The sound of a metal clink against the building jerked Isaiah’s attention away from the video.
“Oh, shit,” Gizmo said. “It’s a grappling hook!”
The hooks were lodged beneath the ridge of the jail’s roof. Half a dozen of Barrett’s men were already on the way up. Gizmo leaned over the ridge and began to saw at it with a dagger, while Nora and Sam’s pain-filled screams filled the night.
“Gun!” he heard Gizmo say as he flattened himself against the roof. The sound of bullets whizzing past them was too close for comfort. “Those bastards just tried to blow my head off.”
Staying low, Isaiah scrambled to the edge of the roof, and grabbed the prongs of the grappling hook. Using his charisma, he bent one of the prongs. Grunts and cussing came from below when the entire hook slipped off the ridge.
Gizmo lowered their rope down the front of the building on the opposite side from Barrett’s henchmen. If anyone in the crowd turned around, he or she would be able to see Isaiah and Gizmo climbing down. Fortunately, most people were too busy watching the video to notice. When Isaiah and Gizmo reached the sidewalk, Barrett’s deputies were just rounding the corner of the building.
The crowd was gasping and flinching at the movie when Mull delivered the death blow, plunging the knife into Nora’s heart.
“It’s trick photography, all done on computers.” Feenie laughed nervously.
“Bullshit!” Gizmo yelled.
Hundreds of heads turned around at the same time, making Isaiah feel like a burglar caught in a spotlight.
“I can verify that they are one hundred percent authentic.” Gizmo’s opinions on such matters held a lot of weight in Galatia. He had their undivided attention. “What you saw on screen really happened. Do you recognize the faces of those who did this to Sam and Nora? Do you really want these people as your leaders?”
The video continued playing.
Larger than life, bubbles of blood gurgled from Nora’s mouth as she drew her last breath. In the video, Feenie smiled wickedly, as if she had gotten a thrill out of the whole affair. Barrett fell to his knees and pulled at the weeds on the forest floor, wailing, while the rest of the people with him tore into Sam. “My god, what have we done?”
“Galatia—this is what happens to anyone who opposes the Evil Trio standing before you!” Isaiah stretched out his arm and pointed toward the podium. “They drugged you and convinced you to kill my father, the Mayor of Galatia, who guided us so lovingly through these difficult times. If you get in their way, they’ll kill you, too.”
A hush fell over the crowd.
“What are we doing out here in our pajamas?” someone asked in horror, as if she had just woken up from a long sleep. “Was what happened at the pit real? Or just dream?”
“The steam from Feenie and Mull’s cauldrons were laced with drugs,” Isaiah spoke quickly. “Opening you up to suggestion, inciting you to commit murder.”
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
“Arrest Barrett!” a woman shouted. “And all of his guards!”
Fear etched over the faces of the men holding onto Gizmo and Isaiah. They immediately released them and fled away from the crowd.
“Lynch the Warlock,” Nathan Steelsun shouted, “and that evil witch, Feenie!”
Feenie ran into the National Building first, while Mull followed on her heels. Barrett remained on the landing, holding his wrists out in what appeared to be an admission of guilt, as if he had no intention of defending his actions. Men clamored up the stairs before he had a chance to change his mind. They secured the sheriff’s wrists and led him across the street to the jail, while a bunch of men and women stormed into the National Building after his accomplices.
“You did it.” Gizmo placed a hand on Isaiah’s shoulder. “I can’t believe it, you really did it.”
“We did it,” Isaiah corrected. “But my Grandma was the mastermind.”
“What happens to Galatia now?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care,” Isaiah replied bitterly.
..............................
Isaiah returned to his family’s home a few blocks away from the square. He and his brothers clung to each other for comfort in their shared bedroom, mourning the loss of their father.
Mother was in the next room, weeping with his sisters—all except Allison, the huntress, who sat on a kitchen chair facing the front door, gun cocked at-the-ready. Isaiah wanted to stay up to defend the family, but he was just too spent.
The rest of the household fell into a deep black slumber.
Early in the morning, he awoke to the mournful sound of a thousand voices rising and falling like a Gregorian chant. He thought he must be dreaming about that crystal sword again, the one that had been singing his name since boyhood. Stealing a peek through the edge of the curtain, he saw the faint golden glow of sunrise crowning over the mountains, but the upper part of the sky was still stained in darkness. A man’s baritone voice carried over the city, sending an involuntary shiver through Isaiah.
“Have mercy on us, O God, according to your unfailing love.”
Thousands of voices sang in response, “According to your great compassion, blot out our transgressions. Wash away all our iniquity and cleanse us from our sins. For we know our transgressions, and our sin is always before us. Against you, you only, have we sinned, and done what is evil in your sight.”
A river of sparkling lights flowed toward the house. It took Isaiah and his younger brothers a moment to realize they were candle flames, carried by thousands of Galatians walking in procession through the streets. Dressed in black, they carried 3 x 5 note cards like hymnbooks. The procession, composed of men and women, people of every age, stopped in front of the house, circling around it. The man at the head of the procession was Father Bob. He sang the lead once again. “Create in us pure hearts, O God, and renew a steadfast spirit within us.”
“What’s happening?” Isaiah’s youngest brother asked. “Are they coming to kill us like they did Daddy?”
“I don’t-- I don’t know.”
As he looked out the window, he spotted Barrett among the chanters, handcuffed, but still managing to hold a lit candle. The fucker. There was no sign of Feenie or Magus. May they rot in hell.
Dr. Steelsun was there. God bless him for having defended Isaiah’s father. There was Luke Steelsun and Belle. Despite his previous animosity toward them as a couple, they had defended him against the mob last night. For that he was grateful.
“There’s Uncle Mike,” his brother cried, and Isaiah spotted the large scruffy guy in blue jeans, the shaggy yellow beard. Thank goodness, because after last night, Isaiah worried that the evil trio might have murdered him as well.
“Deliver us from the guilt of bloodshed, O God, you who are God our Savior, and our tongues will sing of your righteousness.”
Mother burst through the bedroom door, face streaked with tears, but excited. “Get dressed. They’re going to try to retrieve your father from the pit!”
“There’s no way he’s alive,” Isaiah said, not wanting to feed his siblings false hope.
“I know,” Mother replied. “But at least we can give him a proper burial.”
“They’ll never reach him. It’s too deep.”
“Even so, we have try.”
“I don’t want to go anywhere with those bastards,” Isaiah shouted, spittle flying. “I hate them! I hate Galatia!”
“Don’t say that!” Mother raised her voice, uncharacteristically vehement. “Your father gave everything he had for Galatia. He loved her with everything he had. Now get dressed and get your butt out there!”
Feeling like a whipped dog, Isaiah lowered his head and did as his mother asked. His family followed at the back of the line as thousands of people marched slowly toward the pit. Many of them were pouring dirt on their heads.
“That is so weird,” his youngest brother commented.
“What are they singing?” Allison asked. “It’s pretty, but
I’ve never heard it before.”
“It’s Psalm 51,” Mother said, “written by a king named David, in atonement for his sins.”
“What kind of sin?” Isaiah asked.
“The murder of an innocent man.”
The air was cold. Isaiah no longer had his jacket because the animals had torn it off of him, so he had taken his father’s flannel shirt from the hook on the way out. When he turned up the collar, he could smell his father’s scent—Irish Spring—the bunker had been loaded with it and lots of bars had made it out of the fire. Dad would have loved seeing his cynical people praying together as one. The lump in Isaiah’s throat widened. Fresh tears of frustration formed in his eyes as the crowd spread out around the mouth that had swallowed his father whole.
A couple of volunteers were lowered down into the abyss on extra long ropes, but they each reported that they had reached the end of the line with no sign of Red or the bottom in sight.
Luke Steelsun walked to the edge of the hole and held up his gun.
“In honor of the late great Red Wakeland, who asked us to give up our guns, and trust in a higher power—I offer you to the Mouth of God this day.” He kissed the black steel and then let go. Everyone watched as it fell into the darkness.
Allison stepped up to do the same.
Another hunter followed suit, and then another, and another.
A shower of guns rained down into the pit.
“There weren’t enough guns and ammo to save us anyway. Might as well,” Nathan said with a deep sigh. He peered over the edge of the pit and let his own gun fall into it. “Wherever you are, Red One and Red Two. We’ll all be joining you tomorrow.”
“You do not delight in sacrifice,” Father Bob resumed the chant and the people answered. “You do not take pleasure in burnt offerings. Our sacrifice, O God, is our broken spirits; our broken and contrite hearts you, God, will not despise.”
The Galatians went up to the pit in groups, asking Red’s spirit for forgiveness, wishing him peace, saying their good-byes. “May it please you to prosper Galatia,” Father Bob sang, “to build up the walls of our city.”
Isaiah didn’t want to hang around with the people who had killed his father, so he left them at the mouth to seek their forgiveness. The chant faded away as Isaiah returned home with a gaping hole in his heart, feeling a little less hateful, but immersed in a sadness so profound there were no words deep enough to express it.
Chapter Forty-Five
(Michael Penn)
The entire city fasted on nothing but bread and water like Red had asked. In the face of their imminent destruction by the armies outside the wall, instead of chaos and panic, the streets inside of Zena City had grown quiet. It was helpful to have something spiritual to focus on rather than the upcoming battle. On the last night of the fast, which broke at midnight, the men took their positions along the dried-mud wall Barrett had built around the city a few weeks ago. There were no guns left to poke through the openings now, just swords, spears, daggers, stones and courage.
People were looking to me for leadership—but I pointed them to Veronica Albright and Simon Steelsun. Neither one of them wanted the job either, but I felt they were vastly more competent than me. The three of us were digging through the contents of Red’s office, hoping to discover Red’s battle playbook, but all we found was a book of spells that the warlock had left behind.
“Burn it,” Simon suggested.
As I continued to sift through my brother’s desk, I opened the bottom drawer and accidently pulled out the whole thing. Hidden beneath the drawer was a Mead notebook with a few notes written in felt-tip pen.
I handed it over to Simon. He set it on the desk and flipped through the pages.
Underneath the words ‘Battle Plan’ were a couple of bible verses Red had copied down:
Luke 9:32-34 For he shall be delivered unto the Gentiles, and shall be mocked, and spitefully entreated, and spitted on: And they shall scourge him, and put him to death: and the third day he shall rise again. And they understood none of these things: and this saying was hid from them, neither knew they the things which were spoken.
Veronica took the time to flip through the entire notebook, making sure they hadn’t missed anything, but the remaining pages were blank. “Not helpful, Red Junior,” she said, giving a nervous laugh. “I never understood your brother, but now that he’s gone I really miss him.”
“Red had a way about him,” Simon commented. “I’m a natural cynic, but his strong faith opened me to the possibility that there’s someone up there watching over us.”
“My brother was not of this world,” I said, the ache in my chest growing deeper. “Is it any wonder he didn’t stay long?”
Too much tragedy had dried up the well of tears early in my youth, so I no longer had the ability to cry. My shoulders slumped. I sat down in Red’s chair and hung my head in my hands. Veronica rubbed my shoulders, while the doctor blew his nose into a handkerchief. I glanced downward, noticing Red’s map of the city placed beneath a tempered piece of glass. He had written Seeker of the Four Winds? and circled it with an arrow pointing southward. That prompted me to recall an experience I had while imprisoned in the interrogation room.
Lifting my head, I said excitedly, “I had another dream about your missing children.”
Simon’s Adam’s apple bobbed. Veronica froze in place as if she were about to fall off a cliff.
“Is Josie okay?” Veronica gulped.
“My son—is he well?” Simon said simultaneously.
“Yes and yes.”
“And the other members of the mission?” Dr. Steelsun asked.
“Everyone looks healthy enough, but I didn’t see Hogard on the boat.”
“Boat?” they both asked, pulling up chairs in front of the desk, and hurling a billion questions at me.
I told them everything I had seen in my vision, down to the detail of their children’s clothing—golden armor—that Red’s squad was traveling up the river on a Viking-like vessel manned by large one-eyed humanoids.
“Did they have the other half of the Blood Map?” Steelsun leaned forward to ask, fingers gripping the edge of the desk.
“That I didn’t see, but they were in a big hurry to get here. So it’s possible.”
As we were sitting there, the Earth rumbled beneath our feet. The bust of Abraham Lincoln, pens, pencils, windows and every knickknack vibrated and rattled. I stood up, arms splayed over the desk for balance. Dr. Steelsun ran to the window and exclaimed, “Steam and light are coming out of the Mouth of God!”
“I knew it,” Veronica said in alarm. “We’ve built the city around a volcano!”
“No,” the doctor said in a slow and ponderous tone. “This is something different.”
Chapter Forty-Six
(Isaiah Wakeland)
According to Uncle Mike, nobody knew if Aunt Feenie and her coven had gotten past the armies camped along Galatia’s borders, but magic users were a cunning bunch. So, probably yes.
After the procession, the traitor sheriff had been returned to his jail cell. Now that Feenie had left town, it was as if a fog had lifted from Barrett’s mind. The would-be king was inconsolable over the part he had played in his brother’s death. Guards were placed on suicide watch. Uncle Mike said he felt sorry for him—almost. Isaiah hoped that Barrett would succeed in killing himself and save the Galatians the hassle.
Not everyone in the video had been identified, but minus Bryce, those who had been were missing in action, presumed to have fled with Feenie and Mull. Isaiah hadn’t forgotten how Bryce had risked his own life to save him, but he was glad about his capture. As far as Isaiah was concerned, both uncles were dead to him.
Armed with a flimsy Sliven sword, he joined Galatia’s army at his assigned spot next to the earthen wall. There were many familiar faces there. When he saw Luke among them, he mumbled a civil hello. Up until last night, Isaiah had hated Luke for dating Belle. But knowing they were going to fight togeth
er, and probably die together, solidified them as allies. He peered through a gun turret. Soldiers covered Galatia’s outlying meadows and farmland like a plague of locusts. Sliding his back down the wall to sit on the ground, he sighed, “There’s just so many of them.”
“Yep,” Luke replied. “We’re all gonna die, but at least we’ll go out with honor—not under the leadership of a slut, a traitor, and a crazy warlock. Thanks to you and Gizmo.”
As the Galatian soldiers whispered in the trenches, the Earth began to shake. Pebbles bounced along the ground. The mud wall Barrett had built with his charisma began to vibrate. When the shaking stopped, it remained standing, but a web of cracks had formed before their eyes. Shouts of panic went down the line of guards posted along the wall’s perimeter.
“You ever get the feeling someone up there is trying to kill us?” Luke asked. His casual attitude baffled Isaiah, but he managed to play along.
“Yep,” Isaiah replied. “Sure do.”
He peered through the turret again. The Bulwarks were bustling back in forth in a tizzy from the quake. He had heard they were superstitious about the weather and natural disasters. Good. He hoped they were shitting in their burlap trousers. A single drum began to pound in the distance like the waking heart of a fierce dragon. Glancing at the yellow glow growing over the curve of the dark land, he knew that an unwelcome new dawn would be breaking within the hour.
Lacy Steelsun came running down along the perimeter. The ever-snarky girl with the long dark hair had been the youngest member of Isaiah’s foraging unit, so she had become more than an acquaintance.
“Lacy,” Luke said, “the stretcher bearers are supposed to wait behind the front line.”
“I know that.” She rolled eyes like he was the dumbest person in Galatia. “But I’m not here to talk to the likes of you. Dad sent me to fetch Isaiah.”
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