by Bobby Adair
Jingo shook his head. "I don't see how."
"Winthrop is insane," Oliver told them, looking at Beck for confirmation. "We both saw it."
Nodding, Beck said, "That, we did. And his insanity infected the whole army."
"What does that mean for us now?" asked Ivory.
Beck scratched his chin as he speculated. "Maybe they're going to attack Brighton."
"With the demons coming, too?" asked Melora.
"They must've heard them," Beck said as he looked around the group for any dissenters.
"We saw Winthrop and his army in the Ancient City." Ivory looked at Melora and Jingo to support his opinion. "I think they're all insane. There's no telling what they'll do."
Melora added, "And the demons were running from them. The demons were afraid."
"Do you think the demons will hear their chant and run away?" asked Ivory.
"Is that possible?" Beck asked, stepping over in front of Jingo. "What are your thoughts?"
"I don't know," answered Jingo, "but one thing I've learned through my life is never to expect luck to fall your way. Hoping that the twisted men will grow fearful and run away is the kind of hope that gets people killed. I don't think this changes anything. I say we push on."
With a nod, Ivory hurried ahead as he said, "We're close, maybe another mile. Let's keep going."
Chapter 76: Winthrop
The forest fell silent as Winthrop rode into the light of the open field.
With an unsteady hand, he mopped the sweat off his face and dragged his hand on his robe.
His god-speak prayer worked.
No, not a prayer. An incantation. The words that tapped into his power.
The demons had sensed his omnipotence, and they'd silenced themselves, cowering in the shadows. He'd taken his fear and put it back into their simple black souls.
Ahead, the men spreading out into the vast fields between the forest and the circle wall were chanting.
"TEAR DOWN THE WALL!"
They remembered his message to them.
They were still his people, despite the quake in his own faith over these last few miles.
And that was the whole of it; there was no danger from the demons, ever. There was only Winthrop's faith. While his faith stood unassailable, the faith of his disciples, his warriors, was pure, and when they were strong in their faith, there was no horde of noisy demons that could stand against him.
His army was powerful.
His army was the earthly manifestation of his divine might.
His golden horde of blood stained beasts would purge the human realm of weakness and infidelity.
"TEAR DOWN THE WALL!"
Winthrop bellowed at the sky.
Brighton's gate stood tall, far across the fields.
His army bellowed, too, and then took up the chant again.
"TEAR DOWN THE WALL!"
With the tremors in his bowels subsided and his need to piss forgotten, Winthrop rode his horse through the ranks as the laggards flowed from the forest.
And seeing him move away from the trees, with his silent permission, the army lurched forward, too.
Winthrop closed his eyes and turned his face toward his brother, the sun, basking in the warmth on his skin.
He relished the ecstasy of power, savored the special fleeting moment of trepidation before his faithful smashed into his foe. It was like that moment wrapped in a woman's touch before pleasure came. It was like when the fire crackled, and the flesh started to singe, and the pyre song first touched his ear.
It was the kind of moment that gave a mortal a peek at divinity.
"TEAR DOWN THE WALL!"
But men were stupid, hairy things, barely a step ahead of the pigs they bred and ate to fill their bellies. And women, they were the most ignorant creatures his brother gods had ever created. They were good for one thing only.
None of them had the soul of a god trapped in human form, not like Winthrop.
None of them would ever see the divinity hiding in the world. Not like Winthrop.
The special moment passed.
Winthrop sighed as it slipped away.
It was time to do his earthly work and ram his brutes into Brighton's soft underbelly and take his place on the throne above his worshippers.
Winthrop opened his eyes and looked toward the gates.
"TEAR DOWN THE WALL!"
He gasped.
It can't be.
No, it can't be.
A line of cavalry stood abreast in the field half way from the forest to the wall. Riders staring, motionless except for their long hair flapping in the wind.
And there in front was the devil himself.
Winthrop's bowels turned to water and overpowered any strength he had to stop the stench from dribbling onto his saddle, to stem the flow of urine down his leg.
He'd killed the Blackthorn Devil with the Devil's own sword.
He'd carried the body in his arms for his disciples to see.
He'd ascended to his divinity on that day on a hill covered thick with the bodies of the dead, swarming in flies, and stinking of the most horrid ills of a reeking world.
But the devil had resurrected itself.
How?
Now it was a more fearful thing than it had ever been before, a raven-haired banshee with ice blue eyes and bloody red lips, sitting astride a frightful obsidian monster of a snorting horse, in front of squadrons of cavalry brothers, all risen from the dead, from that muddy mound of blood and dirt near the Ancient City.
The powerful blood magic of ten thousand souls must have turned that mud into a cauldron for birthing gods and devils.
Winthrop bellowed fear into the air, begging his god brothers to come to his aid.
He couldn't face a reincarnated Blackthorn beast on his own.
"TEAR DOWN THE WALL!"
Chapter 77: Fitz
"Men of Brighton!" Fitz yelled at the mob.
"TEAR DOWN THE WALL!"
Fitz turned to Ginger and nodded at the mounted warriors lined up in a long row in the field, blocking Winthrop's army. "Keep them here." Fitz spurred her horse to a trot.
"No!" Ginger called after her.
Fitz sat up straight in her saddle, doing her best to look regal as she crossed the grass. When she neared the mob, she called, "Men of Brighton, listen to me!"
"TEAR DOWN THE WALL!"
The chant wasn't as loud. Some in the mob were quieting to listen.
The mob, fully out of the forest and coalescing into an intimidating force, was nearly half way between the trees and the wall. They slowed their advance as many of the raggedy men and women came to a stop.
"Listen to me!" Fitz yelled, as she turned her horse to ride across their path. "Stop, men of Brighton! Hear what I have to say!"
"Tear down the wall!"
The chant weakened so much that most mouths hadn't echoed it. All eyes were on Fitz.
"Hear me!" she told them again, as she turned her horse to get back near the center.
The mob was mostly silent, eyeing Fitz and the long line of women on their horses standing between them and the main gate. Only Winthrop was still talking, bellowing loud nonsense and waving his hands at the sky.
Fitz noticed the disorganized mob had its horsemen, a dozen or so scattered near the unruly center, all near Winthrop. Most were looking at him, some in disgust, others in fear, most in awe.
"I am Fitzgerald," she called, "leader of the New Council, the new government of Brighton."
Murmurs swept through the mob.
"General Blackthorn is no more." Fitz stopped her horse, so the stomping of its hooves would not cover the sound of her voice. "General Tenbrook the sadist, Blackthorn's handpicked successor, is dead, and so are his blue shirts and cavalrymen." She waved a hand at the fierce-looking mounted women behind her. "We rule Brighton now. The People. All of us."
Quiet spread across the mob as they stared at her. A few angry voices shouted insults.
So
me in the mob took up the chant again.
"TEAR DOWN THE WALL!"
But the voices grew weak as a few demons screeched from the forest behind them.
"I ask you," called Fitz, "do not make war on your wives, your sisters, your mothers, and daughters. Do no—"
A sudden tsunami of demon howls washed out of the forest, drowning out every other sound.
The mob froze as everyone processed what was happening, what they already feared. The demons were coming, and Winthrop couldn't protect them.
Heads snapped around to look at the forest behind them.
Panic slapped Fitz as she understood that Winthrop was no longer the threat.
Her horse reared and whinnied, nearly throwing Fitz out of the saddle.
She desperately reached for the pommel as she squeezed her legs on the beast.
The horse spun and snorted.
It stomped, suddenly fierce, ready to charge.
It smelled what it was bred to kill.
The forest came alive with an ooze of pale, dirty skin that flowed out of the trees and onto the road.
Demons.
A flood of them.
A syrupy nightmare horde, engulfing the earth.
How could the world hold so many?
And still, they came.
Chapter 78: Bray
They were nearing Brighton, and already Bray could tell it was a bad idea. Demon howls filled the forest. The twisted, nightmare mass that Bray had seen was close. He didn't need to lay eyes on it to know. And somewhere off in the distance, Winthrop's army chanted, as if they were answering the demon cries. The forest had gone otherwise quiet as the birds and animals held their breath, trying to avoid being disemboweled and consumed.
"We should turn around," Kirby said, worried.
Bray glanced over his shoulder, but he didn't respond.
"We're almost at Brighton, and we've seen no sign of your son or the men who took him."
"He might be just ahead."
"Any kidnappers would've gone in the other direction, like we should be doing," Kirby warned. "This isn't smart."
Bray didn't know how he'd convince her to keep going. What he wanted to say, but couldn't, was that William was with the army.
"It would be suicidal to get close to that many demons," Bray said. "But I know these woods. We can approach Brighton from a little further east."
"What will that do?"
"It will give us a view of the front gate through the fields surrounding Brighton, but we should be able to avoid anything that's going on."
"And if you see William?"
"At least I'll know where he is," Bray said. "Then I can figure something out."
Hesitantly, Kirby followed him as he veered away from the ancient road they'd been following. They picked paths between the trees, weaving through a patch of dense woods. The chanting in the distance seemed to have stopped, but the demon howls had gotten louder. The horses' ears were swiveling and their nostrils flared.
Bray and Kirby rode through the woods until they saw light beyond the trees. Bray couldn't see anything else, but he envisioned what might be waiting for them out in the fields outside of Brighton.
"How far is Brighton past the fields?" Kirby asked.
"About a mile," Bray said.
They were almost at the edge of the forest when the howls reached a fever pitch, and thousands of battle cries pierced the air. Bray's horse reared back and he steadied it with the reins. There was no calming the anxious beast, just as there was no stopping what was happening.
The battle had already begun.
Chapter 79: Jingo
Everyone stopped.
The sound of the howling monsters changed. They were no longer pursuing. They were fighting.
Around Jingo's group, nothing moved except the leaves.
Looking at Ivory, who was scanning the forest for danger, Jingo said, "It's starting. We have to run, or we'll be too late."
"It's not far to Brighton," Ivory called back.
With a determined look in his eyes, Beck put his hands on the back end of the cart, ready to push.
"No," Jingo told him. "You go ahead. You're barely on your feet now."
Ivory came jogging back. "I'll pull it. I'm stronger and faster." Looking at Jingo, he said, "Get out of the harness, fast."
"We'll hook up another," Jingo suggested.
"No," Ivory told him with an unassailable finality. "We're almost to the edge of the forest. I can run this cart the rest of the way in the time it takes to tie off the other harness. Push, if you want to help."
Melora was there beside them now, her rifle at the ready, checking the placement of the hand grenades hanging from her belt. She looked as though she were ready to slaughter the entire horde on her own. All the petulance over the previous week had vanished.
Oliver unslung his rifle, inspired by Melora's apparent resolve, and readied himself to shoot.
Jingo gave them each a glance as he hurried around to the rear of the cart. "Beck, get the weapon off your back and get ready to fire, but be careful where you point it." Jingo smiled widely enough that even the warted side of his face looked happy. "Don't shoot me in the back."
Panting, Beck nodded.
Ivory got the harness over his shoulders and started pulling.
Melora ran ahead, and Oliver did his best to keep up with her.
"This way?" she called, pointing forward as she glanced back at Ivory.
"Yes," Ivory answered, as he put his head down and put all his effort into running with the load. "We'll hit the trail that leads to the east gate. It's just up ahead. Once we're there, we'll follow it into Brighton."
Chapter 80: Winthrop
Surrounded.
Every demon on the great flat earth was barreling out of the forest behind Winthrop's sacred army of immortals.
The raven-haired banshee was shrieking at her disciples, while her mounted devils sat in a row atop their horses, looking on, licking their teeth for their own taste of immortal blood.
Winthrop felt despair's cold fingers clutch at his soul, and all of his god-speak seemed to have the power of futile drivel, no matter how passionately he wailed each perfect syllable.
Something whooshed overhead, huge, and dark.
They're coming from the sky, too?
Winthrop looked up and his stomach churned.
A massive gray stone streaked across the blue and hit the earth amidst the horde.
Winthrop felt the stone's impact shudder up through his horse's hooves and knees, and for the briefest of seconds, terror blazed white-hot through his veins because he knew one of his envious god brothers had hurled the stone down to crack the face of the great flat earth, so Winthrop would fall through into the limitless hell below.
Another streak of gray tore through the sky.
The boulders bludgeoned the earth, gouging tears through the demon horde that were instantly filled by the unending flow of twisted men.
But the earth didn't crack.
Winthrop didn't fall.
Is it possible the stones are a gift?
Nearly hyperventilating, Winthrop willed his words to come, wished for the right god-speak incantation to strengthen his bowels and hold his priests fast around him.
And like magic.
Like a miracle.
As if it were deemed by his divine thoughts alone, his disciples took up the song.
First one voice.
Then another.
It was the magic dirge they sang on the mountain the night Winthrop had killed the Blackthorn Devil for the first time.
His disciples sang for their deaths, a song that promised the meager worth of their shit-stained lives to the war god that gave them worth: Winthrop, himself.
He would use their souls to wrap himself in his sun god brother's light. He would use their swords to maul, to destroy, to shear the mortal life from the putrid beasts that dared bare their jagged teeth at him, Winthrop, the divine.
&nbs
p; But the fear.
The shadow.
The banshee on Blackthorn's horse.
Winthrop wailed.
The dirge rumbled, brave on a thousand voices, two thousand, and then every one of Winthrop's disciples sang their death, and the pale horde paused, taken aback to know in that moment that they faced their extermination.
Men formed up, a wall of bravery with teeth of sharp steel, facing the horde.
His people. His disciples. His children.
The horde found its heart. Its trepidation evaporated, and the war cry of a million spore-twisted monsters rose to challenge the purity of his disciples' dirge.
Another volley of gray stones rained from the heavens, and Winthrop knew beyond a doubt that his god brothers were at his side.
He couldn't lose.
Still the fear.
And the horde charged.
Chapter 81: Fitz
The boulders careened through the sky, hypnotic and impossible.
Fitz had seen the strongest men still left in Brighton haul those huge stones. It took two straining men to lift just one onto a catapult.
Knowing what they weighed, it was terrifying to see them flying overhead, faster than a cloud, slower than a bird. Fitz was dumbstruck when she felt the ground shudder as the boulders impacted, watching demon bodies splash like water from a stone thrown into a pond. Blood, demons, and parts of demons flew. Dozens were killed or maimed in an eye blink.
The catapults were gruesomely effective at death, powerful beyond anything Fitz could have imagined upon seeing their inexplicably colored pictures in that old book of weapons, discarded by the Ancients as they'd built machines of even greater deadly power.
Even as Fitz watched another volley of stones fly overhead, she knew the catapults had been a wasted effort.
Certainly, they killed. And there was no defense against them. Neither demons nor men could do anything to protect themselves from the massive stones that smashed them like bugs. The problem was that Kreuz's scholars had only built three catapults. They could load and hurl their stones steadily, but slowly. As brutal as the catapults were, it might take them days, or months, to kill all these demons.