The Last Escape

by T. W. Piperbrook

  Ivory shook his head. He was telling himself stories. He didn't know who that man was coming up from the valley. He didn't know why he was following in the tracks Ivory had left. He only knew one thing for sure—the follower might be dangerous, and Ivory would have to lose him. The snow would make evasion difficult.

  The rock Ivory was sitting on had very little snow on it. The wind had whipped it clean. The stone was a light color, not much darker than the snow. Ivory looked down at his cloak and realized it was as dark brown as the one worn by the bear-sized man. Would the man mistake him for a shadow or a bush? Ivory wasn't sure. He did know that once he started to move, if the hiker was looking his way, he'd spot Ivory with the same ease with which Ivory had spotted him.

  There was nothing to be done about that. Ivory only had one choice.

  He had to move.

  Chapter 59: Bray

  Bray sliced into the first soldier before the men knew he was there. The soldier, an older man with gray hair, shrieked as his hand fell from his wrist. He dropped his sword to the dirt, grabbing at the wounded stump. Bray booted him in the chest, knocking him backward and into the fire. Then he leapt at another.

  He sliced a second soldier's throat, watching blood spurt from the man's opened neck. The man gurgled. Another soldier came at Bray. This one was farther back and more prepared. His eyes narrowed into slits as he prepared to strike. One of his comrades ran from the edge of the forest to join him.

  "It's one of the Wardens!"

  "Who cares? Kill him!"

  The two soldiers took preparatory jabs at Bray, snarling in anger, circling. Bray heard a crackle behind him. In his peripheral vision, he saw Ella burst from the trees.

  "Forget about me! Go find William!" he shouted. "They went that way!"

  He heard the crackle of brush as she darted into the woods and followed the disappearing soldier. The two soldiers glared after her, considering pursuit, but Bray swung his sword, interrupting their decision. He clashed blades with the first man, his muscles heaving as he tried to push the man backward. But the man was heavier than Bray and he pushed back with equal force. They struggled and fought for several seconds before the other leapt in, swinging his sword at Bray. Bray leapt back, narrowly avoiding the slice.

  "You'll be spiked for this!" the larger man growled. "I'll see it done myself!"

  The second man swung again. He was tall and lean, his shirt bloodied from whatever carnage he'd been involved in. Bray evaded the swing and countered with a strike of his own. The blow struck the man's sword, knocking it from his grasp. Bray felt a stroke of satisfaction. But it didn't last.

  The larger man charged Bray. He knocked into the Warden and toppled him backward, heaving him into a thick tree. Bray grunted from the impact, the breath exploding from his lungs. The soldier stepped back, raised his sword, and aimed for his head. Bray dodged, but not in time to avoid the tip of the blade. Pain seared through his ear. Wet blood ran down his face.

  Bray gritted his teeth.

  Channeling the pain into anger, the Warden ripped himself from the tree and circled the men. The soldier he'd disarmed had reclaimed his weapon, and the large man stared at him with sadistic eyes. They pushed him backward, edging him toward the burning house. Flames filled the air with an oppressive combination of smoke and heat. Bray gagged and his eyes watered. In the distance, he heard sounds of commotion. Ella? William?

  There was no time to speculate.

  The large soldier ran at him. Bray sidestepped. At the same time, the tall soldier jabbed at the Warden's midsection, catching him in the leg. Another jolt of pain tore through Bray's body as his calf was cut open. He cried out in frustration and anger. Had it not been for the disorientation of the fog, he would've bested these men already.

  He refused to die.

  He shouted and swung again.

  This time he caught the tall soldier in the upper arm. The man cried out as his skin tore open. Bray wrenched the blade back and forth, deepening the wound. Then he retracted his sword. Before the man could recover, Bray kicked him into the fire. The soldier roared in agony as the flames grabbed hold of him.

  Bray stepped back, his face dripping sweat. He wiped his face on his sleeve, nearly forgetting his nicked ear. Blood soiled his shirt. Adrenaline flowed through his body.

  The large man stood silent, his mouth agape. He gritted his teeth, trying to summon his courage, but Bray could sense he was scared. Without his comrades, the man was as weak-hearted as the rest of the townsfolk. He wasn't suited for battle, not without the swinging swords of his fellow men.

  Bray ran at the man, holding his sword at chest-level. Instead of fighting, the man turned and ran into the trees. The Warden ran after him, limping on his wounded leg, his anger as strong now as it had been minutes earlier. The torched house spit and crackled behind him. Bray chased the man until the heat on his back had dissipated. The large man huffed and panted, dashing with all his energy, but his legs were shorter, and Bray easily caught up.

  When he reached the man, he stabbed without aiming, goring the man in the back. The man fell flat on his face, grunting in pain. Blood ringed the back of his blue shirt.

  "Please…" he spit into the dirt.

  Bray looked down at the man, hatred filling his insides. The image of the burnt settlers was still stuck in his mind. "I can have you made Captain," the soldier pleaded.

  Bray paused.

  The offer was alluring. As dispassionate as he was about fighting for someone else, Bray would be paid handsomely.

  "A minute ago you said I'd be spiked," Bray said through gritted teeth.

  "I just… I didn't mean…" the soldier trailed off.

  Bray cocked his head for a moment. The man would die before he could make good on his word. With a shrug, he sliced off the man's head.

  "Bray!" A frantic voice called his name.

  Ella. Bray darted from the bloody scene, making his way toward the commotion. He ignored the pain in his face and his leg, repressing the anger that had consumed him before. The fog was still thick and unyielding. He needed to focus if he wanted to defeat whatever was out there. Demons. Soldiers. Whatever it was.

  The sounds of struggle seeped through the forest. Bray evaded branches and bramble, finally making his way to a clearing between the trees. Ella was screaming, watching in horror as one figure stabbed another. It was William, and he was hovering over a soldier, plunging his sword repeatedly into the man's chest.

  "I can't stop him!" Ella cried.

  Bray approached William. The boy continued stabbing the lifeless body. Only when Bray was closer did he recognize the soldier's marred, bloodied face. It was Theodore Marks.

  "William!" Ella said again, her voice wavering. It looked like she was afraid to go near him.

  Bray stamped the dirt. "William!" he shouted with authority.

  This time the boy looked up. William's eyes were wide and rabid; his face was covered in blood. Bray held up his sword, prepared to use it if necessary. William stared at the Warden for a long moment, as if trying to formulate a sentence, but not quite conjuring the words. Then William dropped his sword.

  The weapon clanked to the ground.

  "It's over," Bray said, watching him intently.

  The boy looked between Ella and Bray. Then he walked over to his mother. He breathed heavily, as if he'd forgotten how, then opened his arms and hugged her.

  Chapter 60: Ivory

  Hiking up the sloping side of the bowl directly toward the crest was hard going. Usually when Ivory made his way up to the end of the valley, he zigzagged back and forth across the slope, stepping carefully over the rocks, some the size of a man's head, some the size of a pig. It made for difficult walking and every step had to be taken with care. So far removed from town, a slip and a twist of an ankle could be a life-ending mistake.

  With the bear-man coming up his path, though, Ivory didn't have the luxury of zigzags; he needed to be over the crest, down the long rocky slopes on the othe
r side, and into the forest before his pursuer crested the slope behind him and spotted where he went in. If the bear-sized man had to search for his path into the forest, it would delay him and increase the chance that Ivory could escape. With any luck, more snow would come, covering Ivory's tracks, and making him safe.

  Snow filled every crevice, and unfortunately, many of the rocks wore a thin glaze of frost from where the first of the snow had melted on the last of their summer warmth. The air was cold enough to refreeze it, making some of the rocks dangerous.

  By the time Ivory neared the crest, he wondered if his choice to come straight up had been wise at all. He was much more tired than when he zigzagged, and he wasn't sure that he'd saved any time, with having to stop for frequent breaks to catch his breath. He turned to gauge the bear-man's progress and was astonished. Somehow, the bear-man had crossed half the length of the snowy valley while Ivory was negotiating the rock field.

  Ivory grimaced and pushed on. He needed to make it to the crest.

  Why would somebody follow him? In all the times Ivory had taken this trail over the years, both with his uncle and on his own, he'd only seen another person a handful of times, and he'd never seen someone so close behind, following the same path. A new thought occurred to him. Was it possible the other traveller was someone who'd come across his path in the snow, and had already been traveling in roughly the same direction? Was it possible it was someone seeking the company and safety of a traveling companion? Given the early snow, was that such a stretch?

  Ivory shook his head and grumbled to himself. He hated not knowing. He hated being fearful. Still, one of the most important lessons his uncle had taught him was to be careful.

  Given the mystery of the man behind him, Ivory pushed onward. Evasion was the most cautious path.

  When Ivory finally reached the crest, he looked down over the long, sloping rock field on the other side. His heart sank. It was covered in snow from the rocks along the crest all the way down to the trees far below. Ivory cursed the sun and he cursed the wind that would leave one side of the crest relatively clear and the other snowy. Worst of all, he saw the tips of some of the rocks peaking out through the snow, meaning that not only would the snow show every step of his escape path to the bear-man, but it wasn't deep enough that he could avoid the risk of twisting an ankle on the rocks underneath. In fact, he wasn't even sure it was safe to cross.

  Paralyzed by indecision, Ivory looked back again at his pursuer. He looked along the crest as it rose up to the mountain on the right and the one on the left. All paths were hard. All were dangerous.

  Chapter 61: Bray

  Bray, Ella, and William made their way back to the burned house. Flames still licked at the structure, eating at the sticks and metal that had once comprised it.

  "Did anyone survive?" Ella asked, peering into the collapsed structure.

  "I don't think so," Bray answered, his voice somber. "They wouldn't have lived through the smoke or the fire."

  They stood in silence, staring at the yellow and orange flames. The dead bodies of the soldiers lay around the area like funeral decorations. One of them—a soldier Bray had kicked into the fire—was blackened, stuck to a piece of Ancient metal. His skin was melted. Bray felt no pity.

  The soldiers had gotten what they deserved.

  He cocked his head, listening to the sounds of the forest. The fire crackled. After a moment, he searched the grounds for the dead soldiers' provisions. He rounded up several flasks of water and pouches of dried meats and berries. He opened his pack, made room, and dropped them inside. He hid the soldiers' swords where he could find them later, if needed.

  Despite killing the soldiers, the forest was far from safe. There were bound to be others—and demons, too, with the scent of burnt flesh ripe in the air.

  "We should get going," he said to Ella and William.

  He watched the boy as he said it, still suspicious of the boy's demeanor. Whether William had acted in defense or retribution—or something else—was impossible to ascertain. Ella wore a grave expression.

  "I wish this fog would clear," she said.

  "We'll find our way. It's not ideal, but it'll give us cover from the soldiers." Bray gave a last glance at the house. Something glinted from the side of the building, catching his eye. "Hold on," he said.

  He walked over next to the house in search of the object. The area was scattered with remnants of the dwelling. Wood, limbs, and scraps of Ancient metal lined the forest floor. He walked to where he'd seen the object, pushing aside errant foliage until he found what he was looking for.

  It was a knife.

  Bray reached for the weapon, testing to see if it was hot. It wasn't. He picked it up. The handle was short, as if it'd been smelted for a youth. A pit formed in his stomach. He turned it in his hands and put it in his pocket.

  He was about to leave when something moved in the trees.

  Bray's senses heightened. A moment ago, he'd been certain they were alone. Now he wasn't so sure. He raised his sword and crept into the woods. Ella and William stared after him. He padded around the smoldering ruins, measuring his steps, watching something slip out of view. He increased his pace to a brisk walk. The figure in the distance looked behind them, then dipped behind a distant tree. The person was crouched so low he couldn't make out specifics. Was it a wounded soldier? Bray increased his speed, intending to confront the person, whoever it was. He raised his sword.

  He wouldn't leave witnesses.

  He approached the place where the person had disappeared. Ella and William trailed nervously behind him, swords high. When he'd reached the tree, Bray took a wide berth around it, then raised his blade and prepared to strike.

  A gaunt, bloodied girl stared back at him. She clutched her chest in fear. Her face was covered in soot, her dark hair ratty and tangled. At her feet was the body of a mangled, dead boy.

  "Bray?" Ella called from behind him. "Who is it?"

  Bray didn't answer. He lowered his sword, his eyes locked on the frightened girl. Despite her disheveled appearance, her face was hauntingly familiar. He looked over his shoulder at Ella.

  "Ella?" said Bray. "I think we found your daughter."

  Chapter 62: Oliver

  Oliver woke to Franklin's jostling him and whispering harsh words. Franklin shook his head.

  "What did you do, Oliver? What did you do?"

  Oliver was confused, waking up in the middle of the day. "Nothing," he mumbled, out of defensive habit. "It wasn't me."

  "Get up. Hurry." Franklin stood up, pointing vaguely toward the temple's sanctuary, where Father Winthrop typically took visitors. "Father Winthrop is grouchy and blaming you."

  Oliver sat up and rubbed at his bleary eyes. "What's going on?"

  Franklin ceased his near frantic motions and looked down at Oliver. "Did you sneak out last night?"

  "No," Oliver lied. "I was here. This is where you left me when you went to fetch a woman for Father Winthrop, and here I am now."

  "Don't you lie to me," Franklin told him shaking his head. "Don't you lie."

  Oliver looked down at his hands. "Who's here?"

  "The city guard."

  Oliver felt a lump in his throat and had an urge to run out the door, out of the temple, and across the fields to the circle wall. He didn't want another beating.

  "Get your shoes on," Franklin told him. "How many times do you have to be told? How many times does Father Winthrop need to—"

  "—beat me?" Oliver asked defiantly, finding some strength as he stood, at the same time, reaching up to the welts on his back. He had them all up and down his back, buttocks, and legs. The last time Father Winthrop went after him was for sneaking half a loaf of bread. Winthrop had seemed to be past the limits of his short temper, and had found some kind of determination in his black maggot soul, a determination that if he only hit Oliver hard enough, often enough, he'd eventually win, turning Oliver obedient.

  It had taken a full week before Oliver was able
to sit without pain after that. Some of the welts were still crusted in scabs where Father Winthrop's leather strap had torn the skin.

  Franklin helped Oliver to get his shoes tied.

  Oliver said, "I need to go to the latrine."

  Shaking his head, Franklin said, "You'll have to hold it. Father Winthrop wants you now."

  "But…"

  Franklin shook his head again and half-dragged Oliver out into the hall. In a whisper he said, "You better start thinking up something."

  "What are they saying?" Oliver asked in a quiet voice.

  "I don't know all of it," he said. "Two of the guards came to the temple. They made me get Father Winthrop."

  Unfortunately, the hallway wasn't long enough for more to be said. Franklin and Oliver entered the sanctuary.

  Father Winthrop sat in his big, puffy chair up on the stage where the pulpit usually stood during worship. After the last of the peasants left the temple after each sermon, Franklin and Oliver's first job was to move the pulpit aside and put the chair at the center of the stage. From there, Winthrop could sit like some kind of ancient king on his throne and accept his supplicants.

  The supplicants in the sanctuary standing below Father Winthrop in front of the stage at that moment were two of the city guards. Oliver's heart sank. It was the pair that had stopped him on the way to the Dunlow's house.

  One of them looked over, pointed at Oliver and said, "That novice, right there."

  "He's no novice," Winthrop thundered at the guard. He turned his dark gaze on Oliver and in a seething voice said, "And he may never live to be one."

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