A dropped house torch caught a house on fire, illuminating the chaos as light licked the walls and smoke billowed over the street. Bray coughed as smoke entered his lungs. He swung his sword at a short, stubby soldier, straining to see through some drifting smoke, besting the man with a slash to the stomach. The man crumpled and didn’t get up. Bray looked around him at the Halifax men, who were holding their ground, but getting more tired.
Finished with his opponent, Bray leapt into battle to assist Samron, who was fighting off two men at once. An apron of blood stained Samron’s shirt as he grunted and swung, fending off a tall, dark-haired attacker, while Bray took his friend, a fat man who seemed more confident with a sword. Bray parried with the man for several moments before ending him with a jab to the chest.
Finished with the immediate skirmish, Bray and Samron looked around.
“We need to get to the bridge,” Bray said, catching his breath through the smoke.
“It has been too long,” Samron agreed. “But how can we move? There are too many islanders.”
They watched as a new group of six islanders ran from the forest, slow to battle, or perhaps scared. Men and women that looked like peasants, or farmers, stopped at the edge of the road, staring at Bray and Samron. They assessed the scene, the Halifax men, and the guns. Bray recalled what Flora had said about the people who had been taken in against their will.
Maybe they didn’t need to fight them at all.
Clearing his throat, Bray pulled his empty pistol. He pointed it at them, hoping words could turn into a weapon.
“Most of your soldiers are dead!” he shouted, nodding at the bodies around him. “Will you come out to die with them? Will you fall to the god weapons?”
Fright crossed a few of the people’s faces as they reconsidered their decision, swords shaking in their hands. Bray took another step, waving his empty gun. This time the people didn’t hesitate. They ran back into the forest.
He looked at Samron, who smiled.
“Perhaps you have a good idea,” Samron said.
“That will even the odds,” Bray said. “Tell your men! We can drive them away while we take the bridge.”
Bray looked around. Most of the Halifax men had finished their altercations, clearing a path in the street. A few more men ran at them from the front, but not enough to stop them from advancing. Samron yelled some instructions.
“Gather your men!” Bray yelled. “Let’s go!”
**
The Halifax men took to the task with apparent skill, shouting in their strange language, using what must be a frightening appearance to some of the lesser-skilled islanders as they waved their empty guns and swords. A few islanders came to fight, but for the most part, no one was eager to run to their deaths. And who could blame them?
Deacon wasn’t standing in the road, enforcing his orders.
Bray knew the realities of war. He knew how easy it was to agree to fight when someone was in a field, sparring with a friend, but when it came to battle, some men and women couldn’t face their ends.
Bray no longer heard gunfire from the front of the island. That worried him, though he still heard noise in the distance. Was Enoch successful in the attack?
They passed several tradesmen’s houses, the doors left open, the islanders gone—killed, hiding, or fighting at the main bridge. They curved with the road, taking several more bends, fighting a few islanders who were brave enough to come out and face their numbers. Eventually, they reached the first of the soldiers’ houses, which were as empty as the tradesmen’s. A few open doors swung back and forth with the breeze, the occupants clearly having left in a hurry.
The noise in the distance increased in volume as war cries filled the air.
They neared the last curve.
Stopping, Samron turned to face the men and women behind them.
He raised his arms as Bray had seen Enoch do. Trepidation crossed his face as he faced sudden doubt, reaching for some words to inspire. The men and women sucked breaths of air. Blood and dirt covered most of them; their clothes were tattered and ripped. About a half of them had been killed, maybe more. They were exhausted. They had descended a mountain slope, crossed a river, and fought for longer than any skirmish in recent history, a fight worthy of their ancestors.
Samron looked to the sky, where morning crept in, then back at the people.
He shouted some words.
He shouted them louder.
Men and women raised their swords, yelling something back.
Renewed courage touched some faces as they found a burst of strength.
With loud, determined war cries, they charged around the curve.
Chapter 81: William
William followed the farmer’s fields, riding over mounds of uneven dirt and following the path Bray had described, getting farther from the back of the island. The sun broke over the tops of the trees, filling his surroundings with new light.
Eventually, he came across a large wooden building, the size of several of the island’s houses. He looked around. Other than a wooden, square fence nearby, he saw no other buildings. He approached cautiously, prepared to spur the horse and leave, if that became the best option.
He rode around the building until he found a wide, wooden door. He peered through the cracks, looking to see what was within, but he made out nothing. Someone might be hiding, like he was trying to do. Or maybe he’d found his luck, and it was empty.
Taking a chance, William stopped his horse. He dismounted.
Sword in hand, he led the horse by the reins to the door.
A strange noise emanated from inside. William froze. He started for the horse’s saddle, ready to ride away and someplace else, when the noise came again and he caught a familiar smell. He smiled. Leading the horse, he cracked open the door, slowly, wide enough to reveal the outline of three animals, staring and shifting nervously.
Goats.
The animals bleated. All were tied to one of the walls with rope. Looking around the room, he saw nothing other than them. The building smelled of hay, manure, and wood. He looked behind him at the empty farmer’s fields.
Anything was better than standing in the open, or riding around outside, waiting to be killed.
Leading his horse inside, he shut the door.
After ensuring his steed was settled, William backed up against the far wall, settling on his haunches near several of the nervous goats, petting them. Someone would win the battle.
They always did.
If he were lucky, he would find a way out when it was over.
One of the animals nuzzled against him. William touched its head, unable to stop thinking of those twisted men on the other side of the river, and the dying screams of the ones he’d killed. Guilt simmered in his stomach.
At least he was safe, for now.
Chapter 82: Kirby
Kirby stuffed her pistol back in its holster as a few Halifax men screamed and fell to the ground around her. Her ammunition was gone. She took to her sword, jabbing several islanders as she steered into the thick fray, mostly relying on trampling the island soldiers under the horse’s hooves. More than one fled at the sight of the frothing beast, but others tried attacking the beast from the side. A few times, when she was overwhelmed, the Halifax men assisted, striking them back so she could take another diagonal pass, trying to push the battle farther down the sloping road and toward the island.
Pain shot through her leg with each jostle of the horse. She winced and gritted her teeth at the arrow stuck there. The Halifax men had evened out some of the numbers on the sloping road, but there were more islanders than Halifax men. Each of the Halifax men fought two or more islanders. Some, the bravest or the most skilled, managed to slay their opponents, but too many were screaming and dying.
Bodies littered the road, making movement difficult.
Those mortally wounded, or wounded enough to remove themselves from fighting, limped or crawled to the sides of the road, slumping agai
nst the walls, waiting for a natural death, or a particularly cruel enemy to take them out. Kirby knew she had to stay close to the Halifax men. Straying too far was likely to get her killed, horse or not.
Diagonal to her, she saw Enoch swinging his sword, but he was obviously weak. His sword swung at far less speed than the others. In between opponents, he held his stomach, wetting his hand with his blood. Halifax men surrounded him as the islanders tried to kill an easy target.
They were making some progress on the road, but not enough to break through the islanders, who fought to preserve the last stretch of road. Kirby grunted as she jabbed an islander that had broken through some Halifax men and charged her. He pitched to the ground. Her horse swayed as it almost missed a step over a dead body. The steed was as tired as she was, as tired as all of them.
Kirby was starting to accept that the best result of the battle was Deacon’s death. She couldn’t see a favorable end to the battle in which the struggling, overwhelmed Halifax people won.
War cries filled the air.
Kirby looked up from the man she’d speared to see many of the islander’s heads turning. Some of the pushing, fighting crowd looked behind them as a group of bellowing men ran from around a distant curve on the islands, visible from her height in the sloping road. They were headed for the fight.
Halifax men.
Staring into the crowd of advancing men, she recognized a familiar figure in the lead.
Bray.
The islanders in the middle grew frantic as they realized they were walled in. Some of the people in the back of the group fled from the road to somewhere else on the island that might provide safety. Seizing the confusion, Kirby fought harder, slaying those who lowered their guard.
More clangs and cries echoed from the front of the fighting mass as Halifax men followed suit. Islanders screamed. Halifax men roared with cries that reminded her of those she’d heard in that last, inspiring bonfire. More men and women fell, but this time the battle was going in another direction.
They were winning.
“They’re here!” Kirby yelled over to Enoch, hoping to spur on what had seemed like a lost hope earlier.
Enoch was immersed in a battle with three islanders. Two Halifax men fought next to him, driving back their attackers. He swung his sword with what was clearly waning strength.
Hang on, Enoch. We are almost there.
Chapter 83: Enoch
Enoch slashed an enemy as he struggled to keep his footing. In the background, down the sloping road and beyond him, he heard the war cries of his men and the groans of fallen enemies. They were shouting a word he had waited his whole life to hear. Victory. Enoch opened his mouth to call the same word, but his voice failed. He looked over to find one of his bravest men propping him up.
“Keep fighting!” the man screamed in his ear. “We’re almost there, Enoch!”
Enoch raised his sword at a running enemy, but he only managed to lift it halfway. The darkness and pain were taking over. The people in front of him blended together, a mass of noise and confusion on which he could hardly focus. The burn in his stomach had become a dull, constant ache that he couldn’t imagine living without. One of the Halifax men stepped in front of him, taking down an attacker. Another scream pierced the air. A war cry.
Enoch looked for the source.
An islander darted through several other skirmishes, recognizing Enoch.
Someone screamed Enoch’s name—a warning, perhaps—and then the islander was in front of him, pulling back an arm and thrusting. Enoch raised his sword to block, waiting for the clang of metal.
The noise never came.
A sharp sword pierced Enoch’s stomach, near his other wound.
A gasp escaped his throat.
The islander pulled out the blade, a smile crossing his face as he realized whom he had stabbed.
Too late, Enoch swung his sword to defend himself, but it hit the man weakly, not enough to cut.
Enoch cried out as pain stabbed his chest and he fell. Somewhere in the background, he heard the desperate shouts of his men trying to save him, the clatter of his sword. He blinked, surprised he could see.
He was on the ground.
A face appeared above him. For a moment, he thought it was The Holy One, but it was one of his men. He blinked again as his body went numb and more of his men hovered above him.
“Enoch!” one of his men cried.
“You will pay!” shouted another Halifax soldier, trading blows with someone out of view.
He heard the enraged cries of some of his men, shouting for vengeance, but also others, shouting the word he’d heard before.
Victory.
Enoch had a second to wonder if they’d won.
And then the world went black.
Chapter 84: Kirby
Distraught, angry men gathered around the fallen Enoch, shouting to the heavens, while others raised their bloodied swords, ready to put an end to what had been a vicious war.
Enoch was dead.
Too many had fallen.
But they’d won.
The other side of the crowd was little more than a group of scared, clustered men, raising their swords. The remaining islanders—mostly peasants—stood in the middle of two approaching groups. Kirby’s group stood on one end, facing the now-outnumbered islanders, while Bray and Samron’s men stood on the other.
“Bray!” Kirby shouted, unable to believe he was alive, that they’d succeeded.
He shouted her name. A relieved expression crossed his face as he raised his sword. But they weren’t quite done.
The islanders in the middle looked from one group to the next, looking as if they might flee rather than fight. Kirby surveyed the sloping road, a graveyard for the unburied: bodies everywhere, riddled with bullet wounds, cuts, or arrows. Most of the wounded had perished, but a few were alive, watching with glazed eyes as they waited for help, or a merciful end.
The Halifax men prepared to charge, but Kirby stopped them.
“Deacon is dead!” she yelled, halting them with a raised hand. “The war is done.”
The islanders looked from Kirby to the Halifax men, certain they were in a trap of which there was no way out. One woman, wearing farmer’s clothing, found a break in the crowd and ran. She gasped for breath as she made headway down the road, her sword swinging at her side. Bray and Samron’s group quickly swarmed her.
“Let her go!” Kirby cried to Samron, to the confused looks of the others. “There is no need for more bloodshed.”
The Halifax men watched Samron. His face was grave as he looked past the crowd and at the fallen body of Enoch. He stepped toward the men holding the scared, fleeing farmer woman.
“Enoch will be dead, whether you kill these people or not,” Kirby called. “So will Deacon. Let them go.”
After a moment’s pause, Samron said something to the men.
The restraining men released her.
Everyone watched the woman run down the road and onto the island, looking over her shoulder with every step. Clearly, the peasants wanted to join her. They watched Samron with expectant, hopeful faces.
“You are right,” Samron said, directing his comment to everyone. “The war is over. We have won.” He said something to the Halifax men in their language, who lowered their swords halfway.
Slowly, the men rose from Enoch, their faces painted with grief. They looked at each other with uncontained emotion. Seeing their expressions, Samron said a single word in their language. Hearing it, the men looked up. Samron repeated the word. They looked at each other, raised their swords back in the air, and put their grief into a shout, repeating the word louder, and louder, until the bridge was a single mass of chants. Kirby didn’t need to know the word to understand its meaning.
Victory! Victory! Victory!
She felt a swell of something she hadn’t felt in a long while, the emotion of a battle won, but more importantly, the end of spilled blood. The cries tapered off as the men
lowered their swords and the attention turned to the group of peasants, still in the middle of the descending road, fearful.
Samron watched them as he made a determination.
“I would keep them here,” Kirby suggested. “Perhaps they can help you tend to the wounded. At the very least, you can keep track of them, while you determine what is next.”
Samron nodded. He relayed some instructions to his men, who surrounded the group. “Drop your weapons. We will not harm you.”
The peasants hesitated, clearly not believing him. He repeated the instruction. Swords clattered to the ground. The islanders looked around the road, clearly grief-stricken by their own losses, and still scared.
Kirby rode her horse around the scattered bodies, the dropped weapons, and the people in the middle of the sloping road, to meet Bray. He strode toward her with a look of tired determination. His clothes were ripped and dirty. Blood spattered his shirt and his face. She scanned a few bleeding wounds on his arm, and on his legs.
“Are you okay?”
“A few days’ rest will heal me,” he said with a half-smile. Pointing at her leg, still stuck with half an arrow, he said, “But you look in worse shape. You were shot.”
Kirby looked down at the protruding shaft. “I’ll get a healer to dig this out. Or I’ll do it myself.”
“A moment ago, you said Deacon was killed. Was that a lie you told to stop the war?”
Kirby looked behind her at the sprawling, magnificent bridge that rose above the descending road, where the first rays of sunlight speared through the bottom of The Arches. She looked to the water, churning underneath and spilling from the dam a way behind it, seeing nothing but the river. “He fell from the bridge. Flora knocked him into the water with her horse.”
Bray processed the information.
“All of them are gone,” Kirby said sadly. “The horse, and Flora. They went over with him.”
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