Knightfall - Book 1 of The Chronicle of Benjamin Knight

by Robert Jackson-Lawrence

  With the taper lit, they turned and ran, Donald close on their heels. They were unsure of how long they would have before the night was broken by the sound of their own thunder.

  Before he could realise what was happening, Catrina had already torn the tinderbox from his frozen hand and left him, turning back the way they had came. He turned to watch her figure race away from him, arm outstretched as though to grasp her, the other arm steadying him as he struggled to hold his balance on the slippery surface. She was already too far away from him to see her clearly, but he saw instantly what she had already seen. There was no faint glow from the other wagon, no burning taper, even the rain was against them that night.

  He gave chase, but by the time he had made his second step, there was already the sound of a voice and commotion from up ahead of him; a man’s voice, not Catrina’s.

  “Hey, you there, stop,” the soldier shouted as he pulled at the running Catrina by the arm. She hadn’t even seen him coming, barely able to hold her balance as he pulled her off course, dropping the tinderbox in the process.

  “Stop, I said,” the soldier said again.

  He was fumbling for the gun slung casually over his shoulder as he pulled her around to face him, stunned into momentary silence as a third bolt of lightning lit both of their faces. Unfortunately for him, that moment was all Catrina needed.

  Retrieving the knife from his belt, she drove it deeply into the side of his neck, retracted it, and forced it in a second time, deeper than the first. The hand that was holding her arm had already relaxed as the body fell to the ground before her, tied up in the straps of the rifle, her rage oblivious to the outstretched hand, a gesture of surrender. Even as the body fell, her fury tore the knife from his throat and drove it into his chest, over and over, the ground below them awash with a mixture of rain water and blood.

  Peter had already picked up his pace as best he could, firearm in hand, but it was already far too late by the time he reached them. The man was long since dead, but Catrina continued unabated, grunting with a degree of ecstasy with each blow from the knife.

  He pulled her from the bloodied corpse, tearing the knife from her hand in fear of retaliation against himself. She struggled in his grip as he dragged her back towards the empty wagon, abandoning their plan. It was a full minute or so before she relaxed in his grip and turned to run alongside him, past the wagon and back to their shelter at the edge of the woodland.

  Donald opened his mouth to speak as they dove into the underbrush beside him, shocked into silence by the sight of Catrina’s bloodied clothes and hands, unsure of where the blood was from, and from whom. When he eventually realised that that amount of blood could not possibly have come from them, he was still unable to find the words to express what he was thinking.

  Catrina didn’t need words; she just looked at the mess on her hands.

  It was the first time that Peter had seen her smile.

  Chapter 7

  I

  Their first sight of the settlement was from the almost blinding reflections cast by the morning sun as it hit the distorted windows of the houses before them. They were unsure, at first, whether to approach the settlement or to avoid the place completely, giving it a wide birth.

  The rumbling of their stomachs in demand for at least one decent meal got the better of them.

  They were eyed with caution as they entered the main street from the north side of the settlement, their weapons in plain view, but kept away from their hands, as open a gesture of friendship as they were able to muster. Mothers hid their children behind them as the youngsters tried to get a good look at the strangers. Fathers eyed them suspiciously, muscles taut and tensed, ready to strike at the first hint of trouble.

  They smiled at everyone, offered a hand to a few, but received naught but the stares of fear and resentment.

  They stopped dead in their tracks at the sound of a booming voice form somewhere behind the crowd.

  “Halt, strangers,” the voice began, strong and masterful, used to being obeyed, “this is my town and I shall have no trouble here.”

  Matthew did his best to be friendly with his response. “We mean you no harm,” he began. “We are only travelling through and seek nothing but a moment’s shelter and perhaps the hospitality of a good meal.”

  The owner of the voice made his way through the crowd, a tall, broad shouldered man who moved with the confidence of command, dismissing the crowd to either side of his purposeful advance. He stood there a moment, eyeing them up and down before speaking again.

  “You do not look like members of the usual tribes that we get in these parts,” the tall man continued, beginning to circle Matthew at the head of the group, paying careful attention to his weapons. “Southerners, maybe?”

  “It’s true,” Matthew replied in his best diplomatic tone. “We are far from home, but want nothing more than to return there.”

  Matthew smiled the smile that had won him many a young lady’s heart in his youth, but felt that it was somewhat wasted on the man before him. To his surprise, the man smiled back.

  “Then no harm will come to you,” he said. “Welcome to Sanctuary.”

  II

  The mood changed dramatically as the townspeople gathered for the midday meal, the contents of a large cooking pot forming the mainstay of the cuisine. There was plenty for everyone and good humour in equal proportions. Ben ate with the ferocity of a starving animal as he watched Joe and Mike tussle with some of the younger children.

  Matthew tried to share their good spirits, but was increasingly wary of the time. The sun had reached its zenith above them, casting the smallest of shadows as it struggled to be seen through the breaking clouds, though failing to illuminate the growing sense of darkness within himself. They had lost almost three hours of daylight already, valuable travelling time if they were making their way to the laboratory, especially with the unusually dry day that they were experiencing.

  “It’s been a rough week or so, boss,” Carl said to Matthew, tucking heartily into the stew, “and all this sleeping out in the open like this isn’t doing my old joints any good. I’m surprised none of us have caught our death out here.”

  “But every minute we waste is a minute closer that our enemies are to our homeland,” Matthew replied between mouthfuls.

  “I know,” Carl agreed, “but how far do you think we would have gotten if we’d had to go another day without food. How many days has it been now since we found enough dry wood to make a fire? Five? six? I don’t even know what day it is anymore. A good leader needs to know when to rest his troops, Matthew, as well as when to march them.”

  Matthew knew that he was right, but left him anyway, slamming his bowl of steaming stew onto the makeshift table in the process. He wasn’t thinking straight anymore. When his mind wasn’t trying to ignore the griping pains of hunger gnawing away at his insides, it played him images of his home in flames, the Royal palace in ruins as the armies of Island City cast another body onto the mounting piles. He had long since forgotten the last night that he had had untroubled sleep.

  He was a fair distance away from the main group when a voice spoke from behind him, calming yet masterful.

  “We are the same, you and I,” it said. It was the tall man who had greeted them earlier. Apparently, he had followed Matthew as he had left the midday gathering.

  Matthew spun around to face him, snatched from his own internal world, eyeing him suspiciously. “You know nothing about me,” he snapped, his voice awash with the anger that had been bubbling to the surface for days.

  “Perhaps,” the town’s leader continued, “but I see so much of myself in you that it is hard to deny. We are both trying to achieve the impossible against insurmountable odds, yes?”

  “Who are you?” Matthew asked.

  “In this place I am known as Victor Freeman,” he said, “but if truth be told, I have had other names before this one.”

  “I was taught that a man who cannot take the
name of his father is not to be trusted,” Matthew said, bracing himself for a fight.

  “Wise teachings,” Victor mused, “but a man has no control over his past, only his future. In this town, I believe that a man should not be burdened by the shadow of his past misdeeds, but be judged by his actions in the present. I ask only that my people have learnt from their mistakes and have been made stronger by enduring them, as should we all.”

  There was no response that Matthew could make to that. Regardless of his ideals and strong values, Matthew's life had been far from easy, as could be said for most of his people on the Road Trains. He had brought them together and given them the opportunity to become more than they were, a second chance some might say, and he was starting to realise that Victor was doing just the same for the people of the Wastelands. For perhaps the first time in days, he let his guard down and allowed himself to relax, at least a little.

  “Please, come sit with me and talk a while,” Victor offered. “I think you will realise just how similar we are.”

  Victor’s house was on higher ground than the others and slightly larger, but structurally of much the same construction. It was nothing like the buildings of Draxis or even Island City, but for all of its faults, to Victor it was home.

  “Please, have a seat,” Victor said as he tossed his weather-worn overcoat over the back of a broken old chair and busied himself with the task of gathering some dry wood for the fire.

  “My name is Matthew,” Matthew said.

  “I know,” he continued as he selected some of the straighter pieces of wood from the bucket near the door. “I heard your friends use it earlier.”

  There was a pause and before long, there was a small fire and a warm drink to go with the bread and meat that the two men shared.

  “Tell me, how do you come to be so far into the Wastelands?” Victor asked, touching little of his own food as he watched Matthew eat.

  “I could ask the same of you,” Matthew responded, wary of the line of questioning.

  “And I would gladly tell you,” Victor continued.

  Matthew said nothing in response, instead biting a large piece of meat.

  “As you wish,” Victor told him. “Never let it be said that I am not fond of my own voice. I have always been here in the Wastelands. I was born here, and I suppose that I will die here, one day. You, on the other hand?”

  “I am a long way from home,” Matthew replied, his voice deep with sorrow.

  Matthew paused, contemplating his position, his eyes betraying more than his words would ever allow. He found it hard to meet Victor’s gaze again. “You don’t live like the other tribes I’ve encountered,” Matthew commented, turning the piece of meat uncomfortably over and over in his hands.

  “Because we are not a tribe,” Victor replied. “We are a community. When I first established Sanctuary, there were only five or six families who would come with me, but look at us now.”

  Victor stood and moved to one of the murky panes of glass that served as window, beckoning Matthew to follow him. Their relative height in respect to the rest of the buildings gave both men a good view of the growing town.

  “At last count, there were more than a hundred families here,” Victor continued, “living together as one, and more arriving every month. They, like me, grew tired of the tribes, the constant destruction as we fought for food and supplies, taking what our neighbours had and giving nothing back in return. Now we grow our own food, crops, and cattle in the fields around the settlement, working together.”

  Victor returned to his chair, but Matthew stood there a moment longer, unable to take his eyes from the realisation of one man's dream.

  “So why haven’t the tribes attacked you?” Matthew asked as he finished his drink.

  “Some have tried,” Victor said, “but we were not always farmers. We have made something special here, and we will defend it. They have learnt that now, and so they leave us in peace. They are always welcome to join us if they wish, as long as they adhere to the rules of the community as a whole.”

  “Such as?” Matthew asked, fascinated.

  “We strive to live in peace with our neighbours, and we will not take up arms against another without provocation. Nor will we take what is not ours. As more people arrive, we gather the materials that cover the landscape and help them build homes, but we will not take those materials from others. There is sufficient here in the Wastelands for everyone, so long as we work together.”

  “In all my travels through the Wastelands,” Matthew began, but the words escaped him. He had lost count of the number of attacks that the tribes had made on the Road Trains over the years, even as far back as his grandfather, to the point where the concept of peaceful Wastelanders seemed almost alien to him.

  “As I said before,” Victor reminded him, “my name has not always been Victor, and this has not always been my way. Time changes a man in more ways than he can measure. That is life’s journey.”

  Matthew sat there, simultaneously confused and amazed, and for the first time noticed Victor’s emerald green eyes, watching him, scrutinising his every expression or gesture. To Victor, each face told a story, each line a path along a man’s own journey, linking together in a never-ending road from birth to death.

  “We still have such a long way to go,” Matthew said, unsure of where the words were coming from, the sounds cascading from his mouth seemingly without input from his mind.

  “I have seen that in your face since the moment we first met,” Victor informed him.

  “And there’s so little time left,” Matthew continued.

  “Perhaps,” Victor agreed.

  Matthew was unsure of what he meant, or how he was supposed to respond, but Victor hadn't finished.

  “They look to you for leadership, you know, and you worry that you are failing them,” Victor told him. “Your face tells me so much, Matthew, far more than you could know. Your time has been hard of late, and it will get harder, believe me, but you can succeed. Remember, I see so much of myself in you, so you have to see some of yourself in me.”

  “But I am so tired,” Matthew pleaded, but was silenced with a single gesture of Victor’s hand.

  “We all get tired, my friend,” Victor said soothingly. “Perhaps it is time to sleep.”

  He blinked once, and as he opened his eyes, he found Arian in his arms, bathed in the bright light of morning.

  III

  It had not rained a drop all day, even though the grey clouds still hung in the sky, blocking out the sun and later the stars, but not darkening the mood of the evening.

  They had not seen Matthew since lunchtime, but Victor had assured them that he was well and needed some time alone, but he had wanted them to make the most of their evening together. For reasons they could not explain, they believed this stranger without hesitation, and drank and made merry well into the night.

  The food was good and the ale plentiful as each of them laughed and joked, as though the last few weeks had not happened but had been a dream, a nightmare from which they had finally awoken.

  Or perhaps this was the dream, a moment of hope and happiness, taking them away from the darkness that had become their waking world.

  It didn’t matter.

  They all knew that tomorrow they would be back on the road again, cold, wet and hungry, trudging forth towards this fabled laboratory that was to be their deliverance.

  So for just one night, they drank and danced and celebrated, well into the early hours of the morning, in a last ditch attempt to remind themselves that they were still alive.

  IV

  It was Catrina’s plan, but perfectly implemented by the remainder of the team. They moved as one with a single ethos.

  Get in.

  Hit them hard.

  Get out fast.

  It only had to be a matter of time before something went wrong.

  V

  Alexander was awoken from his sleep by the sound of a large explosion, then a seco
nd, then a third, tearing through the night. Was it just his imagination, or had he really felt the walls of the trailer shake around him.

  Surely they couldn’t be that close, could they? All of the munitions had been brought to the front of the convoy and he’d doubled the guards around anything of value. The number of patrols in that area had almost trebled. It wasn’t possible that they could have got close enough to do him any real damage for a second time.

  Dragging himself from his bed, he pulled on his heavy overcoat and made his way towards the rear of the trailer. He was fastening his left boot when Samuel Larson burst in through the door.

  “It’s them, sir, they’ve struck again,” he stammered, struggling for breath as if he had just ran all the way from Island City to deliver the news.

  “What do you think I am, soldier, deaf or stupid?” Alexander bellowed back.

  Samuel opened and closed his mouth a few times as though intending to respond, but decided he would do better to remain silent. “Now show me,” Alexander continued, almost throwing the young man through the door.

  He could see the roaring blaze from the door of the trailer, lapping yellow flames and a plume of smoke clambering towards the sky. The rain was nothing more than a drizzle, enough to wet his face and hair, but nothing like the volume of water they would need to put out the fires.

  They were surrounded on both sides as they made their way towards the fires. There were soldiers of every rank, all racing with them towards the blaze, carrying blankets and buckets of water in the hope that they may help in dousing the growing fire that was illuminating the evening.