The Ruins [Book 2]

by T. W. Piperbrook

  "Sir?" The man looked as if he might get to his feet, or start in another direction.

  "One of our brothers died in a battle with the Savages last week because of you," Deacon said.

  Fear and confusion lit the soldier's face as he understood what was coming. "I have lived my life in service to The Arches. I have always obeyed the gods. I fight bravely."

  "Your sword is among the slowest," Deacon said.

  The soldier looked from Deacon, to Jonas, to his comrades, as if someone might step in on his behalf. No one did. "My wife and child will have no one, if I am gone," he protested.

  "We will make sure they are taken care of," Deacon said. "As always."

  The soldier's face twisted as a fear turned into a plea. "Please reconsider."

  He stood and took a step toward Deacon, imploring him, but Deacon held up a raised palm. The soldier continued groveling at a distance, but he might as well have been speaking in a foreign tongue. No one was listening. No one would help. The attention in the yard switched from the soldier to Kirby as they waited for the enactment of the order. She felt a pit of dread deeper than before. The soldier turned, directing his pleas toward her.

  "Please," he said to her, staring at the foreign weapons on her back and in her holster. "You can't do this. I am not ready for the gods."

  "Use one of your guns on him," Deacon said simply. "I don't care which."

  It was an order, not a request.

  Kirby shook her head as she looked at the begging man. All at once, she was back in the arena, staring at one of the infected men or women across from her, trying to turn her fear into a rage that would keep her alive. She'd killed too many.

  "I won't shoot him," she said resolutely. "You will have to kill me first."

  "Then William will know it was your choice that he died," Deacon said. "I will make sure those are the last words he hears, before the knife cuts his throat. Or maybe I will make it slow, so he can scream your name."

  Kirby pulled her pistol, her hand shaking with anger, as she looked from Deacon, to the soldier, who was holding up his hands to block whatever was coming. Nausea spread in her stomach. She'd raided, she'd pillaged; she'd even fought men who tried to kill her with bare hands. But shooting a man without a weapon in his hand was something else.

  He was a soldier, complicit in taking William, and who knew what else.

  She tried convincing herself he deserved death, but she couldn't know that for sure. She was trying to rationalize an unjustifiable action. Staring into the soldier's pleading face, Kirby knew she couldn't shoot him.

  "He is unarmed," she said, reaching for an argument. "It is an affront to the gods to kill him in this manner."

  "Then have him pull his sword," Deacon said, waving an impatient hand. To the soldier, he said, "Do it!"

  "But, sir—"

  "Do it!" Deacon barked again.

  The soldier's hands trembled as he reached for the flat blade at his side. He looked at Deacon, refusing to meet Kirby's eyes. Kirby saw a fear in his face that was unlike anything she'd seen these men wear. It was the fear of an unknown death, perhaps even more terrifying in its strangeness.

  "Run at her!" Deacon told the man.

  The soldier looked as if he might vomit, but he charged. Kirby barely had time to react before the man was running, forcing a grimace of anger as he raised his sword. Her finger froze.

  I can't do this.

  She fired.

  The man dropped to the ground, shrieking in pain as his sword hit the dirt. He lay on his side, clutching his ankle. A rage took over her unlike any she'd known.

  "Are you finished?" she screamed, her hand shaking on the gun as she appraised Deacon. "Or would you have me shoot another?"

  Deacon didn't answer. He looked from the gun to the wounded, screaming soldier, to her. He smiled.

  "You didn't tell me to kill him," she spat, before he could say something else. "You told me to use my gun. A demonstration."

  Deacon shook his head. "Incredible," he said.

  Jonas, Heinrich, and Ruben watched in awe.

  "The guns are every bit as powerful as I'd hoped." Deacon's smile was plastered to his face.

  Absent an order, Kirby lowered her gun. Jonas crept toward the downed soldier. He knelt next to the man, prying his hands from the wound as he inspected the acorn-sized, bloodied hole.

  "My ankle!" the soldier managed between screams.

  Kirby fought a pit of nausea in her stomach as she watched Jonas's curious face. They would have to pin her down, hold her finger on the trigger, and force her to fire again. She wouldn't do it.

  "Unbelievable," Jonas said. "It appears the piece of metal might still be in there. Does that always happen?" He looked at Kirby.

  She stared at him with a seething hatred, but wouldn't answer. She looked back at Deacon.

  His smile had faded into a determination. She looked into his placid, emotionless eyes. He was the monster screaming for her opponent's blood in the audience of the arena, taking joy from every rip, every tear of skin. He was worse than the mutants that roamed the forests. He was a monster wrapped in a human's untainted skin. She should've known him for what he was. She'd made a mistake in coming to the second island.

  "Get him a healer," Deacon said to Jonas, the smile fading. "When that's done, leave for the settlement."

  Jonas looked from the wounded soldier to Deacon. "What about her guns?"

  Deacon stared at Kirby. "She will give me the guns and show me how to use them."

  "I will not," Kirby said defiantly.

  "You will do it, or William will die," he said plainly.

  Kirby looked from the screaming, wounded soldier to Deacon. She knew he wasn't lying.

  "At least leave me one of them," she tried. "I will need it to help protect your men. That will ensure our safe travels while we bring back the other guns."

  Deacon stared at her with an expression she couldn't read. She held the pistol in her hand, unsure what she would do if he said no.

  Making a decision, he said, "If any one of these men dies while you are in the wild, expect the same result for William. I will make sure his screams are many times louder than this man's."

  Kirby tossed the pistol in the dirt near him.

  "I want the larger one," Deacon said with a smile. "You keep the other."

  Kirby retrieved the pistol and handed over the long gun, disgustedly.

  "Should we search her for more?"

  "These are all I have," Kirby said, smoothing down her jacket.

  "What about in your bag?" Jonas asked.

  "I will give you the ammunition for the long gun, which is in my bag. But if you come near me, please know I will kill you." She stared at Deacon with a stone face.

  Deacon watched her, but he didn't press the issue further. He'd won.

  Jonas smirked. "You can show me how the small gun works in the wild," he said, his expression sickening her. "We'll have plenty of time, while we share a horse."

  Chapter 26: Bray

  Bray froze at the touch of the cold blade on his neck. He shifted his eyes as he tried to glimpse whomever had caught up to him. The voice was familiar. It was a woman's. Crouching in the snow, his blade in his hand, he considered one of many risky options. He needed to act in a way that might save him from getting killed.

  But he'd try talking first.

  "You've caught—"

  "Quiet!" the woman demanded in a shaky voice. "Throw the knife!"

  Flora.

  The blade wobbled on his neck. Bray shifted, trying to catch a glimpse of whom he thought he had identified, but he couldn't see past the sword at his throat. He looked down the steep, snow-covered bank, filled with brush and trees. Whether this woman was Flora or not, she was going to kill him. He could sense it. He'd been in enough similar situations to know by her tone.

  In a slow, exaggerated movement, he turned his wrist, as if he might throw his blade.

  Something crunched the snow nearby.
It sounded like a small animal, but he couldn't tell.

  The blade retreated from his neck, not far, but just enough as the woman looked behind her. He didn't care what else was coming.

  Bray threw himself down the hill.

  He pitched sideways down the steep, snow-covered slope.

  The woman chased him, screaming his name. He stuck his arms over his head as he simultaneously tried to keep his knife and avoid stabbing himself. His body screamed from the pain of new and old wounds. His ribs flared from the impact of hidden, snow-covered rocks as he tried unsuccessfully to stop. He'd escaped the sword. But he might break his neck as he fell. The steep, snowy mountain had overridden his plan. He feared a branch protruding from the snow might impale him. Eventually, he struck a tree with a thud.

  He stopped.

  A last burst of pain jolted through him. His eyes were trying to close, but he couldn't let them.

  He forced himself to keep conscious as he looked for his assailant.

  The woman kept sliding, stopping herself a few feet past the tree. Bray forced himself upright just as she rounded the the tree trunk, screaming, her sword swinging. Bray ducked in time to miss her blade. Metal clashed against bark. It was definitely Flora.

  Bray had no time to connect the thought. He lunged at her knees, tackling her to the snow. Flora cried out as she writhed underneath him, kicking and fighting. Her blade slipped from her grasp and slid down the slippery slope and away. Bray tried pinning her, but she got up a knee, catching him in the groin. Robbed of wind, he let go of his knife. He latched onto her wrists. She struggled to get out of his grip, managing to get one hand free.

  She threw something in his eyes.

  Bray clutched his face, his eyes stinging with dirty snow as angry fists battered his body. Unable to see, he lashed out blindly, connecting with something. Flora cried out and stopped hitting him. His vision returned as Bray struggled to his feet, finding Flora a few feet away on her side. Blood stained the snow around her. He took a staggering step. He'd killed women before, but only when they'd forced his hand.

  Flora turned to look at him, rage in her eyes, blood dripping from her already-broken nose. She leapt. Bray tried avoiding her, but she snagged onto his leg and took him to the ground. The snow gave way beneath them. All at once they were falling again, twisting and turning, fighting for a control that neither of them had as they slid further down the slope. Flora screamed in anger and clutched onto Bray. Bray tried prying her off. Hot blood splashed his face. He could no longer tell whose.

  They crashed through a patch of thorny thicket and kept rolling, skidding down a slope that seemed to get icier the farther they went. A burst of pain hit Bray as his shoulder clipped a tree. Flora shrieked and tugged on his hair. They landed on a flat part of the slope. Bray grunted as he lost his wind and they rolled, disentangling.

  The world fell silent, save some cascading snow that rolled behind them.

  Sun streamed down on Bray's face, burning his eyes. He blinked, tried to get up, and failed. Pain shot through his body as he turned his head and caught a glimpse of Flora, who was lying on her back ten feet away, unmoving.

  Snapped her neck, maybe.

  Or maybe she was unconscious.

  Bray closed his eyes, taking a moment to register if he'd broken anything. He'd taken spills down slippery slopes before. His body might take a while to show pain. A broken leg would be the equivalent of a death sentence in the wild. Even an arm would put him in a worse situation than he was in. Crunching snow drew his attention.

  He opened his eyes to find Flora on her feet and standing over him, a look in her eyes that showed she hadn't forgotten him. Her pants were torn. Blood stained her clothing and gushed from her nose. She held a knife in her hand.

  His knife.

  Dammit.

  Bray rolled, avoiding a stab, and pushed off the snow, thanking the gods that his limbs worked. He managed to get onto his feet in time to avoid another slice. Bray dodged, grabbing the wrist of Flora's hand that held the knife, subduing her, prompting an enraged cry. Bloody spit sprayed from her lips. She fought against his grip, lashing out with her feet and kicking him repeatedly in the shins, trying to get her knife arm free, but Bray kept his hold.

  Giving up on her knife hand, she swung with her other fist, catching him in the side of the head.

  Bray absorbed the blow, reaching for her other wrist, failing. She landed a few more blows before Bray threw her backward, sending her on her butt. Bray closed in, but she hadn't been through as much as he had. She was quicker. She leapt to her feet, slashing the knife through the air and forcing him to keep his distance.

  Bray gritted his teeth.

  "We saved you," he told her as he caught his breath. "Did you forget that, you ungrateful wretch?"

  Flora slashed the air.

  "We should've left you for dead," Bray spat.

  Another slash.

  "I came for your scalp," she said, the first words she'd spoken since putting the sword to his neck. "You should've died in that river."

  Flora's eyes blazed as she stared at him, but he thought he saw hesitation. Was she forcing an emotion? Before he could read into it, she swiped the air again. She feinted for him, causing him to step back. Bray hit an icy patch.

  He slipped.

  All the sudden he was on the ground, and she was on top of him. He grabbed for her hands, but she spit in his face. Bray held up his hands to protect himself, but the knife was already hovering above him, aimed at his forehead. Flora screamed, the cry of a huntress finishing off prey.

  A voice barked something he didn't understand.

  The blade remained in the air.

  Flora stared past Bray at something else in the forest.

  He turned his head, unable to hide his shock. Six men with markings on their heads held guns on him and Flora, shouting.

  Chapter 27: Kirby

  Thoughts of revenge consumed Kirby as she rode on the back of the horse with Jonas, a horse he'd insisted on steering, even though he hadn't ridden in a while. He seemed to pick it up with ease.

  The wounded soldier's screams echoed in her mind. She wanted to pull her pistol, aim it at the back of Jonas's greasy head, and squeeze the trigger. She wanted to fire rounds into each of the other filthy pigs, Heinrich and Ruben, who had watched their comrade fall without a care. After they toppled from the horse, she'd trample them with Blackthorn's hooves.

  Then she'd go back for Deacon.

  She'd been forced to hurt a man without reason. She'd done a thing she'd promised she'd never do, once she set foot in New Hope. Her old land was an ocean away, and she'd left her old masters behind, and yet it felt as if she were someone's slave again, killing and wounding in the name of a deceptive, pleasant-faced monster, a man who would just as soon kill her as look at her, and probably would, whenever he decided he was through with her and William.

  Heinrich and Ruben rode in front, leading the way as they crossed the wooden bridge onto the first island. Jonas steered with arrogant confidence, and she sat on back, a prisoner shackled by the blood of an innocent boy. William would be killed, if she didn't obey and keep these men alive.

  "Bray's dead, isn't he," she spat at Jonas. It was a statement as much as a question.

  Jonas turned, a half-smirk on his face. "Would the answer affect your decision to help us?"

  He chuckled. That was all the answer she needed. Bray had been dead the moment he went out with those hunters. She knew it. She felt a sadness she couldn't quite process seeping through her anger as she pictured the last moments they'd spent together.

  He'd told her to look out for William.

  She'd failed.

  She recalled the chance encounter that had brought them together in the wild, all those days ago. They'd been combative at first, and she'd tried to steal his horses. But things had changed after that. He'd taught her to ride, and they'd relentlessly pursued William together. Even when the odds were against them, they'd found Willi
am and kept him safe for as long as they could.

  Bray was a brave fighter.

  No one deserved a death in the woods, underneath the disrespectful spit of enemies, if he'd even made it that far. These sons of bitches had killed him without mercy.

  She wanted to avenge him, and take these men's lives. But she knew that was a fool's hope. She'd be lucky to get William off the island alive.

  "We'll follow the path of the horses, once we leave The Arches," Jonas called over his shoulder. "But if you have ideas as to a quicker way to get there, it is in your best interest to tell us."

  "Four nights," Kirby said. "I heard what Deacon said."

  **

  After crossing the bridge leading out of The Arches and riding the road for a while, Kirby found the long, curving trail that cut a path between some mountains, where they'd ridden the horses with Flora several days earlier. She pointed out the tracks to the anxious riders, who followed them up the gentle slope. They seemed eager to get to the settlement, to pillage the rest of her peoples' things.

  She noticed Heinrich and Ruben's horse strode unevenly, wagging its head every so often. It looked as if it was adjusting to the new riders, or perhaps it was nervous. She wondered if the horses could sense that Bray was gone. She didn't know enough about the intelligent animals to make a guess.

  They crested the hill, following the tracks as the sun rose higher in the sky, glancing off the snow. Kirby looked over her shoulder, viewing the road and the river, cutting through the landscape and leading to the place where William must be detained and scared, wondering whether she'd return. He'd started recovering from his illness in time to face a new kind of hell. These people had made no promises about his condition.

  She couldn't rid herself of a plaguing thought.

  What if he were already dead?

  What if this was a ploy to get what they wanted?

  The terrain curved higher as they reached the top of the mountain and turned north. Once in a while, they lost sight of the horse tracks where Kirby, Bray, William and Flora had ridden on the way in, where some of the snow had melted or a new layer had fallen, but they were able to pick them up. Eventually, they came upon a flatter spot in the mountain, where the ground leveled out. On their left, a wall of rocks, each about the size of a boot, climbed to higher elevations. On the right, thick trees obscured the once-visible river in the distance, far down the slope. Kirby recognized the landmarks from her initial journey.