by Bobby Adair
"We'll do as you order," said Captain Swan.
"But you don't agree," said Beck. "Tell me why."
"We lost two squadrons last night. If we keep two here, that leaves us only two to fight the demons through the day. With so many demons in the area, I fear that two might get overwhelmed and destroyed. Four squadrons working together will have a better chance of staying alive."
"I understand." Beck swept his hand at the line of defenses. "What of the rest of them?"
"The captains of the cohorts have their orders. They'll finish the defenses and rest their men." Captain Swan smiled though the gesture didn't look like it belonged on his face. "Ride by and inspect them, if you wish. But let them work. They'll not need further guidance."
"And when the demons attack?" asked Beck.
"After sunset, the demons will come again. I'll be back by then."
"General Blackthorn told me you were capable of leading the army. Shall I promote you to General?"
"Not while General Blackthorn lives." Captain Swan kicked his horse and started away. "I'll return by sunset."
"Thank you, Captain."
Chapter 74: Beck
Beck walked into the dimly lit tent, glancing at a tray with breadcrumbs and smears of greasy meat. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he spotted Oliver sitting with his arms folded around his legs on Winthrop's bedding. "Are you all right?"
"I'm a coward."
"A coward?" Beck stepped closer and looked at the blood on Oliver's clothes and the bruises on his face. "Looks like you've been in a fight."
Oliver nodded.
"Is that your blood?"
Oliver looked at his sleeves and trousers. "Demon blood."
"Did you get attacked?"
"Yes."
"Are you hurt?"
Oliver shook his head. "Bruises." He rolled his left arm around at the shoulder. "I'm sore."
"You know you're a kid, right?" Beck squatted down. "Running away from demons is okay."
Oliver drilled Beck with a hard stare. "I didn't run."
Beck sat himself down. "Sorry, I—"
"One jumped on me from behind." Oliver put a hand on his shoulder. "He tried to bite me." Oliver pulled his shirt aside to show Beck the chainmail. "He never broke the skin."
Fascinated, Beck couldn't contain his curiosity. He reached forward and touched the mail with his fingers. "This is—"
"Chainmail," said Oliver. "The blacksmith said he saw it in a book."
"In a book I sold to Kreuz?" Beck asked.
"I guess. He said Kreuz had the book."
Beck caressed the flexible mail again. "I saw that same picture in the book. Amazing." Beck leaned back.
"It's a long-sleeved shirt."
"Under your clothes." Beck smiled knowingly. "So no one would see it. Wearing that much metal, people will think you're rich. How did you convince the blacksmith to make it for you?"
Oliver pursed his lips. He looked away.
"Never mind," said Beck. "I'm impressed." He laughed. "I wish I had the same for myself. You say the demon bit you, but its teeth couldn't penetrate?"
"Neither will a knife or a sword," said Oliver. "We tested it at the blacksmith's."
"Amazing." Beck looked himself up and down, running his arms over his sleeves as he thought about how to get a coat of chainmail for himself. "How long did it take to make?"
"I don't know," answered Oliver. "He was already working on it when I came into his shop. He finished it to fit me."
"Well, it saved your life, that's the important thing. Tell me, how did you get away from the demon who bit you?"
"I killed it. I may have killed another as well," said Oliver. "I cut it." Oliver stretched a leg out and dragged his hand across it mid-thigh. "Deep. It probably bled to death, but I didn't stay to see."
"Two demons." Beck laughed. "And look at you. You're half the size of those beasts, and you think you're a coward. Your standards are much too high, young man."
Oliver shook his head and looked at Beck with a question hidden behind his expression.
"What are you not telling me?"
Oliver looked away again, and his eyes glazed. "I…" His voice caught in his throat.
"Take your time," said Beck. "It's been a hard night on all of us."
"Are we all going to die here?"
It was Beck's turn to look away. He avoided the answer with a question of his own. "Are you afraid of dying?"
"Of course, I am. As you say, I'm just a boy." Oliver looked disappointed. He paused and spent a moment thinking about what he was going to say next. "I ask because I think we are going to die. The General had the men build fortifications. He plans for us to stay. So many soldiers were killed last night that I don't expect the rest of us will last more than a week."
"But with the fortifications finished—"
"It won't matter," said Oliver. "More demons will come. Father Winthrop will sow too much chaos. General Blackthorn is injured. We'll all die."
Beck wanted to argue, to save the boy from despair, but he couldn't bring himself to spread a lie over so much insightful truth.
"I didn't come here to die," said Oliver. "I didn't come here to fight. But now that I know I'm going to die, now that I've failed at what I came here to do, I guess it won't matter that I tell you that I'm an assassin."
"An assassin?" Beck was taken aback.
"I came here to murder Father Winthrop."
"Why?"
Oliver's look told Beck his question was stupid. "I had the opportunity last night. I held my knife at his throat. His blood ran down the blade and onto my hand." Oliver raised his palm and showed Beck the dried red. "He called me his son and told me he loved me. I couldn't do it. I let him live. I ran away. I'm a weakling."
Chapter 75: Beck
"Choosing not to kill Winthrop does not make you a weakling," said Beck. "It makes you a human, and that's a rare thing for a denizen of Brighton."
"Putting a fairy tale ending on my cowardice may work with the young pants-pissers at the Academy, Minister Beck, but I know what I did."
"You're a tough boy," said Beck, raising his hands to keep Oliver from arguing. "And don't tell me I'm patronizing you. Look at what you've done. You've marched with the army, and you've fought the demons. You were brave enough to put your blade to a minister's throat and even braver to choose humanity over hatred. Believe me or not. Just think about it. I hope one day you see that I'm right."
"None of it matters," said Oliver. "I'll die before that day comes."
"You won't die," said Beck. "Tomorrow morning, a handful of messengers will ride to Brighton. If they leave at first light and ride hard, they'll make it before sunset. I have an urgent letter for Scholar Evan that I'll need you to hand-deliver to him. You'll ride out with them."
Oliver laughed. "You're making that up. I know a lie when I hear it."
Smiling and shaking his head, Beck said, "I can make it true. You're a good boy, Oliver. You don't need to die on this hill with the rest of us. Will you go home if I can make the arrangements?"
Oliver thought about it for a moment and nodded. "Why don't you come, too?"
"I can't."
"Why?"
Beck laughed. "That answer is much different than I'd have thought yesterday."
"How so?" asked Oliver.
"It was my intention to escape this expedition as soon as the opportunity arose."
"That's why the soldiers outside are guarding you?"
Beck nodded. "Now, with Father Winthrop losing his sanity and General Blackthorn unable to ride, perhaps unable to lead the army, I feel the weight of a responsibility I hadn't expected."
"You're in charge of the army?" Oliver didn't believe it.
"So it seems," said Beck. "The lives of all of these men are in my hands."
"But they're all going to die."
Beck nodded.
"Why not march away from this place at first light tomorrow and go back through the pass?"
"So it's a fight to the death right here?" Oliver asked. "All the men die, or all the demons die?"
Beck got up and walked over to his bed. "General Blackthorn is sleeping. When he wakes, I'll take care of everything to get you sent with the riders tomorrow morning." Beck looked at the empty platter by the tent flap. "You've eaten?"
"Yes."
"Have you slept?"
"No."
"Then do so. I need to sleep as well. I expect the fight tonight will be the worst we've seen. We need to be rested for whatever comes next."
Chapter 76: Evan
Having determined Oliver was the rat—or, at least, having a strong enough suspicion to believe he was, after thinking about it most of the night—Evan hurried through the streets, making his way to the Dunlows.
Everything about his theory made sense.
In their last meeting, Oliver had not only severed his ties with Evan, but had made it clear he felt angry and used. In an effort to preserve his life, Oliver had gone to Tenbrook and named Evan. Evan had recruited him, after all. It was Evan he blamed. He'd pulled Oliver into the plan that had risked his life.
Dammit. Dammit.
That must've been what happened. Tenbrook knows everything.
Evan's legs and lungs burned from the exertion of running. He needed to get to the Dunlows before it was too late. He needed to warn them.
But that wasn't all. Evan needed protection.
Evan wasn't blind to his faults. He knew that his focus with numbers had left him inexperienced in matters of fighting and resourcefulness. He needed the protection of the Dunlows and the other deserters to give him the chance he needed to escape Brighton.
They had to abort the plan.
As he rounded the end of Market Street, Evan glanced from left to right, afraid someone would jump out and grab him. He approached the last cluster of houses preceding the house on Market Street. A few people glanced out the windows, watching him. Or at least, it felt that way. A woman carrying a basket gave him an appraising look. Was someone getting ready to turn him in?
Evan approached the deserters' house. Reaching the steps, he knocked, still catching his breath. The door swung open, revealing the dirty-faced man he'd spoken with before.
"I'm looking for Tommy and Timmy," he said through frantic heaves.
The dirty-faced man furrowed his brow, sizing him up. "They aren't with you?"
"No," Evan shook his head vigorously. "I need to talk with them. Where are they?"
"No one has seen them." The man watched Evan closely, as if he were a suspect in their disappearance.
"They left?"
"Yes. They left to meet with you. Or at least, we thought they did. We've been waiting for you to come back and tell us what was going on."
"I haven't seen them since I was last here," Evan said, trying to throw sincerity into his voice. "I swear it."
"What the hell's going on?" The dirty-faced man was unable to hide his anger. "We've been holed up here for days, waiting for someone to give us direction. We've risked our lives for your—for Minister Beck's—plan. And now the Dunlows are gone?" He turned around, as if he was about to call someone else from inside.
A noise up the street drew their attention.
Evan and the dirty-faced man swiveled to find soldiers running up the road.
The soldiers were carrying a screaming, kicking man. They approached the deserter's house before Evan or the dirty-faced man could react, dumping the man in the middle of the street. His face was covered with burns. One of his eyes was gouged. He opened his bloodied mouth to let out an agonizing, high-pitched scream.
His tongue was missing.
Evan gasped.
Frantic voices spilled from inside the deserter's house as men grabbed weapons, preparing for a fight. Fearing for his life, Evan took a few steps sideways, intending to run. He didn't make it far. A soldier appeared out of nowhere, punching him in the side. A burst of pain made his eyes water. The soldier laughed as Evan doubled over, clutching his side. The soldier pushed him down, then kicked him. Evan lay on the ground, stunned.
All around him was the commotion of the deserters and the soldiers. The men traded curses and blows. A few drew swords. Frantic cries emanated from the marketplace as passersby sought places to take cover or hide and watch.
Evan tried to move, but couldn't find his footing. A shout from the doorway spurred him to action.
"Scholar Evan is out there! Don't let him get away!"
All at once, Evan was on his feet, gasping for breath and darting through the emptying street. Sounds of battle filled the air behind him. He tore past startled merchants and screaming women, knocking into a pushcart, spilling bundles of carrots onto the road. The angered merchant screamed after him. Only when Evan was halfway to the Academy did he slow down. He ducked into an alleyway, fairly certain he'd escaped.
**
Evan gasped for breath. The screams and commotion still rang in his ears, even though he was far enough away that he could no longer hear them. The deserters had been discovered. The Dunlows were gone.
He told himself he'd gotten the least of the injuries.
Maybe the Dunlows fled, he tried telling himself.
Evan couldn't force himself to believe that lie.
The Dunlows were probably being held in the same place the tongueless man had come from, awaiting torture from Tenbrook. Even without seeing the evidence, Evan knew. He recalled the expression of the pain on the tortured man's face as he'd been dropped in the dirt.
That look told him that Tenbrook knew everything.
Evan knew he was in the first moments of the end. He needed some last-ditch plan that would give him a chance at living. They'd be looking for him. They'd seen him conspiring with the deserters.
In the slim chance Evan hadn't been implicated already, he would be soon. The Dunlows would give him up. Either that, or the deserters would. Evan was chicken feed, any way he ran the logic. The Academy would be the first place Tenbrook would look for him. His only hope was to make some final play for his life, in the hopes that he could salvage some scrap of a plan.
Franklin.
Without realizing it, Evan was already running in the direction of the Sanctuary. Thoughts of Franklin's successful sermon gave him the hopes that the new Bishop might wield enough power to effect some change.
Maybe Franklin could save his life.
Even if Evan was to be killed, he needed someone to know the truth about the torturous monster that had taken over Brighton. He couldn't leave this world without doing that.
Chapter 77: Winthrop
Winthrop had been walking most of the morning, carrying the message of his god song to the good soldiers who stood behind their piles of dirt. He knelt, looking up the hill at them, and sang. His priestesses joined the chorus. His disciples laid the evidence of their heroic deeds, the demon corpses, in rows, shoulder to shoulder, on their backs in front of the battlements. All through the day, his disciples worked, thousands and thousands of them, marked with the bloody handprint, dusted in dirt, spattered in gore. They built the fires tall. They burned their dead brothers. They laid the carpet of dead demons.
The hill was a heaven of Winthrop's making, a shrine to him, a prayer for war. The more Blackthorn's men looked down on the evidence of the victory, the more they took up the chant, climbing through their ditches and coming down to accept the mark from Winthrop's hands. They became his.
With the sun well past its zenith and the horsemen riding in silly circles out in the grasslands, Winthrop surveyed his domain and realized the most profound thing. Through all those sermons in that dusty temple back in Brighton, appealing to the sleepy hearts of ignorant pig chasers and dirt scratchers, their failure to find the passion of love and devotion in The Word wasn't his fault, at all. It was that stu
ffy building. It was the confining circle wall. Men could not be free to follow their war god when walls kept their minds and souls trapped.
Out here in the demon's realm, surrounded by the carcasses of the unworthy and the unclean, a man's heart opened, and Winthrop's words found fertile soil. Nearly all of the men, the working women, and even the harlots atop the hill chanted Winthrop's god song now.
They were all his children.
It was time to cast out the devil.
Winthrop walked around the hill to the break in the line of the trenches, the road the horsemen followed when they left the hilltop to frolic with their demon brothers in the grasslands. He continued up it with his priestesses following behind.
Men on the uphill side of the defenses, men who'd stopped Winthrop's disciples from going uphill the night before, now did nothing. They chanted and accepted the disciples among them. They were all brothers and sisters now, children of a new god.
Winthrop crossed the hill, walking toward the highest mound on the otherwise flat hilltop. He passed through the blue shirts arrayed around the minister's tents. Scuffles broke out behind him as many of the blue shirts resisted the passing of his priestesses and disciples. Winthrop paid them no mind. His followers would soon resolve their differences.
From the top of the hill, Winthrop felt the cold wind flap his robes and clean air blow through his lungs. Behind him, the mountains towered and glistened under the halos of snow blowing off their peaks. In front of him, the ocean spread out to the edge of the world. Around him, the brown grasses and green trees painted patterns among which little horsemen and demons ran, making pretty, living art that reminded Winthrop of flower vines growing and dying, disintegrating and reforming.
Unlike the lowest slopes of the hill, where Winthrop and his children slaughtered the demons in the mud, the hilltop was covered in tall grass that swayed with the breeze around two tents, giant and aloof. One was bigger than the other, larger than any in camp, clean, without a hole to let the rain and cold come in, surrounded by a dozen stern-faced men. It was the home of the devil.