The Ruins Box Set
Page 43
Bray gasped in relief.
Grumbling what might’ve been a thank you, the man found his footing and fell back in line next to his friend.
Bray got back in the lead.
The men continued their descent, going a little slower than before. They followed the slope of the mountain for what felt like miles, but was surely less, until the muscles in Bray’s legs were sore and his cheeks were raw from the cold. Several times, they reached a precipice that felt like the end, but the slope kept descending. Eventually, the ground leveled out and Bray heard the river flowing ahead of them. Finding a burst of strength, he walked faster. Samron took up next to him as they approached the rocky, root-covered riverbank where he’d almost died. The sweeping, murky water looked black under the full moon.
Bray stared across the river. He saw nothing further than the water in front of him; no lights in the distance. He couldn’t tell for certain where they were, but he needed to guess.
“This way,” he said, heading downstream.
The others followed him along the riverbank, catching their breath from the treacherous descent off the mountain. Doubt grew in Bray’s mind as they walked further without finding what he was looking for. Half-frozen mud stuck to the snow on his boots. He saw nothing familiar. No landmarks. No fallen tree. They might as well have descended the mountain into some other land, far from The Arches. Looking right, across the dark, flowing river, he saw no clues.
Where was the fallen tree?
What if they were going the wrong way? He couldn’t help picturing the worst scenario: Kirby and Flora arriving at the bridge alone, Enoch’s men starting the battle without them. Victory was uncertain already, but they would definitely lose with half the men, against so many in The Arches. They walked faster, and Bray stepped over some tree roots that threatened to trip him, inadvertently allowing Samron to take the lead.
Relief washed over Bray as Samron hissed, “Is that the tree?”
Catching up, Bray spotted the enormous, fallen oak. The tree looked even larger in the moonlight than it had during the day. He walked farther down the riverbank, looking for the spot where he’d fought the demon, until he found the silhouette of the dead, twisted man. The reek of decay hit his nose.
“This is where I washed up,” Bray said.
Leading them to the other side of the tree, Bray hesitated as he put a foot in the dark, treacherous water. He recalled spinning and turning, reaching out for something to hold as he ingested the foul, dirty water, struggling to breathe.
And here he was, about to enter the river again.
“Stay close to one another,” Bray whispered behind him.
Samron relayed the message to the closest soldiers, who spread it to the others.
And then he was walking deeper into the water.
Cold wrapped around his boots as Bray waded deeper into the current and it spat and foamed around him. He looked down at the dark water, as if something might emerge from below and grab him. The water felt like a living being, climbing up his boots and getting higher; ready to claim his life by either sweeping him away, or taking him with its chill. Bray kept going, forcing one boot in front of the other, until the water was up to his knees and he was still slogging. Samron waded next to him, quietly splashing as he fought the rising river. Bray looked over his shoulder, watching a line of silent figures moving in rows behind him. Not one of them complained about the cold. One hundred and fifty lives rode on his guess about the river.
The raging water could harm them in ways that men with swords couldn’t. The river was an enemy that pulled you under and robbed you of air. Even the toughest of men would drown if they lost their footing and couldn’t get up.
They waded through the river as it quietly rose.
Bray looked far ahead of them, waiting for cries from the opposite bank. At any moment, patrolling soldiers might creep through the forest and notice them, or worse, run in the opposite direction, warning others that a large group of men approached in the moonlight. Their plan might fail before it started.
The water reached his waist. The river was even more frigid than he remembered, soaking through his clothes and clamping on to him. He heard a few soldiers holding their breath as they waded deeper. Bray pulled his legs through a current that seemed as if it was getting stronger. They weren’t yet halfway across the river. A fear became a truth—the water was getting deeper.
They might have split off from the others for nothing.
They’d never reach the bridge, or the others.
Bray stumbled over something underwater, nearly losing his footing, and bumping Samron hard. Samron splashed the water loudly—too loudly. Bray reached over, certain he’d knocked his companion under, but Samron was there.
Bray looked behind him, fearing others might trip, but the men made progress. A few soldiers contended with rocks underfoot, or sticks protruding from the river. But none had tripped. Some held their long guns at shoulder-level, keeping them above water, or protecting their bows.
Samron kept going until the water was halfway up his stomach, getting close to his chest. He held his gun high above his head, whispering something that might’ve been a curse, or a plea.
A miracle happened.
The cold, murky river, which had been at his waistline a moment before, got shallower. He churned through the water faster, energized at the prospect of getting out and onto the bank as some of the cold left him.
Bray’s guess had been right. They’d almost made it to the island.
Samron waded several steps ahead of him, making his way toward a riverbank that was mostly an outline under the moonlight, in front of the trees. And then Samron was on the banks, dripping water. He didn’t need to speak the words for Bray to know what he was thinking.
The river felt like a foe they had defeated.
But there was no time for celebration.
The worst enemy was yet to come.
Chapter 64: Kirby
Kirby and Flora rode down the empty road under the light of the full moon, holding their burning torches and steering their horses as they headed toward the bend in the road. Kirby couldn’t help but feel some ice in her veins as she heard the roaring water in the distance, the noise she now equated with The Arches, and the vicious, cruel man who led there.
The battle was an ominous, looming thing, hanging above them.
She looked over at Flora, who was surely feeling some angst as she approached the place where she lived, the place she had betrayed. Flora gripped the reins with fear-soaked eyes.
“We are getting close,” Flora said.
Kirby risked a last glance behind her. The silhouettes of Enoch’s fifteen men—their reinforcements—had disappeared long ago, but she could sense them in the forest, following. Hopefully they would keep to the shadows and avoid notice until it was time.
“When I was in the Halifax settlement, I never thought I’d return,” Flora admitted, as they got closer to the bend. “I had accepted my death. Now I am not sure what to think. It feels like I am living a dream, or a life other than my own.”
“Your parents are back at the settlement,” Kirby said, trying to keep her grounded. “You’ve come back for them. If that is what drives you forward, do not forget it.”
“I never have.” Flora looked down at her sword under the torchlight. “Just as I’ve never forgotten my father.”
They kept riding, rounding the bend. Kirby got a glimpse of the dam in the moonlit night, pouring water over the drop-off and into the river that led to The Arches. Deep in the distance, Kirby caught a first glimpse of some silhouettes standing on the bridge beyond the boulders. A few torches burned from the middle of the bridge, near the single, sloping road leading to the islands. Her heart pounded.
“They must see us by now,” Kirby said, fighting the unsettling feeling of dread that accompanied that statement, as she held her torch higher. “Did you give the signal?”
“Not yet, but I will,” Flora said.
“I told them we are safe, and alone,” Flora explained.
Kirby nodded. “I hope they do not see the men in the trees.”
Flora agreed nervously.
A few torches moved as soldiers from the middle of the bridge headed toward the western entrance they were approaching. Kirby saw more silhouettes appearing behind the boulders, but it was difficult to tell numbers.
“How many guards are normally stationed at the bridge at night?”
“A few dozen,” Flora said.
They continued down the road, until the rushing water drowned out conversation. The few lights on the bridge had gathered in a cluster around the bridge’s entrance, waiting. As they got closer, Kirby saw more shadows walking from the middle of the bridge to the closest boulders, joining the others.
“Something’s wrong,” Kirby said. “There are too many of them.”
“They have been guarded about the Halifax soldiers,” Flora said. “Perhaps that is it.”
“I don’t like the feeling I’m getting.” Kirby looked over her shoulder as her nerves bristled. “I can’t explain it, but it seems like they are expecting us.”
“Should we ride back?” Flora asked.
Kirby looked back at the soldiers, her mind racing through decisions. Bray and his group might already be on the island, waiting. They might already be taking out patrols. And Enoch’s men were in a position of battle, waiting on the farther end of the bridge, probably watching them approach with the torches. Retreating was a coward’s move. They couldn’t abandon the others.
And they couldn’t leave William.
“We need to push forward,” she said. “We have come too far to stop now.”
Flora seemed nervous as she looked at the figures in the distance. “As much as I doubt this moment, I agree.”
They rode until the bridge was fifty yards away, keeping an even pace, ensuring they wouldn’t alarm anyone. A few soldiers stepped from around the boulders, waiting in the distance to greet them. Slowly, carefully, Kirby reached to her waistline.
She pulled out a grenade.
Chapter 65: Deacon
Deacon glanced behind him at the dark, square silhouettes of the soldier’s houses, where his reinforcing soldiers slept. Bartholomew stood next to him at the bottom of the sloping road, speaking with a group of others. The night had been quiet. Other than a small hunting party returning, they had seen nothing else. He knew better than to think they were safe.
War was coming. Only a fool would think otherwise.
“The shifts will be changing soon?” Deacon asked Bartholomew.
“Yes,” Bartholomew answered. “I told them to switch out a little earlier, as you instructed. They wake soon. They will be ready.”
Movement on the top of the sloping road drew Deacon’s attention. One of his bridge guards rounded the bend at the middle of the bridge, heading toward them at a jog. His torch bounced with his footfalls as he made his way down and past a few other, surprised soldiers. Several other torches from the top of the bridge broke from their posts, heading to the bridge’s western entrance.
Deacon broke from his men and strode up the sloping road, meeting the jogging soldier halfway. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“Two horses approach the bridge, sir,” the man said, catching his breath.
“Jonas, Kirby, and my other men, back with my weapons,” Deacon assumed, thinking he had been too quick to call them dead.
“The stranger woman, Kirby, is on one of them,” the soldier concurred. “The other person is one of ours—a girl. There are no men.”
“Who is the girl?”
“I believe it is the girl Bartholomew tasked to get Bray’s scalp. Flora.”
Deacon looked past the reporting soldier and up the bridge, watching the silhouettes of his guards clustering at the western entrance of the bridge. He looked to the right of the bridge, where several others headed to join them. A dark suspicion descended over him as he saw too many of his men heading to one side.
“Something is wrong,” Deacon said. He turned to Bartholomew, who walked up behind him. “Take a small group of men and wake the soldiers in the houses early. Send them to the bridge, right away.”
“Yes, sir.”
“When that is finished, get all the people from the tradesmen’s houses. We may need them.”
Chapter 66: William
William crept by the riverbank of the second island under a moonlit sky, the dead soldier’s big jacket hanging over his shoulders. He was still cold, but he couldn’t start a fire. As soon as someone discovered him missing, they’d come looking, and a fire or a torch would be an easy thing to spot. He was already worried enough about the moonlight, which was bright enough that someone might find him easily, or at least see his silhouette under the trees. Hoping to avoid notice, he crept down the edge of the island, his demon at his side, watching the rushing, spitting river.
He’d already ruled out most options of escape.
But one thought kept coming back to him. William couldn’t forget the sight of the lone horse, standing by the back of the building. He’d never get past the men on foot.
But what if he could steal the horse?
If his demon distracted them, that might be enough to allow him passage.
William knew that was a childish hope. He doubted he’d get through an island full of people willing to do Deacon’s bidding, and handfuls of guards on the main bridge, even if he managed to steal the steed. They’d shoot him off his horse with an arrow, or stick him with a sword.
But he couldn’t erase the thought from returning.
“What should we do?” he asked the twisted man.
The creature hissed as it walked alongside him, but it didn’t respond. Of course it didn’t. The demons could receive William’s orders and act on them, but they were incapable of offering any advice. If only Bray and Kirby were here, William thought. But he had a horrible feeling he’d never see them again.
William had spent days in the wild with only the demons in the Ancient City, hunting, keeping warm, and avoiding men who tried to kill him. He’d survived alone. He knew he could do it. But this was different. Usually, buildings and forests surrounded him—not an island with no clear way out.
Except the horse…
William didn’t even realize where he was headed until he was near the back of the buildings.
He crouched in the tree line, hissed for the demon to copy him, and watched. A guard carrying a bobbing torch walked a hundred feet away, next to the building. He couldn’t make out the person’s features, but he saw the silhouette of the horse standing farther past him, tied to the back of the building.
The guard checked on the horse. He stopped and looked toward the woods. William’s nerves prickled. Had he made a noise he hadn’t realized? Had the demon?
He waited for a shout of alarm, or a slew of guards to flow from the buildings with bright torches. They would hunt him down and bring him to Deacon.
The guard looked away.
He walked between the buildings.
Next to him, William smelled the breath of the demon, awaiting his orders. Most of the other guards were probably in the front of the building, stationed near the wooden bridge. He’d never sneak across it.
But if he could go fast enough with the horse, he might have a chance.
William ran from the cover of the forest. The demon followed. His heart knocked against his chest as he crossed the dirt field, the demon a step behind. At any moment, he expected the guard to return, see him in the moonlight, and shout.
William kept running until he’d almost reached the building. The horse shifted nervously as it saw a boy and a demon approaching, fast. It took every restraint for William to slow down, but if he spooked the horse, his plan would be foiled before it started.
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“Stay here!” he hissed to the twisted man behind him.
The demon stopped and waited. William kept going.
He approached the horse slowly, calling softly under his breath, hoping it recognized him.
He located the rope, followed it to the end, and untied the steed. He made his way around and found the saddle, whispering reassuring words, praying to the gods the beast didn’t rear, or whinny. And then he mounted it. A feeling of freedom passed over William as he celebrated the completion of a goal. But it wasn’t the last.
He still needed to—
A shout echoed across the yard. “Who’s there?”
The demon snarled from the middle of the yard.
“Bradley?”
William didn’t wait. “Get him!” he shouted over his shoulder.
The twisted man ran across the last of the field, its bare feet thudding the dirt. William heard the scrape of a drawn sword, but he didn’t stay to look. He grabbed the horse’s reins and rode. Suddenly he was traveling faster than he’d traveled in a long time, galloping in the other direction. He led the horse around the far wall of the left-hand building and away from the commotion. Behind him, the guard grunted in pain as the demon found flesh. More shouts arose from the front of the buildings as men ran from the bridge to join the commotion. But they were going between the buildings.
William was going around the left-hand side.
The horse galloped faster in the glow of the moonlight. William found the bridge, steered the horse toward it, and kept riding. He saw a few bobbing torches as men stopped running halfway between the bridge and the buildings, looking toward the sound of the hooves and the other source of commotion.
A demon screeched in pain.
William winced as he heard the dying sounds of the twisted man. His demon had saved him. It had died, so that he could live. Guilt stabbed his gut. He’d killed another demon, just like he’d killed the one in the river. But he couldn’t think about it now.