A Pawn's Betrayal

by Ernie Lindsey

  A Pawn’s Betrayal

  Book 2 of The Rhythm of War Trilogy

  Ernie Lindsey

  Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

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  Copyright

  Ernie Lindsey

  www.ernielindsey.com

  ©2014 & 2018

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  All rights reserved.

  Chapter 1

  Raindrops.

  Always raindrops. They fall whether you’re drinking watercress tea beside a warm fire, or hunting for that morning’s breakfast, or on a scouting mission to the north of your encampment.

  It feels like that was a different life.

  What seems like such simple, mindless tasks are long, long gone—days and miles in the past—and still it rains. Our one, brief moment of blue sky was a beacon of hope, and the next, we are again enshrouded by the clouds of desperation.

  The once-jovial crowd has grown silent, sensing something troubling from our reactions. Some of them can see what we see—tanks and a smaller division of the main army—and others whisper their questions.

  My people. My citizens. Those I am in charge of who rely on me, a fourteen-year-old army scout, to save them from a life in chains. I’ve gotten them this far. We’re almost safe. What a relief it will be to hand them over to someone higher in the chain of command, but for now, a steep mountainside and one last push to the fortified walls of our capital stand between us.

  The wall of rain washes over us as James lifts his thunderous voice up and over their heads. “Run! Run if you can!”

  I scream for them to go calmly, but my words are lost in the din of their fear. I grab James’s arm. “Tell them,” I order. “Tell them to go safely.”

  Finn shakes his head. “Too late for that.”

  Around us, people scramble to pick up their children, their belongings, and the food they’ve managed to save. People run into each other, knock one another down, and trip over those who aren’t moving fast enough.

  James puts a hand on his forehead. “Sorry, Caroline, I—”

  “Forget it,” I say, picking up my satchel. “Just help anyone that needs it. Tell them that if they can’t make it with the rest of us, we will not abandon them. We’ll send help back.”

  James nods. “Okay.”

  “Tell them now. Scream it so they’ll understand.”

  He does, and I’m not sure that it works.

  Some of the citizens of the People’s Republic of Virginia, the PRV, and some of the Republicons are composed enough to understand James. They wave in agreement and lift the fallen off the ground.

  Nearly everyone moves faster than I expect, even the grandmothers like Cherise—she of the gangrene arm—and the father with his child on crutches, the one I decided I was fighting for. Fueled by adrenaline and perhaps the fleeting glimpse of blue sky, we scamper, crash, and scramble down the hillside; some who are well enough to do so on their own help those who aren’t.

  We must be an unwelcome sight when a thousand PRV citizens, tired and bedraggled, and a handful of Republicons, erupt from the forest’s edge and into a clearing. I stay behind with Finn, to help the last in line, while James leads the charge toward the empty road in the distance. If they can make it to that dark, hardened path, the remaining retreat into Warrenville will be unhindered. The approaching bulk of the Democratic Alliance of Virginia army is miles away. They’re not moving fast enough to catch us before we reach the gates.

  Finally, safety is within sight.

  We’re out of harm's way, but for how long?

  Finn keeps glancing toward the incoming tanks, nervously.

  “What’s the matter?” I ask, motioning for a young mother and her child to follow the rest of the group. I tell her not to worry, there’s plenty of time, and she smiles in return. I can’t tell if she believes me.

  Finn answers, “The main army is marching straight toward us and can’t be too far behind if the flank is already here. They had to bring the tanks the long way around, through the roads. I didn’t expect them to get here so fast.”

  “It’s my fault they won’t be prepared.” I can feel the weight of guilt closing in on my chest. “I should’ve sent runners ahead days ago.”

  “I’m sure your people knew already. You can’t march an army that large without word spreading. And if I had to guess, General Graybeal probably sent someone himself.”

  “Why would he do that?” We wait on the last two people to pass us—an older, blind man being guided by his granddaughter—and then shuffle along behind them. I can’t help but smile. It seems insane given our situation, but we’ve managed to lead our entire group of people out and into the open. Not a single one of our charges have been left behind. We’ve made it so far.

  The group marching in front of us is filled with such an improbable group of people. It’s unbelievable that we made it to safety with the types of people we have among us. Sick, weak, wounded and dying, they’ve fought for survival and they won. It’s only a small victory, though, because the war hasn’t even begun.

  When the blind man stumbles in front of me, I think maybe I should congratulate myself later, once we’re safely inside the walls of Warrenville.

  Finn seems distracted by the approaching army in the distance. I ask again, “Finn, why would your general send a warning ahead of time?”

  Finn says, “Huh? Oh, right. Just to let them know what a mistake they made. Before I left, there was talk of not going to war. Or, well, avoiding it if at all possible. If your President Larson had surrendered, none of this would’ve happened.”

  “Maybe not, but we’d all be in chains and marching north, instead of trying to fight for our freedom.”

  “I know,” Finn says. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant that, at some point, somebody made a decision and here we are. They knew the DAV would be coming. They had to. My question is, what have they done to prepare for it? Anything?”

  Finn has a point, and it leaves me wondering if we’ll find soldiers along the walls, armed with sticks and rocks, trying to defend their last remaining bastion against those metal behemoths that can shoot projectiles through solid rock.

  President Larson must have decided that fighting to maintain our freedom was worth the risk. Right? It’s my guess that he had purposely chosen not to wave the white flag against the northern enemies. Why would he do that if he didn’t think we had a chance? I only know of him, but I’ve heard stories from the Elders that he’s always been a good man.

  But, do good men always make the wisest decisions?

  I don’t know the answer to that.

  I tell Finn that maybe I should go ahead, that I should get to the gates of the capital before the rest o
f our group. If they know the DAV army is on its way, and if they have lookouts posted along the walls, it makes sense to have an official representative approach first. “Right?” I ask. “Especially if we show up with a group of Republicons with us.”

  “Good idea. You go. I’ll make sure everyone keeps up. And,” he adds, grabbing my hand gently, “if the subject comes up, I was never a blackcoat.”

  He should know that I would never betray his history, but I can see the worry in his eyes. A soft peck on the cheek reassures him. I hope. “Your secret is safe with me,” I say. He smiles.

  Yet, a minor flicker in the back of my mind, like a moth beating its wings, has me wondering if he had Teresa hanged to ensure that there was one less outlet for the truth. I trust him with every drop of blood flowing through my veins, but even the purest of souls have something to hide.

  I squeeze his hand—reassuringly, calmly—and sprint to the front of the group. I know I can move faster; with my Kinder abilities growing in strength, I could be at the front gates in seconds, covering the last couple of miles in a blur, but I need to speak to James first.

  He’s leading the charge. Not running, but jogging at a steady clip, head down and hood up, with rain dripping into his face and off his beard. By now, you’d think that every single person would be bone-tired to the core of their being, however, James looks fresh, determined. Most of him anyway. With the barest hint of setting sun lighting the day, I can see a trace of ache in the way his jaw clenches each time he takes another step.

  “Ho, Caroline!” he says in his familiar greeting. “They’re keeping up better than I expected.” He smells like days-old sweat and damp clothing.

  I glance back behind us and survey the shuffling clan. “They’ll make it. That speck of blue sky did more good than a warm meal.”

  “Some of those kids back there weren’t even born the last time the sun was out.” He hisses in pain during an awkward step and I ask if he’s okay. “Age, Caroline. Nothing but age. I’ll make it.”

  “I’m going ahead,” I say. “I want to make sure they know we’re coming.”

  “Oh, they can see us. They’d be stupid not to have lookouts posted, and I don’t think your leaders are that foolish.”

  “That’s my point, James. We won’t be able to hide the fact that you’re Republicons. You don’t look any different than the rest of us, not really, but too many people know. Too many mouths to blurt secrets.”

  His shoulders slump as he shakes his head. He slows his pace. “Don’t do that to me, Caroline. Not now. We’ve come so far. We’ve helped you for so long. I lost good people for this.”

  “No, no,” I say, patting his back, “don’t worry. I’ll do everything I can to make sure you’re rewarded. They’ll give you a soft bed and fresh clothes. Maybe even a bath.”

  I chuckle when he sniffs his armpit and says, “Nah, I’m not due for another week.”

  I probably shouldn’t be promising any of this. The way Republicons are viewed—pure scum, worse than dog poop on a boot heel—it wouldn’t surprise me if the guards shot James and the rest of his crew on sight. Truthfully, if they can see us already, like James says, then there’s a chance that the Republicons are lined up in the crosshairs of a rifle and they don’t even know it.

  James jogs a few more steps. I keep my pace slow because I can tell that he wants to say something else, but he’s having a hard time finding the right words. Eventually, he stumbles through it. “I… Maybe we should… Maybe Marla and the Blakes, Squirrel—we should leave. You’re here, we’ve helped you get this far. You told us to go before we got to the top of Black Rash Mountain. We should’ve listened then.”

  “I don’t want you to go, James. Please don’t. Let me try to talk to them, okay? You’re good, strong fighters. You’ve risked your lives for days to help us. They’ll understand.” I can see both sides of the argument. I want him to stay for selfish reasons, but it’s probably safer for them to leave for logical ones.

  “We’re Republicons, Caroline. They shoot us in the middle of the street. No judge, jury, or trial. I’ve seen it before. Boom, dead.”

  This overwhelming need overcomes me. I led my people to safety, but I didn’t do it without James. He’s been with me since we began this harrowing sprint to safety. He was right there by my side the whole time. He was on the right, Finn was on the left. What will I do without my generals?

  “I need you to stay. I do. Me. And I know that’s selfish, but if you want to stay and fight, even if it’s for something you don’t belong to, I’ll always be in your debt. That’s for me, not my country,” I say desperately, beating a fist against my chest. “My capital isn’t your home, but this land is, these mountains are, and unless you want to spend the rest of your life hiding—”

  “We already spend our lives hiding, Caroline. We’re Republicons,” he insists. “That’s what we do.”

  “I know that, but you should stay and fight, because that’s for you. Defend what’s yours. Land, life, and freedom.”

  Understanding flickers throughout his features.

  “Go,” he says, sighing, nudging me with his bear-paw hand. “Tell them before we get there, then get back here and give us their answer. We need time to escape if they say no. Understood? That’s final. I have my own kind to protect. Go.”

  I thank him and turn toward the walls of my capital, promising one last time that I’ll do everything I can to make sure they welcome him and his Republicon family like the heroes that they are. As I take my first step, I say a small prayer that it’s a promise I’ll be able to keep.

  One, two, three steps later and I’m at full speed, reaching the road in seconds. I turn south and pump my legs, driving myself ahead. The blacktop beneath my feet is harder than stone and feels strange after walking on the soft forest floor for days upon days.

  I feel no pain. I am in union with the energy around me, drawing it from the earth, the sky, the lightning that arcs across the clouds.

  I am safe for the moment, but not free. Uncertainty tugs at my back, as if a rope tethers me to a fencepost, because I don’t know if I’ll have the opportunity to experience true liberty again. I have to outlast a war to know that.

  The last light of day fades while I run. The concealed sun dips over the last mountain in the distance, losing the war against another day gone.

  War. Three simple letters that lead to so much destruction. Three simple letters that tear families apart, destroy lives and cities, and change the course of history.

  Given that the DAV army is swiftly approaching, I may die before I know true independence again, and death itself may provide the only freedom remaining.

  I’m one of the last two Kinders, but that doesn’t mean I’m immortal.

  Chapter 2

  Before I get too close, I slow down to a natural gait, worried that the guards, if there are any, will panic and shoot at the sight of a human approaching at my speed.

  My blistered feet with their drenched, peeling skin, white with water, ache as the soles of my boots pound across the blacktop road. It seems as if my Kinder abilities—strength, absence of pain—can do no good against the damage that’s already been done to the bottom half of my body. Days of running will do that to a person. I can’t even imagine what the weaker souls must be feeling.

  The word “Halt!” echoes down to me twenty yards away from the massive metal doors of Warrenville. I obey, stopping dead still right where I am. I hold up my arms, palms out, showing that I’m not armed. Forty feet above me, along the top of the wall, unnatural lights blink on, blinding me, projecting yellow-white cones down at the entrance.

  They’re something I had to see to believe. We had campfires under canvases in the middle of our encampment. Candles made from the fat of animals we killed for food and clothing. Flames from the fireplaces illuminated our hovels. These were the sources of our light. The Elders spoke of something called ‘electricity’ and how it used to power nations hundreds of years ago. In some pla
ces across the large ponds that have no visible shore on the other side, they say that some are still powered by it. I’m amazed that this wonder called electricity exists in the PRV.

  False light. It’s incredible. Here, on our land, in our world, I might as well be looking into the eyes of God.

  I squint and hold my arm over my face, trying to block the source.

  It occurs to me that there will be plenty of things here that I’ve never seen before, in real life, and that the Elders were likely telling the truth about cars, medicines, and buildings fully stocked with supplies.

  We’d had people from our encampment visit relatives in the south before, but their stories of what life was like down here were always so unbelievable that we laughed in their faces.

  We had laughed at Elder Cornwall so much, he refused to speak for a month.

  I think about those distant days in a flash. If my encampment hadn’t turned into a pile of smoldering rubble at the hands of the DAV, what stories I could’ve told.

  The voice bellows down to me and says, “Identify yourself.” It’s a male, and I assume that since he’s guarding the wall, he’s part of the army, or some security force, and deserves a measure of respect. I have half a mind to tell him to shine the lights in his own damn eyes, but I hold my tongue.

  I say, “Caroline Mathers, sir! My rank is Forward Army Scout of the People’s Republic of Virginia.”

  “What station?”

  “Northernmost. I come from Rafael’s Ridge.”

  There’s a pause. “You survived?” His voice is filled with surprise.