The Last Survivors (Book 4): The Last Command

by Bobby Adair

  "You will?" Joseph's eyes showed his disbelief.

  "Yes. But you need to keep it between us." Franklin knew the ramifications of appearing too generous in front of the other clergymen. He projected a warning into his stare.

  Joseph nodded eagerly before turning his eyes to the floor. "Thank you, Father Franklin," he said, starting to leave.

  "Wait," Franklin said, halting him.

  "Yes?"

  "Did you bring that chair in here?" Franklin waved a disgusted hand at Winthrop's plush seat, which was positioned in the spot where the lectern had been.

  "Yes. Father Winthrop asked me to bring it in here when we aren't performing service. I assumed you'd want to do the same."

  "Take it back wherever it came from. I don't ever want to see it again."

  "Yes, Father," Joseph said. He set down his rag and bucket. Franklin thought he saw a smile on the boy's face as he hauled the oversized seat away.

  Chapter 43: Blackthorn

  With blood dripping from his blade and his horse sweating as much as he was, Blackthorn felt the weight of his efforts like never before. He spotted Winthrop's band of decorated nitwits, nearly a thousand of them, in a massive huddle around a bonfire, listening to the bishop wail at the darkening sky, while women and boys ran for their lives past them. Blackthorn's fatigue vanished, and his anger burned bright, refilling his failing body with the strength of his youth.

  Blackthorn led the cavalry toward Winthrop's blood-bedazzled acolytes.

  Many of the men on the fringes were blooded, not with Winthrop's handprints but with fresh red from their comrades and from demons. They'd been in the battle up the road, and they'd run away. If they hadn't run, they wouldn't be so far ahead of the coming horde.

  Blackthorn hated every single one of them.

  He slowed the charging horses and ran them around the perimeter of Winthrop's encircled men. He yelled, "Now is the time to take your courage and charge the demons!"

  Few of Winthrop's faithful paid Blackthorn any attention.

  The horses ran another circuit around the men. "Come, charge!" Blackthorn yelled again. "If you stand where you are, you'll die!"

  Not a man moved.

  Blackthorn looked up the road toward the hill. Another fifteen hundred militiamen were ahead in their camps. If they were coming to the battle, they were forming into lines and readying themselves to fight as they'd been trained to do. Or they were dallying because like all the other militiamen, they were afraid and finding excuses to stay in the rear.

  If not for the women running and crying, Blackthorn would have ridden his cavalry out of the morass and made his stand on the hill and to hell with all of them. But no matter his goal—to lead them all to their extermination—he couldn't overcome instincts hammered into his soul through a life of service protecting the people.

  He had to fight.

  Frustration took over, and Blackthorn motioned for his cavalry to wait outside the circle of Winthrop's folly and he drove his horse toward Winthrop, not caring if he was bumping or trampling Winthrop's glazed-eyed onlookers.

  Once at the center of the circle, Blackthorn looked at a tall man with Winthrop's red handprints on his chest. "Are you afraid, man?" Blackthorn pointed at the throngs of women running past. "Do you let your women do your dying? I command you to charge."

  "When the gods command Winthrop," the tall soldier said, "and when Father Winthrop commands me, I will—"

  Blackthorn slashed his sword down, and the man's head rolled across the ground. He wheeled his horse, looking for the most expeditious solution to his immediate problem, telling himself that when the battle was done, a thousand men with red handprints on their chests would lose their heads.

  Blackthorn stopped his horse in front of Father Winthrop, who seemed not to see him, but chanted and beseeched the sky.

  "Tell your children to charge," Blackthorn commanded.

  Winthrop didn't respond.

  "Tell them!" Blackthorn yelled.

  Winthrop chanted.

  Blackthorn raised his sword and swung it down, slapping Winthrop across the face with the flat side of the blade.

  Winthrop fell as his nose and lip spilled blood. From the mud, at the feet of his stunned priestesses, Winthrop looked defiantly up at Blackthorn. "You dare."

  "I do. End this superstitious farce and tell these fools to raise their weapons and fight."

  Winthrop bounced to his feet in a move so agile it surprised Blackthorn. "When the gods deem the time, I will tell them to march!" Winthrop raised his chin, exposing his neck. "Cut if you dare."

  Tempted, Blackthorn resisted. The tactician in him knew that if he removed Winthrop's head, he'd as likely end up fighting Winthrop's foolish congregation as bringing them back to their senses. Knowing he couldn't fight with zealots and demons at the same time, he spurred his horse. The massive black animal reared up, whinnied, and spun around. Blackthorn charged through Winthrop's fools, doing his best to trample those in his way.

  Once out of Winthrop's band, he called the charge and led his cavalry back down the road, back to kill the demons.

  Chapter 44: Oliver

  "Do you want something to eat?" Beck asked.

  Oliver all but jumped at the offer. He hadn't eaten much since leaving Brighton, being very careful with the limited food he brought along for himself.

  Beck stood up and walked across the tent. He picked up a platter from the darkness in one corner and brought it over to the ground beside the dimly burning candle.

  Oliver looked at the platter. A full loaf of bread, butter, and meat.

  Beck sat down beside the platter. "I've already eaten. This was meant for Winthrop, but I suspect he hasn't eaten a thing since we rode through the city gates. If you don't eat this, the guards will share it later when they come to pick up the platter."

  Oliver moved over and sat near Beck. He resisted the urge to reach out for the meal.

  "It's okay," Beck said. "It's rather delicious. Apparently Blackthorn saw fit to bring his cooks and maids on this expedition."

  "Is this because of Evan?"

  "What?" Beck asked.

  "You're being kind to me because of my dealings with Evan," said Oliver. "I'm nothing. I'm one of Father Winthrop's toys. He beats me because he gets pleasure from it. I'll never be a priest. I'll never be anything more than I am now."

  Beck rubbed his chin. "Your dealings with Evan? I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Yes, you do." Oliver had seen men lie before. Beck was good at it, but Oliver was pretty sure that he was lying. Of course, Oliver had a host of suspicions and deductions to support his conclusion. In a hushed voice, Oliver said, "You have no reason to be kind to me except that you feel an obligation to me, because, through Evan, I've been in your service." Oliver changed to a whisper. "Helping with your plot."

  "What did Evan tell you?"

  "Is that an admission?" Oliver asked.

  "It is a question," said Beck, "validly asked. If I were allied with Evan in this plot you speak of, or if I weren't, I'd ask the same question. Would I not?"

  Oliver snorted his frustration. Beck was right. And damn him for outsmarting Oliver again. Oliver's clever little traps were not going to work on Beck, as they had always worked on Winthrop. "If you were the guiding hand behind Evan's actions, he never admitted it. He was steadfast about that."

  Beck nodded and smiled.

  "I suppose," said Oliver, "in having admitted to you now that I was involved in a plot of some kind with your top Scholar, and having done so based on the assumption that you were behind it, if I'm wrong," Oliver reached down and tore off a piece of the smoked meat, "I suppose this would be my last meal. I should enjoy it." He put the meat in his mouth. It was as delicious as promised.

  "Don't worry," said Beck. "You won't be going to the pyre. On my word." He cocked his head toward the tent wall. "Based on the sounds from down the valley, though, I can't promise you you'll live through the night."

&
nbsp; Oliver silently agreed. Perhaps he wouldn't spend the night in the tent. Maybe he'd only stay if the battle died down. If it didn't die down, he'd likely have to find a place to which to run. "Do you think the cliff walls can be climbed?"

  Beck laughed. "If the battle goes badly, I think many will find the answer to that question tonight."

  Oliver ate some bread. "Why are you being guarded?"

  "To protect me."

  "I think that's a lie." Again, Oliver regretted what he'd just said. It was too blunt.

  Beck smiled and leaned back on a pillow. "Why don't you tell me why you're here?"

  "Warmth." Olive lifted the bread. "And food."

  "You're in camp, but you're not with Winthrop. Why? Does he know you're here?"

  Oliver didn't answer. He didn't have a lie ready.

  "It seems we both have secrets," said Beck. "Maybe we can be of use to each other."

  Chapter 45: Blackthorn

  Behind Blackthorn, the cavalry charged down the road, clearing it of demons and fleeing militiamen.

  When they'd reached one of the many grassy meadows large enough to maneuver in, Blackthorn led the cavalry off the road and attacked the demons in their flanks as they ran toward a mass of screaming women ahead of them. Demons fell.

  The column made a circuit of the meadow and by Blackthorn's estimate, killed nearly half the monsters in it. Of those left, many continued and ran into the woods, hypnotized by the sound of screaming prey. Other twisted men charged the cavalry, and all of those paid for that choice with their lives. Other demons found their wits and ran away from the slaughter, back to the forests far up river. But for every demon, down or gone, more poured out of the woods, too frenzied by the carnage around them to know that death awaited them on the grass.

  The cavalry crossed the meadow and Blackthorn decided it was time for a different tactic. He'd line the cavalry with their backs to the cliff wall and ride across the meadow side by side, ridding it of the demons before lining them up to charge further up the road.

  Blackthorn rode along the wall, putting that plan together in his mind, figuring out how many rows of cavalry was right given the width of the meadow. With his attention focused on the grass between him and the river, he didn't realize a demon was hiding in the rocks at the base of the cliff. A shout from the man behind startled Blackthorn into looking left, just as a demon pounced off of a rock at the height of Blackthorn's head.

  Blackthorn tried to twist and duck. With his sword in his right hand and nothing in his left, he didn't have the option of raising his weapon and skewering the beast when it came down. Blackthorn did his best to dodge the demon.

  But Blackthorn wasn't as young as fighting made him feel. He was old. He was worn out. And he was slow.

  The beast hit him from the side, knocking Blackthorn off the horse. Without time to do anything but fall, Blackthorn hit the ground with his weight and the weight of the beast on top of him. The impact drove the breath from his lungs and ground and he hit his head so hard he didn't notice the sharp pain in his shoulder.

  On instinct, Blackthorn rolled away as the demon tumbled off. Blackthorn tried to raise his blade. His arm didn't respond.

  The beast shook its wart-covered head and got up on its hands and knees.

  His head still spinning, Blackthorn got to his feet, took his sword in his left hand, and awkwardly hacked the demon across its back.

  The beast's spine severed, its rear legs went limp, and it howled as it turned to look at Blackthorn and grabbed at his feet. Blackthorn swung again, lopping off the demon's arm. The third slice from Blackthorn's blade severed the beast's head.

  Blackthorn fell to his knees. He thought he might black out. He fell forward and caught himself with a hand. Pain in his right shoulder made him wince.

  Two of his cavalrymen were suddenly beside him, asking questions and reaching in to help him up.

  "Back to your horses!" he ordered. "Charge the demons!"

  A captain shouted a command and cavalry hooves shook the earth. Still, the two men beside him stayed.

  Blackthorn straightened up, and with a helping hand under each arm, he got to his feet, swaying and doubting if he could stay upright without support.

  "Can you ride, General?"

  Blackthorn nodded. "Of course." It was a lie. He could barely stand. "My horse."

  Another cavalryman appeared with the reins to Blackthorn's mount.

  One man said, "We need to get the General back to the hill."

  Another said, "I'll get help." He hurried off, leaving Blackthorn with only one hand to support him.

  Blackthorn stumbled forward, shrugging off the hand helping to hold him up. He reached out and grabbed the horn on his saddle. His head still swam, but it grew clearer with each breath. His right shoulder was doing him no favors. He tried to raise his right arm, but a severe pain obliterated his will to continue. He dropped the arm and gave up.

  "Your sword, General."

  Blackthorn looked at a man holding his sword out. He hadn't realized he'd dropped it. An unforgivable sin. Blackthorn heard his father's voice in his head, telling him he was weak. Blackthorn took a deep breath.

  "Sir? Sir?"

  "I'm fine."

  "Sir, can you ride?"

  "I can ride." Blackthorn leaned his head on the saddle. "I need a moment."

  "We need to get you in the saddle, sir."

  Blackthorn drew himself up to his height. A half dozen of his men were around him, three mounted, the others standing close. Their orders were to leave a downed man behind. That was the rule in the cavalry. He knew these men had saved his life. He'd remember their faces and find a reason to send them all back to Brighton before the end came to his army.

  Taking hold of his saddle horn, he planted a foot in the stirrup and heaved himself onto his horse as his right shoulder exploded with pain so severe it threatened to knock him right back off again.

  "General?"

  Hands reached up to steady Blackthorn on the horse. He took a few more breaths as the pain in the shoulder swept past. He'd have to ride with just one hand, but that was a habit as ingrained as walking. The difference was that he wouldn't be able to swing a sword.

  The cavalrymen around Blackthorn mounted up. Another six showed up. One of the soldiers barked an order, "Back to the hilltop."

  "No!" Blackthorn countermanded.

  The horsemen looked at him, indecision and concern on their faces.

  Blackthorn sat up straight in his saddle. "What cavalryman leaves the battle when the demons still run? No man in my squadron. Not I."

  A few of the men looked at one another, but most of them smiled grimly and nodded.

  "My right arm is of no use to me at the moment, but who needs a blade to run down demons?"

  The men cheered, and for a moment, Blackthorn hearkened back to that moment when he took over his father's charge all those years ago. As much as Blackthorn doubted he'd be able to stay on his horse in a full gallop, he shouted, "Follow me!"

  Chapter 46: Winthrop

  "It is time."

  Every eye gazed on Winthrop.

  Winthrop looked around, wondering where the words had come from. Certainly he'd said them. He hadn't planned to say them. He hadn't even thought them. He'd been singing the chant that lullabied his fears into submission, when down his tongue and past his lips, those words rolled as if dropped in the back of his throat by a god with a plan. So Winthrop repeated them louder, and with all the force that years of sermonizing had given him, he said, "It is time. Slay the demons. Bring me the dead. Go! Charge!"

  A thousand men roared and raced into the face of the demons coming through the trees all around them.

  Screaming followed. To Winthrop's ears, the shrieks sounded like pyre music. That's what he called it in his head when the wenches and weaklings on the poles in the square angelically sang to the heavens. Pyre music.

  Demons feeling blades cleave their limbs sang the same song. Men with demon teet
h tearing their throats harmonized the gods' tune. With the music in Winthrop's ears, his cloying fear finally dripped away, leaving only bliss so pure that tears rolled over his round cheeks. He changed his chant to match the victory the gods had put in his heart.

  The priestesses took up the new tune.

  Unable to stand with so much of the gods' dizzying ecstasy coursing through him, Winthrop fell to his knees and raised his hands to the sky, bellowing a happy wail above the sound of the dying around him.

  Harmony.

  Pyre music.

  Demon song.

  Man's dreams turned to heaven with biting teeth.

  A body dropped on the ground in front of Winthrop, pulling him from his trance. Winthrop looked up.

  A man stood, panting, doused in blood. He slapped a hand on his chest. "I've earned the mark, Father."

  "To your knees, my son."

  The man fell to his knees across the body from Winthrop.

  Winthrop put his hands in the demon's warm blood and pressed his palms against the man's chest. "Bring me another, my son."

  "I'll bring you ten." The man stood, hollered like an animal and rushed away.

  "Gods be with you, my son." Winthrop leaned forward and pressed his hands on the dead demon's torso, squeezing warm blood out of a gaping wound in its chest. The blood pooled on the pale skin and flowed over Winthrop's hands.

  Beautiful red.

  Warm crimson.

  Life in my hands.

  Like a god.

  Men bow to my will.

  I'm more than a messenger for the gods.

  I am a god.

  I am a god!

  It was true. It was obvious.

  Winthrop realized he had always been a god, born into the tragedy of man's suffering, only to find the truth of his being in the cradle of bloodshed and demon's wrath.

  I am a god.

  All will bow.

  All will grovel.

  A god.

  A woman laid a hand on Winthrop's shoulder, breaking his moment of perfect introspection, and he looked up to see a slobbering demon running at him with fire in its eyes and clawed fingers intent on tearing at his divine throat.