The Last Survivors Box Set

by Bobby Adair

  “I was like you, weak from my fears, tempted to sin, but I’m showing you the path. Embrace me, my son. Transcend the horror. Feel the love of war. Feel the power. I am a god.”

  Oliver looked at his blade, still drawing blood from Winthrop’s throat. Oliver couldn’t bring himself to kill the Bishop.

  Winthrop laid two of his thick fingers on the blade, and the blood ran up over the fingernails and down to the knuckles. Winthrop raised his fingers to his mouth and licked the blood. He reached his bloody finger to Oliver’s lips. “Take the blood. Be one with me, son.”

  Oliver turned and ran.

  Chapter 73: Beck

  It was harsh and sad, the song of men who longed for death as they wallowed in the muddy blood of their comrades. They lusted for evil and emptiness. It was a song of begging to fight, kill, and suffer. All without words that any human mind, save lunatic Winthrop, could decipher.

  Beck certainly couldn’t.

  The sky was bloody red, with the rising sun over the ocean and the mountains glowing in the west. Beck watched fires rage and smoke black, burning the flesh and fat off the corpses piled on the embers. The men who’d survived, ragged men who wore the carnage of a night’s war in demon land, were adding their dead to the fires.

  Where brown winter grass had covered the rolls of earth on the hill’s sides, only black mud and twisted bodies remained. The number of the dead was beyond count. The carcasses of wart-covered twisted men, naked and pale, lay between the two lines of fortifications. Piles of them filled the trenches in front of the ramparts. Live ones squatted out in the field, some stood, all at a distance watching, perhaps horrified by the sight of so many deceased brothers, perhaps intimidated by the song of Winthrop’s marked men, inviting the monsters to join them in giving their souls to the next world.

  Beck had watched it all from atop his horse—slaughter on a scale no man’s nightmare could conjure. All night long, the demons had come in gangs of a few dozen, mobs of a hundred and hordes of a thousand. The first line of defense was a porous obstruction, sometimes absorbing the attacks, but mostly diffusing and slowing the demons. The second line held. No demon reached the top of the hill. The killing ground lay between the lines of defense, and the men of the first line had fought the entire night.

  Beck guessed about half of them had died.

  Some of the men and women defending and building the second line of fortifications had been killed, too, but Beck had no way to estimate those numbers. The two squadrons of cavalry that charged down the hill in support of the defense had probably made the difference in the victory, but few of the riders were still breathing when the sun rose out of the ocean. Dead horses were spread across the lower slopes of the hill. Their riders were indistinguishable from the other bloody corpses.

  And General Blackthorn had fallen.

  He wasn’t dead. His cavalrymen had hauled him up the hill and taken him to his tent. It was explained to Beck that the General had looked more and more haggard through the course of the fighting, but had continued until he collapsed. They suspected that undiagnosed injuries from the attack he’d suffered the night before had taken their toll.

  Father Winthrop, on the other hand, had come through the night unscathed. He knelt in front of a fire piled high with logs and burning corpses. The ground around the fire was a solid carpet of dead demons, laid there by Winthrop’s marked men. Winthrop’s men knelt and stood around the dead, singing and communing with the lunatic, and covering themselves in the blood of the dead before going back out to do Winthrop’s work. They weren’t hauling bodies to the fires. They were taking the dead demons and laying them in a growing line in front of the defenses, shoulder-to-shoulder, head to toe. Demons coming tonight were going to have to trample their dead brothers from the night before on their way to the fight.

  “Minister Beck?”

  Beck turned to his left to see Captain Swan. “Yes?”

  “What are your orders?”

  Beck smiled. It was an automatic reaction to his sudden discomfort. A cavalryman captain asking him for orders? “What do you recommend?”

  “General Blackthorn would have the cavalry ride into the plain below the hill and clear it of demons.”

  “Clear it?” Beck looked at the vast expanse of grass, copses, and forests.

  “We’ll prevent any of the twisted men from getting close,” explained Captain Swan. “That will give the militia time to finish the fortifications, and it will give them time to rest. The cavalry will come back to the hilltop by sundown.”

  Beck looked for duplicity in Captain Swan’s face and wondered how much of Blackthorn’s plan Captain Swan was privy to. He wondered if the cavalry was going to abandon the militia to die and ride back to Brighton. “Would it be better to leave two squadrons on the hill and defend our positions with the other two?”

  “We’ll do as you order,” said Captain Swan.

  “But you don’t agree,” said Beck. “Tell me why.”

  “We lost two squadrons last night. If we keep two here, that leaves us only two to fight the demons through the day. With so many demons in the area, I fear that two might get overwhelmed and destroyed. Four squadrons working together will have a better chance of staying alive.”

  “I understand.” Beck swept his hand at the line of defenses. “What of the rest of them?”

  “The captains of the cohorts have their orders. They’ll finish the defenses and rest their men.” Captain Swan smiled though the gesture didn’t look like it belonged on his face. “Ride by and inspect them, if you wish. But let them work. They’ll not need further guidance.”

  “And when the demons attack?” asked Beck.

  “After sunset, the demons will come again. I’ll be back by then.”

  “General Blackthorn told me you were capable of leading the army. Shall I promote you to General?”

  “Not while General Blackthorn lives.” Captain Swan kicked his horse and started away. “I’ll return by sunset.”

  “Thank you, Captain.”

  Chapter 74: Beck

  Beck walked into the dimly lit tent, glancing at a tray with breadcrumbs and smears of greasy meat. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he spotted Oliver sitting with his arms folded around his legs on Winthrop’s bedding. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m a coward.”

  “A coward?” Beck stepped closer and looked at the blood on Oliver’s clothes and the bruises on his face. “Looks like you’ve been in a fight.”

  Oliver nodded.

  “Is that your blood?”

  Oliver looked at his sleeves and trousers. “Demon blood.”

  “Did you get attacked?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  Oliver shook his head. “Bruises.” He rolled his left arm around at the shoulder. “I’m sore.”

  “You know you’re a kid, right?” Beck squatted down. “Running away from demons is okay.”

  Oliver drilled Beck with a hard stare. “I didn’t run.”

  Beck sat himself down. “Sorry, I—”

  “One jumped on me from behind.” Oliver put a hand on his shoulder. “He tried to bite me.” Oliver pulled his shirt aside to show Beck the chainmail. “He never broke the skin.”

  Fascinated, Beck couldn’t contain his curiosity. He reached forward and touched the mail with his fingers. “This is—”

  “Chainmail,” said Oliver. “The blacksmith said he saw it in a book.”

  “In a book I sold to Kreuz?” Beck asked.

  “I guess. He said Kreuz had the book.”

  Beck caressed the flexible mail again. “I saw that same picture in the book. Amazing.” Beck leaned back.

  “It’s a long-sleeved shirt.”

  “Under your clothes.” Beck smiled knowingl
y. “So no one would see it. Wearing that much metal, people will think you’re rich. How did you convince the blacksmith to make it for you?”

  Oliver pursed his lips. He looked away.

  “Never mind,” said Beck. “I’m impressed.” He laughed. “I wish I had the same for myself. You say the demon bit you, but its teeth couldn’t penetrate?”

  “Neither will a knife or a sword,” said Oliver. “We tested it at the blacksmith’s.”

  “Amazing.” Beck looked himself up and down, running his arms over his sleeves as he thought about how to get a coat of chainmail for himself. “How long did it take to make?”

  “I don’t know,” answered Oliver. “He was already working on it when I came into his shop. He finished it to fit me.”

  “Well, it saved your life, that’s the important thing. Tell me, how did you get away from the demon who bit you?”

  “I killed it. I may have killed another as well,” said Oliver. “I cut it.” Oliver stretched a leg out and dragged his hand across it mid-thigh. “Deep. It probably bled to death, but I didn’t stay to see.”

  “Two demons.” Beck laughed. “And look at you. You’re half the size of those beasts, and you think you’re a coward. Your standards are much too high, young man.”

  Oliver shook his head and looked at Beck with a question hidden behind his expression.

  “What are you not telling me?”

  Oliver looked away again, and his eyes glazed. “I…” His voice caught in his throat.

  “Take your time,” said Beck. “It’s been a hard night on all of us.”

  “Are we all going to die here?”

  It was Beck’s turn to look away. He avoided the answer with a question of his own. “Are you afraid of dying?”

  “Of course, I am. As you say, I’m just a boy.” Oliver looked disappointed. He paused and spent a moment thinking about what he was going to say next. “I ask because I think we are going to die. The General had the men build fortifications. He plans for us to stay. So many soldiers were killed last night that I don’t expect the rest of us will last more than a week.”

  “But with the fortifications finished—”

  “It won’t matter,” said Oliver. “More demons will come. Father Winthrop will sow too much chaos. General Blackthorn is injured. We’ll all die.”

  Beck wanted to argue, to save the boy from despair, but he couldn’t bring himself to spread a lie over so much insightful truth.

  “I didn’t come here to die,” said Oliver. “I didn’t come here to fight. But now that I know I’m going to die, now that I’ve failed at what I came here to do, I guess it won’t matter that I tell you that I’m an assassin.”

  “An assassin?” Beck was taken aback.

  “I came here to murder Father Winthrop.”

  “Why?”

  Oliver’s look told Beck his question was stupid. “I had the opportunity last night. I held my knife at his throat. His blood ran down the blade and onto my hand.” Oliver raised his palm and showed Beck the dried red. “He called me his son and told me he loved me. I couldn’t do it. I let him live. I ran away. I’m a weakling.”

  Chapter 75: Beck

  “Choosing not to kill Winthrop does not make you a weakling,” said Beck. “It makes you a human, and that’s a rare thing for a denizen of Brighton.”

  “Putting a fairy tale ending on my cowardice may work with the young pants-pissers at the Academy, Minister Beck, but I know what I did.”

  “You’re a tough boy,” said Beck, raising his hands to keep Oliver from arguing. “And don’t tell me I’m patronizing you. Look at what you’ve done. You’ve marched with the army, and you’ve fought the demons. You were brave enough to put your blade to a minister’s throat and even braver to choose humanity over hatred. Believe me or not. Just think about it. I hope one day you see that I’m right.”

  “None of it matters,” said Oliver. “I’ll die before that day comes.”

  “You won’t die,” said Beck. “Tomorrow morning, a handful of messengers will ride to Brighton. If they leave at first light and ride hard, they’ll make it before sunset. I have an urgent letter for Scholar Evan that I’ll need you to hand-deliver to him. You’ll ride out with them.”

  Oliver laughed. “You’re making that up. I know a lie when I hear it.”

  Smiling and shaking his head, Beck said, “I can make it true. You’re a good boy, Oliver. You don’t need to die on this hill with the rest of us. Will you go home if I can make the arrangements?”

  Oliver thought about it for a moment and nodded. “Why don’t you come, too?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why?”

  Beck laughed. “That answer is much different than I’d have thought yesterday.”

  “How so?” asked Oliver.

  “It was my intention to escape this expedition as soon as the opportunity arose.”

  “That’s why the soldiers outside are guarding you?”

  Beck nodded. “Now, with Father Winthrop losing his sanity and General Blackthorn unable to ride, perhaps unable to lead the army, I feel the weight of a responsibility I hadn’t expected.”

  “You’re in charge of the army?” Oliver didn’t believe it.

  “So it seems,” said Beck. “The lives of all of these men are in my hands.”

  “But they’re all going to die.”

  Beck nodded.

  “Why not march away from this place at first light tomorrow and go back through the pass?”

  Beck shook his head. “There are too many demons in the grasslands now. If the army leaves its fortified position on the hill, I’m afraid they’ll get slaughtered.”

  “So it’s a fight to the death right here?” Oliver asked. “All the men die, or all the demons die?”

  Beck got up and walked over to his bed. “General Blackthorn is sleeping. When he wakes, I’ll take care of everything to get you sent with the riders tomorrow morning.” Beck looked at the empty platter by the tent flap. “You’ve eaten?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you slept?”

  “No.”

  “Then do so. I need to sleep as well. I expect the fight tonight will be the worst we’ve seen. We need to be rested for whatever comes next.”

  Chapter 76: Evan

  Having determined Oliver was the rat—or, at least, having a strong enough suspicion to believe he was, after thinking about it most of the night—Evan hurried through the streets, making his way to the Dunlows.

  Everything about his theory made sense.

  In their last meeting, Oliver had not only severed his ties with Evan, but had made it clear he felt angry and used. In an effort to preserve his life, Oliver had gone to Tenbrook and named Evan. Evan had recruited him, after all. It was Evan he blamed. He’d pulled Oliver into the plan that had risked his life.

  Dammit. Dammit.

  That must’ve been what happened. Tenbrook knows everything.

  Evan’s legs and lungs burned from the exertion of running. He needed to get to the Dunlows before it was too late. He needed to warn them.

  But that wasn’t all. Evan needed protection.

  Evan wasn’t blind to his faults. He knew that his focus with numbers had left him inexperienced in matters of fighting and resourcefulness. He needed the protection of the Dunlows and the other deserters to give him the chance he needed to escape Brighton.

  They had to abort the plan.

  As he rounded the end of Market Street, Evan glanced from left to right, afraid someone would jump out and grab him. He approached the last cluster of houses preceding the house on Market Street. A few people glanced out the windows, watching him. Or at least, it felt that way. A woman carrying a basket gave him an appraising look. Was someone getting ready to turn him
in?

  Evan approached the deserters’ house. Reaching the steps, he knocked, still catching his breath. The door swung open, revealing the dirty-faced man he’d spoken with before.

  “I’m looking for Tommy and Timmy,” he said through frantic heaves.

  The dirty-faced man furrowed his brow, sizing him up. “They aren’t with you?”

  “No,” Evan shook his head vigorously. “I need to talk with them. Where are they?”

  “No one has seen them.” The man watched Evan closely, as if he were a suspect in their disappearance.

  “They left?”

  “Yes. They left to meet with you. Or at least, we thought they did. We’ve been waiting for you to come back and tell us what was going on.”

  “I haven’t seen them since I was last here,” Evan said, trying to throw sincerity into his voice. “I swear it.”

  “What the hell’s going on?” The dirty-faced man was unable to hide his anger. “We’ve been holed up here for days, waiting for someone to give us direction. We’ve risked our lives for your—for Minister Beck’s—plan. And now the Dunlows are gone?” He turned around, as if he was about to call someone else from inside.

  A noise up the street drew their attention.

  Evan and the dirty-faced man swiveled to find soldiers running up the road.

  The soldiers were carrying a screaming, kicking man. They approached the deserter’s house before Evan or the dirty-faced man could react, dumping the man in the middle of the street. His face was covered with burns. One of his eyes was gouged. He opened his bloodied mouth to let out an agonizing, high-pitched scream.

  His tongue was missing.

  Evan gasped.

  Frantic voices spilled from inside the deserter’s house as men grabbed weapons, preparing for a fight. Fearing for his life, Evan took a few steps sideways, intending to run. He didn’t make it far. A soldier appeared out of nowhere, punching him in the side. A burst of pain made his eyes water. The soldier laughed as Evan doubled over, clutching his side. The soldier pushed him down, then kicked him. Evan lay on the ground, stunned.