by Bobby Adair
Just like he’d hoped.
A smile crept across William’s face. Ignoring his pounding heart, he stepped forward. The demons made no move to intercept him. They hovered in silence, as statuesque as the buildings around them. If it weren’t for the hiss of their hot breath through their broken teeth, he might’ve convinced himself he was alone.
William kept walking. He scuffed the ground, testing the beasts’ reaction, but none moved. It was as if the command he’d given before had rendered him invisible.
Soon the demons were around him in a half-circle.
The fetid stench of blood and sweat filled William’s nose, reminding him of whatever animals or humans had been unlucky enough to cross the creatures’ paths before. Their breath plumed the night air. He watched their knobby, wart-covered shoulders hitch as they waited for his instructions.
He pointed to the rock from where the first creature had emerged.
“Get behind it,” he said. “All of you.”
He swallowed, hoping they wouldn’t hear the crack in his voice. The creatures stared at him, their red eyes glistening in the dark.
Then they listened.
Chapter 12: Tenbrook
Tenbrook roamed Blackthorn’s dining hall, barely noticing the ornate fireplace or the sprawling table that had enthralled him in his prior meetings with Blackthorn. He’d earned the General’s seat, but he had no time to enjoy it.
He was focused on the information he’d heard from Tommy Dunlow—a tale of traitors about which he needed to learn the truth.
Like many other soldiers, he’d learned to tune out the noise around him and focus on a plan of attack. That ability to concentrate was one of the reasons he’d risen in the army’s ranks, outlasting those with less patience and surviving them in the battlefield.
He stopped pacing the dining hall, running his hands over the decorative boxes that had once contained Blackthorn’s tongue collection. He’d already dumped the remaining tongues into the fire. He had no use for a dead man’s lessons.
It was time he created his own.
He reviewed what the backpedaling deserter Dunlow had told him.
General Blackthorn was to be murdered. That fact alone didn’t concern Tenbrook. Any doubts he might’ve had about the General’s returning were solidified by the insurgents’ foolhardy plan. Let them kill him, or let them die trying. He didn’t care. Even if they failed, Blackthorn would succumb to the disease that had driven him to the wild in the first place, leaving Tenbrook in charge.
Or Blackthorn would die in battle.
The deserters on the other hand—they concerned him. Tenbrook had no doubts in the abilities of the soldiers under his command, but a sufficient number of rabble-rousers might be able to overwhelm his army, depending on their numbers. That would leave Tenbrook susceptible to attack. Especially if others in the clergy or the Academy were involved and helping. His best plan was to ferret out the leaders, squeeze the information out of them, and dispose of their bodies. He’d burn the sedition from Brighton, one way or another.
No one would question him with Blackthorn gone.
He wasn’t worried about Franklin. Franklin was as weak as Winthrop had been. Tenbrook had seen Franklin’s indecisiveness as he’d burned Father Nelson. Others might not have noticed his trembling hands, but Tenbrook had. The hopelessness on Franklin’s face was almost as satisfying as hearing the quick-tongued clergyman scream.
That memory gave Tenbrook a stir in his trousers.
That left Scholar Evan, the weasel-faced man that Beck had left in charge, the one that Tommy Dunlow had pointed to as the leader. Evan had never concerned Tenbrook, other than walking in Beck’s shadow. Tenbrook wondered if Evan’s intelligence had allowed him to devise a proper plan.
More than likely Minister Beck was behind it.
Beck would die in the wild.
That left Evan to deal with.
Tenbrook was pretty sure Tommy Dunlow was telling the truth. The threat of the pyre was enough to make most men tremble. He wouldn’t be surprised if Tommy had gone home and laundered the piss from his trousers.
Of course, he had to consider that Dunlow had given up Evan to preserve his life. Perhaps Evan was the scapegoat that would clear Tommy of all wrongdoing.
Tenbrook pondered that twice.
He scratched his smooth chin.
Tenbrook would keep the Dunlows and their family close by while he sorted things out. Whether that led to the pyre or some other torture of his imagining, he wasn’t sure yet.
Footsteps beat the hall outside Tenbrook’s door. The footsteps softened as someone approached the room, probably considering what kind of mood Tenbrook was in, or how lightly he should knock. The respect Tenbrook had gotten from his men before had amplified with his new appointment.
“Captain Tenbrook?” A voice rang out, a combination of courage and compliance.
“Come in,” Tenbrook said.
The door opened, revealing the tall, uniformed figure of Captain Sinko. The man had served at Tenbrook’s side for several battles. Tenbrook trusted him as much as he trusted any man—never fully.
“I’ve requested the rider secure the list of deserters from General Blackthorn’s army, as you ordered,” Sinko said. “He’ll leave in the morning.”
“Thank you,” Tenbrook said, unable to suppress a smile. “That will be very helpful. Make sure the census-takers know the importance of naming these deserters.”
“Of course, sir.”
He dismissed Sinko and returned to looking at the empty boxes. The army should already be at their first camp, bedding down for the night. He’d have the list of deserters soon. Once he had all the information he needed, he’d start filling Blackthorn’s empty boxes.
Once Evan’s plan was discovered and taken care of, he’d figure out a way to take care of Franklin.
Then he’d be the sole ruler of Brighton.
Chapter 13: Oliver
Sitting by the fire watching Winthrop, still surrounded by more than a hundred militiamen and camp followers, Oliver took his dagger out of its sheath. After his experience with the demons earlier in the day, he didn’t want to be empty-handed when they were getting close. Judging by the wailing from the western edge of the camp, the demons were nearby.
Winthrop’s voice rose to a bellow of fast words that sounded half like a song and half like a plea to his invisible gods. He stared at the fire. He could have been begging for mercy or calling down thunderbolts. Whatever the purpose, Oliver was bolstered as Winthrop’s babble turned into a droning chant.
Tens or hundreds of beasts howled. Urgent shouts preceded dying screams from one side of the camp. The demons were attacking in force.
Winthrop found a new rhythm and a higher octave in his chant.
Many of the men around the fire chanted with Winthrop, and the mumbo-jumbo noise took on the tenor of a primal song. The soldiers stomped their feet with the rhythm. More men joined in the tune, imagining power in the god-speak language they were repeating. Above the deep voices, Winthrop’s voice soared, enormous and loud. He stood and raised his fists at the sky, shaking them and spinning around.
The men swayed, bumped each other, and growled.
Oliver inched toward the fire to get away from the men. He feared he might get bumped to the ground and stomped.
The sound of the battle at the edge of the camp grew louder and spread over a wider area. More demons were coming.
The men around the fire seemed to be falling into a trance, rooted by fear, but growing in courage, a rage at a demon foe hiding its cowardice in the darkness.
Somebody shouted the word “demon.”
Winthrop took up the word and all the men chanted it, louder and louder, faster and faster.
A frenzied lust for demon blood.<
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Winthrop shouted a command in his new gibberish and the men roared and broke into a charge.
Oliver hid from the flow of feet by getting as close to the fire as he dared.
A moment later, only Winthrop was left, chanting at the sky. Women who’d been in the crowd were the only ones left in a ragged, thin circle around the fire. They drew in close with crazed looks on their faces. They were under Winthrop’s spell as strongly as the men who’d just charged off.
Oliver took a quick glance around, thinking about taking his big knife and ramming it through Winthrop’s ribcage. He knew immediately that he’d never get away with it. Judging by the looks on the women’s faces, Oliver guessed they’d catch him and beat him to death. Or throw him on the fire.
Winthrop would have to die another night.
That left Oliver to decide what to do with himself. With demons attacking in growing numbers, he figured his chances of surviving the night would be better if he were surrounded by a couple of hundred angry, armed men than if he was huddling by a fire with an old fool and a dozen women with only their fists for protection.
Chapter 14: Beck
Demons ran through the camp. Beck saw their naked, warty forms and their misshapen heads in the silhouettes of the fires. People screamed everywhere. Some chased the demons. Some fought. Some ran.
Still, there weren’t many. Beck only saw seven or eight. He heard a lot more in the camp and in the forest. All around the camp’s perimeter, sergeants and officers barked orders, telling their platoons to stand fast, to guard their sectors. Men shouted as they walked among the tents, waking any soldiers who might still be sleeping. Men formed up into squads and platoons near the tents and jogged across the camp, searching for demons.
More screams in the darkness. People were dying.
Beck looked around. No demons or soldiers were near him. The bonfire between his tent and Blackthorn’s tent was alive with flames, flowing twenty feet into the air, not only illuminating the council’s tents but illuminating Beck. He realized any demon in the woods or running crazy-legged through the camp could likely see him, standing, not moving, not raising a weapon, not running to fight, not running away, waiting for nothing else but to die.
He couldn’t let that happen.
It was time to take advantage of an opportunity that might not come again.
Beck ran into his tent and drew his knife. At the tent’s back wall, he slashed at the worn canvas, cutting half a dozen gashes big enough for a man to leap through. After the last slash, he climbed through the hole and ran away from the bonfire and into the darkest shadows he could see.
He veered toward the trees, taking time to pause and hide behind tents, looking around and planning his next sprint, his next hiding place.
People and demons ran in every direction.
The thunder of hooves rumbled through the ground. The cavalrymen still in camp were mounted and hunting.
Or General Blackthorn was returning.
Or the cavalry Blackthorn had taken up the road had been slaughtered, and the horses were stampeding back to the camp, covered in blood and whinnying in fear.
Beck wasn’t sure.
He wasn’t going to find the answer to that question. He bolted across the last patch of dry, brown grass and came to a stop behind a thick tree trunk. He peeked into the dappled black shadows. The forest was darker than he’d imagined. He caught his breath.
He didn’t see anything moving that wasn’t obviously a bush or a branch—at least no demons seemed to be close by. He heard no beasts crashing through the woods.
Beck took a last glance at the camp. The situation was the same, chaotic. He made a choice.
He ran deeper into the woods.
Chapter 15: Oliver
Running near the back of the mob, Oliver didn’t realize what was happening until it was near done. The men who’d taken Winthrop’s words as courage had spread out into a wide circle that Oliver nearly ran into before a man grabbed him by the shoulder, yanking him back. “Not so anxious there, tyke.”
The men in the circle jeered. Two demons in the center crouched and howled. They were afraid, and their animal terror emboldened the militiamen who pointed their weapons and inched closer. Oliver stepped with them, keeping his dagger pointed in an outstretched hand, but having the wherewithal to look behind him as well. These weren’t the only two demons in the camp.
The shouting around him grew louder. Men waved their spears and axes, in wild, exaggerated swings.
The beasts turned in a circle, back to back, growling and swiping at the air.
Oliver got squeezed out as the circle shrank. He became surrounded by tall men, able to see only those close enough to reach out and touch.
Metal clanged.
The beasts howled, and men cursed.
Curses turned to cheers as blood lust filled their shouts. The men celebrated and hopped around. Even without seeing what happened, Oliver knew. The two beasts were dead.
He squeezed his way out of the mob. The men were feeling their victory, lopsided though it was. But to kill the beast of their nightmares, even when outnumbering them a hundred to one, had an empowering effect that fascinated Oliver. Men were strange creatures when caught in the frenzy of a mob.
The circle burst apart, and Oliver nearly got trampled again. Six men ran out of the group holding the bloody, malformed corpse of a beast over their heads. Another group of men followed, carrying the second beast. All the men cheered again and ran after the bodies.
Oliver followed. As raucous as these men were, as unconcerned as they were with him, he had no choice but to stay with them. They were his safety.
The men raced through the camp, shouting and losing none of their bravado until they came to the fire in front of which Father Winthrop still chanted with the women huddled close behind him. The men dropped the dead demons on the ground at Winthrop’s feet, and all of them formed into a circle again, taking up Winthrop’s chant.
Oliver squeezed through the crowd to see Winthrop and to feel the warmth of the fire.
Winthrop fell to his knees and laid his hands on a demon’s chest. His voice left him.
The militiamen stopped chanting and shouting. Even their breathing was near silent as they strained to listen.
Winthrop bowed his head over the beast and rubbed his hands through the demon’s blood. In a whisper, he said, “You’ve killed the beast to protect me.”
A few men shouted, “We killed the beast.”
Winthrop raised his bloody hands in front of his face and looked at them. “You killed the beast to protect The Word.”
The men took up the chant.
“WE KILLED THE BEAST TO PROTECT THE WORD!”
Winthrop pressed his hands to his chest, leaving bloody palm prints there. He looked at his hands again and then dropped to his knees to get more blood. Finding a new power in his voice, he raised his bloody hands to the sky. “Demon’s blood will protect us. With demons’ blood, we will live forever.”
“SO SAYETH THE WORD.”
Only a handful of men spoke it. Oliver recognized the catechism from Winthrop’s religious service.
“Demons’ blood will protect us,” Winthrop said in a stronger voice. “With demons’ blood, we will live forever.”
“SO SAYETH THE WORD.”
One of the soldiers ran forward and dropped to his knees across the demon’s body from Winthrop. “Bless me, Father.”
Winthrop stared at the man for a second, as though he’d appeared out of the ether and not from the mob. Winthrop looked around him with crazy eyes that seemed unable to find a focus.
“Bless me, Father, please. Grant me the protection of the demon’s blood.”
Winthrop pressed his hands to the man’s chest, leaving two bloody palm prints.
The soldier jumped up and marched around the circle, showing off his marks and yelling victoriously at the sky.
Another man ran over and dropped to his knees in front of Winthrop, awaiting the same mark. “Bless me with demons’ blood father.”
Winthrop pressed two bloody palm prints onto the man’s chest.
Oliver shivered.
Chapter 16: Beck
Beck stood amongst the trees feeling something he’d seldom felt in his life: inadequate. Somewhere in the general direction behind him, men fought with demons in the camp he was running from. In every other direction, things moved through the forest—big, man-sized things. Some howled. Near. Far. In between. A demon could be lurking behind the tree right in front of him, and Beck wouldn’t know it until its warty hands were grasping for his throat and its bulbous head full of bad teeth and stinking breath were leaning in for the kill.
Assuming he lived through the night, could Beck learn how to survive in the forest? Sure. He could develop the skills to defend himself with a weapon. If those dunces in the militia could, then Beck could as well. But because they were all ignorant men with dim thoughts, Beck had always assumed that life outside the circle wall was something he could figure out with ease as he went along. It was the basis of his escape plan: sneak away from the camp and figure it out as he strolled his way back to Brighton. Simple.
Only it wasn’t.
In fact, Beck was faced with such a host of little and big problems that he kept thinking the same thought over and over again: that he’d made a mistake that would cost him his life.
The night was getting colder. Beck’s coat wasn’t thick enough to keep him warm. His first mistake.
Or maybe his second.
He couldn’t start a fire to warm himself. The simple truth was that he didn’t know how. He’d never done it on his own and had only watched with the vaguest curiosity while a serving girl started the fire in his hearth. But even if he could build a fire, would it be wise to do so? Fire would draw the forest monsters in.