Fitz grabbed his chin and forced him to look at her, to answer her question.
"I might have said that," he admitted.
"More important than whether you would have said it," she told him, "is whether in your heart you would have believed it to be a possibility. I know how you feel about Oliver. You'd never have seen yourself doing that."
Franklin's shoulder's sagged, and he nodded.
Fitz ran her hands over Franklin's shoulders again. "Don't be disheartened. It was Father Winthrop's evil that made you do something you thought impossible. But some good can come of that evil. You and I both now know that the impossible can be done. If we choose to accept that, then we can find a way to do anything. Your task will be to find a way to convince Father Winthrop to do that which he would not possibly agree. I'll find a way to convince General Blackthorn to force Winthrop to go. If either of us fails, the other will succeed. Believe in yourself, Franklin."
Looking into her eyes, Franklin said, "I'll do it."
Chapter 20: Beck
Beck looked out over the field, which had once been planted with pumpkins. Though the snow had mostly melted away, all of the pumpkins had been caught in it and were further ruined by the freezing temperatures that had been coming each night. There weren't enough hands to get pumpkins out of the fields fast enough. Now acres and acres of them were stomped into the mud, rotting beneath rows and rows and rows of tents, housing thirteen thousand men, twenty-two cohorts, all camped within the closed arcs of the circle wall. All those men were milling about, sleeping, eating, or chasing women now that they were out of the sight of their wives. At least the ones that weren't too tired from drilling for the better part of the day.
Across the foggy field, far from the rows of tents, the cohorts were grouped as far as Beck could see. Each formation of men was a few hundred paces from its neighboring formation. The men in each cohort lined themselves up in silly military rows as sergeants barked orders. Beck snorted. He wondered if Blackthorn's rows held any military value, or if the rows were manifestations of Blackthorn's need to demonstrate control over his men.
The beat of hooves coming up behind him warned Beck of Blackthorn's arrival. He looked over his shoulder, fearing he might be trampled.
Blackthorn, followed by four riders who Beck guessed were his personal guards, pulled on the reins of his horse and slowed the beast to match Beck's pace.
Beck looked up. "Good Morning, General."
"Beck," said Blackthorn.
"Thank you for calling me out to meet in this muddy field so early in the morning." Beck liked to use his sarcasm. He especially liked to use it on General Blackthorn who was oblivious to it. At least, that's what Beck hoped. Though of late, he wondered. Was Blackthorn too much of a dullard to understand the sarcasm, or was he above the pettiness of it? Perhaps he was silently keeping track of each insolent remark and stacking them into a pyre that would one day burn. Beck gulped at the thought, and in the most sincere tone he could manage, he added, "The army appears to be superbly disciplined."
Shaking his head, Blackthorn said, "If only it were so."
"I've never given any thought to military tactics," said Beck, "but I have to wonder about these formations and this enforcement of doing things in unison. What is the purpose?"
"It makes them soldiers," said Blackthorn.
"It is to create a state of mind then?" Beck looked at the nearest of the cohorts. "It makes them believe they are something other than farmers and tradesmen?"
"No." Blackthorn pointed at the formation that Beck was looking at. "You are an educated man, so you know the demons don't have any magical powers. Neither do they have any debilitating handicaps, save for their looks, their stench, and their stupidity. In every other way, they are just like men. They are strong, and they are fast. They wear down just as easily. They bleed the same red blood."
Beck quashed his desire to respond sarcastically to Blackthorn's list of truisms. "I know."
"Nearly every time we go out to fight them, there are more of them than us."
Beck nodded.
"Why do you think we win?"
Beck knew he was being trapped by the conversation, but couldn't see anything but the most obvious of answers. "Horses and weapons? The demons fight on their feet with their hands and teeth, correct?"
"That is true." Blackthorn nodded. "But they have a disadvantage. Although they mass together in mobs and hordes, they fight as individuals. Soldiers, on the other hand, fight as a unit, a group of men coordinated in action and purpose. A unit will defeat nearly any sized mass of warriors. It is a simple military principle."
Beck wasn't convinced. "And the horses and the swords?"
"Two more advantages, each of which will only take a warrior so far toward victory. The key is the unit of soldiers fighting together."
Beck walked on for several paces, getting closer to a cohort that was going through its drills. "So these men, with no horses, but with discipline and weapons, are just as likely to defeat a horde of demons as a squadron of cavalry?"
"No," Blackthorn shook his head. "In equal numbers, with equal training and experience, the cavalrymen would fare better. Mobility has its advantages, and the horse itself, when used properly, is an extension of the man's lethal abilities. Nevertheless, a group of disciplined foot soldiers should be able to defeat a much larger horde of demons."
"Given your great experience and success in military matters, I accept your answer," said Beck, "though it flies in the face of my intuition. It makes me believe that I should have paid much more attention to military tactics and strategies."
"We all have our roles," said Blackthorn. "Let us now discuss your role in greater detail. It has come to my attention that you have been converting certain high-value goods to coin which you then spend on food stores."
Beck was surprised into silence. He almost tripped over his feet, focusing too much on trying to not look guilty. He hadn't constructed a lie to tell when this moment came because he'd never expected it to arrive. Despite all the times that Beck disagreed with the council, despite all the times he'd expressed his anger with veiled but vicious words, it never occurred to him that Blackthorn was bright enough to suspect anything lay behind Beck's charade of loyalty.
Panic rose in Beck's bowels, threatening to shamefully soil his undergarments. Had he underestimated Blackthorn? Was the purchase of the food stores the only of Beck's plans that Blackthorn was aware of?
Please let this be Blackthorn's uncanny luck.
It had to be luck. Right?
Beck had the urge to look up at Blackthorn, but forced himself not to.
Instead, Beck glanced back at the four horsemen following behind. He wondered if he was being escorted to a pyre, one more in a long line of Blackthorn's adversaries, screaming as his burning flesh glowed through the morning fog.
Chapter 21: Winthrop
The firewood girl finished piling wood near the hearth. She laid some logs on the fire.
"More," Winthrop croaked.
The girl paused for the barest of moments before complying with averted eyes. She reached in and dropped a log on top of the smoldering ones she'd already placed there. She stood up straight.
"Another."
The woman's expression showed a dash of fright as she knelt down to get another piece of wood.
"Stack it full," Winthrop told her, "until the flames pour out and lick the stone."
"But—" The firewood girl caught herself before she said more. Having uttered that one syllable of protest, she shook.
And shiver she should, Winthrop thought. He'd brook no insolence from a woman whose simple-minded lot in life it was to haul twigs and logs from forest to fire.
She stacked quickly, filling the fireplace with wood, and watched as the fire grew to a roar. She stepped away from the flames.
When the blaze filled the fireplace, pouring out to blacken the stone face, Winthrop shooed the girl with a gesture, and said, "If you delay in y
our return so long that my fire burns down to embers again, it'll be your flesh that stokes it next time."
The girl nodded, suppressing her sobs and running out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her.
Winthrop sat in his chair, staring at the raging fire, not caring that it was morning. Not caring about a great many things.
He'd been alone in the room since General Blackthorn had left him sitting in a pew in his own temple. In fact, he'd spent nearly the entire time in the chair, catatonic with a fear that seemed to crawl across the shadows on the wall and reach out from beneath the bed to grab at his ankles.
Though he'd originally loved the dark, secure, windowless room, a place where he felt safe deep in the bowels of the temple, now he couldn't help but wonder if he shared the room with spirits of the dead. He envisioned their dirt-seeped ashes reconstituting themselves into shadow wraiths hungry to satisfy their vengeance by digging their bony fingers into his flesh.
Among the creepers on the wall were the dying wails of Jenny.
Her spirit had been coming more and more lately. Sometimes flowing in a sticky shadow across the wall, sometimes only as a baleful, disembodied voice that cried its pain in ear-piercing shrieks followed by gurgles of blood and breath seeping from a severed neck.
Only the brightly blazing fire seemed to do anything to keep the apparitions at bay.
Chapter 22: Beck
"I wish to ensure the preservation of the Academy," Beck blurted out, his words tripping over one another as his freshly-inspired lie rushed out to save his life. "The Academy discovered the coming famine. As much as the council believes it to be a luxury in our society, the Academy proves its worth again and again. This time, it may have proven itself by saving humanity from extinction."
There. Beck had tossed out the lie. He hoped there were enough distracting addendums to turn Blackthorn's mind away from any flames that might be in Beck's immediate future. Of course, the hope that his lie would work was predicated on the assumption that Blackthorn was the stupider of the two.
Beck's faith in that axiom stood on shaky ground at the moment.
Beck scanned across the foggy fields, looking for a pile of wood with a pole standing out of its center.
"If all die of starvation except for your scholars," asked Blackthorn, "how will you survive? There will be no farmers to grow more food. No more hunters to bring animals from the forest. No more gatherers to bring roots and berries. There will be no soldiers to defend the walls. There will only be weak-bodied scholars pretending to learn things from ancient books they do not understand."
"I..." Beck was at a loss for the next lie because, in his mind, he was in agreement with Blackthorn's line of reasoning, but not the conclusion. "The Academy will share what it has if necessity requires it," lied Beck. "We don't intend to make gluttons of ourselves. We intend to eat small rations, enough to keep us alive until plentiful harvests return."
"I see," Blackthorn said.
Beck looked again for the pyre.
"Allow me to ask one more question on this matter," said Blackthorn. "What happens on that day when the starving farmer is at your door, and you have to make that choice between filling your belly and filling his? Will the nobility of your choice remain, or will you then rationalize your way to self-preservation?"
Beck wanted to blurt out the next lie, that indeed the food would be shared, but he knew the truth of it as surely as did Blackthorn. He said nothing in response.
After a moment, Blackthorn, said, "Thank you for not lying about that. I would have lost the last of my respect for you."
The last of my respect?
Beck suspected the next thing Blackthorn said would be an order to bind him and haul him off. He looked around for a place to run. Nothing. He was out in the fields between the town and the circle wall. No place to hide was nearly close enough. With the horsemen behind, he had no hope of winning a race back into town, and the wall was much too far. Even if a miracle floated him magically over the wall and into the forest, what would come next? The same fate.
"Whatever you do with your hoard of food, it matters not to me," said Blackthorn, "until you and I return from our expedition. We shall see what happens at that time. In the meantime, I want to assure you that you will be going with the expedition."
"Yes," Beck squeaked out through a tight throat. Suddenly, the expedition seemed like salvation.
Blackthorn tugged his reins, and his horse stopped. Blackthorn wheeled it around so that he could look at Beck without turning his head. "Father Winthrop is weak. Despite my attempts to coerce him, I believe he lacks the fortitude to put himself onto a horse when the appointed day arrives. I believe he will fall to the ground and cry like a woman in front of the whole of the army and cavalry. As much as I would enjoy having every man, woman, and child see through the façade of his brave piety, I cannot allow him to debilitate the morale of the army. That is the whole purpose of bringing the ministers along."
Beck considered pleading for permission to stay. If Winthrop could cry and act his way out of it, why not Beck?
Blackthorn tilted his head toward the four riders. "Of Winthrop, I expect such behavior. From you, should you have any ideas that don't coincide with mine on this matter, those four men will accompany you in all you do until the day the army marches out of Brighton."
"But…" Beck looked back at the riders. No. He didn't want this at all.
"They will shore up your courage."
"I am a minister on the council," said Beck, puffing himself up with authority. "Am I to lose my privacy? Am I to become a walking prisoner?"
"Call it what you wish," said Blackthorn. "The men will not enter the Academy. They will wait at the door, or when it freezes at night, they will wait inside your dining hall. Surely, they will be of no bother to you there."
Beck wanted to argue. He wanted to win his point with an eloquent protest. Mostly, though, he wanted to keep himself off the pyre pole. He'd have to find a way to work with the problem these four guards represented. He looked up at Blackthorn. "I thank you for the service of providing four guards to protect my courage."
Blackthorn nodded and said nothing else as he wheeled his horse around to gallop toward one of the drilling cohorts.
Chapter 23: Franklin
With a tray in one hand holding a plate of eggs, smoked pork, and bread, Franklin knocked on the door, not knowing what to expect on the other side. Father Winthrop had locked himself in his room. The fire girl said he was distressed and seemed to be mumbling to or looking at other people in the room. "Who?" Franklin had asked her. She explained that the room was empty all night. What's more, it appeared the Father Winthrop had not gone to bed but had stayed in his chair the entire night.
Franklin asked the girl if Father Winthrop had taken ill. She said she'd not seen any evidence of that in his chamber pot. He asked if Winthrop was drunk. She said he'd been drinking wine most of the prior day and through a good part of the night, but not so much that a man of his size would lose his senses.
Franklin knocked again, anxiously waiting for a reply.
Putting his ear to the door's thick wood, he listened, hoping to hear Winthrop's rhythmic snore. He didn't. What he did hear was the sound of something moving inside, not constantly, just occasionally—the sound of the big man shifting in his chair, trying to find a comfortable position in which to settle his plump rolls of flesh.
Winthrop had to be awake.
Franklin knew he needed to go inside.
He steeled his nerves and thought about Fitz, which, of course, made his heart ache with longing, though he'd seen her in the kitchen before leaving there with the tray in hand. He thought about all the things the two of them were planning together. He thought about the goal.
He had to open the door.
Franklin turned the handle and pushed the heavy wood inward.
Humid, hot air laced with Winthrop's unwashed stink engulfed Franklin and flowed up his nostrils and down hi
s throat, leaving a taste of sweat, smoke, and chamber pot residue. Franklin cringed.
Winthrop, without turning away from the fire, said, "Not now, girl. Go."
Franklin reluctantly stepped inside and closed the door behind.
The plate rattled on the tray as Franklin took a step forward.
"I told you to—" Winthrop cut himself off. He looked around with bloodshot eyes and a vicious scowl, ready to berate.
In a placating tone, Franklin said, "I'm worried for you, Father. I brought you breakfast."
Winthrop waved Franklin away and turned back to the fire.
Franklin took another step forward, deciding to risk what might come next, and marched over to plant himself in front of Winthrop's chair.
Winthrop's breathing demonstrated his agitation, but he said nothing.
"The lesson you taught me with Oliver was exactly the lesson I needed to learn," Franklin announced, hoping Winthrop wouldn't see through the obvious lie. "I know I need to be strong enough to suffer through the actions required by correct decisions."
Winthrop eyed Franklin suspiciously.
"You've put yourself under too much stress trying to teach me and foolish Oliver because you care too much about turning us into carriers of The Word." Franklin looked down at the food and sniffed, trying to draw Winthrop's attention away from the lies he was making up. "Now your health is in jeopardy. You must eat something, or you'll fall ill."
Winthrop's eyes fell away from Franklin and settled on the tray.
"Eggs," said Franklin. "Fresh from the market. A big helping of smoked pork, and that bread baked by Widow Stein with that crust you like. It's still warm. I just came from the kitchen."
"It is morning, then?" Winthrop asked.
"Late," said Franklin. "Almost noon."
Winthrop subtly nodded toward his lap, and Franklin understood that as an instruction to set the tray there.
"Careful," said Franklin as he let go the tray. "Would you like a drink, as well?"
Winthrop cocked his head toward a line of wine bottles at the foot of the bed. "Fill my cup."
The Last Humanity (The Last Survivors Book 3) Page 7
