The Last Survivors Box Set

by Bobby Adair

  Beck nodded. “Exactly what I think.”

  “Then you’ll be in no danger at all.”

  Beck shook his head. “I have no doubt that something is out there. I also believe that something is capable of killing nineteen thousand of our people.”

  “People that are going to die anyway,” Evan said as he dragged his feet through the thin layer of muddy snow. “We can’t feed them.”

  Beck let his attention linger a moment on the furrows left by Evan’s feet in the snow. “With winter coming, perhaps he intends only to lead them far enough into the wilderness that he can abandon them to starvation and cold.”

  “It would be an expeditious, ruthless solution to the problem,” said Evan. “If nothing else, General Blackthorn is pragmatic. From what I know of him, I would not be surprised if that were his plan.”

  “And that would explain why he wants all three ministers along. The people would follow the three of us with no doubt in their hearts.” Beck kicked a small pile of snow, sending a puff of white into the wind. He watched the flakes sparkle as they drifted.

  “Yet you still believe there is more to this than meets the eye?”

  “Of course,” Beck nodded again. “If not, then why lie?”

  “Minister Winthrop would not approve,” Evan suggested. “He’d protest too vociferously, I think. Perhaps General Blackthorn merely wishes to avoid having a disgruntled Winthrop spread inadvertent, seditious rumors as he bemoans the situation to his novices.”

  “General Blackthorn is an astute player of the political game. Sometimes I believe he knows what a man will do before the man even knows himself.” Beck tucked his hands into his pockets and sighed. “That may be the truth of it. I just don’t believe that is all of it.”

  “Do you believe you are in danger?” Evan asked. “It doesn’t make sense that General Blackthorn would be a danger to you in the wilderness. If he wanted you dead, there is nothing to stop him from putting you on the pyre right now. Is that true?”

  “Yes,” Beck nodded. “Blackthorn’s power of the pyre is absolute. He needs only command it and his blue shirts see that it is done. Still, I am suspicious.”

  “What then?”

  Beck didn’t answer. He walked into the wind instead, thinking through his options. Was a coup the best choice? Could Blackthorn be toppled? Even if he could oust Blackthorn, what of the coming famine and the unsolvable problem of feeding those extra nineteen thousand mouths?

  Perhaps Beck could plan an escape, taking a band of loyal, intelligent scholars and riding off the edge of the map, leaving Blackthorn and his throngs of ignorant followers to their fate.

  Any solution was likely to cost more coin than he had available to him. Everything always did.

  Of one thing he was increasingly sure: he didn’t want to ride out with Blackthorn and his army. That was a dangerous folly clearly meant to be the end of nineteen thousand hungry farmers and tradesmen. Even if Blackthorn meant him and Winthrop no harm, what would a mob of armed men, nineteen thousand strong, do once they realized they were stranded far from home in the winter, with no walls and roof to shelter them and no food in their bellies? It wouldn’t be good to be the warm, fur-wrapped minister, sitting atop a stallion, looking down on them when they came to that realization.

  Beck understood in that moment that he needed to find a way to come up with a pile of coin in a hurry.

  “Evan, tell me of this question that Winthrop’s novice Franklin brought to you.”

  Evan’s face showed his frustration. “It’s not a simple question of historical counts and extrapolations.”

  Beck sighed. “What is the question?”

  “He wants to know what portion of all men in the three townships takes their faith to heart.”

  “Would you not simply ask them?”

  “No,” Evan said, flabbergasted. “Of course not.”

  “Why?” asked Beck, offended at Evan’s response.

  “First, I have not the time, nor the scholars, to assign to the task of asking every man in the three towns that question. Even if I could, how would a man answer it? Our culture burdens us with the expectation that we attend and listen when our clergymen deem that we should. Nearly all do so. Those who don’t are often spoken about behind their backs or publicly derided. Yet, as you well know, when you sit in the pews and daydream about things you’d rather be doing, you see others nod off to sleep. Some whisper rumors. Only a few seem to pay much attention. My belief is that, if I asked the question of a dozen men, nearly all would say they are devoted to The Word to one degree or another. My intuition tells me that result would be very wrong. I believe only a minority of our townsfolk are fervently devoted to The Word. I think by asking the question of faith, the answer we’d actually be receiving is some measure of social pressure. And that doesn’t even account for the ambiguity of the question being asked. How does one define a fervent devotion to The Word?”

  To his surprise, Beck found Evan’s minutiae much more interesting than he ever would have guessed. “Let me ask you another question.”

  “Yes?”

  “Why do you believe Father Winthrop wants this information?”

  “I…well…um.” Evan looked around at the snowy field as he searched his imagination for the answer. “I don’t know.”

  “If he wishes to take a count of attendees, that would be a simple matter, would it not?”

  Evan put on a sour face. “Father Winthrop can’t read and barely knows a number past ten.” He clearly had no respect for Father Winthrop’s choice to shun any learning outside of The Word.

  “But his novice Franklin, or that clever scamp of his, Oliver, could do it for him, correct?”

  “Yes, yes,” Evan agreed. “Some members of the clergy are more than capable. Not all share Father Winthrop’s disdain for education.”

  “We can deduce, then, that his question stems from some other purpose than simple curiosity about his flock.”

  “Okay.” Evan was reluctant to agree.

  “I wonder,” said Beck, “if Winthrop, zealous dimwit that he is, has finally found his spine. How many times can a man kowtow and snivel before his thorny little crumb of pride pokes him into action? I wonder if he, like me, has grated under Blackthorn’s dominance long enough that he has finally chosen to do something about it.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Evan.

  “If Father Winthrop did somehow come to the conclusion that he needed to do something to change the balance of power on the council, would it not make sense that he first assess his own power base? He has no control over the cavalry, the militia, or the city guard, but what if he has the hearts and the ears of the people? Could he not construe The Word to his purpose, to put himself in charge via a coup?”

  “Yes,” said Evan. “This would be a logical first step.”

  “Then let us mislead him into a false confidence,” said Beck. “Tell Novice Franklin that you have concluded your study and that you have found that nine of ten men are devoted to The Word, devoted beyond question. When you find yourself pressed for what that means, you tell them that nine of ten would do anything—and emphasize that part—that Father Winthrop, through The Word, instructs them to do.”

  “I don’t feel comfortable with the lie, but I will do as you instruct.”

  “Of course you will,” said Beck. “You’ll also take this one step further. We have many tasks to perform. Tell me what you know of that clever boy, Oliver. I think he may be of use to us.”

  “How so?” Evan asked.

  “For now, I’ll keep that to myself. Let’s walk back to the square and watch the militia finish up their drills. I believe we may find some curiosities there.”

  Chapter 21: Ella

  “What do you mean you knew them?” Ella asked Bray. She lo
oked back and forth over the bodies of the settlers. She focused on the smallest one. “You let a child die, and you did nothing to help?”

  Bray was silent for a moment. All of the sudden, he jabbed his sword into the floor and his eyes lit with anger. “They chose to break Blackthorn’s laws. It’s not my fault they were killed.”

  “You said two soldiers did this. That means you saw this happen.”

  Bray hefted his sword and took a step toward Ella, as if to threaten her. He turned in the other direction. He walked to the barren doorway and pounded the wall, then stared out into the forest, his shoulders heaving.

  He remained silent for several minutes, staring vacantly into the wilderness while snow fell past the doorway. Ella inched over to William and drew him close. She clung to the boy’s arm, suddenly fearful and protective. The Warden had scared her.

  “It’s okay, William,” she whispered. “It’ll be okay.”

  After a moment of silence, Bray spoke.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to do that. It’s not often that I—”

  “It’s all right,” Ella said. He’d been through a lot. They all had. “You said you knew them?”

  Bray drew a deep breath. “Yes. The mother and father were named Henry and Tabatha. I met their daughter by the river about a year ago. Her name was Harriet. When I came upon her, Harriet was collecting water for her mother, but her mother had lost track of her. When Harriet saw me, she tried running, but I convinced her I meant her no harm. I brought her back to her mother and helped them carry their things. When we got to their dwelling, they took me in and gave me a meal. I repaid them with weapons and protection.”

  “Every so often, I stopped and checked in on the family, trading belongings from the townships that they couldn’t get on their own. In return, they gave me food and a place to sleep when I needed it. The last time I saw them was a few months ago.”

  Bray paused, heaving a thick sigh.

  “I’d just returned from a trip to Coventry. I warned them that Blackthorn’s blue shirts were sweeping the area, searching for settlers. I’d seen them on the way. Henry promised me they were heading east. He said they were going to build a new home, farther away from the townships. I wished them well and bid them goodbye. I didn’t think I’d see them again.”

  “A few days later, after a trip to Coventry, I saw smoke in the distance. By the time I got to the house, all three of them were dead, their bodies burned. I saw two soldiers leaving the vicinity. I tracked them, but by the time I caught up, they’d already rejoined a larger group of blue shirts.” Bray looked over his shoulder at them. His eyes were red and ringed; his normally hardened face seemed soft. “There was nothing I could do.”

  Ella huddled in the corner with William. “Should we bury them?”

  The Warden shook his head. “The bodies need to remain untouched. Other settlers live out here. Touching them will prove more people live in the area, and that’ll bring even more soldiers.”

  “Won’t the soldiers check here for us?”

  “The soldiers were heading in the opposite direction. I don’t think they’ll find us. Besides, I think we’ve covered enough ground to spend the night safely. We’ll leave first thing in the morning. We’ll be okay.”

  Ella nodded. She relaxed, but only slightly. Her mind was still focused on the bodies. She wasn’t sure how she’d sleep. She let go of William and pulled her pack from her shoulders. She set down her sword.

  “Do you know who the soldiers were that killed them? Were they from Brighton?”

  “I believe so.”

  “What were their names?”

  “I didn’t ask. When I saw them the next time, I killed them.”

  Bray’s face hardened again. He set his pack down on the floor, opposite the bodies, and brought out his drinking flask. He took a long gulp. Following his lead, Ella dug in her own bag for a drink. She was thirsty, but she wasn’t hungry. She doubted she’d sleep, with the bodies in the room.

  William slid to the floor beside her, tentatively unstrapping his bag. He dug through the contents and pulled out Zander. Then he looked across the room at the smallest skeleton.

  “How old was Harriet?” he asked the Warden.

  “About your age. Maybe a little younger,” Bray answered.

  “What did she look like?”

  “She had blonde hair and blue eyes, fair skin.”

  “What did she like to do?”

  “The same things the rest of the kids in the townships do. She played games with her mother, collected food and water, climbed the trees.”

  “She did that even with the demons in the forest?”

  “Yes, even with the demons around. Her parents taught her to keep safe; they protected her. I just wish they could’ve protected her from this.” He waved his hand despondently.

  William crept across the floor and placed Zander next to the little girl’s body. Then he scooted back to Ella. “I want Harriet to have it,” he told her. “I won’t be needing it much longer, anyway.”

  William’s face was strangely composed. Ella’s eyes welled up. She looked at her son, then at Bray, thinking the Warden would warn them to take the figurine, but the Warden didn’t say a word.

  Chapter 22: Beck

  By the time Beck and Evan got back to the square, the snow was coming in big, misshapen flakes, floating down through a condensing fog of exhalations from the unenthusiastic men counting and turning and marching in the square. It was late. Bonfires along the perimeter provided light for the men, who clearly wanted to be home eating dinner, rather than drilling and shivering.

  Seeing that Blackthorn had gone, Beck led Evan up to the dais, from which they could see across the undisciplined throng.

  The cohort had broken up into platoons of thirty or forty men, each group getting barked at by a sergeant under the lazy supervision of several officers, who seemed primarily interested in a conversation they were having as they huddled out of the wind between two bonfires along the edge of the square.

  “When you look at these men, do you see anything unusual?” Beck asked.

  Evan rose immediately to the challenge. Of all the things that motivated Evan to action, finding an answer to a new question was foremost. Evan scanned across the rows. He listened to the orders being hollered at the men. The scolding by a sergeant—at least one of them always seemed to be yelling somewhere—piqued Evan’s interest. He soon realized it was just the animation and noise that interested him, nothing important.

  Keeping his hands tucked in his pockets, Beck hinted, “Don’t point, but look over there, down along the left side.”

  Evan looked over. “Are you referring to the two militiamen near the end of that line? The two with the thick, expensive fur cloaks? Based on their manner of dress, they don’t belong.”

  “That is exactly it.” Beck smiled. “Do you know the merchant Dunlow?”

  “The furrier?”

  “Those are his sons.”

  Surprised, Evan turned to face Beck. “Dunlow is among the wealthiest of Brighton’s merchants. Surely, he has enough spare coin to keep his sons out of the militia. At worst, Dunlow could purchase horses for his sons and have them ride in the cavalry. The footmen of the militia are at the lowest level in the military hierarchy.”

  “So it would seem,” said Beck.

  “Obviously there is something about this situation that you aren’t sharing with me,” said Evan.

  “It is a long story. It is also an important one, important enough that of all six hundred shivering soldiers in this cohort, the only two keeping warm in their coats belong to Dunlow the Furrier. You know, of course, that General Blackthorn has no children.”

  “Of course,” said Evan. “He had the misfortune to marry three barren women. They say after
the third, his heart was so hardened by the sorrow of sending them to The House of Barren Women that he turned bitter toward the idea of companionship.”

  Beck took a long breath and then exhaled a big puff of condensation. It was a simple indulgence that never failed to fascinate him when the weather was cold enough for it. “That is one story.”

  “And the other?” asked Evan.

  “Did you know that the first of General Blackthorn’s wives went to the pyre?”

  “I wasn’t aware of that,” said Evan. “Rumors about General Blackthorn’s past abound. One is never sure what to believe.”

  “Have you seen a girl at The House of Barren Women name Fitzgerald?”

  Evan blushed.

  Beck patted Evan on the back. “Don’t be ashamed. All of us visit, though most do so discreetly. I never understood the shame of it.”

  Evan nodded and half smiled.

  “You know the girl I speak of?”

  “Yes,” Evan croaked out. “Maybe the prettiest girl there.”

  Nodding, Beck said, “General Blackthorn’s first wife looked like Fitzgerald. The two were married on a glorious spring afternoon and I think every man in Brighton fell in love with her that day. I was young, barely old enough to know the difference between boys and girls, and I think I fell in love with her, too.” Beck looked off into the gray sky as he thought of her. “She was enchanting. They were like the king and queen in one of the old fairy tales. Rumors spread from almost the next day that she was with child. The whole town seemed to think of little else that year. Everywhere you went, people talked about a prince to carry on for Blackthorn. Back in those days, he was still the hero that saved the townships. People don’t talk about it much now. Too many people have been born since that last great demon war. You know how people are about things that happened before they were alive.”