By the will of the gods, the soldier's sword hadn't punctured him deeply.
His meat-filled bag must've deflected some of the injury. But he'd lost that in the river.
And he'd lost a lot of blood. Any fool could see that.
Wiping his bloodied hands on the ground, Bray didn't feel any better as the world spiraled around him, his head spun, and the pain became too unbearable to stay awake.
He fell to the side and his world went black.
Chapter 17: Flora
Flora crossed the great bridge over The Arches, heading southeast and in a direction she'd never been. She trekked down the great, snow-covered embankment next to the bridge, leading to the river. High above her, behind the waist-high wall of the bridge, several guards watched with interest, most likely placing on bets on whether she'd return.
She wouldn't fail.
She'd been given a second chance to prove her worth; she wouldn't get a third.
After talking with Bartholomew, she'd checked the island's eastern riverbanks for some time. Seeing nothing, she'd decided to cross to the mainland. The body must've washed up there. She hoped. She patted her side, as if her flat sword might've disappeared, even though she'd done the same inspection several times since Bartholomew had found her.
The river seemed murkier as she reached level ground and headed over to the bank, staring at the racing water that flowed out from beneath the bridge, underneath the single, descending road, and around the first island. Flora had never seen her home from this angle. Stalks from dead weeds stuck out from all directions on the ground on the riverbank. In several places, she saw animal tracks, or men's boot prints. Oftentimes the soldiers killed Savages here, or battled back tribes lurking too close to the islands.
She looked back at the large, cavernous space beneath the bridge, where soldiers carved memorials for her people. If she hadn't been in a hurry, she might've taken time to find Anya's. But she had a mission to complete. If she didn't get the scalp, her memorial would be next.
Flora followed the riverbank, looking across the water at the sloping road that curved over the river's center, far from reach. Soon she was walking across from the large island. Thick trees bordered either side of the river. She recognized several places on the opposite riverbank where she fished—a large outcropping of rocks on which she occasionally ate lunch, and a pile of branches built by a beaver and abandoned.
Flora kept vigilant. She knew Savages lurking in the wild were waiting to chew on islanders that had left the protection of the bridge. She thought back to what Bartholomew told her. She was more likely to find a body than a battered man. It would be easy to take a man's scalp—she just needed to find the corpse, do the deed, and get back to the islands.
She scanned the river as she walked, fearing that she might find the body floating in the middle, snagged on some unlucky stick or rock. That would make her task more difficult. She'd waded into the river before, but never far enough that the current could take her.
She knew the water was deep.
She'd seen Savages running in the muck, occasionally racing into the water and drowning as they tried to reach the islands. A few made it, but not many.
She kept walking, looking across the river and at a few familiar houses partially hidden in the trees on the island, which looked different from this angle. Soon she neared the section of river where the body had disappeared. She looked up the banks. Then down.
Nothing.
No body.
No Bray.
No scalp.
She knew she was unlikely to find what she was looking for so close to where it had been dumped, but some part of her had wished it were that easy. She sighed and shook her head. If she didn't get the scalp, she'd be better throwing herself off the bridge than going back.
That sense of dread filled Flora as she walked farther, scouring the banks and praying to the gods for a miracle. She climbed over rocks and broken sticks, the occasional uprooted tree, and weeds hearty enough to grow so close to the water. One of her boots slid on the slimy, washed up carcass of a fish, its eyes missing, its scales cracked and flesh split open. Something had gnawed it halfway. A noise made her stop. She looked from the river to the rising mountain, thinking she had unwittingly alerted a Savage, but it was a squirrel, scurrying through the underbrush and away from her. She blew a relieved breath.
She traveled for what felt like a long distance beyond the area Bartholomew had showed her, and still nothing. The river extended well past the second island. She'd never seen its end. She was starting to think she might live in the wild for years before she found the body, if she found it at all.
Something in the distance drew Flora's attention. Focusing on it, she moved faster, navigating over the rocky riverbank and locking her eyes on it, afraid she'd lose it. A large tree had fallen into the river about fifty feet from where she was walking. Sharp branches stuck out from both sides of it, swaying as the current found its way around the obstacles and kept moving.
Something was stuck on the end of one of those branches.
A piece of clothing?
Flora's breath quickened as she broke into a jog, reached the fallen tree, and stared across the water at the object. A piece of fabric was wrapped around a branch. Looking around, she drew her sword, as if that scrap of evidence might translate into a man. She walked farther up the riverbank. Her breath caught in her throat when she found something other than what she was looking for.
A freshly-killed Savage.
Flora crept over to it, brandishing her sword as if she might have to finish it off, but the creature wasn't moving. It was stabbed in the neck. Dead. She looked around the sloping bank above the shore, finding more blood and a trail of displaced rocks. Farther up, she saw a boot print heading in the direction of the forest, and a man's palm print in the mud and snow. A realization hit Flora.
She wasn't searching for a body. She was searching for a man.
Bray's alive.
Chapter 18: Flora
Flora followed Bray's boot prints up the riverbank and into the forest, her sword clutched tightly in her hand. Every so often, she saw a splotch of dripped blood, or a handprint where he had stumbled in the snow. He was wounded. Probably close to death. That would make things easier. At the same time, she knew better than to lower her guard. She'd seen plenty of men in the clutches of the gods, fighting through their final breaths as they battled Savages or warring tribes. Occasionally, those dying men took their enemies with them to the grave.
She wouldn't let Bray surprise her.
She looked around, thinking she might spot him in the distance, splayed out, or keeled over against a tree. Nothing. He'd gotten a decent lead on her, but it wouldn't be hard to catch up to a stumbling, wounded man. Persistence.
She followed him for what felt like a while, upslope and toward the top of the mountain. He was progressing away from the islands—a smart move, given his situation. She'd do the same. But that would only buy him time. Soon she'd crested the mountain and come to a flatter, snowier portion of land. Bray's tracks were closer together. It wouldn't be long until she found a body, or a man staggering on his last strength. Descending a small hill, she came to the bottom, where the tracks led toward a small hole in the ground.
That's it.
Flora stopped. She looked cautiously around. The man was nowhere else. He had to be in the hole. But what if he was waiting to attack her? Perhaps he'd seen her coming, and had prepared. She studied the trees around her, but didn't see a place where man could hide.
The tracks led straight to the burrow.
Her heart hammered as she steeled herself for a fight. Years of sparring, killing Savages in the wild, and hunting animals had led to this moment. She'd kill the stranger, take his scalp, and claim her place on the islands. She'd prove her worth to her people.
Becca and Bailey would welcome her home with tears of joy. They wouldn't have to lose another daughter. And Anya, the gods rest her spirit, w
ould smile down on Flora from the heavens.
Tightening her grip on the sword handle, she took a wide berth so the man inside wouldn't spot her, walking on quiet feet through the snow, advancing sideways toward the small, dark burrow, prepared to stab him before he knew she was there. She'd make quick work of him and get home. She was almost at the entrance. She could feel her palm sweating on the sword handle as she prepared for what she hoped was a quick encounter.
With a cry of war, Flora crouched and stabbed her sword into the hole.
And struck nothing.
She bent down, peering into the burrow, finding only a pile of disturbed leaves and an empty spot where a man had been. Above the burrow were more tracks leading away.
Flora cursed as she stood and stepped back, finding more tracks leading farther from the hole.
Maybe Bray had gotten a bigger lead than she thought.
Chapter 19: Halifax Soldier
Fifteen soldiers stood in a row on the stone platform in the center of the Halifax village, turning the new, strange weapons in their hands. Daylight was fading, and rows of men and women with the sacred god markings stood around the sides and back of the platform, watching expectantly. Children hovered behind parents, enrapt. Even the sick and the elderly had hobbled out of their small, stone houses in the long buildings to watch the spectacle, gazes locked on the fifteen men as they awaited what would likely be the biggest spectacle of their lifetime.
The Halifax soldier found his children in that crowd and raised his chin in bravery. He looked down at the long, tube-shaped weapon he was holding, which was longer than his arms. He carefully avoided the end. He had learned that quickly. He looked down the row at the first man in line, who was putting a separate piece of metal into the bottom of his weapon.
An older man with long, tangled hair emerged from the crowd and walked to the center of the platform, watching the soldiers—their leader, The Bravest One. He waved his hands as he started a speech that would likely be remembered for years to come. Whoops and cheers punctuated his words.
"We will overcome our enemies!" the man roared in their native tongue, inspiring loud responses from the audience. "We will demonstrate our power!"
More cheers.
The Halifax soldier looked down at the weapon in his hand. A while ago, he and several other soldiers had heard the lightning noises in the sky while they were on a hunt, and had followed the sound to the foreign-looking settlement by the water. From the safety of the trees, they'd overlooked the bowl-shaped valley by the bay, studying the strange, tall buildings and the littered bodies of the dead that seemed to go on endlessly.
After a little while of observing, determining the settlement was empty, the Halifax soldiers had crept down into the valley and explored, walking around old, scattered skeletons, fresh bodies of the Diseased Men, and the burnt corpses of people with pale, unmarked skin. The people were almost as fascinating as the houses.
The Halifax man had found strange metal tools in some of the houses. They'd also found some jackets. But the most important findings had been on one of the massive, strange objects hanging half in and half out of the water. The soldier and several of his comrades had worked their way through those murky, wet corridors, locating a room that seemed to be more well-protected than others. They'd pried the door open.
That's when they'd made the most important discovery.
The objects that spit lightning. The ones that would lead to the death of their enemies.
Elation surged through the soldier as he turned his attention back to the speaking man. The Bravest One had finished his speech and the crowd fell into an expectant silence, clutching their jackets, keeping warm as they waited for what was about to happen.
The soldier looked down the row at the first man, who was pointing the weapon at a pile of stacked logs that they'd placed on the far end of the platform. The soldier attempted a look of bravery, but he seemed nervous. He looked at the object in his hands, uncertain, putting his hand on a few parts of it before committing to an action. Raising the object level with him, as they'd done in their tests, he located a small, rounded piece of the object that was perfect for a finger. He squeezed it.
A loud crack echoed across the platform.
Some in the crowd gasped. Others cheered as a gaping hole appeared in the bark of one of the logs in the pile at which he was aiming. A few children let out cries of glee as the man smiled and raised the weapon in triumph, yelling some words that mimicked what The Bravest One had said.
The crowd cheered as the other men took turns pointing the weapons at the stacked logs, unleashing fire and ripping holes into the thick bark.
When it was the soldier's time, he looked over and found his family, gave them a brave look, and stuck the weapon in the direction of the log piles.
He squeezed the metal button.
Chapter 20: Bray
Bray stooped next to the fire, drying his bloodied clothes and nursing deep, aching wounds as he looked at the night sky. After gaining consciousness in the burrow, he'd traveled as far as his legs could carry him, walking up and down a few more slopes, getting farther away from the islands and the men who had sliced and stabbed him. Eventually, he'd crossed a stream, carefully placing his feet to obscure some of his tracks, and then followed the water as it curved around another steep hill. Now he was resting in a place that he hoped was safe, at least for the moment. He was dry and warm enough that he could feel his fingers and toes, and he'd gotten a drink. Soon, he would douse the fire and attempt to sleep through the night's darkest hours.
Every so often, he heard the yowl of a distant demon, or a night animal scurrying its way through the forest. He hadn't heard any sign of soldiers. But that didn't mean they weren't after him. The only question Bray had was how long they'd chase him. He'd seen his worth, and that was at the end of their blades. They'd cleaved his flesh, jeering, waiting for him to die. He was worth as much as the scum on their shoes. He only had to outrun them far enough that they'd give up on finding him.
What then?
Bray wasn't sure. He still wasn't certain he'd survive. He'd seen too many men die in the wilderness without access to poultices or herbs—especially in the winter, when those things were nearly impossible to find. He grimaced as he tore a scrap of his shirt and fashioned a makeshift tourniquet for one of the stubborn cuts on his arm. The stab wound on his back was particularly painful. He'd woken up in a puddle of blood in the burrow. For a moment, he'd thought he was back in the river, choking on a mouthful of water, but it was only blood dripping from a head wound and over his nose and lips.
He winced and rid himself off the memory. Settling into a position by the fire, he clutched his blade and looked around the trees, wishing the men responsible were close enough that he could stab them all. They deserved slow, painful deaths, much like they wanted for him.
Much like Kirby and William must've received.
Bray felt renewed anger. How long had the islanders waited to kill them? Had they done it shortly before Bray had been ambushed? After? Maybe everyone had been lying to him, and it was Kirby on that bridge after all.
Maybe she was dead before I set foot back on the islands.
Thinking of Bartholomew and Jonathan, Bray couldn't muster enough hatred. They'd spouted their lies too easily. He might've cut Jonathan's hand, but Bartholomew was alive and unharmed, probably laughing at Bray's name over a cup of ale with his soldiers. And Deacon might as well have been one of the swords stabbing Bray.
Still, a nagging feeling had eaten at Bray ever since he'd woken up in that burrow. What if William and Kirby were still alive?
He lay down on his side, staring at the flames and wondering if his friends might be back at the islands, suffering a worse fate than he was. As much as he'd convinced himself they were dead, he couldn't be sure. He recalled the sincerity on Jaydra's face when he'd talked to her.
They were taken to the second island so William could heal.
Deacon ma
de an exception for them.
Was she lying? Or telling the truth?
Could he leave, without knowing for sure?
Chapter 21: Flora
Flora stared at the dark, unforgiving sky as she crouched next to her small fire. Pursuing Bray had been easy in the beginning, when his boots were caked with river mud and the snow was speckled with his blood. His tracks had gotten harder to follow as daylight waned. Eventually, she'd forced herself to stop for the night. Staring at the ground while traveling with a torch was an easy way to get killed.
She looked from the sky to the fire's flickering flames, trying to steel herself for the battle she'd invited, and yet, she was nervous. She'd expected to find Bray facedown in the snow, but he'd outlasted the daylight. He hadn't stumbled, or fallen. She might have a tougher battle than she'd thought.
She tried to muster some hatred that would get her through the fight, but her thoughts circled back to Anya, and the final trip they'd taken together. They'd discussed many things while they'd stared at fires like these. Mostly, they'd talked about the offering, or the things they'd do afterwards: the men they'd marry, the children they'd bear. The happy lives they'd live. But there was an undercurrent of dread beneath those discussions.
It was so easy to pretend that taking a man's scalp was a necessary thing, when they were back at home, under the safety of The Arches, just as it had been easy to offer Bray's scalp to Deacon. Being in the wild had brought a new layer of reality.
Taking a man's skin was a fearful, unreal thing, filled with risk.
She recalled the look of fear in Anya's eyes when they'd first seen some of the Halifax men, as they'd gripped their swords with shaky hands. They'd both killed animals, and even demons, but this was a different sort of hunt. As they'd tracked those men through the forest, she'd traded a look with Anya that might be the last.
The Ruins Book 2: A Dystopian Society in a Post-Apocalyptic World (The Ruins Series) Page 6