by Nichols, TJ
“It’s fine. I’ll take my turn at the edge.” He didn’t need more enemies, but he wanted so badly to be warm. People were already grumbling. “I’m being hanged tomorrow anyway.” The words felt odd on his tongue. Should he be more worried about that? He glanced down. If he were really being hanged, would it be better to lie down and freeze and cheat the warlocks of his death?
“The guards won’t let you lie down, if that’s what you’re thinking. They like you nice and alive,” Leif said.
The huddle parted, and Leif nudged him forward. “Go on. Take it while you can.”
Angus edged through to the middle, apologizing as he went.
“You’re lucky, you know. We try to give those who know they’re about to get the noose some middle time,” a woman said.
People shushed her.
Those in the middle were lying down sleeping, but they looked dead. They were thin and pale and bony.
But it was warm in the center, and the breeze didn’t chew at him. “Thank you.”
He sat and rested his head on his knees.
He was woken later by the cold snap of wind on his face as the huddle fell apart. Food was being thrown onto what had once been the grassed oval. He knew he should get some, but he couldn’t be bothered to fight for a share when there wasn’t enough anyway. It had been so long since he’d eaten that his stomach had given up.
People ran back to their huddle, food cradled like babies—limp carrots, dark moldy bread, and raw meat. The guards were giving them shitty food just for fun. The magic churned within him, scouring his veins but unable to get out. His nails cut into his palms.
Leif put his hand on his forearm. “They’re already watching you. Don’t give them a reason to come down and give you something special.”
Angus accepted the offered bread and half a carrot from another. They were sacrificing for him because they’d heard of him. He wanted to tell them that there was hope, but if he spoke, the desperate whispers would reach the guards. So he stayed silent, ate the rubbery carrot, and forced down the bread. He’d need the energy tomorrow.
After he’d eaten he After he’d eaten, he tried to bring feeling back to his feet by rubbing them. Some of the others had shoes, but no one had coats. “If they want us alive, then why not put us in a proper prison and feed us properly?”
Leif laughed. “You’re funny. The prisons are full, and we’re eating much the same as everyone else. Where the fuck have you been?”
“Mayan Empire and Demonside.”
“Well you picked a shit of a time to come home, son.”
Yeah. He should’ve done something months earlier. He was positively fat compared to some. While they’d been eating whatever they could, he’d gobbled down tortillas stuffed with meat and vegetable on both sides of the void. “What happens at night?”
“They turn on the lights, and we keep our huddle going.”
“Why not one big huddle?”
“Too hard to rotate.”
The huddle formed up after people had eaten and relieved themselves around the edges of the field without any words being spoken. Angus took a place somewhere in the middle, despite being offered a place in the center.
“Tell us about Demonside. The desert and the demons,” someone said.
“Yes. We want to hear the story from you.”
“Is it all true? Did you really live with demons?”
“Are you a demon?”
“Um….” Where did he even start? What had people been saying about him? He thought for a moment and then decided to tell them the truth—all of it—especially about the heat of the red desert and the scent of the marketplace when he first arrived. This time he’d add all the details, the parts he’d left out for the WCD. “Well, I was one of those people who got snatched and taken to Demonside the first time I summoned a demon. Saka is his name. He’s a mage.”
And he was waiting. The whole of Demonside was waiting.
Chapter Forty-Two
It was barely dawn when Angus was summoned by the guards. The huddle had released him and said goodbye. People cried and hugged him as though he were a beloved family member, when all he’d done was tell them a story. He’d slept a little during the night, and eaten a handful of snow for breakfast. His feet, that had been kindly wrapped in rags, were icy and painful.
The guards made him walk through the campus on footpaths slick with ice. The cold chewed on his bones, and he missed the warmth of his fellow criminals. His skin was tight, and the scars ached. He wished for the heat of the demons’ hands on his skin. He could almost imagine it. He shivered as he walked, and each breath cut his lungs.
When he hadn’t been talking or sleeping, he’d been running through what he needed to do. If Terrance wasn’t there, he was going to swing like any other traitor. They wouldn’t uncuff him, of that he was sure. Fear made every step harder. He didn’t want to do this.
Why had no one talked him out of it?
But if he didn’t try, who would? All those people who were waiting in the cold would die. The friends he’d made in one night didn’t deserve to be hanged for speaking the truth. How many more were in similar stadiums hoping to freeze to death instead of being hanged?
He tried to swallow, but it was like the stale bread had become caught in his throat.
He stumbled on numb feet and the guard let him fall. The concrete path bit into his hands and knees, and the toes on his lame foot were hot from stubbing. He sucked in a couple of shaky breaths as blood warmed his palms.
“Get up.” The guard nudged him with his gun, and Angus scrambled up as best he could before the guard could kick or hit him with the stock.
They got moving again. His toes hurt, and he didn’t want to hobble, but with the cuffs and his foot, it was easier and faster. Did he want to hurry up and get it done or slow down and enjoy what could be his last few moments?
The sky was bright blue, the air crisp and cold. There were crows in the trees talking harshly to each other. There was no other life that he could see. The trees were sticks waiting for spring, and the building and parks where students had gathered were empty and silent. The bushes that created little nooks had been removed. The place was a hollow shell of what it had been.
He sighed, and his breath clouded. Every minute he spent outside he was dying. His body was cooling. How long did he have before he got hypothermia? He’d never worried about it. He’d looked up heatstroke and desert survival, but surviving the cold had never really been an issue. He wished he’d asked more questions in the huddle. But they’d wanted to hear him talk… they wanted hope.
A frown formed as he realized where they were going, and he glanced around to be sure of his landmarks now that everything looked a little different. But he was certain. They were going toward the woods where the students practiced growing their trees and summoning demons.
A flock of large black birds—not crows, they were far bigger than that—lifted out of the trees as they got closer, and as they got nearer he smelled something. There was a sickly rotting on the air, and the trees were malformed. He squinted and stared, his brain not wanting to process the truth.
There was nothing wrong with the trees. It was what hung from them that changed their shape. Bodies dangled from the branches. Some were more complete, others were being pulled apart by vultures.
Hot bile rose in his throat. How many bodies were there? How many had fallen when their necks gave way and were now beneath the snow?
The guard gave him a nudge forward. “Traitors’ forest. Reminds the students to behave.”
Shit… they were still bringing kids to the woods and teaching them to be warlocks. He was still a first-year student. Or was it now summer break? Summer with snow.
It was all fucked-up.
His feet didn’t want to move. The guard nudged him again, harder this time, and Angus stumbled forward and stubbed the toe of his good foot on the ground. Heat and pain flooded through the numbness, and he bit back the curses and
huffed out several quick breaths. Each one clouded before him.
There were people waiting beneath a tree—for him, he realized. This was it. But he’d stopped shivering. And maybe he wasn’t as cold. Was that because he was dying or because fear was warming him up? He couldn’t worry about his body. He needed to think about the magic—magic that he couldn’t do because he was still wearing the cuffs.
His breathing became quicker, and he couldn’t slow it. He wanted to run… but he’d get a bullet in the back, and then his traitor’s hanging.
The people waiting didn’t even glance at the bodies in the trees, because they were the ones who’d put them there. How many people had been hanged?
While there wasn’t a body in every tree, their yellow clothing made them stand out against the dark trunks, and the breeze gave them life and rocked them. Branches creaked, and bones whistled, and the whole place felt wrong.
Several warlocks were bundled up against the cold. There were half a dozen armed guards in case he tried to run, though he was still shackled and half dead from the cold. His stomach cramped. He wanted to hunch up, curl up, and hide.
He wanted to go back to those few days when he’d been safe and happy. There had been a few. Hadn’t there? He gathered them close—the moments when he was studying magic and Terrance was in his bed, when Saka was teaching him and showing him how to raise magic, when he was walking with the tribe and healing their wounds, the night they grew crops.
Was Miniti’s tribe still alive or had they succumbed to the desert?
The day he first summoned a demon and met Saka—that was a good day. He hadn’t realized how Saka would turn his life around and how beautiful magic could be.
He closed his eyes and tried to imagine these woods as they had been that first day. For a moment he remembered his uncertainty and how he’d tried not to summon a demon. And then Saka took him across the void. At the time he wouldn’t have said it was a good day, but it had been the best. It was the day he woke up.
He opened his eyes. He could do this. He had to.
The guard forced him forward, toward a cluster of people around a tree. A man threw a rope over a branch where a box was already set up underneath. Angus slowed. They were ready for him so soon?
The guards brought Angus closer, and the cluster of people stepped back. It wasn’t for him. There was another man in yellow. He stepped up onto the box and faced Angus. It was Reece.
“No.”
Reece couldn’t speak because of the gag. The guard put the noose over his head. Angus lurched forward, and the guards let him hobble closer. There was nothing he could do, but he kept trying to run toward Reece. “No.” But no one listened to him.
How had they gotten Reece? When? Had they been on the same boat? In the same stadium? Or had Reece been working with them all along and this was punishment for his failure?
The guard kicked the box away, and Reece flinched and jerked and struggled. With his cuffed hands, he scrabbled at the rope as his face darkened. Angus stopped and stood rooted to the spot like one of the trees.
It was forever and a heartbeat until Reece went still.
He’d be next. All thoughts of magic and stopping the warlocks scattered. It was all Angus could do to breathe and not collapse.
The guard hauled the body higher and tied off the rope—one more person denied their cremation and left for the vultures.
His heart was beating too fast, and his body was too numb. Angus didn’t want to die like that. He had to stop these people or at least burn up trying. It was the warlocks who should be hanging in dishonorable death, not those who stood up to them.
Where was Terrance?
The guards grabbed Angus’s arms and hauled him forward. The murder of warlocks looked like black-clad crows hiding among the corpses. They turned to face him, their eyes too bright, lit with zeal.
The hangman grinned and picked up another rope. Despite the cold, heat raced up Angus’s spine. He shuddered and tried to step back, but the guards held him firmly in place.
The hangman walked to the tree next to the one Reece was in and threw the rope over the branch with a skill that revealed far too much practice. Angus didn’t want to think about the number of people who’d died there.
Angus’s heart fluttered like a dying butterfly trying one more time to get off the ground. He drew in a breath. “No. Not that tree. I want one I grew.”
Angus turned away to look for one of the trees he made with Saka. He didn’t want to die at all, but he wasn’t going to die randomly.
“What does it matter what tree?” the warlock in charge asked.
“The magic has burned his brain,” came a familiar voice.
Angus glanced over his shoulder. For the briefest moment, Terrance held his gaze. Then he looked away. He was nice and warm in his woolen cap, scarf, and coat. Angus narrowed his eyes.
In that moment he hated Terrance as much as he loved him. He wanted to run over and ask him how well he slept and what he’d eaten now that he was back in favor. He settled for glaring and muttering under his breath the few Mayan swear words he’d picked up.
“Find your tree,” the female warlock said. “It will make it more fitting.”
He didn’t want to do anything that would make her happy. But he wasn’t ready for it to happen. Was Saka ready? What if he weren’t? Had it been five days? His mind raced and tripped over itself as it tried to find its way. He’d be celebrating back in Demonside soon. It was like his time in the desert—keep moving and eventually he’d be there. But so much could go wrong.
He wanted to talk to Terrance. Shouldn’t he be asking why? If he were really being betrayed he’d want to know. Even this show for the warlocks hurt him.
Angus shuffled away to look for his tree, and the guards followed close by, as though they expected him to vanish. The snow and mud soaked through the thin wrappings on his feet. He couldn’t feel them unless he stubbed them. Blood spotted the front of his pants from where he’d grazed his knees, and his palms were raw. None of it would matter soon either way.
He’d grown several trees here, and he didn’t care which one he found, but it had to be one of his. He glanced around to get his bearings and saw the twisted one that someone else had grown in that first class. Its loop was distinctive, and his tree, tall and straight, was to his right. He put his palm on it, glad that no other body had defiled it.
The guards kept pace and encircled him. Good. Let them make the circle.
The hangman grumbled about giving prisoners extra rights and special treatment.
“Are we ready to broadcast?” asked the female warlock as others set up a camera and microphone.
His death was going to be live to the people of Vinland and anyone else watching. At least Cadmael would know what was going on. His stomach twisted as he watched the preparations.
The hangman gave the noose a tug. “All ready, sir. Let’s hope it doesn’t chafe your fine neck.”
Angus pressed his lips together as the box was brought over. He was not climbing onto the box. If he got up there and had his head in the noose, it was too late.
The camera guy gave the warlocks a signal, and Terrance looked like he was going to throw up. If Angus had more food in his belly, he might actually have done that. Instead he stood shaking with cold and fear. His hands were blue and blotchy, so he made fists and released them repeatedly. He needed to move and wanted to act, but it was still too soon. He wished they’d hurry the fuck up, because he was tired of waiting and being hungry and cold.
Sometime in the next few minutes he’d either be alive and victorious or just another hanged traitor and a warning to others. But it would be over, and he could say he tried, which was more than others had done.
“Warlock Angus Donohue. You are charged with—”
“I’m not a warlock.” They were being broadcast, and he wanted people to know the truth and to remember. “I’m a mage.”
A guard stepped forward and hit him in the fac
e with the muzzle of his gun. Angus staggered back as blood filled his mouth where his teeth had cut his tongue and cheek.
“Warlock Donohue.”
“Mage Angus,” he corrected. “I will never be a warlock. Let that title be reserved for those who misuse magic.”
The guard raised his gun again.
“He needs to be able to talk. To confess,” the woman said.
“You admit to consorting with demons?” The man who was asking the questions kept going.
“I’m a mage. Of course I consort with demons.” Hot blood ran down his chin. The heat was almost worth the pain.
The warlock signaled, and a guard hit him again, this time on the back. Heat flared and spread through the split skin and cramped muscles, bringing them back to life. He had the first thing he needed in the battle—something no warlock would ever consider.
They never used their own blood.
Chapter Forty-Three
Terrance fisted his hands in his coat pockets and winced every time Angus was struck. Why didn’t he shut the fuck up? He wanted to yell at Angus, but he bit his own tongue until he tasted blood.
He had to watch silently, like he didn’t give a shit. The warlocks were waiting for him to break and do something. Now he understood why Angus had ripped the whip from the warlock’s hand even though Terrance wanted him to be passive. Angus hadn’t been able to watch. Terrance tried not to gasp or make a sound as metal hit flesh again. The gloves stopped his nails from cutting his palms. No one there truly trusted him, and he’d end up in a tree if things went badly. But for the moment, they wanted him there. He’d disabled the dampener they’d put on him. Now it was just a strip of plastic around his wrist.
Maybe the warlocks were desperate to believe that they still had people on their side. What Terrance had seen since he’d been back—which wasn’t much—was that people obeyed out of fear. They didn’t believe in the cause, and they probably never had. What was the point of becoming the most powerful magical country in the world when half the population hated you and the other half was dying of starvation?