by Bobby Adair
It never made any sense to Ivory.
In appearance, Jingo was much the same. His bumpy, wart-covered arms and contorted head might as well have belonged to any other creature.
Ivory thought he saw a look of sadness cross Jingo’s face as they walked away from the dead demon. Ivory wondered if Jingo saw himself in the creature’s red, sightless eyes.
Chapter 62: Blackthorn
Blackthorn marched across the square with twenty of his personal squadron of cavalrymen marching behind.
On the steps to the temple, just as instructed, were Minister Beck, his assigned guards, and Scholar Evan, along with four others from the Academy whose names Blackthorn had never bothered to learn. In fact, he barely recognized their faces. They were the bookish, nearly useless types, the kind of men that, according to Scholar Evan’s intellectual deductions, Brighton had too many of. Half of the men in the Academy would be better suited as farmers. Nearly all the clergy would be more useful in the field. And the lazy sons of wealthy merchants would do well to dirty their hands in the pigsties. There were too many idle men and too many barren women. All mouths to be fed by laborers who were too stupid to realize they were feeding more than just their children. Ignorance breeding ignorance.
Such was the structure of society. And meanwhile, other men, brave men, protected them and their children from the demons in the woods.
Blackthorn shook his head.
He saw no use for any others—not the merchants or the clergy. Certainly he’d listened to years and years of yammerings from Beck about the necessity of the Academy, but what progress ever came from that? Better swords or better bows? More plentiful crops? Certainly not. What then? Blackthorn couldn’t think of a single thing.
Then there were the merchants, a necessary host of parasites. Or were they? Blackthorn could never quite understand their importance. Certainly, they seemed to control all the coin, and the coin seemed to be the root of power in Brighton. But coin was only a means to value trade. A man who grew grain could convert his crop into this third-party medium called coin, so that he could then trade it for shoes, coats, or meat. After all, it didn’t make sense that a cobbler or tailor would need grain at the same time that the farmer needed shoes. Hence, coin was used. But what did the merchants add to that equation? Nothing that Blackthorn could see, except to sit in the middle of transactions and skim off the coin, making themselves rich without sweating to create anything.
Though Blackthorn had long felt this way, he’d never done anything to alter the monetary system in the townships. If he were going to change it, what would he change it to? How would he convince the stupid farmers, seemingly satisfied to be on the losing end of every transaction, to accept something different? He certainly couldn’t put them all on the pyre to convince them. So the unsatisfactory status quo had stayed, slowly turning Brighton into an unsustainable fat cow of a city that now needed nineteen thousand culled in order to avert a famine that might end with all of them dead.
For that, Blackthorn accepted full responsibility. It was under his leadership that corruption and sloth had flourished. And now here he was, walking up to the temple, the acme of indolence, a collection of men who seemed to do nothing but whisper incantations and comforts into the ears of those who’d be better suited to clench their jaws and face hardship.
Blackthorn marched up the steps until he was standing in front of Minister Beck. “I trust I won’t have to babysit you on this matter. Tell me, is the Academy in order for your departure?”
Beck nodded.
Blackthorn pointed at Scholar Evan. “He will fill your role as Minister of Learning during your absence?”
“He will,” said Beck.
“All of your Scholars are aware?”
“They are,” Beck answered. “And in your stead, General? With whom shall Scholar Evan sit on the council?”
Blackthorn looked at Beck and spent a moment deciding whether to answer at all. Blackthorn was in a bad mood. His joints ached. He hadn’t slept. In his head, he silently cursed himself for his choice to put Tenbrook in his place. Everything about it felt like a mistake. But each time he thought through the steps in the decision process that led him to Tenbrook, each time he looked at the other men who might serve as alternatives, they were all so lacking that only Tenbrook’s name rose to the top, the most buoyant turd in the chamber pot. “Are you going to pretend you haven’t guessed?”
Beck smirked but hid it well. “Tenbrook.”
Blackthorn nodded.
“Your captains have accepted him?” Beck asked. “I understand he is not popular.”
“Popularity?” Blackthorn hissed, stepping up to lean in close. He realized then that Beck, having sensed his mood, was likely taunting him. “Tenbrook will do the job. The captains will follow his orders. Popularity is an overrated virtue of weak men. Now go back to your Academy.” Blackthorn glanced up at the temple’s great doors. “And allow me to deal with these clergy imbeciles without your pubescent embellishments.”
Chapter 63: Ivory
Ivory couldn’t handle the anticipation any longer. His heart was still pounding from the encounter with the demons, but having shot his bow successfully, he felt more assured.
“How far away is this surprise you wanted to show me?”
“Only a few blocks farther.”
Ivory smiled. The word ‘blocks’ was like a secret they shared. Certainly no one in Brighton knew its other meaning. He held up his new bow.
“Is it a bigger surprise than this?”
“Much bigger,” Jingo said.
“I wish I knew what it was.”
“You’ll see soon enough. We’re almost there.”
Chapter 64: Franklin
Each of the clergymen from the townships and villages, along with their Novices, sat in the first several rows of pews, the anointed Fathers in front, the Novices behind. Franklin turned from where he sat in the pews among the Novices to look when the giant old doors at the back of the temple swung open. In strode General Blackthorn, as regal and stern as ever. Behind him, dressed for battle with swords in their scabbards, daggers in their sheaths, were two lines of Blackthorn’s cavalrymen.
When the last of the cavalrymen had marched into the Temple Sanctuary, they closed the two doors with a booming finality that challenged anyone inside to dare even a whisper.
Half of Blackthorn’s men stood across the width of the Sanctuary in the empty floor space between the pews behind the seated clergy. A quarter of the soldiers took up positions at each of the front corners, all standing at attention, all hard-faced, all looking like copies of one another, ready to stand there all day long, or pull out their swords and start lopping off heads, depending on General Blackthorn’s whim.
That was one thing on a list of likes and hates that Franklin grudgingly admired about Blackthorn. His soldiers, those in the cavalry anyway, seemed to be extensions of Blackthorn himself. Their obedience to his will was unquestioned. It was a depth of loyalty that Franklin envied.
How does a man get other men to be so wholly devoted?
Blackthorn climbed the stairs to the stage, crossing in front of the silent clergy. He seated himself on Father Winthrop’s empty throne. But he didn’t lounge as Winthrop did. Blackthorn sat up stiff and straight, ready to lay down decrees. He asked, “Where is Bishop Winthrop?”
Murmurs tumbled through the seated Fathers on the first two rows. The Novices on the row behind the Fathers remained quiet, though they all looked around, as though Father Winthrop might somehow have found a way to seat himself among them unnoticed.
Father Nelson, the most senior of the clergy behind Father Winthrop, stood and said, “He’s not here.”
Blackthorn looked at Father Nelson blankly. That blankness conveyed just how pointless Father Nelson’s announcement was.
Blackt
horn turned to settle his stern gaze on Franklin.
Franklin caught his breath. Nobody liked falling to the center of General Blackthorn’s attention. Mostly, Franklin hoped he wasn’t going to be questioned about Oliver’s absence. Franklin didn’t know where the younger novice was.
Blackthorn said, “Father Franklin, you are the only one who seems to have any worthwhile knowledge.”
Father?
Franklin didn’t know what to think.
A few Fathers cast sniping glances at Franklin. Most of the Novices looked surprised.
Franklin stood. “I believe Father Winthrop is in his chamber.”
Blackthorn looked over at the soldiers positioned near the hall that led down toward Winthrop’s sleeping chamber. “Escort him here.”
The soldiers turned as one and filed down the hall.
Blackthorn looked back at Franklin and pointed to a spot on the floor to the left of Winthrop’s throne. “You belong up here.”
Without hesitating, though he was embarrassed by the attention among his peers and the Fathers who all had years of tenure ahead of him, Franklin walked out into the aisle as solemnly as he could carry himself. He crossed over to the stairs, climbed them, and walked to a spot on the stage to Blackthorn’s left.
Looking down on the seated Fathers, he saw questions on some of their faces, a poorly masked hate on the others. Most of the Novices, who were younger than Franklin, looked on in wonder. They knew they were witnessing something novel and important.
They are, thought Franklin. He was sure of that. Like them, though, he wasn’t entirely sure what. Though he had nothing to show but failure for his part in the plan that he and Fitz had conceived, he started to wonder if she had succeeded.
Standing up again, apparently the only Father with the courage to raise his voice in front of General Blackthorn, Father Nelson said, “Father Franklin?” He glared at Franklin. “I am the senior member of the clergy after Bishop Winthrop, who has the sole authority to promote a Novice to the position of Father. I was not made aware of such a promotion.”
“Is Bishop Winthrop required to consult with you before he makes the decision?” asked Blackthorn.
Father Nelson stammered and said, “He has always made—”
“Is he required?” Blackthorn demanded.
Father Nelson froze, unable to pull words out of his throat.
“Speak, man.”
Meekly, Father Nelson shook his head, “No. It is done at his discretion.”
“Do you doubt that he has promoted Franklin from Novice to Father? Is that what you ask? Do you suspect that it is I who am lying?”
Father Nelson suddenly seemed to have lost his will to stand, but was too afraid to sit. “I…I do not doubt.”
“Seat yourself, then.”
After that, there was nothing but silence in the temple, broken only by a few coughs.
Franklin felt uncomfortable standing under the gaze of men who had been his superiors, who now were suddenly his equals, at least according to General Blackthorn. Instead of looking at them, he looked out over their heads at the cavalrymen, who didn’t seem like people at all, toy soldiers made life-sized. Their expressions betrayed none of what they felt or thought.
Father Winthrop’s doddering up the long hall away from his chamber grew louder the closer he came. He was speaking in soft and sometimes animated tones, though it was unclear to Franklin what he was saying, or to whom. None of his escorting cavalrymen answered.
When the soldiers came into the Sanctuary, they escorted Father Winthrop onto the stage and stood him on General Blackthorn’s right. They retreated from the stage and took their place at the corner of the room. Franklin turned his attention to the faces of the clergymen. They weren’t prepared for the sight of Father Winthrop. His hair was disheveled. His eyes darted from side to side. His mouth seemed never to stop moving, though words were no longer coming out.
Franklin had gotten used to Father Winthrop’s odd quirks as they developed during his self-imposed confinement. For the others, though, the change was astounding.
“Bishop Winthrop,” Blackthorn said loudly, pausing to make sure that he had the attention of everyone in the room, “thank you for joining us.” He cast his gaze across the clergymen. “Tell your ministers that you have promoted Novice Franklin to Father Franklin.”
Winthrop looked around as his eyes widened. He nodded.
Or at least Franklin thought he nodded.
“Say the words,” General Blackthorn commanded.
“I have,” said Winthrop, looking over at Franklin and then looking on past. “Father Franklin.”
Franklin was taken aback. He’d thought all of his and Fitz’s plans had come to naught. He’d feared for how sick or injured she must be, still imprisoned in General Blackthorn’s house. He’d almost accepted that his attempts to convince Father Winthrop to do anything were a failure. Yet, here he was, being named to the clergy.
General Blackthorn looked out at the clergymen. “As you are aware, the entire militia has been called. The citizens from all the townships and villages have been summoned to stay behind the protection of the circle wall. The army and the cavalry are marching out tomorrow to meet the greatest horde of demons in our people’s history. Because there are so many of us, it is incumbent that the council go out to offer our support in what ways we can. I, Minister Beck, and Father Winthrop will all go. During our time away, others will govern Brighton. Minister Beck has appointed Scholar Evan to temporarily serve in his absence. Captain Tenbrook will serve in my place while I am gone. Only Father Winthrop has not yet named the Father who will act as Bishop during his absence.” Blackthorn turned toward Winthrop.
Winthrop, through the course of Blackthorn’s announcement, seemed to find clarity in his thoughts and looked at Blackthorn, shock on his face. His eyes darted around. He fidgeted his fingers. He leaned in close, and in a whisper that could only be heard by Blackthorn and Franklin, said, “Did you not consider my petition to stay? I thought you were on the side of leniency toward me in this matter.”
Blackthorn announced to the audience, “Father Winthrop wishes it to be said that he fears riding in the army and facing the demons. But he will affirm his choice and bravely mount a horse and sally forth.”
Winthrop gulped.
Franklin resisted the urge to look down at the sound of liquid sprinkling the stage at Father Winthrop’s feet.
“Tell them the name of your successor and let us be done with this formality.” Blackthorn caught Winthrop’s gaze, and with a harsh eyes, drew Winthrop’s attention to Franklin.
“Franklin?” Winthrop mumbled.
“Franklin,” Blackthorn repeated.
“Father Franklin?” Winthrop asked.
“What?” Father Nelson jumped to his feet so fast he seemed to be trying to contain all the angry blood that was exploding red into his skin. “I don’t believe I understood that.”
“Shout it out!” Blackthorn ordered.
Winthrop shuddered at Blackthorn’s jarring command. He gulped again. His piss stopped flowing. He looked at the rows of clergy in the pews, “Father Franklin will serve in my stead.”
“I am the senior Father,” Nelson snarled. “I am in line to succeed you as Bishop. It is I who should act as Bishop during your absence, not this jumped-up Novice without a hair on his chest.”
Blackthorn sprang to his feet, stiff and strong, intimidating. He nodded at his soldiers in the back and then drilled Father Nelson with a steely stare. “You dare speak seditiously at a time when the army is marching off to fight for the existence of humanity? You dare raise your voice and question your Bishop?” Blackthorn looked to one of the cavalrymen who had walked up the center aisle. “Take him out to the square.” Looking back at Father Nelson, he said, “You may se
lect on which pyre you’ll stand, if you wish.” He looked over at Franklin. “Father Franklin will decide whether to light it.”
Franklin gasped.
Father Nelson took off at a run. It was a pointless effort. Soldiers surrounded him and all the other clergymen. No exit from the Sanctuary was open. The soldiers quickly tackled Father Nelson as he cursed and howled.
Blackthorn looked over at Franklin and in a soft voice said, “You’ll be tempted not to burn him, but hear me well when I tell you this: burn one today or burn a dozen tomorrow. As you weigh your thoughts of mercy, leniency, and kindness, please know that by letting this man live, you will solidify people’s disrespect for you, and your weakness will lead to countless dead in the future.”
Franklin watched the soldiers drag Father Nelson out through the main doors, listening to them close with a shuddering boom.
Chapter 65: Jeremiah
Jeremiah studied the dead demon’s skull, grimacing at the exposed brain matter from where the arrow had pierced its head. He held his breath at the smell. In the distance, two silhouettes made their way down the sloping street of the Ancient City. One of them he recognized as Ivory. The boy’s limber gait was unmistakable. The bow he was carrying, however, looked different than any Jeremiah had seen.
Jeremiah grunted with confusion.
The other figure was smaller, wearing a hood. Small, pale arms protruded from a draping coat. From a distance, it almost looked like a demon. But that didn’t make sense. A demon wouldn’t be walking next to the boy; it’d be devouring him. Scratching his head, Jeremiah reached for his snowberry flask with his uninjured hand and continued following them.