by T. C. Edge
He stands, statuesque and still, his eyes set on the very same corner of the earth I myself have so recently examined. Yet there’s some look in his eye, beyond the blank stare, that suggests he’s seeing something I didn’t.
My voice is tense when I ask: “What’s the matter.”
He barely seemed to notice me appear. My words spring him from his reverie, his eyes blinking and un-glazing. He turns to me, and his eyes are hooded.
“Movement,” he says. “I see movement.”
I instinctively swing my eyes over to the far west, but don’t zoom in.
“Yeah, I saw some too. They’re moving in the trees.”
“No,” comes his sharp reply. “They’re moving from the trees.”
Now I do zoom in. It was perhaps only an hour or so ago that I was further up the mountain with Kervan and West, gazing out towards the faraway range. Now, when I stare forward, I see something that I didn’t before.
My brother is right. They’re heading east, stepping from the woods and onto the plains. Leaving the dark greens of the woods and onto the lighter tones of the expansive grasslands, their numbers are more clearly visible.
It’s a force unlike any I’ve ever seen. They spread forth like the snow of an avalanche down a mountainside, thousands of tiny black dots merging to form a shadow that extends from the base of the mountains. I pull back in horror and find my brother staring right at me.
“One of their spies must have alerted them to the ceasefire,” he says. “They must realise this is the best time to attack…”
“How long will they take to cover that distance?”
“A few days at least. Those mountains are over a hundred miles away as the crow flies. If they have supplies, it could be a week or more. The terrain looks mostly clear, but they’ll need to zigzag along the easiest routes. It will give us time to prepare.”
I heave a breath into my lungs at the absolute disgust of what I’m about to say.
“So, Cromwell was right,” I say. “We’re going to have to work together on this?”
“It looks that way,” he offers. “Now come on, we need to feed back to the others.”
We descend the ladder as quickly and safely as we can, my brother struggling a little with his injured shoulder and needing to take the occasional break on the way down. Up here, they have no access to the healing lotions available in town, and their herbal alternatives clearly aren’t going to be sufficient.
Eventually, he plants feet on firm ground again, and we waste no time in informing the others of our plans to return to the city. Rhoth, weakened by his injuries, doesn’t seem in any fit state to go anywhere quite yet, so it looks like it’s just my brother and me from here on out.
We leave them as brothers and sisters, as kin. I hug Rhoth tenderly, avoiding his most sensitive wounds, and drag West into a long embrace as well. His hands hover around my back without pressing down, as though he’s never been this close to a girl. Then I kiss his cheek again, and it flares red once more.
“Stay safe now,” I say to him. “I hope I’ll see you soon.”
With the Fangs nearby, I know he won’t answer. Then his jaw slips open, and despite their presence, he whispers: “You too.”
We leave Rhoth with a promise that we’ll repay him for all his help. It seems a hollow promise, and one we don’t linger on given the weight of grief in the air. I suspect, however, that his war with the Bear-Skins ended last night. And that even if there are many more of them out there, the loss of Bjorn will have brought a swift resolution to their conflict.
“They’re marching,” Zander tells him before we set off out the gate and down the hill. “They’ll cross the plains and reach your woods within days. If you can, I suggest you move your tribe further to the east for now. And if you wish it, we will give you sanctuary in the city.”
“No Fang will ever step foot in your city,” he bites. “Not while I draw breath. We will defend our lands if we need to. I have no mind to flee.”
“But, you’ll be overrun.”
“The people coming here are not coming for us, boy. They come for you.”
Zander looks like he’s choosing his words carefully.
“That’s…naïve, Rhoth,” he says. “They might consider you a threat. And if they do, you’ll all be killed.”
“You worry about your own people. Let me worry about mine.”
His draws the conversation to a close and turns away. As Zander and I leave, he mutters something about Rhoth’s stubbornness getting his entire tribe killed, and marches off through the gate.
The journey back down the hillside is easier than the climb. We pass the site of the previous night’s battle and see the remains of the charred bodies and pyres, most of them still smouldering and issuing little columns of smoke. A little later, we reach the clearing, and take a short break, filling our bellies with water from the mountain spring.
The trees get thicker as we go, and the air turns foul. Before too long we’re back in the mire, the mist thickening and that familiar note of burning prickling at my skin. We cover all patches of flesh, don our gas masks, and move on as the hours of the afternoon quickly pass by.
The fates seem willing to give us a free run today, our passage back through the woods going without incident. It’s a good thing too, distracted and weakened as we are. We reach the edge of the woods as the sky turns, the clouds gathering, heavy and grey and ready to spit rain.
Across the short clearing, the old town comes into view, and the wreckage of the church in its centre. I’d all but forgotten about it with everything that’s gone on.
We venture on as quickly as possible, and find the old headquarters of the Nameless little more than a steaming pile of beams and wood and blackened stone. I step into the rubble, and among the debris see burnt forms of men, consumed by fire within the main hall, their bodies little more than black skeletons now.
I look away. Zander doesn’t.
“Bjorn must have locked the doors. He burned them alive.”
Alfred. The technicians who stayed here. They were non-combatants in our war, purveyors of information and nothing more. But here, in the wilds, they got caught up in another. Killed by Bjorn as he hunted Rhoth down.
We don’t linger there. Zander takes a final look at the place where he’s spent so much of his life, and leads me back towards our car, still parked a little way down the dusty old road.
We step in just as the rain comes down. It taps on the metal roof, a strangely peaceful sound, soon joined by that of the gently rumbling engine, and the grinding of tires over pebbles and damp earth.
We return the way we came, the sheet of precipitation from above growing thicker, more violent, the closer we loom towards the grand gate and towering walls of the city. I see through the mist and rain and fix my eyes to the battlements, still being worked into place as the outer perimeter of Haven is bolstered and reinforced.
I imagine, as we drive, that I’m someone from far away. That I’ve come here seeking peace and freedom and safety. I imagine how intimidating it must be to look upon this place for the first time, even after travelling through such dangerous lands. I imagine that I’d look at the walls and think that nothing could ever get through them, that as soon as I pass the threshold I’ll be free from harm forever.
Yet, the truth of what lies within is just as harsh and cruel as what lies beyond. It’s a dressed-up cruelty, a cruelty that wears a smart suit and smells nice and has well trimmed hair and a clean-shaven face. It’s a cruelty that smiles at you and invites you in with a warm, friendly tone. It’s a cruelty that lies to your face, pretending to be something it isn’t, before shedding its mask and revealing its true self when it’s too late for you to flee.
It’s the worst kind of cruelty. A cruelty that masquerades as something else. Within the wilds, what you see is what you get. There’s no lie or deceit, no pretence at all. People like Bjorn show themselves for what they are and act accordingly. They don’t profess to
be anything different.
But here, within this great city, the levels of deceit run deep. Simple people come here hoping for a simple life, but all they’re met with is torture and death.
I look upon the place as we approach, and wonder whether it deserves to stay standing at all. I wonder if the entire place should be razed to the ground, and all those living within forced to start their lives anew without all of the social structures and castes and pressures city living brings.
I wonder if it wouldn’t benefit us all. Whether the perpetual development of our society is nothing more than a slow death. Whether we wouldn’t be better off living off the land, farming, tending to our basic needs and little more.
Such places exist. Many of them, in fact. Seeing the village of the Roosters, up away in the beautiful hills, has presented me a vision of what this world could, and should, be. We have been cursed by our own inventiveness, by this relentless pursuit of change and evolution. Yet all it has done is dull our joy, our happiness, cloud the tenets of life that really, truly matter.
Love, friendship, loyalty, generosity, kindness. Basic fundamentals that have been skewed and misshapen, muddied by the scrap for power and control that has seen the strong rise and the weak fall, trampled beneath their boots.
My grandfather, and the doctrines of his people, call for nothing but control. Their understanding of the human spirit, and the vital emotions that give it life, is too limited to truly grasp the horror of what they’ve been doing.
Now, it seems, the world is fighting back. The masses from afar are gathering to finish the job that we have started. They will come to seek vengeance on the city that has caused such pain. They will march and fight and seek to redress the balance, set the world back into its natural order.
And, when I really think about it, I wonder if that isn’t the best thing for us all…
228
The main street leading to where the High Tower stood is always busy. But today, as Zander and I cruise in during the early evening, the rain now subsiding, it’s busier than ever.
Hovering around, dirty and tired and being arranged by our soldiers, I set my eyes upon the hundreds of men, women, and children from the mines. The car grinds to a halt and we step out, and immediately I search frantically for the grand form of Drum within the mess.
Usually, he’s so easy to spot. When standing around children or even regular adults, he’s an imposing figure, liable to snatch up your attention like a madman shouting doomsday prophesies in the street. But here, with our population of Brutes swelling by the day, he isn’t quite so conspicuous.
I do, however, see the form of Magnus nearby. I rush on over and quickly deliver a barrage of questions like a chattering machinegun.
“Did they all get back safe? Did anyone get killed? Did the Stalkers leave them at the gates? When did they return?”
His big palms open wide to calm me.
“Wow,” he says. “Um, OK. Well, yes all are safe and accounted for according to reports. The, erm, the Stalkers did indeed leave them at the gates as I believe Lady Orlando requested, and never stepped foot in the city. And…the people returned a little earlier this afternoon, perhaps a couple of hours ago. All is well, Brie.”
He smiles, and I scan the crowd again, relief flooding me.
“I have a friend called Drum. He’s just 16, but he’s got Brute blood. Big boy. Have you seen him?”
Magnus strokes his meaty chin with equally meaty fingers.
“Yes, that rings a bell. The biggest boy among the troop. He’s a soldier now, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Yeah, he is.”
“Right, well he might have been assigned a new post, I’m not sure. Perhaps Rycard will know? Ah, there he is…”
I follow the direction of his eyes and see Rycard issuing commands, marching here and there like a commandant. I leave Magnus among a trail of dust and swiftly appear before the half-Hawk.
The suppressed joy and relief on his face is probably something most would miss. He does, after all, have work to do. Yet to me it’s clear enough, and I know just why.
I give him a hug before I even utter a word.
“Have you just returned?” he asks. “We were expecting you a little earlier.”
“We ran into a bit of trouble actually…”
In the recent rush I seem to have forgotten about my brother. I turn and search for him. He’s nowhere to be seen. I can only assume he’s gone to update Lady Orlando on what we discovered.
“Trouble, what kind of trouble?”
“Tribal kind,” I say, without elaborating. “I heard everyone got back OK. Where’s Soph?”
The mention of her name dismisses any pretence of keeping his cool. Despite his position of authority here, a smile wraps itself around his lips and his good eye crinkles with relief.
“She’s around and about, helping arrange things. You know what she’s like.”
“And she’s all…OK? Healthy?”
Last time I saw her, she’d developed a bit of a cough that I attributed to the poisonous fog. According to Rhoth, a lot of people will have ingested a fatal amount on the way to the mines, leading to a slow and steady death. I was concerned that Sophie might be one of them.
Rycard allays those fears.
“She’s just fine,” he says, smiling.
“And Maddox too?”
“Of course. Strong boy, takes after his father you know.”
He drops a wink, then straightens his face out.
“Actually, several did pass away in the mines,” he tells me. “Mostly the elderly, but a couple of children too. I’m told it was the fog.”
“I thought as much.”
We take a moment to think of those who lost their lives. Only a moment though. Were we to attribute the same to all the departed, neither of us would ever utter another word.
“So, I’ve got a friend, Drum. He’s 16, a big boy…” I begin, until Rycard cuts me off.
“Yes, I’ve heard all about Drum from Sophie. Wonderful boy by all accounts. Steady head, generous with his time. If you’re looking for him, I believe he’s in Compton’s Hall, catching up with some old friends.”
“Thanks, Rycard. By the way, Cromwell was telling the truth,” I say. “There’s a massive force gathering in the west, a hundred or so miles away. They started marching this way this afternoon.”
His eyes show little surprise.
“Then I guess Lady Orlando has some decisions to make.”
“I guess she does.”
I hurry off, heading straight for Compton’s Hall a little way up the street. I rush inside and my eyes stretch to the rear. The place is busy, but not busy enough to conceal the oversized boy, surrounded by children like planets circling a star.
And a star Drum has become. From the shy young boy who left the academy, taken after the tragedy that changed him, he’s returned a man. The kids gaze up with a hundred questions in their eyes, and Drum turns from one to the next with a grand smile on his lips, smooth and thick as grass snakes.
The crowd part as I move towards him, and I’m drawn into his massive arms. I reach as I always do, my hands barely able to tickle around to his back, but he holds me in a manner I’ve never felt: firmer, less self-conscious, the embrace of a man and not a boy.
Tess and Brenda, standing to one side, smile at the sight. The kids gaze at us both, Abby’s eyes brightest of all and filled with the wonder and innocence of youth. I glance at her with a wink, and can almost see the thoughts play out behind her sparkling eyes, see her creative little mind already working to include Drum within her comic.
Then I’m pulled away, the kids’ voices starting to chatter again, and the questions beginning to tumble. Even Brandon, so often Drum’s tormentor, hovers around, staring at the giant young man in a manner he never has before. No longer is Drum to be a figure of ridicule. He is now a soldier, a warrior, a hero. And everyone’s glad to have him back.
As the kids swallow him up, I withdraw
into a shadowy corner, and Tess and Brenda come with me.
“What’s been going on?” my old guardian asks, her eyes firm. “We’ve heard rumours that there’s a new attack coming? I thought this ceasefire was going to last…”
“It’s Director Cromwell, isn’t it?” asks Tess. “He’s planning a new attack?”
“No, it can’t be,” says Brenda. “It was his Stalkers who helped the people back from the mines. Why would he…”
“A trick, like I say,” cuts in Tess. “Are we safe, Brie? Will this peace last?”
It’s obvious they’ve been debating this all afternoon. In Outer Haven, rumour was always a valuable currency. Clearly, it’s been brought here now too.
They stare at me, requiring answers. I’ve been told to stay silent, but can’t. Within a matter of days, the truth is going to come out anyway. There’s no need for subterfuge now.
“This peace won’t last,” I say solemnly.
“I knew it! Cromwell should know when he’s beaten…”
“It’s not him, Tess,” I say. I draw a breath. “I told you Zander and I were going to the outerlands, up into the mountains in the northwest. We went to confirm something Cromwell told us.”
“What?” breathes Tess.
“That there’s a new player in this war. They’re coming from the west and will be here soon. I’m not meant to be telling you this, but I care about you both, and have had enough of lying to you. Keep it to yourselves. We’re trying to avoid a panic.”
They stare at each other, then back at me, as if this is something neither of them considered. And much, much worse.
“I’m sure you’ll be safe here,” I go on, filling the short silence. “It’s probably just barbarians who’ll have no chance of getting into the city. We’ll stop them before they get here.”
They don’t seem convinced. Probably because I’m not either. It’s hard to present a credible argument when you don’t believe in it yourself.
I reiterate the need for secrecy, forcing them both to nod and give me verbal confirmation that they understand. Only once I’ve got it do I slip away from the church, move down the street, and head back into the City Guard HQ.