The Ruins [Book 2]

by T. W. Piperbrook

  Bray knew that was true. He looked over his shoulder, catching sight of flashing metal and men and women carrying them. The guns from Kirby's settlement had armed about two thirds of Enoch's soldiers. Most carried the larger, long guns she called rifles, while some carried the smaller weapons she called pistols. The soldiers with guns carried spare ammunition in their bags or at their sides. A good number of men had fired the weapons, but some knew them better than others, and none were as proficient as Kirby, Bray figured.

  Enoch had equipped her with a rifle, as well as her pistol. Bray had his gun, his new sword, and his knife. Both had extra ammunition, and Kirby had two grenades. The soldiers would switch to their other weapons when they could no longer use the guns.

  Bray looked at the pistol holstered at his side. Kirby had given him explicit instructions on its use, and he'd even fired it several times outside the Halifax settlement. Still, he didn't feel as confident as he'd like.

  "I wish I had some more practice with the gun," he told Kirby, who noticed his gaze.

  "To waste more ammunition would be foolish, as I said," she instructed, not for the first time. "You will get plenty of practice once the battle begins. Remember what I told you. Fire after you have exhaled, if you have to aim carefully, and prepare for the weapon to kick back at you." Kirby watched him.

  "I will do what I have to." Bray gave a firm nod.

  They marched through the forest, taking a more direct route than the one Bray remembered, when they'd made that first trip to Halifax and they were trying to keep a buffer from the islands.

  The forest around them was mostly quiet, though occasionally they encountered a few demons. Enoch's soldiers waited until they got close, then disposed of them with quick slices from their blades, or the occasional arrow, which they retrieved. Some of the conversation died down as they marched farther, traveling over several hills and across a stream, splashing through the ankle-deep water. Watching his horse trod through that shallow stream, Bray was hit with a memory of spinning and twisting in the river—a river he would have to cross again soon.

  He couldn't help having some trepidation for the plan they'd solidified at Halifax. He'd be splitting off from Kirby with a large group of Enoch's men, leading them to cross the river on the eastern side of the island, hopefully not to their deaths.

  Leaning over to Kirby, he asked, not for the first time, "Are you sure you are comfortable riding with Flora?"

  Kirby paused. "After what she's done, I didn't think I could trust her again. But I heard the sincerity in her words when she spoke about her father, and when she talked about Deacon. I believe her."

  Bray nodded. "So do I."

  Kirby looked down at the horse.

  "Are you still worried about how they will react to so many gunshots?" Bray asked.

  "It was good we took them in the forest this morning while we practiced. They are fighting horses, used to battle and noise, as you've told me, but the gunshots still make them jittery."

  "At least the gunfire isn't new to them, having survived the battle of Brighton," Bray said.

  "True. Even so, I suspect it will be a challenge, as most of this battle will be."

  They kept marching as dusk set in, making the trees above them look like tall skeletons, shaking their arm-like branches in the cold wind. A full moon took its place in the sky. The rustle of small, scared animals turned into the hoots of night owls and the flutter of bat wings. Prepared for the coming of night, the soldiers took out torches, lit them, and continued marching. When they got close to the islands, they would douse them.

  There would be no rest tonight.

  Before the sun rose, they would fight.

  Chapter 62: Kirby

  Kirby scanned the trees as she rode on her horse next to Bray. Enoch and Samron walked beside them. It felt as if they'd been riding and marching for much longer than most of a night. The full moon hung high in the sky, illuminating the shallow snow in which they had been walking, providing enough light to see by, unless they were underneath the cover of thick trees. The full moon would serve them well as they battled on the bridge.

  The soldiers marching behind them had fallen into a quiet, determined resolve. Several times, they'd been so quiet that Kirby had turned around, verifying that she hadn't somehow lost a tail of three hundred men and women. But they were there, steaming the air with their breath and scanning the trees in the moonlight, underneath their torches. They'd encountered a few more mutants, but they hadn't lost anyone. The cold stung their cheeks, and froze their fingers.

  A few times, Kirby saw the soldiers looking at the bright moon, moving their lips soundlessly as they prayed to whatever deity they believed in. Kirby had ceased such prayers a long while ago. She wanted to believe in the golden palaces in the sky, but she was jaded. Too many times, she'd asked for help for her people, only to see them fall to violence.

  Still, the Halifax people were humble. She respected them more than she thought she would, when she'd first encountered those two men in New Hope, stealing her people's things. She'd never expected she would fight alongside them.

  The Halifax soldiers reminded her of some of the people she'd fought alongside back home, men and women who were above complaint, with no reason to boast as they went to battle. Empty words of courage would do nothing against swords, knives, and the men who swung them.

  Enoch turned and said to her, "We have waited many years for this night."

  Kirby said, "Bray has told me the stories of your people. You have suffered an injustice. I understand your anger."

  "And we have done an injustice against you," Enoch said, lowering his eyes as he prepared some words that seemed as if they'd been weighing on him. Tapping the holstered gun at his side, he told her, "We carry your people's weapons into a war that is not yours. And yet you have not asked for them."

  "Would you give them back, if I did?" Kirby said, a smile appearing on her face.

  "We are headed into a war. I think it is the wrong time." Enoch smiled, but it still seemed as if he was feeling guilty.

  "It is not a thing we need to discuss, at the moment."

  Enoch looked as if he had something else to say. Instead, he said simply, "I am grateful for what you've done, and what you will do."

  "You are welcome. You do not have to say more."

  She guided her horse alongside Enoch as they continued on. Bray had been for the most part silent, a rarity she wasn't used to. She looked over at him, grateful to be alongside him again, if only for a last march before battle.

  A while later, Enoch raised his hands, bringing the marching army to a halt as they watched him underneath their burning torches, their faces tired, but with the same determination they'd had at Halifax.

  Enoch gave some orders. His voice echoed through the field as he spoke in a manner that most would hear, or pass along to the others. A few of the soldiers wiped their eyes. Some gave each other last, meaningful looks. When Enoch was finished speaking, some of the Halifax men and women hugged. Long, marching rows of soldiers became two groups as they divided into separate masses, and fifteen others headed for Kirby.

  Samron took the lead of one of the large groups.

  Enoch took the other.

  An aura of finality washed over the group as a few of the fifteen men brought Flora toward the horses.

  "Time to split up," Kirby said, glancing over at Bray on his steed.

  "Take care of my horses," said Bray, dismounting.

  Kirby smiled. "They are my horses now, remember?"

  "Only two of them," Bray corrected her. "And we haven't decided which."

  Kirby looked as if she might be quelling some nervousness. "Perhaps you will find the last horse when you find William."

  "That is my hope, as well."

  Several men escorted Flora to Bray's horse, interrupting what Kirby hoped weren't the last words she'd speak with Bray. Flora's face was filled with nervousness as she mounted the horse and took the reins.

&n
bsp; "When the battle is over, I will help you find William, if you haven't already," Flora told him.

  "Thank you," he said simply.

  Enoch and Samron walked over to join them, solemn expressions on their faces as they went over final plans.

  To Bray, Samron said, "We will douse our torches at the top of the mountain, on the other side of the islands. The full moon will provide enough lighting to approach without them. But we will have to be careful traveling down the slippery slope. If the patrols spot us approaching the islands, our surprise will be gone. We will take out as many patrols as we are able, before getting as close as we can to the bridge from on the islands."

  "For my part, I will march hard through the night with my one hundred and fifty men to reach the bridge," Enoch said. "We will arrive well before dawn and get into position. Once Kirby and Flora provide the distraction at the western entrance, my men will attack. Bray, Samron, your men will be the reinforcements from the center of the island." Motioning to Kirby and Flora, he added, "You will have fifteen men to help you. That should be enough to sneak through the trees and down the road with you as you ride on the horses. We will be waiting for your signal."

  "I understand," Kirby said.

  "May The Holy One bless you in battle, friend," Enoch said to Samron, wrapping him in a tight hug.

  "He will," Samron said firmly. "Today is the day we reclaim our lands. Today is the day the people of The Arches fall."

  Letting go of Samron, Enoch turned to one of his soldiers, who held several torches. He handed them to Kirby and Flora. "Make sure you hold these as you approach. These will be a signal to us that you are coming, and to the island soldiers, who will be expecting you at the bridge. Hopefully they will lower their guard."

  "I understand," Kirby said.

  "I will give the signal to the guards, as well," Flora said. "As we discussed, I will make them think we are safe."

  Enoch looked at Flora, looking as if he were deciding something. Finally, he said, "I have something more to give to you."

  He motioned to another man with two scabbarded swords, who walked up, giving a curt nod as he pulled one of the blades from his side and held it up. Surprise lit Flora's face as he handed it to her.

  "I will not send you into a battle with empty hands," Enoch said. "I am not a cruel leader, like Deacon. My hope is that your word will mean more than your people's."

  Flora took the blade gratefully, sliding it into her empty scabbard. "Thank you," she said. "I swear by the gods, I will keep true to it."

  "I believe you." Turning to Kirby, Enoch said, "May The Holy One bless you."

  Kirby paused for a moment before she spoke some words that had failed her too many times. Seeing the hopeful look on Enoch's face, she said, "May He bless you, too. We will see you on the bridge."

  She gave a final glance to Bray as he walked off with Samron, and then she was alone with Flora and fifteen men.

  Chapter 63: Bray

  Moonlight shone through the tops of the overhanging boughs as Bray, Samron, and a hundred and fifty Halifax men descended the mountain overlooking the islands, fighting the pull of the slippery slope and stuffing their boots into the snow with each step. Bray's breath steamed the cold, night air as snow found its way into his boots. He could barely feel his hands; a bitter wind stung his face.

  He recalled his altercation with Flora, and the fall he'd taken. Another slide like that might not prove as lucky. His wounds still stung from that incident.

  Samron breathed heavily right behind him. The other soldiers traveled with only the occasional grunt or gasp. Bray stared down the slope, hoping for a glimpse of the river, but they were too high up. He could see only the shadows of the trees in the immediate area, and the snow beneath them.

  A muffled cry drew Bray's attention behind him.

  He spun.

  Someone slid down the snow and past him.

  Another man shouted as he darted to save his friend, sending more snow sliding in a small, white avalanche. Bray lunged, taking a step, planting his feet and grabbing the falling man's jacket, holding him in place as snow cascaded down the banks. The man dug his nails into the incline, avoiding what might've been a worse fall.

  Bray gasped in relief.

  Grumbling what might've been a thank you, the man found his footing and fell back in line next to his friend.

  Bray got back in the lead.

  The men continued their descent, going a little slower than before. They followed the slope of the mountain for what felt like miles, but was surely less, until the muscles in Bray's legs were sore and his cheeks were raw from the cold. Several times, they reached a precipice that felt like the end, but the slope kept descending. Eventually, the ground leveled out and Bray heard the river flowing ahead of them. Finding a burst of strength, he walked faster. Samron took up next to him as they approached the rocky, root-covered riverbank where he'd almost died. The sweeping, murky water looked black under the full moon.

  Bray stared across the river. He saw nothing further than the water in front of him; no lights in the distance. He couldn't tell for certain where they were, but he needed to guess.

  "This way," he said, heading downstream.

  The others followed him along the riverbank, catching their breath from the treacherous descent off the mountain. Doubt grew in Bray's mind as they walked further without finding what he was looking for. Half-frozen mud stuck to the snow on his boots. He saw nothing familiar. No landmarks. No fallen tree. They might as well have descended the mountain into some other land, far from The Arches. Looking right, across the dark, flowing river, he saw no clues.

  Where was the fallen tree?

  What if they were going the wrong way? He couldn't help picturing the worst scenario: Kirby and Flora arriving at the bridge alone, Enoch's men starting the battle without them. Victory was uncertain already, but they would definitely lose with half the men, against so many in The Arches. They walked faster, and Bray stepped over some tree roots that threatened to trip him, inadvertently allowing Samron to take the lead.

  Relief washed over Bray as Samron hissed, "Is that the tree?"

  Catching up, Bray spotted the enormous, fallen oak. The tree looked even larger in the moonlight than it had during the day. He walked farther down the riverbank, looking for the spot where he'd fought the demon, until he found the silhouette of the dead, twisted man. The reek of decay hit his nose.

  "This is where I washed up," Bray said.

  Leading them to the other side of the tree, Bray hesitated as he put a foot in the dark, treacherous water. He recalled spinning and turning, reaching out for something to hold as he ingested the foul, dirty water, struggling to breathe.

  And here he was, about to enter the river again.

  "Stay close to one another," Bray whispered behind him.

  Samron relayed the message to the closest soldiers, who spread it to the others.

  And then he was walking deeper into the water.

  Cold wrapped around his boots as Bray waded deeper into the current and it spat and foamed around him. He looked down at the dark water, as if something might emerge from below and grab him. The water felt like a living being, climbing up his boots and getting higher; ready to claim his life by either sweeping him away, or taking him with its chill. Bray kept going, forcing one boot in front of the other, until the water was up to his knees and he was still slogging. Samron waded next to him, quietly splashing as he fought the rising river. Bray looked over his shoulder, watching a line of silent figures moving in rows behind him. Not one of them complained about the cold. One hundred and fifty lives rode on his guess about the river.

  The raging water could harm them in ways that men with swords couldn't. The river was an enemy that pulled you under and robbed you of air. Even the toughest of men would drown if they lost their footing and couldn't get up.

  They waded through the river as it quietly rose.

  Bray looked far ahead of them, waiting for cri
es from the opposite bank. At any moment, patrolling soldiers might creep through the forest and notice them, or worse, run in the opposite direction, warning others that a large group of men approached in the moonlight. Their plan might fail before it started.

  The water reached his waist. The river was even more frigid than he remembered, soaking through his clothes and clamping on to him. He heard a few soldiers holding their breath as they waded deeper. Bray pulled his legs through a current that seemed as if it was getting stronger. They weren't yet halfway across the river. A fear became a truth—the water was getting deeper.

  They might have split off from the others for nothing.

  They'd never reach the bridge, or the others.

  Bray stumbled over something underwater, nearly losing his footing, and bumping Samron hard. Samron splashed the water loudly—too loudly. Bray reached over, certain he'd knocked his companion under, but Samron was there.

  Bray looked behind him, fearing others might trip, but the men made progress. A few soldiers contended with rocks underfoot, or sticks protruding from the river. But none had tripped. Some held their long guns at shoulder-level, keeping them above water, or protecting their bows.

  Samron kept going until the water was halfway up his stomach, getting close to his chest. He held his gun high above his head, whispering something that might've been a curse, or a plea.

  A miracle happened.

  The cold, murky river, which had been at his waistline a moment before, got shallower. He churned through the water faster, energized at the prospect of getting out and onto the bank as some of the cold left him.

  Bray's guess had been right. They'd almost made it to the island.

  Samron waded several steps ahead of him, making his way toward a riverbank that was mostly an outline under the moonlight, in front of the trees. And then Samron was on the banks, dripping water. He didn't need to speak the words for Bray to know what he was thinking.

  The river felt like a foe they had defeated.