by Bobby Adair
“It may not matter,” said Beck.
“How so?” asked Blackthorn.
“Our people live on a diet of grains, vegetables, meats, and dairy. They need to eat all four to get enough food to stay alive. If there are no meats and no dairy, the grains and vegetables alone will not be enough to keep them fed through the summer, let alone the winter.”
“Not a problem. We have plenty of goats, pigs, and sheep. I stepped in at least two piles of sheep dung on the way here.” Winthrop looked around, as if hoping to solicit a laugh.
Beck shook his head at Winthrop. The loquacious dullard. “By consuming so many of the animals over the past few winters, we don’t have enough left to produce offspring.”
“Then we grow more grains and vegetables,” Blackthorn concluded.
“It would seem that easy,” Beck answered, “But it takes work to prepare a field, whether it be for grain or for vegetables. The farmers can only prepare after they have tended their regular crops. Under the best of conditions, it is unlikely we could prepare enough land for planting in time to avert a famine.”
“What are you trying to say?” Blackthorn asked.
“If we have unfavorable weather conditions, the famine will come this winter or next.”
The door to the kitchen opened, revealing a woman with a tray of meat large enough to feed a dozen men. She was followed by two more carrying roasted potatoes and vegetables.
Chapter 23: Bray
Bray waited until Ella and William were asleep, then crept to his feet. He’d kept his bag packed and his sword within reach, and he collected both of them, placing them on the ground near the back entrance.
He paused, taking in the silence.
Outside, he heard the chirps and chatter of night animals. For years they’d been his only companions. Bray wasn’t used to sleeping with others nearby. He much preferred the company of his sword and his knife. At the same time, he knew a good opportunity when he saw one, and Ella and her boy were easy targets. He could’ve robbed them last night in the ancient room, but the firelight had swayed him. At least here it was dark.
He crept over to Ella first. Of the two bags, he was pretty sure hers contained silver. He’d seen her hiding something when they’d stopped to rest the day before. The clink of metal might as well have been the cry of a wounded animal, and it drew him like a hungered beast. He hovered above the woman for several seconds, listening to the soft sounds of her inhaling and exhaling, then hunkered down next to her head. He grazed the side of the bag until his fingers located the drawstring. It’d be difficult getting into it—especially with Ella using it as a headrest—but he’d give it a shot.
He loosened the knots with nimble fingers, encountering no snags, and then parted the folds. He waited. Ella was still entrenched in sleep. He doubted he’d wake her. The panic and unease of the day were better than a stomach full of snowberry. Given what the woman had been through, she’d probably sleep until morning.
By that time, Bray would be gone.
He snuck a breath and dug into her bag. His fingers snagged on a piece of clothing, and Ella groaned, shifting her head. To his delight, Ella’s movement had exposed more of the bag. He crept past several layers of clothing, feeling around the bottom, and found the small pouch he’d seen her hide earlier. He pulled it out and pocketed the silver.
He searched for anything else of value. Other than garments and berries, there wasn’t much. He pulled out the food and laid it on the ground next to him. He’d take the berries. There was a chance he could sell the clothes and blankets, but he wouldn’t bother with them.
Her knife, on the other hand—now that would sell for a few bits to a Davenport merchant.
He reached over her sleeping body. She’d tucked the blade beneath her, and he snaked it out from under her arm. Once he’d secured his take, he retied the bag.
That would confuse her—just for fun.
He brought the stolen goods over to his bag and slipped them inside. Once he’d packed, he returned to the boy. William was out cold—his breath was slow and even. Bray had low expectations for the contents of the boy’s bag. Chances were he’d find only clothing. But he’d check all the same.
He hated to leave easy pickings.
He crouched next to the boy, tracing the ground until he’d discovered the edge of the bag. Even in the darkness, Bray knew his way around. He practically lived in this cave in the winter. He regretted showing it to the pair, but he wasn’t worried. Without him guiding them the rest of the way to Davenport, they’d probably die in the forest.
Bray untied the boy’s bag and wormed his hand inside. The boy took a deep breath, and he waited for him to exhale.
Clothes. Clothes. More clothes.
Finally he hit on a few pouches of berries, and he carefully slid them out. He was about to conclude when he felt something metal. He removed the object and rolled it in his hands, furrowing his brow. It was some sort of figurine. Whatever it was, he could probably sell it to the merchants. Even if it weren’t valuable, they’d melt it down. He tucked it in his pocket.
He was just retying the bag when a whimper escaped into the darkness. William’s head rolled to the side, knocking into Bray’s hand. He felt a hard knot against his fingertips, and he darted backward.
Was that—?
Bray froze. He stared into the darkness, wondering if he’d been imagining things, but the sleeping boy provided no answers. He considered creeping back over, double-checking the boy’s neck, but he knew what he’d felt.
The mark of the monster. Evidence of the unclean.
In an instant, everything became clear. He’d known Ella and William were fleeing from something, but he’d been certain they were debt-runners. He hadn’t suspected this. Did the woman have a lump of her own? He scampered away from the sleeping duo, bringing the boy’s belongings with him. He could turn the pair in, but there wouldn’t be any money in that. He’d be thanked for his service and sent on his way.
He crept to his bag, packed it up with his newfound goods, and slung it on his shoulder. He snuck out into the night.
***
Bray was halfway down the mountain when he saw torches in the distance. He ducked down and surveyed the bobbing lights. Despite the apparent activity, the forest was quiet. It’d been a while since he’d seen a hunting party in these woods, and rarely did he see one at night.
Had Brighton sent a search party for Ella and the boy?
Although it was clear that the pair were on the run, he didn’t think the town would send out several of its troops at night—especially not for an infected mother and her son. The wild was hardly a place for humans in the darkness. Besides, torches were a bad idea; the light would just as easily draw the demons as it would flush out the people they were trying to catch. Idiots. Bray shrugged, resolved to continue. A minute later he stopped.
There was a chance he could score something from the troops. At the very least, he could eavesdrop on their conversation.
He scooted down the mountain. The light of the moon was hardly enough to illuminate the landscape, trees or not, but it was better than nothing.
Going downhill was much easier than going up, and before long, he was creeping through the trees, his knife drawn. As he scouted forward, he strained his ears for sounds of the men. He heard voices, subtle murmurs in the distance. He kept moving toward them, doing his best to avoid detection. The relationship between soldiers and Wardens was tenuous. Neither liked each other, but each was protected by the same law. Although they often argued, they rarely got violent. Any bloodshed would come before Blackthorn.
That was a consequence no one wanted to face.
Bray cast aside bushes and bramble, closing the gap. In the event the soldiers heard him, he’d announce his presence to avoid being attacked, but he’d rather it not come to that. It looked like the lights in the distance had stopped.
He drew within a hundred yards and paused next to the trunk of a large tree. He peered
around, catching sight of the group. As he’d suspected, the lights belonged to soldiers. There were four of them. They loitered in a circle, conversing. They looked young and inexperienced—they’d probably volunteered for the night hunt to curry favor with Blackthorn. One of them, a man with a chiseled face, had captured the attention of the others. He was on a rant, his eyes darting from forest to fire as he spoke.
“I swear I’m going to gut her myself,” the soldier spat.
“Easy, Rodrigo,” said one of his companions.
“If we weren’t bound by the laws, I’d cut off her arms and feed them to the demons while she watched.”
“You know you can’t do that.”
“She killed my cousins!” Rodrigo began pacing back and forth. Rather than being calmed by his comrade, he grew more irate. “When I find her and that boy, I’m going to—”
Was he talking about Ella?
Another soldier grabbed Rodrigo’s arm. “You’ll do nothing!” His face was bearded, and he looked slightly older than the rest. “Do you want to answer to Blackthorn? Because I don’t. If you touch her, Goddammit, I’ll have your head on a spike myself. She’s to be brought back as an example. You know that. We all know that.”
“Did you see the goddamn bodies? Did you see what she did to them?” Rodrigo asked.
“She’ll answer for that, rest assured.”
Rodrigo’s eyes blazed, but he fell silent.
“Two days and no luck,” said the third soldier. “Where do you think they went? Do you think the demons got them?”
“I don’t know,” the bearded man said. “Even if she knew where she was going, we’d probably have run into her by now.”
“I bet she’s holed up in one of the caves on the peak. Maybe she found her way into some Skin-Seller’s filthy den,” the fourth soldier chimed in.
Everyone laughed, except Rodrigo.
“Did the other group already go out?”
“They probably passed us. They were crossing the river.”
The soldiers fell silent. Bray waited patiently. They were eating and drinking, taking a break from the chase. After the last man had finished, they wiped their faces and picked up their torches.
“Let’s split up,” the bearded man said. “Two of us will tackle the base of the mountain, the other two will climb the peak.”
“I’ll take the peak,” Rodrigo growled. “Maybe I can get something out of one of those filthy Skin-Sellers.”
Brandishing torches and swords, the soldiers forged back into the woods.
***
Bray skirted back into the underbrush, trying to stay ahead of the group. Branches whipped against his face and trees seemed to appear in front of him, but he held up his knife to try and ward off nature’s attack. He thought about what he’d heard.
Although the soldiers hadn’t used Ella’s or William’s names, it was obvious who they were looking for. The possibility that there were more than one woman and child on the run was remote. By the sounds of it, Ella had killed several Brighton soldiers.
They’d probably forced themselves on her.
The story was a familiar one. Although the soldiers had rules to follow, they often used their power to their own ends. Rodrigo was one of the worst ones. Bray could see it in the man’s body language.
The man would torture Ella, if he found her.
Not my problem, Bray thought. He had wares to sell.
His bag bounced on his shoulders as he ran, and he envisioned the items inside. He’d had a productive day. An extra skin, some silver, and some belongings he could sell. It wasn’t enough to retire into one of the finer houses in Davenport or Coventry, but it was more than what he’d woken up with.
He skirted around the base of the mountain, intending to avoid the woman and child he’d left behind. Bray was ready to head toward Davenport. He wasn’t keen on traveling at night, but he was anxious to get his silver.
If all went well, he’d never run into the soldiers he’d seen.
He didn’t need the complication.
As he ran, he counted in his mind the money he’d receive in Davenport: five each for the skins, and five for the knife. That’d be enough to survive for at least a week, if he were frugal. And if he didn’t encounter any other monsters on the way. If so, that would mean even more coin.
Bray smiled.
He felt a surge of excitement in his bones—the thrill of a man in the wild, providing for his own needs. It was a sensation he’d grown addicted to over the course of his life; the moment he lived for.
His father had instilled that feeling in him, back when he’d first taken him into the wild. Bray had been only six years old then. He still remembered the first monster he killed. His father had wounded it, and he’d allowed his son to finish it off. That was how his father had taught him how to skin. It was a memory that Bray had held onto ever since, and one he looked back on when things seemed bleak, or when silver was scarce.
The memory warmed him now. He darted between the dark outlines of trees, smiling. Out of nowhere, he remembered the figurine in his pocket.
He’d almost forgotten about it.
He patted his pants, ensuring it was still there. He wondered what had possessed the boy to bring it. It must’ve had sentimental value.
Whatever it was, the boy wouldn’t need it much longer, anyway. The boy was infected. His life was a walking death sentence. Soon, his body would fill with sickness and delusion, and eventually, he’d become one of them.
Another scalp for Bray to skin.
But Bray would wait until the boy had turned.
He pictured the boy’s body, littered with knots and warts, and then he pictured the boy holding the figurine. Out of nowhere, he felt a pang of guilt.
Stop it. Bray tried to dismiss the image, but it persisted.
He recalled the words the child had spoken before he’d gone to sleep. The fond memories he had of his father, the genuine curiosity he’d had for Bray’s endeavors. Did the boy know the end was near?
If so, why did he go on?
Then he thought about what Rodrigo had said about Ella.
I’m going to gut her myself.
The soldier would probably do the same to the boy. Bray felt a sick feeling in his stomach. Before he realized his actions, he was turning around and heading back to the cave. He shouldn’t have left them behind. Infected or not, no one deserved to die like that.
He leapt up the base of the mountain, dashing as fast as his legs would carry him. He needed to make sure Ella and William stayed hidden.
He just hoped he’d make it in time.
Chapter 24: Minister Beck
After the meeting ended, Beck sat in his room staring into the fire, dwelling on his foul mood as the night passed. It had been another in a long series of wasted meetings. The Council of Elders was a misnomer at best, a joke at worst. There was no council of three. There was only Blackthorn and his servile fool, Winthrop. Beck was an intelligent observer whose efforts were continually thwarted on anything but the most trivial of matters.
Some day in the future—maybe soon, maybe some years from now—the price for Brighton’s dysfunctional government would need to be paid. The empty-bellied people and the dying children would blame the Elders. That was how the peasants always reacted when hunger set in and snow covered the ground.
They’d beg. They’d point accusing fingers at one another. They’d rob. Eventually, they’d look at one another’s gaunt faces and realize the merchants were not thin. They’d see that the soldiers had been well fed. They’d see no sallow cheeks among the Elders. And they’d point their bony fingers away from one another and at those with full bellies, those in positions of authority.
Once the fingers started their pointing, there’d be no way to avoid the rioting. The merchants’ houses would be looted first. The soldiers would try to stop it, to preserve order. That would pit the soldiers against the peasants and solidify the two sides in the coming anarchy. On one side wou
ld be the starving, powerless nobodies, the ones who did what they were told, who lived in hovels, farmed the fields, and burned on the pyres. The other side would be the well-fed, with horses, swords, and spears, who lived in warm barracks or opulent houses and did the telling at the point of a sword.
But peasants would lose their fear of swords when their children were starving. Though most farmers couldn’t count the toes on their feet, it wouldn’t take much mathematical aptitude to figure out that their mob would greatly outnumber the men with swords and the fat merchants and town Elders they were protecting.
It would start in one town and spread to the others. Riot would turn to revolution. The soldiers who didn’t flee in the chaos would die, clubbed to death with farm tools. Beck would burn on the pyre, with Blackthorn and Winthrop at his side, not for having a wart or a smudge, but for the sin of having too much meat on his bones.
When it was done, the people would eat what the wealthy had hoarded. When that food was gone, the peasants would continue starving. The children would be the first to die. And a starving man would eat anything he could get his hands on, even his neighbor’s children.
It wouldn’t be the end of humanity, just a reset. There’d be many fewer people in the townships when spring finally arrived. The survivors would forage in the forests and grow food in the gardens and fields. There’d be no livestock by then. The slow process of domestication would have to start over.
In the last famine revolt—an event only whispered about among the old people—it was estimated that only one in ten people lived. That had been two hundred years ago.
One in ten. What a disaster that would be.
The bestial demons were the wild card, though. More than a generation had passed since the last of the great hordes fell on the villages and towns. If they came back again in the numbers and frequencies told in stories, man’s reign on the great flat earth would come to its end.
And that’s what brought Beck to contemplate the most drastic action of all. Should he take enough of his scholars and women—fifty-seven, ideally—and preemptively flee? Should he go somewhere far away from the ruined, demon-infested cities, and start a new civilization, a civilization where knowledge was placed above superstition and sword?