard behind Blackthorn's quarters, weaving his blade through the air in a sequence of drills. Behind each blow, he envisioned a shrieking demon, spewing blood from severed limbs, or better yet, a secret conspirator, plotting to unseat him. He'd rather be on the battlefield, slaying real enemies, but he knew that his patience would pay off.

  Soon he'd have the same thrills in Brighton.

  Several pairs of eyes bored into him from the fringes of the courtyard. Most were his soldiers, men he trusted; that is, trusted enough. A few were remainders of Blackthorn's blue shirts, left behind to guard the house. He knew that most would follow him with the same fervor with which they followed the General.

  But not all.

  There were bound to be a few that were secretly envying his position, or questioning his abilities. His drills were a way to keep the battle-hardened edge of a cavalryman. A soft administrator would be an easy target for a strong-armed brute. A hard man with a fast sword would quash most insolent thoughts before they matured into ambitions to unseat him.

  Giving one last swing, he sheathed his weapon and wiped a string of sweat from his brow. Only then did he realize the weather had warmed. The snow had retreated from Brighton's streets, leaving only the sting of the wind against his nose and cheeks. He wondered how Blackthorn's army was faring in the wild. He was glad not to be on a parade to his death with all those expendable men and women, but he envied them that they were marching to battle with the demons.

  Looking in the distance, Tenbrook saw several of his soldiers opening the courtyard door, admitting a horse and rider. He watched with a solemn face as the man leaped from his horse, tied it to a nearby post, and crossed the courtyard. The soldier's stride was purposeful and invigorated. Tenbrook didn't have to ask the man to know he'd ridden straight from the army without stopping.

  Tenbrook's orders were always obeyed.

  "Do you have it?" Tenbrook asked, skipping the unnecessary colloquialisms.

  "I do, sir," the rider stated.

  Wiping tears from his eyes—tears not born from sadness, but from the cold wind in the man's face on his hard ride—the rider dug a note from his blue shirt and handed it to Tenbrook. The rider waited expectantly as if Tenbrook might unfold it and read it aloud, but Tenbrook simply pocketed it.

  "How's the army faring?" Tenbrook asked.

  "They're tired, sir."

  "Have they gotten far?"

  "About twelve miles past the circle wall. They've suffered some demon attacks."

  "Of course." Tenbrook nodded. Nowhere outside the circle wall was safe.

  "I think the farmers and women are slowing them down. They're not used to the conditions."

  Tenbrook knew that was true, as well. Blackthorn's army was aware of the risk, but the reality of the situation was that they'd probably die of the inevitable cold or starvation first. Either way, the nineteen thousand would never return. Blackthorn would make sure of that.

  "Are those names accounted for in the list you gave me?"

  "Yes. The list contains only the deserters."

  "Thank you. That'll be all, soldier."

  The rider glanced at Tenbrook, then at his pocket, probably hoping Tenbrook would reconsider his decision to read the note in front of him. Tenbrook waved him away.

  The rider walked dejectedly back to his horse. Tenbrook waited until he'd mounted it and ridden away before he pulled out the note and stared at it.

  Two hundred names were scrawled in neat handwriting. Tenbrook recognized a few names among the traitors—merchant's sons, or well-known farmers. He bit his lip in unexpected anger, tasting blood. Like Scholar Evan, he ruled by logic. He wanted nothing more than to bring all two hundred men to him and torture them, adding their tongues to his boxes. But he knew the deserters might inflict casualties he couldn't afford. He needed to find the scope of the plot against him.

  He needed the leaders.

  He'd call in Scholar Evan first.

  Chapter 27: Franklin

  Franklin walked the halls of the Sanctuary, his robe dragging the floor. Much like the position he'd f
ound himself in, it was too large for him, but he was doing his best to manage. Ever since Winthrop had gone, the Sanctuary felt like a different place. Walls that once bled fear now whispered promise. For several days, Franklin had walked those corridors with trepidation, fearing the Bishop might spring from behind a closed door, waiting to accuse him. After the farewells had died, he'd grown more comfortable in his new existence.

  The only thing missing was Fitz.

  He'd been looking for her for several days, but had been unable to locate her. A few times, Franklin had been positive he'd heard her voice in the hallways, but when he'd turned the corner, no one had been there. He convinced himself each time it must have been his imagination. Fitzgerald must be hiding. She must hate him. Not for his beating of Oliver—she'd gotten over that—but for his burning of Father Nelson. He couldn't blame her.

  He was wrought with guilt.

  All of the clergymen had treated him differently since that day. Whether it was fear of the same treatment or a newfound respect, Franklin couldn't be sure. But he knew he had to use it to his advantage. Blackthorn's lessons were a lingering voice in his ear.

  "Burn one today or twelve tomorrow."

  The lesson was true, as terrible as it was. On top of that, he still couldn't believe he'd allowed Oliver to leave. He tried to convince himself that it was the right thing to do.

  To ease his guilt, Franklin had thrown himself into The Word, wrapping himself in his recitations. He'd already spoken with the clergy, ironing out the details of his new role. It was time to prepare his sermon.

  Nearing the end of the hall, Franklin headed for his new chambers and opened the door. He expected to find his usual belongings and books scattered across the desktop, along with the notes he'd been taking.

  Instead, he found Fitzgerald.

  Franklin gasped. He hesitated. For a moment, he feared he had walked into the wrong chambers, and that he was about to get a scolding. The familiar bed sheets and belongings assured him he was in the right place.