by Bobby Adair
She hoped she was helping Franklin with his confidence.
She leaned away from him, but still close enough that they shared the same breaths. Looking into his eyes, she said, “Do you see what we must do?”
Franklin looked back into her eyes, but had no answer.
“I think,” she started, “that you and I must do all that we can to ensure Father Winthrop is on a horse beside General Blackthorn on the day the army leaves Brighton for the Ancient City.”
Franklin’s gaze slipped away. He leaned back and stepped out of the embrace.
Fitz worried.
Franklin started to pace in circles, his eyes shifting about rapidly, his breath quickening.
“What are you thinking?” she asked, not worried by the sudden change. Franklin was getting excited, but trying hard to tamp it down. She knew him well enough to see that. “Tell me.”
Franklin stopped in front of her, took her hands in his, and looked into her eyes. Shaking his head, he said, “I don’t know if voicing these thoughts makes me as evil as Winthrop, but do you realize what would likely happen if Father Winthrop were to leave?”
Hoping Franklin had the right answer, Fitz said, “Someone would have to take his place in all matters during his absence.”
“Me,” Franklin said, nodding. “It would make sense to have one of the more senior Fathers from Coventry or Weymouth come to take Father Winthrop’s place, which is what would surely happen if he were suddenly to die. But in going, he would be too fearful that one of them might usurp his power and find some way to push him onto the pyre. He’d leave his position to me while he was gone, someone he sees as being too weak to make a political play to oust him.”
“And if you are sitting in his place on the council during his absence and he doesn’t return? If he dies?” Fitz asked, again hoping Franklin saw the answer she already knew.
“It’s not a clear-cut answer, but if I handle political matters correctly, I might be the Bishop when all the maneuvering ends.”
“I could help you with those matters,” said Fitz. “I understand men in a way you have not yet learned. Together we could make it happen.”
Smiling, Franklin said, “Then we would be together, and no one could take you away from me.”
“And Brighton would be the better for it,” said Fitz. “The people would not suffer with you on the council.”
Franklin nodded. “That is what must be done. We must see that Father Winthrop is on that horse.”
Chapter 18: Melora
“We should probably look for a place to camp soon,” Bray suggested. “Then we can cook the rabbits.”
Melora and the others agreed. Having left the grassy plain behind, they continued into the dense forest. William whistled softly as he walked, proudly carrying the rabbits he and Melora had killed. Ella and Melora strode next to each other.
“Thanks for showing him that,” Ella said. “I haven’t seen him this happy in a while.”
“No problem,” Melora said. “It’ll take practice, but he has talent with the bow. I can see it.”
Ella sighed. “I’ve protected him too much. He’s asked to learn in the past, but I was always reluctant. I should’ve taught him sooner.”
“You should both learn,” said Bray. “You need to know this.”
Ella agreed. “Can you show me, Melora, the next chance we have?”
“Of course,” Melora said.
The hunt had restored some of Melora’s energy. For a second, she was able to forget about the nagging pit in her stomach. She brushed off her pants, realizing how dirt-stained she was. The smell of soot and ash were constant reminders of the friend she’d lost. She needed to rid herself of the stench.
“We should find a place to bathe,” Ella suggested, noticing her discomfort.
Hearing the request, Bray called over his shoulder. “There’s a stream nearby. The water will be cold. I probably won’t jump in, but if you’d like to rinse off quick, I can take us there. We should probably fill up our water flasks before camping for the night, anyway.”
Melora sighed gratefully. It was good to have someone who knew where they were. There was nothing worse than running through the forest without aim, praying for a place of refuge, spending nights in the trees or staying with strange settlers. Several days of that was enough.
Soon, Bray led them down a gulley, taking them to a rocky bank flanked with bubbling, clear water. He bent down and dipped his hands in, slicking back his hair. His eyes were dark and shadowed. His face was stubbled. He looked as exhausted as the rest of them.
“Why don’t you bathe while I keep watch?” he offered.
Ella gave him a suspicious look.
“Don’t worry. I’ll wait up the bank. I won’t look,” he assured them. Without further conversation, Bray smoothed his hair away from his face and walked to the top of the gulley. True to his word, he didn’t glance back. When he was gone, Ella spoke to William and Melora.
“We’ll take turns,” she said. “You go first, Melora. William and I will wait.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course. You should get the smell of fire off you.”
“It’s not a natural smell,” William said, prompting both Melora and Ella to look at him with questions on their faces. “If we have to hide from the demons, we won’t be able to. They’ll smell her if they get close.”
Melora glanced around the area, convincing herself it was safe. She unslung her bag and set down her weapons. She walked down to the water, submerging her hands. In spite of the cold temperatures, the water calmed her nerves, reminding her of days spent near the Davenport River. She shed her clothes and waded in. The water was cold. Frigid. She watched as the water sluiced away the dirt that seemed to be ingrained on her skin, scrubbing away the remnants of several long, exhausting days.
When she was finished, she donned her clothes and let Ella and William take a turn.
Chapter 19: Franklin
It was late afternoon when Franklin and Fitz walked out of the Crooked Box on their way to find a dress merchant. Fitz was excited. Just days earlier, her life was on the verge of ending on the pyre, her hopes stolen away by Housemother Mary. Now she had a hope of turning her life into more than she ever dreamed.
“How do we do it?” Franklin asked.
Fitz looked at Franklin. “What are you asking?”
“How do we make Father Winthrop go with the army?”
“Either we find some way to convince General Blackthorn to show him no leniency and make him go,” said Fitz, “or we find some way to convince Father Winthrop to change his mind and go of his own accord.”
Franklin laughed harshly. “We must do one of two impossible things.”
Fitz stopped, grabbed Franklin’s shoulder, and spun him to face her. “Yesterday morning, if I’d asked if you’d ever beat Oliver bloody, what would your answer have been?”
“That’s not the same thing,” Franklin argued, shaking his head.
“You would have told me such a thing would never happen,” she said definitively. “You would have told me such a thing was impossible.”
Franklin looked away. “I didn’t want to hurt him.”
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 your 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, sta
ring 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.