by Bobby Adair
The question now was whether he'd burn Franklin, or Evan, or both.
Rising from his chair, Tenbrook called for Captain Sinko. Entering with a nod, Sinko smoothed his crisp blue shirt and waited for his instructions.
"Are The People headed to the square?"
"Yes. The Clergy and the Academy are on the way."
"Thank you, Captain Sinko."
"Are you sure you don't want to meet with the other Elders first?"
"No," Tenbrook said. "That won't be necessary."
Chapter 82: Beck
Beck peered from the tent, following Oliver's shaky finger. He didn't want to believe it. He couldn't.
Blackthorn was dead, and Winthrop was parading the body in front of his troops. The remaining blue shirts had joined Winthrop's faithful. The only thing that sounded like sanity at the moment was the sound of hooves. The cavalry was coming back.
Beck looked back at Oliver.
"What are you doing?" asked Oliver.
"I'm going out."
"What? You can't go out there now. Stay in the tent until dark. Then escape."
Beck crossed over to the tent's entrance.
"If you go out there," hissed Oliver, "they'll kill you."
Beck paused. He didn't want to believe it. He wanted to see for himself.
Oliver leaped in front of Beck, and he drew his dagger. He took Beck's wrist.
"Hey!" Beck protested. "What are you doing?"
Oliver held firmly to Beck's wrist. "Open your palm."
"Why?"
"Don't be stupid. I'm going to cut you."
Beck didn't open his hand.
"If you don't wear the mark, you'll end up dead like the rest of them."
Beck frowned and thought about it. "Don't cut my hand." With a finger, he traced a line on the meaty muscle just below his elbow. "Here. But don't cut deeply. You don't want me to bleed to death."
Oliver dragged the tip of the blade across Beck's skin. Beck jerked his arm away, sending a splatter of blood across the tent. "Ouch."
Oliver shrugged. "Rub it on your hands. Get them nice and bloody. Make two handprints on your chest. Put it on your face."
Beck reluctantly followed Oliver's instructions, taking a moment to compose himself before stepping toward the tent entrance again.
"If things go badly for you, I'm running," Oliver admitted. He pointed at the back of the tent, shrugging as if to apologize.
Beck did his best to smile. "If things go badly, that might be your best option. There'll be nothing you can do to help."
Oliver stepped away from Beck. He bit his lip as if his guilt was making him speak again. "If you sing that stupid song and stand with the idiots, it might prevent them from recognizing you."
Beck smiled and pushed through the tent.
Outside, the sun blazed orange and red behind the mountain peaks. Without the cavalry to keep them at bay, wailing demons ran by the thousands across the grass toward the fortifications. The cavalry was strung out up and down the hill, trying to get to their camp at the top. They were slowed by the crush of militiamen crowding around them, men who should have been manning their defenses, but had given up.
Things were going badly. Beck was no general, but he saw that.
He walked across the clearing at the top of the hill to where Winthrop stood, still holding Blackthorn's body in his arms. Winthrop was chanting on in that pointless jabber that he'd been speaking for days. A dozen cavalrymen were on their horses in front of Winthrop.
Three of the captains were among them.
Getting closer, Beck saw Captain Swan with a hand on his sword, yelling at Winthrop. "You'll tell me what happened, you mumbling fool, and you'll do it now!"
Winthrop threw Blackthorn's body on the ground. He put a foot on Blackthorn's chest. Captain Swan's eyes burned with fire as he drew his sword.
"Wait!" Beck shouted as he came close.
Captain Swan looked at Beck with disgust on his face. "You, too, wear the mark?"
Beck said, "Father Winthrop, was it demons? Did they attack? Did they kill the General?"
"There was no attack," said Swan, inching his horse toward Winthrop, ready to swing his sword.
Winthrop sang and stared at the sky.
Beck raised a hand to halt Captain Swan. "Wait." He walked up to Father Winthrop and put a hand on his shoulder. "Father Winthrop, what happened?"
Winthrop's eyes snapped open. He looked at Beck as though he'd never seen another human, then something clicked in his mind. He said, "My son. You wear the mark."
"Yes." Beck's eyes flicked to his chest. Then he pointed at Blackthorn's body. "What happened? Tell me, man, what happened?"
Winthrop looked at the body. For a moment, he seemed sad. Tears filled his eyes as he said, "The devil is dead."
"Yes, the devil is dead," reiterated Beck. "What happened to him?"
"The sword."
"What sword?"
Winthrop spun in a circle and looked up at the sky. He howled some musical nonsense and then he set his eyes on Captain Swan. He spat an insult in his god-tongue, then looked at his men, who were already surrounding the cavalrymen. "My sons, listen to me. The devil's children on horseback are here to take your god's life." Winthrop's voice found all of its practiced power. "Slay them!"
Without a moment's thought, without any hesitation, the militiamen attacked the horsemen.
Beck recoiled. He retreated a few steps. "What are you doing, Winthrop?"
"I killed the devil! I killed him with his sword!" Winthrop fell to his knees by Blackthorn's body and pushed a hand into the wound on Blackthorn's skull, causing more blood to seep out.
Beck walked backward. He looked up and down the hill. The militiamen were attacking the rest of the cavalry. The first of the demons reached the line of fortifications at the bottom of the slope.
There was nowhere left to go.
He looked back at his tent.
Beck ran.
Chapter 83: Oliver
Oliver watched Beck burst into the tent, panic all over his face.
Oliver already had his backpack on. "I'm ready."
Beck looked himself up and down. He put a hand on the hilt of his knife. "This is all I have."
"If you see a dead blue shirt, take his sword." Oliver peeked outside. He closed the flaps. "I saw everything."
"Not everything." Beck pointed. "The militia attacked the cavalry as they were coming up the hill. The demons are climbing over the fortifications. We need to head toward the river."
"Can you swim?"
Beck nodded. "How about you?"
"Of course."
Beck looked at Oliver, not entirely believing him. "The water will be near freezing. If we go that way and don't find a place to warm up tonight, the cold may kill us."
"If we stay, we'll die!" Oliver pulled the tent flap wide. "Come on." He ran toward the cliffs. The sound of demons howling and men fighting filled the air.
"Kill the minister!" Winthrop shouted, catching sight of them.
Oliver looked back. Winthrop, from fifty or sixty yards away, was pointing up at him and Beck. Some of Winthrop's disciples had stopped mutilating the bodies of the fallen cavalrymen and were now following Winthrop's crazed hollering.
Beck ran ahead, urging Oliver to hurry.
Oliver ran as fast as his feet would carry him.
The men shouted. A dozen or more gave chase. But they were too far behind. Minister Beck's tent stood a few hundred yards from the edge of the cliffs. He and Oliver had already crossed half that distance by the time the first of Winthrop's men got up to speed.
"Do you know a way down to the water?" Beck panted.
"I saw a path down. It's steep and looks dangerous," said Oliver, knowing as he said the words that the trail wasn't a good option. They could start down the path, but they wouldn't get far. The men would catch up by then.
"Lead!" Beck panted.
"Don't wait for me!" yelled Oliver.
Beck
pushed out a laugh. "You think I'd abandon a child to save myself?"
Oliver didn't answer. They both ran as fast as Oliver was able. Nearing the edge of the cliff, Oliver's boots skidded on loose dirt at the top of the path that led down, cutting across the face of the cliff. Oliver looked back at the men. A few dozen were skidding down the hillside, gaining ground. He and Beck didn't have much time. "Follow me!"
Beck stayed on Oliver's heels. They worked their way down the trail, going as fast as the steep slope would allow.
"We're going to have to jump," said Oliver, swallowing as he realized the option he'd known, but had been too afraid to admit.
"We're too high," said Beck.
"What if they start throwing rocks? If they hit us and we lose our balance—"
"We'll crack our skulls on the cliff face when we fall," Beck finished.
Shouts from behind made it clear that men had reached the trail.
Oliver looked at the water. It looked black, cold, and pretty far down. Being so close to the Ancient City, he hoped that none of the monsters from the fairy tales lived in the water below. He prayed that they didn't.
Voices shouted from the top of the cliff. Oliver didn't need to pinpoint how many were there. Even a handful was too many.
Oliver cursed, looked at Beck, and said. "Now!" He closed his eyes and jumped as far out from the cliff as he was able. He caught a big breath as he fell.
He kept falling.
He heard the shouts of the men over the edge of the cliff.
He heard the scuff of men's boots on the path.
Where is the water?
Oliver opened his eyes and looked down. The water slapped him in the face so hard he saw stars. The splash collapsed around him, popping his ears.
Something big splashed beside Oliver. Was it Beck? He couldn't see.
Oliver started clawing his way out of the water, the pressure in his ears increasing. He was sinking. He swam harder, fearing it had been too long since he'd last been in the river. Had he forgotten how to paddle? That couldn't be it.
What's wrong? Why am I sinking?
Unable to get his head above water, Oliver panicked. He needed to breathe soon. He tried to remember what it was that had made swimming so easy when he was small. He needed to remember because whatever he was doing now, it wasn't working.
Oliver felt a tug on his collar. Something had him by the back of the neck. Something was pulling him.
No!
Oliver imagined one of those river monsters from the stories, with the gaping mouth and teeth longer than a big man's fingers. That monster could eat a boy Oliver's size in a single bite.
But it didn't matter.
Oliver looked up, seeing the silvery black glimmer of the surface. He wasn't so far away. He could get to safety, if he could kick his legs a little harder. Oliver struggled and flailed. But he couldn't swim up there no matter how hard he tried. All he could do was flail uselessly while the monster dragged him through the water.
Inexplicably, the surface got closer, close enough that Oliver imagined taking a breath. If he could get his head above water, get a big mouthful of air, maybe he could get away from the monster. Maybe he could get to shore and run away before it ate him.
Oliver's head broke the surface. He gulped as much air as he could suck in. He pushed his feet against a rock and spun, ready to punch the beast in the snout.
"Wait!" screamed Beck. "I'm just trying to help!"
Oliver couldn't believe it. There was no monster.
"Your chainmail pulled you down," Beck explained between ragged breaths. "You'd have drowned if I didn't grab you!"
The chainmail. Of course. Oliver felt like an idiot. Again, he'd forgotten he was wearing it.
"Let's go," said Beck. "We need to get down river before Winthrop's men figure out we're still alive."
Oliver followed Beck, wading in water up to his chest while Beck floated with the current, dragging his feet on the bottom to keep from getting too far ahead. Behind them, the fires on the hillsides lit up as men stoked them in preparation for the evening. Men and demons screamed and fought on the hillsides. Oliver didn't need to ask the question to know they'd all die tonight.
"Where are we going?" asked Oliver.
"I don't know."
"Which direction is Brighton?"
"Back up the river," Beck said as he caught his breath. "Way back."
The screaming from the tops of the cliffs got louder.
Oliver said, "Maybe we won't die tonight."
"Sunrise is a long time away. Don't get too optimistic." Beck smiled grimly.
Chapter 84: Tenbrook
Tenbrook looked out over the crowd of nervous people that had gathered in the square. He'd been sure to leave out the details of the meeting, letting the rows of pyre poles speak for themselves. A row of a dozen kindling stacks were to the right of the dais, indicating a burning that would rival some of the worst in recent memory. His soldiers had spent the last hour preparing them.
The look of panic in the crowd was even more potent than during the Cleansing. At least then, the townsfolk had prepared for the loss of life. Now, they were frightened and unsure. Mothers cradled children to their breasts, as if soldiers might rip them away. Farmers and tradesmen spoke in quick, nervous bursts. No one knew what was happening, and that was the way Tenbrook wanted it.
He smiled.
The surprise—and the urgency—with which he'd called the meeting was a tactic to instill fear into each of their hearts. That was the lesson he wanted them to learn today. Not that they should worry about the spores, but that they should dread him.
His smile held as he drank in the fear emanating from the square. When the shuffling of nervous bodies had stopped, he stepped to the center of the dais, glancing triumphantly at Scholar Evan and Franklin. The newly-appointed Elders sat, stiff in their chairs, ashen-faced. Neither broke his gaze. The town fell into a nervous silence, each resident of Brighton wondering whether they'd live to see the other side of the meeting.
"It has come to my attention that the spore has invaded our town once again," Tenbrook said, projecting his voice into the crowd. That announcement led to a barrage of confirming gasps and whispers. "We need to dispose of the unclean ones before it spreads further."
The crowd grew unusually still, as if he might pick out the afflicted from among them. They averted their eyes.
"The only way to protect Brighton is to be swift and decisive. That is the will of The Word. Isn't that true, Father Franklin?" Tenbrook turned to face the nervous man in the chair on the other side of the dais. The crowd swiveled their heads to Franklin, waiting for his response.
"Yes," Franklin replied. He kept his mouth open, as if he might speak again, but quickly closed it.
"Due to the urgency of this matter, I have taken the precaution of rounding up the unclean so that we might inspect them here. I hope that is acceptable to the other Elders. Is it?" Tenbrook barely waited for Evan and Franklin to nod. "My hope is that we can stop the spread of the spore before more are infected."
The crowd shuffled and looked around, searching for the unclean ones. Tenbrook waited several more moments before beckoning the guards. Several blue-shirted soldiers nodded at his command, disappearing through a door on the side of the dais and reappearing with a group of kicking, screaming men. The men's mouths were stuffed with gags. Among them were Tommy and Timmy Dunlow. Ten others—the most prominent leaders of the rebellion—were pulled out next to them, looking as if they'd been plucked from the middle of an evening dinner. In reality, Tenbrook had pulled them from their hideouts across Brighton. Tommy and Timmy had given up all they knew.
Afterward, Tenbrook had killed the Dunlows' mother, father, and sisters.
"I've taken the precaution of gagging the unclean. They were trying to bite my soldiers when we rounded them up. I fear the spore has spread to their brains." Tenbrook suppressed a smile. "Bring the smudged ones to the inspectors," he bellowed with a conv
iction that bordered on ecstasy.
The soldiers dragged the smudged men to the white-gloved inspectors on the edge of the dais. The smudged men writhed and screamed into the cloths.
Tommy was the first to be inspected. The inspectors reached out to receive him, yanking at his clothes. He struggled and shrieked unintelligibly as they tore his pants and shirt from his body, revealing a barrage of scratches and bruises. The inspectors nodded and shook their heads disappointedly.
"Smudged," one of them pronounced.
Tenbrook nodded to reinforce the inspector's assessment. He looked over at Franklin and Evan, who were seated in their chairs, shocked looks on their faces.
"Do you have anything to add, Father Franklin? Scholar Evan?"
Franklin and Evan looked at each other, considering a protest, but neither spoke. Without waiting for a response, Tenbrook had Timmy and Tommy dragged off the dais and toward the pyre. One by one, the inspectors looked over the other rebel leaders, finding similar marks on all of them. Tenbrook smiled proudly as he looked out over the crowd, envisioning the fear lurking in the hearts of the remaining deserters. Even if they weren't watching, they'd certainly hear about this.
They were powerless. But then, they always had been.
He was the true ruler of Brighton.
Tenbrook lined up the men to be burned on the pyre, giving directions to his soldiers. The Clergy looked as if they were frozen in place. The Scholars wrung their hands. Tommy and Timmy stared at Tenbrook with frantic eyes as they were dragged away.
"We'll rid this town of the unclean, so that others might live," Tenbrook boomed to cover the muffled cries of the Dunlows. He arched his back in triumph. "But before we burn these men, we have one more matter to address. It has come to my attention that another among us is unclean."
The crowd waited silently.
"This matter is even more concerning, and is the reason I've called this meeting so swiftly."
Spinning, he turned to face Franklin and Scholar Evan. Franklin's mouth fell open in shock as he shot a glare back at Tenbrook. Evan looked as if he might collapse.