The Last Escape

by T. W. Piperbrook

  "Won't the soldiers check here for us?"

  "The soldiers were heading in the opposite direction. I don't think they'll find us. Besides, I think we've covered enough ground to spend the night safely. We'll leave first thing in the morning. We'll be okay."

  Ella nodded. She relaxed, but only slightly. Her mind was still focused on the bodies. She wasn't sure how she'd sleep. She let go of William and pulled her pack from her shoulders. She set down her sword.

  "Do you know who the soldiers were that killed them? Were they from Brighton?"

  "I believe so."

  "What were their names?"

  "I didn't ask. When I saw them the next time, I killed them."

  Bray's face hardened again. He set his pack down on the floor, opposite the bodies, and brought out his drinking flask. He took a long gulp. Following his lead, Ella dug in her own bag for a drink. She was thirsty, but she wasn't hungry. She doubted she'd sleep, with the bodies in the room.

  William slid to the floor beside her, tentatively unstrapping his bag. He dug through the contents and pulled out Zander. Then he looked across the room at the smallest skeleton.

  "How old was Harriet?" he asked the Warden.

  "About your age. Maybe a little younger," Bray answered.

  "What did she look like?"

  "She had blonde hair and blue eyes, fair skin."

  "What did she like to do?"

  "The same things the rest of the kids in the townships do. She played games with her mother, collected food and water, climbed the trees."

  "She did that even with the demons in the forest?"

  "Yes, even with the demons around. Her parents taught her to keep safe; they protected her. I just wish they could've protected her from this." He waved his hand despondently.

  William crept across the floor and placed Zander next to the little girl's body. Then he scooted back to Ella. "I want Harriet to have it," he told her. "I won't be needing it much longer, anyway."

  William's face was strangely composed. Ella's eyes welled up. She looked at her son, then at Bray, thinking the Warden would warn them to take the figurine, but the Warden didn't say a word.

  Chapter 22: Beck

  By the time Beck and Evan got back to the square, the snow was coming in big, misshapen flakes, floating down through a condensing fog of exhalations from the unenthusiastic men counting and turning and marching in the square. It was late. Bonfires along the perimeter provided light for the men, who clearly wanted to be home eating dinner, rather than drilling and shivering.

  Seeing that Blackthorn had gone, Beck led Evan up to the dais, from which they could see across the undisciplined throng.

  The cohort had broken up into platoons of thirty or forty men, each group getting barked at by a sergeant under the lazy supervision of several officers, who seemed primarily interested in a conversation they were having as they huddled out of the wind between two bonfires along the edge of the square.

  "When you look at these men, do you see anything unusual?" Beck asked.

  Evan rose immediately to the challenge. Of all the things that motivated Evan to action, finding an answer to a new question was foremost. Evan scanned across the rows. He listened to the orders being hollered at the men. The scolding by a sergeant—at least one of them always seemed to be yelling somewhere—piqued Evan's interest. He soon realized it was just the animation and noise that interested him, nothing important.

  Keeping his hands tucked in his pockets, Beck hinted, "Don't point, but look over there, down along the left side."

  Evan looked over. "Are you referring to the two militiamen near the end of that line? The two with the thick, expensive fur cloaks? Based on their manner of dress, they don't belong."

  "That is exactly it." Beck smiled. "Do you know the merchant Dunlow?"

  "The furrier?"

  "Those are his sons."

  Surprised, Evan turned to face Beck. "Dunlow is among the wealthiest of Brighton's merchants. Surely, he has enough spare coin to keep his sons out of the militia. At worst, Dunlow could purchase horses for his sons and have them ride in the cavalry. The footmen of the militia are at the lowest level in the military hierarchy."

  "So it would seem," said Beck.

  "Obviously there is something about this situation that you aren't sharing with me," said Evan.

  "It is a long story. It is also an important one, important enough that of all six hundred shivering soldiers in this cohort, the only two keeping warm in their coats belong to Dunlow the Furrier. You know, of course, that General Blackthorn has no children."

  "Of course," said Evan. "He had the misfortune to marry three barren women. They say after the third, his heart was so hardened by the sorrow of sending them to The House of Barren Women that he turned bitter toward the idea of companionship."

  Beck took a long breath and then exhaled a big puff of condensation. It was a simple indulgence that never failed to fascinate him when the weather was cold enough for it. "That is one story."

  "And the other?" asked Evan.

  "Did you know that the first of General Blackthorn's wives went to the pyre?"

  "I wasn't aware of that," said Evan. "Rumors about General Blackthorn's past abound. One is never sure what to believe."

  "Have you seen a girl at The House of Barren Women name Fitzgerald?"

  Evan blushed.

  Beck patted Evan on the back. "Don't be ashamed. All of us visit, though most do so discreetly. I never understood the shame of it."

  Evan nodded and half smiled.

  "You know the girl I speak of?"

  "Yes," Evan croaked out. "Maybe the prettiest girl there."

  Nodding, Beck said, "General Blackthorn's first wife looked like Fitzgerald. The two were married on a glorious spring afternoon and I think every man in Brighton fell in love with her that day. I was young, barely old enough to know the difference between boys and girls, and I think I fell in love with her, too." Beck looked off into the gray sky as he thought of her. "She was enchanting. They were like the king and queen in one of the old fairy tales. Rumors spread from almost the next day that she was with child. The whole town seemed to think of little else that year. Everywhere you went, people talked about a prince to carry on for Blackthorn. Back in those days, he was still the hero that saved the townships. People don't talk about it much now. Too many people have been born since that last great demon war. You know how people are about things that happened before they were alive."

  "Yes," Evan nodded with solemn determination. "Some days I feel that thinking is at the root of all the problems I face when answering questions about our history as a means to try to understand our future."

  "Yes," Beck said, hiding his irritation at Evan's seeming desire to sidetrack the story. "Sadly, General Blackthorn's wife, instead of getting a big belly with a baby in it, grew gaunt. Her smile seemed to have a more difficult time finding its way to her face. No child came that winter when everyone expected one to arrive. Neither did one arrive that next spring or summer. That autumn, when Cleansing day came, General Blackthorn arrived late. The other two ministers were already in their chairs. The square was full of nervous women and frightened children. General Blackthorn all but dragged his crying young wife into the square."

  "Oh, no," said Evan.

  "It was most unusual. Nothing like it had happened in anyone's memory. General Blackthorn dragged the girl up the steps of the Cleansing platform, ordered her stripped, and with the angriest face I've ever seen on a man, he pointed at the smudges on her back." Beck shook his head at the memory. "I was in the crowd, near the front and I saw that sad woman, and I almost cried. It was so hard to see that beautiful face without a smile."

  "But she was smudged, right?" Evan asked.

  Beck shrugged. "To me, her smudges looked like old bruises. In the months after, it was whispered that the inspectors believed them to be bruises, as well, but no one dared stand against General Blackthorn's wrath, not in the mood he was in that
day. He might have sent us all to the pyre. As it was, his wife and three others burned that afternoon, and the town cried for a week. It was the blackest of times in Brighton. It was if our souls had died that day."

  Beck took a deep breath as the memory of seeing the beautiful woman burn nearly stole away his composure. "Rumors spread through the market after that. Many said the woman was barren, and General Blackthorn, because he loved her so jealously, couldn't bear to send her to The House to be slobbered on and kissed by stinking pig chasers and filthy dirt scratchers."

  "That's not love," said Evan, shaking his head.

  Beck simply stared across the square.

  Evan asked, "What happened to the others?"

  "The second went on to The House of Barren Women and seemed intent on filling the orphanage with bastards all on her own. But the interesting one is the last. She bore a child not eight months after Blackthorn left her on Mary's doorstep."

  "Eight months?" Evan asked. "Are you saying that he divorced her while she was pregnant?"

  "The timing suggests that General Blackthorn's temper may have been too short on this occasion. However, with the girl in The House of Barren Women, Blackthorn could never know for sure that the bastard she bore was actually his, or the unlucky seed of one of the first men to partake of her services."

  "Unlucky?"

  Nodding, Beck said, "The poor girl died of birthing."

  Evan looked toward Blackthorn's house, dominating one corner of the great square. "The tragedy of it all almost makes you feel pity for him."

  "Almost," said Beck. "And then you remember what a brute he is."

  "What of the child?" asked Evan. "Did it live?"

  "This all happened a long time ago, mind you, but yes, it did live. It grew into a healthy teenager and people said that he bore a strong resemblance to Blackthorn as a boy. As it was, Blackthorn never accepted the child as his own. How could he? The boy was a bastard. But Blackthorn took a special interest in the child. He saw that the boy never set foot in an orphanage. He received the best tutoring, wore the best clothes, and lived in a good home."

  "A good home?" Evan asked. "A merchant's home? Dunlow the Furrier's?"

  "That would be correct," said Beck. "Dunlow was having problems with a barren woman of his own, and General Blackthorn convinced him to raise the boy."

  "But?" Evan asked.

  "Dunlow found a solution. He remarried, and within a year, his second wife bore him those two twin sons." Beck pointed at the two well-dressed militiamen.

  Evan looked back at the twin young men, swinging their swords in some kind of attack exercise.

  "General Blackthorn's illegitimate child, nearly seven years old when the twins were born, fell into disfavor in the Dunlow house. He was ignored by the man he had come to think of as his own father. He grew troubled. By the time the boy was fourteen, Dunlow had had enough and he pushed for the boy to go into cavalry training early. Blackthorn himself went into training early, did you know that?"

  Evan shook his head.

  Beck nodded, "That is perhaps why Blackthorn allowed the boy to join the cavalry. He saw himself in the boy. Sadly, it was a mistake. Not a month into his training, the boy was thrown from his horse and broke his neck."

  "He died."

  "Yes," said Beck. "And General Blackthorn blamed Dunlow. Blackthorn has carried the grudge to this day." He glanced at the Dunlow twins. "Apparently."

  "That is a fascinating story, Minister Beck, but now that we've reached the end, I'm failing to make the next connection. Why did you bring me here to show me these twins? Why did you tell me this story?"

  Beck took a slow look around to ensure that no one was close enough to hear what he and Evan were talking about. "Those two will become part of our two-pronged plan. One could safely assume that they despise Blackthorn as much as anyone. One could further assume that grumblers tend to fall in with other grumblers. In other words, if they hate Blackthorn, it is likely they know many others that share this feeling. Those two will provide us access to all of those disgruntled men. And those disgruntled men will raise their swords and axes for us against Blackthorn, if we handle the situation correctly."

  Chapter 23: Bray

  Bray lay awake in the dwelling, unable to sleep. It wasn't the threat of demons or soldiers that kept him up. Memories haunted him.

  It wasn't my fault, he told himself. Bray closed his eyes and fought back the guilt. The settlers had done it to themselves.

  They'd told him they were going to leave.

  It wasn't his fault they'd stayed.

  The pale light of the sky was fading, pitching the small house into darkness, but Bray could still make out the jagged outlines of the skeletons, their presence a constant reminder of how he'd failed them. He listened to the sounds of Ella and William across from him, their sleep-filled breaths overshadowed by the sounds of the forest. Somewhere outside, a night owl hooted; a small creature scurried through the underbrush. He was used to the noise. He'd made his bed in the wild on more nights than he'd ever slept in a town or village.

  He let the sounds soothe him as he dipped into the realm of sleep.

  Bray rested in intervals. Rarely did he sleep a full night. Most evenings, he went to bed with sword in hand, prepared to spring from unconsciousness if needed.

  He thought of the journey to come, the stash of silver he had hidden in the Ancient City. If the Davenport survivors were headed there, he'd check on it. At the same time, he hoped the survivors hadn't gained too much ground. The Ancient City was hardly a place for townsfolk, especially peasants who weren't indoctrinated in the ways of demons.

  He pictured the crumbled walls of the Ancient buildings. The intersecting roads between them were fused with weeds and stone. Sharp metal of all sizes lay scattered among the wreckage, providing danger to unsuspecting travelers. Tall layers of Ancient stone curved around the buildings, arching high into the air. It was rumored that the Ancients used those floating roads for travel. Some of them went over the water, while others hung over flat, disintegrating roads. Many of the suspended stone layers were cracked and broken at points. Without proper precaution, a traveler could easily fall and break a limb, or worse. And that wasn't even counting the danger of demons.

  Bray was leery of the place himself.

  He was just fading into unconsciousness when he heard a noise.

  Bray startled.

  A scratching arose from the back of the dwelling. He sat up and clenched his sword, heart pounding. Thin, sharp nails raked across the dwelling walls. An animal.

  Either that or a demon.

  Bray drew to a crouch. Whatever the thing was, he'd kill it. Whether it was a predator or a night critter. He stared into the darkness, trying to pinpoint the creature's location. Once he got a bead on it, he'd rush outside and attack.

  The scratching stopped. Bray padded to the dwelling entrance and peered out into the forest, using the last light of the snowy sky to guide him. The glow provided a thin layer of visibility, but not enough. He saw nothing suspicious. He looked at the weed-covered walls of the dwelling, but observed nothing climbing them. He stepped out and inspected further. The back of the dwelling was dark and looming, but he saw nothing dangerous lurking there. His first instinct was correct. It was probably a night animal carousing through the forest. Whatever it was had left.

  He considered lighting a torch, but didn't want to draw the demons.

  Relieved, he ducked back inside the dwelling and lay down. He kept his eyes open, just in case. His thoughts drifted back to his collection of silver and metals. He'd stashed it inside one of the more intact buildings in the Ancient City, covered with rubble and debris. Over the past few years, he'd been adding to his stash, growing it, hoarding it, filling it with the money he was paid by the townships. That, and the money he'd scavenged from other Wardens like Jeremiah.

  If he lived long enough, he'd need something to fall back on when his arms and legs grew weak from age.

 
Thoughts of his belongings lulled him to sleep.

  He'd just closed his eyes when he heard a whimper. The noise was soft and high-pitched, but this time, it didn't sound like a squirrel or raccoon.

  This cry was human.

  It was coming from the back of the dwelling. Was there a child outside?

  Bray arose and crept outside, heading around the small house. After a few seconds, the noise abated. The sounds of the forest resumed, as if the animals were playing some trick on him. Bray stared through the darkness, waiting for the noise to repeat, but the dwelling remained silent. The whimper repeated in his head long after it stopped. The more he thought about it, the more it grew familiar. It sounded like someone he knew.

  Harriet.

  But that couldn't be.

  The name hit him like a punch to the stomach. He pictured the little settler girl at the river, the bucket he'd helped her carry. The nights he'd spent at the settlers' dwelling, his grief at finding them dead. But that wasn't possible. Her body was on the floor next to him, her bones scavenged by animals.

  Their burnt bodies had been riddled with slash marks.

  But what if she survived? What if… Bray wrinkled his nose, the smell of charred ash reminding him that Harriet was gone—not just gone, but brutally murdered. Darkness encircled the dwelling, and for a second, Bray was certain the building had been transported to some nether region; a place where the living had no control and the spirits reigned. But he couldn't believe that.

  Those were settler's myths. He'd never bowed to superstition, and he wouldn't give in to it now.

  "Who's there?" he whispered, waving his sword.

  He scrutinized the darkness, but no one answered. He swiveled in all directions, trying to pick out a figure in the blackness. Someone was here. Though he couldn't see them, he sensed them. Someone was watching him. Waiting. He got to his feet, certain he'd been snuck up on, and that someone was waiting for the right moment to strike. He backed against the wall in an effort to defend himself.

  "Who's there?" he called again, louder. "Show yourself."