Brink (The Ruin Saga Book 2)

by Harry Manners

  Everyone glanced around at one another, their faces blank.

  It’s like they’re hoping a grand solution is going to leap from the ether and dance before them.

  Alexander continued. “For now, we’re safe here. But as you know only too well, we cannot leave, and London is now a gauntlet. Just gathering here has cost us … we’ve lost friends.” He cleared his throat, his eyes flitting to the empty chairs. “We haven’t much time.”

  Evelyn nodded. “First order of address: the hostiles that have emerged in the wake of winter’s peak.”

  The room’s attention narrowed. Now they were getting somewhere.

  She gestured to the room. “None among us are unaffected by this scourge. At the rate the threat is growing we, our allies, and all future hope for our way of life, face extinction. Already, they have destroyed many of the outer baronies. The web we’ve woven is coming undone.”

  “It’s all so much smoking char,” Oppenheimer growled.

  Murmurs of acknowledgement and anger filled the room.

  Alexander broke in. “New Canterbury bore the brunt of the earliest attacks. We’ve been dealing with them for weeks.”

  A grumble. Everyone turned to Rush, the Bristol ambassador, a harried red-faced man with a bird’s nest rim of hair surrounding a bald sunburned crown. Over a hundred had set out as part of his convoy. Less than a dozen had survived. His piggy little eyes were haunted. “Where did they come from?”

  Alexander shook his head. “No telling. One day one of our scavenging parties came across starving refugees by the coast, larger than any group we’d seen for months. On End Day we found a man beaten half to death on the edge of New Canterbury. He told us about others close by, watching the city. He didn’t survive. The one who brought him in, Rayford Hubble, was murdered soon after.” He paused. “To my knowledge, that was first blood.”

  Everybody looked around. There were no objections.

  “They started this,” Marek called from the forward rows. “Animals. Yellow cowards. That’s all this is, a mob of criminals.” He was on his feet, stocky shoulders bunched.

  Evelyn waved him be seated.

  He hovered a moment, but relented under her imperious glare, grumbling.

  Oppenheimer, looking frail and red-eyed, spoke in a near whisper. “He’s right. They’re thugs. They are just using all this hunger and sickness to hit us while we’re down. That’s how it’s done in the North: no leader, no plan, just blood and taking. Power changes hands like the tides up there.” He had been hunched over like a wounded animal, but now he unfurled in a fit of decrepit rage.

  His voice swelled like a kettle approaching the boil. “There can’t be more than a few dozen of those cowards. They’re preying on fear, but pitched against what we can bring to bear, they’re nothing.” He stabbed the bench with a skeletal finger. “We take our guard and a dozen other able-bodied, full armour and combat armament. We’ll hunt them down like rats and end this.”

  The other councillors visibly tensed.

  “He shouldn’t be up there,” Richard muttered. “He’s in pieces. Emotionally involved.”

  Allie huffed in mock laughter. “Everyone’s emotionally involved.”

  “Look at the poor old goat. He’s in tears.”

  “He has every right to be. So do most of them. Oppenenheimer looks like he’s about to snap.”

  “And Agatha … look at her. She doesn’t even know where she is.” He sounded dismayed. “This is cruel. She should be back home.”

  Allie grunted. “Along with the rest of us.”

  “Quiet,” Norman said.

  They glanced at him and fell silent.

  Evelyn was speaking in a placating tone. “Mr Oppenheimer, we all appreciate you’ve experienced a loss, but I beg you keep composed.”

  Though soothing and quiet, her voice could have cut glass. But Oppenheimer was heedless.

  “I’ve stood in their valleys. They’re using low-calibre rounds, single-shot rifles. Old things, probably relics that in the Old Times fired nothing but buckshot. Bunch of vultures looking to chip away at all we’ve built until there’s nothing left—we’ve stood for it long enough. Let us end this, now!” His voice built to a throaty old-man bellow toward the end, and the chambers rang with its echo for several moments, leaving an awkward silence in its wake. His face streamed with tears.

  Nobody broke the silence. All eyes once again settled on Alexander.

  He spoke after laying a hand on Oppenheimer’s shoulder for a long, measured moment. It was enough to bring the old man’s tirade to an end. “If that were so, Geoffrey, we would be out there right now. You have my word on it. But it is not so. Yesterday, we discovered the hideout from which they launched their attacks on New Canterbury. Cleared out, abandoned, but enough to give us plenty of information.

  “They’re slavers. Wherever they go, they pick up the strong and those they can use as leverage. The rest, they kill, and then they burn everything. If they have that kind of power, they number far greater than the dozens. There are hundreds at the very least. With slave labour to swell their ranks, we may be facing an army of thousands.”

  “Thousands?” Rush hissed. “There’s been no such force since the End. We can’t face something like that!”

  “Let him finish,” Thompson croaked, her froggy eyes bulging. “I would hear the rest, Mr Cain.”

  Alex nodded his thanks. “They’ve been scattered, razing the weakest settlements. Now they’re moving on to cities, still in small groups, relying on guerrilla strikes. But if they want to challenge us, then they’ll need to regroup. Then, we’ll see what we’re really up against.”

  “Like I said, a handful of nuts,” Oppenheimer cried.

  Alexander’s face tensed. “Maybe you’re right. But if I’m right, we could put a weapon in the hands of every man, woman, and child, and still they’d wash over us like floodwaters over a pebble.”

  “How sure are we of all this?” Thompson said.

  In answer, Alexander drew the crowd’s attention to the front of the crowd, close to Marek. From the masses ambled John DeGray, his rotund figure casting an apple-bellied shadow across the far wall. Grey and grizzled, encumbered by an armful of documents and dusty notes, his ruddy face looked upon the room with professorial dignity.

  He cleared his throat and pushed his glasses along the bridge of his nose, completing the picture.

  Norman felt his heart sink. This was Alexander’s comforting authority figure?

  He was a scholar in a warzone.

  The chambers slithered with unsettled shuffling. Only Richard looked stoic; when John started speaking, the young student leaned forward, enraptured.

  Norman couldn’t help thinking it would be a long time before John DeGray surrendered his black king chess piece to his sole student.

  “The council’s reckoning is sound. The numbers support the stated estimates. According to our records, the British populations stood between fifteen and twenty-five thousand. In the wake of the famine, an optimistic estimate may be ten thousand, maybe less.”

  “Then all this talk of a slavering horde of thousands must be so much blither,” Thompson cried. She gave a titter, bristling in indignation, as though the whole summit were nothing but a waste of her time. “We know nothing of the rest of the world. For all we know, Britain alone still harbours life. If this is true … it would mean the majority of the known surviving human race stands against us!”

  “Yes, it would,” Alexander said, his eyes glittering jewels.

  The exasperated smile on Thompson’s face wilted.

  The room erupted into a rumbling hubbub, and it was some time before the council even tried to restore order.

  After looking out across the bobbing heads a long while, Norman became aware of Allison’s hand clutched in his own, cold and clammy.

  “Nothing like an old-school lecture to hammer home the facts of life, shit and all,” Richard said bitterly. Suddenly, he didn’t sound half as enthused.<
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  *

  A thud sent dozens jumping in their seats. Agatha’s hand had slammed down on the bench, her misty gaze suddenly sharp, yet confused and angry. “Malverston can’t ge’ away wi’this. We have to move against him, now! For the sake of the mission!” She blinked and her face softened, looking around at her fellow councillors. “Oh, my … you’re all so old,” she muttered. She sounded hurt and afraid.

  Alexander rested a hand over hers and leaned in close. They whispered in collusion a while, and her shoulders relaxed some.

  “Who’s Malverston?” Allie said.

  Norman shrugged as Alexander returned his gaze to the crowd.

  Agatha looked lost and sad, like a child lost in a vast bustling crowd. But soon that milky stare had returned, and she was gone again.

  The room shifted, everyone uncomfortable in their own skins.

  Thompson called them to silence. “What else do we know about them?”

  Alexander gestured to DeGray.

  John looked startled, cleared his throat and flipped a page or two in his chart. “Well,” he said finally, “not a whole lot.”

  “What about weathering the siege?”

  “Communications will be our greatest problem. We may stand a chance of relying on our reserves for weeks, if not months, but our respective homes … they will have to take it upon themselves to organise a defence.”

  Norman felt a twinge of unease as he thought of New Canterbury. All they had was Robert and Sarah. How would they cope with being charged with the fates of eight hundred? Worse, eight hundred accustomed to being led by the great Alexander Cain.

  Robert was a silent type, a protector, not a politician.

  A scowl emanated from Richard’s direction.

  “Looks like DeGray’s lecture is getting cut short,” Allie said.

  Marek was on his feet again. “All this talk of cowering in the dirt is giving me a gut ache,” he snarled. Beside DeGray’s soft flabby form, Marek looked stark and primal. “Grow some balls, the lot of you. We need to talk offence.”

  Richard tutted as forlorn cries of “well said” and “hear, hear!” rose from the crowd. An obsequious grimace crossed his face, as though feeling his master’s embarrassment for himself.

  He really thinks all this is just academic, Norman thought. As if the two of them can ride it out on the sidelines like Old World reporters. This war’s going to steamroll him flat.

  “The council does not recognise unelected speakers,” Evelyn hissed.

  “Enough with all this posturing, you crooked old fools!” Marek bellowed. “We’ve got our backs to the wall, our friends are being burned alive, and you’re playing dress-up with your noses in the air. Get your heads out of your arses, and let’s talk brass tacks!”

  The room was struck rigid, the low murmur frozen out of the air.

  A muscle jumped in Alexander’s jaw.

  Norman winced despite himself. For any emotion to show on Alexander’s face at all meant below roiled a great ocean of fury.

  All we have left are appearances. This veil of normalcy, of officialdom. And Marek just shot it to hell.

  The silence stretched on a beat too long, as stark reality rained down upon them. Norman saw something else entirely before him now: a bunch of scared idiots pretending to be something they would never be: a nation, kindred—

  Then, a throaty roar akin to a lion’s rose from the rear of the room. “Brass tacks it is, then!”

  The heavy doors had been thrust ajar, and a small group of men stood in the doorway, framing a skeletal, ancient man with a goatee that came down to his chest, and the beaten barrel of an old hunting rifle slung over his back. He looked too fragile to bear its weight, but his back was unbowed, and his eyes twinkled with the fire of a much younger man.

  The chambers fell quiet in an instant. Alexander rose to his feet and hurried from the bench, abandoning his magisterial dignity. Despite the ugly atmosphere, a warm smile dominated his face.

  He embraced the twig-like shadow of a man at the rear of the chambers. Many in the crowd rose to their feet, craning their necks, mouths ajar.

  “Finally,” Norman said.

  Trust the old bastard to leave it to the eleventh hour to poke his head in.

  “Who is that?” Allie said.

  Evelyn spoke over them all, answering for him. Even her icy tone had melted some. “The council recognises Sir Oliver Farringdon of London.”

  “Handle’s been ‘Lincoln’ since the Big Curtain, if it pleases the council,” the old man growled. He sported sideburns and a grizzled shock of white hair to complete the King of the Jungle appearance. His voice was tired but hearty, in an ‘I’ve been through this a thousand times and I mean to go on a thousand more’ kind of comfortable familiarity.

  “Give him a top hat, and he’d look like the Abe, himself,” Richard said, awed.

  “That’s the joke, honey,” Allie said.

  Evelyn’s voice had sprouted a tone of grudging fondness beneath its icy veneer. “The council recognises Mr Lincoln.” She paused.

  Jesus, it’s almost like she’s got something caught in her throat. Her, of all people.

  “We had word you and your party were stranded at City Airport. We …”

  “Struck me off, dear madam?” He gave a bark of laughter, a sound that almost picked Norman up off his seat. “Nonsense. It’ll take more than a few shield-beating natives to take me down.”

  Alexander had yet to take his hands from the old man’s shoulders. They spoke in hushed tones, but the silence in the chambers was now so deep that everyone could hear.

  “Good timing.”

  “Looks like it. Impeccable as ever, if I do say so myself. What did you do, sing ‘Gloomy Sunday’? You know you can’t hold a C-sharp for shit.”

  They were walking down the aisle, flanked by Lincoln’s companions. They were heading for the raised circle before the bench, carrying something wrapped in a thick blanket.

  It seemed the chambers could have quieted no further, yet they did just that; milky-eyed Agatha had stumbled from the bench. Having sat through the proceedings in near silence, staring up at the dust motes dancing in the sunbeams, she now made a beeline for the men by the door. There were tears in her eyes.

  Lincoln approached her with solemn grace, and bowed deeply. He took her hand and kissed it. “My lady,” he muttered.

  She giggled like a schoolgirl. “Ye old dog,” she said. She didn’t sound more than eleven years old.

  Lincoln straightened and turned to Alexander. “You’ve been taking care of our good mother, I trust?”

  “I’m forgettin’, Oliver,” Agatha said. A change had come over her, a brief clearing of the clouds. “But I’m still in here.” She blinked tearfully, taking no notice of the crowd. “I probably don’t have long … It’s good to see you.”

  “And you, my lady.”

  The mission’s three original councillors, together again.

  Norman swallowed. An immovable lump had lodged in his throat.

  They had raised him after his parents died, that night he got the scar on his forehead. He’d lost his memory of his mother and father, in any case. These three were all he’d ever had.

  Before he knew it, he was on his feet. He heard Allie’s protests only distantly, passing through the crowd as though in a dream. He didn’t even bother with his cane; the pain in his ribs was dull and distant. The crowd’s stares glanced off him, failing to penetrate.

  So this is what it’s like to be one of them.

  They spotted him from afar, and the same expression shone from each of their faces: relief.

  They must think I’m stepping forward to meet my great destiny. Rising up at the last minute, and all that. Why not? Let them have it.

  A voice in the back of his mind cleared its throat. Isn’t that exactly what you’re doing? Like it or not, you’re involved now.

  “My boy!” Lincoln cried, gripping him with his iron-hard workman’s hands.

 
; “I … I … you’re all here,” Norman said.

  “Always, darlin’.” Agatha smiled, caressing his arm. “Must be damn awful, seein’ me every day and knowin’ I don’t see you back. For the both o’ you.” She glanced at Alexander.

  They said nothing, didn’t need to. Norman’s chest ached.

  Lincoln was looking around expectantly, searching the crowd. “Lucian?”

  Norman shook his head. “They have him.”

  Lincoln’s brow furrowed, but his lip twisted in a smouldering grin. “Well I’m not weeping yet. If anyone’s going to pull a miracle out of his arse, it’s that one.” He turned to his men, who were lowering their strange load onto the ground. “Shall we?” He gestured to the bench.

  Norman smiled and made to return to his seat. But before he could take a step, he was jerked back. Looking down, he found three hands clasped around his arm.

  “Where d’you think you’re goin’, sugar?” Agatha said.

  “Now’s your time, stud. Great destiny, and all that,” Lincoln growled.

  Alexander said nothing. His eyes said it all.

  Norman felt himself nodding. What choice was there?

  They headed back to the bench. Norman took a seat beside Lincoln, both of them to Alexander’s left. With two more chairs filled, the councillors’ bench didn’t look quite so bare. He tried not to wonder whose seat he was sitting in right now—were they trapped, or rotting somewhere out in the city?

  He kept his eyes resolutely on the table, trying to ignore the pressure of hundreds of stares from the audience.

  Cross your fingers for me, Allie. This could go badly.

  Lincoln grumbled as he eased himself down, laying his rifle down on the bench with a reverberating clatter.

  “How did you get here, Mr Lincoln?” Evelyn said.

  Lincoln clapped his hands together and rubbed vigorously. “Well we were pinned down over at City Airport, just like you said,” he roared. “And, boy, they didn’t want us there. Rounds going over our heads every other second. I thought we’d be blue and bloated by sundown.”

  His companions, who were all young dirty men, had stepped back from the package and stepped to the side. They were wiry and strong, gaunt-faced and stoic, but there was no hiding their exhaustion. Each of them was liberally covered with odd scrapes and bruises, charred by hot shrapnel, and half-blinded by dirt.