The Last Conquest: A Dystopian Society in a Post Apocalyptic World
Author: Bobby Adair; T. W. Piperbrook
Date: 2016-12-09 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fiction; Fantasy; Dark Fantasy; Post-Apocalyptic | Dystopian
Description: Haven't started THE LAST SURVIVORS? Get Book 1 FREE at: amazon.com/dp/B00O2PB03U _________________ The Final Battle For Brighton. Winthrop's army is on the move as Jingo and his crew rediscover an ancient secret that might change everyone's fate. Amidst the chaos, Bray vows to fulfill a promise made in the blood of a dying mother. Can the last survivors restore what is left of humanity, or will civilization crumble once again?
Publisher: CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform

Contents

TITLE PAGE

CREDITS

PREFACE

THE LAST SURVIVORS - BOOKS 1, 2, 3, 4, & 5 RECAP

Chapter 1 - William

Chapter 2 - Oliver

Chapter 3 - William

Chapter 4 - Bray

Chapter 5 - Oliver

Chapter 6 - William

Chapter 7 - Bray

Chapter 8 - Oliver

Chapter 9 - William

Chapter 10 - William

Chapter 11 - Bray

Chapter 12 - Oliver

Chapter 13 - William

Chapter 14 - William

Chapter 15 - Bray

Chapter 16 - Fitz

Chapter 17 - Oliver

Chapter 18 - William

Chapter 19 - Oliver

Chapter 20 - Oliver

Chapter 21 - William

Chapter 22 - Winthrop

Chapter 23 - Oliver

Chapter 24 - William

Chapter 25 - Oliver

Chapter 26 - Bray

Chapter 27 - Bray

Chapter 28 - William

Chapter 29 - Oliver

Chapter 30 - Fitz

Chapter 31 - Oliver

Chapter 32 - Fitz

Chapter 33 - Bray

Chapter 34 - Fitz

Chapter 35 - Bray

Chapter 36 - William

Chapter 37 - Jingo

Chapter 38 - Fitz

Chapter 39 - Jingo

Chapter 40 - William

Chapter 41 - Demon

Chapter 42 - Bray

Chapter 43 - Fitz

Chapter 44 - Bray

Chapter 45 - Bray

Chapter 46 - Fitz

Chapter 47 - Fitz

Chapter 48 - Bray

Chapter 49 - Fitz

Chapter 50 - Fitz

Chapter 51 - Bray

Chapter 52 - Fitz

Chapter 53 - Fitz

Chapter 54 - Fitz

Chapter 55 - Bray

Chapter 56 - Oliver

Chapter 57 - Fitz

Chapter 58 - Fitz

Chapter 59 - Fitz

Chapter 60 - Bray

Chapter 61 - Fitz

Chapter 62 - William

Chapter 63 - Bray

Chapter 64 - Fitzgerald

Chapter 65 - William

Chapter 66 - William

Chapter 67 - William

Chapter 68 - William

Chapter 69 - Winthrop

Chapter 70 - William

Chapter 71 - William

Chapter 72 - Oliver

Chapter 73 - Fitz

Chapter 74 - Fitz

Chapter 75 - Oliver

Chapter 76 - Winthrop

Chapter 77 - Fitz

Chapter 78 - Bray

Chapter 79 - Jingo

Chapter 80 - Winthrop

Chapter 81 - Fitz

Chapter 82 - Fitz

Chapter 83 - Fitz

Chapter 84 - Jingo

Chapter 85 - Fitz

Chapter 86 - William

Chapter 87 - Bray

Chapter 88 - Winthrop

Chapter 89 - Fitz

Chapter 90 - Melora

Chapter 91 - Bray

Chapter 92 - William

Chapter 93 - Bray

Chapter 94 - William

Chapter 95 - Bray

Chapter 96 - Fitz

Chapter 97 - Oliver

Chapter 98 - Fitz

Chapter 99 - Fitz

Chapter 100 - William

Chapter 101 - Bray

Chapter 102 - Oliver

Chapter 103 - Bray

Chapter 104 - Fitz

Chapter 105 - Beck

Chapter 106 - Fitz

Chapter 107 - Ivory

Chapter 108 - Fitz

Chapter 109 - Oliver

Chapter 110 - Bray

Final Words

The Ruins Chapter 1 - Bray

Email & Facebook

Other Things To Read

Copyright Info

The Last Conquest

A Dystopian Society in a Post-Apocalyptic World

Book 6 of The Last Survivors Series

By

Bobby Adair & T.W. Piperbrook

Find us at

T.W. Piperbrook
www.twpiperbrook.com
www.facebook.com/twpiperbrook

Bobby Adair
http://www.bobbyadair.com
http://www.facebook.com/BobbyAdairAuthor

©2016 Ancient City Publishing

Cover Design and Layout

Alex Saskalidis, a.k.a. 187designz

Editing & Proofreading

Cathy Moeschet & Kat Kramer-Adair

Technical Consultant

John Cummings

Preface

Welcome to the end.

You've reached the final book of THE LAST SURVIVORS, the longest in the series by a quite a bit, and the culmination of 400,000 words, two years worth of work, and a group of characters that Bobby and I have grown fonder of than we anticipated. Thanks SO much for sticking with us through the journey. The fans of this series have been awesome and incredibly patient with us.

I want to thank Bobby for the friendship, the support, and the faith during this project. We took a risk in the beginning, and I'm so happy we did.

For those who want more THE LAST SURVIVORS, I'll be doing a series called THE RUINS, set in the same world and with some of the same characters, taking place immediately after the events in THE LAST SURVIVORS. For more info on that, you can read a sample chapter at the end of the book.

But for now…THE LAST CONQUEST.

Tenbrook and General Blackthorn are dead, but the battle for Brighton isn't over. Winthrop's army is on the move. Jingo and his gang have come across a new discovery. What will be the fate of Brighton? And who will survive?

I won't hold you up any more. Without further ado, here's THE LAST CONQUEST.

-Tyler (T.W.) Piperbrook & Bobby Adair

September 2016

The Last Survivors – Book 1 Recap

Three hundred years after the fall of society, the last fragments of civilization are clinging to life, living in the ruins of the ancient cities in nearly-medieval conditions. Technology has been reduced to legend, monsters roam the forests, and fear reigns supreme. But that is just the beginning.

The wind-borne spores are spreading, disfiguring men and twisting their minds, turning them into creatures that threaten to destroy the townships. Among the townsfolk—the political and the religious—dissension is spreading.

Ella Barrow has discovered that her son is infected with the spore and has spirited him out of Brighton before he can be burned on the pyre. General Blackthorn's soldiers are in pursuit. She has fallen into the company of an unscrupulous Warden named Bray, who for the moment is helping her and her son on the journey.

Minister Beck and his scholars have discovered that through poor management of town resources a famine is inevitable, but Beck is frustrated by his inability to convince the other ministers to do something about it.

Father Winthrop comes to the realization that a council of three ministers led by a brutal General Blackthorn is a form of government that has outlived its ability to rule. His desire to lead a rebellion is growing. He doesn't understand that his pompous, selfish ways have lost the loyalty of his novices Franklin and Oliver, who are unlikely to follow his lead.

Ivory—the son of a man named Muldoon who was taken to the pyre at the last Cleansing—has traveled to the Ancient City where he has met his teacher, an enigmatic man infected by the spore.

The Last Escape – Book 2 Recap

After the massacre in Davenport, Ella, Bray, and William flee into the forest to escape pursuing soldiers while at the same time trying to find Melora, Ella's daughter who might still be alive. William starts to exhibit aberrant behavior due to the spore growing in his body. After a violent encounter with soldiers, Ella, Bray, and William find a disheveled, frightened Melora, clinging to the body of her dead friend.

Ivory learns that his father Muldoon was burned on the pyre on Cleansing Day. Beck, having discovered books on Ivory's person, offers to take Ivory into the Academy as a Scholar if Ivory provides him with more books. Beck believes Ivory has found them in the Ancient City. Confused and disturbed by his father's death, Ivory flees back to the Ancient City to talk to Jingo. He is pursued by the Warden Jeremiah, who Beck has sent after him.

Franklin struggles under Father Winthrop's growing cruelty while he develops a relationship with a girl from The House of Barren Women named Fitzgerald. Fitzgerald later gets caught stealing a priceless relic from Father Winthrop's personal collection, and Franklin steps in to save her from the pyre.

Blackthorn grooms Tenbrook to take his place as the leader of Brighton. Meanwhile, Blackthorn prepares the army to march to the Ancient City for a battle that seems destined to be the death of them all.

Beck and Evan begin to plot to overthrow the government, or to escape west and start anew with a group of educated settlers. They recruit Oliver as a messenger boy, sending him on several errands.  All goes well until Oliver is stopped by a few guards who eventually report back to Father Winthrop. Fed up with Oliver's antics, Winthrop threatens Oliver's life.

The Last Humanity - Book 3 Recap

Father Winthrop forces Franklin to beat Oliver. Franklin reluctantly complies. Initially angry with Franklin, Fitzgerald comes to the realization that Winthrop is evil, and she and Franklin devise a plan to ensure Winthrop goes out with Blackthorn's army.

The plan succeeds, but not without its unexpected outcomes. Franklin becomes the new appointed Bishop, but only after burning Father Nelson in a decision forced on him by Blackthorn. Fitzgerald is brutally attacked by Tenbrook, who agrees to trade political favors in exchange for sexual favors.

Beck and Evan continue their plot to overthrow the Brighton government. Beck is to abscond after the army leaves. Evan is to manage the recruit of insurgents, led by Tommy and Timmy Dunlow. Just before the army leaves, Tommy Dunlow reveals the plan to Tenbrook and gives up Scholar Evan's name. As the newly appointed General of Brighton, Tenbrook swears to uncover the plot and punish all involved.

Ivory escapes the warden Jeremiah and reunites with Jingo in the Ancient City. Ivory tells Jingo about Muldoon's (Ivory's father's) death, and also that Beck has offered to make him a Scholar. Afterward, Jingo gifts Ivory a compound bow and takes him into the Ancient City to reveal a secret. They evade Jeremiah, who finds them, but they escape in Jingo's secret—a sailboat.

Melora bonds with her new family—Ella and William—and Bray, as they travel away from Davenport. William is acting more strangely as he succumbs to the spore. They decide to head to the Ancient City to seek refuge. Bray splits off and heads to Coventry to get supplies. While in Coventry, he realizes he's developed feelings for Ella. He rejoins the group and they reach the Ancient City.

Tired of being abused in Brighton, Oliver decides to flee into the wild. He secures knives, coin, and chainmail to assist in his journey. At the last moment, he decides to go out with the army, with the goal of murdering Father Winthrop.

The Last Command - Book 4 Recap

Oliver heads out with Blackthorn's army, intent on killing Father Winthrop. Winthrop's incoherent babbling is mistaken as god-speak. Over the course of several days, an army of several thousand gathers behind Winthrop and begins killing demons in his name. Winthrop becomes convinced he is a god. His followers brand themselves with the bloodied handprints of the demons and threaten Blackthorn's leadership. Blackthorn leads several bloody battles against the demons while trying to distill the growing threat from Winthrop.

Ivory and Jingo sail away from the Ancient City on Jingo's boat. During the trip, Jingo tells Ivory about the death of his wife and daughter several hundred years earlier at the hands of the infected. Before returning, Ivory and Jingo notice smoke near the Ancient City. Ivory insists they should seek out the source, but Jingo dissuades Ivory with a cryptic warning.

Franklin and Fitzgerald come to terms with the burning of Father Nelson. Fitzgerald's anger flares when she finds out Franklin has let Oliver go out with the army, but Franklin convinces her that Oliver's success in killing Winthrop might ensure his permanence as Bishop.

While trying to sneak a night's rest at the army's camp, Oliver unwittingly runs into Beck, gaining an unlikely ally.

A fall from a horse accelerates Blackthorn's already-failing health. On the eve of the army's final battle, Blackthorn admits his plan to kill the nineteen thousand to Beck. Beck is reluctant to lead the doomed army. As the battle grows fierce, Oliver disguises himself as one of Winthrop's followers and makes an attempt on Winthrop's life, but is unable to follow through with it due to his guilt. Before Beck can rally with the remaining captains, Winthrop, believing Blackthorn is the devil, sneaks into Blackthorn's tent and murders him with his own sword. The remnants of the fractured army engage in a bitter battle while demons continue to attack. Beck and Oliver escape in the fray by jumping in a river.

In an attempt to uncover the plot against him, Tenbrook gathers the names of the two hundred insurgents. He calls in Evan, the purported leader, and pretends to recruit him. A nervous Evan talks with the Dunlows. The Dunlows wait for word from Tenbrook, who cuts off communication with them. Fearing for their lives, the Dunlows to go to Tenbrook, where he reveals he's been torturing their family. Evan, convinced that Oliver is the rat and certain he is about to die, goes to Franklin and Fitzgerald in a last-ditch attempt for help.

Melora, Ella, William, and Bray settle down in the Ancient City. Bray's attempts to get closer to Ella are unsuccessful. William begins sneaking out at night and consorting with demons. Melora discovers his secret and confronts him, but William makes excuses. After catching him a second time, Melora follows him into the Ancient City and loses him in the streets. She is surrounded by demons, but a strange man named Ivory rescues her.

After losing track of Ivory and Jingo in the boat, Jeremiah discovers a secret cache of books and decides to take them back to Brighton and sell them. Before he can enact his plan, he discovers William wandering in the streets. He corners and threatens a scared William, but William kills him when he commands a group of demons to attack.

Franklin's first sermon goes surprising well, but his celebration is cut short by the arrival of Evan, who informs him of the plot against Tenbrook. Franklin, Fitzgerald, and Evan are shocked when Tenbrook calls a sudden meeting with the entire town. In front of all of Brighton, Tenbrook burns the leaders of the revolt, as well as a shocked Evan.

Franklin and Fitzgerald come to the terrifying realization that they are next.

The Last Refuge - Book 5 Recap

After Tenbrook burns Scholar Evan and the insurgents, Franklin and Fitzgerald fear they are next. Rather than waging a violent attack they won't win, they decide to continue building The People's trust through sermons. Fitz begins recruiting women in Brighton, while Franklin prepares a new interpretation of The Word.

Melora bonds with the Ivory, the strange man who rescued her from the demons in the Ancient City. Fascinated by his knowledge and the ancient compound bow, she brings him back to the ruined museum and introduces him to Ella, William, and Bray. Tensions arise as the group decides whether they can trust Ivory. Bray and Ella share a kiss on the steps of the old building, but William discovers them and confides in Melora. They vow to keep an eye on Bray.

Later, Ivory accidentally spots the lump on William's neck. Bray and Ella confront him, leading to a faceoff that ends when Ivory convinces them he isn't a threat. To prove his sincerity, he offers to help William by taking him to a smart demon man named Jingo. On the way to meet Jingo in the tower, the group sees a large army amassing in the streets, killing demons. They flee to the rooftop, where they stumble upon Jingo. Unable to believe Jingo is a smart demon, Bray attempts to kill him, but accidentally kills Ella. Ella's death puts Melora in a rage against Bray, and sends William further into his madness. Bray flees. Melora, William, Ivory, and Jingo escape to the streets to avoid the wild army. They decide to escape in Jingo's boat, but lose William in the process as he joins a group of demons. William orders his demons to attack Melora, Jingo, and Ivory as his mind deteriorates. The others sail away in Jingo's boat, leaving William behind.

Pained at his mistake of killing Ella, Bray returns to bury her. He vows to follow William and try to keep him safe, or at least away from the demons, to try and make amends for it.

Winthrop's army swarms the Ancient City, killing as many demons as they can find. In order to solve the hunger problem, Winthrop decides to have his army feast on the corpses.

After the battle on the hill, Oliver and Beck journey away and to the ocean. They encounter Ivory, Melora, and Jingo, who have been shipwrecked in a storm. Together, they travel onwards, with a tentative destination of Brighton. Jingo tells the group about the fall of the Ancient world, the origin of the spore, and his fading hope for Brighton.

Tenbrook thwarts the efforts of Franklin and Fitzgerald by putting a guideline in place that discourages the residents from attending the sermons. In a countermove, Franklin takes his sermons to the farmer's fields, but Tenbrook finds out and kills the parishioners. Franklin and Fitz take the sermon to the marketplace, theorizing that Tenbrook won't be able to kill everyone in attendance. The sermon is successful.

Later, Tenbrook invites Franklin to his house, where he reveals a secret: Tenbrook has had relations with Fitzgerald. The news creates an enormous rift between Franklin and Fitzgerald. Fitz begins isolating herself with some of the Strong Women—women who were widowed by the burnings, or by Blackthorn's war—Franklin isolates himself in the Sanctuary pews and begins fasting. After a heated standoff in which Fitz condemns the treatment of women by those in Brighton, Fitz and Franklin make amends and organize an enormous sermon in the Sanctuary. Their aim is to gather The People, with the eventual goal of standing up to Tenbrook.

Tenbrook surprises the attendees by storming the Sanctuary and killing Franklin. After beheading the clergy, he burns the Sanctuary to the ground. Homeless and forlorn, Fitz tries to determine a next move. With the encouragement of her friend Ginger, she returns to The House of Barren Women, gathers the support of the women, and kills the abusive Housemother Mary. Together with her Strong Women and the women of The House of Barren Women, Fitzgerald formulates a plan against Tenbrook.

Gathering a thousand women, Fitz and her cohorts seduce Tenbrook and his soldiers in the square, killing Tenbrook, his soldiers, and claiming Blackthorn's house as their own.

While on the way back to Brighton, Oliver, Beck, Ivory, Melora, and Jingo come across a demolished town, a fleet of wrecked ships, and a woman with a piece of Tech Magic no one other than Jingo has seen—a gun.

Chapter 1:  William

William peered out the glassless window of the ancient building, watching the sun set through the cracks of the monoliths that lined the city street. The light cast an amber aura over the dying weeds that snaked through the pocked road, illuminating large chunks of Ancient stone that had fallen from the timeworn buildings, cracked and scattered without pattern. William could no longer see the rats, but he could hear them scurrying between the crevices and searching for carrion that hadn't been claimed during the day.

The towers guarding the decaying streets stood silently, fascinating William every time they caught his eye. They reminded him how much he wanted to learn the Ancient City's secrets. He longed to understand its whispers as he wandered effortlessly through places that men had been too afraid to explore.

But that would have to wait.

A shuffling noise drew his attention to the sixty or so demons behind him, who were fidgeting, scratching, and curiously searching the nooks and crannies deeper in the building. Their silhouettes blended with the growing shadows.

"Quiet," he whispered.

His demons resituated and grew still. William looked out the window at two shirtless men, marked in bloody handprints, talking loudly and slapping one another on the back as they strutted down the street.

In a boisterous voice, more suited for a tavern full of drunks than a ruined city teeming with dangerous demons, one of them told the other, "Our god has led us to another day of victory!"

"I bathe in their blood," said the shorter of the two.

"You could paint yourself in it and never be strong!" The loud one laughed.

"Maybe not, but I'll be immortal."

William glanced behind him. His demons swayed and hissed. They wanted to feed. But he couldn't let them. Not now.

"Wait," he whispered. "It's not safe."

The demons watched him with hungry eyes, but they obeyed.

It'd been days since he'd last seen Melora, Ivory and the strange, twisted man named Jingo. Since then, William's demons had become his family. They slept closely at night to keep one another warm in the winter chill. They hunted together and shared what they killed. None starved among his demon band. They didn't burn one another on the pyre. They didn't murder their kind. None was inferior to the others because of a silly made-up title.

William was above the rest, only because they looked to him for answers and decisions. They understood that he was smart enough to provide for them, even though he was just a boy. To the degree that their simple minds understood the concept, they respected him.

That was something he'd have never found in Brighton, even if he somehow avoided the pyre. The thought of Brighton brought with it the smells of blazing wood and burned flesh, making him want to spit.

William no longer wanted anything to do with Brighton, and he wanted nothing to do with its people.

The demons were his brothers.

Together with his demon band, William had been tracking the strange army for days, following their hardened boot tracks in the mud, skirting around dead human bodies and the carcasses of his new kind. This strange new army out of Brighton was bent on slaughter. They seemed to fight with no discipline, but zealous rage, and they rode their crazed frenzy to victory in every skirmish. They were something to fear.

He needed to find out more about them.

He watched the men wander down the road. They were heading toward the enormous, dome-shaped building that he remembered seeing when he'd first reached the Ancient City. It was about eighty yards away, diagonal from William, set back from the other buildings on the opposite side of the road and separated by a large, overgrown field. The last of the sun's light glanced off the rusted steel girders that curved over the top. Sloped pieces of concrete rose around the building's edges, holding rows of concrete and metal that might've once seated spectators. William had never seen a building as large or as wide, either in Brighton or here. Even in disrepair, the building was remarkable.

He recalled Bray's words. The Ancients used it to play games.

The Wardens call it the Ancient Circle.

Remembering that discussion led William to think about Bray. He hadn't seen Bray since the Warden had killed his mother. William's anger still seethed when he thought of Ella's lifeless, bleeding body. The memories tormented him almost every night, when he was scraping away piles of rubble, trying to clear a place to sleep. During those times, he staved off tears, hating himself for his human frailties.

But days of wandering the Ancient City had given him time to think. Bray had saved William and Ella. He'd protected them when the people of Brighton surely would've killed them.

He'd taught William to track, and he'd helped them find Melora. He'd battled off the soldiers.

Why had Bray killed Ella? William hoped to figure it out in time.

Loud chanting drew his attention back to the dome.

The army was inside.

The entrance to the dome, once protected by glass, was now open, a gaping mouth through the tall sidewall of the Ancient Circle, giving William a view inside. Through the deepening shadows and the orange flame of campfires, William saw the silhouettes of hundreds, some facing one another, talking, perhaps, others squatted around the fires, doing things he couldn't guess. Disturbed, William realized he could see only a small section of the interior.

Within the aging structure, there had to be thousands he couldn't view.

Who was leading them? There was always a leader—at least, that's the way it worked in Brighton. They had to be from Brighton. But William had an unfounded suspicion that nagged at him. What if they were the Ancients, come to reclaim their city? That speculation caused William to look at all of them wildly, fearing they might be using ancient contraptions to track him. But none of the people seemed to be looking in his direction. None were alarmed. They were dressed in clothing that he couldn't imagine the Ancients would show themselves in.

Some of the men were bare-chested. The women wore ragged clothes. Maybe they were an army of settlers. If so, they were larger than any group William had imagined in the wild. The army's chants floated to the building in which he was hiding. He caught pieces of what they were saying, but none of it made sense.

"We are the children of a new god!"

"We will live forever!"

Could these ragged, vicious people truly be immortal?

William needed to learn more, and that meant, as dangerous as it was, he needed to get closer.

But not while there was still light in the sky.

He waited until the sun was finally below the horizon and he could barely see the sword in his hands before he turned to his demons and said, "Come on."

They crept into the street, moving carefully and quietly, using the faint light of the moon to guide them to a smaller building in the middle of the overgrown field, fifty feet away from the Ancient Circle's vast entrance and just big enough to fit them all.

William led them through a back entrance, settled them down, and found a front doorway to perch in. Other than the two soldiers he'd spotted earlier, he didn't see any others outside the Ancient Circle. From his new position, he saw several stringy-haired women skinning a mangled carcass near the entrance, tossing aside what they couldn't use, carrying the rest inside and toward the nearest fire. Others turned mangled corpses over spits. It took William a moment to realize what they were cooking. Demons. William's heart pounded with fear as he watched the people stuffing chunks of meat past their lips, chanting around mouthfuls of food.

They're eating demons.

They're eating us.

Close to some of the bonfires, piles of his demon brothers were waiting to be cooked.

The people grew excited as they chanted louder, "We are the children of a new god! The demons' flesh will sustain us!"

William subconsciously brushed the lump on his knee, which had grown larger as the spore took root inside him. He suddenly felt open and vulnerable. These people weren't the Ancients. They were something far worse. He clutched the sword he'd taken from the large man he'd killed several days ago, wishing he had more weapons, or more demons.

He'd been hoping to collect more of his brethren, but most of the demons in the Ancient City had been wounded, slaughtered, or driven off by the violent army. The demons were afraid. Who could blame them? Humanity was a vile, vicious race, capable of killing each other as well as anything else they encountered. He'd seen what humanity was capable of back in Brighton.

He gritted his teeth as his fear turned to anger. He wished these people dead.

If he were powerful enough, he'd do it himself.

He watched as the dirty-faced men and women covered their chests and faces in fresh demon blood, smearing it over their cheeks and foreheads.

William snuck back outside, his anger roiling. The sight of those people eating demons filled him with a sick, dark feeling he couldn't explain, and he and his brothers needed to get away. Retreating from the doorway, he led them out the back door of the building, quieting them as they crossed the small field and away from the Ancient Circle, headed back to the street. Every so often, William scraped against a chunk of ancient stone that was all but invisible in the dark. The moon was barely bright enough to see where he was going.

They'd made it back to the street and gone the length of several buildings when a large group of men carrying torches came around a corner.

One of them called out, "Who's there?"

William froze.

His demons hissed.

The bobbing lights flickered as the group of men stepped cautiously closer, peering into the darkness. William saw bloodstained faces behind the torch's glow. There were more than enough soldiers to kill him and his brother demons, and they were going to figure that out in a few more blinks of an eye.

"Let's go!" William cried.

He allowed his demons to take the lead, as he'd learned to do. The demons knew passages in buildings that escaped most men. They bolted down a side street, leaving the men indecisive and stuck in place for a few moments.

Much too soon, footsteps pounded the road as the men gave chase.

Men cried out for their comrades to join the hunt.

Voices carried the message to unseen others in the dark streets, and the message found it sway back to the dome. The army awakened with a roar.

"Demons! More food!"

Looking over his shoulder, William saw a growing collection of torches. The flames sputtered as the men carrying them ran faster, echoing their turns. William and his demons fled through the night, the breeze carrying the demon's now-familiar scent into William's nostrils.

The demons tore down several cracked roads, running past buildings and ducking beneath collapsing bridges that William could hardly see. He crouched when he needed to, climbed when he had to climb. Finally, they approached a large, shadowed building several stories tall. William had almost reached it, and the shouts seemed impossibly close. He glanced behind.

He never saw the chunk of ancient stone in the road until he tripped.

Suddenly he was flat on his stomach and bleeding, his sword clattering across the stone. He gasped for breath, frantically reaching for his weapon. Several of the demons stopped, waiting for him. They screeched at the oncoming torches, holding their arms up in anticipation of battle. William got to his feet and collected his blade.

But he was too late.

The first of the men collided with the demons. The shrieks pierced the air. William hoisted his sword to fight, but his demons knocked him backward, protecting him.

He heard the shouts of men swinging blades, the cries of his demons as the blades bit into their flesh.

"No!" William screamed. "Leave them alone!"

Blood-printed men wailed and fell as the demons tore into them, but there were so many men, and more were coming.

Men hacked and sliced. Demons felt the pain of sharp steel and shrieked.

Half of William's brothers fell to the ground, dead. Others writhed in agony as their limbs were hacked off.

William lunged at a soldier with a fat, bloody face and a stubbly beard, but the man backed away. William wanted to kill, but it seemed all he could do was scream and futilely swing his sword.

He looked around him in the torchlight, wild-eyed. The few demons that were still alive watched him with dying eyes, inflicted with fatal wounds. The blood-printed men held their torches, surveying William. He looked from one dirty man to another, wishing he could stab them all.

"You killed them!" he screamed. "You killed my family!"

William's anger grew as he swung his sword harder, faster, but the men backed away so he hit nothing but air.

"I'll kill you!" William screamed. "I'll kill you!"

The men's faces changed as they watched him. A few laughed.

"Are you a demon, boy?" someone taunted.

"He was walking with the demons!" one man remarked.

"But they weren't hurting him!" said another.

"Who the hell is he?"

"He's a prophet!"

"Either that, or the devil!"

"What should we do with him?"

"Bring him to our god! Let him decide!"

The blood printed people surrounded him. Before William could react, strong hands grabbed him from behind. Someone ripped his sword away.

"No!" William screamed. "I'll kill you! I'll kill all of you! Let me go!"

He continued fighting as he was carried into the night, listening to the baleful shrieks of his remaining demons as the men speared them, finishing them off.

Chapter 2:  Oliver

Melora stood up with a familiar expression on her face as she looked down at Jingo, Ivory, and Beck. She was going to challenge them again with her opinion, an opinion she'd developed in the days that had passed since they'd first seen the strange woman walking through the burned gap in the timber stockade. "I think she's a ghost."

Oliver was glad he wasn't sitting on one of the chairs around the stone fireplace with the rest of them. He was starting to dislike Melora. Her penchant for letting her emotions run away with her words irritated him.

At the moment, Oliver was looking through one of the thin arrow slits—gun ports, as Jingo called them—through the thick timber walls on the first floor. Outside, he saw the silvery glow of a full moon shining on the bodies of dead settlers and demons, so thick on the ground that it was difficult to step around them in places.

The people of the settlement had lived at the bottom of the bowl shaped valley at the edge of the ocean behind a wall built from timbers, whole tree trunks that had been stood side by side. Outside the wall, in the valley stripped bare of trees, countless demon bodies littered the ground, mostly old corpses, little more than skeletons.

The dead inside the stockade were fresher, probably a week old by Oliver's guess. They'd come through gaps burned through the wooden wall.

Once inside, the people had tried to fight from tower-shaped houses they lived in, small forts really. The square ground floor of each had walls of thick logs that no monster had a chance of breaking through. The successive floors above got smaller and were built with thinner and thinner logs. The sixth floor of each structure was a covered observation deck that provided a view of the whole valley all they way down to the shore, where wrecked steel ships lay washed up on the beach of the bay.

Somewhere in the strange little town at the edge of the sea was the woman with the gun they'd all seen on that first day when they'd discovered the settlement, and she wasn't likely to walk in front of the tower where Oliver and the others were staying. Oliver knew she was hiding. The others, except for Melora, knew it, too.

"Ghosts aren't real," Ivory told Melora, from where he sat with the others.

"Ghosts are imaginary," adding Jingo, adding the weight of centuries of learning to Ivory's argument.

Oliver didn't look back at the brief exchange. The silence that followed Ivory's disagreement with Melora surely earned both Ivory and Jingo a dirty look.

Melora had her beliefs.

Jingo had his knowledge.

The two frequently didn't agree, and Melora, probably because of her growing attachment for Ivory, saw Jingo as a kind of competition for his attention.

Maybe they were all just weary from too many days' travel.

"She might've moved on and went back into the forest to be with her people," Beck said.

"These are her people," said Ivory, apparently rebelling against Melora. "She was dressed the same strange way they are."

"Because she was a ghost," Melora told them all before turning to walk away. There was nowhere to go in the expansive room that made up the base of the tower, so she started up the stairs to the upper levels. Just as well, Oliver thought. It would be Ivory's watch soon anyway, and he and Melora often stood their watches together.

Once Melora had disappeared, Beck asked in a hushed voice, "Jingo, how do you know there are no ghosts?"

Jingo laughed. "People have always believed in ghosts, and though the people of my time tried, no one was ever able to prove they existed."

"I know people who have seen them," said Beck. "They told me themselves. That's proof."

"No," Jingo argued. "Perhaps tomorrow we can talk about all the devices we had in Ancient times for capturing proof: cameras, and televisions, infrared sensors, motion detectors." Jingo sighed. "But not tonight. I'm tired."

Oliver knew that Jingo didn't want to open the discussion because Melora might return. Oliver had heard her arguing with him about whether the Ancients really could fly, whether they had carts that pushed themselves down the roads at blinding speeds, roads as smooth as the floor in the wealthiest house, and roads that went on for a million miles all over the world. She didn't accept that any device had ever existed that could fit in a person's hand, letting them talk to any other person on the whole flat earth as if they were right next to one another.  She couldn't believe the Ancients had great, terrible weapons that unleashed a piece of the sun and incinerated everything as far as the eye could see. No amount of arguing could convince her that the world was round and not flat. And no matter what piece of ancient Tech Magic came up for discussion, the conversation always came to a place beyond Melora's willingness to believe.

After days of listening from near and far, Oliver started to guess that Melora's aversion to Jingo's stories maybe didn't have as much to do with what he told her, as it did with her mother's death. Oliver didn't know if Jingo noticed, but he saw the way she looked at Jingo when she thought he wasn't paying attention. To Oliver, it looked a little bit like hate. Maybe without the Warden named Bray around—the one she said had killed her mother—she needed someone to blame.

Ivory said, "Maybe the demons killed the woman we saw."

"Perhaps," Jingo replied.

Out the gun ports, Oliver watched scavenging animals tear at the bodies, though they were starting to freeze on the ground. The night, like all of them lately, was going to be cold. He didn't think the woman would be among the dead. When they'd all been up on the rim of the valley, looking down at the settlement, and they'd spotted her, she'd had what Jingo called a gun, the first real piece of Tech Magic Oliver had ever seen.

Well, there was Ivory's compound bow. That was amazing, but not magical the way a gun seemed.

He was infatuated with it.

He wanted so badly to see the gun up close, to touch it, to see how it worked, and then to use it to slaughter a thousand demons. That's what the legends said—that guns could spew lighting and thunder and give one man the power to kill every demon in sight.

It was hard to imagine.

But Jingo had confirmed most of the legends about guns were true.

"Jingo," asked Beck, changing the subject to a more pressing question, "what do you think we should do about the demons?"

They'd been finding the monsters in every tower they searched. The demons were in there, feeding on the dead settlers. They'd had been coming into the settlement through the gaps in the stockade, either by themselves or in small groups. It wasn't a constant stream, but they showed up with such regularity that everyone spent a good part of every day watching for, running from, or killing demons.

"I think the twisted men are in every one of these dwellings," said Jingo. "They probably believe this is now their home. Or they may move on in the spring when the bodies of the dead have been eaten to bone, or the meat is too rotten. More may continue to come from the woods."

"Why?" asked Beck. "Surely every demon in the nearby forest has already arrived. The noise from the battle for this place must have drawn them all in."

"You assume that the twisted men have minds as simple as a beast," Jingo said. "That is a mistake. Many are much smarter. They communicate in a crude way. Word of this place has spread among them, and they have been coming here to make war on these humans for nearly a generation."

Oliver was paying attention now.

"What?" Beck's tone clearly conveyed his disbelief.

"A generation?" Ivory asked. He didn't believe it either. "Jingo, are you saying this settlement has been here for twenty years?"

"A little more, or a little less." Jingo shrugged. "The demons think these people were the Ancients."

"So were they Ancients, or were they not?" asked Ivory. "All of these dead people who lived in these wooden towers?"

Oliver didn't know what to believe. He'd seen the Ancient City with his own eyes. Even after three hundred years of decay, it was still the grandest thing he'd ever seen. The towers in the settlement were tall, and they were grand, but they were nothing compared to the Ancient City.

"These are not the Ancients as you think of them," said Jingo. "All of you have seen the Ancient City. The technology and the machines used to build those cities were not used here. As you said, these people lived in towers constructed of timbers behind a wall built of logs."

Beck asked. "Why do the demons think these are the same people?"

"Because of their weapons," Jingo answered. "These people must have fought the twisted men with guns. The wounds on the dead are consistent with gunshot wounds."

Ivory said, "The dead are everywhere, but so far we've only seen one gun." Everyone knew Ivory was talking about the gun carried by the woman who'd disappeared. "If these people died fighting, where are their weapons?"

"I can't say," answered Jingo.

"And guns don't normally disappear do they?" asked Beck,

Oliver was curious about that question too.

Jingo laughed, and Beck became embarrassed.

"I apologize," said Jingo. "Minister Beck, your question is not a stupid one, not coming from your culture, from a person who has never touched or used a gun. For you, guns are weapons of legend. Some myths your people believe about guns are true. Some are not. Even so, there are many facts about guns that you simply do not know. I laugh because I have a knowledge of guns that is far beyond yours. From my perspective, disappearing guns are not possible. Guns are weapons made of steel, sometimes with wooden or even plastic parts, but mostly steel. They would not disappear on their own."

"They could rust away, though," said Ivory, "Right?"

"True." Jingo nodded. "But we all are familiar enough with metals to know the guns used by these people could not have rusted away before the bodies rotted."

Nods all around.

"So what happened to the guns?" Beck asked.

"It's a mystery," answered Jingo. "As is the woman we saw."

Chapter 3:  William

William flailed his arms and legs as he was carried through the streets. The world became a blur of torch lights and bloodstained faces. He tried to twist away, but the men held him tight, propping him up so he wouldn't fall. They chanted with loud, confident voices.

"The blood of the demons makes us immortal!"

"We are the children of the new god!"

They'd killed his demons.

I'm alone, he thought.

Fear overtook William's anger as he caught glimpses of the wide, maniacal eyes around him. Gangly women ran out from the dome, holding demon meat on sticks. They shouted excitedly as they picked up the men's chant. More people gathered at the dome's entrance, drawn by the commotion.

A new fear settled in William's stomach: once they found his lumps, they wouldn't just kill him. They'd eat him.

He kicked and screamed, but the men wouldn't let him go. The chant grew louder as William was carried through the dome's entrance and past several dozen campfires, where more stacks of demon bodies were lined up or roasting.

He was surprised to see several blue shirts running next to him. He was hit with a quick memory of Blackthorn's army before his attention was ripped back to a group of women unraveling entrails, preparing them for the fire. He screamed louder, begging the men to put him down, but they barely looked at him. Soon they were approaching a bonfire that was larger than the rest, guarded by a chanting circle of men and women. The people parted. William saw women with blood-spattered faces, wearing necklaces made of demon's ears. The chanting continued as William was dropped to the ground in the circle's center.

He collected his senses, ready to run, but hands held him in place. Seemingly at the center of everything, he saw a man who looked different than all the others. His head was bowed to the earth; his tattered white robe was covered in red blood prints. Hearing the chants of the others, the man raised his head and focused his bloodshot eyes on William. The walls whispered a name that William recognized.

Father Winthrop.

Chapter 4:  Bray

Bray concealed himself in a shadow between two buildings as the mob of blood-printed men carted William away. The remaining soldiers were in the street in front of him, butchering demons, and slathering themselves with fresh blood.

They must be insane.

Only irrational men would paint their bodies with demon innards. The demons were good for killing and scalping. They were worth a few coins.

That was it.

Bray wanted to leap out and attack, but he was hopelessly outnumbered, and even if he wasn't, the gash on his left arm where Melora had sliced him still throbbed with pain. His leg and face were crusted with scabs from his hard fight escaping the tower where Ella had died.

Tracking William had been a harder promise to keep than he'd anticipated. William and his demons sometimes moved quickly, hunting and scavenging, resting in buildings that offered enough of a view of the street that Bray feared getting close. A few times, Bray almost reconsidered his plan, thinking that William was too far gone, but whenever he thought that, he'd hear William's voice giving commands to his demons, and that voice had reminded Bray of the boy he'd taught to track in the forest, and the promise he'd made to himself after accidentally killing Ella.

He'd keep William safe, as long as there was anything left of the boy he knew.

Finding food and water was difficult when Bray needed to keep William close. Once, hunger had gotten the best of him and he'd scavenged the pockets of a dead soldier immediately after William. He'd been surprised by several demons lurking in a nearby alleyway, but he'd scurried off just quick enough to avoid an incident.

If William weren't surrounded by the demons, Bray would've tried butchering them. But nearly sixty demons would've been impossible.

Now, none of that felt like it mattered.

William screamed as he was carried farther away. The torchlight and the sparse light of the moon illuminated the remaining men's faces.

"These demons will feed at least a thousand of us," he heard one man say.

"Let's get them back to the fires."

Bray clutched his sword in disgust as he realized the men were planning on eating the beasts. Who knew what they were planning to do with William?

The men traded orders as they coordinated carrying the bodies. Most demons were carried by two men—one took the arms, the other the legs. A few dragged demons by themselves. The rest carried torches, leading the way. They started down the street, following the group that had disappeared with William. Bray waited until they were far enough away that he could creep out into the road and follow.

He weaved between hunks of ancient stone, stepping between bushes and bramble, keeping enough of a distance that they couldn't see him if they turned. He had no immediate plan, but he needed to rescue William.

A few times, pebbles underfoot made enough of a noise that Bray froze, fearing he'd given himself away. A few times one of the torches stopped as a man looked around the silent street, suspecting danger but not seeing it.

The soldiers turned down several streets, backtracking to the place where they'd first encountered William. Deep in the distance, Bray saw the gaping entrance of the Ancient Circle. The dome was filled with moving bodies and flickering campfires, but he couldn't see the details. Were these people from Brighton? He assumed so, though he hadn't been able to verify it.

The group carrying William disappeared into the mob inside the Ancient Circle. William's screams faded and all Bray heard was that incessant, annoying chanting.

He snuck closer to the men carrying the demons. He needed to find out whatever he could before they got to the dome. Sneaking behind a large chunk of ancient stone, he peered around the edge, watching one man linger in the back of the group as he dragged a demon. The man was far enough behind that he might not be missed.

Or so Bray hoped.

He needed to take a chance. Heart knocking, he raced out into the street, moving quickly and quietly, gaining distance on the man. The torches bobbed and flickered as the men chanted in monotonous, droning voices. One turned head would be enough to spot him.

One cry would alert the others.

Bray winced as one of his footfalls echoed loudly—too loudly. He came up behind the last man just as the man was turning around and threw him to the ground. The man fought and kicked, but Bray clamped a hand over his mouth and pinned him, heart still slamming. He held still, certain he'd hear shouts of alarm, but the shouts never came. When the chanting was far enough away that he could no longer discern the words, Bray stuck a knife under the man's chin.

"If you scream, I'll slash your throat."

The man gave an exaggerated nod as Bray released his hand.

"How many men are in the dome?"

The man breathed heavily, but he wouldn't answer.

"How many men are in the dome?" Bray repeated.

"Does it matter?" The man scoffed.

"Whose army is this? Blackthorn's?"

"The god of war leads us."

"I'll cut your throat before you say that again. Whose army is this?"

"We are immortal. We can't be killed." Bray could sense the man smiling in the dark. He pressed the knife deeper.

"You can't hurt me." The man laughed. "My body is filled with His blood."

"Whose blood? Blackthorn's?"

"Winthrop's. Feel his love, and you too, shall be blessed with his power."

"Where's Blackthorn?"

"Blackthorn's dead. Winthrop killed him."

The obvious lie pissed Bray off, and he buried the knife in the man's neck up to the hilt.

Chapter 5:  Oliver

Jingo, Minister Beck, and Melora were asleep near the fire in the wooden tower they'd secured to protect themselves. Ivory was keeping watch.

Nobody saw Oliver sneak out.

The night was cold, and Oliver's breath puffed into white clouds in front of him as he walked through the bright moonlight. He pulled his coat tight around his shoulders to keep the chill at bay. Still, he shivered. Bodies of demons and strangely clad people, all frighteningly thin, all dead for at least a week, lay scattered on the ground inside the stockade.

The town was strange, enthralling, a silent place of the dead where even most of the scavengers took shelter when the sun went down.

With the night cold deepening each passing day, the demons were avoiding the dark, huddling wherever they hid out in the forest and in the other towers where the town's residents had lived. Oliver figured night was the best time to search for the woman with the gun, as long as he was quiet about it.

The residents of the seaside village had erected a wall of timbers. Whole tree trunks stood vertically side by side to form a barrier twice as tall as the circle wall that kept Brighton safe. The wall was imposing even from up on the hill, on the rim of the valley, where Oliver and the others had been when they'd initially seen it.

But the wall hadn't been strong enough.

The demons had breached it.

Thousands of their bodies lay on the ground outside the wall, gored by terrible weapons, with wounds that seemed to explode through flesh and bone. Jingo had said that guns caused the wounds. But as powerful as the guns were, they had not saved the people who'd lived behind the wooden wall. Easily twice as many dead demons lay on the ground inside the wall as without. Among them were the corpses of the town's residents.

Peppered across the ground, enough to make any Brighton man rich three times over, were tiny brass tubes, almost like cups made to fit a squirrel's hand. The insides were blackened and reeked of a strange odor, but the outsides were shiny. Jingo called the tiny brass tubes casings. He said the Ancients' guns used them for firing what he called bullets. Bullets made the terrible wounds that had gouged the demons' bodies, and in some cases, blew their skulls apart.

Bullets were terrible, powerful things.

Oliver wished he could find some casings whole with the bullets still attached and the necessary peculiar powder still packed inside. Then he'd only need to find a gun. But among all these dead people, there seemed to be none. The only gun they'd seen had been in the hands of that woman they'd spotted that first day when looking down from the hill.

Since then, nothing.

It was frustrating, and the main reason Oliver hadn't been able to sleep. He was in a town stranger than he'd ever imagined existed, and Tech Magic was hidden somewhere within. He couldn't stop thinking about it.

Brighton's circle wall was immense. It encompassed an area large enough for fields and pastures to exist outside the town. This settlement's wooden wall kept a relatively small area safe, leaving no room for fields or flocks inside. Oliver had seen what remained of long, fallow fields outside the wall. He saw no sign of livestock. He wondered if that was the reason all the corpses of the residents looked so thin.

Like Brighton, this strange town had a few streets lined with squat buildings made almost exclusively of wood that seemed to be the place where merchants and tradesmen worked. But some of the buildings held devices large and small that served no purpose that Oliver could guess. One looked like a blacksmith shop, with tools and metal machines that he'd never seen. Others provided no clues.

Through most of the town's enclosed area stood widely spaced towers, a dozen or so. All the towers were of a similar design, built of thick timbers with a huge, square, communal room at the base. The upper floors of each tower were successively smaller squares.

Probably the strangest thing about the city was what Jingo called the ships and boats. Most were so large that Oliver couldn't imagine them floating. Most were constructed of metal that was crusted red and orange with rust and flaking paint. All looked liked they'd been hauled from the water and shoved into a jumble along the beach. Some were broken open. All were damaged.

When Oliver thought about the power that had done that with all that steel, it made him shiver. It had to be Tech Magic.

Frightening.

But enthralling.

Oliver wanted so badly to find a magical, powerful device left over from the ancient world.

Chapter 6:  William

William scooted away from Father Winthrop, feeling revulsion and fear. Every day of William's life since that moment when his mother had found the lump on the back of his neck had been defined by evading capture by Brighton's soldiers, men who had done the bidding of Blackthorn, Beck, and Winthrop.

And now he was at Winthrop's feet.

In William's mind, Winthrop was a deathly white angel, a murdering monster wearing the blood of William's brothers on his robe and the sins of Brighton on his cruel soul. William needed to get away.

William bumped into a wall of arms and knees. Hands pushed him back into the center of the circle.

Is Winthrop going to burn me?

Is he going to butcher me and feed me to his slovenly, yellow-toothed horde?

Alive or dead, William knew his body would be laid on the flames.

He spun, frantic for an escape. Frustration turned fear to rage and he lunged at his encircling captors. Some laughed and took exaggerated steps back. Others pushed him again into the center of the ring. No one let him out.

William wished every demon in the city, his demons, would gather their strength as one and attack these stinking buffoons. He wanted to see every one of them dead. He cocked his head and listened as the wind blew over the shattered roof of the ancient, oval building. He strained to hear the howls of his distant demon brothers.

He heard nothing but the night and a thousand voices of Brighton's dregs surrounding him.

Inevitability set in as William accepted the outcome. The moment that lump had appeared, he knew he'd follow his father to a future of ash. His only regret was that his mother had died trying to keep him safe.

With nowhere left to go, William quieted, stopped fighting the chanting mass surrounding him, and turned toward his fate, Father Winthrop.

Death, take me to my father, my mother, and my dying demon brothers, still bleeding and crying in the alley.

The chanting people stopped.

Silence fell, save for the crackle of burning logs and the sizzle of fat drizzling off a carcass on a nearby cook fire.

The moment was at hand. William stood tall and tried his best to look defiant.

"We found him among the twisted men," one of the blood-printed men explained to Winthrop.

"We thought he was fleeing," another man explained.

William listened to the men, thinking they were referring to someone else, instead of him.

"He's a devil!" someone screamed from the rear of the circle.

"He's an omen!"

Panic pecked at William's defiant resolve. He glanced at the faces around him, suddenly hoping, on no basis at all, that he might see someone familiar. But Melora, Ivory, and Jingo were gone. All he saw was one bloodstained face after another.

"Our god will decide what to do with him," the first man said.

As if he were a big ugly bug not wanting to slough off his bloody cocoon, Winthrop rose to his full height, clutching his stained robe around him. He raised his arms in the air, moving his lips soundlessly.

William shivered, suddenly certain that Winthrop knew of the lumps underneath his clothes. William had flashes of memory from standing on the dais in Brighton, waiting to be hauled off and burned. No words had ever helped the condemned. Even the dullest of children understood that. William kept his silence. Better to die a silent, brave boy than a begging coward.

Winthrop raised his arms to the sky. The crowd stepped back.

Silvery moonlight dripped through the girders of the enormous dome, mixing with the orange firelight and maddeningly frantic black shadows. William stared at the sky, wishing he could fly, or that Melora, Ivory, or even Bray had discovered an Ancient flying contraption in the ruins and was coming to rescue him.

Winthrop stepped toward him.

William recoiled. Suddenly, men's tight grips were on his arms, holding him in place.

Winthrop held out his hand. He planted his greasy palm on William's forehead.

"Are you a devil?" Winthrop asked.

William struggled for several seconds before he realized it was useless. Winthrop smelled like sweat, and acrid smoke. He leaned down, bringing his face close to William's, sharing his putrid breath.

"I asked you a question, boy. Are you a devil?"

William gulped back his fear. He opened his mouth, but couldn't find an answer.

Eyes bored into him from all sides. The people were swaying, waiting for a response.

William longed to be on the streets of the Ancient City with his demons, not here with these savages.

"Are you a devil?" Winthrop asked, louder, through teeth wet with red demon's blood.

William found the courage to answer, "No."

Winthrop tugged at the patchy stubble on his chin. He retracted his clammy hand and stood up straight.

"Were you walking among the demons?" Winthrop laid it out like an accusation for all to hear.

William wanted to shout out proudly that he had been among his brothers. But fear gripped him tight, and he had the tiniest hope that he might avoid the flame.

Behind the first row of spectators, people whispered. Others stared intently, their faces little more than shadows in the flickering firelight.

"Tell the truth!" someone shouted. "We caught you, devil!"

"Quiet!" Winthrop barked. He bent down again, examining William's face. "A boy who walks among demons might be a devil. Or he might be a miracle." Winthrop's voice turned soft and kind. "Which one are you?"

"He might be an omen, sent to alter our path," someone shouted.

"Or he's here to save the demons!"

People grunted agreement.

Winthrop waved at them to cease their yammering. "We already slaughtered the demons."

William swallowed, wishing he could figure out the right words to set himself free. But he feared a trap.

"I cast the devil out," Winthrop boomed. "I sent him to hell on a pile of demon corpses. Are you the devil, come back to life? Are you Blackthorn?"

Blackthorn?

William gulped as he connected thoughts in his head. Had Winthrop killed Blackthorn? That might explain why he'd seen the blue shirts.

Winthrop burned with anger as he stared at William, trying to make a decision. He was on the verge of another proclamation when a bearded man stepped into the circle.

"The little devil had a sword in his hand, Father. We brought it here. We didn't want him to harm you."

Winthrop scoffed. "Harm me? I'm immortal, you fool. Show me this sword."

The bearded man held out the sword to Winthrop, who took it and examined it. After a moment, he lowered it to his side.

"It's much too large for a boy his size," Winthrop remarked. "It bears the scars of all the death it has reaped. Maybe he is Blackthorn's ghost, after all."

"I'm not Blackthorn." The words sounded weak as they came out of William's mouth. Taking a chance, he added, "And I would never want to be."

Winthrop was taken aback. "Why not?"

William spoke the first thought that came to him. "He butchered the people in Davenport."

The people stared at him with gaping mouths.

Winthrop studied William. His face twisted with a memory. "The people in Davenport were slaughtered without my knowledge. That is true. That was Blackthorn's doing."

"I know. I escaped." William stuck his chin in the air. "I outran Blackthorn's soldiers. I took one of their swords." William didn't know where the words were coming from, but suddenly, they were there.

"You escaped the hands of the devil?" Winthrop asked. Then, in a resolute voice, Winthrop announced, "You escaped so you could join us."

William stared at Winthrop. He didn't speak.

"What would you like us to do with him, Father?" the bearded man asked. Winthrop handed the bearded man back the sword.

"This boy ran all the way from Davenport to join us," Winthrop said. "He found us in the Ancient City. He's no devil. He is a miracle, come to help us battle the demons."

"But he was walking with them—" the bearded man started.

"He followed them here to find us." Winthrop nodded definitively, as if the answer had just come to him. "They cast a spell over him. But he has broken free long enough to get to us. Now he will feel the light of his god."

Winthrop gazed past the girders of the dome and waved his hands, as if he'd found the answers in the sky. William's eyes unwittingly roamed to one of the women in the front row of the circle, who picked at some gristle between her teeth.

"What should we do with him?" the bearded man asked.

Winthrop looked around him at the curious, hopeful eyes of his followers, who were waiting for an answer. He looked at William.

"Blood the boy."

Chapter 7:  Bray

After dragging the body of the blood-printed man into an alley, Bray watched the remainder of the soldiers disappear with the dead demons into the Ancient Circle. He fought the urge to rush inside after them.

If William were going to be killed, Bray wouldn't be able to do anything quickly enough to prevent it. He needed to see what he was up against before he figured out a plan.

Bray got closer to the dome, surveying the area. The enormous building was surrounded on all sides by weed-covered ancient stone, most of which had been trampled by the army. He had never seen an area that large. It would make a stealthy approach difficult. Several small entrances where the walls had caved in provided access to the dome, but most were cluttered with people. On the fringes of the ancient stone, a few hundred feet away, were several tall towers that might give him a view of the gaping entrance and the people inside, if he could climb high enough.

That seemed like the best plan.

Sticking to the shadows, Bray snuck down the opposite side of the road, skirting rubble that had fallen from buildings and weeds that were as tall as his knees, some bent over from where men or demons had passed through. He no longer heard William's screaming.

It was as if the great dome had swallowed him whole.

Chapter 8:  Oliver

Oliver walked past a pile of ash and black timber, the remains of one of the towers in which the people of the settlement had lived. At least six of the towers had been completely destroyed by fire. Most of the others showed fire damage. That had everyone confused. As far as anyone knew, demons didn't use fire, but it looked like someone had deliberately set the settlement ablaze.

Fire as a weapon in the hands of demons was a frightening thought.

The people who'd lived in the seaside town had guns, and they'd killed thousands and thousands of their attackers—many times their number, based on the count of human bodies found. But it was apparent to Oliver that they hadn't been able to fight the fire and the attacking demons at the same time. As a result, all of the townsfolk had been slaughtered.

It was confounding to think about. So many demons dead, and still, the people had lost the battle.

It didn't make sense.

The same thing had happened to the Ancients. They'd all died at the hands of the infected hordes. Even Blackthorn's army had been slaughtered by wave upon wave of demon rabble.

Why had Brighton survived so long?

Oliver decided he'd need to have some long conversations with Jingo about that.

At the moment, Oliver's eye was on something mounted high up on one of the towers' tallest platforms. From where he was standing, he was able to see through the gap between the platform's waist-high rail and roof, just at the corner. From five steps to the right or left, forward or back, he'd not see it. He'd only just lucked in to spotting it because movement near the top of the tower caught his eye.

The movement came from black birds, roosting at the top of the tower.

The angular object that had Oliver's attention was silhouetted black against the moonlit sky, its edges perfectly straight. Out of the end, a thin metal tube stabbed the night. The perfection of its straight lines made it look ancient, and though Oliver couldn't tell from where he stood seventy feet below, he guessed it was metal. It had to be a gun.

Taking careful strides to avoid bodies and keep quiet, Oliver made his way across the compound toward the tower on the far side that held what he hoped was a gun. Having stepped away from the spot where he could see it, he focused on the blackened tower. Of the dozens of towers scattered through the grounds, he didn't want to lose track of the one that was his target.

Once he was close enough, Oliver saw that the tower, like many of the others, had suffered from fire damage. This one hadn't collapsed. It looked sturdy, even though it was blackened with smoke and crusted with charred wood.

Oliver made his way around to the entrance—one wide, solid door leading through the thick timbers. All the towers were similar in design, and they all had the single door entrance.

The door for this tower was open, burned black inside and out, and frozen in place on metal hinges layered in soot and new orange rust.

Taking a moment to listen, Oliver heard no noise from inside.

He stepped through the door and looked around in the near blackness. The interior stank of burned wood and flesh so strong it reminded Oliver of standing near the pyres on Cleansing day back in Brighton. Looking up, he saw beams of moonlight shining through the upper windows, lancing the darkness all the way up. The floors inside had mostly burned away, leaving only the supporting framework. The stairs and ladders that led from one floor to the next had been reduced to ash, and were mixed with the debris and stinking gore that covered the bottom floor.

Oliver turned and hurried back outside to gulp fresh, cold air.

Looking up at the tower, knowing his prize was up on that highest platform, Oliver knew there was only one way he'd get to the top. He was going to have to scale the tower from the outside.

Oliver walked the circumference of the tower's base, found what looked like a good spot, and started to climb.  The fat logs were laid one on top of another, and at first they seemed easy to scale, but they weren't. Oliver's hands slid over the charred curves. It seemed impossible to grip the wood. He had to wedge his fingers into gaps where the mortar had cracked away between them. Even then, the diameter of the logs made climbing difficult.

Thankfully, the thickest of the logs, the hardest to scale, had been used on the first floor. The second and third-floor logs were smaller in diameter and easier to work around. Above the fourth floor, Oliver was able to grip the open framework supporting the tower's high observation platform, and he was able to get his hands on the braces and plant his feet in spots from which he wasn't in constant fear that they'd slip.

Being so close to his goal, Oliver made quick work of the last of the support beams and heaved himself over the parapet and onto the tower's high platform. Scores of big blackbirds squawked and flapped their wings, startling Oliver as they took flight to get away from what they thought was a predator come to kill them in their sleep.

Before Oliver even caught his breath, the dark, squawking flock disappeared into the night, anger in their caws.

The platform smelled of bird droppings, rotting flesh, and smoke. All around Oliver were the bodies that the birds had been feeding on, carrion in shredded clothing, several adults, and nine children of various ages, their eyes plucked away and their faces in tatters from birds' claws and sharp beaks.

On the floor among the bodies lay brass casings by the hundreds, each bigger than one of Oliver's fingers. On a belt feeding into the big gun lay a long row of bullets, gray and fierce, each attached to the end of a brass casing.

On the floor beside the gun, a rectangular metal box held one end of the belt that led into the gun. Against a wall were stacked dozens of similar boxes. Oliver guessed they each contained a belt of bullets for the gun.

Taking a long evaluative look at the bodies, he understood it wasn't demons that had killed these people—it had been smoke and heat from the fire. Often the smoke did its work long before flames crisped flesh. The smoke must've killed the people before they could shoot all the demons.

Ignoring the bodies, Oliver stood up and crossed the platform, careful to avoid putting a foot on any of the dead, but unable to avoid the bird droppings that slicked the floor.

Once beside the gun, he couldn't help but reach out to touch the cold metal. He turned it on its mounting swivel, taking great care not to move any of the small metal pieces attached. He didn't want to set the gun off accidentally. He figured out pretty quickly that the gun weighed nearly as much as he did. There was no way he was carrying it back down with him.

That was a disappointment, but at least he'd found a gun.

Tech Magic.

Power.

Oliver couldn't help the surge of excitement that ran through him. In Brighton, the big gun would be priceless.

Oliver looked around at the top platforms on the surrounding towers, and he spotted four more such guns mounted along the parapets. One was the same size as the one he had a hand on, two looked smaller. All four were atop burned out towers like the one he stood upon. None of the intact towers had guns mounted on their high platforms.

That was odd. Oliver tried speculating, but he had no idea why a gun would or wouldn't be mounted in each tower.

Thinking that he was on a lucky streak, Oliver scanned the grounds below, hoping that from his high vantage, he'd spot a glint of shiny metal sparkling against the dark ground. Maybe he'd find a gun like the ones Jingo had described. Maybe he'd find one small enough to carry with him. That was a power that appealed to Oliver.

He was still searching when he spotted movement.

The movement startled him. At first he thought it was a demon, but as he scanned through the dark shadows around the jumble of wrecked ships, he recognized a human gait. Someone was running through a gaping, rusty hole on the side of a leaning ship.

The woman with the gun.

Oliver leaned forward, watching her disappear inside the distant ship below.

Chapter 9:  William

After Winthrop's pronouncement, his people leaned closer, hungering for another word. William glanced frantically from one side of the fire to the other, afraid he'd just been condemned. He struggled and kicked against the men holding him. Winthrop's smile oozed across his face. Some of the priestesses held their hands over their lips, urging William to be quiet.

"Blood him! Blood him!" someone in the crowd yelled.

"The blood of our god will show him the way!" said someone else.

With fingers stretched wide from big hands, Winthrop stepped toward William.

William screamed.

"It's okay, my son." Winthrop laid his palm on William's forehead. "Whatever spells the demons have cast over you will be broken."

"You will taste the warmth of our god," one of the men told him assuredly as he held William's shoulders.

William lunged forward, ready to run through the fire for his freedom. He felt like he'd landed in a nightmare, in which Winthrop had taken over the Ancient City instead of Brighton.

Fear coursed through William's body as several more men carried a limp, gnarled carcass of a demon and laid it next to them. Winthrop cast a glance at the demon corpse, then let go of William's forehead and waved a woman over who had been lingering at the edge of the circle. In her hands was a knife that was large and sharp enough to hack through William's skull.

William tried to squirm to break free, but the men forced him to his knees.

Winthrop watched as the woman knelt down next to the dead demon. William's eyes darted to the corpse. He recognized it. The demon's knobs and warts—indistinguishable to anyone else—had become identifying marks to William. The demon's eyes were dark and sightless, its dying gasp stuck on its lips. It had tried to save him. And now it was dead.

The tempo of the chant quickened. Heads swayed and hands waved in the air and the circle filled in around him.

"Blood him! Blood him!"

"Show him the way!"

"Show him the light of our god!"

William felt like the crowd was preparing to consume him. After a nod from Winthrop, the woman with the knife lowered the blade to the demon, slicing its chest open. William cried out for help, as if the demon might spring to life and assist him. The woman lifted the demon corpse with the help of another man, offering it to Winthrop. Winthrop leaned down and buried his palm in the flowing blood, his eyes dark, his lips moving as the people chanted around him.

"Stop struggling, my son! The power of my blood will cure you of the demon-curse!"

Winthrop held up his blood-drenched hand. "My blood will make you stronger! It will cure you of the demons!"

Winthrop took a step, red blood dripping from his fingers.

The more William struggled, the harder the men refocused their efforts.

Winthrop slapped his palm against William's shirt. William cried out in fear, closing his eyes, waiting for the pain to come, certain he was living the last moments of his life. But the only sensation he felt was the blood seeping through the fabric of his shirt.

Surprised that he wasn't dead, he gathered the courage to open his eyes. He looked down, expecting some mortal injury, but he saw only red imprints where Winthrop's large, splayed fingers had been.

"I have cured the demon boy!" Winthrop screamed, prompting cheers from the crowd. "The boy is immortal!"

The crowd screamed and resumed their chanting.

Chapter 10:  William

The tall bonfire blazed hot on William's skin, but Winthrop stood even closer to the flames, ecstatic, entranced, the focus of every crazed eye in the ancient, circular building. Winthrop didn't burn, though. He didn't even notice the fire as it whipped flares of orange flame at the black sky.

Everywhere on the ground, between the fires, up the tiers of ancient stone and all the way up to the giant, thick rafters overhead—the fragile old bones of a once grand place—Winthrop's zealots stomped their feet, shook the ground, and pulsed the building itself.

Thrump, thrump, thrump.

They chanted, "Our beast, our soul, our god!"

The sound permeated William, shaking his guts and rattling his bones.

Thrump, thrump, thrump.

"Our beast, our soul, our god!"

Every demon in the city had to hear. William knew they did. But they didn't come.

Thrump, thrump, thrump.

"Our beast, our soul, our god!"

Outside, the demons heard the power of these people, like William felt it inside. And the demons were afraid.

William was past fear. He was wearing the blood of his own brother, and he was being ingested by the collective soul of Winthrop's mob as they slid willingly into the black abyss around Winthrop, yearning to touch his bloody robe, pining for a beatific gaze, aching for a loving smile.

Thrump, thrump, thrump.

"Our beast, our soul, our god!"

They were all mesmerized, and the trance was contagious in a way William never knew existed. He'd seen power before at every Cleansing back in Brighton—three councilmen sitting on a dais, doling out death to the smudged and unlucky. But that was power propped up by fear and swords.

Winthrop had transcended that smarmy, feeble, earthly power. He was something different. William didn't know what, but all these people thought Winthrop was a god.

And maybe he was.

Thrump, thrump, thrump.

"Our beast, our soul, our god!"

One of Winthrop's priestesses flung her robe open, exposing her naked skin for all to see. She sidled up to William, wrapped her slick, sweaty arms around him, and ground her pelvis against his with the rhythm of the chanting and the stomping.

Thrump, thrump, thrump.

"Our beast, our soul, our god!"

The stink of a crowd full of unwashed skin and soiled clothes dragged its oily fingers across William's tongue and up his nostrils. The stench of cleaved guts and burnt flesh screamed to William that he was in hell.

But Winthrop seductively called through silent lips, letting the incantations of thousands of proud voices pound their magic through William's resistance.

Thrump, thrump, thrump.

"Our beast, our soul, our god!"

William hated Winthrop and everything Winthrop had ever done.

Winthrop was death, the flame that killed his father, and the sword that hewed his demon brothers.

But Winthrop was more, something William couldn't see, something he couldn't define, something he couldn't begin to explain except through the power of all those voices, all those stomping feet, all that stinking flesh pressing in on him.

William wanted to belong to the mob. He wanted to follow Winthrop, wanted to love him.

Thrump, thrump, thrump.

"Our beast, our soul, our god."

Chapter 11:  Bray

Locating a large tower on the edges of the weed-covered area of ancient stone, diagonal from the dome's entrance, Bray snuck inside, using the moonlight that shone through the windows to guide him to a set of stairs. He climbed in the dark, feeling his way along the wall, ensuring he didn't misplace his feet. The building reeked of damp rain that had gotten into the crevices, and the occasional rotting animal that had died deep in the building's bowels.

After climbing several flights of stairs, Bray paused and looked out across one of the levels, noting that he could only see the first few rows of Winthrop's people. The dome was a hundred feet away. He made a quick determination of how many more levels he'd need to climb to have a better view inside.

Bray was winded by the time he found a perch in an overlooking window halfway up the tower. The moonlight illuminated the edges of the room, revealing a set of scattered animal bones and rat droppings by his feet. He clung to the edge of the window and peered out the ancient building and into the Ancient Circle, comprehending the scope of Winthrop's army for the first time.

There were thousands.

The army was comprised of men and women of all varieties—blue shirts and what looked like farmers and tradesmen. The men and women chanted and danced, surrounding individual fires that blazed across the dome, turning gnarled carcasses on sticks, or smearing fresh blood on their faces. A massive group was congregated around a fire that was larger than the others, forming a circle around someone in a white robe who was waving his hands to the sky.

Winthrop.

Bray blew a relieved breath as he spotted a smaller figure that looked like William. William was unharmed, swaying in a line with some others, caught up in the ritualistic dance.

They'd adopted him like some abused orphan.

Stinking pig scratchers.

He wanted to ram his sword into their skulls, throw them into the fire, and put an end to their savagery, but that would have to wait. Bray's instinctual urge to get to William was tempered by the fact that he was still alive. If they hadn't killed William yet, chances are he'd be safe for a while longer, long enough for Bray to weigh his next move. He considered slathering some blood on his clothes and stepping inside, dancing with the others, trying to get close, but he didn't see a clear way to ferret William away with so many in close proximity.

Watching William dancing with the others, he decided it would be more reasonable to wait until morning, when the group's interest in William died down.

Feeling the ache of climbing more stairs than he could count, Bray closed his eyes to rest.

Chapter 12:  Oliver

Oliver waited, and he watched. He didn't know if the woman was inside the ship for a moment, or for the rest of the night. Maybe the grounded ship was where she lived, now that her town had been destroyed and all of its residents slaughtered. What he did know was that he didn't want to lose track of her.

Oliver quietly observed from his high perch.

Every passing moment led him to believe she'd be staying inside long enough for him to climb down the tower. Once he started down, all of his concentration would be focused on placing his feet and gripping the thick logs in just the right way to keep him from slipping off and falling to his death. He wouldn't be able to watch the row of ships. In fact, the lower he descended, the less visibility he'd have of the ships washed up on the shore. In those minutes, the woman might slip away.

When enough time had passed, Oliver steeled his nerves and gave the shadowy ships one last look. He scooped up several of the big bullets and put them in his pocket as proof for the others of what he'd found. He gripped the rail and climbed over the observation deck's wall.

On the way down, he thought about running back to the tower where the others were sleeping and alerting Ivory, who was taking his turn keeping watch. But that was a wish more than a thought. Oliver didn't want to risk letting the woman escape while he crossed the town, trying to rouse the others from their sleep. No, he had to do this alone.

Once his feet landed solidly on the ground, Oliver turned and jogged past the corpses scattered in the wide spaces between the towers. The closer he got to the shore, the more he saw of the wrecked ships, but he saw nothing moving—no woman running away in the dark, no eyes in the shadows looking back at him.

He came to a stop beside the remains of a collapsed cabin that stood closer to the shore than any other building in the settlement. The cabin was now little more than a pile of half-burned logs and boards entombing blackened bodies.

From his hiding place by the cabin, Oliver looked at the ship into which the woman had disappeared. It was huge, and laying half in and half out of the surf, rolled onto its side like some enormous, dead beast. What had to have been the top—the deck, as Jingo called it—was facing Oliver. It was planked with what had been exquisitely cut, perfectly straight boards before they'd had suffered in the weather and waves. Many were warped and peeling away from the ship's skeleton. Other boards were rotted in place, exposing holes like the one through which the woman had disappeared.

On the deck was what looked like a building, with doors and windows, now standing sideways with the rest of the ship. The deck held other, smaller structures that seemed to have no purpose. The ship looked like an artifact created by the Ancients. It had the appearance of great age.

Before crossing the open distance to the ship, Oliver took a long look at its windows and doors, those facing the surf below, and those facing the settlement. He tried to discern the black shapes through the holes in the deck, but saw nothing identifiable. With no human or demon face looking back at him, he ran through the tall grass until his feet crunched on rocks and shells on the shore that sloped steeply to the water's edge.

Knowing he could do nothing to hide the sound of his feet, he bounded across the beach and only slowed when he splashed into the surf. He gasped as the cold sea filled his boots and the smooth, rolling waves pushed salty water up over his knees. He waded toward the big hole in the leaning ship into which he'd seen the woman disappear.

Anxious to get out of the freezing water, Oliver reached out, grabbed hold of a rusty piece of metal rail, and steadied himself to listen. He desperately wanted to climb through the hole, but he knew that rushing into the ship's dark interior without listening for demons was risking an ambush.

Waves splashed against the ship's hull. Floating debris softly clinked against metal deep in the shadows, making rhythmic sounds over the rise and fall of the water.

Leaning into the hole, Oliver saw a cavernous space of rusty metal walls and doorways leading to even darker places deeper inside the ship. Shafts of silver moonlight speared through the whole place, pouring through holes, some built into the ship, round with crusted edges, some that were tears through the thick, rusted and fragile steel. A mix of odd smells swirled into an unfamiliar odor, a new kind of rot. The ship smelled dead.

The remains of a metal stairway, now lying horizontal, groaned each time the water pushed it this way or that. Oliver climbed inside, sloshing carefully through water that rose and fell over his feet and ankles, stumbling a few times over debris hidden by the dark water. Of several doors that led out of the space, one was half submerged. Another was high up on a wall, accessible by way of a large pile of wreckage. Oliver reached the loosely jumbled rubble and worked his way up, careful to test each handhold and foothold for purchase. He didn't want creaking junk to alert the woman to his presence.

If she hadn't already spotted and evaded him.

Crawling into a sideways hallway almost tall enough for him to stand in, Oliver proceeded on careful steps. Doors lined the hall on what was now the ceiling and floor. The open doors above let in faint moonlight. The doors below him were pitfalls into darkness, sloshing water, and more foul smells.

Oliver didn't dare put a foot on any closed door for fear that it would give way and swing open.

Taking a moment to peak into each room with an open door, either above or below, Oliver worked his way down the hall.

"Don't move." The voice was menacing, especially given its strange accent, but it was a woman—the woman. It had to be.

Guessing that she was maybe twenty feet behind him, Oliver didn't think the woman was in a position to tell him what to do. He turned around and saw her dim shape down the hall. She was holding her weapon, not casually like before, but up against her shoulder, pointed at him as she looked down the length. Oliver asked, "Is that a real gun? Does it work?"

"Why are you here?" she demanded.

"I saw you." Oliver pointed in the direction of the tower he'd seen her from, as if that was sufficient explanation for how his sighting came to pass.

"Where are your friends?"

"My friends are asleep," said Oliver.

"Why are you following me?"

"I wanted to find you." It seemed to Oliver like an obvious answer.

"You're being evasive," said the woman. She took a quick glance over her shoulder and asked, "Tell me why shouldn't I shoot you right now."

"Shoot me?" Oliver was intrigued. He'd seen the demon's wounds that Jingo said came from the guns, but he couldn't get past the magical nature of the weapon to the fact that it might actually kill him.

"Yes, shoot you. You don't think I'll do it?"

"I've never seen a gun shoot before. Did I use the word right? Shooting, that's what you do with a gun, right?"

"What?" The woman pointed her gun away for a second as she gawked at Oliver. She looked over her shoulder again. "Is there something wrong with you? Do you not understand things?"

"You have an accent," observed Oliver.

"No, you do," the woman told him. "Where are you from?"

"Brighton," answered Oliver, pointing vaguely west.

"How far is that from here?" asked the woman.

"Brighton is on the other side of the mountains," Oliver told her.

"How did you get here? Where's your ship?"

"I've never seen a ship until I saw these." Oliver stomped on the floor. "You must have a lot of steel where you come from. Did you make this ship, or did the Ancients make it?"

"The Ancients?" the woman asked.

"The people from before," answered Oliver. "The ones who built the ancient cities. The ones with the Tech Magic."

"Tech Magic." The woman's voice softened. The unspoken threats drifted away, and she looked over her shoulder again. Sounding like she was speaking to herself, she said, "You must be from one of the ignorant barbarian tribes." She heaved a sigh. "Maybe we've both got a lot to learn from each other."

"I have questions," Oliver told her. "Is that a real gun, like the ones from the stories?"

"The stories?" the woman asked.

"They tell us the fairy tales when we're little. Some of the heroes have guns."

"Guns are from your fairy tales?" the woman asked. "You mean you've never seen one."

Oliver shook his head but then he said, "Up in a tower where I spotted you from, there's a big one."

"A big one?" The woman laughed. "That's a machine gun." She relaxed and let the gun hang in a harness wrapped around her chest and over her shoulders. "What's your name?"

"Oliver."

"I'm Kirby. You're lucky you're a kid. If you were one of your friends, I might've shot you."

Chapter 13:  William

William sat cross-legged next to Winthrop's big fire, shivering. He could still feel the blood from Winthrop's handprint seeping through his shirt. He clutched a blanket he'd been given. The chants around him had subsided to quiet murmurs, but the memories of the dance would live on in his dreams: the thrump of the army's feet, the sway of the women's hips, Father Winthrop's entrancing gaze.

He couldn't stop thinking about it.

The people had settled down and were milling around the fires, throwing in last logs and chewing on bits of demon meat. A cluster of women crouched around Winthrop, who sat on a pile of blankets ten feet from William. Winthrop seemed to be moving through a waking dream, communing with the people he called his god brothers in his mind while his feet stayed bound to the mortal earth. Winthrop's eyes were closed, but they moved under the lids. His hands were folded across his lap as his fingers clenched and grabbed. His head turned, looked up, looked down, and seemed to take in visions that only he could see. Every so often, he mumbled some quiet words, and the women around him leaned closer to discern the demon-speak incantations. William too, strained to hear.

A dozen men—some shirtless, others wearing tattered clothes—watched Winthrop and occasionally glanced at William, speaking in low tones as they relived the glory of battles William hadn't seen.

These people were important, somehow. To William, the thick crowds of others walking through the dome looked like a herd of animals, dirty and unimportant, on the periphery, like the rabble that filled Brighton square on Cleansing Day. They didn't walk in the gossamer light of Winthrop's divinity, they only sniffed at the leavings of those who did. The important ones were the women surrounding Winthrop and touching him with their doting hands, or the hard men who wore the badge of Winthrop's favor in the bloody handprints on their skin and clothes.

An invisible barrier separated Winthrop's special people from the rest of the dirt scratchers and pig chasers inside the dome. Winthrop's chosen few basked in his radiance. The others seemed like an ignorant horde, carrying on pointlessly just like they did back in Brighton, going through the motions of their lives, hoping for a moment of clarity when Winthrop's words told them what to do, and his pointing finger told them where to go.

William had been in that stinking, powerless throng when he was in town, bleating in the square as the glowing deities on the stage chose the unfortunate for the burnt sacrifice.

An epiphany shone through his thoughts, a truth that had always been there, but one that had been invisible, blocked from view by that invisible social barrier that kept the horde at bay, even now. It was better to be a mythical, godly lion, basking in the glow of power, than to be a sheep queued for the slaughter, and to change from one to the other was no miraculous feat. All William had to do was to remain in the light, in Winthrop's favor, among the special ones.

One of the men standing near the fire, a tall man whose face sparkled red with firelight and wet blood, nodded at William. Next to him was the woman who had cut the demon earlier. She leaned by the fire with her knife, slicing off bits of a cooked carcass. She met William's eyes.

"Would you like something to eat?" she asked, holding out a charred piece of demon meat.

William eyed the sizzling, dripping flesh. It only took him a second to answer. Hungry or not, he couldn't eat his comrades.

"I'm fine," he said, his voice cracking. He hadn't spoken since the moments just before he'd been slapped with Winthrop's bloody handprint. Even during the dancing, he had remained quiet, listening as the voices lifted around him, enthralled with the moving bodies.

The woman watched him with a smile. "What's your name?" Without a bloodthirsty crowd around her and a knife sharp and close enough to stab William, she was far less threatening. Her long, dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Sweat had washed some of the demon blood from her face.

William was reluctant to answer. In the time he'd been here, no one had asked. What if he told the truth, and someone put his name and face together and recognized him as the boy who had escaped the pyres of Brighton? He thought of the first word that popped into his head. "Rowan."

"I'm Jasmine, and this is Philip," she said, motioning to the tall man. Waving at Winthrop, still in his stupor, Jasmine said, "You're lucky our god saved you from the demon curse."

William nodded.

"Is it true?" Jasmine asked.

William watched her, unsure what she meant.

"Do you really walk with demons?"

"I…I'm not sure what you mean."

Jasmine nodded with understanding. "You probably don't remember what happened to you. Winthrop has cured you. You're safe now. You're one of us."

William looked at his boots.

"You're from Davenport?" Jasmine asked. "You have a touch of the accent."

William was confused for a moment until he recalled his lie. "Yes," he said quietly.

"I had an aunt who lived there," she said. "But I guess she's probably dead now." A hint of sadness crossed Jasmine's face.

William didn't say anything. Everyone in Davenport was dead. He knew it. But was that the right answer? He could no longer remember. Ever since he'd been with his demons, he hadn't had to worry about social graces.

"I haven't seen her in a few years," Jasmine continued. "I suppose I would have, when Blackthorn called up reinforcements from the towns and villages." Seeing the expression on William's face, Jasmine explained, "Blackthorn called all the people from the townships and the villages to help us battle the demons. We were sent into the wild to put an end to the scourge. You probably didn't know that."

"No," William admitted.

"We almost lost the battle in a canyon outside the city, but our god Winthrop led us to victory," Phillip said. A glimmer of pride went through his face as he pointed at Winthrop, who was still in his trance. "Our god has made us immortal."

William looked down at the handprint on his shirt. He looked at the one on Phillip. He certainly didn't feel any different. But what if Phillip was right? What if Winthrop's mark was the one that would excuse him from the scrutiny of Brighton? What if by wearing Winthrop's mark, he could avoid inspection, the pyres, and certain death at the hands of those who might burn him?

The idea was almost too much to think about.

Maybe Winthrop was right, and William had been cured. Maybe his luck had taken a turn he'd never expected.

"I questioned it at first, too," Jasmine said, noticing the look of disbelief on his face. "But how else would we have defeated the demons, unless we were immortal? How else would we be here together, dancing and singing instead of lying dead in the Ancient City, where few in Brighton have ever set foot?"

William couldn't argue. He pondered on that as his gaze wandered away from Jasmine and Phillip and up toward the massive, curved girders of the dome, where moonlight shone through the mostly-open ceiling and illuminated the upper portions of the dome. He followed those curved arches down to the rows of ancient stone that formed enormous, sprawling levels, broken by stairs, speckled with moving torches as some of Winthrop's people explored. Every so often, one of them shouted and pointed at some spectacle of the past. William had a faint memory of looking through another preserved, ancient building with Ella, Melora, and Bray. He scrunched his eyes shut. He didn't want to remember any of that anymore. He wanted to walk a new path.

"It's amazing, isn't it?" Jasmine asked, tearing a hunk of demon meat from the stick and passing it to Phillip.

"Yes." William hugged his knees. "I've never seen a place like this."

"We have plenty to eat here," Phillip said gratefully, as he chewed. "Probably more than in Brighton."

William grew quiet as he watched Phillip and Jasmine eat the rest of their meal and keep vigil over Winthrop. After a while, the raging fire withered into thin lines of smoke, and some of the men and women took last trips outside the firelight and into dark corners, squatting or standing to relieve themselves. Others nursed final sips from their flasks.

"We'll be going to sleep soon," Jasmine told William. Gesturing to the thin blanket in his lap, she asked, "Are you warm enough?"

"I think so," William said.

"Let me get you another blanket," she told him, as if she hadn't heard him. She walked to a bag lying on the ground, pulling a tattered piece of fabric from within and handing it to William. William took it. Mirroring the others, he folded it into a makeshift pillow and placed it behind his head. Jasmine rejoined Winthrop's other priestesses, who lay in each other's laps, settling into resting positions on the bent grass. Phillip set up his blanket near William.

"It's been a long day and night of worship," Phillip said. "Goodnight, Rowan. I'm glad we found you. I'm glad you've been cured."

William lay on his side and closed his eyes, even though he was too nervous to sleep. The repeating chant felt like it was ingrained in his head, even though it had stopped. He still felt awful for what had happened to his demons, but he felt a strange sense of safety with these people, too. He couldn't explain it.

He didn't open his eyes for a while.

When he did, Jasmine and Phillip had stopped adjusting underneath their blankets.

Most of the priests and priestesses were asleep.

William looked around.

Of those that were awake in the giant dome, most were walking the edges, not looking at him. His heart knocked violently as escape crossed his mind for the first time since the chants and the dancing.

William sat up slowly, certain that someone would see him and stop him. But no one was paying attention. Winthrop's head was sagged to his chest, his eyes closed. He'd fallen asleep sitting up, snoring. William rose slowly to his feet, stretched his cramped legs, and determined that he had to shed water.

He wasn't sure what to do beyond that.

Should he flee? Or should he relieve himself, return to his bed, and take a chance that these people would continue being nice to him? Should he believe Jasmine and Phillip that he was chosen, that he was safe? He took a step, looking around, noticing most of the weapons were tucked underneath the sleeping men and women.

Standing in the light of the fire, the heat warming his face, William located a path between two sleeping women and into some thick shadows way in the corner of the dome that might offer enough cover to escape, if that were the way he wanted to go.

He swallowed, unsure.

The snoring stopped.

A voice pierced the quiet.

"Where are you going, my son?"

William froze. He swiveled as he looked around. Winthrop lifted his robe and pointed a bony finger at him, pinning William to the fire with his gaze.

Chapter 14:  William

A few of Winthrop's priestesses snapped awake, watching William as if he were a demon creeping into their midst. They sat up, reaching for their swords and spears.

William grabbed his belly. "I have to relieve myself," he said.

The truth tumbled from his mouth. He glanced cautiously at the priestesses, as if they might think he was lying. They watched Winthrop.

"You are immortal now," Winthrop said. "Human needs can wait. Sit down."

William settled back down and onto his blanket, trying to calm his beating heart. He looked for Jasmine and Phillip, the only people in Winthrop's camp that seemed kind. Phillip was asleep nearby with his back turned. Jasmine was among a cluster of women around Winthrop, but she hadn't stirred. Winthrop's eyes were narrow and red, reflecting the light of the dying fire.

"The blood of my life courses through you," Winthrop said.

William nodded, fear preventing him from comprehending the words.

"The blessed are immortal. Do you feel immortal?" Winthrop asked.

William didn't feel any different. He was scared, but that was it.

"You're afraid." Winthrop spat the phrase as if the emotion was a vile taste in his mouth. "I was once like you. I once lived in fear, tucking myself away in Brighton. But the wild cured that. I no longer fear anything."

William recalled the feeling he'd had when he'd been surrounded by demons. He'd felt invincible. But these strange people had taken that away.

Or had they given him something else?

"I am the god of war. I have blessed the people in this dome, so that all inside it are safe. The demons no longer come near us," Winthrop said. "You will be protected, if you stay with me."

The priestesses smiled at William. A few more woke as they heard the talking. William looked at his handprint, and then at the people around him. He couldn't deny what Winthrop was saying. All around him were dead demons and Winthrop's people. No one was in danger. No one was afraid. These people were even more powerful than William's demons.

"We have driven the twisted men out of their nests. We have driven them from their homes, and slaughtered them in the streets. The power they hold over the great, flat earth is ending." Winthrop held his hands up, basking in his proclamation, as his voice grew louder. "The demons' blood has shown us the path to righteousness. My people are victorious. We are protected from the demons by their blood."

A few of Winthrop's priestesses sat up and adjusted, revealing their bare shoulders, reminding William of the swaying bodies, and their chanting words. He recalled the ecstatic looks on the women's faces when they danced. He'd never experienced anything like that in Brighton, or in the wild.

"Our fearlessness makes us free," Winthrop said, loud enough that more people awoke from sleep. Jasmine and Phillip sat up, rubbing their eyes, joining a growing circle of others. They watched Winthrop as if he were conducting a sermon in Brighton. Without warning, Winthrop coughed, wiping some drool from his face. He stared at one of the priestesses, as if she might've caused it. "I need something to drink. Give me some snowberry from my personal supply."

Without a word, the girl reached into a nearby bag and handed him a flask. Winthrop uncapped it, tipped the container, and drank greedily. Watching Winthrop drink gave William a subconscious reaction—he licked his dry, cracked lips.

Winthrop noticed.

"Are you thirsty, my son?" Winthrop offered the flask to William.

The crowd leaned forward as they refocused on William, waiting for his answer. William backed away. He felt as if he was being tested. One wrong word and he'd be burned. But Winthrop shook the flask back and forth, persisting until William crept over and retrieved it. He scooted back and held it to his stomach as he crouched in his blankets, but he didn't drink.

"Drink from my flask, and you will be rid of the last of the demon curse," Winthrop said to William.

William looked down at the flask in his hands. He hesitated as all the eyes in the circle turned on him. Jasmine smiled. For a moment, he felt like he was on the dais again during the inspection at the Cleansing, under the scrutiny of the Elders, but this attention was different. It was good. It was the implication that he might be one of them, if he obeyed. Winthrop leaned forward, watching him.

William sniffed the flask.

The liquid smelled like the odors that lingered in the alleys and streets around the pubs in Brighton. Any time Ella and William had passed those buildings, Ella had pulled him along, as if the raucous, laughing crowd might suck him inside. It had always seemed to William that the people in there were having more fun than the people on the outside.

He'd never had snowberry before.

He recalled a time when he was at home in Brighton, and Ella had caught him sniffing one of Uncle Timmy's flasks. William had been left alone in the house while his parents and Timmy had gone outside. Curious, he had uncapped Timmy's flask and stuck his nose in it, inhaling a strong odor that reminded him of the pubs. Despite his mother's warnings—or maybe because of them—William had tried to take a drink. That's when Ella had come in, surprising him.

He'd nearly dropped the flask.

He'd had to clean the house by himself for weeks after he'd been caught.

William looked down at the flask in his hand. Ella would never have allowed this. But these people were offering it to him.

William drank.

He resisted the urge to spit out the foul-tasting drink, or to cough. Instead he swallowed and watched Winthrop. He went to hand back the flask.

"More," Winthrop said, raising his arms as if he were conducting a sermon.

William drank some more while the people murmured their approval.

"The demon boy is one of us!" someone yelled.

When he'd had enough to satisfy Winthrop, William handed back the flask and drew up his legs, protecting the lumps on his knees.

William felt something warm in his belly that seemed to spread to his extremities. He no longer felt the scrapes and bruises from when the men had carried him. He no longer cared about the demons. In fact, he felt better than he had in quite some time. Now he knew why his Uncle Timmy had carried two flasks.

"You are one with your god," Winthrop boomed, prompting a cheer of approval from the captive audience. "You have been saved from the mouths of the demons."

Winthrop raised his arms. He took to his feet. "The demons have been eradicated. The others will hide in the woods until my army leaves, and they will shiver with fear when they consider coming to the Ancient City, or to our towns. For too long, we have withered under the teeth of the demons, waiting for them to strike us down. We no longer have any need for fear! We have to come to the Ancient City, and we have conquered it!"

All the priests and priestesses, and the people surrounding them, cheered in agreement. Winthrop held his hands high in the air. The warmth in William's belly grew.

"We are free in the wild!" Winthrop boomed at the crowd. "We have conquered our fear and walked among the demons. We have beat them back while our relatives huddle behind a circle wall in Brighton!"

"FREEDOM! FREEDOM!" a few people shouted in unison.

More people woke up, joined the rowdy huddle, and lent their voices to the chant, as if they'd never been asleep at all.

"FREEDOM! FREEDOM!"

"There is no need to shelter Brighton any longer. We need to return and show them the way. As your god, I will lead you! We will tear down the circle wall and show them there is nothing to fear!" Winthrop's voice rose to a crescendo as he stomped around and waved his arms.

The crowd picked up on the new chant. "TEAR DOWN THE WALL! TEAR DOWN THE WALL!"

"We will march back to Brighton in the morning! We will tear down the wall!" Winthrop shouted.

"TEAR DOWN THE WALL! TEAR DOWN THE WALL!"

The chant started and spread as more people in the giant dome awoke from their sleep, joining the chorus. William looked around, the feeling from his stomach extending to a smile on his face. This time, he didn't even try to stop himself. He chanted along.

Chapter 15:  Bray

Bray was woken several times in the night by loud chanting or the laughter of dim-witted men. He sat up, watching the people feasting on demons, smearing their faces with their blood. Each time, he made sure to spot William and see that he was safe before he went back to sleep.

When he opened his eyes in the morning, the first rays of light were breaking over the Ancient City. Bray looked out the windows. Several of the army were already headed into the streets, picking through the rubble, looking for demons. A few chased rats through the weeds. He swore as he watched several coming toward the building in which he was hiding, seemingly to explore.

He collected his things and departed out the back entrance, deciding to keep an eye on the army from a little more distance.

Chapter 16:  Fitz

Fitz looked across the courtyard behind Blackthorn's house, watching birds soar in the cloudless blue sky. For the first time in as long as she could remember, some of the oppressive weight in her stomach had lifted.

The smell of Tenbrook and his men's burnt bodies had dissipated over the course of days. She'd burned them without pleasure. It was a chore to be done, much like cleaning a chamber pot, tidying a room, or performing one of a multitude of tasks that she looked forward to never performing again.

She gave no special treatment, good or bad, to Tenbrook's corpse. A fire was built near the southern edge of the circle wall in a pit, where the ashes of the Cleansing Day pyres were dumped twice each year. Tenbrook's body, like those of his men, was tossed naked into the fire. Fitz had watched the fire burn down to coals and had ordered the women to stoke it with more wood until no lump was left in the ash large enough to identify as a bit of bone.

Much of Tenbrook had turned to smoke and blown away in the wind. What remained was the anonymous ash of a mound of unclean innocents, mixed with his heartless soldiers' powdery gray cinders. No evidence of Tenbrook was left in the world, save a sword that looked like any of a hundred others. No one mourned Tenbrook's passing.

He was gone and would be remembered fondly by no one. His brutality would live on in stories among the women. Fitz couldn't erase that. But Tenbrook's name would come to represent all the evil one man's heart could ever cage. His name would be told to children to frighten them when they traded stories around the fire. Women would spit the taste of his name from their mouths. Tenbrook's name would be a curse. A foul word.

That was Tenbrook's deserved legacy.

She appraised the tall stone buildings that formed a boundary around the spacious courtyard behind Blackthorn's house. The walls gleamed with a shine she'd rarely seen in the exterior of The House of Barren Women, or any building for that matter.

The majority of the Strong Women—the women from town who had holed up with her in the Sanctuary, which seemed so long ago—and those from The House of Barren Women, as well as the Sanctuary's stranded young novices, had been staying with her, eating Blackthorn's food, sleeping in his guest rooms, and occupying the quarters formerly used by soldiers. They'd become her advisors, helping her communicate with the townspeople. Over the course of days, they'd started calling Blackthorn's house the New House, and they were its women, the New Council.

Blackthorn's servants had accepted them. Most were women that had been mistreated by the soldiers, or were forced to cater to Tenbrook's whims. Most had lived in fear that a burnt meal or an unclean room would lead to the pyre. To them, almost any change was better.

Fitz had been trying to speak with the Academy, but she'd had no luck. The remaining members were barricaded in the Academy building, too frightened to come out after Evan's death. Fitz visited them daily, trying to convince them they weren't in danger, but they had refused to open the door.

Or they were afraid to be implicated.

She wanted them to join her in making a better Brighton.

She just wasn't sure how.

She walked across the courtyard and over the imprints of soldier's boots in the grass. Her Strong Women had placed several large stones down in the center of the browning grass. Several women dug through the soil in the center of the courtyard, making piles of dirt on the ground next to them. Fitzgerald walked over to Ginger, smiling.

"You were able to get through the soil," she observed.

"Yes," Ginger said, spearing her shovel into the ground. "The top layer was hard, but the ground wasn't frozen yet underneath."

"Good." Fitzgerald held up the jar of Evan's ashes in her hand, appraising them with a sad smile. She set the jar on the ground next to the others.

Ginger and the other women had transferred the remainder of the jars they'd pulled from Tenbrook's dining hall into the courtyard. The courtyard would be a memorial, a reminder of how quickly words could turn into reprehensible action.

"Some of the mason's wives offered to help carve the names of the dead into the stones," Ginger said.

Fitz nodded. "I'm sure their relatives will appreciate that."

After emptying Tenbrook's dining hall of the ashes, Fitz decided she'd choose a new meeting room to conduct her business.

She watched the women bury the ashes, then Fitz walked back to the other side of the courtyard, a pensive look on her face. Noticing the change in her demeanor, Ginger broke from the group and walked with her.

"What's wrong?"

"I've been doing a lot of thinking," Fitz admitted.

"We all have, after what happened. That's why The People have been coming to see you at all hours."

"I know. They want to know what's going to happen in Brighton," Fitz said with a sigh.

"You must be tired, after so much talking."

"I don't think I've met so many people in my life." Fitz rubbed her eyes. "I've been trying to soothe their concerns, but in truth, I'm not certain what's going to happen myself."

Ginger nodded sympathetically. "Things have been peaceful in the streets. No soldiers to worry about. No wondering whether we have enough to eat, or whether we'll be spiked or burned."

"It's nice," Fitz agreed. "But I can't stop thinking about what happens when the army comes back."

"Maybe they won't come back," Ginger suggested.

"That would be good in one sense, but not in another. People have been asking about their relatives. The people left in Brighton are concerned about their family members that were forced to march in Blackthorn's army. They think most of their relatives are dead."

"I'm worried about the same thing." Ginger lowered her eyes. "The only people likely to survive are the blue shirts and the cavalry. Everybody suspects that."

"I've made my peace with that, as awful as it is," Fitz said. "But that hasn't stopped me from wondering if someone worse than Tenbrook will come back with rule on his mind."

"Or retribution," Ginger added. She touched Fitz's arm. "What should we do, Fitz?"

Fitz blew a breath. "We need to find out what's coming, Ginger. We can't hide behind the circle wall and pretend everything will stay this way forever. Send a few of the best women riders out past the circle wall. Tell them to take every precaution, but bring us word about Blackthorn's army."

"I know a few women that will be perfect for the task."

Chapter 17:  Oliver

With the sun barely up and a morning fog shrouding everything in gray, Oliver approached the wooden tower where he'd left everyone the night before. The heavy timber door swung open and Melora ran out a few steps. "Oliver, where were you?"

Ivory tentatively stepped out behind her, his bow at the ready, an arrow nocked.

Oliver didn't say anything until he was close enough to answer in a voice that wouldn't carry so far as to wake nearby demons. "Is everyone up?"

Melora came to a stop a few paces in front of Oliver. She looked at him with her head cocked to let him know what a strange question that was. "Of course."

"We thought something happened to you," Ivory hissed from where he stood just outside the door, looking right and left. "How did you get out?"

Oliver didn't answer Ivory's question. Instead, he stopped and raised his hand to show them the device that Kirby had given him.

"What's that?" Melora asked, stepping forward touch it.

"That's metal," said Ivory, staring, his interest piqued.

Oliver pulled his hand back to keep the device away from Melora. "Don't touch it. Okay?"

"What is it?" Melora asked, perturbed by Oliver's refusal to share.

"I snuck out last night," said Oliver. "And I found the woman with the gun."

Ivory was taken aback.

"She's real?" asked Melora.

"She asked me to gather everyone around and show them this." Oliver raised his hands again to display the heavy, metal device, which was about the size of a fat apple.

"Why?" Ivory asked. "What is that thing?"

Holding it up for both Melora and Ivory to see, Oliver told them, "She said it was a hand grenade."

Ivory shrugged and looked at Melora. "I don't know what that is."

"Is it Tech Magic?" asked Melora. "What does it do?"

Oliver pointed to a metal pin sticking out near the top. "She said I'm supposed to pull this out to show everyone how it works."

Chapter 18:  William

William opened his eyes, unsure when he'd fallen asleep. Morning light lanced over the girders that curved over the enormous ceiling of the dome, temporarily blinding him and causing a dull ache in his skull to worsen. He raised his hands up to shield his face. He felt nauseous. His breath reeked of the drink he'd taken. He wiped away the remnants of sleep and forced himself to sit up.

A few others were stirring. Some were picking breakfast from the remains of the demon corpses. Others were stoking fires. William removed the blanket tucked over his legs. He didn't even remember putting it there. Looking around, he saw a bigger pile of blankets where Winthrop had slept, but he didn't see Winthrop.

Jasmine walked over and greeted him with a smile, a bag slung over her shoulder. A night's sleep had stripped more of the blood from her face. In the daylight, he saw that she had high, curved cheekbones and blue eyes. She looked like someone who might be picking berries in the forest next to his mother, though he didn't recognize her.

"How'd you sleep?" she asked.

"Okay," William said, unwilling to admit that the drink had probably made him sick. "Where's Father Winthrop?"

"He's off with a few other priestesses for his morning rituals," Jasmine answered without hesitation. "I had my turn yesterday."

William had a guess as to what that entailed. He pictured Winthrop's hands crawling over the women, and he turned away to hide his disgust. Winthrop might be a god, but he was a foul, blubbery man who smelled worse than the stench coating William's tongue.

Jasmine unslung her bag, placed it on the ground, and pulled out a small pouch. William wondered what sort of new, strange ritual she was preparing for. He was surprised when she opened it and revealed some berries.

"Want some?" she asked.

William couldn't help staring at the pouch. His hunger had grown over the course of the night, so much that he felt his mouth watering. He held out his hand and accepted a small handful. It was better than eating demons—that was for sure.

"Thanks," he said as his mouth turned tart from the berry's juice. Recalling the words Winthrop had said the night before, still not convinced it wasn't a dream, he asked, "Are we really headed back to Brighton?"

"Yes. We're leaving later this morning. Are you excited?" Jasmine asked, a smile spreading across her face.

"I'm not sure how I feel," William said, before he could figure out whether he should say that.

"We're going to fulfill our destiny, Rowan," Jasmine said, patting his arm. "This will be a moment in history our future families will tell stories about—the day we set Brighton free. They'll tell tales about the day we broke down the wall."

William nodded, but he wasn't convinced. Watching Jasmine, he determined she didn't look old enough to be sent out with the army. "Why are you here? Don't you have children in town?"

A sad look crossed Jasmine's face.

"I didn't mean to be rude," William quickly retracted. "You don't have to answer, if you don't want to."

"You're not being rude, just curious," Jasmine said. "I was to be married last spring, but my husband was smudged. The army was called before I could be paired off with someone else."

William flinched at the reminder of the burnings. He tried his best to hide it.

"How old are you?" he asked.

"Eighteen. They sent me out here to help carry supplies. And to fight, of course," Jasmine said with pride. She watched William. "You're not scared anymore, are you?"

"No," William said. He still felt the same sense of safety that'd come over him the night before. "I thought I was going to be eaten last night, though," he admitted.

Jasmine chuckled. "We don't eat people. We eat the demons. Their flesh gives us their strength. It makes us immortal children of the new god. Our leader brings us to victory. Now we're going to bring that victory back to Brighton, and the demons will no longer bother us."

"How can you be sure?"

"The demons fear us, Rowan."

William nodded. He wanted to believe Winthrop had changed. He wanted to believe that Brighton could be a better place. Looking around at the few demon corpses that hadn't yet been eaten, he was still horrified and disgusted, but maybe the bloodshed was necessary, if it meant less bloodshed in the future. Maybe the demons would stay away from Brighton, and the people of Brighton would stay away from the demons.

Maybe Winthrop had the answer.

Chapter 19:  Oliver

Ivory shut the heavy oak door and started putting the braces in place.

"Oliver," Jingo asked, in a voice much too tense for the situation, "where did you get that?"

Oliver stopped walking, offended by Jingo's tone. "I found the woman with the gun. Her name is Kirby. She gave this to me."

"Don't move." Jingo crossed the great room on cautious feet. He glanced quickly at Melora and Ivory and then pointed toward the stairs. "Get up there."

Ivory finished with the heavy braces.

Melora asked, "Why?"

"Do it," Jingo told her. "We're all in danger."

Oliver looked at the device in his hand as a weight of guilt came over him. Had he made a mistake in trusting Kirby?

Melora ran across the room and bounded up the stairs. Ivory hesitated.

Jingo spoke calmly as he got closer to Oliver. "Go, Ivory. If Beck leaves his watch post, tell him not to come down here."

"I can stay," said Ivory. "I can help."

"There's nothing to help with," Jingo told him. "Go upstairs. Get away from us." Jingo stopped in front of Oliver.

Oliver raised the device for Jingo to see. "She said it was a hand grenade."

Jingo leaned to the side and examined the hand grenade carefully. "It's remarkably well-preserved. Be very careful with it."

"I don't understand," said Oliver. "She wasn't careful. She tossed it to me, and I dropped it in the ship when I tried to catch it. It's heavier than I expected."

"You dropped it?" Jingo was surprised.

"What were you doing in the ship?" Ivory asked from where he stood near the top of the stairs.

Without taking his eyes off Jingo, Oliver answered Ivory's question. "That's where I found her. In the ship."

Jingo looked over his shoulder at Ivory. "You get upstairs. Back against the far wall. Well away from us." Looking back at Oliver, he said, "She threw this to you and you dropped it?"

"Yes. That's what I said."

"Why did she tell you to bring it to us?"

"She said she would come to see us after I showed you how it worked."

That answer clearly disappointed Jingo. "She gave you instructions to show us its function?"

"Yes." Oliver reached up with his free hand and put a finger on the pin.

"Don't touch that." Jingo's hand struck out as fast as a snake and pushed Oliver's free hand away from the grenade.

"She said I should put a finger through that loop of metal, and pull it away from the hand grenade when I was ready to use it."

"And?" Jingo asked.

"She was very emphatic about the steps," said Oliver. "She said we should all go to one of the upper floors of the tower and wait until some demons came out to scavenge. She said I should call them over and wait until they were pretty close to the bottom of the tower, and then I should pull this metal pin out. She said as soon as I do that, I should throw this hand grenade down at the demons. She said whatever I do, don't drop it on the floor by accident."

"You're sure about that?" asked Jingo.

"She said after I take the pin out, dropping it would be very bad. She said it could kill me."

"Did she say what the hand grenade would do exactly?"

Oliver nodded. "She said it would ex…" Oliver forgot the word.

"Explode," Jingo helped.

"Yes," said Oliver. "She said it would explode."

"Did she say what that meant?"

"She said it was like a burst of lightning and thunder. Anyone close to the grenade when it exploded would be killed. That's why she wanted me to throw it at the demons."

Jingo reached again. "May I take it from you?"

Oliver put the grenade into Jingo's hand. Jingo hefted it and asked, "What's supposed to happen after the grenade explodes and the demons die?"

"She said she'd come to our tower and talk to us."

"Why didn't she come with you this morning?" Jingo asked.

"She said she needed insurance," answered Oliver. "She said she has more hand grenades, and she wants us to understand what kind of power they have."

"She's afraid we might harm her?" asked Jingo, nodding as he said it. "Of course. She doesn't know us. She's being careful."

"That's what she told me," Oliver confirmed.

Jingo examined the grenade in his hands. "It doesn't look three hundred years old. Did she say her people manufactured this?"

Oliver shook his head. "Should I have asked?"

Chapter 20:  Oliver

Oliver, Beck, Ivory, and Melora all stood on the platform at the tip of the tower. The thick fog dampened every sound and made it hard to discern the shapes of the bodies down on the ground.

"One of us should be down there with him," said Ivory, referring to Jingo, who was on the second floor, stationed in front of a small window, looking out for demons.

"It might not be safe," Beck told them. "Jingo said that device could kill all of us."

"It won't kill us," Oliver argued. Despite what seemed to be everyone's mood after Jingo told them what the grenade could do, Oliver trusted Kirby.

"We don't need to endanger everyone to find out," said Beck. "We only need to wait."

"What do we do if that thing kills Jingo?" asked Melora.

"It won't," Oliver told her.

"We leave this place as fast as we can," said Beck. "If this Kirby woman's device does what Jingo says it will do, and if she has that gun, then we'll all be in mortal danger if we remain."

"But if she has all this power and wants to kill us," said Oliver, "why didn't she already do it?"

Ivory nudged Beck and grinned. "He's got a point, don't you think?"

Oliver smiled. It was a powerful compliment; at least it felt that way to Oliver, who was able to talk with Beck for a moment as an equal.

"Yes," Beck admitted as he refocused his attention at the foggy ground below.

"I think I see some demons," said Melora, pointing. "Over there, coming through that gap in the wall."

"I see four," said Ivory. "No, six."

Oliver looked over two fallen timbers in the stockade wall and saw six ghostly, gray man-shaped things moving into the compound. They could have been regular people. They could have been soldiers from Brighton. They could even have been the ghosts that Melora was so sure existed, but they weren't. Oliver, like Ivory, guessed they were demons. In a few moments, they'd know for sure.

"We should let Jingo know," said Ivory.

Beck shook his head and started to say something.

"From where Jingo is looking out the window," said Ivory, "he can't see that part of the stockade wall."

Beck looked at the coming figures in the fog.

"He's right," added Oliver, getting nervous.

Ivory had already crossed the platform and was mounting the ladder to head down.

"Tell him and then come right back up," said Beck. "I know you don't think you're in danger, but you might be."

With a nod of acknowledgment, Ivory disappeared down the ladder. He was hurrying down the rungs and making too much noise because he was rushing.

"Should we get their attention?" Melora asked, looking at Beck. "If we want them to come over, we should, shouldn't we?"

"Yes," agreed Oliver.

Reluctantly, Beck nodded. "Better to get this experiment done with."

"Hello!" Melora called loudly.

Oliver saw the gray shapes in the fog come to a stop.

"Hello!" Melora called again. "Over here!"

The gray shapes all turned and hurried toward the sound of Melora's voice.

"That's good," said Beck.

Jingo said something through the window four floors down.

"He can't see them yet," said Beck, "but he knows they're out there. He must be calling them. They'll come to his voice."

Melora looked toward the hole in the floor where the ladder led down. "Ivory doesn't need to warn him, then."

"If you go down there, you'll be in danger. Ivory can handle himself. Don't put yourself at risk needlessly."

With a nervous sigh, Melora turned back to look over the rail at the coming demons.

From the window down on the second floor, Jingo called again.

Ivory's footsteps echoed through the tower as he sped down the stairs.

The demons ran. They were close enough that Oliver was able to see for sure that they were twisted men with misshapen heads and bony warts on their joints. They were racing around to the front side of the tower, trying to find the source of Jingo's fog-diffused voice.

"It's working." Oliver pointed. "They're coming around to the front."

Melora looked toward the ladder again. She was worried about Ivory.

"He'll be fine," Oliver told her.

Beck leaned over the rail for a better view down below.

Jingo called again.

The demons were nearing the front of the tower, slowing down as they looked at it, trying to figure out if the voice they were hearing was coming from inside.

Oliver peered over the rail for a good look. The demons were close together, a little bit confused.

Without warning, a black, innocuous object flew out the window at which Jingo had been stationed.

The hand grenade.

Oliver watched, eager to see what the Tech Magic would do.

The grenade hit the ground near a pair of the demons. It bounced and rolled. All six demons looked at it. They, of course, had no idea what it was.

Yellow and orange light flashed.

Thunder boomed.

A cloud of dirt blew past the demons and quickly dissipated in the fog.

All six demons were on the ground. Two were as immobile as the dead settlers. The other four were moving, barely.

"Did you see that?" Oliver nearly shouted.

"Yes," Beck answered.

"That was amazing! That was Tech Magic!"

"And your friend has those?" Beck's tone was odd.

Oliver nodded enthusiastically.

Beck stiffened and pointed toward a nearby tower. "Is that her?"

Oliver followed the line of Beck's finger and saw Kirby coming out of the fog from where she'd been hiding. She had her long gun at her shoulder. Oliver waved a hand and called. "Kirby! Hey, Kirby!"

Kirby waved without any enthusiasm and put her hand back on her gun, taking care to keep the weapon pointed at the window inside which Jingo stood.

"That's the rifle," Oliver told Beck, showing off his new word. "She brought it with her."

Beck leaned on the rail and squinted, as if to clarify his view.

"She can kill us all from down there," said Melora. "Unless the legends are lies."

"She won't," Oliver said definitively.

After walking past the rotting bodies, frozen from the night's chill, Kirby came to a stop a few dozen paces from the tower's front door. "I'm Kirby," she called. "Oliver told you about me."

From downstairs, Jingo called, "I'm Jingo, and I'm in here with four others. May I invite you inside to join us?"

"Yes." Kirby took one hand off her rifle, reached down to her belt, and lifted a hand grenade, holding it high for everyone in the tower to see. "You know what these can do," she told anyone who could hear. "I don't know you people. I don't trust you. But you know I have these. If you try to harm me…" Kirby left the rest of the threat unspoken.

"We have no wish to hurt you," Jingo called back. "You'll see once you're among us. We have questions, many questions."

Oliver hurried over to the ladder and had already passed through two levels before the hinges on the heavy door at the base of the tower creaked open.

Chapter 21:  William

In the time William and Jasmine had been talking, half of Winthrop's priests had returned with fresh demons they'd chased down, and the women were skinning them next to the fire. Others in the camp were waking up and preparing breakfast.

"Winthrop's not back yet," Jasmine said. "Maybe we should find Phillip."

William agreed. They set off from the big fire and wove through the crowds of waking people. Some of them squinted and wiped their eyes, like William had. It looked like they were battling the same headache he'd woken up with.

The air held the lingering scent of cooked demons and the stench of unwashed men. Despite that, William had shed most of his fear. He had a full breakfast of berries in his stomach. He had Jasmine at his side. He had a handprint and Winthrop's assurance that he was immortal.

Things could be worse.

He followed Jasmine through a maze of people. A couple nodded at William as they talked about the night they'd shared. For the first time, William felt as though he was their equal. They treated him as any other adult. They allowed him to drink snowberry. They talked about battle, and demons, and women, and they didn't quiet down when they saw him, like Ella, Melora, or even Ivory would have. He felt like he'd finally made it inside one of those pubs that he'd been pulled away from. Most of the men's faces were marked with smeared blood, sweat, and soot, but they wore smiles as they talked about returning to Brighton. The women cursed as they brushed stubborn tangles out of their hair. In spite of that, they seemed happy.

Through a pack of laughing men, William caught a glimpse of Phillip. He was assisting another man carry a demon. He greeted them with a smile.

"I can handle the demon, if you need to talk," the other man said.

"Thanks," Phillip said. He joined Jasmine and William. "Did you eat?" he asked.

"Yes," Jasmine answered. Her eyes roamed to the sides of the dome, where several people were already climbing the stairs. "Father Winthrop's not back yet."

"You want to explore," Phillip guessed, a smile crossing his face, as if he'd had the same thought.

"I was thinking we might be able to check it out, before we leave this morning," Jasmine said.

"We'll need to make sure Winthrop is provided for." Phillip looked around, as if Winthrop might be waiting to give orders.

"A few of the priests were cooking him breakfast. It will take him a while to eat. And it will take him a while with the priestesses he chose this morning."

"Maybe we can go for a bit," Phillip agreed. "Are you coming with us, Rowan?"

"Yes," William said.

They continued through the crowd of people, creating a path between the blood-printed men who were stuffing meat in their mouths, or cleaning off their spears. One group of men described a battle using exaggerated hand motions. Others tipped flasks that appeared to be almost empty, as if they were celebrating. William tuned them out, focusing on the site of the building's interior. The dome was even more magnificent in the daylight. Above the first five or six levels of ancient stone, several more angled out above them, and above that, several more. Rusted, ancient metal bars hung out over the uppermost layer of stone, extending into the building. A few of these had fallen into the lower levels of the dome—metal pieces that were large enough to crush anyone underneath, had they been standing in the way.

"What do you think those are for?" Jasmine asked, pointing.

William thought on it. "They held up things," he said.

"How do you know?" Jasmine asked.

Pointing at one of the long metal bars near the top, he said, "I don't think people could sit on them."

"I wonder what the Ancients did when they gathered here," Jasmine asked.

Recalling the conversation he'd had with Bray earlier, William said, "This place was used to play games. The Ancients came here and watched something on the ground, like we watch our harvest races or pig pulls."

Jasmine watched him with renewed interest. "You are smart, for a demon boy."

William smiled at the compliment.

"Those pieces of metal would be worth some coin, if we could take them back," Phillip said, gesturing at a few of the fallen metal beams.

"I don't think we'd be able to carry them," Jasmine lamented.

"You're probably right," Phillip said. "But maybe we'll find something smaller we can take with us."

They walked with renewed purpose towards the edge of the dome. The brown grass was longer by the edges, where it had escaped the trample of the army's boots. Reaching the first set of cracked stairs, they walked past several people who were conversing at the bottom. As they started up the steps, William felt the same exhilaration he'd felt when entering the Ancient City. All around him were the creations of people who had walked many years ago, whose imprints were still impacting people today. He was still one with the Ancient City.

Even without his demons, he could still hear the whispers of the Ancients.

He sprinted up the first set of stairs as he explored the first level, leaving Jasmine and Phillip temporarily behind. Rusted metal frames were embedded in the stone, evenly spaced, as if the dome had been built around them. Some were more decrepit, but they looked like places to sit. He grabbed on to one stuck piece of metal, trying to wiggle it, but it wouldn't budge.

"Be careful," Phillip said, coming up behind him. "You don't want to get a cut from the metal that will spread sickness through your body."

"I know," William said, recalling how one of his friends had developed a shaking disease that seemed to last for months.

They continued exploring the lowest levels, which were nearly identical. A few times, they stepped around cracks in the ancient stone that were wide enough to stick a foot in. Several hearty weeds crept from these cracks, as if they were trying to pull William, Jasmine, and Phillip in. On some levels, they encountered other blood printed men and women, and they traded speculations and held up empty hands they'd hoped to fill with treasure. William guessed that anything valuable had probably been scavenged a long time ago.

After walking by most of the other groups, they moved on up the stairs. William watched the girders grow closer and the people on the ground grow smaller until they were at the landing of the top layer, breathing heavily, looking around.

"It's wonderful," William marveled.

People were everywhere in the dome. Deep in the center of the building was the bonfire where they'd slept. The gaping entrance at the front was clogged with people that were passing in and out, some carrying demons, some carrying flasks. Smaller entrances dotted the sides, where people gathered and looked from the city to the dome. William scanned around until he found Winthrop speaking with a circle of people, waving his hands.

"He's still busy," Jasmine noted, pointing. "I don't think he's had his breakfast yet."

"It looks like we have some time," Phillip said.

They chose a spot to sit that was free from debris, where they could rest from the climbing and exploring. William sat on the end, Jasmine and Phillip next to him.

"I haven't seen this many people together except at the square," William said with wonder.

"Was the Davenport square large?" Jasmine asked.

Remembering his lie, William said, "Not as large as this, or as Brighton's, I imagine."

"You're looking at the strongest of Blackthorn's army," Phillip said proudly. "The ones who lived on, even after Blackthorn was killed. Those who lived long enough to see the devil die so they could follow Winthrop."

"We will be the ones to deliver the message to Brighton," Jasmine said. "We are Winthrop's chosen."

William nodded. He looked down at the blood print on his chest, feeling a sense of belonging that he hadn't felt in a while. The last time he recalled feeling that way was when he was walking with Bray through the forest, following the tracks that would lead to Melora. His mother had trailed behind, and Bray had regarded William with admiration—respect, even—as he led the way.

But that moment was over, and it would never happen again.

William pushed the thought from his mind and remained in silence next to Phillip and Jasmine for a while, observing the parade of the army below them. And there was plenty to look at. Every so often, a stream of men left the dome through the gaping entrance and another returned. William looked up, watching several birds take flight from the top of the dome, disappearing into a cold, clear sky. Looking back at Jasmine and Phillip, he caught them trading a smile. A sense of peace came over William. For once, he wasn't running from Brighton. Instead, he was headed back into it, under Winthrop's protection.

Chapter 22:  Winthrop

Winthrop walked through the stinking army of pig chasers, dirt scratchers, and foul women, out of breath from crossing most of the giant dome. He headed for the big fire that had become his quarters. He was hungry. Several stringy-haired priestesses clung to his arm, but he shook them loose.

He'd already had his pleasures.

Besides, they stank from too many days without a bath.

Winthrop's human urges were starting to annoy him. Over the course of days, a dull pang in his stomach made Winthrop realize he needed food, and other aches made him realize he needed women. He indulged those urges, but only because he was still completing his transformation into a god.

Wiping his hands on his robe to clean off some of the filth, he reached his fire, which had already being stoked by some of his faithful. He avoided the stares of a group of people who were waiting for a reverent gaze and looked for the tall man who had been coordinating his orders.

"Where is he?"

A few of the priests stopped turning the demon in the fire and looked around.

"Who do you mean, sir?"

"The tall one." Winthrop waved his hands, agitated.

"Phillip's off getting more demons, I think," one of them said.

Winthrop shook his head disgustedly. If the dirt-scratcher were around, he'd reprimand him, but the snarl in his stomach told him food was more important. He walked to the fire, staring at the roasting demon as it turned from pink to black and the men handed him a piece. He looked around the campsite, chewing. He needed to coordinate the army to leave for Brighton. He needed to free Brighton the way he'd freed these ignorant people, showing them the true light of the blessed.

Winthrop stared up at the ceiling, listening as the gods whispered a word into his ears that he'd almost forgotten. Tenbrook. He felt a shimmer of fear, then excitement as he thought through ways to dispose of the devil's servant. He'd feed him to the demons. Or he'd feed him to his people.

He'd killed Blackthorn, and he'd kill whoever was left in his stead. Winthrop had more than enough men to tear down the Brighton wall, running over all who opposed him with the blood of a thousand demons. His men and women would sacrifice themselves on the altar of Brighton so that they could create a path back to Winthrop's rightful chair.

One of Winthrop's nameless priests approached him, shifting from foot to foot.

"Father, I have news."

Winthrop tried to project his answer into a thought without speaking. The man stared at him, confused. Reverting to human-speak, Winthrop asked, "What is it?"

"We found something outside the dome."

The man beckoned behind Winthrop, and Winthrop turned to see several of his followers breaking through the crowd, guiding several large horses with matted fur and fear in their eyes.

"Where did you find them?" Winthrop asked.

"Outside in the streets, while we were looking for demons," the man answered.

Another man said, "They were clustered together, drinking from a puddle. We were able to coax them over."

Winthrop thought back to the battle on the hill. Most of the horses had been killed or run off after he'd killed the devil Blackthorn. But these must have survived.

"They've come back to serve their god," Winthrop pronounced. "How many are there?"

"About a dozen. We have the others outside."

"Good. Keep them ready, until we march. My priests and I will use them as we head back to Brighton."

Chapter 23:  Oliver

When Oliver came down the stairs and got to the bottom level of the tower, he saw Ivory across the big room standing near the closed door, looking confused. Kirby had her big gun strapped across her back, but in one hand she held one of her hand grenades. In the other hand, she pointed a hand-sized, metallic device at Ivory.

"Where are the rest of them?" Kirby demanded.

"Upstairs," Oliver told her, answering for Ivory. "They're on the way down."

Kirby waved the metal device at Ivory.

Ivory looked at the device like he wanted to walk over and touch it.

"Move," she said.

"Why?" Ivory asked.

"Because I told you to." She wasn't pleased.

Pointing at the metallic device in Kirby's hand, Oliver asked, "Is that a gun, too?"

Kirby looked at the gun as though checking to make sure it wasn't invisible. "Of course, it is."

"A real gun?" Ivory asked.

Kirby nodded.

"Is it big enough to kill a demon?" Oliver asked.

"Yes," Kirby answered Oliver but kept deadly eyes focused on Ivory. "And big enough to kill you. Go over by the stairs with Oliver."

Ivory looked at the gun and weighed the choice on whether to comply, but didn't move.

"We're not a danger to you," Oliver told Kirby. "We're friends."

"Friends?" Kirby asked.

"We're friendly," Oliver clarified. "I told you we didn't come here to hurt you. We saw you from up on the hill and wanted to talk to you."

Kirby looked back at Ivory. "I don't want to hurt you either, but you understand now that this is a gun. I can kill you with it so fast you won't even know you're dead. Go over there."

Ivory blinked as he looked at the small gun in Kirby's hand.

"C'mon." Oliver waved for Ivory to step away from Kirby and cross the room to stand by the stairs.

Melora and Beck rounded the corner at the top of the last flight of on the way down.

Beck stopped, staring at Kirby, her strange clothing, and her Tech Magic weapons. His mouth hung open in wonder.

Melora ran to the bottom of the stairs and waited for Ivory to cross the room.

"Is Jingo coming?" Ivory asked.

Beck pointed behind him and absently answered, "On the way."

"She has one of those things," said Melora, tugging at Ivory's arm to pull him back onto the stairs.

"It's a hand grenade," Oliver told her. "But she's not going to hurt you with it."

"It's insurance," said Kirby. Then she glared at each of them for a second. "All of you understand what this can do, right? You saw it explode outside. You saw it kill those mutants."

"Mutants?" Oliver asked, but was ignored.

Taking the steps downward, one at a time, deliberately, Beck pointed at the warm flames burning in the enormous fireplace and the crudely constructed chairs arrayed in a semi-circle in front of it. "We should sit down and talk. We mean you no harm."

Kirby looked over at the chairs and the inviting fire.

Oliver guessed that she hadn't been warm in a long time. Hiding in that cold, wet ship had to have been miserable. He took a few steps toward the chairs. "We should all sit down."

"We have lots of questions," said Beck, "as I'm sure you do. We've never met somebody who wasn't from Brighton or the smaller towns." He laughed, nervous or giddy. "We thought we were the only people in the world."

Kirby looked at each of them, taking a moment to scrutinize each. "Bows. Swords," she observed, and then mumbling to herself, she said, "you people really are backward. No guns?"

"None," Oliver answered. "I told you. We've never seen a gun, and I'd never even heard of a hand grenade, until today."

"That hand grenade was amazing," said Ivory anxiously. "Can you show me how to make one?"

Kirby looked at Ivory strangely, and then a noise from the stairs caught her attention.

Jingo had just come onto the last flight. "You are the Kirby that Oliver told us about?"

She stared at Jingo but didn't answer.

As Jingo descended the stairs, he pulled the hood back from his cloak.

Kirby gasped when she saw the deformity the spore had made of his head. She involuntarily stepped toward the door.

"Uninfected people find me ugly," Jingo called across the room. "I'm not offended."

"You…" Kirby started but had trouble finding her words. "You sound normal."

"He's not normal," Oliver cut in. "He's three hundred years old. He's one of the Ancients."

"Three hundred?" Kirby asked. "That's not…" But Kirby stopped talking, and her eyes betrayed some thoughts she didn't voice.

"It is possible," said Jingo, "and I can see from the look on your face that you know it's true."

"And you're not a crazed monster?" Kirby asked, in an empty tone of voice, as though repeating someone else's words.

"As sane as you," said Jingo.

"He's the smartest man I've ever met," said Ivory. "He's not a monster."

"The spore didn't ruin your mind?" Kirby asked.

"It opened my mind," said Jingo. "It made me more intelligent than I was before."

"They told us the spore made men into monsters." Kirby muttered it to herself more than anyone. "The forbidden stories told the truth?"

Jingo stopped walking and cocked his misshapen head. "Forbidden? Stories about me?"

Kirby shook her head, and she gazed absently as though the timber wall all around were invisible. "The stories about us." Tears trickled out of her eyes and tumbled down her otherwise stony face.

"About you?" Jingo asked.

Kirby holstered her pistol. She shoved the grenade into a row of others on her belt. She peeled off her overcoat and dropped it to the floor, then took off a heavy shirt. And then removed an undershirt. She turned around and pulled a final, dirty, shirt over her head, leaving her naked back exposed for all to see. Starting at her neck, and running down the length of her spine, small spore warts, each the size of an egg yolk, grew out of her vertebrae.

Chapter 24:  William

Men and women chattered excitedly as they grabbed their packs, filled them with their belongings, and filed behind one another, forming a line that weaved between the fire pits and extended all the way outside the dome. From somewhere outside, William heard the whinnying of horses and the shouts of men passing along Winthrop's orders.

"We will march on Brighton, and free the ignorant of their comforting wall!" Winthrop shouted. "We will show them the ways of the blessed!"

Winthrop was buried amidst a circle of priests who were listening to his instructions by the fire. The men roared and thrust their swords and spears in the air.

Motivated by Winthrop's rousing words, a few men extinguished the fire while Winthrop's priestesses stood ready, listening or chatting with one another. William stood next to Jasmine. His mind swirled with a mixture of emotions.

"This is really it. This is the moment our god has chosen us for," Jasmine said with a smile.

"I know," said William.

He couldn't believe he was going back to Brighton. So much had happened in the wild that his memories of home were a blur. He could barely remember his friends, his room, or his neighbors. Were any of them still there? Had a rich merchant bought and sold his house? Flashes of emotion came back to him as he recalled that last, nervous day in Brighton. He and his mother had fled from soldiers and climbed the circle wall to escape. They'd spent the night in the forest in that strangely-layered ancient building. From the top of that building, where they could see over the tips of the trees, they'd watched the smoke rise from the Cleansings of the various towns and villages. William recalled the dying look on the soldier's face after Ella had stabbed him when they were attacked outside the buildings on the outskirts of town. That had been the moment he knew he was never going back.

And now he was.

He reminded himself that he was under Winthrop's protection now, and that he'd find a new role as one of Brighton's chosen. No one would persecute him with Blackthorn dead. They couldn't.

At least, he wanted to believe that.

"Brighton will be different when we get there," Jasmine said confidently, as if reading his thoughts and offering him reassurance.

William nodded.

"Here," Jasmine said, handing him one of two swords she carried. "Most of us carry two after the battle on the hill. I found an extra for you."

"Thanks," he said, smiling at her appreciatively, clutching the weapon.

Winthrop finished his speech, and the shuffle of feet began as the slow line of the army moved from the dome and out into the street. Phillip and the other priests clustered protectively around Winthrop, holding their swords as they ushered him outside. The priestesses surrounding William followed, with him next to them. From somewhere far behind, William could already hear the other half of the army starting the chant, boots stomping the earth as they caught up, skirting around the carcasses of dead demons. The sunlight glanced off William's face as they walked out from under the dome's expansive shadow and the priests stopped next to a row of horses that had been lined up in preparation. William and the line of people behind him stopped and waited.

Winthrop motioned to the horses, looking for the best one. He chose a tall, black steed that still seemed spooked. Several priests held the horse's reigns while Winthrop climbed onto the saddle, perching himself on the beast's back, his massive girth bunching up his robe.

"My priests!" he pronounced, motioning to the line of men. "Take your horses!"

William watched with envy as the men chose their animals and took hold of the reins. The sight of the majestic animals still entranced William. He recalled riding on a horse when he was younger and one of the cavalry had taken a liking to Ella. That had been after his father died. The man had gone off to war and never come back.

Phillip was one of the last to choose a horse—a brown animal with a white mane. The other priests had fallen into a row next to Winthrop, waiting. A final horse clomped its hooves nervously next to Phillip.

William was surprised when Phillip waved him over, pointing at the white horse next to him.

"Get on, Rowan," he called.

William's mouth fell open, but he didn't let his surprise stop him. He moved as quickly as he could, climbing onto the beast. He could feel the animal breathing heavily beneath him, but it didn't move, and it didn't shake him off. William clutched the reins and looked around, recalling the things the cavalry member had told him when he'd ridden several years ago.

Sit tall.

Be gentle with the reins.

William clenched his boots against the horse's sides. The horse fell into a trot.

And then they were marching behind the army on horseback, ten priests, Winthrop, and William, clopping over bent grass, boot prints, and the discarded pieces of demons, the only things that would be left behind of Winthrop's army in the Ancient City.

Chapter 25:  Oliver

"All of us were marked by the spore," said Kirby as she pulled her coat back over her shoulders.

"You mean the people outside?" Beck asked, tactfully not calling them the dead people outside. "Or the ones where you came from?"

"The ones outside," answered Kirby. "I'm the only left still alive. I'm the last survivor."

"I've got questions." Jingo almost sounded like a pleading merchant's child.

"I've barely eaten since you people came." Kirby looked around at the eyes all staring at her. "I've been hiding from you instead of hunting. Do you have food?"

"We do," Jingo told her. He pointed to the chairs by the fireplace. "Let's sit and take off the night's chill." Jingo turned to Oliver. "Fetch us some of those squirrels Ivory killed yesterday. We can roast them over the fire while we talk."

The squirrels, the last of their meager stores, were hanging on a hook in a larder built into a corner of the cavernous space. Oliver hurried, not wanting to miss any question that Beck and Jingo would ask or any answer Kirby was going to give.

Jingo turned to Ivory. "With all the noise of Kirby's hand grenade, would you please go up and keep watch?"

Ivory looked at Kirby, and it was clear that he wanted to stay and hear every interesting thing she had to say.

"You know we need to keep safe," added Jingo.

Melora grudgingly tugged at Ivory's hand, pulling him toward the stairs. The two were becoming nearly inseparable.

"I assure you," said Jingo with a smile, "there'll be plenty of time for your questions as we each take our turns at the watch."

Ivory and Melora went upstairs.

When Oliver brought the skinned and cleaned squirrels over to the fire, Jingo, Beck, and Kirby were already sitting down.

"Do you mind cooking them?" Jingo asked.

"I will," answered Oliver as he busied himself skewering each animal with a stick to lean it over the flames.

Kirby took a long hard look at Jingo, and said, "You're really three hundred years old?"

"Yes," answered Jingo.

Kirby continued to stare at him, but didn't say any more about it.

Sensing her skepticism, Jingo said, "You're trying to decide whether I'm lying or not."

"No." Kirby slowly shook her head as her eyes drifted toward the fire. "It's hard to accept."

"Perhaps the spore mutated differently where you're from," said Jingo. "Did you come from across the ocean?"

Kirby nodded. "On those ships, yes."

"From another continent?"

"Yes."

Jingo said, "I figured the strain that infected me and every person on this continent cursed them with immortality."

Oliver looked back and forth between Jingo and Kirby, bewildered by the strange terminology.

Jingo stopped and thought about Kirby's answer. "No, the people on our continent are not immortal; we can be killed. We age very, very slowly, though. In all my years, I haven't seen any of my kind die of old age."

Kirby looked down as she opened her hands. She turned them over and examined the backs.

To Oliver, it looked like she was worrying that she'd turn out like Jingo, an ugly monster.

Jingo said, "I believe the spore causes a mutation in telomerase, a protein that keeps telomeres from fraying, hence keeping DNA from degrading as it reproduces, hence slowing aging."

Looking up at Jingo blankly, Kirby said, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You're culture has lost its knowledge of molecular biology?" Jingo asked.

Still confused, Kirby said, "You use words that I don't know."

Beck smiled and injected himself into the conversation. "He does that to all of us."

Kirby smiled weakly at Beck and then refocused on Jingo. "Do you know how old I am?"

"How old were you when the spore infected you?" asked Jingo.

"Eighteen," answered Kirby.

"I'd guess you're twenty now," said Beck, looking her up and down and letting his eyes linger on her hips and breasts. "Maybe twenty-two."

Kirby shook her head.

"You got infected long ago?" Jingo guessed.

Kirby nodded. "Three years before we came here."

"Before you sailed here in those ships?" Jingo asked.

"We landed here fourteen years ago." Kirby looked at both Jingo and Beck, ready for them to challenge her count. Neither did. "We've been at war with what you call twisted men, or demons—and what I call mutants—ever since."

"You're thirty-five?" Oliver said, as he turned away from his cooking squirrels. "That's old."

Kirby nodded sadly.

"You don't look old," said Oliver. "I think you still look eighteen."

Kirby smiled sweetly at Oliver.

"That's why you believed me when I told you I was three hundred," said Jingo.

"Yes." Kirby nodded. "I'm not aging."

"And that frightens you?" Beck observed.

"Fright?" Kirby asked. "No. It makes me sad." She looked at Jingo. "The thirty-five years I've lived have hurt too much. Everybody I've ever loved is dead. I couldn't stand to live another three centuries."

It was Jingo's turn to hide his melancholy behind a plastic smile. "Don't the spore-infected people live longer than normal lives where you come from?"

Kirby laughed so darkly that Oliver thought at first she was sobbing. "Things are different where I come from. People who show signs of infection don't live more than a few years."

"Years?" Oliver was surprised as he shot an accusing look at Beck. "You don't burn them immediately?"

Kirby looked at Beck, too, and for a moment, her face showed her disgust.

"No," Beck defended himself. "I don't… Brighton's laws are… I'm trying to… I want to change Brighton."

"So you burn the infected?" asked Kirby. "In Brighton? Is that the name of the city you're from?"

"Yes," Oliver answered. "They burn them alive."

Kirby labored through a weighty sigh. "It always comes to the killing. Always the suffering." Her eyes grew distant as they stared through the fire, past the squirrels, through the stones behind it, and out across the vast tempestuous ocean.

No one spoke. Oliver felt bad for what he'd said. Beck seemed embarrassed, Jingo patient.

Tears traced solo trails down Kirby's cheeks that otherwise betrayed no grief at all. Finally, she spoke again. "If you went to the place where I came from, it would seem like the most alien place on the face of the world. We have machines and weapons, guns and bombs, concrete fortresses and bunkers, but not many of the wild infected like you have here. We slaughter them like rats, and we're good at it."

"I'm amazed," said Jingo.

"Most of us get infected too, and when we do, we're forced into the arena by the non-infected to fight for sport," Kirby said. "Or they put us in the army, and we go to wage the wars."

"War with the demons?" Beck asked.

"Wars with barbarians, wars with pirates, wars with bandit tribes, wars with other cities and territories. Always war. Always. It never ends. Everyone where I come from eventually dies in the wars. That's our fate. Our leaders tell us tales of glory and sacrifice. They tell us of heaven and golden palaces in the clouds, but all I've seen is war. I saw no golden palaces. All I saw were tears and blood." She looked at Jingo, Oliver, and then Beck, pausing for second to make eye contact. "Have you seen someone you love suffer and die?"

Oliver nodded, thinking of his parents. But he said nothing, fearing a word might turn into tears if he dared utter it.

"You said you were infected three years before your people came here," said Jingo, changing the subject. "Were you in the wars for three years?"

"I was in the wars for two," Kirby confirmed, "and I was in the arena for one. Three years of killing people just like me, corrupted by the spore and waiting for death."

Oliver gulped as he put thoughts of his burned parents out of his mind, only to replace them with vivid memories of the slaughter he'd seen in Blackthorn's army. "You must be a good soldier to have lived through so much," he said to Kirby.

Kirby didn't accept the compliment. Instead, she emptily responded with, "People corrupted by the spore want to die. I helped them."

"You don't sound like you believe that," observed Beck.

"I was a slave," Kirby shot back, as though the truth was so obvious it offended her to have to say it. "I made people suffer. I murdered them so that I could have food in my stomach and a warm place to sleep. I hated what they made me into."

"Why did your people come here?" asked Jingo.

Kirby looked at Jingo for a long time while she thought about her response. "Hope. That's the simple answer. We were all corrupted. We were all tired of killing. We came here in search of a quiet place to live out the few years we thought we had left. We came here in search of that golden palace in the clouds, hoping it might be on Earth."

"But that's not what you found," Jingo concluded for her. "I'm so sorry."

Kirby buried her face in her hands, rubbing as though to mash away all the evil her eyes had seen in her life. "Where I came from, people die on a scale you can't imagine. Victory only comes from annihilating our enemies. We don't kill only their spore-corrupted mutants, we kill the uninfected people, too, the men, the women, the children, and the babies."

Beck stopped looking at Kirby. Oliver guessed he was embarrassed for not feeling the shame Kirby felt for what sounded to Oliver like the same kind of killing that happened regularly in Brighton.

"Most of the land is scarred from war," said Kirby. "We steal our enemy's food stores when we can, and burn what we can't take with us.  We torch their fields and kill their livestock. We poison their wells with the bodies of their dead. They do the same to us, and we all starve. We hoped this place would be different, but it isn't. We hoped this place would be the part of the ancient world that survived." Kirby slowly shook her head, and then she focused on Jingo. "I think there are no more Ancients, no more glittering cities, full of electric lights. Only one thing in the world is true anymore: war. Whatever light lived in the world in the ancient times and inspired men to build glass towers into the clouds, create flying machines, and build rockets to the moon died a long time ago. Humans only exist for one purpose now, to drag each other deeper and deeper into the brutality of the darkest age of our existence and to murder ourselves into extinction."

"It doesn't have to be that way," Beck said with a grim smile, glancing at Oliver. "I think we can change our path back toward the light."

Chapter 26:  Bray

Bray snuck through an area of demolished buildings on the outskirts of the Ancient City. Some of the buildings were little more than foundations, while others had one wall, or two, or three. Rarely did he find a building that had four. Mounds of rubble had collected in the center of most of them, the only remnants of the Ancient buildings that had once stood at the edge of town. Pathways were worn next to each of the walls, where animals, men, or demons had sought respite or a quick trail to the next street or building.

Bray used those paths now as he crunched softly over the debris, keeping to the interiors of the buildings, listening for Winthrop's army a few streets away. Every so often, he had to run through an open section of street to get to the next neighborhood of houses. When he looked left, he caught glimpses of the army. The men and women chanted loudly, drawing the demons in the area. They were either brave or stupid. In Bray's experience, making noise like that was an easy way to get killed.

At the same time, the demon activity seemed to have lessened since the army arrived. During most of Bray's trips to the Ancient City, he'd found a few carcasses—remnants of scuffles between demons and metal smugglers, mostly. But now he found piles, scattered haphazardly across one another with jagged slice marks across their stomachs, probably from when the army had entered the city.

Now the army was headed back to Brighton, leaving a new trail of violence. Or at least that's what it looked like.

Bray stopped short as he heard something on the other side of a wall. He lingered for a moment, sword drawn, listening to the hiss of what sounded like a demon. Bray crept toward the wall's edge, moving quietly out so he could get the jump on it.

A demon with a large gash in its gut lay on the other side, its fingers wrapped around the wound, holding its innards in place. It must've survived a skirmish long enough to flee and take its last breaths. The creature was propped against a piece of cracked stone. Bray ran and caught it by surprise, putting a quick end to it. He couldn't have the thing howling upon seeing him.

He continued through the maze of foundations and walls.

Bray followed the chanting army until the empty, crumbled walls and foundations ran out and became towers again. He was forced to sneak in the alleyways between intact buildings. Reaching the edge of an alley, he peered around, catching sight of the army crossing a large intersection.

Several soldiers dragged their swords through the streets, or hoisted them in the air as they chanted in unison. A few brave demons raced at them, providing a momentary skirmish, but the men disposed of them easily. Those that could be carried were hoisted on men's shoulders. Others were thrust back into the streets. A line of women toted swords, sticks, and gear. They sang loudly as they surveyed the streets for more demons.

Ahead, the buildings ended and the dense woods took over, encasing the final towers of the Ancient City in brown weeds. The army would run out of road soon. Then they'd be back in the wild.

Still no sign of William.

Bray was about to dash to the next building when he noticed a line of horses marching between several clusters of guarding men. He stopped and watched. The horseback riders were men, but a few women walked alongside them, bellowing melodic chants into the wind. A large man rode in the middle of the procession, his robes billowing underneath him, his hands waving in the air as he guided them. His enormous girth gave him away.

Winthrop.

Sitting directly next to Winthrop, looking uncomfortably small in the saddle of a large, white horse, was William.

Chapter 27:  Bray

Bray gritted his teeth as he watched William swallowed by a procession of blood-printed men and women. He wanted to charge out and take the boy. He wanted to hack these deranged men and women to bits.

Instead, he settled for getting closer, weaving between buildings so he could get a better view. His best option would be to catch them at night when they were resting, so he'd have a chance at luring—or stealing—the boy away. But he needed more information. He needed to know how carefully William was being guarded.

William didn't appear to be fighting to get away. He seemed resigned to his fate, as if these strange men had beaten him into submission. Or maybe they'd threatened him with some fate worse than what they were doing to the demons. Infected or not, the boy didn't deserve to end up in some soldier's stomach.

He considered the words William had yelled when Bray had inadvertently killed Ella.

Kill him! Kill him!

Would William be stable enough to realize he was being rescued? Bray wasn't certain, but he needed to know before he made any moves.

Stopping at a large, multi-story building with numerous windows, one of the last towers before the Ancient City gave way to forest, Bray crept inside and up the stairs. He paused when he reached a window high enough to glimpse the army, watching them travel down the last of the cracked roads. The front rows of people disappeared between the thick trees, as if the forest was swallowing them up. When Bray followed them, he wouldn't have any buildings to hide behind.

He'd need to leave a healthy gap.

Chapter 28:  William

William clutched the horse's reigns, keeping his legs tight against the animal's flanks as it clopped across the landscape. He followed a group of singing, chanting men and women. He felt like a powerful deity, coming to claim some Ancient land, riding high above the heads of men. He looked next to him, watching Winthrop bellow commands. The men and women heeded his orders. When Winthrop asked them to slow down, they did. When Winthrop led a new chant, they changed their tune. William recalled having a similar power over the demons. A part of him missed it, but he was glad to be following Winthrop.

William looked around him. They were climbing a large, grassy hill. The hillsides swooped broadly into the distance, fading into the wilderness and trees, but William was no longer afraid of anything in those woods. He had conquered the demons. He was riding with the strongest army. Winthrop hadn't promised him anything, but maybe he'd even get his own building when they returned to Brighton.

Maybe one day he'd even have his own men, who would die for him like they'd die for Winthrop, like William's demons had died for him.

He rode with that vision in his head for several hours, until the sun rose high into the sky, spearing the army with its rays and driving back some of the cold. William was grateful. He was returning to Brighton on the back of a horse, instead of on the blistered soles of his feet. He had a sword, a belly with some food in it, and the camaraderie of thousands of men who would fight shoulder to shoulder with him. It was a lot safer than running through the woods with Ella, Bray, and Melora.

A flock of birds scattered from a nearby patch of forest.

"What was that?"

Several men stopped singing and looked up at the fleeing, noisy birds. They peered down the hill and into the woods. William followed their gaze.

The men turned to Winthrop, awaiting his guidance while Winthrop halted his horse and prompted the others to follow suit. He turned his attention to the hill, appraising their surroundings.

"Do you think they were startled by demons?" one of the priests asked.

"No." Winthrop shook his head confidently. "It is a sign from the other gods. An omen that we are on the path to righteousness." He hit his horse's side and started it moving.

"The path to righteousness!" the priest repeated.

"The path to righteousness!" someone echoed.

The priests cheered. A few women took up the chant, spreading it to the army in front and the army behind, thousands of voices echoing into the woods in unison as they marched, unafraid. William smiled and lifted his voice with the others.

Chapter 29:  Oliver

In the tower's observation platform, Oliver leaned on the rail and looked at the compound and the bodies of the dead. The sun was behind the mountains in the west, but the sky still glowed blue. The evening chill was starting to set in. No demons were moving about. The few who'd been scavenging the flesh of the dead had filled their bellies some time ago and had disappeared to the far side of the settlement. Oliver didn't know in which tower they were making their home.

From below, the sound of labored breathing and feet on the wooden rungs let him know that his replacement was coming. Being the youngest of the group, none of the rest of them trusted Oliver to keep watch at night, so he usually got the afternoon shift, relieved by Beck when the sun went down.

Oliver looked west to gauge the time. Beck was coming early for a change.

Oliver stood up straight and walked the perimeter of the platform, looking for anything on the move in all directions. There was nothing. After the morning's grenade explosion, it had been a slow day for wandering demons.

Turning as the sound of his replacement reached the top of the ladder, Oliver was surprised to see that it wasn't Beck, but Kirby. "Are you taking my watch?" he asked.

"No." Kirby emerged from the hole in the floor and stood up straight, taking a moment to catch her breath after the climb. "I've been down there all day asking and answering questions." She drew another deep breath. "I don't like being indoors. I need fresh air."

Oliver leaned over the hole in the floor to look down the ladder, checking for Beck, but he saw no one else coming.

"It's only me," Kirby confirmed as she walked to the rail and looked toward the mountains.

Oliver walked over and stood beside her. "Thank you for coming this morning."

"I said I would." Kirby pointed west. "Beck told me your home is on the other side of the mountains."

"Yes," Oliver confirmed.

"Brighton and some smaller towns, all close together?"

"Close?" Oliver had never thought of them as close. They always seemed far away, that was, until he'd journeyed out with the army and realized his perception of distance was inadequate for the world he lived in. "I suppose a person could walk to Coventry or Ashford in a few days."

"Are there other towns?"

"Some smaller villages," Oliver answered. "Nothing more."

"Nothing?" Kirby seemed surprised.

"Maybe Jingo or Minister Beck knows—"

"No," Kirby interrupted. "They don't. Both said there is only Brighton, Coventry, Ashford, and the villages you mentioned."

"If you knew," Oliver asked, "Why did you—" Oliver stopped himself when he guessed the answer to the question he was asking. "You wanted to check to see if they were lying."

Kirby nodded.

Oliver smiled devilishly. "How do you know I'm not lying, too?"

Kirby smiled through her permanent sadness in a way that didn't help make her look happy. "I trust you, Oliver."

"Really?"

"If I didn't," she said, "I wouldn't have come this morning."

"I trust you, too," said Oliver. "If I didn't, I wouldn't have told you about my friends here in the tower."

"Your friends?" Kirby asked. "Is that what they are?"

Oliver thought about it for a moment. "I haven't known any of them for long, but yes, I think they're my friends."

"Beck talks as if you and he have known each other a long time," said Kirby. "You didn't know him in Brighton?"

"I knew who he was," said Oliver. "He knew who I was, too. I was a novice for Father Winthrop, who was on the Council with Minister Beck, but I was of no importance. I never spoke with Minister Beck until the expedition."

"Beck told me about the army," said Kirby. "He told me about this Winthrop character, and he told me about the slaughter. He said you two escaped together."

Oliver nodded. "We've been together ever since. In a way, we were together on the march from Brighton to the Ancient City, too. He was kind to me."

"Is that why you think he's your friend now?"

"I don't know," answered Oliver. "I haven't thought about it exactly. We help one another. He saved my life. I was drowning in the river, and he pulled me out. I guess he could have left me and run away, but he didn't. I don't know what will happen when we get back to Brighton, if I go back there, but for now, I think we're friends." Oliver looked Kirby in the eye and asked. "Is that a mistake? Am I foolish to think that?"

"I can't know that," said Kirby. "I don't know how things are in Brighton. From what Beck tells me, he believes he'll be some kind of king when he returns, except he has to handle some fellow named Tenbrook."

"He was planning to overthrow the Council, before the army marched," said Oliver. "He told me he wanted to make Brighton a better place than it was."

"Is that what you want?" Kirby asked. "To make it better?"

"Brighton is ruled by bad men that kill people." He caught himself, took a breath, and said, "I'm sorry. Brighton is an evil place. At least that's what I think most of the time."

"Are the people evil, or are the leaders evil?"

Oliver cocked his head. "I haven't thought of it that way, not really." He looked toward the mountains and looked around at the dead settlement while he thought about it. "I think the people are victims. The Council, the blue shirts, the clergy, and the cavalry have all the power. They make the rules and enforce them. The people die, but are afraid to do anything but run away when they get a smudge. Most of the time they go to the pyre like they thought nobody would ever find out. "

"But Beck wants to change that, right?" asked Kirby.

Oliver nodded.

"Will he make it better?"

Oliver turned back to look at Kirby. "I hope so."

"Do you trust him?" she asked. "Is he an honest man? Is he a good man?"

"He's a smart man." In truth, that was the only thing about Beck Oliver was sure of. "Maybe the smartest in Brighton. I don't know if he's honest. I don't think he's lied to me. He's been good to me. But, he's on the Council, and the Council does evil things."

"He says that was all the doing of this Winthrop character and a man named General Blackthorn."

"Why is all of this important?" asked Oliver "Are you going to go to Brighton?"

"No," Kirby told him emphatically. "I don't want to be around people. I'm going to leave this place." She looked west again. "Jingo told me he hasn't ventured over the mountains in nearly three hundred years. Beck doesn't know what lies west of Brighton. Nobody does. Three hundred years ago, it was a vast country of great cities, fruitful plains, and more mountains, all the way to the Pacific ocean."

Oliver looked at the mountains, and his surprise carried in his voice, "Another ocean?" He pointed. "That way?"

"Very, very far, that way," said Kirby. "That's where I'm going."

"Do you hope to find those other cities?" asked Oliver "Do you think they survived? Can I come with you?"

"You don't have friends and family in Brighton?"

Oliver thought about Franklin and Fitz. Despite all that had happened between them, they were more than just friends. They were his family. Thinking about it now, he missed them.

"You don't want to help Beck with his revolution?"

"I don't know," Oliver answered absently, still thinking of Franklin, feeling guilty for how he'd left Brighton. He felt like he owed Franklin an apology, but he wasn't sure why.

"I wouldn't, either," said Kirby. "Revolution is another word for war, and war is ugly."

"I know war," said Oliver. He'd seen all he wanted of it on Blackthorn's expedition.

"Yes," said Kirby. "I guess you do." She drilled Oliver with a hard stare and asked, "I need to know whether to trust Beck."

"That's why you asked if I trust him?"

"Yes." Kirby patted the butt of the handgun in her holster. "He wants me to give him my Tech Magic." Kirby laughed rudely at that. "It's not magic. He thinks guns will help him win his revolution with little blood and few deaths."

"You have more guns?"

Kirby nodded. "Hundreds of them." She waved a hand at all the dead people. "We were all armed. After we lost this war, I collected all the weapons and hid them where we keep our store of ammunition."

"You have hundreds of guns?" Oliver reiterated, because he couldn't believe it. He was mesmerized by the thought of having a Tech Magic weapon of his own. "Can I have one?"

Chapter 30:  Fitz

Fitz looked around the room she'd chosen as her new meeting hall. On the walls were painted renditions of old battles. In one, a single soldier positioned himself in the center of a circle of demons, his face regal and defiant. In another, a group of men stood in a tight row, holding polished, gleaming swords and wearing Blackthorn's colors. Ornaments and glasses adorned several shelves, items that were worth more coin than Fitz had probably seen in her life.

Sometimes the knowledge that she was living in Blackthorn's house gave her a pang of fright, though she'd never admit that to the courageous women who followed her.

A knock sounded on the door. "Lady Fitz?"

"Come in," she called.

Two female riders entered, their cheeks red from a hard journey. Dirt was caked to the sides of their boots, and blood stained their pants. Fitz recognized them as the riders she'd sent out, Tara and Loren.

"Are you all right?" Fitz asked, concerned.

The women seemed uninjured, despite their ragged clothing.

"We had to fight off a few demons," Tara explained as she brushed a strand of dark hair from her face and motioned to a sword at her side.

"We stayed on our horses, and tried to avoid as many as we could," added Loren. "We rode through much of the night to get here this morning."

"You have news?" Fitz asked.

Tara nodded.

"Have a seat," Fitz said.

The riders surveyed the meeting room, seemingly uneasy in the presence of so many expensive things. Fitz smiled to allay their fears, beckoning them again to two chairs before they sat.

Tara tapped her fingers on the table. "We found the army," she said.

A pit formed in Fitz's stomach. "Alive?"

"The ones we saw."

"How far away are they?"

"Probably a few days' march. They have a few horses, but most are on foot."

Fitz nodded. "How many are there?"

"A few thousand," Tara said, before adding an explanation. "That's the amount of people that can fit in the largest farmer's field at the beginning of Hay Road."

"I appreciate the description. One of the merchant's wives has been teaching me my numbers," Fitz said. "I'm learning. Do you know if the rest of the army was killed in Blackthorn's war?"

Tara said, "I'm not sure. We can only speak of what we saw. We found a spot on a hill overlooking their path through the woods where we could eavesdrop."

"What did you see and hear?"

"The army was fighting off groups of demons while marching. That was slowing them down. They were tired, but they seemed to be making ground."

"Most of the remaining people are blue shirts and cavalry?" Fitz guessed.

Tara shook her head. "No. The army seems to be a mix of blue shirts and the militia. I didn't see any cavalry. The rest have banded together so much that you can't tell most of them apart."

"You mean they're all dressed the same?" Fitz asked, nodding.

"No. Something else…" Tara paused as a flicker of fear crossed her face.

"What?" Fitz asked.

"Their faces and chests are covered with blood."

"From battle?" Fitz asked.

"No," Tara said, rubbing her hands together nervously. She looked around the room, as if someone might storm in and accuse her of lying. "They're painting themselves with demon's blood."

Fitz said, "I've never seen soldiers do that. Do you think this is a tradition we haven't heard about?"

"I don't think so," Loren cut in. "It doesn't seem normal. We watched several of these men slaying demons. They cut them open and dipped their fingers in their blood, using it to paint themselves. They were chanting, talking about returning to Brighton. They were talking as if the battle drove them insane. They were talking about tearing down the circle wall."

Fitzgerald's worry deepened. "They want to tear down the circle wall?"

"That's what is sounded like."

"Why would they do that? We'd be exposed to the demons."

"I'm not sure, Lady Fitz," Loren said. "We're just reporting what we heard."

Tara said, "They were chanting things like they were in a sermon, even though they were outside. We heard them saying they were immortal. They said they were the children of a new god. They said they were coming back to Brighton to save the rest of us."

"What about Blackthorn? Was he among them?" Fitz asked.

"Blackthorn's dead."

Fitz reeled in shock for a moment. Blackthorn might as well have told her he was dying. Still, it was hard to believe the leader who had ruled since she was a child was gone, and that he'd never be coming back. "How do you know?"

"We heard some of them chanting. They said he was the devil, and that they killed him," Tara explained.

"If Blackthorn is dead, who's leading the army?"

"Father Winthrop."

A cold shiver of fear ran through Fitz, but she forced herself to remain strong.

Chapter 31:  Oliver

The wind had kicked up earlier that morning, driving thunderous waves against the beached ship, rocking the boat and grinding rusty steel against the rocks. Oliver felt like he was in the belly of a beast, groaning as it died. Still, he followed Kirby through the ship's dimly lit, sideways corridor, taking care not to fall through doors into rooms below them.

Jingo and Beck lagged behind. Jingo was old, and his joints were laced with the roots of the spore-warts that grew through his skin. Beck wasn't used to this kind of activity.

Melora had no interest in entering the ship. Her one and only experience with a boat when escaping the hordes of demons in the Ancient City was the kind of thing that bred phobias. To keep out of sight, she waited just inside the tear in the ship's hull, watching for any twisted men who might follow the group. Ivory stayed with her.

Kirby stopped in front of a large, heavy-looking door with a latching mechanism that appeared much too complicated for its purpose. Oliver watched as Kirby worked the latch, and then as she strained under the weight of the door, opening it downward and laying it on the floor.

She crouched low to get through, and Oliver followed, glancing back down the hall to ensure that Jingo and Beck were still on their way.

Inside, the room was nearly black. The only light came from the open door. Oliver lost track of Kirby in the darkness, and he dared not take more than a few steps.

"Careful," Kirby told him. "Don't move until I get this lit."

Oliver heard the rattle of metal and the slosh of liquid in a small container. Something clicked a few times and lantern light splashed suddenly across a room so large the far wall nearly disappeared in shadow.

Kirby pointed at the floor. "We built it sideways across most of this cargo hold." Nodding to one side of the space, she said, "Don't go over there. The floor is rusty in spots close to the wall. It might give way."

Oliver stepped in the opposite direction of the places Kirby pointed, and he looked the other way to see long racks of rifles on both sides, like the one Kirby carried strapped across her back. They each stood on the butt with the barrel pointing up. Bigger guns that looked like they weighed as much as Oliver leaned on one of the racks. Handguns were arrayed on shelves along a wall.

In the back of the room, stacked floor to ceiling, were hundreds of crates, carefully constructed and marked with faded black letters on weathered wood.

Kirby waved at the crates. "Our ammunition."

"For the guns?" Oliver asked.

"More than you'll ever need."

Oliver's eyes were back on the racks of weapons, and he examined them as he got close. "Three types of guns," said Oliver, "But all the guns of each type look exactly alike."

"Of course." Kirby leaned over to look through the sideways door, checking that Jingo and Beck were still coming.

Getting close enough to stroke the smooth dark metal on one of the guns, Oliver said, "Your blacksmiths are amazing."

"Blacksmiths?" Kirby asked, before catching herself. "We have a factory that manufactures these. We don't have blacksmiths in the sense that you probably think."

"Manufacture?" Oliver asked.

"A process," said Jingo as he crouched to get through the sideways door, "where people work together using machines to make many identical pieces efficiently."

"I don't understand," said Oliver.

"It's not important that you do just yet," said Jingo. "I've got some books in the Ancient City that'll make it very easy for you to understand, if we ever get back there. If not, I can explain it later. Okay?"

Beck came in through the sideways door, his eyes lighting up when he saw the racks of guns. "It's true."

Kirby pointed out the crates of ammunition. "This is the last of what we have."

"You brought that with you when you came fourteen years ago?" Jingo asked.

"Much more," Kirby answered.

"You manufactured none of it here?" Jingo pressed.

Kirby shook her head. "We'd hoped to. As I said, we were all infected with the spore, but before we were forced into the army, each of us worked at other jobs. Among us were farmers, doctors, laborers, teachers, chemists, and metallurgists. We had enough knowledge and skill that we thought we could build everything we needed. Eventually."

"Why did you bring so much with you, then?" Beck asked.

"We stole the ships," said Kirby. "They had whatever came in them. Two belonged to our people. Three belonged to other cities that traded with us. Some were packed with food. One was empty; one was filled with ore. That one's at the bottom of the bay now. This ship carried a load of weapons and ammunition."

"Why didn't you try to manufacture anything here?" asked Jingo. "Were you not able to find the raw materials?"

"That wasn't it," answered Kirby. "The spore-corrupted men started attacking almost immediately. By the time we'd been here a week, we were fighting hordes of them numbering in the hundreds, thinking we were killing all those in the area and that eventually there'd be none left."

"But they kept coming," said Jingo.

"How did you know that?" asked Kirby.

Jingo pointed south. "Before the fall, millions of people lived in the city south of here. Many hundreds of thousands of demons still live there, and all along the coast between the ocean and the mountains. From the tall building I lived in, I saw them heading north in bands of a few dozen or a few hundred. They used to band together and head west for Brighton. Around the time you say your people landed here, they started coming this way."

"The attacks went on and on," said Kirby. "They never slowed, as we'd expected. They only grew worse. We were in discussions about sailing our ships elsewhere, to find a safer place to build our new home, but the hurricane came."

"A bad one," said Jingo. "I remember it."

"It sank the ore ship in the bay. It tossed these others up on shore, where they lay today, and stranded us here. After that, we had to build the towers that we lived in and the wall to defend ourselves."

"And still, the demons came," said Jingo.

Kirby nodded. "We grew what we could, but we didn't have enough room inside the stockade. We planted crops outside, but we'd be lucky if we ever were able to harvest half of them. They got trampled by the attacking mobs or raided before the harvest. We didn't bring any animals with us—no pigs, no goats, no cattle."

"Cattle?" Oliver asked. They were beasts of myth that fed the Ancients all their meat and cheese and gave them all the milk they could drink.

"They were real to our people," Kirby told him. "But the city I came from didn't have any. We didn't control enough pasture land to keep them. We had plenty of pastureland on the frontier, but raiding parties killed or stole our herds." Looking back at Jingo and Beck, she said, "When we runaways understood the problem we faced, we rationed what food we'd brought with us. We hunted when we could. We gathered what we were able to find in the forest, but that was dangerous business. We built wooden boats to fish, but none of us were fisherman, and the few fish we caught were never worth the effort put in to catch them."

"And it wasn't enough?" asked Beck.

"We starved every winter," said Kirby. She held up a thin arm as proof. "You've seen the bodies of my people outside on the ground. You see how thin we all are. If the spore hadn't finished us, starvation would have, eventually."

"The spore?" Jingo asked. "How's that?"

"You know what happens when a man or woman is corrupted by the spore," Kirby told him. "At first, we are normal. Over time we develop the discolored spots on our skin, and then the lumps. Some go crazy, but many don't. Eventually, though, we all lose our minds."

"If you truly believed that," said Jingo, "none of you would have come here."

"We hoped," answered Kirby. "Who doesn't?"

"What did you do with the people here who lost their minds?" asked Beck.

"We turned the worst of them out into the forest," said Kirby. "But it wasn't enough. For every one we turned out, another ten stayed who hadn't gone crazy, but had lost their capacity to make good choices. Eventually, so many of us were halfway down the road to insanity that we were no longer able to defend ourselves. In the last battle, some of the insane people inside the stockade decided to put a torch to it, and that was it. The demon horde breached the walls, and you see the result. The dead cover the ground."

"How do you know you were the only one to survive?" asked Jingo

"I don't," Kirby admitted. "Maybe some others escaped into the forest. If they did, none have come back."

"If you'd used these guns," Beck asked, rubbing his chin and coming to conclusions, "do you think you could have beaten the demons?"

Kirby laughed in a dark, mean way that was her habit. "We did use the guns. That's why there are so many dead demons out there."

"But," Beck pointed at the racks of weapons, "why are the guns here now?"

"I collected them," said Kirby, as though it were the most obvious thing she'd said all day.

"Why?" asked Beck. "You can't use more than one or two, correct?"

"Where I come from," said Kirby, "whenever a battle is won, the winner scavenges and keeps the spoils, especially the guns. They're too valuable to leave out to rust. I brought all of these here, cleaned off the blood, and put them on the racks, as you see here."

Chapter 32:  Fitz

Fitz scanned across the faces of the women of the New House, all sitting in high-backed chairs around Fitzgerald in the meeting room, watching her. Those who couldn't find seats were hovering in anxious rows behind the rest. Several servants and a few young boys, novices leftover from the clergy, mingled, whispering, waiting for whatever she had to say. Ginger had sent word to the Academy again, but none of the men had responded. Fitz wasn't surprised.

Projecting her voice, Fitz stood and said, "I have news."

The room grew silent. A few of the young novices peered around the women's shoulders as they waited. Fitz relayed what she'd heard from Tara and Loren, speaking of the death of Blackthorn, Winthrop's army, and their intention to break down the circle wall.

"How far away is Winthrop's army?" one of the Strong Women asked.

"As few as two days, as many as four," Fitz answered. "They come at their own pace, which our scouts say changes according to Winthrop's whim."

"How many men does Winthrop have?"

"A few thousand, at least," Fitz answered. She explained what the number meant to the people in the room, most of who didn't have their numbers.

The women looked around at each other as a rumor turned into a realization. A few clutched their hands. "What happened to the rest of them?"

"We're not sure," Fitz admitted. "It's possible they're behind Winthrop, somewhere. I've sent the riders back out to find more information."

"So you haven't seen the rest of the army?"

"No," Fitz admitted.

"The rest of our relatives are dead!" a woman put together, a sob escaping her lips.

Several people in the room started talking at once. A few women broke down and cried, gripping their friends and consoling one another as they mourned relatives they never thought they'd see again.

"My uncle taught me my numbers," one woman explained to her friend. "If the rest are dead, that's almost all of them!"

"By the gods!" the woman shrieked. "My husband and sons are out there!"

Fitz let the women cry for a few minutes. She knew they needed time. When they were finished, she put her palms on the table, the way she'd seen the leaders do, speaking loudly enough to quiet the lingering conversations in the room. "We don't know for sure that they're dead. But what we do know is that Winthrop is out there. We've all seen the way Winthrop acted before he rode out on the horse. We saw the way he acted in the Sanctuary, looking around at the ceiling, listening to the words of ghosts. And now, that insanity has spread into the minds of his followers. We can't let them in."

The young novices looked over their shoulders nervously, as if someone might smash through the door and carry them to the nearest pyre.

"We'll be burned for what we've done!" one woman said, unable to contain her fright. "Our men will punish us when they get back!"

"No, they won't," Fitz said, holding up her hands to try and preserve the calm. "You people have stood by me. We've done what we had to do to Tenbrook and his men in order to stay alive, and we can do whatever we have to do to survive again."

"It's one thing to seduce a few hundred soldiers," one of the women broke in. "But how will we convince the rest of the men—our men—not to burn us?"

"We have to let them in," another woman argued, looking around. "They'll kill us if we don't."

"We don't have to let them in if they mean us harm, or if they mean to break the circle wall," Fitz said firmly. "We'll fight back, if we have to."

The women continued talking amongst themselves. Some argued. A few of the servants exchanged wide-eyed expressions that revealed their worst fears had come true.

One of the Strong Women leaned over a few women sitting at the table, speaking loudly. "We have the numbers. And we have the circle wall. It has protected us for three hundred years from hordes of demons. It will protect us from men too drunk on the glory of killing to think straight," she said.

"But how will we defend it?" One of the servants held up her hands in exasperation. "The army has weapons. We have almost none. We outnumber them, but the people left in Brighton are women, children, and the elderly, not soldiers."

Fitz raised her voice again. "We're in a better position than we were last week, or last year. We have enough food to sustain ourselves. We have a wall to protect us from the army and the demons. We can outlast an attack until we figure out how to resolve this."

Several of the Strong Women and the women from The House of Barren Women nodded, reinforcing Fitz's statement.

A woman with dark hair asked, "Why would they break down the wall and let in the demons? I don't understand."

"They mean to punish us for what we've done, like I said," a woman reiterated.

"We're not sure what their intentions are," Fitz said. "But whatever the case, we can't let him come here and change things back to the way they were."

"If we let them in, we might be able to avoid a burning," one woman said, drying quiet tears on her face.

Hearing the words made Fitz angry. Looking around at the ladies from The House of Barren Women, she recalled the bruises on their arms, or the times they'd lain on their backs, pleasuring men for the good of Brighton. Then she considered the women in the homes of Brighton who had taken similar abuse, or worse yet, the children. "Is that what you want, to let them in and have Winthrop throw your children on the pyre? To have a man you don't love share your bed and be treated like a farm animal? To be beaten when the crops fail, or when dinner isn't ready before sundown?"

Silence.

"Mark my words, if they come through those walls, all of us in this room will pay. He won't keep any of us alive. He'll keep the rest of the sheepish women for chores and pleasure, but we will burn! His men will do what they want with us. We need to do whatever we have to do to protect ourselves. We need to defend the circle wall."

With her pronouncement made, Fitz stared around the room, waiting for an argument. The fear in the room was a tangible aura, hanging above them, but no one disputed what she said. Everyone knew she was right.

"We can't let them kill us." Ginger stood up straight and moved closer to Fitz. "We need to work together."

"Hopefully we'll hear back from the riders again soon. In the meantime, we need to be prepared for whatever is coming our way," Fitz said. "We need a plan. And when we have one, we need to relay it to the townspeople."

Chapter 33:  Bray

After following the army for most of the previous day, Bray camped out in the forest, foregoing his fire so he didn't attract the soldiers or the demons. He resumed his watch the next morning, sticking close to the thick trunks of the trees, moving stealthily, until he saw a few men relieving themselves in a copse of trees that preceded a clearing. Past them was a large gap of open land, where the sun shone brightly on a maze of crumbled ruins and rocks, through which the army was already forging. Bray knew the area well. Those ruins had been worn down with paths that started with the Ancients, continued with the animals, and had been taken up by travelers over the years as they went to and from the Ancient City.

More often than not, demons roamed there, too.

The army could afford to lose a few men, but Bray wasn't about to risk his own ass.

He hiked through a tangle of briars and snagging vines, slicing through them with his sword as he went deeper into the forest, but still close enough to hear the chants. He stiffened as he almost stepped on the body of a dead demon, its arm cut off at the elbow, its stomach slashed. Its mouth formed a bloodied frame around its cracked, stained teeth. It looked like the injured thing had lived long enough to flee the army and make a final resting place under the weeds.

Another twenty feet later, he discovered another dead demon.

He couldn't understand how an army of raggedy men and women was slaughtering so many.

"Luck, that's all," he tried to convince himself, but he couldn't dispel the feeling of uneasiness that crept into his stomach.

Bray kept moving. Deep in the distance, he heard the chanting of the army rising and falling as they progressed through the small buildings. None of those buildings were as impressive as those in the Ancient City, but they were a frequent stop for metal scavengers who didn't know better than to avoid the demons. They're definitely headed in the direction of Brighton, he thought. He didn't care where they were going, as long as he was able to keep track of them and take William. After that, he'd head somewhere that wasn't likely to be swollen with deranged, suicidal men.

Maybe they'll all die from eating demon meat.

Bray laughed under his breath as he hung on that thought, knocking his way through the thicket and tangled bushes. Everyone knew better than to consume the foul, twisted things.

The exertion of a cold, hard hike was taking its toll on him. Or maybe it was his injuries. Bray hadn't had a decent night's rest since he'd started following William. He'd been sleeping only when he knew the boy was bedded down, and waking before William was likely to rise. His fear had been that he'd lose him to the wild, or to the demons.

He'd never suspected he'd lose him to a pack of war-crazed men.

Beyond the thick barrier of woods, a clear section of forest dotted with pine trees and needles came into view. A little farther on, Bray knew, was a stream. He'd take a quick break, fill his flask, and splash water over his sweat-ridden clothes.

He'd just reached the other side of the thicket when he heard a snuffing noise. Bray froze and peered through the forest. Perhaps some half-dead demon was taking its final steps. He stalked quietly through the forest, aiming to surprise whatever it was as he hid behind a crowded section of pines. On the other side of the trees, the forest curved down a narrow bank and toward the stream. Pine needles tickled his face as he kept cover between the branches.

Pushing aside the thick foliage, he caught sight of three large shapes lurking by the stream. He froze. Adrenaline made him clench his fingers on the sword. He watched as the shapes lifted their monstrous, elongated snouts and glanced behind them. They snuffed again.

They weren't monsters, at all.

Horses!

Bray lowered his sword, the surging adrenaline of battle changing to another strategy. He crept through the pine needles, making his presence known, trying not to alarm them.

"Easy, boys," he told them, sneaking closer.

He scooted down the bank until he was ten feet from the horses. They eyed him wearily but made no move to run. Blood striped the fur on their flanks, and saddles clung to their backs.

Bray rarely saw horses in the wild. In fact, the few he'd come across had been so startled that they'd fled faster than he could catch up with them. It'd been years since he'd owned a horse. He hadn't ridden one since he was hunting with his father, back when he was learning to become a Warden. The only people who owned horses were cavalrymen, or merchants rich enough to stable and feed them.

Looking around, Bray didn't see anyone who might own these horses.

They must belong to the cavalry.

Judging by the blood on their sides and their spooked demeanor, he guessed that whoever had ridden them had been killed. Bray took another cautious step until he was close enough to grab hold of one of the reins. He led the horse gently over to the other two, careful not to get in the path of a kick.

Horses would be a huge advantage in keeping up with the army. Bray smiled. Maybe his luck was turning around.

After securing the horses' reins, Bray filled his flask and splashed his face in the brook.

Chapter 34:  Fitz

Fitz looked around at the women of the New House, the servants, and the novices. After more arguing, some crying, and finally, a nervous acceptance, calm had settled over the meeting room as they tried to determine a plan to bring to the people of Brighton.

"What do you think we should do?" One of the women from The House of Barren Women, Ashley, asked as she looked at Fitz from across the table.

"We need to convince the townspeople that we have to keep the gates closed until we figure out what's going on," Fitz said. "We can't let those men back in town to destroy it. We especially can't let Winthrop set foot in here."

No one in the room disagreed.

"We'll need weapons," Fitz continued. "Even if we don't use them, men respect them. And men from war will especially be used to swords and spears."

Several nodded.

"We have the swords of Tenbrook's soldiers," one of the Strong Women said, patting the sword scabbarded at her side.

"Yes, but we'll need a lot more."

"Maybe we can collect weapons in town," Ginger suggested. "Most have been taken with Blackthorn's army, but some things are bound to have been left behind. If the people understand the threat against us, you should be able to convince them to share their arms."

Fitz nodded.

"The families of the blacksmiths might be able to assist us in making some things we can use," Ashley said. "They won't have the experience of the men, but they're sure to have knowledge that will be helpful."

"One of my neighbors was a blacksmith," one of the Strong Women spoke up. "I've been to his shop plenty of times. Swords would be ideal, but it takes a lot of metal to make a sword. We might be better off making spears."

"That way we can arm more people," Fitz said, running with the idea. "More bodies with spears will do better than a handful with swords."

"How will we intimidate them, if they can't see us over the wall?" Ashley asked. "The wall is smooth at the top. There's no place to stand that is protected. We'd have to stand in the open."

"We'll have people in the guard towers," Fitz said. Turning to Ginger, she asked, "How many women do we have watching for demons?"

"Only a handful," Ginger answered.

"We'll get everyone else ready behind the gates, when the time comes." Fitz nodded as the plan solidified. "The rest will be in the towers. Most of The People in Brighton are inexperienced, but there are bound to be some older men that have fought in wars. They can teach the women and children."

"We won't have much time," a woman said.

"Of course. But it will be better than being completely unprepared," Fitz answered.

"How will we know which gate Winthrop will march on?" one of the Strong Women asked.

"I know Winthrop. He'll march through the front," Fitz said, without hesitation. "He won't be expecting a reception like this. He might be expecting Tenbrook and his men, but he won't be concerned about a few hundred soldiers." Her face twisted as she recalled Winthrop's greasy, soft fingers and his narrow eyes. She never wanted to see him up close again, unless she was shoving a blade into his stomach. "Even still, we should plan on guarding the rest of the gates with equal numbers of people, just in case."

"We're talking as if the townspeople have agreed to this plan," one of the Strong Women said. "But we still have to tell them. And none have heard the news."

"Some might not believe it. Others might panic, the way we did, at first," the Strong Woman said matter-of-factly.

"Having a plan will help them digest the news," said Fitz. "We need to convince them we can be strong, just like we've done before."

"Do you know what you are going to say to them?"

"Yes," Fitz said, standing. "I think I do."

Chapter 35:  Bray

Bray sat tall atop one of the horses, leading the others behind with a rope he'd found in a saddlebag. It was a lucky find. The rope would enable him to lead the horses as a train, one behind the other. He'd ride one horse until it got tired and then switch off to another.

He smiled at his luck. It was good to get off his feet for a change. The soles of his boots were worn from the constant hiking. His heels were cracked from the cold.

He'd been keeping as close as he dared to the army, tracking their movements by the insistent chanting. Bray hadn't seen many demons since the cluster of bodies he'd discovered earlier. Maybe the army had driven most of them south. Or maybe the ignorant men and women were driving the demons closer to Brighton.

Whatever the case, he couldn't wait to be rid of their annoying singing, which would surely plague his dreams. He followed a game trail as it curved through foothills and ran mostly parallel to the army's path. The horses quickly fell into a rhythm of riding behind one another. Bray stayed in forests thick with oaks and maples, skirting the meadows, only crossing in the open when he had no other way. The army had passed the ruins outside the city and was traveling toward the mountains. The ground was leveling off, and the mountain tips were creeping above the tops of the trees. Bray knew the route well.

The army was marching toward an ancient road that zigzagged up the face of the mountain before cutting into a long canyon over an ancient bridge.

Bray had passed through the area many times. If the army were headed through the canyon, it wouldn't be wise to follow. Sprawling valleys and hills would leave him exposed. In certain places, the terrain narrowed too much to leave him any escape, should Winthrop's mob see him and choose to come after him.

His horses snorted and clopped as they obeyed the pulls of his rope. He led them to a clearing in the trees, through which he had a better view.

Coming to the edge of the forest, Bray crested a hill that rose taller than most in the area, catching sight of men streaming across a field that stretched for a mile, stomping down the ancient, overgrown road as if they had made it themselves, heading toward the road up the mountain.

There must be thousands of them, Bray thought.

He watched them swing their spears and swords as they marched, bellowing chants of war. In the middle of one group was the row of horses that contained William and Winthrop. He couldn't see much more than Winthrop's flowing white robe, the clusters of men and women surrounding him, and the blood-printed people marching in front and behind, trying to keep close. They were treating Winthrop as if he were an ancient god come to life. Bray shook his head in disgust. He'd need to pursue them in a different direction. He'd have to head north. If he could cut through the forest, he should be able to push his horses faster than thousands of marching men, circle around the canyon, and come out the other side and catch up to them. Unfortunately, that would mean he'd have to wait until the army passed. And he'd have to go up a mountain. That would mean he'd have to rest his horses more.

A glimmer of movement drew his attention back in the direction of the Ancient City. Seeing the towers at a distance, it was easy to imagine they weren't crumbling, that the Ancients were still there, building all of their magic machines in the dark tunnels and sunny spires. But across the tan grasses of the rolling plain between Bray and those ancient megaliths, some of the dark patches of forest seemed to move and flow, oozing down a hill, flowing through a late afternoon shadow into a gulch, like a discolored blanket, some kind of parasite eating the land. Some Ancient monster that Winthrop's band of imbeciles had awoken in the ruins.

Bray felt the hair on his neck prickle.

He had the urge to spur his horse and race to the trail that the smugglers took to get through the mountains.

Whatever was coming frightened him.

Bray sat up straight on his horse and watched, straining his eyes to determine that the nightmare shadow wasn't one thing, but a herd, a mass of beasts bigger than any he'd ever seen.

Demons.

Holy shit.

Bray felt a new surge of fear ripple through him. His hand instinctively went to his sword, as if he might need it, even though he was well hidden and far enough away that the demons weren't an immediate threat. He'd heard stories of war from his father, tales of hordes of demons large enough to swallow the earth. But he'd never laid eyes on a group that large himself. The demons were following the army. Were they stalking Winthrop and his men? Or was it a coincidence?

Maybe his earlier premonition was true, and the army was leading them back to Brighton.

His urgency renewed, Bray looked up at the face of the mountain range, eyeing the cut where the canyon spilled the river down to the plain. Winthrop's ragtag army would get there long before Bray had any chance at rescuing William. An attempt at night would be equally risky. If the demons pursued Winthrop's army into the canyon, it would be suicide for Bray to follow. He'd have Winthrop's zealots in front and what looked like every demon in the world behind.

Bray was too smart for suicide.

He turned his horse, pulled the reins, and led the other horses through the forest. As soon as the army cleared, he'd ride as far and as fast as he could and circle around the canyon. He just hoped William lived long enough to see the other side.

Chapter 36:  William

After riding for most of the day and fighting several small bands of demons, the army began to tire and the horses were panting, slowing their pace, and fidgeting. They'd taken several breaks along the way, filling their flasks in a small stream and allowing the horses to drink. William watched the setting sun from atop his steed.

Next to him, Phillip turned to Winthrop, suggesting, "We should stop soon."

Winthrop looked annoyed, as if he'd been broken from whatever reverie he'd been in. "We marched farther on the way into the city," he complained. "I don't remember stopping near here."

"The army is tired," Phillip said. "We've been fighting demons every night since we marched out of Brighton. Even with the sleep we got in the dome, the army needs need more. And I don't think the horses can go much farther."

"They seem fine," Winthrop said, slapping the flank of his own panting beast.

Phillip pointed ahead, where an enormous mountain rose into the distance—the same mountain they'd descended on the way to the Ancient City, as he'd told William. The long, winding ancient road leading up it was filled with turns, turns that would be even more difficult to travel on the way back.

"Maybe we should camp at the foot of the mountain," Phillip said, pointing to a clearing at the mountain's base.

Winthrop nodded. "So be it."

The priests called out orders to the closest men, who passed the information along to the rest of the army. Soon they'd reached a clearing at the base of the mountain and were hopping from their horses, setting up bags, and gathering kindling in the nearby woods. William tied up his horse with the others in a small cluster of trees and helped find wood for the fires. By the time the sun had set, fires dotted the valley, and men hovered around them as they cooked the bodies of the demons they'd killed during the day.

The priests had created a fire that was impressive, though much smaller than the massive one they'd built at the dome. Winthrop sat close to the flames, eating something his priestesses had provided from one of his bags. Several of his priests conversed with him about travel plans for the next day.

William sat with Jasmine and Phillip.

"I'm tired, but I can't imagine how you must feel," Phillip said to Jasmine, who had kicked off her boots and was rubbing the blisters on her feet.

Jasmine smiled. "I'll survive. Though a rest will be nice."

William nodded. He felt bad that he was on a horse, while the priestesses and so many others were forced to march. "Winthrop insisted only one man ride each horse," he said, feeling the need to explain.

"I understand. They'll grow less tired that way," Jasmine said. "Besides, the horses are reserved for the men. Either way, we'll get back to our families soon."

Turning from Jasmine to Phillip, William said, "Do you have a family waiting for you at home?"

Phillip shook his head. "My wife and son perished in the last round of illness."

"The Cleansing, you mean?"

"No. They died of fever. The last winter was harsh."

"I remember," said William.

And he did. Too many people had died during the coldest months. It had taken a while to bury them, between the frozen ground and the woodworkers struggling to keep up with caskets.

"Your family is dead?" Phillip asked, lowering his voice and his gaze.

"Yes," William said without elaborating.

Everyone knew about Davenport. He didn't need to explain. He watched Jasmine and Phillip in the flickering light of the fire.

He didn't feel like he was lying. For the most part, William's family might as well be dead. His mother and his father were gone. He doubted he'd ever see Melora, Ivory, or Jingo again. And Bray might as well be some ghost, carrying around the secret of why he'd slain Ella.

William thought more about that.

Bray had done something terrible. But as the days passed, William found himself having glimpses of memory from that dreadful afternoon. In the preceding days, William had been unable to focus on anything but Ella, but now he recalled seeing something else, as if it were some part of the dream he'd been missing.

The look in the Warden's eyes after it happened came back to him.

Bray had been just as shocked as William, Ivory, or Melora.

Maybe it had been a terrible accident, after all.

Maybe he hadn't coerced Ella into anything.

Looking back at Jasmine and Phillip, William was surprised to see Phillip giving Jasmine the same look that Bray had given his mother all those days ago, on the steps in front of the ancient building. William had interrupted them, confused, angry. He didn't feel that way now.

He watched Jasmine and Phillip for a moment, deciding he didn't mind.

Chapter 37:  Jingo

Jingo sat in a chair, watching the embers glow in the fireplace. It made him think of Beck, up in the tower, freezing in the dark, taking his turn at the watch. All the others were asleep, bundled against the cold, except Kirby. She rolled and rearranged herself countless times, sighing and staring at the dark ceiling.

"If you can't sleep," Jingo told her softly, "why don't you come sit with me and we'll talk until our minds are too tired to hold the thoughts that bother us?"

Kirby sat up at she looked over at Jingo. "It's these damn lumps down my spine. I used to sleep on my back. Now I can't."

"You've had them for a long time," said Jingo.  "Seventeen years now?"

"Yes, that's when they started," Kirby conceded as she pulled off her blanket and stood up. "But it's only been five or six years since they've grown large enough to make it painful to lie on my back."

Jingo patted the seat beside him, urging her to join him.

Kirby looked around the room at the dark shadows beyond the fire, as if the invitation needed more thought than it deserved. She stretched, leaned over, and groaned like an old woman.

Jingo didn't comment. He didn't want to tell her that the pain and stiffness would only get worse. Over time, the spore sank its roots into the joints and made movement painful. He longed for the ancient days when aspirins and anti-inflammatory drugs were available in nearly every store.

Kirby finally surrendered to her insomnia, climbed out from under her blanket, and came to sit beside Jingo.

She stared at the embers as Jingo asked, "Have you decided what you'll do?"

"About?"

"Going to Brighton."

Kirby gave Jingo a cross stare. "I've never led anyone to believe the matter was under consideration. I'm not going there."

"Beck seems to think you are."

"He nags me constantly about it," said Kirby. "But I have no desire to fight in another unending war."

"Is that what you think it will be?" Jingo asked.

Kirby's expression turned to disappointment. "In three centuries of life, have you seen anything other than death, people butchering people? I've been on this earth for thirty-five years, and it's all I've seen."

"If I told you conflict has always been a part of human history, would that make you more or less likely to go to Brighton?"

Kirby chuckled as she frowned. "I don't know much about ancient times, but I've been told things by people who read ancient histories. Unfortunately, my parents weren't educated, so I wasn't."

"Yours is a common story in human history," Jingo told her.

Kirby continued, as though Jingo had said nothing at all. "If you're telling me that men and women have killed throughout history, going back however many thousands of years, then I say to you, maybe it's better if we all die. Maybe when our kind is gone, the suffering will disappear."

"All creatures suffer," said Jingo. "Men and women are just like the rest. The only difference is that we are intelligent enough to believe that we shouldn't."

"Maybe you have a darker view of humanity than I do," Kirby guessed as she took a deeper look into Jingo's eyes.

"There was a time when I did," said Jingo. "Through the years, though, I've come to believe that a truth has always been in front of me. It is a truth that gives me hope when I lose faith in our species."

"What is that?"

"It will be longwinded to explain."

"Perhaps it will put me to sleep." Kirby smiled. It was the first real smile Jingo had seen on her face.

Jingo took a moment to find his starting place, and then said, "People have warred with one another since the first human figured out how to pick up a rock and use it as a weapon. From that day, through nearly all the days since, humans found better and better ways to kill one another. In what everyone here calls the ancient times, in the days in which I grew up, we'd build tools and machines to kill on an unimaginable scale. People died by the million in our wars."

"Millions were killed?" Kirby asked. "That can't be true." Then Kirby softened. She must've seen the size of the ancient cities, or heard about them. There were too many great cities spread over the globe, all turning to rubble, for her not to have some kind of knowledge. "Were there really that many people then? Did your wars truly kill millions?"

"Do you know your numbers?" Jingo asked.

Kirby nodded with a scowl, offended to be asked the question. "I can't read, but that doesn't make me stupid."

"My apologies."

Kirby's face relaxed.

"More than a million died," Jingo confirmed, getting back on topic. "Tens of millions, in some wars. But we could have killed so many more. We reached a time when our bombs were so terrible that several nations possessed the power to kill every living thing on the planet—children, their parents, their pets, every blade of grass in the yard, every tree that lined their streets. But we never used that power. In a way, as we all came to realize what power we wielded, the worst of the wars grew farther and farther in our past, and when war did come, it killed a smaller proportion of the living people."

"Through all of these wars, life for most humans got better. Humanity built great cities. Most people lived long lives, and never had to raise a weapon for their country. Many never saw violence or had to fight for their lives. Most didn't starve. Most were educated. People were scientists and artists and explorers." Jingo pointed up. "We sent men to the moon in a rocket. We built a station in space, a colony like a very small moon. People lived and worked there. People seldom got sick. They didn't die needlessly. We had doctors to cure most illnesses. When someone died before they'd aged eighty years, people were surprised."

Kirby laughed like that was the funniest joke she'd heard in a long time. "That can't be true."

"It is," Jingo confirmed. "Some people lived to be a hundred. Of course, this was before the spore made the infected people immortal."

"Before my people came to this land," said Kirby, "the oldest person I'd ever heard of was fifty-seven."

"I know the strain of spore affects people differently where you came from. But do you see my point about war?"

Kirby glared at Jingo as if she were being duped.

"War is an inescapable part of who we are, but it is not all we are. The pursuit of knowledge and the application of that knowledge makes better lives for people. That is the better part of humanity. That is what you can help with, should you go to Brighton with Beck."

"But you've lived your life alone in your Ancient City," argued Kirby, "avoiding the people in Brighton, even though you could have helped them with your knowledge." She let that hang in the air for a moment before she added, "Yet, you did not."

"No," Jingo confessed. "Perhaps there was a time or two over the centuries when I might have been welcomed by the people of Brighton, but it was too much of a risk."

"Why did you not go to them when they first settled?"

"Times were violent back then," said Jingo. "Had I approached Brighton's founders in those days, I'd have been killed and my body burned. But it would've been impossible to go to them at that time, anyhow."

"Why?" asked Kirby.

"I didn't become aware of Brighton until some sixty or seventy years after the fall. By then, I'd taken to thinking that I was the last civilized man on earth. Then, one day, I spied a man, a normal, healthy human in the Ancient City. He came there scavenging for what he could to bring back to Brighton. He was a brave man. He had to be. The city was teeming with twisted men who would have killed him, had they found him."

"I came to know Ted after I helped him escape a mob of demons that thought they had him trapped. Ted and I became friends, and whenever he came to the Ancient City to scavenge, he would visit with me. He brought me news of Brighton. And like Ted, there were others through the years, always someone. Eventually, I took on students like Ivory. His uncle used to bring him to the Ancient City to meet with me."

"My hope was that I could influence Brighton from afar, but that didn't work. Brighton was devolving intellectually. The people were so busy surviving, growing crops, hunting for food, building their fortifications, and fighting the twisted men that they had little time for education. Five thousand years of human history and knowledge disappeared in a few generations. People had no time to read. They had no time for mathematics. All modern knowledge was based on those two foundational skills. It all disappeared, and superstition grew. Hatred of anyone with the spore infection festered. Their perversion of a religion justified their choice to burn anyone they suspected of being infected."

"And you're going back there?" Kirby asked incredulously. The look of disbelief remained on her face until she came to a new realization. "You believe Beck can change Brighton with his guns."

"Maybe he can," said Jingo. "In all these centuries, this might be Brighton's best chance. The old leadership is dead. With so much of the militia and cavalry gone, Beck, along with his guns, may win the day. He may be able to put Brighton on the right path. If so, then I should be there to guide them. As you know, my knowledge of the ancient world is vast, but my knowledge of this world is just what I've seen in the Ancient City and what I know of the areas nearby. You know a great deal about life on the other side of the ocean. You can help us."

"No," said Kirby. "I told Beck no, and I tell you no. I appreciate you asking me, but I won't do it. I can't go to another war. It is as I've said. Maybe with enough time, my optimism will return the way yours has. But you've had three centuries after seeing everyone you love die to get where you are now. My people just died. I'm tired of fighting. I'm tired of death. I don't have the will for it anymore."

"Remember where we are, then," said Jingo. "I'll draw you a map. Come to us when you are ready. I'll be in Brighton, trying to bring the light back to the world."

"All I can give you is my hope that you succeed," said Kirby.

Chapter 38:  Fitz

Fitz looked out over the vast crowd of people that had gathered in the square. For the first time, she knew, and didn't have to speculate, what it felt like to be one of the Elders. Behind her were three chairs: Blackthorn's, Beck's, and Winthrop's. Two of those leaders were presumed dead, and she'd do whatever she could to prevent the third from walking through the Brighton gates again.

People filled the square, lingering on the edges, watching from the rooftops, or hanging from windows, vying for the best spots to watch. Where the census-takers had once stood, her Strong Women now lined up in a row. Where the inspectors had made their pronouncements of life and death, the women from The House of Barren Women now waited. She looked out over the thick, tangled crowd of women, children, and the elderly—all those left in Brighton—and then back at her women.

A fierce loyalty blazed in the women's eyes.

That gave Fitz the courage to speak.

"People of Brighton, I thank you for gathering in the square on such short notice. I know you have been wondering what is going to happen in Brighton. And I'm here to address your concerns."

The crowd watched her intently as almost everyone fell silent. Women hushed their children.

"A few days ago, I sent out some riders to find General Blackthorn and his army. Those riders brought me back the news that most of us expected." Fitz waited, dreading the announcement she'd have to make. "The best we can tell, General Blackthorn is dead, and most of his army has fallen. Most of our relatives will not be returning home."

A few gasps of shock went through the crowd as the rumors whispered in the streets for days were confirmed. Women and children bent their heads as they stared at the ground. Some wailed. Others held their faces. Fitz retained her composure as she waited through their reaction. She'd expected it. Even so, it was difficult for Fitz to watch.

She continued. "We've been preparing for this day for a while in our hearts. And while that should make it easier, it doesn't. We grieve our loved ones and honor their courage. That is what they deserve. While we wait for more news, we need to think of our children, and the people we need to protect here in Brighton. We have a duty to protect our loved ones left behind."

Fitz fell silent as she watched the crowd. They were still processing what she'd said. A few women cried through the angry expressions on their faces. Before they could direct that anger at her, she went on.

"For years, the leaders of Brighton have told us to harden our hearts, to listen to The Word, to do what's best for the townships and villages. We've been told that every action we take is for the best, that each burning, each spiking, each beating is for Brighton's betterment. We've been told that the smudged need to be Cleansed, so the rest can live. For us women, we've been told that we need to lie on our backs and accept the decisions of our men. And most recently, we've been told that nineteen thousand men and women were sent out from Brighton for a reason. I could stand up here and tell you that they fought courageously, and that they died for a purpose, but that's not what I'm here to say. I'm here to tell you that the Elders lied."

A ripple of confusion and anger went through the crowd. A few women clenched their fists and prepared to shun her. Fitz arched her back. She thought about what Franklin might've done, had he still been alive. A flicker of doubt crossed her mind. He was supposed to be standing up here—not her. But she quickly dismissed it. If she failed at what she was about to say, she would fail Brighton.

"The people in Blackthorn's army were sent to die because of the mistakes of our leaders," she said, increasing her volume. "A while ago, we watched Scholar Evan burn for a smudge that didn't exist. Tenbrook told us he was burned because he was infected, but most of us knew that was untrue. That smudge was the smudge of the truth. Evan knew something that he was about to share. A famine was coming to Brighton. That famine would wipe out most of our people. That famine would not be caused by your lack of hard work, or your lack of faith, but by the mistakes of our leaders. That is why our people were sent out to die."

This time the crowd's anger found an outlet as more rumors were confirmed true. Fitz glanced at a few women from the New House, who had made sure to spread those truths throughout the town prior to the meeting.

"Blackthorn did this!" someone yelled.

"The Elders killed our men!"

"Blackthorn got what he deserved!"

Fitz watched as the anger spread through the crowd. Some women looked behind them, as if they feared retribution, while others shouted with abandon, letting their anger and grief drive them to things they wouldn't normally say. Mothers clutched their children tightly.

"I have more news," Fitz said, holding up her hand to quiet them. "I said most of Blackthorn's army is dead, but not all of them. A few thousand live. Those few thousand are marching back here under the direction of Father Winthrop, with the intention of breaking down the circle wall." She explained how many people that was.

The fright and confusion returned. A few shouts echoed over the rest.

Someone yelled, "We'll be killed!"

"Why would they do that?"

Holding up her arms to quiet the uproar, Fitz drew a breath and allowed the people to settle. Some of what she was about to say was speculation. But she needed to project certainty in her voice if she wanted the people to believe.  "Few of you know Winthrop the way I do. His heart is cruel and sick, though his lies are strong. He has convinced the army's survivors it is in the best interest of Brighton. But whatever the case, we cannot allow ourselves to be exposed to demons. If we do, the rest of us will die. I mourn with you for the people we have lost. I mourn for the people who have been sent out with Blackthorn's army. I wish I could bring your relatives back. But all I can do is promise that no one will have to suffer the way we did under the Elders. Whatever is coming our way, we need to be prepared. We need to convince the men and women marching back here that what Father Winthrop is saying is a lie. And above all, we cannot let Father Winthrop come back to Brighton."

Some of the crying in the crowd turned to anger as people yelled for Winthrop's head on a spike. Several others cursed his name.

"Death to Winthrop!"

"The Word is a lie!"

Those shouts built into a chant that quickly spread from the front of the square to the back, to the rooftops and the windows, to the crowds hovering in places she couldn't see.

"LADY FITZ! LADY FITZ! LADY FITZ!"

Invigorated by the power of the audience, Fitz yelled, "The reign of the Elders must end!"

Fitz raised her hands in the air and motioned to her Strong Women, who picked up several torches from the side of the stage. One of the women handed a torch to Fitz. Together, they walked over to the chairs at the back of the dais—Blackthorn's, Winthrop's, and Beck's—while Ashley dumped a bucket of oil on the seats, pouring until no liquid was left. Fitz and her Strong Women laid the torches on the expensive chairs. Orange and yellow flames burst from the chairs as the fire took hold, consuming the padded cushions and then the backs, spitting smoke into the air. Fitz stepped back and watched the fiery procession. Then she strode purposefully to the edge of the dais, watching the crowd.

In the loudest voice she could project, she said, "Dead or not, the Elders are never coming back!"

The crowd roared in her support, their tear-streaked faces looking from the flames, to her, to the other women on the stage. They continued the chant as they watched the chairs of the Elders burn.

"LADY FITZ! LADY FITZ! LADY FITZ!"

Chapter 39:  Jingo

"The cart itself is worth a fortune," said Beck, looking at the narrow wagon made of pure, strong, light aluminum that they'd loaded up in the tower, after using it to wheel back supplies from the ship.

"I hope it's narrow enough to roll on the game trails when we cross the mountains," said Jingo, as he knelt beside the big-wheeled cart to check the tautness of the ropes over the load.

"Three thousand rounds, four extra rifles, extra pistols, and dozens of hand grenades," said Beck. "It's got to weigh two hundred pounds. I hope it's not too heavy to pull when the trail gets steep."

"One person can push," said Jingo, "and one can act like the horse that pulls." He laughed as he yanked on the rope harness they'd fashioned for whoever would take a turn pulling. "We've got enough rope for three more harnesses. We'll do it together."

"And if the trail gets too rough?" asked Beck.

Jingo stood up and said, "Don't turn into a pessimist. You know the journey to Brighton will be hard. Are you voicing some hidden fears? Are you afraid that even with these weapons, your insurgency will fail?"

Beck sighed and admitted, "Perhaps."

"We'll each be carrying a rifle," said Jingo. "We all have pistols, and we'll each be carrying enough loaded magazines to kill a whole squadron of Blackthorn's cavalry, if they weren't already dead. We've been practicing loading and shooting all morning. None of us is an expert with these weapons, but we've killed every demon that's come within sight of our tower."

"So far," said Beck.

"Yes," said Kirby, coming silently down the stairs. "So far."

Jingo looked up, startled, as he hadn't heard Kirby coming. "How are they doing?"

Melora, Ivory, and Oliver were all up on the second floor, practicing with their rifles. The noise of each shot drew in demons, which they took care of when they got close.

"Prodigies, all," said Kirby.

"Truthfully?" requested Jingo.

"You two are the worst shots," she admitted with a shrug, gesturing at Jingo and Beck. "But Melora and Ivory shoot like they were born to it. Oliver does fine, but the rifle wasn't made for a boy his size. And he has a difficult time with a pistol. It's too heavy for him."

"Perhaps he shouldn't carry one," said Beck.

"He'll get used to it," said Kirby. "Besides, he won't be target shooting. He'll only use the pistol if the mutants are close. At that range, he won't miss, and it might save his life."

"He should carry one, then," said Jingo.

Gunfire started to pop off rapidly from up on the second floor of the tower.

"More demons outside?" Beck deduced.

"More practice. They need to get used to shooting at the live ones, if all of this ammunition is going to do you any good," said Kirby.

"Have you reconsidered your choice to come with us?" asked Jingo.

Kirby shook her head. "You have everything you need from me. We've been shooting all morning, and that means this place isn't safe anymore. The mutants in the forest will come again. Soon we'll be overrun, and your chance to leave will disappear."

"We're leaving when you do," Jingo told her.

"I'm going to gather my things and go now," said Kirby. "I've said my goodbyes upstairs. I'll say the same thing to you that I said to Oliver, Ivory, and Melora. Here is some last advice: when you're out there in the forest, you can get away with a few shots now and again. The mutated men will think it's thunder, and they probably won't come. But if you fire too many times, something primal in their twisted minds remembers the sound of guns, and they'll come with a vengeance. You won't be able to kill them all. Think before you use your guns."

Looking at Jingo, Beck asked, "Are there truly that many in the forest?"

"In some places," answered Jingo.

"If the clouds don't obscure the moon tonight, I recommend that you don't stop until morning," Kirby told them. "Get as far from here as you can. We've already made enough noise. Rest for a short while at sunrise, and then push on through the day. I'll do the same. Wherever you are tomorrow night, you'll sleep safer."

"Where will you be?" asked Jingo.

"I haven't chosen a direction yet," answered Kirby. "Good luck to all of you. Perhaps we'll meet again one day."

Chapter 40:  William

Violent cries jolted William awake. A pair of legs stamped the grass as someone ran by and kept going. William wiped his bleary eyes and forced himself upright, certain that the demons had come and he that was about to die. All around him, people ran and staggered, vomited, and clutched their stomachs as if they'd been impaled. Horses whinnied and shifted nervously as they stamped the grass on the valley. Men tried unsuccessfully to calm them. Others fled down the hill and out of sight, disappearing into the glare of the emerging sunlight.

William got to his feet. Jasmine was already awake, on her feet and watching the chaos.

"What's happening?" William cried. "Are the demons here?"

Jasmine shouted, "No. People are getting sick!"

"It's the plague," said one of the priests, who had sat up near William and was looking around frantically.

A man nearby got up, barely making it past William before emptying his stomach. William wrinkled his nose and skirted away. The odor of demons filled the air, but this time it wasn't from any of them attacking.

"It's not the plague!" William yelled over the noise. "It's the demon meat!"

The priest looked at him with a furrowed brow. Jasmine instinctively clutched her stomach. William recalled what he'd eaten—nothing more than berries from Jasmine, and some dried squirrel that another of the priestesses had been nice enough to share with him.

"I don't feel so good," Jasmine confessed, her face turning pale.

Despite her admission, she managed to avoid vomiting. Groups of people that weren't ill sat up and looked around, worried and checking on the others. The people who had gotten sick remained on their knees as they recovered from their illness. A few wiped their faces as they came back up the hill, returning to their blankets.

"Where's Winthrop?" William asked, noticing the empty spot across the camp where he'd lain the night before.

"He left this morning for a ceremony," Jasmine explained.

As if on cue, Winthrop crested the hill, his robes billowing behind him as he led two shirtless women with fresh bloodstains on their chests. Phillip and a few other priests trailed behind him, holding their stomachs, their faces pale.

"Winthrop doesn't look sick," William said, furrowing his brow.

"I don't think Winthrop had as much demon meat as the others," Jasmine said. "He's mostly been eating the rations we brought from Brighton."

William frowned as he watched Winthrop raising his hands in the air, proclaiming his chants as Phillip and the other priests vomited all around him.

Chapter 41:  Demon

The demon wove through the horde. All around, his brothers trampled the grass, cocking their heads, and scoured the canyon for food.

The demon and its brothers had been following the army for days, keeping out of sight, scavenging for food as their numbers grew. Ever since they'd been chased from their home amidst the crumbling towers of the Ancient City, they'd been coming together, gathering to take their revenge.

When they did, the demon would have plenty to eat. It wouldn't have to scavenge for carcasses or small animals in the ruins. It would have plenty of people to pull into the fields and do with what it wanted, once its hunger was sated. The demon felt a surge of something that could be happiness as it pictured the things it could do to the soft creatures that were so hard to keep alive.

The demon scanned the trampled, bent grass for food, searching for something to quell the pain in its stomach. It was almost always hungry. Finding food was one of the only things it thought about, other than staying close to the group and following the others.

A few other demons screeched nearby. They'd discovered the half-eaten carcass of a squirrel. The demon watched as they knocked into each other, fighting over the sparse remains. It stepped toward them, but the other beasts gnashed their teeth in a territorial warning. With an irritated hiss, the demon continued through the army's abandoned campsite, wanting nothing more than to end its hunger.

The demon saw something.

It twisted its bulbous head upward.

Perched on a precipice, high over the valley and out of reach, two women on horseback surveyed the hungry horde. The demon took several steps forward, judging the best way to get to them. The cliff was steep and jagged, but an incline ran up the side of the mountain. The demon started toward the women. It increased its speed as several others spotted the same meal, snarling and screeching, running toward the side of the cliff. The weight of several bulbous growths on the demon's skull sagged its head, but it ignored the pain.

All it cared about was food.

The demon envisioned tearing the women down from their perch, spilling their insides, and pulling them into some crevice where it could consume them away from the others. If it could get to them first, it would have a full stomach. Maybe it would even leave one of them alive for its own lascivious purposes.

That last thought made the demon run faster.

The demon pushed one of its brethren out of the way, knocking it down the hill, causing it to snap a leg. The demon barely noticed. It was focused on the women. The demon was partway up the hill when the riders turned their horses away and started moving. The demon cried out. Several of its brothers yowled in frustration. It kept running, even as the riders disappeared into a crag and rode out of sight.

Chapter 42:  Bray

Bray rode through the forest on his horse, leading his team of two others single file, taking care to hold on to the rope that he'd attached to each of their bridles. They traveled through game trails, or thin paths made by metal scavengers or settlers. Sometimes they passed through clearings with tall grass. Every so often, he had to slow down to guide them over downed trees, or choose paths that weren't cluttered with bramble. The droning chants of the army had long since faded, segueing into the chirps of birds and the occasional crash of underbrush as small animals scurried away from him and his horses.

Bray was glad for the reprieve from the army's repetitive song, but he was worried about William. The horde of demons was like a looming nightmare that wouldn't fade. Bray hadn't feared the wild since he was a boy, leaving the circle wall for the first handful of times. He lived each day knowing he might die, or that a crippling injury might force him back to the nearest township. But this group of demons was large enough to inspire fear in the most hardened men.

God, there were so many.

Winthrop's army would be swarmed before they knew what happened. Their spears and their songs and their bravado wouldn't be enough to save their flesh from the maws of that many demons, or that many pairs of tearing, vicious hands.

That would've sat fine with him, if William weren't riding among them.

Bray spurred his horse, pushing it and the others faster, envisioning the distance to the other end of the canyon. It would take the army a full day and a little more to get through the canyon, the most direct route from Brighton to the Ancient City. Taking the long way over the mountains, Bray would need to push his newfound horses to get him there when Winthrop's mob of miscreants arrived.

If they arrived.

Bray was so caught up in his worry that he almost didn't notice a disturbance in the clearing ahead. At the last moment, Bray halted at the edge of the forest, quieted his horses, and drew his sword. He peered through a last, thick cluster of pine trees and saw a woman running.

Bray watched the thin woman weave through the field, looking over her shoulder. Her clothes were disheveled. Her long, dark hair swayed over a stuffed bag on her back. He squinted as he tried to get a better look at an object she was clutching, but he was distracted by three demons emerging from a patch of forest beyond the woman, snarling, chasing her.

Fucking hell.

Hadn't he had enough trouble lately? Bray didn't have to think hard to remember how the last time he had intervened in something had turned out. He was still trying to sort out the mess with William, and killing Ella was a mistake he'd never forget.

Cursing his decision before he made it, he trotted into the field on his horse and raised his sword. Before he could take action, the woman stopped, spun, and thrust a strange piece of metal in the direction of the demons.

Something flashed from the end of it.

A crack pierced the air.

One of the demons fell, screeching and clutching its stomach, as if it had been struck by an invisible foe. Blood leaked from a wound that shouldn't have been there.

Bray didn't understand what he was seeing.

Something was very wrong.

He choked the reins of his horse and trotted it backward.

The woman shifted the object and a spear of yellow fire flashed from the end as another thunder crack sounded.

A second demon fell as its head erupted, spraying a fountain of blood and gore.

More fire. Another bang, and the third demon went down.

All three were on the ground, two dead, the first writhing.

The woman was on her feet before Bray even realized it, crossing through the grass, approaching the wounded demon with her strange metal tool. She stopped, hovered over the demon, and raised the object.

More fire. More god-awful noise.

The demon's head rolled to the side and it moved no more.

Bray remained in place, in shock.

Tech Magic.

The woman looked over her shoulder, noticing Bray on his horse at the edge of the clearing. She swiveled the metal object in his direction, her eyes roaming from him to the horses, seemingly more interested in the beasts than in him.

"What are you staring at?" she yelled across the field.

Chapter 43:  Fitz

Fitz walked through Market Street with Ginger at her side and a circle of Strong Women around her. The women going about their shopping and selling bustled with a new kind of energy. Most of the others in town were collecting weapons, preparing for the oncoming army with the assistance of the women of the New House. Immediately after her speech, Fitz had sent her women to implement the plans upon which they'd decided in her meeting room.

Some part of her couldn't believe the crowd had listened. She'd felt a power in her speech that she never believed she had. A while ago, her hopes had centered on escaping The House of Barren Women. She never thought she'd be in a position to change Brighton.

And yet here everyone was, working together, ready to defend the township and change their men's minds. Ready to keep out Winthrop.

Looking around, she found the familiar street corner in the market where Franklin had made his last powerful speech in the rain. Staring at the street, she could almost envision him standing there, spurring her on. She hadn't been to the market since that day. Some part of her had avoided it, or maybe she hadn't wanted to face the fact that they had failed. She fought back the tears welling in her eyes.

She recalled standing behind the gathering people, cheering him on. She'd been so proud of him.

But this day was even more proud. Fitz's and Franklin's plan had succeeded.

The People were going to make Brighton what it was meant to be.

Every so often, someone would recognize Fitz's group and wave, or yell Fitz's name as she walked through the street. She acknowledged them with a half-smile and a nod. She heard Winthrop's name on more than a few tongues, followed by a curse. Winthrop's name had become both a foul word and a motivation to keep going. Women rolled pushcarts from buildings and stores, carting weapons and supplies they'd found inside. Their nervousness about what was to come was tempered by keeping busy.

"The collection is coming well?" Fitz asked Ginger.

"We're gathering some weapons," Ginger said. "But not nearly enough."

"I didn't expect we'd be able to arm everyone," Fitz said.

"We'll do what we can," Ginger agreed.

They walked past a blacksmith shop. Inside, handfuls of people hovered around the forge; others hammered away on metal. Fitz saw women and older children coordinating and attaching metal to wood as they created spears.

She moved on, noticing a few merchants' wives whittling away on wood with their knives, fashioning crude weapons. A smile crossed her face as she watched them work.

Chapter 44:  Bray

"Let me guess, another one who has never seen a gun," the woman called with an annoyed smile as she appraised Bray from across the field. "Throw your sword away and get off the beast, or you'll end up like the demons."

She waved the weapon in her hand to tell Bray she meant it.

Bray lowered his sword reluctantly. If he hadn't already seen the power of the strange weapon, he might've argued, or tried to fight or run. But who knew how far the weapon might work? He tossed his sword on the ground, looking between the woman and the dead demons.

"Get off the animal!" the woman yelled. "I won't say it again."

Bray dismounted, unable to take his eyes off the strange device that was pointed in his direction, connecting the stories he'd heard about the Ancients with the object the woman held in her hand. He'd heard tales about weapons that flashed fire and killed from a distance. Every boy in the townships and villages had. But until he'd seen this one and what it could do, he hadn't believed them. Was this woman one of the Ancients? She certainly dressed differently than anyone he'd seen. And she had an accent he didn't recognize.

His eyes flew back to the metal object with the small tube at the end, as if it might flash fire and send him tumbling to the ground. He clutched the rope connecting his horse's bridles, trying to keep the beasts still, but they were stamping nervously.

"Are those horses?" the woman asked, her tone changing to amazement as she walked closer.

"Of course," Bray answered.

"Why are they stamping the ground like that?"

"They're nervous. All that damn noise you're making has them thinking they're going to battle."

"Are they going to attack me?" The woman raised the weapon higher.

"No. They're nervous about the demons," Bray said, pointing to the dead ones across the field, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "They smell them."

"I didn't know that they could…" The woman reconsidered her response.

"Could what?"

"Fight demons." The woman looked from Bray to the horses, trying to put something together in her head.

Bray puffed up his chest as he made a realization. "You've never seen horses, I take it? My horses can stomp down as many demons as I come across. I've taught them well," he lied.

The woman remained tight-lipped, as if she'd already spoken too much. She waved the gun. "Walk away from the horses and let go of the rope," she demanded.

"If I don't hold the rope, they'll run," Bray explained.

"Hold it, then. But walk farther away from them. Are you alone?"

"Yes." Bray looked around, as if someone else might appear. "Where did you get that gun?" he asked.

"I'll ask the questions," the woman said, waving the gun to demonstrate her intention. He didn't need an interpretation to know what she might do to him. "Do the horses trust anybody to ride on them?"

Bray nodded. "They're good animals. They've done well for me."

The woman nodded as Bray reached the end of the rope and stopped.

"I can't go any further," he said. "Unless you want them to run away."

The woman walked toward Bray until she was within reaching distance. "Hand me the rope," she said.

Bray looked at her with a suspicion that was slowly becoming a reality. "Are you robbing me?"

A faint smile crossed Kirby's face as she pointed the Ancient gun directly at his head, taking the rope and slowly stepping back toward the horses. She approached Bray's horse, mounted it, and found her balance.

"Give me your bag, too," she said, holding out one of her hands, keeping the gun pointed at him with the other.

"My bag?"

"Don't pretend you can't hear. It's too late for that."

Bray tossed her the bag and she caught it. She slung it over her shoulder.

"Are you going to leave me with nothing?" Bray protested.

"No," the woman said. "I'm leaving you with your sword." She motioned to the blade that he'd dropped farther back in the clearing. "You're lucky I'm doing that."

The woman rode away.

Chapter 45:  Bray

"Wait!" Bray cried as the strange woman rode off with his horses and his bag. He glanced back at his sword. He wanted to run after her, knock her from the horse, and take back his things, but fear of the Ancient gun kept him in place. And besides, he'd never catch her on foot.

Instead, he watched her trying to keep her balance as she fought with the stirrups, which were adjusted for Bray's legs and much too low for her feet to reach while sitting in the saddle. She swayed back and forth as she crossed half the clearing, looking over her shoulder every so often to ensure he wasn't chasing after her. One of the horses snorted, making her inadvertently pull hard on the reins, causing the horses to stop.

"Don't do that!" she yelled, but her horse was clearly agitated, and it was riling up the others. "Keep going!" She swatted the horse's side, but it didn't move. "These things might as well be useless," she muttered.

"Wait!" Bray called, taking a step in her direction.

"Stay back!" she warned.

"I can teach you to ride!"

The woman laughed as she tried to keep her balance. "You think I'm stupid enough to believe that?"

"You'll wish you did, when you fall and break your arm."

The woman tried to control the horse, but it was stomping its hooves and not listening. She watched Bray, suspicious, but slowly coming to the realization that he was right.

"The horses can sense you're nervous," Bray called.

"You said they were good horses. You said anyone could ride them."

"They are, if you know how to handle them." Groping for a lie convincing enough to make her stop, Bray added, "They might attack you, like they do the demons, if you don't use the right commands."

The woman clutched the horse's reins. "Why should I believe you?"

"You have a gun. You can easily kill me, if you want. But I can give you instructions on how to ride them before you go."

"Why would you help me, when I robbed you?"

"If you're going to take my horses, I want them to be taken care of. I've owned them since I was a boy. They're like family to me." Bray pointed at the horse she was riding. "That one's name is…Jeremiah. And the ones behind it are…ah…Blackthorn and Fuller."

The woman leaned from side to side as she tried to catch herself from falling. "You're saying this so you can attack me. You're going to have them throw me off."

"Wouldn't I have done that already, if that was what I intended?" Bray asked with a shrug, trying to hide the fact that he'd already considered that option. But he still didn't trust that she wouldn't harm him with the gun, even if she fell first.

"Start talking," the woman said.

Bray walked until he was fifteen feet from her and stopped.

"Tell me what I need to know," the woman said.

"To begin with, you're going to have to let go of the pommel. That's the curved part you're hanging on to. You're going to need to grab the reins."

"The reins?"

"The smaller ropes attached to the horse you're on."

The woman cursed as she let go of the pommel, trying to maintain her balance.

"To start the horses moving, give a little kick with your heels and make this noise with your mouth a few times." Bray demonstrated two clicks. "If you pull gently on the reins, the horses will stop."

The woman followed his instruction. She commanded the horse to trot, then pulled gently on the reins, prompting it to halt. The others followed, and then paused behind it.

"You'll get used to it," Bray said with a nod.

"What else do I need to know?" she asked.

"When you want to go one way or the other, pull either side of the horse's reins." The woman watched him as if he might be lying. "Go ahead, try it, if you want."

The woman tested his instructions, riding a few paces and then turning, keeping Bray in her sights. She seemed surprised that the horse obeyed. "Why are you really showing me this?" she asked, furrowing her brow. "You don't really care about the horses that much, do you?"

Bray held up his hands. "I was hoping you might give me one of them back," he admitted.

The woman laughed as if it was the funniest thing she'd heard all day. "Why would I do that?"

"Because I need to find my son."

"Your son?" The laughter on the woman's face disappeared and she looked around the clearing, as if she might be ambushed. "You lied. You're not alone."

"I'm by myself," Bray assured her.

"Where is he?"

"I wish I knew. William was kidnapped this morning."

"By whom?" the woman asked.

"A group of men snuck up on him. I went out to get kindling for our fire, and when I came back, they were riding off with him," Bray said, looking down at the ground. "I should've watched more carefully. It's my fault. I tried chasing them down, but they had a head start, and I lost them."

The woman watched him with an expression that showed she didn't believe him. "Where did they go?"

"They were heading toward the canyon." Bray pointed off to the west. "If I followed them directly into it, they'd see me. I know a shortcut, and I was hoping to cut around and head them off."

Hoping to solidify his story, Bray continued, "William and I were on a hunting trip from Brighton. I was teaching him how to catch rabbits. He was too young, I think. And now I've lost him."

"You said you were from Brighton?" the woman asked.

"Yes," Bray answered.

A flicker of recognition went through her eyes as he confirmed the town's name. "I'm somewhat familiar with Brighton. I've met some people from there. What do the people who took your son look like?"

"You won't believe me when I tell you."

"Tell me."

"A few of them were shirtless, despite the cold. They wore demon's blood on their clothing. I've seen these people before. They're savages. They eat demons. And I'm worried about what they might do to my son. Have you seen them or my son?"

"I haven't, but the people I met from Brighton told me about others like that." The woman's eyes passed over Bray as she recalled something. "I'm not sure it's the same group. How many did you say there were?"

"Only a handful," Bray lied. "And they can't be far from here. I'm afraid of what they might do to William. I can only imagine why they took him. I need to get him back as soon as I can. If I had a horse, I might have a chance at saving him. And if I had an Ancient device like yours…"

The woman looked down at the weapon in her hand.

"I understand if you have to be on your way," Bray said quietly, averting his eyes.

The woman made a face. "You're not getting my gun," she said matter-of-factly. Looking at the bag on her back, she added, "Any of them."

"I didn't ask for them. But if you'd be willing to help me get my son back, I'd have no problem giving you two of my horses when we're done."

The woman looked down at the horse, which was still agitated and stamping the ground. "You'll show me how to ride?"

"I'll tell you everything I know on the way."

"If you try anything, I'll put a bullet in you."

"I'm not sure what that word means, but I believe you," Bray said.

Chapter 46:  Fitz

It was late afternoon, and Fitz and her women were still waking through town, overseeing the collection of weapons, when Fitz's attention was ripped away by the sight of two horses coming down the center of the street.

Tara and Loren.

Fitz walked in the direction of the riders, steeling for some news. The horses breathed heavily as they galloped the final steps to Fitz's group. Tara dismounted, her face ashen. Noticing that people were watching, Fitz called them to a quiet corner, where they could talk without being so closely observed.

"Did you find the rest of the army?" Fitz asked.

Tara took a moment to form the words. "Only Winthrop's. But there's something else coming."

"What?"

"Demons. Lots of them. It looks like they're headed in this direction. They're following Winthrop and his men."

"Oh, no," said Fitz.

Chapter 47:  Fitz

"Demons?" Ginger shook her head, unable to stop fright from seeping into her voice.

The other women looked grave as Fitz stared absently around the courtyard, her gaze roaming from the monument to the buildings. After quietly dismissing Tara and Loren, Fitz, Ginger, and the other women who had been walking with her in the marketplace made their way back to the New House. They hadn't said anything to the townsfolk, but surely the rumors would spread. They always did.

"The meeting at the square went better than I expected, but this news will surely shake even the strongest woman's resolve," Fitz said.

"Maybe the demons will kill Winthrop and his army," Ginger suggested.

"I don't think we can count on that. We need to keep doing what we're doing. If demons are coming, we'll need our weapons, Winthrop or not," Fitz said.

"Maybe we can use the news to our advantage," Ginger said. "We all know the fear demons inspire in people. That might spur people to work harder."

"You're probably right," Fitz said. "I can extend the working hours. But all the weapons and people we have aren't likely to ward off an army of demons."

"What else can we do?" Ashley asked, holding up her hands in desperation. "We're already gathering and preparing whatever we can. Without more resources, or the knowledge of the tradesmen, we won't be able to do much more."

"If we have to fight both the demons and Winthrop's men, we'll need to figure something out," Ginger said, trying to think of a solution.

Edith, one of the Strong Women who had been listening quietly, or maybe seething, turned an angry eye on Ginger. "It's easy for you to talk about fighting Winthrop's men, Ginger. You don't have a husband that might be out there. Your days have been spent at The House of Barren Women, on your back."

Ginger turned toward Edith, surprised. Her eyes blazed with anger as she processed the insult. "And you think that was a choice I made?"

Edith shot back, "You won't have to face your husband with a sword in your hand, if you ever see him again."

"At least you had a husband!" Ginger shook her head. "I never had one! You think lying on my back was better than having a family, like you got to do?"

"I've watched too many people die in Brighton. And now I might have to add my husband to that list, if he died in the wild." Angry tears spilled from Edith's eyes. "You'll never know what that feels like."

"You think I don't know grief? I watched my sister trampled by one of Tenbrook's horses, you salty bitch!" Ginger took a step toward Edith, her hand flying to the hilt of her sword.

"Ladies!" Fitz shouted in a commanding voice, stepping between them and putting a hand on each of their shoulders. "That's enough!"

Ginger and Edith stepped away from each other, maintaining angry stares. Fitz drilled them each with a look that said she wouldn't accept any more trouble. Grudgingly, Edith and Ginger looked at the ground.

"No one is saying this has been easy on any of us, or that we haven't suffered enough. But if we don't find a way to protect ourselves, we'll lose even more people. And we're certainly not going to fight each other!"

Ginger and Edith remained silent, still exchanging the occasional angry glare.

"Does anyone else have any ideas?" Ashley asked.

"There has to be something else we can do," Fitz said. She looked around the courtyard, as if she might find some answers. "In the years I've lived, I've never seen an attack on Brighton. If demons are coming, we'll need to know the wall is strong. We're told that the wall has stood strong for hundreds of years. We're told it has never been breached. Can that be true? Or is that another lie told to us by the Elders?"

The women looked at each other, but no one had an answer.

"Surely someone has lived through an attack on Brighton. Surely someone must have seen something that would be helpful."

"How about Hilda?" Ashley suggested. "She's probably lived through enough battles to last a few of our lifetimes. In fact, she was probably here when the wall was built."

A few women chuckled through the fear and nervousness on their faces. The comment even seemed to break some of the tension between Ginger and Edith.

"Hilda," Fitz repeated as she recalled the weathered, old woman who was the object of young children's stories, including a few of Fitz's own. "You know, that might not be a bad idea. She's lived longer than most in the town. If anyone knows about demon attacks, it'd be her. Maybe I'll speak with her and see what she knows."

"What about the Academy?" Ashley asked, offering another suggestion. "Are they still cowering in their building?"

"I haven't had time to visit them in a while. I was hoping they'd come out of hiding and speak with me after the meeting at the square," Fitz admitted. "But no one has seen them. It's like they don't want any part of what we're doing."

"I'm not sure how they can deny what's happening," Ginger said. "Once Winthrop comes back, they'll have to pay attention."

"With the demons coming, the threat is much larger than a burning from Winthrop," Ashley suggested. "Maybe that news will change things."

"We're going to need whatever help we can get," Ginger said.

"Maybe you're right," Fitz agreed. "I'll go speak with Hilda. Then I'll try to get the Academy to open their doors one more time."

Chapter 48:  Bray

Bray turned and looked over his shoulder, giving the strange woman a glance. She'd insisted on riding on the last of the three horses, putting a horse between them and ensuring his back was turned to her.

"What's your name?" he asked her.

"Kirby."

"I'm Bray. I was convinced you were one of the Ancients," Bray called over his shoulder. "I've never seen clothing like yours. Or heard your accent." Pausing, Bray asked, "Are you one of the Ancients?"

Kirby took a moment to answer as she studied him. "No, but I know of the Ancients of whom you speak."

"If you're not one of the Ancients, where did you get that gun?"

"My people made it."

"Do your people have more guns?" Bray asked, trying to hide the excitement in his voice.

"My people are dead," Kirby said with sadness. "They were killed by what you call the demons, and we call the mutants."

"Mutants." Bray rolled the word over on his tongue. "Whatever you call them, they're no less vile."

"That's the truth," Kirby agreed. "My people have been fighting demons for as long as I can remember."

Bray looked over his shoulder, filled with questions. "How were your people killed?"

"The mutants overran our settlement. They breached the wooden walls that we built to protect ourselves."

"The wall around Brighton is made of stone," Bray said, as if he'd built it himself. "I don't trust it fully, but we haven't had any breaches in my lifetime."

"Even a wall of stone can be knocked down," Kirby warned, with an authority that almost made him reconsider his statement.

Bray eyed the weapon in her hand. "Your people had guns. Wouldn't that have stopped any demons?"

"One would've thought." Interrupting his next question before he could ask it, Kirby asked, "How far away did you say those men are with your son?"

"They shouldn't be too far ahead. I think our best chance is to cut them off on the other side of the canyon, just before we reach Brighton. I would've followed them into the canyon, but I was afraid they'd see me." Bray figured he might need to work his sympathy angle a little harder. "I'm worried about William. I don't know what those men will do to him."

"How long is this canyon?" Kirby asked.

"Only a few miles," Bray lied. "We should be out the other side soon."

Kirby looked hesitant, as if she was reconsidering her promise.

"Don't worry. We'll be there before you can say 'mutant.'"

Chapter 49:  Fitz

Everybody knew who she was, but few people talked to her. The kids in town said if you looked into her eyes, you'd lose your soul and you'd sprout warts on your face before the sun rose the next morning. Others said her skin was so leathery that when mosquitoes tried to suck her blood, their stingers got stuck, and she'd pluck them out, squeeze them between her cracked lips, and suck on them like candy. The worst rumor was that when she was a young mother, maybe a hundred and fifty years ago, the starvation was so bad that one winter, she roasted her kids on the fire to feed herself and then made soup with their bones to give to the neighbors she didn't like.

And she cackled like a witch, whatever that was.

Fitz had been hearing tales about Old Lady Hilda since she was old enough to go outside and play with the neighbor girls on her street. They frightened one another with the stories. Old Lady Hilda only came out when the clouds were so thick and gray they hid the sun. She was such a withered hag that when she farted, dust came out, and her shit was so dry, she'd burn it to cook her dinner.

When Fitz saw her once back in those days, in the market on a drizzly, warm day in late spring, when everything stank of sweat and mildew, her friend dared her to touch Hilda's skirt and promised to reward Fitz with an apple if she succeeded.

Fitz hadn't seen an apple since before the first snows had fallen the year before, and the thought of that sweet, crisp crunch was tempting enough to make her risk Hilda's wrath. Fitz stalked Hilda through the market that morning, getting drenched in the drizzle and caking her feet with mud. It was when Hilda was haggling with a gruff birder over the price of a chicken that Fitz snuck in and laid a hand on the coarse, damp fabric of Hilda's skirt.

Hilda seemed to know instantly that Fitz's hand had come into contact with the cloth, because her head snapped around and Hilda's eyes met Fitz's. The two stood frozen there in the market, Fitz paralyzed with fright, and Hilda, preparing to eat her soul.

Fitz might never have moved again, except that Hilda looked her up and down. Instead of anger, sadness stretched across Hilda's wrinkly face. In a raspy, deep voice, she said, "You're the skinniest thing I've seen in a blue moon. What do you want from me?"

Fitz's mouth moved, but her voice was paralyzed into silence.

"Are you hungry, girl?" Hilda asked.

Fitz could only move her silent mouth and wish her muddy feet would carry her away.

Hilda took the chicken she'd just purchased and shoved it into Fitz's hands. "Is this what you need? Take it."

Fitz was confused.

"Take it to your mother and tell her to cook you a real meal," Hilda told her. "Put some meat on those skinny bones. Go."

Fitz stepped back.

"Go."

Because Fitz received the chicken as a witch gift, her friend refused to give her the apple she'd promised, and Fitz learned something about people that day that stuck with her through her life: rumors are lies with a different name. Also, you should be careful whom you trust.

Through the years, Fitz learned that Hilda was a hermit, as much as one could be a hermit in the confines of the circle wall. She lived in a hovel nestled between the trunks of three ancient oaks, well away from the town center, out past the fields, near one of the smaller gates in the wall. She was a healer, and people said she wandered the forest outside the wall alone, never afraid of demons, always searching for special herbs and plants that she mixed into remedies for the sick.

It seemed like everybody knew somebody that Hilda had healed.

Still, they were afraid of her.

When Fitz finally crossed the last of the empty field toward Hilda's house, Ginger refused to go up to the door, and instead stayed thirty or forty paces back, leaving Fitz to knock on the door alone.

"Come," a raspy old voice answered.

Fitz turned the knob and pushed on the weathered wood, letting out a humid rush of warm air that smelled of a hundred strange things, many of them repulsive.

"Inside," Hilda told her. "Don't let in the cold."

Fitz stepped quickly through, giving Ginger a glance and getting a full dose of Ginger's worry before closing the door behind her.

Hilda was standing beside a table in the dim light, grinding something in a bowl with a blunt tool that looked like it was made of stone. A small pot simmered on the hearth and steam flowed into the air, mixing with the musty smell of Hilda's house.

"Fitzgerald," said Hilda. "The skinny child with the chicken."

"How do you remember that?" Fitz was surprised.

"Pretty little things like you stick in people's memories," said Hilda, "though it made me sad to see you grow up."

"Why?" Fitz asked, trying not to take offense.

"Don't take me wrong, I couldn't be happier with how you turned out." Hilda put some effort into grinding the powdery mixture in her bowl. "You were a special thing. At least it looked that way to me. I thought they'd marry you off to some cavalry stud, and put you to work calving a dozen pups for him, unless your body broke down and died." Hilda looked Fitz up and down and grinned for a flash, showing the few yellow teeth she had left. "Birthing is hard on a woman. You're lucky you're barren."

Fitz didn't completely agree about the barren part, but she'd come to see Hilda for other reasons than to contradict her.

"What's on your mind?" Hilda asked. "You don't look sick."

"I never thanked you for the chicken," said Fitz.

Hilda cackled as she sat her bowl and tool on the table. "Thank me? How old are you now, girl? How long has it been, twenty years?"

Fitz looked away, feeling ashamed for never getting up the nerve to trek across the fields when she was younger to give Hilda a proper thank you.

"No need to be embarrassed, girl. I didn't give you the chicken for your gratitude. You needed the food. I didn't." Hilda patted her round belly through the coarse cloth of her dress, which if Fitz was to guess, was the same dress Hilda had worn that day in the market all those years ago.

"I apologize for taking twenty years to come here."

"But you're not here for that." Hilda nodded to a few chairs over near the fire. "Sit down." Hilda came around the table and headed toward the chairs. "Tell me what you want."

Chapter 50:  Fitz

Looking across at Hilda, sitting in the opposite chair, Fitz said, "They say you're the oldest person in Brighton."

"I'm curious now," said Hilda. "Are you coming to me for the wisdom that you think all my years have earned?"

"No," answered Fitz, though she assumed Hilda probably held a trove of knowledge in her old memories. "Later, perhaps. For now, I have more pressing questions. You know all that is going on?"

Hilda cackled. "It's been years since I last crossed the potato fields to go into town."

Fitz figured that was true. In fact, she hadn't even seen Hilda at a Cleansing, ever.

"When you save the lives of enough powerful men's children, you can live above the rules, if you like," said Hilda, apparently reading Fitz's thoughts. "When I was a young woman living here in this house, my grandmother's, General Blackthorn's father sent for me. The General Blackthorn you know, the tyrant, was a sickly boy then, as skinny as you were that day in the market, and sick with a fever that took so many children that winter. I hadn't learned all that my grandmother had to teach before she died, but I'd learned enough. I treated the Blackthorn boy for his fever and sat with him for three days, kept him watered, and got him soup when he'd take it. To everyone's eventual regret, he lived, and his father, the noble General Blackthorn, showed his gratitude by exempting me from the Cleansing and seeing to it that I never went hungry."

"Perhaps saving the tyrant Blackthorn wasn't the mistake you seem to think it was," said Fitz. "There are worse men."

"Were worse men," Hilda corrected.

"What do you mean?" asked Fitz.

"You're talking about Tenbrook, aren't you? He's no longer with us. You know that better than anyone."

Fitz nodded, though she was sure there were other men like Tenbrook in the world. She'd met some of them back at the House of Barren Women, though she had to admit to herself that Tenbrook was a special kind of evil.

"I'm yammering like an old woman," said Hilda. "Yes, I know all that's going on. I hear all the news, rumors, and gossip. Tyrant Blackthorn is dead in the wilderness. Pervert Winthrop has gone completely mad and is returning with the remainder of the army, apparently all as mad as he is. And a horde of demons is coming to kill us all."

"Nothing is secret in Brighton," said Fitz absently.

"Not for long," Hilda agreed. "Now, why are you here?"

"Has the circle wall ever been breached?" asked Fitz. "Have the demon hordes ever attacked and made it over the wall?"

Hilda drew in a deep breath and leaned back in her chair as she scrutinized Fitz.

Fitz was confused by the lack of an answer, but then realized why. "You aren't sure how I'll react to what you have to tell me."

Hilda grinned and showed her few teeth again. "My intuition about you was right from the beginning."

"You're choosing whether to tell me about an attack when the demons broke through the wall," said Fitz, "because you're deciding whether it's best for the people here to believe that the wall is impregnable, or whether they need to know what might happen again."

"Perhaps I should leave that to you to decide," said Hilda. "As old as I am, I've never been good at guessing how people will react, especially when they're afraid."

"Does that mean you won't be here when it happens?" asked Fitz. "Are you thinking of leaving Brighton and taking a chance on your own when the demon horde comes?"

Hilda cackled again. "I understand now why you outwitted Tenbrook. You find it easy to see the blackness in people's hearts."

"I'm right?" Fitz was aghast.

"No." Hilda shook her head, a little disappointed. "After I go out to collect plants in the forest, I have to rest for three days before I can walk again. If the twisted men come over the wall, I won't be able to outrun them. I can barely walk most days on my old joints. I would never survive in the wild."

Fitz understood where Hilda was going with her line of reasoning. "You think if the people believe they have no chance to defend Brighton, they'll flee. And if they flee, we'll be weakened further and less able to defend ourselves should the demons come."

Hilda nodded silently for a moment before saying, "I'll tell you what I know, and you'll have to decide what lies you want to tell all the doe-eyed women who look to you to save them. Or, you'll have to tell them the horrid truth: that many of them will die."

"Is that what happened last time?" Fitz asked, "Did a lot of people die?"

"They did." Hilda punctuated her answered with a grimace and a slow nod. "The horde that came that year split into two groups. They never did that before. Sure, small bands of them splintered off in the past. Sometimes the demons came across the mountains in mobs of a few hundred strong, a whole train of them through the spring and summer. But that wasn't the worst of it. Back in those days, every couple of years, a horde of them would come over the mountains, three, four, or five thousand strong. General Blackthorn—the father of the one you know—would ride out with his cavalry, a troop of gallant and handsome-looking young men, with straight backs and brave faces, galloping off to save us all." Hilda stared into the fire as her thoughts drifted back to those days.

"I was young then, young enough that I still had dreams of bedding one of those galloping young cavalrymen and having his beautiful, strong babies." Hilda's mood changed in an instant and she cackled. "But I was ugly then, just as I am now. I was only naïve enough to think a man might find me beautiful because of my youth."

Fitz felt sorry for her, but couldn't think of any words to say that wouldn't bring more hurt than comfort.

Hilda sighed and put her thoughts back into the story. "The cavalry went out to chase some horde that was heading to slaughter the people of Ashford. They mounted up that morning as soon as the sun rose. I remember the sound of their hooves beating the earth as they rode out—thunderous, and powerful, our boys." Hilda drew another long breath. "But we were surprised by another horde that nobody knew was out there. A mob of demons attacked Brighton when the sun was setting. The guards spotted them coming out of the forest and raised the alarm, but the militia wasn't ready. The militia was slow to get to the wall, and when they did, they went through the gates and trickled out into the fields. But the demons were already coming over the wall. It was a slaughter."

From Hilda's mood, Fitz guessed that it wasn't the demons that were slaughtered.

"The first militiamen who reached the wall died. The slow ones, the cowards, never made it into the fields. They tried to form a defense at the edge of town and failed."

"They all died?" Fitz asked, wondering why she'd never heard this story.

"They broke and fled into the streets when they thought the horde numbered too many." Hilda's face showed her distaste for those men. "They were all armed. All trained. Had they stood their ground, they'd have won the day. That's what The General Blackthorn told them that day in the square after it was all over. He decimated the survivors for their cowardice."

"Decimated?" asked Fitz.

"Counted them off one through ten until he'd counted them all. Then he burned all the tenth ones to teach the others a lesson." Hilda grimaced again. "Not a tear was shed that day, I'll tell you. Blackthorn could have burned every one of those bastards and the people of Brighton would have gladly chopped the wood for the fires. Their cowardice got thousands of innocents killed. Nearly every family lost somebody, a mother, a child." Hilda shored her courage up for the next words, but even as she did, tears filled her eyes. "A grandmother."

"Your grandmother?" Fitz guessed.

Hilda nodded and blew her nose on her sleeve. "Look at me, I'm a silly old woman, still crying over a dead grandmother from nearly eighty years ago."

Fitz got out of her chair and wrapped Hilda in a hug.

Hilda cried some more before pushing Fitz away. "The old saying is true. Fear brings out the worst in people."  She took Fitz's cheeks in her knobby old hands and held Fitz's face as she looked into Fitz's eyes. "Be careful with the truth. Be careful with the fear. Hopefully, you can save Brighton, Fitzgerald. Hopefully you can prove that my intuition about you was right."

Chapter 51:  Bray

Bray slowed his horse, guiding it around a patch of thick weeds that had grown over the trail on which they were riding. He'd taken one of the lesser-known smuggler's paths up a mountain, hoping to avoid the high elevations and the deeper snow, but it had been a long time since he'd come this way. Things didn't look the way he remembered.

"Earlier, you said you met some people from Brighton," Bray asked over his shoulder. "Who were they?"

Kirby was quiet for a moment. "A few hunters," she said.

Curious if more strange people were about that Bray hadn't seen before, thinking they might not actually be from Brighton, he asked, "What did they look like? Were they dressed like you?"

"No, they were dressed the same as you," Kirby answered.

"Not as handsome, I assume." Bray sat straight on his horse and tipped back his shoulders.

"No, they were pretty much the same. Dirty. In need of a shave," Kirby's laughter echoed through the trees. "Fewer scars, maybe, but I didn't pay attention. I don't have time for men."

Bray quieted for a moment, pretending to be insulted. "You know, most of my scars are from battles."

"So are mine," Kirby said with a smile.

Bray didn't need to question her to know she was telling the truth.

As they rode, the terrain grew increasingly steeper. Light snow covered the ground, speckling the tops of sticks and rocks in sparkling ice. A white glaze coated the tops of the tree branches. Every so often, Bray spotted tracks in the snow—mostly from small animals, but a few from barefooted demons. Those made him recall his fear as he pictured the twisted mass of demons he'd seen earlier.

Bray listened for sounds of the demons or the army, even though they were too far away to hear.

He was grateful that he'd convinced Kirby to come with him, but he was worried about what he'd tell her when she saw Winthrop and his army of zealots. What would she do when they encountered thousands? It was a lie he hadn't thought his way out of yet.

"I really appreciate you helping me out," he said, hoping to ingratiate himself. "Where were you headed before I ran into you?"

Kirby paused a moment. "Away," she said finally.

"You wanted to get away from where you lived, because everyone was dead," he surmised. "I understand that."

"Why stay, when everyone else is gone?" Kirby shrugged as she rode.

"Sometimes I feel like getting away from Brighton, even though my people are alive," Bray said over his shoulder. He quickly added, "But I have my son to think about. A life in the wild is no good for a boy."

"Of course," Kirby said. "Hopefully, we'll find him soon. And then I'll be on my way, with my horses."

Chapter 52:  Fitz

Fitz and Ginger walked through the streets leading to the Academy. The cracked, well-traveled roads had become increasingly familiar to both of them over the course of days. The Scholars had chosen a building that was secluded from the rest of town, citing the need to preserve quiet. Fitz often wondered if living out here was an excuse to separate them from the brutal happenings in Brighton.

"It's so peaceful out here," Ginger commented.

"Yes. It's almost far enough away that you could escape the smell of the burnings," Fitz said.

Ginger shrugged. "Maybe that's the real reason they live out here."

"Minister Beck decides who is burned and who isn't. And then he retreats back to his Academy with his Scholars," Fitz said with disgust. "Or at least, he did, before he left with the army."

"Where do you think Beck is now?"

"He must be dead, if Winthrop is in charge," Fitz said with a shrug.

Looking left, Fitz recognized several broken-down buildings that had once been tall, but had since succumbed to decay, devoured by weeds and ripped to the ground. Animals and people had scavenged those ruins for years, taking every loose bit of stone and steel until they were too dilapidated to live in. On the right was a swath of trees climbed so many times by Brighton's children that all of the smaller limbs had cracked off.

"If I wasn't looking for the Scholars, I wouldn't know they were in hiding. The only time I saw them was when they came to The House."

Ginger gave her a sympathetic look.

"I remember when one of them tried talking to me in a different language," Fitz said. "He was trying to impress me."

Ginger laughed. "One did that to me, too."

"I can't imagine a life studying ancient artifacts, when there are so many other things to be done. But in a way, I respect their knowledge."

The only Scholar that Fitz had known well was Evan.

And now he was dead.

She wasn't sure if the Academy could help, but she hoped they might. After what she'd learned from Hilda, she was worried. If nothing else, adding some male bodies to the fight would help them to victory, and maybe the Scholars even had some ancient Tech Magic secrets.

In order to find out, they needed to get them to open the doors.

Rounding a patch of trees and peering down another street, Fitz and Ginger increased their pace until they spotted the large, familiar square building in the distance. The walls—made of blocks of stone leftover from the times of the Ancients—gleamed with a shine that rivaled Blackthorn's house. Several large windows looked out over the sprawling property. She imagined many servants were needed to keep the Academy in order, but there was no one taking care if it now. Most of the windows were blocked with boards. A few of the upper ones were open, but she saw no faces.

"I sense people watching," Ginger said quietly.

"As always," said Fitz. "Let's give it a try."

She approached the walkway and made her way to the door, raising her hand to knock while Ginger hung close by, holding her sword.

"Go away!" someone yelled before Fitz had knocked twice. The voice was gravelly and familiar. It was the same person who had yelled at them on previous visits.

"We need to speak with you! It's urgent!" Fitz called, trying to inject sincerity in her voice.

"As urgent as it was yesterday, I imagine," the voice said, mocking them.

Biting back her anger, Fitz said, "The next visitors you have won't be so friendly. The army is coming back to break down the circle wall. And so is an army of demons."

Silence. Then the shuffle of a few feet. Fitz heard muffled voices from somewhere in the building. She watched the windows, wishing she were speaking to a person instead of a door. Looking at the thick piece of wood protecting the entrance, she thought about battering it down, even though she knew it was too heavy. She needed to speak with someone face to face.

She was about to shout again when she heard objects being moved beyond the door. Fitz stepped back, reaching for her own sword. Maybe the Scholars had gotten sick of her visits and were going to threaten them, or worse.

The door swung open.

A cluster of shuffling, nervous men stood in the corridor, watching her. They wore long, white shawls similar to what Scholar Evan had worn. A few carried rusted spears that might've been artifacts. But they weren't threatening Fitz or Ginger. They looked concerned about what she had to say.

One of the men stepped through the group, meeting her eyes. Fitz was surprised. He wasn't from the Academy, but from town.

"Kreuz?" she asked, unable to hide the confusion in her voice as she recognized the owner of the smoked meat market.

"You better not be lying about the demons," Kreuz said, in the same gravelly voice Fitz and Ginger had been hearing through the door. "Come in and we'll talk."

Chapter 53:  Fitz

Fitz and Ginger settled in two chairs around the table, looking at the ancient paintings on the walls in the Academy library. All around them, the Scholars were standing and watching. Only Kreuz sat across from them. After letting them through the entrance, Kreuz and his Scholars had taken them directly to the large room filled with mostly empty shelves of books, rusted pieces of metal that looked like they were on display, and empty chairs that lined the perimeter. Some still had notebooks and writing utensils sitting on the seats. Fitzgerald didn't need to see the Scholars sitting in them to imagine the number of hours they'd been used.

Farther down on the table where Fitz, Ginger, and Kreuz were sitting was a large, ornate box. Fitz felt the stares of dozens of pairs of eyes on her. Ever since she had killed Tenbrook's men, she felt as though she were living a life standing on the dais, watched by everyone. She turned her attention to Kreuz.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"I've been staying here since Tenbrook's last burnings," Kreuz answered. "Things were bad in town. It looked to me like they were going to get worse."

Fitz nodded. She couldn't deny what he was saying. The Academy was a good place to hide for someone avoiding the prying eyes of soldiers. And someone with as much money as Kreuz—a source of significant wealth in town—would've had no trouble convincing the Scholars to let him in. She could smell the lingering scent of smoked meat on his clothes, even though his market was halfway across town. That scent should've made her hungry, but she was too worried to think about food.

"Tenbrook's soldiers are dead," Fitz said, breaking the silence. "I'm sure you've heard that. But that isn't why I'm here."

"I heard." Kreuz furrowed his brow, but there was no emotion behind the gesture. "Tenbrook was worse than the rest. He did Brighton no favors."

"Blackthorn is dead, too."

"Yes," Kreuz said. "I heard that, as well." She imagined Kreuz had seen many more deaths than she had.

He tapped his long, bony fingers on the table, unable to hold back his questions any longer. "You said the army is coming to break down the circle wall. We'd heard those rumors, which were alarming enough. But now you say demons are coming too? How do you know that?"

Fitz briefed the Academy members on what she'd heard from her riders. She watched the expressions on their faces change as she explained how thousands of demons were headed to Brighton. Then she described the condition of the army, the chants, and Winthrop's leadership. Several of the Academy members looked at her, stunned. Even Kreuz seemed shocked.

"That many demons will be impossible to fight," Kreuz said, shaking his head. "And without the wall, we might as well be standing in the wild, if Winthrop's men manage to break it down."

"At the very least, we need the wall to protect us," Fitz said. "We can't let Winthrop and his men do what they're planning."

"We all knew Winthrop was going mad at that last meeting in the square," Kreuz said, his eyes narrowing. "But I must admit, I didn't think I'd ever see him again after he rode off on that horse."

A few in the room nodded, but no one agreed out loud, as if they were still afraid to be implicated.

"I understand you're scared," Fitz said, voicing all of their concerns. "But if this information is correct, Blackthorn is dead, and the only one left is Winthrop."

"What about Minister Beck?" Kreuz asked. "Have you heard anything about him?"

"My guess is that he's dead, too." Fitz gave a grim nod.

"That's what we were afraid of," Kreuz said, looking around at the Scholars.

"We're all in equal danger here. Demons aside, if Winthrop breaks down the wall, or if he gets in, we won't be talking like we are now. I wouldn't be surprised if he burned down the Academy the way Tenbrook burned down the Sanctuary. He's paranoid, and anyone who might oppose his rule isn't safe."

A glimmer of fear passed through Kreuz's eyes. "Let's say you're right. How do you propose we defend Brighton?"

"We need to organize defenses. We need to make sure Winthrop's men don't attack the wall, or get in. And we need to get ready for the demons."

The reality of the situation hitting him, Kreuz said, "So we're going to fight our own men?" He shook his head incredulously. "Wives and daughters fighting husbands and fathers?"

"If it comes to that," Fitz said stoically.

Kreuz stifled a laugh. "I don't see how that will work. I heard about your meeting in the square. You might have rallied all the women, but you really think a wife is going to raise a sword against her husband when he comes back?" He shook his head decidedly. "Not one will do it, when it comes down to it."

"They will, if they have to defend their children. And the majority of the women have already lost their husbands. Most of Blackthorn's army is dead. The widows in Brighton won't have any issues defending the family they have left. Everyone knows that if Winthrop's army breaks down the wall, every last person here will be killed, if the demons get in."

"Not all of Winthrop's men can be as insane as him. Surely they can be reasoned with," Kreuz argued.

"I want to believe that," Fitz said. "But are you willing to risk it?"

Kreuz looked around the room, his eyes resting on one of the rusted spears in a Scholar's hand. "Everybody knows the weapons are gone. Brighton is a town of inexperienced women and children. Even these men behind me have never fought in wars." Kreuz waved at the Scholars in the room. "No offense."

None seemed offended.

"I understand all that," Fitz said.

"So what is your plan?"

"We have women in the streets, collecting the weapons we have left. Some of the blacksmiths' families have offered to help forge new ones. They won't be as good as what the army uses, but they'll be better than bare hands."

"What else?"

"We have people. Lots of them. And the hope that we can work better together than separately." Fitz looked around the room at the Scholars. She put on her most convincing face. "There's no disputing you are some of the smartest people in Brighton. My hope is that we can figure out something together to battle the demons, and to keep Winthrop and his men from tearing down the wall. I've come to you for help."

With her final plea on the table, Fitz waited.

Kreuz looked around the room. His eyes landed on the ornate box that sat at the end of the table. "Can you hand me that box, Johnson?"

One of the scholars—Johnson—walked to the table and slid the box gently down to Kreuz. Kreuz reached to the bench next to him and picked up a bucket of water and a rag. Fitz studied the box. The box was studded with pieces of shiny metal, latched with a clasp and a working lock that had already been opened. As if he was putting on a show, Kreuz opened the box, tilted back the lid, and exposed the contents to Fitz.

"Books?" she asked, in a tone that couldn't mask her disappointment as she peered inside.

"Yes," Kreuz nodded. He dipped his hands in the bucket and washed them with the rag, then shook them dry. "I purchased these books from Minister Beck before he left for Blackthorn's war."

He picked up several books from the box and set them on the table. Fitz studied the ancient artifacts while waiting for Kreuz to reveal the point of the conversation. Gently, Kreuz set one of the books on the table, unbound it, and pushed it in front of Fitz. Fitz couldn't stop gaping as she appraised the book's colorful cover.

"It's probably no surprise to you that I'm a collector of ancient artifacts. But these are some of my most prized possessions. They are the reason the Academy let me in. We share the same love of Ancient books." Kreuz smiled at the Scholars, as if he was sharing a secret Fitz wasn't supposed to know. He opened the book, flipping through the pages, revealing pictures with colors and clarity like Fitz had never seen. "While we've been locked in here, the Scholars and I have been studying these books. They've been helping me read them. Like my father before me, I've worked from sunup to sundown my whole life, and never had time to learn to read. I hope to, one day."

"They're beautiful," Fitz said. "But I can't read, either. I'm not sure what these words or pictures mean. And I don't understand what this has to do with Winthrop's army or the demons."

Kreuz stuck a bony finger at the page on which he'd stopped, which bore the image of some Ancient contraption. "This device is one of the ones we've been studying. It was used by some of the ancestors of the Ancients to fight wars." He looked at Fitz as if she should know what he was talking about.

"I've never seen it before."

"This, Fitzgerald, is a catapult."

Chapter 54:  Fitz

"A catapult is a device that can fling objects for great distances," Kreuz explained, tapping the picture from which Fitz had been unable to look away. "It was used to send projectiles into the air, such as rocks."

Fitz studied the Ancient contraption, which seemed to be made up of wood and ropes. "I can't imagine how it works."

"The objects to be thrown are put in here," Kreuz pointed at what looked like a bucket. "The bucket is pulled back, and using tension from the rope, it shoots the object upward and at long distances. It can be used to injure or kill. Sort of the way our bows work, but on a larger scale."

"I'm starting to understand," Fitz said.

"We have wood for winter. We have ropes," Kreuz said. "If we build these the right way, and with the right materials, these might be able to fling things over the wall and strike people who are coming to attack us."

"You think this will help fight the demons, or deter the army, if it comes to that?" Fitz asked.

"Possibly," answered Kreuz. "If we can build them right." He looked around at the Scholars. "The men in here might not know how to fight a war, but I think they can put something like this together."

"So do I," Fitz said, nodding as she looked at them.

"There are other weapons that might help us, too," Kreuz added, turning one of the pages. He pointed to a man holding what looked like two ropes, with a pouch in the middle and handholds on the end. "These are called slings. One person can use them. A finger or a thumb is placed through one loop on the end of one cord, and a tab on the other end of one cord is placed between the thumb and forefinger. The person swings the device in an arc, and then lets go, flinging an object such as a stone a great distance. These look pretty easy to make. This would be useful to arm many more people. I imagine five thousand women with slings could destroy an army before they got over the wall."

Fitz felt a surge of hope as she looked around the room. The Scholars wrung their hands as they watched her. They were still nervous, but they weren't disputing any of what Kreuz was saying. Taking the next intuitive leap, she said, "So you'll help me, then?"

She looked at Kreuz and the Scholars.

"Given what you've told me," Kreuz said, "I don't see that we have any choice."

Chapter 55:  Bray

Kirby pulled the horse's reins, turning left with the path and following Bray, clearly getting used to riding her steed. "I would've thought we'd reach the other side of the canyon by now. You said it was a few miles."

Bray stopped and made a show of inspecting the landscape. He'd lied when he'd told her a few miles. But she was right. They should've been getting close. They were still riding on the side of a mountain. All around them were trees. The snow had gotten deep enough to bury some of the sticks and rocks that had been poking out earlier, and the sun was setting over the mountains in the west, creating an amber glow over the sky. They were still following the smuggler's trail, but he didn't recognize any of the landmarks from the previous times he'd hiked it.

"It's been a while since I've been this way," Bray admitted. "I must have miscalculated."

"We'll have to camp soon," Kirby said. "We're losing light. I don't need to tell you the dangers of traveling after the sun leaves."

"No, you don't." Bray sighed as he thought through a plan. "And the horses have to rest, after riding this terrain. Hopefully the people who took William will have to rest, too."

"We should still have enough time to cut them off, if we leave at first light," Kirby said. "We'll ride until we can't see, and then we'll stop."

They set their horses trotting again. Eventually, they located a spot where the trail widened and the slope to their right was covered in an embankment of snow-covered rocks. Kirby pointed up the steep, slippery slope, which was spotted with trees and looked treacherous to climb.

"This might be a good place to camp. If something comes down this way, we'll hear it," she said. "A demon will lose his footing and give us warning. And one will have to work to climb up the slope that goes down." She pointed to the other side of the trail, which curved downwards.

"Not a bad idea," Bray said.

With a tired grunt, Kirby dismounted. "Are you as sore as I am?" she asked, massaging her legs. "I can hardly feel my ass."

Bray couldn't help his smile, thinking he wouldn't mind feeling it. "You get used to it after riding a while. It looks like the horse is getting used to you, and you picked up the commands I taught you."

"She didn't throw me off," Kirby said, patting the side of the horse's bridle. "So there's that."

"You know, I don't think I've ever met a woman who spoke as frankly as you."

"Maybe you think you haven't," Kirby said. "But then again, I'm familiar with the way most of you view women in Brighton."

Bray looked at her, confused.

"I learned some things when I met the other group."

They brought their horses to the nearby trees, tied them up, and located a spot just off the path with tall trees overhead and less snow. They found kindling dry enough to start a small fire. Warming their hands over the flames, they settled down. Bray noticed that Kirby kept her bag close to her and her gun in the strange pocket on the side of her pants.

"Were the other people from Brighton as impressed as I am with your gun?"

Kirby thought about it a moment. "Yes."

"I'm surprised you trusted them enough to talk to them," Bray said.

Maybe you robbed them, too, Bray thought, but he didn't say it.

"I can judge people pretty well." Kirby watched him for a moment, weighing something as she studied Bray. "So I'll ask you not to argue when I tell you what I know. You lied about how long the canyon was."

Bray was stunned into silence. He opened his mouth to construct another lie, but Kirby cut him off.

"I'm not as stupid as you think I am, but I think it's noble that you're going to such lengths to find your son."

"Thanks." That was the only word Bray could think to say.

"If I'd known what you were up to, I might've thought twice before robbing you." Bray started to say something, but she interrupted him. "In case you get any ideas, I'm still taking my horses when we're done. And don't get any cute ideas about following me."

She looked down at her gun to solidify her warning. Then she lay down to get some rest.

Chapter 56:  Oliver

Oliver looked down the slope as he sat next to Jingo, scanning the group's messy trail through the knee-deep snow to where it emerged from an endless forest of evergreens dusted in winter white. The trees filled a valley below that ran for mile upon curving mile back in the direction of the ocean. Towering above the valley, the steep mountains climbed into the sky until their sides were covered in only ice and rock. No tree could stand against the incessant, cold wind at that height.

After hiking through the day and the night to reach the pass between the mountain peaks, Jingo, Beck, Ivory, Melora, and Oliver had reached their limit in the morning. They needed rest. They were far enough from the settlement by the sea, and with the sky just turning to light, they felt safe enough to stop.

Leaving Jingo to keep watch, Melora, Ivory, and Beck had no trouble getting to sleep.

Oliver couldn't make himself doze off. He was having trouble catching his breath, and was afraid something was dreadfully wrong with him. He was scared that if he lay down to sleep without being awake to suck in the deep breaths he needed, he'd suffocate and never wake.

"One day," said Jingo, in a voice just loud enough for Oliver to hear over the wind, "you'll have the best stories to tell your grandchildren."

The dawn light glistened pink through the ice and gave the snow around them the rose color of an early spring flower. "No one will believe me," Oliver replied.

"The people who are important to you will," said Jingo.

The morning sun peeked over the horizon, and the colorful hues faded to white.

Still looking, still taking breaths too rapid for the effort of only sitting and watching, Oliver said, "It only lasts for a few moments."

"Yes," Jingo agreed. "Nothing is permanent, especially the beautiful things in life."

Oliver sat down, still staring at the rising sun. "I think I'm going to die."

"No," Jingo told him immediately. "Beck's plan will work. You'll—"

"I'm not talking about that," Oliver interrupted as he turned to face Jingo. "I think I'm sick. I can't catch my breath. It's been getting harder all through the night. When we came out of the trees down there and started that last climb, I didn't think I'd make it."

"It's not you," said Jingo. "It's the air up here. We all feel it."

"What's wrong with the air?" Oliver asked, not believing.

"You've been underwater before," said Jingo, "so far that your ears hurt, right?"

Oliver nodded, but couldn't guess where Jingo might be going with the question.

"That's called pressure," said Jingo. "It presses on you. That's what makes your ears hurt. When you come back to the surface, the pressure goes away, and your ears feel fine. Do you know what causes that pressure?"

Oliver shook his head.

"In the water, it's the weight. The more water above you, the more your ears hurt."

Oliver took a big breath again as though he was doing something strenuous, but he was still just sitting.

"Air does the same thing," said Jingo.

"Air is heavy?" Oliver asked. It sounded ludicrous. "Like water."

"Not like water," said Jingo, "but it still has weight. It weighs so little you don't notice it. But's it's there." Jingo held his hand up. "Raise yours, too."

Oliver did.

"You feel the wind?" Jingo asked.

"Yes."

"Do you know what that is?"

Oliver was confused. "The wind, of course."

"The weight of the air as it moves against your hand," said Jingo. "It feels just like water flowing past, doesn't it?"

Oliver's jaw fell open. He'd never thought of it that way before. "I don't understand why that makes it hard to breathe."

"Without getting into a discussion of molecules and biology," said Jingo, "let's accurately say that the air down by the ocean is squeezed tightly together by all the air above it. So, you don't notice it, but every time you take a breath, you inhale more air than you do up here."

Oliver experimented with a few breaths. "It doesn't feel like less air."

"Except that you always feel short of breath, even though you're breathing like you normally would."

Oliver looked at the peaks of the tall mountains around them. "If I climbed up there, would it be even harder to breathe?"

"Yes."

Oliver smiled. "So I'm not sick?"

"No."

"I'm not going to die?"

"Not from being up here." Jingo looked over his shoulder at the valley running down behind them. "This is the highest we'll go. This is the mountain pass we were hiking to reach. Walking will get easier through the day as we descend on the other side of the mountains."

Oliver smiled. "You know everything, don't you?"

Jingo laughed, but quickly stifled it as he looked around at the prone figures of Beck, Melora, and Ivory. He didn't want to wake them by getting too loud. "I've lived a long time. I've learned many things."

"Can I ask you some more questions?"

"You should sleep."

"I can't." Oliver scanned the snow and scrutinized the forest. "I'm too wide awake. Honestly, I'm too afraid to sleep here. I feel exposed."

"You worry too much for a boy your age." Jingo scanned the snow-covered peaks and took a look at the forest, as well. "My eyes aren't what they used to be. I don't see anything moving. Do you?"

Oliver shook his head.

"We'll camp early tonight, down the mountain where it isn't as cold and in the forest, where we'll be better hidden. Hopefully Ivory and Melora will find some game, so we can fill our stomachs and get a good night's sleep. What are your questions?"

"Why are there so many demons, but so few of us?"

"Uninfected people?" Jingo asked, to clarify.

"Yes."

"Uninfected people die of old age," said Jingo. "Demons don't. The spore stops our aging processes. It also protects us from other diseases. I'm almost never ill. For the people of Brighton, illness takes most of them. A good number get burned on the pyre. Some die in the never-ending war with the twisted men. Many simply disappear."

"They disappear?" Oliver asked. "No one talks about that."

"Brighton only Cleanses the women and children," said Jingo. "Men who find themselves infected don't tend to offer themselves up for the Cleansing. It's not required of them. They mostly run away, so they don't get discovered. They don't tell anyone when they leave, and they certainly don't say why. Most of them eventually lose their humanity and end up in the Ancient City with their kind."

"All of these demons come from Brighton?" Oliver asked, not believing it.

"A small portion of them. But most of them are as old as I am," said Jingo. "They are the Ancients the people of Brighton think disappeared. Many others come from the mountains. Hundreds of small tribes of uninfected people live south of here. When the spore finds them, I believe the tribes exile the tainted ones instead of burning them. Many of the exiled ones end up in the Ancient City."

"Are there towns in the south like the settlement where we found Kirby?" Oliver asked.

"Not that I'm aware of," answered Jingo. "The tribes of which I'm speaking are nomadic and small, sometimes a handful of people, sometimes as many as a hundred. They have no cities and are even more backward than the people of Brighton."

Oliver had no way of guessing whether Jingo's reasons accounted for the vast hordes of demons, but it sounded like they could. He pressed on to another question. "Why are all of the demons men? What happens to the spore-infected women? Do they stay in their homes, minding the children?"

Jingo just looked at Oliver without speaking.

"What?" Oliver asked, suddenly feeling that his question was stupid.

"My apologies," said Jingo, "I didn't mean to make you feel stupid. You don't know, and how could you?"

"Know what?"

Jingo steepled his fingers and thought for a moment.

"What?" Oliver asked again.

"I'm deciding whether to tell you."

"Why?"

"It's brutal."

Oliver reached up and patted the barrel of the rifle hanging from his shoulder. "I killed eleven demons yesterday morning. I'm not a child anymore. Brutality doesn't bother me."

Jingo appraised Oliver with a long look before he said, "The winters get long sometimes. The demons starve just like regular people do when they can't find game. When they've gone hungry for long enough, they turn to cannibalism. When that happens, it is the weakest among them that are killed to feed the others."

"And women are weaker than men," Oliver concluded.

"Physically. Sometimes," said Jingo. "But it's more than that. Men who are twisted with the spore become infertile. Do you know what that means?"

Oliver shook his head.

"They are incapable of fathering children, though they still have the urge to try. In fact," said Jingo, "they suffer none of the social norms, morals, or inhibitions that might keep a man from taking any woman he wants."

Oliver didn't like the images coming to mind. "Is that why they kill men, but steal women?"

Jingo nodded. "They have their way with them. But with so many demons and so few kidnapped women, the women don't tend to survive long. They are all eventually eaten by the horde."

Chapter 57:  Fitz

Fitz appraised the enormous front gates of the circle wall, which extended upward for roughly twenty-five feet and were latched together by a board that fit snugly through the center. The gates were surrounded by stones that were piled closely and tightly enough together to block off any view of the world outside Brighton. The curved wall extended far into the distance, arcing past several guard towers, disappearing from sight. Fitz studied the closest tower, marveling at the overlapping boards and the raised, single room that extended higher than the wall. Inside, several women waved. The tower was large enough to hold a dozen people, but the other towers could only hold two or three.

It had been years since Fitz had come this close to the circle wall. Most of her days were spent in the market, at The House of Barren Women, or more recently, at Blackthorn's house—now the New House.

Much of the wall had been in place since the times of the Ancients, but many of the stones had been replaced over time, when animals or time knocked the old stones loose. The top was smooth and flat. Normally, cavalry members and census takers guarded the Brighton gates, keeping strict notes on anyone who entered or left, reporting discrepancies to Blackthorn's blue shirts.

It was strange to see no soldiers guarding the gates or towers now.

"A wagon wheel," Fitz said, looking over at Ginger.

"What do you mean?"

Fitz gave a thin smile. "That's what my uncle told me once about Brighton, when I was young and he was trying to describe the township."

"I'm not sure I understand?"

Fitz explained, "Brighton is like a wagon wheel. The city center is the hub where most of the buildings and houses are. The farmer's fields fill the area where the spokes are, and the circle wall is the wheel's edge. Outside Brighton, it's like there's another, bigger wheel going around it, with fields maybe a mile wide between the wall and the forest. The south gate is the main entrance, as you know, with three other gates on the north, east, and west."

"That makes it easy to understand," Ginger said with a nod.

"I always thought so."

Fitz smiled as they turned their attention to a slew of women, children, old men, and Academy members working on three enormous contraptions that closely resembled the pictures in Kreuz's book.

"I still can't believe the plan is working," she told Ginger, who was standing next to her.

"I know," Ginger agreed. "I've never seen anything like them. Do you think they'll work?"

"Kreuz is confident they will," Fitz said. "So are the Scholars. They made a small one to test it out this morning before constructing the large ones."

They watched as several women hefted boards from a nearby pile, tying ropes around them and securing the last pieces of one of the ancient contraptions. Kreuz was standing nearby, directing them as if he were an army captain, or a minister, delivering sacred orders. He pointed fingers and laid out directions. Farther along the wall, pushcarts full of spears were wheeled up close. Clusters of women and children were pushing more through the streets and up among the others.

"It was a good idea to make spears instead of swords," Ginger told Fitz. "That will ensure that more people are armed."

"We have swords, too," Fitz said, pointing to a few piles near the pushcarts. "But I think you're right."

"It was a good idea to station people at the other gates," Ginger said.

"I'm assuming Winthrop and his group will approach the front gate. It's the one they always leave from. But it's better to be safe. And the riders will give us a better indication of where they're arriving."

Ginger smiled. "Winthrop will be surprised to see us. He'll probably be expecting Tenbrook and his soldiers."

Fitz nodded. "That will work to our advantage."

She watched as a line of women, children, and old men wheeled more pushcarts to the front gate. An excited cry drew her attention to the big machine they'd been close to finishing. The Scholars, Kreuz, and several women stepped back, appraising it with wonder.

"Is it done?" Fitz asked, stepping toward them.

Excited nods answered her question. Kreuz stuck a thumb in the air. Fitz and Ginger watched several Scholars heft stones from a pile near the wall, preparing.

Another Scholar was already measuring his steps from the wall, looking between the machine and the uppermost stones. "This way," he directed, prompting several of the Scholars to help the women move the contraption. They rolled it on rickety wooden wheels until they had it in place.

"Let's give it a try," Kreuz said, his eyes lit expectantly. "Why don't you go in the guard tower and let us know how it works?"

"We'll be able to see everything from there," Ginger said with a nod.

Fitz and Ginger walked to the nearest guard tower and began to climb. Fitz alternated her gaze between the ancient device, Kreuz and his men, and the women waiting above them. When she reached the top, she climbed into the small room with the two women that had been waving.

"Lady Fitz," one of the women said, greeting her.

The women watched her expectantly. Fitz nodded and took a position against a waist-high ledge that overlooked the wall and beyond. She surveyed the long field that extended past the gates and went several hundred yards before it disappeared into the thick, colorful trees that seemed to extend forever past Brighton. She kept her composure, even though she'd never been this high before. She remembered climbing trees inside the wall as a child, thinking that she might reach the heavens, but that was back in the days when she'd had hopes of someday having a husband and children, owning a house, and making the best of a life in Brighton. The luckiest residents got to travel into the wild and see other towns and villages. She'd hoped to be that fortunate, too. That was before her life had been confined to a sweaty bedchamber, before her dreams had been stomped to death by Mary, and by Winthrop.

Until recently, she never thought she'd get them back.

In the middle of the field, cutting a path from Brighton's front gate to the forest, was a wide trail. The boots of Blackthorn's soldiers, travelers, and their guides stomped down the dirt regularly. Winthrop and his army would be using that path.

She couldn't let them back in.

Fitz looked down at the machine the Scholars had built. A growing cluster of women and children stood behind the contraption, finding places where they could watch. All eyes turned to Fitz. They were waiting for her direction. The Scholars had placed one of the large stones in the bucket.

Fitz looked at Kreuz, who waved his hands. "Are you ready, or what?" he asked.

Fitz looked away from him. Giving an exaggerated nod to the Scholars, she said, "Go ahead!"

The Scholars and some women pulled back the long, wooden arm of the contraption. The ropes stretched. The bucket kissed the ground. Then, both arm and stone were flying forward, the arm stopping, the stone taking on its own life as it arced through the air and traced a path over the wall, traveling far away from the watching men and women.

Fitz watched that stone whiz through the air. Suddenly, her dreams might be attached to it; she might as well be a little girl in a tree, pretending she could fly over the circle wall. And then the stone was smashing into the center of the dirt path three hundred yards away, spraying dirt and debris near the entrance to the forest, creating a divot the size of a man's head and rolling for another thirty yards into the woods.

"If soldiers or demons were standing there, it would surely break their legs," Ginger said quietly to Fitz.

The people on the ground watched the machine, awestruck.

They looked from the sky to Fitz.

They waited for her response.

"It worked!" Fitz shouted, prompting a cheer from the crowd below. They smiled and hugged one another. The Scholars shook hands and patted each other on the back, watching each other and congratulating Kreuz.

"Damn right, it did!" Kreuz yelled, unable to contain his smile.

Chapter 58:  Fitz

With the catapult test complete, it was time to move on other things. Kreuz and the Scholar named Adam-John joined Fitz and Ginger in the tower at the main gate.

Fitz thought Adam-John's name odd, but said nothing about it. Adam-John was a Scholar, and everyone in town thought the men who lived in the Academy were odd. More to the point, Adam-John had unexpectedly volunteered to ride out with Fitz's scouts on their third excursion in order to get an accurate estimate of the forces that were coming to crush Brighton. It was a brave thing to do, though bravery wasn't something Fitz expected from members of the Academy.

Perhaps that was one more rumor with little or no truth beneath it.

To Ginger, Fitz said, "Raise the red flag."

Ginger leaned out of the tower and yelled, "Raise red!"

In the next tower down the wall, a smaller one with enough room for only a few soldiers, an old man who'd been a soldier in his youth, but who was now barely able to walk, raised a pole with a red flag flapping in the breeze.

Fitz turned to look at a line of two thousand women standing in ragged rows, thirty yards inside the wall. All wore a strip of red cloth wrapped around one bicep. All were separated from one another by five or six feet, and they were all swinging their slings in response to the flag going up. Most of the reds were either very young or quite old.

As Fitz watched, rocks arced up from the loosed slings. She turned and watched as they soared over the wall.

Ginger, Kreuz, and Adam-John all turned to watch the fist-sized stones as they thumped the dirt, throwing up splashes of mud where the ground was still wet.

To Fitz, every stone sounded like it hit with enough weight behind it to knock a man senseless, or maybe crack his skull.

A long row of thin poles, each topped with a red flag, paralleled the wall about forty yards outside in the meadow. The rocks landed in the vicinity of the poles, some a little farther, some short.

Fitz turned to Kreuz. "It's working just like your Scholars said it would."

"They're not my Scholars," Kreuz corrected. "But I'll be happy to pass along the information."

"It will not be a surprise to them," Adam-John interrupted. "The solution was tested and proven many times by the ancestors of the Ancients."

"Thank you," Ginger told Adam-John, in a tone that was clearly an order to stop talking. Ginger didn't like Adam-John.

Fitz said, "Raise the blue."

Ginger turned to the far tower and shouted, "Raise blue!"

Another flag went up.

Fitz looked at the rows and rows of women with blue armbands, maybe four thousand of them, the younger, stronger women, at least those that weren't busy elsewhere in Brighton with more urgent matters, guarding other parts of the wall, or building weapons. The blue-banded women were in rows similar to the reds, but behind them. They spun their slings in circles and the chords thrummed in the air. More fist-sized rocks started to fly.

Fitz and the others in the tower watched the stones rise high in arcs over the wall, much higher than the red stones flew.

With satisfying, heavy thumps, the rocks rained down outside the wall in the area of poles topped with blue flags, another fifty or sixty yards past the row of red-flagged poles.

"When the demons pass the blue poles," Kreuz explained, "we raise the blue flag. When they pass the red poles, we raise the red flags."

"It works as you said," Ginger admitted, looking at Kreuz, ignoring Adam-John.

"We'll not waste our energy flinging stones into the ground," Fitz concluded with a smile. "And we'll not waste what stones we have."

Ginger confidently told Fitz, "We have more stones than we'll ever need."

"Not true," Adam-John countered, earning him a glare from Ginger.

"Please excuse him," Kreuz begged. "The men of the Academy don't like to waste their words on manners."

Fitz knew that to be true for most of the ones she'd encountered. Focusing on Adam-John, she asked, "Why do you say that?"

"I estimate that we have forty thousand stones."

Fitz said, "That is a great deal, of stones, is it not?"

"It is," said Adam John. "The women you have scouring the ground for stones and breaking larger stones in the ruined buildings have all but stopped. They should redouble their efforts. If you had eighty or a hundred thousand stones, that would be better."

"Tell me why that is more important than the other tasks?" asked Fitz.

Adam-John glanced at Kreuz. "The slings may be our most effective defense."

Fitz shared a look with Ginger to let her know that her patience was going to wear thin. "We already know that. Every woman, man, and child in Brighton now carries one. It was the simplest weapon to build that we have in our arsenal. You just witnessed the hail of stones we're able to put in the air, and this is not even all of our women. We may have the power to massacre any army that comes to our gates."

"We'll kill them before they even touch our walls," Ginger reinforced.

"That may be so," said Adam-John, "but we don't know how many rocks we'll need in order to kill all the demons. More rocks than demons, I can assure you of that. Many rocks will miss. Many won't even kill or injure when they strike."

Fitz realized immediately that Adam-John was right. She turned to Ginger. "We cannot have too many rocks. Allocate as many women as we can afford. Pile the rocks where the formations will line up when the battle begins." She looked across the rows and rows of women and then turned to Kreuz and Adam-John. "We should have poles on this side of the wall too, each topped with a red or blue flag, so the women know where to line up. When the battle starts, we can't expect them to make the judgment of their distance to the wall."

"Yes, ma'am," said Kreuz.

"Put the Scholars to work on that," ordered Fitz, "unless they're inventing some other weapon to save us all."

With a subservient nod, Kreuz said, "The poles will be up before sundown."

Fitz put her attention back on Adam-John. "I've heard from my scouts what they witnessed. Now tell me what you saw when you rode out with them."

Adam-John started to speak, stopped himself, and then started again. "I realize I owe you an apology. I was speaking to you of things you cannot understand. Kreuz told me you don't have your numbers."

"That was true," Fitz told him. "It is losing its truth with each passing day. One of the merchant's wives is teaching me, and while I don't claim to have a Scholar's knowledge of mathematics, counting and simple addition are such easy things to learn that I cannot help but hate the men of Brighton who chose to use ignorance as one of their tools to subjugate." Fitz realized anger was rising in her voice.

Adam-John stepped back, cowed by Fitz's tone.

"He only mentions it," said Kreuz, "because he needs to explain what is coming, and wants to do so in a way that you understand."

"I appreciate the effort," Fitz told them in a diplomatic tone, "but do understand, I comprehend much more than either of you believe."

"My wife has always been the brains in my household," said Kreuz, in an effort to allay Fitz's anger. "Though I've never spoken of it in public, she manages the affairs of our business and has made us rich." Then with a bit of disappointment, he said, "And she's raised my daughters to be every bit as strong-willed as she. They all read. They all have their numbers. I may never marry them off." Kreuz sighed. "But that was in the old Brighton. Now, under your rule, I can admit that freely." Kreuz pinned his intense gaze directly into Fitz's eyes. "Believe me when I tell you, I do not harbor illusions that men are smarter than women. We are stronger. That goes without saying."

"Would you like to test your strength against me?" Ginger asked with a hand on the hilt of her sword.

Kreuz looked up at Ginger's hard face.

She stood half a head taller than him, and she was getting very comfortable with the sword she carried.

Kreuz shook his head. "Perhaps I need to rethink many beliefs." He turned back to Fitz. "Please know, I support you fully in what you're doing in Brighton. If anything I or any of the Scholars say offends you," he glanced harshly back at Adam-John, "please, accept our apology. It is not my intent, and it is not the intention of the Scholars to do so."

"Thank you," said Fitz, as she turned away from Kreuz to look again at Adam-John. "Is that true, what he says? Do you intend to offend, or not?"

Adam-John raised his chin in defiance. "If I speak the truth, will you put me on the pyre? Will you burn me for being a man?"

Ginger grasped the hilt of her sword again, ready to skewer Adam-John. She was out of patience.

Fitz restrained Ginger before saying to Adam-John, "I know every feeble old man and young man still lucky enough to be in Brighton has been afraid for his life since we took Tenbrook's. All of you believe that what happened was a revolution of women. Some of you even pray for the day when Blackthorn's army returns and sets Brighton right again. Those are all thoughts for the ignorant among you. It underscores how stupid and arrogant most of you are." With her eyes, Fitz dared Adam-John to refute her.

He kept his lips pressed firmly closed.

"Brighton was a sick place," Fitz went on. "You did not see it because you're a man, and not just any man, but a privileged man of the Academy, a beneficiary of a society that stood on the backs of the meek. Your system brutalized them, starved them, and burned them on the pyre. This was a revolution of the meek. It has nothing to do with gender. I will not burn you for speaking the truth."

Adam-John, still raising his chin, said, "Kreuz told you already that we in the Academy don't waste our thoughts and breath on pleasantries for the sake of courtesy alone. We speak truth to one another and set feelings aside."

"Perhaps all of you in the Academy are wrong," said Fitz. "Pleasantries are not a waste, they are a form of respect, a kindness between people."

"As I said," argued Adam-John, "a waste. But the true matter that I feared to speak is that I am your intellectual superior, as is every man in the Academy. You women should turn governance of Brighton over to those intelligent and educated enough to understand it. The truth you fail to see in my ill-mannered words is that I do not respect you. You are a woman."

Leaning toward Fitz, speaking loudly enough for Adam-John to hear, Kreuz muttered, "He's smarter than me, but compared to my wife, he's an idiot."

Ignoring Kreuz, Fitz said, "Lucky for you, I will not burn you for the lies you believe, and I will not burn you for your ignorance. The Academy will not govern Brighton. However, Kreuz will represent the Academy on the New Council. If you want more than that, I'll warn you now, do not take up arms against the new government. I'll show you no mercy."

"Our disrespect will not translate into violence," Adam-John said as he topped his arrogance with condescension. "The men of the Academy are thinkers, not fighters."

"You better be fighters when the demon army arrives," Ginger told him. "Every soul in Brighton who can lift a weapon will fight, even you Academy pansies."

Chapter 59:  Fitz

After sling practice was finished, several dozen pushcarts were wheeled through the front gates, each with seven or eight women and children behind or around them. They were headed out to collect all of the stones the slingers had flung over the walls. When they finished that, their task was to scour the outer fields for every rock they could find small enough to hurl over the wall and weighty enough to bust a skull. A hundred women armed with spears followed the carts out, keeping watch on the forest, should any demons be lingering close by.

"Tell me of your scouting mission," Fitz said.

"For reference, let's talk of Brighton first," answered Adam-John.

Ginger turned to Fitz and said, "I'm tired of his snide tone. We have reports from our scouts, who babysat him on the way." Ginger cast a harsh look at Adam-John, then looked back at Fitz. "Let's put him to work on something other than wasting your time."

"I sent him out," said Fitz. "He took a risk. I'll hear him."

"By the census numbers, thirty-one thousand people were left in Brighton after Blackthorn marched the army to the Ancient City. Many of those people had come to Brighton on General Blackthorn's orders, to consolidate the population here for our protection."

"I know this," Fitz confirmed.

"You are aware that from the moment General Blackthorn marched out with the army, people have been leaving Brighton to go back to their homes. Many left that first night, resentful about having been forced to abandon their homes. That slowed to a trickle over the subsequent days, but many more escaped Brighton during the turmoil of your revolution."

Fitz didn't respond to that, but she knew it to be true. The rumors of people escaping over the wall had been confirmed too many times to pretend it wasn't happening. In fact, Fitz had ordered the guards at the gates to allow women to leave as they pleased. It was safer for them to travel during the daylight hours, well-provisioned, for their journey home.

"We at the Academy," continued Adam-John, "estimate a third have left, meaning the current population of Brighton is approximately twenty thousand souls."

"Before you go on," Fitz interrupted. "I spoke with Hilda, a midwife who lives out near the north wall. Some think she's a witch," Fitz cast a glare at Adam-John to let him know exactly where Fitz believed such rumors were born, "because she's a woman with knowledge. She told me about a time when she was a young woman, and the demons breached the wall. Does the Academy keep a history of such things?"

"We do," answered Adam-John.

"She told me nearly every household lost family members. Do you know the numbers? How many people lived in Brighton at the time? How many died?"

"The census did not exist in those days," said Adam-John, "but our estimate is that nearly twenty thousand people lived in Brighton at the time."

"And how many died in the battle?"

"Nearly seven thousand."

"Seven thousand?" Fitz couldn't believe it. Didn't want to. "So many."

"It is an estimate," Adam-John said, defensively. "As I said, we had no census."

"I don't question your number," Fitz told him, to soothe his slightly bruised ego. "I'm shocked by the number of the dead."

Adam-John raised his chin again, puffing himself up with superiority.

"Do you know how many demons attacked the town, then?"

"We have no positive number," answered Adam-John, "but nearly nine thousand carcasses were burned in the aftermath. That number was recorded by a member of the Academy. It was most of the demon horde that came through the breach in the wall. Some were not killed, and escaped."

"Nine thousand?" Ginger whistled. She nudged Fitz and pointed to the sling women walking back towards town. "That's six thousand, there. We barely have nine thousand capable of fighting."

"The rest of the population in Brighton now are the children and the very old," said Adam-John, "people incapable of fighting the demons."

"Tell me," said Fitz, "you saw the horde of demons following Winthrop's marauders back to Brighton. How many demons do you estimate are coming?"

"Twenty thousand." Adam-John said it like it was a meaningless number, attached to nothing important. "My estimate might be off by as much as five thousand either way, so as few as fifteen thousand, as many as twenty-five thousand."

"How do you even know what twenty thousand looks like?" Ginger was angry about the number, and she was angry at Adam-John.

Adam-John pointed to a three-story building across the fields, right at the edge of town. "My brother owns that tall house. I stood with him on the roof and watched on the day General Blackthorn gathered his army in those fields to march to the Ancient City. I know exactly what twenty thousand looks like."

"Ginger," said Fitz, "speak to your scouts and ask them if they think that number is accurate. Ask them if they think the size of the demon horde matches the size of General Blackthorn's army."

Ginger nodded.

"How big is Winthrop's band of misfits?" asked Fitz.

"Two or three thousand," answered Adam-John.

"Why hasn't this horde already annihilated them?" asked Fitz.

Adam-John looked to Ginger, saying, "I have no answer for that. Perhaps her scouts do."

Looking at Fitz, Ginger said, "I asked them the same questions. It is as I've already told you. Winthrop's followers are as crazy as he is. Perhaps that frightens the demons. I have no other explanation."

"The situation, as I understand it," said Fitz, looking at Ginger, Kreuz, and Adam-John in turn, "is that we have Winthrop's band of marauders coming to tear down our walls or to seize Brighton, or perhaps to kill us all. No one is certain which. A half-day's march behind him, a horde of demons twice as large as any that has ever attacked Brighton is following, and when they arrive, they will attack us. Does anyone doubt that?"

Shaking heads all around.

"And when that horde of ten thousand came all those years ago," continued Fitz, "they killed nearly a third of Brighton's population. Does anyone doubt there are enough demons coming to kill every woman, child, and man in Brighton?"

More shaking heads.

Fitz turned to look toward the forest, trying to think of what more could be done. Twenty thousand demons. Could fist-sized stones and ancient catapults be enough to turn the tide in her favor? She wanted to be certain. But she wasn't.

Chapter 60:  Bray

"They're not here." Bray's mouth opened and closed on more words.

After riding for most of the day on a trail that Bray realized more and more was not the one he'd thought, they finally reached the other end of the canyon. Bray and Kirby stopped their horses in a cluster of trees just next to the ancient road. Bray surveyed the stretch of path coming out of the canyon. It was empty except for trampled brown grass at the road's shoulder, boot prints, and a few piles of horse dung. He looked back into the canyon, as if he'd find remnants of the army, even though the realization had already sunk in that they'd missed them.

"It looks like you miscalculated worse than you thought," Kirby said. Realizing her words were too severe, she added, "I'm sorry about your son."

"Dammit," Bray said.

With no signs of the army nearby, he trotted his horse closer to the road. Kirby followed.

"Someone else has been through here," Kirby said, wrinkling her nose. "A shitload of demons, by the smell."

"You're right." Bray pointed at bare footprints laid over the boot prints.

"Do you want to check the canyon for bodies?" she asked in a soft tone, looking up the winding road. "Maybe you can bury him."

"No," said Bray. "Hopefully the men who took William were smart enough to avoid whoever these people were. And hopefully, they avoided the demons." Bray sighed. "If William's dead, I've failed. But if they took him further, I might still have a chance to save him."

Bray hoped Kirby hadn't put two things together and realized that a group much larger than a few men had taken William. But he knew he didn't want to go back through the canyon. That would be a waste of time. If William were still alive, Bray would lose even more time backtracking.

"What do you propose, then?" Kirby looked at her horse, which was clomping its hooves impatiently. It looked like the horse was echoing her mood. Bray couldn't see how he could convince her to stay much longer.

But he needed those guns…

"I have a feeling they're heading for Brighton," Bray said, trying to sound uncertain.

"How do you know?"

"I don't," Bray said. "It's a hunch."

Kirby watched Bray, deep in thought. "I have no desire to go to Brighton." Her eyes darted away. "The people I met from Brighton spoke of an ugly battle coming. I have no desire to be a part of it."

Even though he already suspected, Bray asked, "A battle?"

"A revolution of some kind. I listened only long enough to know that I wasn't going to be a part of it. I never intended to come this far. And now that I know demons are traveling behind them, it certainly wouldn't be wise to follow."

Bray was starting to put some things together. He knew Winthrop and his army were headed back to Brighton. He knew demons were following. He wasn't sure what revolution Kirby was talking about—maybe she was talking about Winthrop—but the outcome, whatever it was, wouldn't be good. That made his need to get to William even more urgent. Bray let one hand off his horse's reins and covered his face, shaking his head and pinching his eyes shut, acting as if he might shed a tear.

"I'm sorry," Kirby said again. "I know you were hoping to find William here. You still might."

"It's not William I'm thinking about now," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"It's my daughter." Bray snorted through something that might be a sob. "She'll be so upset if I return home without her brother."

"You never told me you have a daughter."

"Why would I tell my robber about all my children? Is that unusual?" Bray peered through his fingers enough to see the bewildered expression on her face. It looked like she was buying into his story. "William's older sister is waiting for us to return. If William doesn't come back, she'll be destroyed. My wife died a few years ago from the plague, and William and I are all she has." Bray kept his face covered long enough to avoid being caught in what he thought was an obvious lie. He uncovered his face to find Kirby looking off into the canyon, a pained expression on her face. He waited quietly for her to answer.

With a deep sigh, she said, "I'll go as far as the outskirts of Brighton. That's it. Whether we find William or not, I'm leaving after that." She pulled her horse's reins, steering it behind Bray's. She clicked her tongue at the horse. "Come on, Blackthorn."

Chapter 61:  Fitz

Fitz leaned on the rail, looking down from the tower and at the circle wall curving off into the distance. For three hundred years, it had stood twenty-five feet tall and had protected Brighton. It was made of ancient stone, smooth and strong, and impossible to climb, back when it was new.

In places, it was still as smooth as the best ancient stone found anywhere: no place to grab, and no way to climb.

But the wall was old, and its surface was crumbling. That made it scalable. In many places, it had collapsed and had been repaired with stacked stones, providing so many handholds that anyone could get over it.

"Are you thinking about what to do with our cavalry?" Ginger asked. "We've got nearly two hundred horses and women to ride them."

"I'm thinking of other things." Fitz still stared at the wall as she thought about the war to come and all the battles in the past—at least the ones she knew about. Brighton's history was rich with stories of heroes who rode their great horses out to meet the demon hordes before they had a chance to reach Brighton's circle wall.

The only battle at the wall of which she was aware was the one about which Hilda had told her, and that one seemed to have been expunged from Brighton's memory, like an embarrassing family episode that no one talked about.

Fitz wondered how many embarrassing breaches of the wall had happened through three hundred years of history.

And that made her wonder if the wall wasn't an impregnable bastion, as she'd grown up believing, but rather, a rickety fence, providing a convincing illusion of security, but doing little more than keeping the livestock from wandering off.

And corralling Brighton's citizens for easier enslavement.

Dark thoughts.

Was Brighton truly such a wicked well of lies?

But Brighton existed. It was the center of humanity in a wilderness full of monsters.

Fitz finally asked, "Did you ever climb the wall when you were a child?"

"Of course," answered Ginger. "Everybody did. That was the game for a time, to climb the wall and touch a foot on the other side." Ginger laughed at the memory. "We were all sure the demons would jump out of the grass and drag us into the forest. I nearly wet myself the first time I did it, I was so scared."

Fitz glanced at Ginger with a smile. The games Fitz had played with her friends were much the same. "How frequently do you see repairmen working on the wall?"

Ginger's expression changed as the happy memories slipped away. She looked at the wall, curving away in its unending circle. "Always. Somewhere."

"Why?"

"Because it needs to be repaired."

"Why?" Fitz asked. "There have been no battles at the wall, no army breaking it down."

"It's old. Everything old needs to be—" Ginger dropped her sentence as she reconsidered it.

"You see now what I see," said Fitz. "The wall is old. It's falling down on its own."

Ginger shook her head slowly.

"That's right," Fitz confirmed, knowing Ginger was still on the same track. "If a demon army twenty thousand strong comes, the weight of all those bodies pushing against this thin old wall will break it through."

Nodding, even as she tried to argue, Ginger said, "But the wall is strong in many places. Mostly."

"Mostly," Fitz agreed. "But mostly isn't good enough. And where it doesn't fall, the demons can climb it. We both did it as children. The wall is no obstacle to a horde of hungry monsters."

Ginger looked across the field at the squads of women with their carts picking up rocks. "The wall will slow the monsters down while our slingers pummel them with stones."

"Our plan will fail," said Fitz. "All of it is based on the assumption that the demons will come up the road, cross the field to the main gate, and spread out in the grass to wait while we kill them with stones and catapults."

Nodding and pointing at the gap in the forest where the road entered, Ginger said, "They're coming up the road right now. Out there in the forest, somewhere. They aren't intelligent beasts. They'll come right for the wall."

"I don't disagree with that," said Fitz. "But what's to stop a few thousand of them or many thousands of them from running this way or that?" Fitz pointed in each direction along the wall. "They might run a half mile or a quarter mile. They might run to the other side of Brighton and climb the wall there. What will we do, Ginger, if we have demons climbing the wall everywhere along its length? I may never have told you, but I heard one time in a conversation with Franklin and Scholar Evan that the wall is over six miles long." Fitz turned and fixed Ginger with an intense gaze. "We don't have enough women in our army to defend six miles of wall. Maybe if our forbearers had the foresight to build towers all along the wall every thirty feet or so, we would have a chance of defending it."

"Or a platform on this side of the wall," said Ginger, her eyes lighting up. "A walkway on this side, where an army could stand and kill demons as they climbed from the other side. The demons would be defenseless and only able to come one behind the other. A single woman could kill an entire army, as long as she didn't tire from swinging her sword."

Nodding with near dreamy eyes as she imagined such a thing, Fitz said, "In that old book that Kreuz showed me, that was how the Ancients built their castles, with walkways inside the top edge of the wall. The Scholars told me that in such castles, a few hundred soldiers could defend it from thousands."

Ginger looked at the wall again. "We should start—"

Fitz interrupted, "There's no way we'd have the time. A project of that size would take years."

"There's got to be something we can do," said Ginger, desperation in her voice, now that she understood how dire their situation was.

"That chant your scouts heard from Winthrop's ruffians. What was it?"

"Tear down the wall?" Ginger asked. "That chant?"

"Perhaps there is wisdom in their madness."

Chapter 62:  William

After riding on the horse most of another day on the ancient, overgrown road, William's back and thighs were just as sore as on the previous days. He wasn't complaining, though. He knew things could be worse. He could be out in the wild, alone, starving, absent the protection of thousands of men and women that were looking forward to reaching home. He could still see the anticipation in the men's and women's eyes, even though their shoulders were slumped and they talked and chanted less. They'd been marching, fighting, killing, and watching their friends die nearly every day and many nights since leaving Brighton, but they were optimistic.

William felt badly for the horses, though. They were frothing at the mouth, flaring their nostrils, and moving at a slower pace. Many had white, crusty sweat around their saddles and where the ropes met their hides. They hadn't asked for such a hard journey, or to have men riding on their backs. He looked to his right, watching as Winthrop adjusted on his horse, preparing to ask Phillip a question.

"How far are we?" Winthrop asked, staring into the horizon, where the sun was beginning its descent.

"We're only a day's march from Brighton," Phillip answered, pointing at the dusty road in front of them. "I remember this section of road, and that circular patch of trees in the distance."

"Good," Winthrop said. He made a face as if a nasty insect had bitten him.

Winthrop had been growing increasingly agitated over the past few days. He often complained that his boots didn't fit his feet, and that his robe wasn't thick enough to protect him from chafing. One time, he ordered the army to stop twice in an hour when he needed a break. More often than not, he was depending on Phillip to make decisions while he tended to his physical needs or his ceremonies. That gave William hope. If Phillip was in the good graces of his god, then William was, too.

"Where will we camp?" Winthrop asked Phillip.

"I think we're close to the field where we spent our first night when we marched out of Brighton," Phillip answered, pointing up the road.

Winthrop nodded.

They continued marching until they reached a field of brown, trampled grass on the edge of the ancient road that still bore blackened logs in circular pits of ash, the remnants of their first night's camp. On a few trees, William saw pieces of fabric, where people had hung clothing or blankets and gotten them snagged before leaving. The area reminded him of some of the ghostly, abandoned structures he'd found in the wild after leaving Davenport, when he'd been traveling with Bray and his mother. It was hard to believe that the army had camped here, and not some settlers that he'd never meet.

Winthrop's followers hunched around the old campfires, picking through the ashes for sticks they could burn or looking for fresh kindling in the nearby trees. Winthrop fell behind, surrounded by his priestesses and Jasmine, who fielded his complaints. William rode next to Phillip through the field.

"There were a lot more of us last time," Phillip explained to William.

"I can tell by the fires," William said. "It is hard to believe the army was so large."

"It is sad that so many people have died since then," Phillip said. "I remember we suffered some demon attacks while we were here."

They rode through the campsite until they found an ashen fire pit that was much larger than the rest, close enough to the edge of the forest to tie their horses. The priests dismounted and secured their beasts, then foraged for wood to burn while they waited for Winthrop. The sun sank below the tops of the trees, giving off an orange glow and creating a dark hue over the camp site.

William walked with Phillip on foot toward the edge of the forest. As they stepped over the bent grass, William noticed a few animals scurrying off into the forest, or birds taking flight. A fetid, cloying odor reached his nostrils.

"What are those mounds?" he asked Phillip, noticing some large shapes tucked behind the first layer of trees.

"Bodies," Phillip said grimly. "Like I said, we lost some men the last time. We didn't have time to bury them properly." Reaching down to pat the blood print on his chest, Phillip said, "But that won't happen again, now that we are under Winthrop's protection."

Chapter 63:  Bray

"Still no sign of anyone," Bray said aloud, as they rode along the side of the ancient road. Since leaving the canyon, they'd been keeping to the woods, trying to take the quickest path to Brighton while still staying out of sight. The road still bore the remnants of Winthrop's army—boot prints, horse droppings, and an occasional dead demon.

But now, it was getting dark. The chirps of daytime birds had been replaced by the sounds of night owls, and every so often, the flap of wings alerted them to a circling bat overhead.

Kirby grunted, prompting Bray to turn and look at her over his shoulder.

"No more shortcuts," she said.

"No kidding," Bray said, trying to hide his stung ego.

"Will we have to rest the horses soon?" Kirby asked.

"Yes. But maybe we can ride through some of the night to get to William."

"How will we do that?"

"The horses can see better than we can in the dark. I wouldn't have advised it last night, being in the forest and on a steep mountain, but if we switch to the road after dusk, we might be able to make some progress tonight."

"And if we run into demons?"

"The horses will warn us," Bray said. "They sense the twisted men before we do. But we should smell or hear them, too."

"How long until we reach Brighton?"

"My guess is we can make it before mid-day tomorrow, as long as the horses keep their strength."

Chapter 64:  Fitzgerald

"If you allow Winthrop's hooligans to tear down the wall," said Ginger, "I fear most of the people in Brighton will flee. Everybody knows a horde of monsters is coming."

"That's not what I mean," said Fitz, standing up straight as the inspiration unfolded in her imagination. "Those castles in that book, they all had a gate. That was the only way in. The gates often led through a stone tunnel with what they called murder holes cut in the walls and ceiling."

"Murder holes?" Ginger grimaced.

"The castle's defenders could shoot arrows or pour burning oil through the holes onto invaders."

"Ghastly!" Ginger looked toward the gates. "Are you thinking we should build something like that at our gate?"

"We don't have time for that," said Fitz. "But if we take the idea of an entrance through which all invaders can be killed, I think we can do something."

"What exactly?"

"If we're to win this battle," said Fitz, "We need the demons to attack here, at this part of the wall, around the main gate. If we concentrate our defense here, and the demons bunch together out in the field, our catapults and our slingers will be effective. If the demons spread out, those weapons become almost useless."

"How do we keep them bunched up?" asked Ginger.

"We give them a way into Brighton," said Fitz. "We open the gate."

Ginger shook her head. "We'll get slaughtered."

"Not all the way," said Fitz. "We swing the gates open just far enough so the demons can see Brighton and us, but only open them wide enough for one demon to enter at a time."

"What's to keep the demons from pushing the gates open all the way and pouring in?" asked Ginger.

"We open them this evening to where we want them, and we pile dirt up on both sides to keep them from moving further. If we do that, the demons will bunch up, trying to funnel themselves in through the gate. Our slings and catapults will kill them by the thousands outside in the field as they push through the narrow gap, and, as you said, even a few women with spears and swords can kill them as they come through single file."

Nodding and smiling, Ginger said, "That could work, but you know the demons will not wait out there all day while we kill them one at a time coming through the gate. They're animals. They'll get impatient. They'll try to climb other parts of the wall, and we're back where we started."

"Then," said Fitz, "we give them more than one way in." Fitz looked at the wall again and thought for a moment. "We build narrow staircases up to the wall outside—ten, twenty, thirty of them if we can. We give the demons an easy way to climb over the wall. When they reach the top and jump over one at a time, we have women with spears and swords ready to kill them one at a time. Maybe fifty women where each stair spills over the wall will be enough to kill all the demons that flow over."

"And a few hundred at the gate," said Ginger, "since more will come through there."

"Yes," Fitz agreed. "We don't depend on an inadequate wall to repel them. We use it as a means to trickle the horde in and slaughter them."

Ginger giggled.

"What?" asked Fitz.

"I was just thinking," said Ginger. "It's a twenty-five foot drop from the top of the wall to the ground. Why let the demons jump from the top down to smooth dirt? What if we cover the ground with rocks the size of a man's head? You know, big enough that it will be impossible to land without breaking an ankle."

Fitz grinned widely. "I love that idea. Most will get injured as they come over the wall, so we can kill them more easily."

"If we lay the rocks in a semicircle on this side of the wall, where the stairs spill over, make the semicircle twenty feet across, and put our women along the edges, the demons who do come across uninjured will have no firm footing when trying to attack. They will trip, slip, or fall, and be easy to kill."

"You have a good mind for this," said Fitz. "You should have been born a man, a soldier."

Ginger patted the hilt of her sword. "I am a soldier. I don't need to be a man."

Fitz laughed. "I can't believe I said that."

"Those kinds of thoughts are beaten into us from the day we're born," said Ginger. "Bad habits die hard."

"We need to get the women started on building the stairs," said Fitz. "We need to make sure they all understand this tactic so they know it will not endanger us, but bring us victory. We'll work through the night if we have to." Fitz turned toward the forest. "Unless Winthrop's mob diverts, they'll arrive tomorrow."

"What are you going to do about Winthrop and his rabble?" asked Ginger.

"I don't know."

Chapter 65:  William

William looked at the faces around him in the glow of Winthrop's big fire. The priests spoke about relatives in Brighton, while the priestesses fawned over Winthrop, feeding him dried meat from his personal provisions. Elsewhere, spread out across the field and camped around their own fires, other blood-printed men and women spoke in loud, happy voices, reminiscing about the journey and speaking about what they'd do when they returned.

Soon, they'd leave the wild behind, tear down the circle wall, and strip away the fear that lived within.

They'd start their new lives in Brighton.

The thought was exhilarating to William.

He watched as a few demon carcasses roasted over Winthrop's fire. Despite the sickness that had plagued the army earlier, Winthrop had insisted they were safe to eat, and William hadn't argued. The smell of the demons' burning flesh—although still not appealing to William—had at least become familiar, a scent connected with the journey and the experiences he'd shared with his new brothers and sisters. He could almost disconnect it from the flesh of his old demon brothers.

He located Jasmine, sitting ten feet away on the other side of Winthrop. Every so often she glanced at Phillip and William, unable to suppress the happy grin that came over her face as she listened to the others speak about family. Looking around, William realized he'd always remember this moment—the warmth of the flames, the smell of charred wood, and the happy expressions of people who had something to look forward to.

"Have you ever been to Brighton, Rowan?" Phillip asked.

"No," William lied.

"What are you most excited for?" Phillip asked

"A bed to sleep in," William answered. "Or maybe a plate of potatoes."

Phillip laughed. "My sisters back home are great cooks. Every week, they bring their families to my house and make a large dinner. They can make even the dullest dish taste better than some of the gruel we've eaten out here. You should come join us, after we're done liberating the township."

William nodded. "I will."

Phillip's face turned guilty as he made a realization. "You don't have a place to live, Rowan. Your relatives were from Davenport."

William nodded, trying not to give away his earlier lie.

"With your family gone, maybe Winthrop will find you a place in the Sanctuary. Or maybe you can stay with me." Phillip patted his arm reassuringly. "Whatever the case, I'm sure you'll be well taken care of, Rowan, for your dedication to our god."

"I'm sure of that, too." William smiled.

Under Winthrop's protection, he had faith. He'd stick with Winthrop and the other priests and priestesses until they received their rewards.

A loud screech from the forest interrupted those happy thoughts.

William turned away from Phillip.

Voices hushed as other heads turned and the priests and priestesses looked toward the tree line. A few men reached for their swords. William could just make out the silhouette of a few horses twenty yards away, shifting nervously in the moonlight.

A few people turned to Winthrop.

"The horses," Winthrop boomed confidently over the crackle of the fire.

He smiled and reached out for another piece of meat from his priestesses. The noise came again, louder, and clearly from the woods. More people fell silent as they waited and listened. Even Winthrop stopped and put down his food.

Feet stamped the brush. A horse whinnied in fear.

"Demons are coming," Phillip said.

"The twisted men are afraid of us now," Winthrop argued, holding up a brave finger. "We had to chase the ones we came across this morning. They won't come near our fires."

Another screech. More feet coming through the brush. And then a large group of demons emerged, howling and hissing as they spilled from the tree line and headed toward the camp.

"Watch out!" Phillip yelled from next to William.

Phillip sprang up and drew his sword. The campsite burst into panic as the priests and priestesses got to their feet and reached for their own weapons. Happy conversation turned to cries of dread. One of the horses at the tree line whinnied and broke from its tether, stampeding madly toward Winthrop's fire, careening toward William.

"Look out, Rowan!" Phillip grabbed William and pulled him closer to the flames, out of the horse's path.

The frightened beast changed direction at the last moment, heading for one of the priestesses on the fringes of the firelight, who had gone to get some more wood. She screamed as she leapt to the side, narrowly avoiding a trampling. William listened as the horse's cry disappeared further into the campsite and other men jumped out of the way.

Several demons entered the circle of Winthrop's firelight, murder in their eyes, while other demons invaded the campfires around them.

Winthrop got to his feet and staggered backward, protected by his circle of priests and priestesses.

"Stay back!" he yelled, as if the demons might listen.

With an enraged cry, one of Winthrop's priests ran at the demons, swinging his sword to protect Winthrop. William watched in horror as the priest was tackled to the ground, screaming and flailing. A second demon pounced on him, ripping the flesh from his neck. After a brief hesitation, the other priests leapt into battle, forcing back demons with their swords and spears, slicing and stabbing to keep them away from Winthrop, away from the fire. Phillip drew his sword and stabbed a demon that was running by, sending it sprawling. He finished it off with a jab to the chest. The campsite became a place of chaos as men and women around the other fires fought the oncoming beasts.

"Stay close to the fire, Rowan!" Phillip told William. "Stay close to Winthrop!"

Phillip raced to a nearby fire, helping two women who were screaming and batting away demons.

William backed against the fire. He wanted to help. He wanted to stop the fighting and the bloodshed. Sucking in a breath, he screamed at two demons that were fighting priests on the outskirts of the fire, but the twisted men were too embroiled in battle, and William's shouts were drowned out by the cries of others.

William looked left, finding Jasmine and Winthrop. With the priests gone, Jasmine and the other priestesses held up their spears and stood in a half-circle, protecting Winthrop. Winthrop hovered behind them, screaming, "Bring me the demons' scalps! Bring me their blood, their hearts! Go now!"

His voice was like a war cry. All around the campsite, men were fighting demons. A woman with tangled hair rammed a spear into a dying demon's stomach. Another stamped a demon's face with her boots. With Jasmine and Winthrop safe, William looked around for Phillip.

Phillip was gone.

Close to the fire where he'd last seen him, two women lay on the ground, dead. Had Phillip been ripped into the forest, or gutted? William bolted from the fire and searched for his friend. He ran past people who were spearing demons, or slaying them with their swords.

He went past four campfires before he finally found him.

Phillip was battling a group of four demons that were attacking more of Winthrop's men. Phillip knocked a demon to the ground, stabbing it with his sword, then pulled the blade loose and swung at another. His grateful comrades hacked at the remaining demons; within seconds, the four demons were dead.

Noticing William, Phillip ran over to him. "I though I told you to stay by the fire!" he said with concern.

"I'm okay," William said.

Phillip nodded grimly, his face sprayed with blood. "Yes, but others aren't so lucky. Where's Winthrop and Jasmine?"

"Back at the fire," William answered. "They're—"

A scream interrupted his sentence. William looked across a string of fires, scanning frantically until he found Winthrop's. The blazing bonfire was about forty yards away. Several men were battling demons in the area between, but Winthrop and Jasmine had been left alone.

William's mouth hung open as he saw what was happening, what he'd left behind.

Winthrop was holding Jasmine in front of him. Several demons had pinned them by the fire. No other priests or priestesses were nearby, save a few wounded women who were crawling on the ground toward Winthrop, their bodies covered in blood, as if Winthrop might perform a miracle, showing them the light of their god.

"What is Winthrop doing?" Phillip asked in horror.

Jasmine's eyes were wide with terror as Winthrop wrapped his meaty arms around her. Gore dripped from the demons' mouths as they raked the air, preparing for another meal, eyes glowing red.

Phillip and William ran toward the fire.

"We have to get to them!" Phillip screamed.

Noticing the scene, a few of the army ran from a nearby fire and toward Winthrop's, but they were too far away to help. So were William and Phillip. They'd never affect anything. The demons would feast on Jasmine—and probably Winthrop—before anyone else could get there. William screamed for the demons to stop, but his voice was lost in the chaos of a dozen similar shouts.

They kept running, closing ground.

Winthrop stared between the demons, then at the few priestesses who were crawling toward him, sipping their last breaths. A look of disgust, then fear, crossed his face as he surveyed the frightened women. William prayed for a miracle. Maybe, like him, Winthrop would command the twisted men to stop and save Jasmine and the others, proving he was a god.

But Winthrop wasn't the face of bravery.

His expression was the face of a coward.

With a girlish shriek, Winthrop threw Jasmine into the beast's arms and backed up as close to the fire as he dared. The beasts accepted Jasmine as if she were a sacrifice, ripping her to the ground, pulling chunks of flesh from her body. Jasmine struggled and screamed. She'd lost her sword. The demons stuck gnarled fingers into her mouth, her ears, and her eyes, searching for orifices or creating new ones as Winthrop watched. One of the demons ripped a piece of her entrails from her body, screeching in triumph as it held it into the air. Jasmine's agonizing screams went silent as the demons discovered the source of the noise— her lips—then devoured her throat, cutting off the last of her air.

The screaming stopped altogether.

Winthrop knelt down in front of the fire, holding a robed arm over his face, as if he were too godly to watch anymore.

William stopped running. His sword dropped to the ground. He couldn't speak. He couldn't move.

Phillip kept going until he'd reached Jasmine and the demons, screaming in rage. He wasn't finished. He sliced at the creatures that had killed Jasmine, knocking them off, killing them with jabs to the chest or to the head, stabbing them after they were long dead and as bloody as Jasmine.

But he couldn't change anything.

He knelt next to Jasmine's mutilated body, staring at her as if she might come to life.

That's what Winthrop had promised them. They were immortal. He was supposed to protect them.

"You did this!" Phillip screamed, standing up with Jasmine's blood on his hands. His eyes blazed in anger as he pointed a red, accusatory finger at Winthrop.

Winthrop uncovered his face and peered out into the gathering crowd. The priests who had survived ran back from the forest. A few priestesses who had been at the tree line stared between Phillip and Jasmine, in shock as they returned to the scene, seemingly unaware of what had happened.

"You killed her!" Phillip screamed again.

Looking around, noticing the demons gone, Winthrop slowly rose to his feet and clutched his robe. The priests and priestesses watched Phillip as if he were a devil come to life. Their faces were filled with fright. More people rushed from the nearby fires to watch what would happen. Some of them wielded their bloody swords, as if Phillip might be a lingering demon that needed slaying.

"You dare to defile your god?" Winthrop shouted.

William looked at the men who had run over with him and Phillip. Surely, they had seen what happened, and what Winthrop had done. But they remained quiet.

Phillip looked down at Jasmine's body, then back at Winthrop, his eyes wide and incredulous. "You threw her into the arms of the demons. You killed her!"

"I did no such thing," Winthrop said, standing to full height and dusting off his robe. "She was a brave woman. She sacrificed herself to save me."

The surviving priests and priestesses nodded their heads.

"You are a coward!" Phillip yelled, angry spittle flying from his mouth as he took a step toward Winthrop. He raised his sword.

For a moment, no one moved, and William was certain Phillip was going to run at Winthrop and strike him down. Phillip took another threatening step. Then another. Winthrop's face contorted from false bravery to fear as he held up his bare hands, as if he might have to fight for his life. Before anything could happen, several of the priests stood in front of Winthrop, blocking Phillip's path.

With Winthrop's priests in front of him, the courage returned to his face. "Blasphemer!" he shrieked. "You dared to insult your god! It is you who is a coward! Take him to the fire! Build a pyre higher than the ones in Brighton! Roast his body over the flames!"

Chapter 66:  William

William watched, horrified, as four other priests grabbed Phillip's arms.

"What are you doing?" William screamed.

"We're taking him to the trees," one man said to William. "We have some extra ropes in the horses' saddlebags. We can tie him up there until we build the pyre."

The four priests moved a screaming, kicking Phillip toward the tree line while William ran after them, yelling, trying to pry off their hands. They swatted him away as if he were an annoying, circling gnat. One of them let go of Phillip long enough to shove William, and he fell backward, landing on his back on the hard, cold dirt.

"Hold him!" the priest yelled to one of the priestesses, who ran over to grab William.

Tears streamed down his face as he watched Phillip being carried to the trees.

"Leave him alone!" William screamed.

He looked for his dropped sword, but before he could grab it, one of the priestesses ran over and scooped it up. He wanted to run after the men and cut them down, rescue Phillip, and leave this place, but he knew he'd never get that far without Winthrop's permission. He had no power here.

He never had.

William looked back at the priestesses, as if one of them might help, but they were already carrying away Jasmine's body, moving her outside the light of the fire. None of them looked at Phillip. None of them cried for Jasmine.

It was as if Jasmine's and Phillip's lives hadn't meant a thing.

"Watch the boy!" Winthrop shouted, pointing at William. "If he says another word, burn him on the fire with his friend!"

One of the priestesses scurried over to William and bent down next to him, doing as Winthrop asked. She was carrying out Winthrop's orders, just like she'd slaughtered the demons, and painted her body with the blood of the twisted men.

She was pleasing her god.

Chapter 67:  William

The other priests hoisted Phillip onto the pyre, ignoring his screams as they tied him securely to a long, thick piece of wood that had been dragged from the forest, while others scavenged branches from the other fires. Winthrop watched from a safe distance, waving his hands and chanting, as if he were conducting a sermon. His face had lost the fear and settled back into a familiar, hard expression that William had watched too many times on the dais in Brighton.

William struggled and tried to break free to help Phillip, but one of the priestesses clamped a hand over his mouth, cutting off his screaming.

"Quiet, child," she hissed in his ear. "Unless you want to join your brother."

Tears rolled down William's dirty cheeks. He felt as if he were in the crowds of Brighton again, waiting for the flames to lick the flesh of the unclean. Only, Phillip wasn't unclean.

He was being burned for Winthrop's cowardice. Nothing more.

Phillip kept screaming, even though the fire hadn't started. William knew those screams well. Within minutes, those screams would turn to agony, and then they'd be extinguished altogether as the flames turned a man into a memory, a face into a melted nightmare.

The priests finished stacking the wood. One of them held a torch from another fire high in the air, waiting for Winthrop's signal. Normally, the soldiers or the blue shirts lit the pyre.

"Shall I?" one of the priests asked.

Winthrop stepped forward, a smile creasing the sides of his droopy jowls. "Hand me the torch!" he boomed, as if he were gathering strength from Phillip's cries. He took hold of it and stepped toward the pyre, making sure Phillip was watching as he taunted him with the wavering flames.

The women in the crowd began singing the fire dirge, but the words were different, changed. Their voices were more insistent and earnest than they had been over the last few days, and they substituted Winthrop's name in place of their gods. It probably sounded like they were praising Winthrop, but William knew what they were doing—they were trying to save themselves from the pyre, like everyone in Brighton.

"For our god!" one of the priestesses crooned. "For Winthrop!"

"The light of the blessed will touch our condemned brother!"

"Father, take away his immortality!"

Winthrop walked over; the smile still stuck on his face as he touched the torch to the kindling, then lit it, watching it take hold. The fire crackled and spat as it grew from a small flame to a larger one, slowly building force and working its way toward Phillip's pants.

William made one last, desperate lunge for freedom, to save Phillip, but the priestesses held him down.

"It will be okay, son," one said, soothingly, stroking his arm.

Winthrop's crooked smile spread across his entire face as the flames took hold of Phillip's legs and his eyes bulged, his screams turning into sounds that William would hear in his nightmares. The flames seared Phillip's pants, burning through the fabric and bubbling his skin. William screamed and screamed into the hand across his mouth.

There would never be a better Brighton.

Winthrop's hope was a lie.

Once Winthrop got there, Brighton would turn into hell.

Chapter 68:  William

William ran through the woods, looking over his shoulder at the campfires that still glowed through the trees. It had taken almost an hour to convince the priestesses to let him go. He'd smiled, complied, and lain down as if he were going to sleep.

Then he'd fled.

All he had was Jasmine's backpack, which he'd managed to ferret away. Inside were some blankets, some berries, and a knife. He'd considered veering toward the horses, but Winthrop's men were guarding them too closely.

He wouldn't be caught.

He wouldn't die like Phillip.

He didn't know what would happen to him, but he wouldn't take his fate in the flames.

And that's what would happen if he stayed. Eventually, he'd do something bad enough that Winthrop would order the others to burn him. He almost had. He couldn't pretend that Winthrop was a god anymore. He couldn't sing, dance, or laugh with the others. Phillip and Jasmine were gone, and they'd taken William's faith with them.

All he cared about was getting away.

He didn't know where he'd go, or what he'd do to survive, but anything was better than staying with these people and their perverse rituals. Winthrop had promised a new life, a better Brighton, and instead he'd delivered the same pain and punishment that had always been at the town's core.

William had been right to leave Brighton the first time. He didn't need humanity's suffering. He didn't need Winthrop, or any of the Elder's lies. He'd get by on his own, or he'd die in the wild, but he wouldn't be a part of any of it anymore.

The smell of Phillip's charred flesh permeated his nostrils, even as he ran farther from the camp. He could still taste the dirty sweat from the priestess's hand that had held him down. He spat to rid his mouth of the oily taste. Somewhere in the trees, the night animals were probably already tearing into Jasmine's mangled corpse. The vision almost made him vomit the berries he'd eaten that afternoon. Instead, he ran faster.

Tears hit his cheeks as he grieved for people he'd never see again.

William ran through the forest, holding his hands in front of his face to block branches that he couldn't see. The forest was almost black, but William's fear was directed at the people behind him, not at the wild. He would rather live in darkness than feel Winthrop's light.

Anything he came across into in the forest was apt to treat him better.

He kept running, stopping only when the stitches in his side got too painful and when he could barely breathe. He didn't even realize how long he'd been running until the sun was coming over the tops of the trees and the birds were chirping a morning song.

William was at the top of a large hill overlooking a meadow. He scanned the countryside; empty at first, then watched it fill with a group of man-sized shadows that were roaming the plain, silhouetted by the morning sun. For a moment, William felt a stabbing fear as he considered that Winthrop's men had found him.

But it wasn't Winthrop or his men.

It was demons.

Chapter 69:  Winthrop

The fires burned down through the night and the army rose with the sun again, marching on the narrow road through the forest toward Brighton.

Ever since the demons had invaded the camp the night before, all Winthrop could hear was demons.

The demon cries seemed to be everywhere—far, near, behind, to the sides. They rang through the chants of his warrior disciples, leaching at their resolve.

Winthrop cringed as he sat atop his horse. The late morning sun cast sharp shadows in the trees, swaying branches and making the dark shapes in the trees look alive.

He wondered if it was because the boy, Rowan, had disappeared from camp the night before. They'd spent time searching for him in the forest, but hadn't been able to locate him. The gods must've taken Rowan as a bad omen.

On the narrow road through the forest, with his army strung out far in front and back, Winthrop felt vulnerable. The carnivorous shadows that had lived in his dank room in the Temple, that lurked under the bed and slid over the walls, clawing for his soul while he slept—the ones that he'd contained so admirably—had found their escape.

They were no longer confined by the Temple's walls. They were the trolls of the forest now, surrounding Brighton, awaiting Winthrop's return. They were in the trees, in league with the demons, trying to tear away Winthrop's divinity and smudge him in the stink of mortality.

He'd felt immortal in the Ancient City, but they were trying to take that away.

He felt their greedy claws churning fear in his heart, twisting his bowels, and poking his bladder.

At any moment, a beast might pounce off a tree to clamp his throat in its vile jaws for a mouthful of his golden light.

A flock of birds exploded from a tree just ahead, shattering the chant with a hundred caws and splattering the sky with a frenzy of flapping black wings.

Winthrop nearly fell out of his saddle in fright.

He cursed under his breath.

He babbled in rapid godspeak, trying to wrap himself in the unassailable cloak of his divinity.

The damn demons had snuck into the camp in the dark while his guard was down, when he had been distracted by temptations of the flesh and was weak with mortal wants.

They'd almost taken him, but for the sacrifice of Jasmine.

The beast and his shadow siblings had almost taken the last light from the world: Winthrop himself.

"I am a god," Winthrop muttered. "They can't harm me."

"I am a god," his words grew in strength.

"I am a god!" he shouted.

Still, the trouble in his bowels threatened to soil his saddle.

Chapter 70:  William

William sat in the tall, brown grass as forty-some demons scavenged the area around him. Every so often, one screeched in triumph when it found a carcass, or a few would run when an inattentive rabbit made the mistake of showing itself. Despite their preoccupations, the demons kept a protective circle around William.

With the morning sun splashing on his face and warming his skin, and in the company of a new pack of demons, William should've felt safe. He wanted to forget about the cruelty of men and beasts, the unbound violence of war, the sight of bodies ripped and cleaved, the smell and the taste of horror.

But he couldn't.

His fear turned to anger as he thought about Jasmine's screams, or Phillip's melted, dripping face as it burnt in Winthrop's pyre.

William pulled out a pouch of berries from Jasmine's bag—a pouch that she'd shared with him. He couldn't forget how kindly his friends had treated him.

The logical part of William's mind told him to run across the plain and disappear into the forest with his demons, to make his way back to the Ancient City, but he couldn't bring himself to follow his own suggestion. He wanted to punish Winthrop. He wasn't sure how, but he wanted him dead.

William wiped fresh tears from his face as he opened the pouch of berries, stuffing several into his mouth as his demons milled about on the plain, oblivious to his torment.

Chapter 71:  William

Demon cries in the distance made William sit up straight. He looked around the meadow.

The cries were coming from elsewhere.

Some of his demons perked up, as if they'd been waiting for the noise. A few of them moved across the tall grass in the direction of the commotion. Several more looked back at William, like he was their leader, their alpha, though he was not the strongest or fastest, but the weakest and slowest. They recognized something in him that his demon brothers from the Ancient City had seen. William didn't know what that was, but if their instincts made them follow him, he'd indulge it.

William hiked with his demons through several patches of forest as the noises grew louder. With each step, his new band of demons grew more excited, tripping over one another as they listened to the screeches of twisted men in the distance. They kept next to William, though.

They wouldn't leave him, as so many others had.

More demons would mean more safety, more protection from people like Winthrop. Maybe even a chance to get revenge.

That thought drove William onward.

They pushed on until they reached a clearing through the trees, through which was a patch of road. A shimmer of fear went through William as he considered that he must've circled back to where Winthrop's army was. But he didn't hear any of the incessant chanting that had characterized his time with them.

He clung to the trees, peering out until he knew into what he'd be walking. He couldn't risk death. The road in front of them was empty, but a mass of bodies was coming from back in the direction of the Ancient City.

William's fear quickly dissolved as he saw demons, not men, filling up the road.

The demons moved in a massive cluster, extending off into the distance and farther than Winthrop's army had, the biggest horde of twisted men on which William had ever laid eyes.

Demons traveled in thick groups down the middle of the ancient road, shoulders bumping, eyes darting back and forth over the road as they walked. Some of them ran alongside the road's shoulder, pissing on trees and then chasing to catch up to the others. Others stuffed meat in their mouths—remnants of whatever meals they'd captured. William watched the horde get close, and then the first demons were passing by.

William's demons screeched excitedly as row after disorderly row of their brethren walked by, noticing William in the trees, but none of them stopped or broke from the mob.

William wasn't directing them, but they were all going the same way.

Staring at one of the moving demons, William noticed a piece of fabric snagged on one of its bulbous warts. He didn't need to think any harder to determine where they were going.

They were going to Brighton.

But of course they were.

They were going after Winthrop's army.

Revenge.

William stepped out of the forest and looked back at his demons, ordering them to follow him to the edge of the road, and then waited until the last fringes of the enormous demon army were passing by. When the line had reached its end, William and his new brothers fell in line behind it.

Walking with a horde of demons thousands strong, William couldn't stop envisioning the look on Winthrop's face when he saw them coming. Winthrop, his priests, and his priestesses would die at the hands of the horde. They'd get a death just as painful as Phillip and Jasmine had gotten.

And they deserved it.

Chapter 72:  Oliver

Oliver was exhausted. Just as Jingo had promised, they'd made camp early the evening before, and Oliver had a full night of sleep, but all the walking, including the trudge up to the mountain pass through that whole first night away from the settlement, left Oliver with a fatigue in his bones that was going to take several nights of sleep and days of rest from which to recover.

Ivory was in the lead again as they walked through the forest. Melora was with him, both twenty or thirty yards ahead. Oliver was walking beside Jingo, who was pulling the cart, and Beck was lagging behind, struggling to keep his feet moving forward. Of all of them, Beck was having the most trouble. His stamina was running low.

But they were close to Brighton.

Ivory said they'd be there before midday.

They were driven to reach the goal, though they'd not talked about what exactly they'd do once they arrived. Sure, they were going to contact the Academy somehow, but no one had mentioned exactly how. They couldn't all walk through the gate with wart-covered Jingo and their strange weapons, while they pulled a priceless treasure of Tech Magic on a cart made of solid aluminum that itself would be the envy of every rich merchant in Brighton.

They'd figure it out when they got there. At least, that was Oliver's hope.

For the moment, they had bigger problems. Nearly as soon as they'd started walking that morning, they heard demons howling in the forest, faint and very far away, at first, but the sound grew nearer as the day progressed. More troublesome, there seemed to be thousands of them.

Oliver knew the sound too well, and every time he looked back at Beck, it was obvious the sound had made a permanent impression on him too. The sound was louder than any they'd heard on the journey so far. Every night on the march from Brighton to the Ancient City had been filled with screeches, but nothing to match what they heard now.

Oliver glanced in the direction of the distant horde.

"How close do you suppose they are?" Jingo asked.

Embarrassed for having gotten caught looking into the trees and showing his worry, Oliver said, "Far away, I think."

"A mile?" Jingo asked. "Two?"

Oliver thought about his answer as he looked over his shoulder at Beck, who was listening to the conversation. "Maybe a mile, probably more."

"Not close enough to be a danger." Jingo smiled. "Not in the next few minutes. Do you agree?"

"If they come this way—"

"Do you think they are?" Jingo asked. "Coming this way, right now?"

Oliver looked to his left though he could see nothing but trees and shrubs. "Either they're getting closer to us, or we're getting closer to them, but I don't think they're coming this way." Maybe there was hope.

That's when Oliver realized Jingo was asking him questions that would lead Oliver to logical answers that would soothe his growing fear. Jingo was teaching him how to think, rather than react emotionally.

Jingo glanced over his shoulder at Beck. "How many, do you think?"

Beck grimaced. "More than I've ever seen at one time."

Oliver noticed an edge of panic in Beck's voice and he went to great effort to moderate his tone of voice when he added, "We've seen a lot of them, many, many thousands in the battle on that hill by the river."

Jingo appraised Oliver and nodded with a bit of a smile as he said, "There are many thousands out there."

Oliver felt like he'd passed a test, and was pleased to earn Jingo's approval.

Ivory and Melora came walking back. Ivory pointed. "You hear?"

Jingo nodded.

"What does it mean?" asked Beck.

"We're headed directly west, toward Brighton." Ivory pointed in the direction of the township. "The road from Brighton's southern gate runs southeast for miles. It sounds to me like the demons are following that road toward the town."

"Are they going to attack Brighton?" Beck asked.

Melora looked to the south as a roar, suddenly louder, rose from the horde. For what reason, no one could guess.

"I believe they're going to attack Brighton," said Jingo, with a grim look that showed it was more than a suspicion. Looking around at each of them, he said, "A wise man might take this opportunity to change his direction." Jingo looked north. "That is probably the safest way to go." Glancing at Beck, he said, "With your city's army slaughtered back near the Ancient City, Brighton is defenseless, and may not yet be aware an attack is coming."

"They'll be wiped out," Beck concluded in a distant voice.

Jingo patted the pile of ammunition on the cart. "When I was a young man, I saw my people, the Ancients, fight hordes of the infected with more men and more guns than this. Some battles we won. Some we lost. But in the end, we lost the war." Jingo raised one of his hands and looked at the spore warts that encircled his wrist. "I suppose I was on the winning side." He sighed. "We saw the slaughter back at Kirby's settlement. Her people killed thousands and thousands, but in the end, they died. That is the way of it when the numbers are so unevenly matched."

"What are you getting at?" asked Beck.

Looking back at Beck with a sad, but determined face, Jingo, said, "You brought us back here to save Brighton from itself. We followed you because we believed in your vision for a future better than Brighton's past. As we talked, that was my vision, too." Jingo sighed again. "I don't think that choice is available to us now. With the horde coming, I think our fight is going to be for Brighton's survival." Jingo's face slipped into the comfortable, deep sadness that all his years had ingrained there. "I'd hoped for more, but it's going to be a war similar to so many I've seen."

"We can win," said Ivory, encouraging them with the kind of enthusiasm that comes easily to someone so young. "I know we can, if we hurry."

Jingo looked at Ivory, Melora, and Oliver. "The three of you should take what you can carry and go north. You are all at the beginnings of your lives. Take your hopes elsewhere. The world is bigger than you can imagine. Perhaps there is a place where you can make a life better than the one here."

"Where are you going to go?" Ivory asked.

"I'm an old man," said Jingo. "I've lived long enough. I'm going to take my gun and all the ammunition I can carry, and I'm going to go to Brighton and help them fight. I will probably die." He looked at Beck. "Are you still planning on going to Brighton?"

Beck gulped, but nodded. "I'm going to do what I set out to do."

"I hoped that would be your answer," Jingo said.

"If both of you are going to make a stand for Brighton," Ivory said, "so am I."

"Don't waste your life on this thin hope," Jingo told him. "You and the others should leave."

"It's not just hope," Ivory shot back. "Thousands of defenseless women and children are in Brighton. I can't run into the woods, knowing they're going to get massacred. They're my people."

Melora stepped in front of Ivory, facing Jingo. "I know what it looks like to see everybody you ever met dead in the street. That's what happened to my family, to my neighbors in Davenport. I'm coming, too." She swung her rifle off her shoulder. "I killed forty-seven demons at Kirby's camp while learning to shoot. I can kill a lot more."

"You're both fools," said Jingo, but Oliver saw a look of admiration on his face.

"I'm staying with all of you," Oliver told them.

Jingo looked at his feet for a moment, clearly thinking of a way to dissuade everyone, even though he seemed proud of their decisions.

"You had to expect that we'd go with you," said Ivory.

"I hoped you'd leave." Jingo patted Ivory on the back. "Of all my students through the years, you showed the most promise, Ivory. I thought you might even take on students of your own and help me drag this world out of the Dark Age into which it descended."

"We can't do that if everyone in Brighton is dead," argued Ivory.

Nodding reluctantly, Jingo said, "If we're going to go, then it'll be best if we can get all of you inside the wall before the battle starts. We need to get there while there's still a Brighton to get to. We need to hurry."

Chapter 73:  Fitz

"They're here."

The words carried such a weight it was hard for Fitz to move from step to step.

Or maybe it was the fatigue of a long night without sleep, preparing the staircases outside the wall, reviewing the battle plans, checking and double checking, doubting every decision, imagining a hundred things they might still do if only they had the time, worrying over hundreds more things she should have done differently.

The lives of every person in Brighton would continue or end because of her choices.

A command structure was in place, much like that of the militia and the cavalry, with Fitz at the top, the women of the New Council below, lieutenants and sergeants under them, and every woman and man in Brighton who was able to fight at the bottom of the hierarchy, ready to do as Fitz commanded.

Ginger was mounted on a chestnut stallion, waiting near the stables behind Blackthorn's former house. A handful of women armed with swords, mounted on intimidating horses, waited with Ginger. They were Fitz's personal guard, an affront to Fitz's dream of an egalitarian Brighton, where everyone worked together for the benefit of all. She told the New Council she wanted no guards, nothing to set her apart, but the New Council insisted. They'd lost one leader they loved, Franklin. They weren't going to lose another.

Without Fitz, they told her, Brighton would tear itself apart.

Blackthorn had held Brighton together through the strength of his sword.

Tenbrook failed because he was an unconstrained psychopath.

Franklin pointed down the path of a hope for a better Brighton, one that burned in every heart, because it recognized that everyone—even women—had value. But he'd been martyred for his belief in that dream.

Now, only Fitz could carry Franklin's dream forward.

Fitz put a foot in the stirrup and pulled herself onto a huge black horse, one of the few left in Blackthorn's stable, one that would have been his war horse, had he outlived his favorite.

With a determined face, Ginger said, "Victory."

"Victory," Fitz answered.

They rode around Blackthorn's old house and into the empty square, empty because every person had a place to be.

No one slacked. No slacker would have been tolerated. Fitz made sure everyone in Brighton understood what would happen this day. The women of Brighton, and the thousand men who were left, along with the children old enough to fill a productive role, would fight and win, or they'd all be murdered by the demons.

When the sun rose again tomorrow, Brighton would exist, or it would be another ruin, another Ancient City, with walls slowly crumbling to bury the skeletons of people unequal to the task.

Fitz led her personal guard out of the square and down Brighton's widest street, heading toward the edge of town and the road to the main gate.

The small children were all barricaded into a section of town with a few hundred well-armed mothers guarding them. They were Brighton's hope for a future, the last of what had to be defended if all else fell.

Three cohorts, five hundred fighters each, were stationed across the three minor gates, fifteen hundred women responsible for defending the entire circle wall, not counting the main gate. Women were in every tower, but the towers were so widely separated that they were of little use for defense, and served only as lookout posts.

Each gate and each tower had a rider assigned who would wait, ready to gallop with a message to Fitz if demons were spotted outside that part of the wall.

Fitz had nearly two hundred mounted warriors. She wished she could call them cavalry, but she'd seen Blackthorn's cavalry all her life. They were a disciplined lot of hard-eyed killers, invincible on their horses. In their time, they'd butchered more demons than Fitz could imagine. She knew her mounted warriors were not their equal, but they were brave, nonetheless.

In any case, if the demons came at the wall from anywhere besides the main gate, Fitz's mounted warriors would be the first to respond. They'd have to defend Brighton until reinforcements got there on foot.

But with twenty thousand demons coming, Fitz knew they could split into two, three, or even four forces, any of which would be strong enough to breach the walls and turn the tide of the battle.

Brighton's only hope lay in keeping the horde invested in the battle at the main gate.

Once past the edge of town and into the fields, Fitz galloped through thousands of women, men, and older children streaming across the fields, heading out to form up with the thousands who were already lined in their ranks, slings in one hand, spears, swords, clubs, or knives in the other.

Cheers rose up as Fitz and her guard rode past.

The people of Brighton believed in her, and they believed they were ready.

The cheers spread as everyone in the field turned to look. And the sound of nearly nine thousand voices sounded like sweet, powerful thunder to Fitz's ears, and filled her with all the confidence that the morning's second-guessing had chipped away.

Fitz clenched her teeth and steeled herself as tears of happiness threatened to spill from her eyes.

Her people might not win the day; they might all die. But if death came for them all, it would not take them without a dreadful fight. Her people had only a little training, but they had heart. They were committed to standing shoulder to shoulder. They were committed to one another and to Brighton.

It didn't matter if they lived.

They'd already won.

No, it did matter. They would fight and they wouldn't consider failure.

Fitz drew her sword and raised it to the clouds.

The confident cries of her army drowned everything.

Victory.

Chapter 74:  Fitz

Every woman on the New Council was mounted and waiting when Fitz rode up behind the catapults. Even Kreuz, in charge of the giant contraptions, was on a horse.

Fitz asked if each of them knew what to do, or had any questions.

They'd been over their plans dozens of times. Everyone knew.

Only one question was unanswered, and it was the only one asked.

"We see a few demons trickling from the forest. But what about Winthrop's army?"

Fitz glanced toward the partially open gate.

Kreuz said, "They're marching out of the forest and forming up… well, mobbing up, really. They'll come this way soon."

"Everyone hopes their husband or son is out there," said one woman.

"Some of them are in range of the catapults," said Kreuz, pushing for the choice he thought Fitz should make. "They've passed the black flags."

"Are we going to fight our kin?" asked another woman, a challenge hiding in her words.

"No," Fitz told her. "Not if we can help it. I'm going out to talk with them."

"Not by yourself." Ginger didn't bother to make it sound like anything but an order from a mother to a child.

"You're coming with me," said Fitz. "We're taking the mounted warriors with us. We'll convince the remnants of Blackthorn's army to fight for Brighton and their families."

"Are you sure you can?" asked someone.

Fitz nodded, even though she wasn't certain. She turned to Ginger, "Fetch our two squadrons." Turning back to the other women she said, "We all know our places. We all know what to do. Stand together to save your children and each other."

Fitz wheeled her big, black horse around and trotted toward the gate.

Chapter 75:  Oliver

Panting from the fast pace, the weight of his rifle, and his load of ammunition, Oliver stopped walking. "Do you hear that?"

Up ahead, Ivory had come to a stop, and so had Melora.

Jingo stopped pulling the wagon. His heavy breathing was nearly as loud as the sound the wheels made rolling across the leaves and twigs on the forest floor.

"What is it?" Jingo asked, standing up straight to listen.

"The demons," said Oliver. "They've gone quiet."

Beck looked around quickly, concern on his face.

Ivory jogged back to the group.

"We hear it," Jingo told him.

"What does it mean?" asked Beck.

"Wait," said Oliver. "Do you hear that?" he strained to listen, but the new sound wasn't nearly as loud as the massive horde of demons had been.

"Men," said Ivory. "They're chanting."

"Tear down the wall?" Melora asked. "Is that what they're saying?"

"Yes," Oliver confirmed. "I hear it."

"Tear down the wall?" Beck asked. "Why would they say that?"

"Those are Winthrop's men," Jingo guessed, looking at the others for their thoughts.

"Winthrop?" Oliver felt a surge of anger and shame for what he still believed was a mistake. He regretted not killing the Bishop when he had the chance. "If Winthrop is here, nothing good will come of it."

"Have they allied with the demons?" asked Beck. "Is that possible?"

Jingo shook his head. "I don't see how."

"Winthrop is insane," Oliver told them, looking at Beck for confirmation. "We both saw it."

Nodding, Beck said, "That, we did. And his insanity infected the whole army."

"What does that mean for us now?" asked Ivory.

Beck scratched his chin as he speculated. "Maybe they're going to attack Brighton."

"With the demons coming, too?" asked Melora.

"They must've heard them," Beck said as he looked around the group for any dissenters.

"We saw Winthrop and his army in the Ancient City." Ivory looked at Melora and Jingo to support his opinion. "I think they're all insane. There's no telling what they'll do."

Melora added, "And the demons were running from them. The demons were afraid."

"Do you think the demons will hear their chant and run away?" asked Ivory.

"Is that possible?" Beck asked, stepping over in front of Jingo. "What are your thoughts?"

"I don't know," answered Jingo, "but one thing I've learned through my life is never to expect luck to fall your way. Hoping that the twisted men will grow fearful and run away is the kind of hope that gets people killed. I don't think this changes anything. I say we push on."

With a nod, Ivory hurried ahead as he said, "We're close, maybe another mile. Let's keep going."

Chapter 76:  Winthrop

The forest fell silent as Winthrop rode into the light of the open field.

With an unsteady hand, he mopped the sweat off his face and dragged his hand on his robe.

His god-speak prayer worked.

No, not a prayer. An incantation. The words that tapped into his power.

The demons had sensed his omnipotence, and they'd silenced themselves, cowering in the shadows. He'd taken his fear and put it back into their simple black souls.

Ahead, the men spreading out into the vast fields between the forest and the circle wall were chanting.

"TEAR DOWN THE WALL!"

They remembered his message to them.

They were still his people, despite the quake in his own faith over these last few miles.

And that was the whole of it; there was no danger from the demons, ever. There was only Winthrop's faith. While his faith stood unassailable, the faith of his disciples, his warriors, was pure, and when they were strong in their faith, there was no horde of noisy demons that could stand against him.

His army was powerful.

His army was the earthly manifestation of his divine might.

His golden horde of blood stained beasts would purge the human realm of weakness and infidelity.

"TEAR DOWN THE WALL!"

Winthrop bellowed at the sky.

Brighton's gate stood tall, far across the fields.

His army bellowed, too, and then took up the chant again.

"TEAR DOWN THE WALL!"

With the tremors in his bowels subsided and his need to piss forgotten, Winthrop rode his horse through the ranks as the laggards flowed from the forest.

And seeing him move away from the trees, with his silent permission, the army lurched forward, too.

Winthrop closed his eyes and turned his face toward his brother, the sun, basking in the warmth on his skin.

He relished the ecstasy of power, savored the special fleeting moment of trepidation before his faithful smashed into his foe. It was like that moment wrapped in a woman's touch before pleasure came. It was like when the fire crackled, and the flesh started to singe, and the pyre song first touched his ear.

It was the kind of moment that gave a mortal a peek at divinity.

"TEAR DOWN THE WALL!"

But men were stupid, hairy things, barely a step ahead of the pigs they bred and ate to fill their bellies. And women, they were the most ignorant creatures his brother gods had ever created. They were good for one thing only.

None of them had the soul of a god trapped in human form, not like Winthrop.

None of them would ever see the divinity hiding in the world. Not like Winthrop.

The special moment passed.

Winthrop sighed as it slipped away.

It was time to do his earthly work and ram his brutes into Brighton's soft underbelly and take his place on the throne above his worshippers.

Winthrop opened his eyes and looked toward the gates.

"TEAR DOWN THE WALL!"

He gasped.

It can't be.

No, it can't be.

A line of cavalry stood abreast in the field half way from the forest to the wall. Riders staring, motionless except for their long hair flapping in the wind.

And there in front was the devil himself.

Winthrop's bowels turned to water and overpowered any strength he had to stop the stench from dribbling onto his saddle, to stem the flow of urine down his leg.

He'd killed the Blackthorn Devil with the Devil's own sword.

He'd carried the body in his arms for his disciples to see.

He'd ascended to his divinity on that day on a hill covered thick with the bodies of the dead, swarming in flies, and stinking of the most horrid ills of a reeking world.

But the devil had resurrected itself.

How?

Now it was a more fearful thing than it had ever been before, a raven-haired banshee with ice blue eyes and bloody red lips, sitting astride a frightful obsidian monster of a snorting horse, in front of squadrons of cavalry brothers, all risen from the dead, from that muddy mound of blood and dirt near the Ancient City.

The powerful blood magic of ten thousand souls must have turned that mud into a cauldron for birthing gods and devils.

Winthrop bellowed fear into the air, begging his god brothers to come to his aid.

He couldn't face a reincarnated Blackthorn beast on his own.

"TEAR DOWN THE WALL!"

Chapter 77:  Fitz

"Men of Brighton!" Fitz yelled at the mob.

"TEAR DOWN THE WALL!"

Fitz turned to Ginger and nodded at the mounted warriors lined up in a long row in the field, blocking Winthrop's army. "Keep them here." Fitz spurred her horse to a trot.

"No!" Ginger called after her.

Fitz sat up straight in her saddle, doing her best to look regal as she crossed the grass. When she neared the mob, she called, "Men of Brighton, listen to me!"

"TEAR DOWN THE WALL!"

The chant wasn't as loud. Some in the mob were quieting to listen.

The mob, fully out of the forest and coalescing into an intimidating force, was nearly half way between the trees and the wall. They slowed their advance as many of the raggedy men and women came to a stop.

"Listen to me!" Fitz yelled, as she turned her horse to ride across their path. "Stop, men of Brighton! Hear what I have to say!"

"Tear down the wall!"

The chant weakened so much that most mouths hadn't echoed it. All eyes were on Fitz.

"Hear me!" she told them again, as she turned her horse to get back near the center.

The mob was mostly silent, eyeing Fitz and the long line of women on their horses standing between them and the main gate. Only Winthrop was still talking, bellowing loud nonsense and waving his hands at the sky.

Fitz noticed the disorganized mob had its horsemen, a dozen or so scattered near the unruly center, all near Winthrop. Most were looking at him, some in disgust, others in fear, most in awe.

"I am Fitzgerald," she called, "leader of the New Council, the new government of Brighton."

Murmurs swept through the mob.

"General Blackthorn is no more." Fitz stopped her horse, so the stomping of its hooves would not cover the sound of her voice. "General Tenbrook the sadist, Blackthorn's handpicked successor, is dead, and so are his blue shirts and cavalrymen." She waved a hand at the fierce-looking mounted women behind her. "We rule Brighton now. The People. All of us."

Quiet spread across the mob as they stared at her. A few angry voices shouted insults.

Some in the mob took up the chant again.

"TEAR DOWN THE WALL!"

But the voices grew weak as a few demons screeched from the forest behind them.

"I ask you," called Fitz, "do not make war on your wives, your sisters, your mothers, and daughters. Do no—"

A sudden tsunami of demon howls washed out of the forest, drowning out every other sound.

The mob froze as everyone processed what was happening, what they already feared. The demons were coming, and Winthrop couldn't protect them.

Heads snapped around to look at the forest behind them.

Panic slapped Fitz as she understood that Winthrop was no longer the threat.

Her horse reared and whinnied, nearly throwing Fitz out of the saddle.

She desperately reached for the pommel as she squeezed her legs on the beast.

The horse spun and snorted.

It stomped, suddenly fierce, ready to charge.

It smelled what it was bred to kill.

The forest came alive with an ooze of pale, dirty skin that flowed out of the trees and onto the road.

Demons.

A flood of them.

A syrupy nightmare horde, engulfing the earth.

How could the world hold so many?

And still, they came.

Chapter 78:  Bray

They were nearing Brighton, and already Bray could tell it was a bad idea. Demon howls filled the forest. The twisted, nightmare mass that Bray had seen was close. He didn't need to lay eyes on it to know. And somewhere off in the distance, Winthrop's army chanted, as if they were answering the demon cries. The forest had gone otherwise quiet as the birds and animals held their breath, trying to avoid being disemboweled and consumed.

"We should turn around," Kirby said, worried.

Bray glanced over his shoulder, but he didn't respond.

"We're almost at Brighton, and we've seen no sign of your son or the men who took him."

"He might be just ahead."

"Any kidnappers would've gone in the other direction, like we should be doing," Kirby warned. "This isn't smart."

Bray didn't know how he'd convince her to keep going. What he wanted to say, but couldn't, was that William was with the army.

"It would be suicidal to get close to that many demons," Bray said. "But I know these woods. We can approach Brighton from a little further east."

"What will that do?"

"It will give us a view of the front gate through the fields surrounding Brighton, but we should be able to avoid anything that's going on."

"And if you see William?"

"At least I'll know where he is," Bray said. "Then I can figure something out."

Hesitantly, Kirby followed him as he veered away from the ancient road they'd been following. They picked paths between the trees, weaving through a patch of dense woods. The chanting in the distance seemed to have stopped, but the demon howls had gotten louder. The horses' ears were swiveling and their nostrils flared.

Bray and Kirby rode through the woods until they saw light beyond the trees. Bray couldn't see anything else, but he envisioned what might be waiting for them out in the fields outside of Brighton.

"How far is Brighton past the fields?" Kirby asked.

"About a mile," Bray said.

They were almost at the edge of the forest when the howls reached a fever pitch, and thousands of battle cries pierced the air. Bray's horse reared back and he steadied it with the reins. There was no calming the anxious beast, just as there was no stopping what was happening.

The battle had already begun.

Chapter 79:  Jingo

Everyone stopped.

The sound of the howling monsters changed. They were no longer pursuing. They were fighting.

Around Jingo's group, nothing moved except the leaves.

Looking at Ivory, who was scanning the forest for danger, Jingo said, "It's starting. We have to run, or we'll be too late."

"It's not far to Brighton," Ivory called back.

With a determined look in his eyes, Beck put his hands on the back end of the cart, ready to push.

"No," Jingo told him. "You go ahead. You're barely on your feet now."

Ivory came jogging back. "I'll pull it. I'm stronger and faster." Looking at Jingo, he said, "Get out of the harness, fast."

"We'll hook up another," Jingo suggested.

"No," Ivory told him with an unassailable finality. "We're almost to the edge of the forest. I can run this cart the rest of the way in the time it takes to tie off the other harness. Push, if you want to help."

Melora was there beside them now, her rifle at the ready, checking the placement of the hand grenades hanging from her belt. She looked as though she were ready to slaughter the entire horde on her own. All the petulance over the previous week had vanished.

Oliver unslung his rifle, inspired by Melora's apparent resolve, and readied himself to shoot.

Jingo gave them each a glance as he hurried around to the rear of the cart. "Beck, get the weapon off your back and get ready to fire, but be careful where you point it." Jingo smiled widely enough that even the warted side of his face looked happy. "Don't shoot me in the back."

Panting, Beck nodded.

Ivory got the harness over his shoulders and started pulling.

Melora ran ahead, and Oliver did his best to keep up with her.

"This way?" she called, pointing forward as she glanced back at Ivory.

"Yes," Ivory answered, as he put his head down and put all his effort into running with the load. "We'll hit the trail that leads to the east gate. It's just up ahead. Once we're there, we'll follow it into Brighton."

Chapter 80:  Winthrop

Surrounded.

Every demon on the great flat earth was barreling out of the forest behind Winthrop's sacred army of immortals.

The raven-haired banshee was shrieking at her disciples, while her mounted devils sat in a row atop their horses, looking on, licking their teeth for their own taste of immortal blood.

Winthrop felt despair's cold fingers clutch at his soul, and all of his god-speak seemed to have the power of futile drivel, no matter how passionately he wailed each perfect syllable.

Something whooshed overhead, huge, and dark.

They're coming from the sky, too?

Winthrop looked up and his stomach churned.

A massive gray stone streaked across the blue and hit the earth amidst the horde.

Winthrop felt the stone's impact shudder up through his horse's hooves and knees, and for the briefest of seconds, terror blazed white-hot through his veins because he knew one of his envious god brothers had hurled the stone down to crack the face of the great flat earth, so Winthrop would fall through into the limitless hell below.

Another streak of gray tore through the sky.

The boulders bludgeoned the earth, gouging tears through the demon horde that were instantly filled by the unending flow of twisted men.

But the earth didn't crack.

Winthrop didn't fall.

Is it possible the stones are a gift?

Nearly hyperventilating, Winthrop willed his words to come, wished for the right god-speak incantation to strengthen his bowels and hold his priests fast around him.

And like magic.

Like a miracle.

As if it were deemed by his divine thoughts alone, his disciples took up the song.

First one voice.

Then another.

It was the magic dirge they sang on the mountain the night Winthrop had killed the Blackthorn Devil for the first time.

His disciples sang for their deaths, a song that promised the meager worth of their shit-stained lives to the war god that gave them worth: Winthrop, himself.

He would use their souls to wrap himself in his sun god brother's light. He would use their swords to maul, to destroy, to shear the mortal life from the putrid beasts that dared bare their jagged teeth at him, Winthrop, the divine.

But the fear.

The shadow.

The banshee on Blackthorn's horse.

Winthrop wailed.

The dirge rumbled, brave on a thousand voices, two thousand, and then every one of Winthrop's disciples sang their death, and the pale horde paused, taken aback to know in that moment that they faced their extermination.

Men formed up, a wall of bravery with teeth of sharp steel, facing the horde.

His people. His disciples. His children.

The horde found its heart. Its trepidation evaporated, and the war cry of a million spore-twisted monsters rose to challenge the purity of his disciples' dirge.

Another volley of gray stones rained from the heavens, and Winthrop knew beyond a doubt that his god brothers were at his side.

He couldn't lose.

Still the fear.

And the horde charged.

Chapter 81:  Fitz

The boulders careened through the sky, hypnotic and impossible.

Fitz had seen the strongest men still left in Brighton haul those huge stones. It took two straining men to lift just one onto a catapult.

Knowing what they weighed, it was terrifying to see them flying overhead, faster than a cloud, slower than a bird. Fitz was dumbstruck when she felt the ground shudder as the boulders impacted, watching demon bodies splash like water from a stone thrown into a pond. Blood, demons, and parts of demons flew. Dozens were killed or maimed in an eye blink.

The catapults were gruesomely effective at death, powerful beyond anything Fitz could have imagined upon seeing their inexplicably colored pictures in that old book of weapons, discarded by the Ancients as they'd built machines of even greater deadly power.

Even as Fitz watched another volley of stones fly overhead, she knew the catapults had been a wasted effort.

Certainly, they killed. And there was no defense against them. Neither demons nor men could do anything to protect themselves from the massive stones that smashed them like bugs. The problem was that Kreuz's scholars had only built three catapults. They could load and hurl their stones steadily, but slowly. As brutal as the catapults were, it might take them days, or months, to kill all these demons.

Fitz wondered if building them had been a mistake.

The time and materials invested in those catapults could have been put to use elsewhere, on something worthwhile.

And the war had just begun.

How many more mistakes would be exposed before the sun went down, before the final demon breathed its last breath?

Would the children huddling at the center of Brighton's defenses gurgle their last bloody breath as hungry demons tore at their living flesh?

Would Fitz's mistakes add up to that?

And here she was, a whore turned general, leading on the faith of women looking for someone to believe in. What did she know about running an army?

Would their mistake in choosing her be the end of humankind?

In front of her, Winthrop's men had unexpectedly started to sing a dark, soulful song in words she didn't understand, but in her heart she felt everything they felt, the power of comrades standing together to face the beast, because in the end, fighting for your loved ones is all that counts. Their dirge was one of acceptance, knowing death had come, but not giving in to it, deciding to fight it with every nit of courage and strength their souls could muster.

In its foreboding way, the song was love and tears, mixed into a stony resolve.

Fitz tears threatened to flow as the ragged remains of Blackthorn's great army, brave men and women, all turned to face the endless horde.

And she saw no fear in them.

Despite the sight of Winthrop, waving his arms and bellowing like a deranged clown at the army's center, the dirge filled Fitz with a bravery she didn't know was in her, and she asked herself, what would General Blackthorn do, sitting astride a monstrous black horse with a spirit for war, with two hundred women on horses willing to follow her anywhere?

Could they kill so many demons as this?

Was it possible?

Chapter 82:  Fitz

"Whatever you're thinking," Ginger shouted, "put it out of your mind!"

Fitz shook her head. "I won't."

Ginger, suddenly beside Fitz, reached over and grabbed Fitz roughly by the arm. "We can't fight these demons out here."

"But Blackthorn, when he was a boy—"

"Stop!"

Fitz leaned away from Ginger, thinking the woman might slap her, such was the harshness in her voice.

Softening her tone, Ginger told her, "Blackthorn trained on that horse from the time he could walk. All the men with him that day spent their lives in the cavalry killing these monsters. They were experts in the saddle. They knew how to kill. You first got on a horse, what, a week ago? If it were just you alone, I'd say, go be a fool and turn yourself into a hero for the legends, if that's what you want, but you don't have that luxury. All of Brighton depends on you. Don't throw your life away when the cost is so high."

"The cost?"

Ginger cocked her head toward the city walls. "What do you think will happen when they see you fall on the battlefield? Do you think it will make them braver? Do you think they'll listen to Kreuz when he tries to take charge? It will be chaos in there with all these damn monsters climbing the walls. If you ride your horse out to fight them, we'll lose this war, and everyone in Brighton will die."

Another volley of massive stones smashed into the horde.

The fastest of the charging demons hit the wall of Winthrop's singing army.

Men cried out. Beasts shrieked as flesh ripped and blood spewed.

Death was in a reaping mood, and the harvest would be bountiful.

"Follow your head," said Ginger. "Not your heart. Don't kill me and everybody you ever knew."

Fitz scanned the expanse of the horde that would soon engulf Winthrop's mob.

She took a deep breath and cleared her head of stupid thoughts. She pointed west. "Take twenty riders and go that way. Ride in front of the horde. Make sure they see you." Fitz pointed east. "I'll take twenty this way. Send the rest of the riders back through the gate." Fitz caught Ginger in an intense stare. "I'll give your advice back to you. Don't be a hero. Don't get caught out here. Make them see you and then get inside. Let's lead the monsters into our trap."

"You shouldn't be out here at all," Ginger shot back. "I'll do it. I'll go to the west with twenty. I'll send another twenty east. You take the rest back inside. Stop thinking mythical, pig-shit hero thoughts. Be our leader. Do what only you can do." Ginger wheeled her horse around to face the rest of the mounted warriors. She barked her orders. Fitz realized Ginger was right.

Ginger's riders peeled off from the formation and galloped to the left. Twenty more galloped to the right.

Fitz pointed the remaining riders toward the gates. "Inside, now! The demons will come at the wall. We all have our places."

They rode hard for the gate, forming in a single-file line to pass through the gap left open for them and the coming horde as they went back into Brighton.

Chapter 83:  Fitz

All of the cavalry had made it in through the gates as the battle outside the walls raged.

The monsters engulfed Winthrop's army and the bodies piled up on both sides.

The catapults continued to hurl huge stones.

Thousands of slingers hurled their rocks in a hale that pounded the mass assaulting the walls.

The mayhem everywhere around Fitz seemed to drag time to a slow plod. The sun seemed stuck in the sky far overhead, not going up, not descending, but the morning was gone and the noon hours were passing.

Good people fell.

Monsters died, but the horde seemed to get no smaller.

Fitz stood in the tower next to the main gate. It was her war room. It was at the center of the battle, just inside Brighton. She'd taken it despite Ginger's urging to find a place far from the fighting, back in the city, from which she could pass out orders and stay safe.

Fitz wouldn't leave her people.

If the main gate fell and demons stormed the towers on both sides, Brighton's problems would be greater than the death of one amateur general.

Her captains came and went, bringing her information, carrying her orders when they left to move their lines in some places and reinforce in others.

Ginger, who'd been out in the thick of the fight inside the wall, had been gone for a time long enough to worry Fitz but she was just now coming up the ladder to Fitz's command tower.

Outside the wall, a sea of pale-skinned demons stretched from the curving wall almost to the forest.

That was the first pinprick of hope in a day that was turning bleak. The horde was not limitless. They were all in the field. But they were spread so far, covering so much ground. And there were so many—as many or more than the army that Blackthorn had marched to the Ancient City.

Could there be thirty thousand demons?

Did it matter?

At the back of the horde, almost at the forest, the boulders flung by Kreuz's catapult teams laid waste to demons stupid enough to keep standing there.

Inside the circle wall, on the road toward the center of Brighton, Fitz saw the catapult teams sweating around their machines, working furiously to reload and crank the arms back against what Adam-John called the torsional power of the twisting ropes.

Big words, important to him and nobody else.

Another huge rock sailed through the sky.

In the field, halfway to the forest, Winthrop's mob still stood—despite all probability—fighting the ocean of demons that surrounded them. Out there in the thick of the battle, the dead already carpeted the ground. Man and monster alike stood on the corpses of their kin as they slashed with either sword or tooth.

Winthrop's soldiers were extracting a terrible toll on the demons, but they were paying for their success with many dead of their own. Fitz didn't believe any of them would survive the day.

Closer to the wall, stones rained down from her thousands of slingers.

The stones, though, weren't as effective as she'd hoped. A second mistake?

Probably.

Not understanding how the demon horde was not being obliterated by rocks, she watched, focusing on a few demons close to one of the flag poles, hoping to see the rocks land.

With so many stones in the air, she didn't have long to wait.

One of the rocks landed right on top of a demon's warty head.

The blow knocked the monster's head back, and after the direct hit, Fitz expected to see the beast fall over, dead.

But the demon didn't fall. He shook off the impact, looked at the wall through the mass of his brothers, and screamed in anger at those inside.

That's when Fitz realized the bony warts on the demons' skulls were protecting them.

Of the thousands and thousands of demons she'd expected to be killed by the stones, the casualties hadn't yet reached a thousand.

Below her, at the main gate, twisted men crowded into the funnel and poured through the gap, streaming much, much faster than she'd have ever guessed possible.

Another mistake.

They were piling up.

Five hundred women stood together in a shoulder-to-shoulder semicircle inside the gate, doing a good job of killing the demons, so far.

A waterfall of demons spilled over each staircase they'd built outside the wall. But those beasts, too, were flowing faster than Fitz or Ginger had imagined.

The large stones they'd laid at the foot of each wall opposite the stairs were perfectly effective, at first.

But as the bodies of demons piled up, with new arrivals landing on their dead and injured brothers, a ramp of corpses formed. The tight semicircles of women that were killing demons with ease when the battle started had to retreat, and they merged to form lines that matched the arc of the wall. More and more of the slingers had to set their slings aside and take up their melee weapons to join the effort and keep the demons contained.

The good news was that the battle inside the wall seemed to be going well, in that the women greatly outnumbered the live demons. The demons who'd come over the wall helped the women's cause by attacking the arrayed women as individuals, rushing at them as soon as they made their way down the ramps of their dead.

But that was a deception.

It looked to Fitz like the women were killing the demons at the rate of three or four for every five or six that came over the ramps. The estimate was little more than a guess, but it looked to her like the number of demons on their feet was growing inside the wall despite how quickly the women killed them.

That meant the demons inside the wall would eventually outnumber the women. When that happened, Brighton's defenders would be overwhelmed.

The most disturbing thing Fitz saw were the women running away—very few compared to the count of those who stayed in the fight, but dozens fleeing was a problem that could turn from a trickle to a tidal wave, if not stopped.

Fitz looked back outside the wall, trying to guess how many demons were still out there, and how soon she'd have to retreat from the wall to reorganize her defenses in the streets.

A crack of thunder ripped the air, and everyone in the tower turned to look.

Fitz saw the throwing arm on one of the catapults coming apart as the wood gave way, then separating completely, spinning the remainder of the arm against the ropes and throwing two men into the air as the rest of the contraption fell to pieces.

"God almighty!" yelled Kreuz, as he watched from his spot beside Fitz.

Adam-John's shoulders sagged as he watched, too. Many of the people operating the catapults were Scholars. As prickly as Adam-John was, friends of his had just died.

People were dying in every direction Fitz looked. Only the grandeur of so many bodies moving together to such narrow purposes helped hide the death from her eyes. "Kreuz, how quickly can you move those catapults?"

"They're on wheels," he answered. "With horses—"

"No horses." Fitz glanced at Ginger who, as far as Fitz was concerned, was her general in charge of the mounted warriors. "Ginger needs the horses. Can you push the catapults?"

"The people can do it. slowly."

Fitz pointed to the spot where the catapulted stones were landing. "The demons are moving closer to the walls. Soon, your rocks will be hitting nothing."

Kreuz nodded. "Where do you want the rocks to land?"

Fitz pointed to the mass of demons shoving to get through the gate.

"It's too risky," said Kreuz. "The catapults aren't that accurate. We might end up destroying the gates if we land our stones too close."

"Move them back a hundred yards, then," Fitz told him. "Or two hundred. Send your boulders into the demons between the gate and the remains of the army. Can you do that?"

Kreuz looked worried, but said, "We can try."

Speaking to two of her captains in the tower, Fitz said, "The slings aren't as effective as we'd hoped. Spread the word—"

"Wait!" Adam-John interrupted.

"What? Fitz asked.

"Before you abandon the slings, I have an idea."

"Spit it out," Fitz told him.

"We instructed the slingers to throw for distance. If we quickly pass the instruction to instead throw the stones as high as they can, they may be more deadly, as long as they go over the wall."

"Why?"

"The stones will fall harder from a greater height," said Adam-John. "It might make the difference."

"Kreuz," said Fitz, getting his attention as he mounted the ladder to descend the tower. "Can you spare Adam-John?"

Kreuz nodded.

"Go, then," Fitz told Kreuz. "Adam-John is mine." Turning quickly to Adam-John, and pointing at her two captains, she said, "Take these two, spread the word to all the slingers as fast as you can, and get others to help. Tell them to change how they throw. Come to me as soon as you're done."

Adam-John agreed and the two captains hurried off.

Ginger pointed west urgently and said, "Demons are running the wall!"

Fitz looked down the arc of the wall, seeing a mass of demons trying to get over. "There, you mean?"

Ginger pointed, "No, far around, where you can't see. One of the messengers just told me while you were telling Kreuz to move the catapults. The demons are going in both directions."

Fitz had expected it, but hoped it wouldn't happen. "How many?"

"Dozens, or hundreds," answered Ginger, "The messenger didn't seem to know. But they could come over anywhere."

Fitz scanned down the length of the wall, but something in the way Ginger was looking at her caught her eye. "What aren't you telling me?"

Ginger pointed at the third tower down along the wall, three or four hundred yards distant. "The women in that tower have spotted a mass of demons splitting off from the main horde."

"How many?" Fitz asked.

"Hard to tell," answered Ginger. "The demons aren't disciplined like Blackthorn's army. Some split off, others followed, more went after. It might be five hundred. It might be five thousand by now. I don't know."

Fitz pointed to the center of town. "Take the cavalry to the square. Send riders to the edge of town, where they can see the wall."

"If we go there, we'll be far from the wall," said Ginger, "We won't—"

"From the square, you'll be closer to the whole wall," Fitz told her, "You'll be able to ride to anywhere on the wall faster than from any other place."

"I could use two cohorts of fighters," Ginger told her. "If five thousand demons come over the wall—"

"A thousand fighters?" Fitz asked in surprise.

Ginger nodded.

"I can't spare them," said Fitz. "It may not look like it, but the battle here is not going well for us. Soon we'll have to retreat into the city. Too many demons are coming over the wall."

Ginger grabbed Fitz's arm and looked sharply into her eyes. "Retreat won't work. I've been down there in the fight with them. They're on the edge of running already. If we pull back, it'll be a rout. We'll get slaughtered."

Fitz felt like she was being weighed down with mistakes and bad choices. "You'll have to do it with your riders and the reserves at the other gates. I can't give you any people. I wish I could. You'll have to take care of the demons coming over the wall, wherever they come."

"I won't fail." Ginger spun and headed for the ladder.

Fitz scanned the immensity of the battle again, as she turned to give instructions to another of her captains.

Thunder rumbled, weird and brief. Fitz looked to the sky, wondering whether rain would help or hurt Brighton's chances, but she saw only thin, white clouds streaking the blue sky high overhead, not the kind of clouds that made rain. The thunder cracked again. What was it?

Chapter 84:  Jingo

Jingo felt his shoulder ache as he threw the second grenade through the trees and out into the clearing. The pain reminded him that he was no longer a young man. He watched the grenade explode about forty yards away.

"Why are you throwing them with no demons close by?" Beck asked, again.

Jingo didn't answer.

With Melora leading, they'd ended up on a side trail, not one going to the east gate, but one that brought them to the edge of the forest, looking out at pastures that sloped down toward the circle wall. Far off to their right were the towers that stood over the east gate. To their left, they saw the flank of the horde assaulting the main gate on the south side of town.

All along the wall, demons streamed and sprinted, looking for a way to get around the wall or a good place to climb it.

Reaching for a third hand grenade, Jingo focused on the horde in the distance down by the main gate. He was hoping some had turned their attention to the source of the noise. A few turned their heads, but not many.

Jingo knew plenty of them had memories that stretched back three hundred years, to a time when men with rifles and hand grenades, tanks, bombs, and planes slaughtered them by the billions. From that war, the demons had a hatred buried in their hearts for the ancient weapons and the men who used them.

That hatred was drawing a few runners away from Brighton's walls, but not enough of them.

Jingo pulled the pin on the grenade and pitched with all his might.

"There are no demons where you're throwing!" Beck shouted again. The others looked on, wide-eyed, as though Jingo had lost his senses.

Jingo crouched and turned his face away. Beck stepped behind the trunk of a thick tree. The others were still a dozen paces back in the forest, safe enough.

The grenade exploded.

Jingo took another probing look at the demon horde at the front gate.

They were coming—not all of them, but enough.

His plan, the one he'd had little time to explain, and certainly no time to debate, was working. He spun, and in curt orders told them, "Ivory, you, Melora, and I will kneel here." He pointed at a downed log at the edge of the trees. "Fire at the demons as they close in. Don't waste your bullets by shooting wildly, but don't waste too much time aiming your shots. If we kill a few thousand of them, we might have a chance to save Brighton."

"A few thousand?" Ivory's eyes went wide. "That's not possible."

"With these rifles, it is," Jingo assured him. "Now, kneel. Aim. Shoot."

Ivory rushed up to the log and dropped to a knee.

"Use the wood to steady your aim," Jingo told him. "Just as you used the window sill in the tower when you were learning from Kirby." Jingo turned his eyes to Melora. "You go, too. You and Ivory are the best shots."

Ivory's rifle popped off a round, then two, then more in rapid succession.

"What about us?" Beck pointed at Oliver. "Where do you want us?"

Jingo hurried over to the cart. With a knife, he cut the ropes holding the crates in place and pried open a box, while Oliver and Beck came over to help. "What you'll need to do," Jingo yelled over the gunshots, "is reload the empty magazines." He opened the first case.

"Reload?" Beck asked.

Jingo rammed a finger into the case of loose bullets. "Thirty rounds per magazine. Once we fire all the magazines we have loaded, the rifles will be useless. If we don't refill as we go along—"

"—We'll all die," Oliver finished for him, understanding the situation immediately.

Jingo nodded, with a grim look on his face. "That's right."

"Okay," Beck agreed, as he got behind the cart to start pushing. "It'll be faster if we stand right by the three that are shooting."

"You're right," Jingo agreed. "But as you load, watch the forest behind us and around us. We need to keep an eye out for demons coming through the trees."

"I should shoot." Oliver looked up at Jingo as he said it. "Kirby said I had better aim than you."

"I think—" Jingo caught himself. "You're right. Get over there. When you get tired, we'll trade jobs. If your rifle gets too hot, let me know, and we'll trade those too."

Oliver ran to the log behind which Ivory and Melora were already shooting.

Looking across the field, Jingo saw twisted men falling. Perhaps more importantly, all the demons who had been running along the wall, looking for an undefended way into the city, were now coming at them.

Pushing the cart, Beck told Jingo, "Go get the empty magazines. Ivory and Melora have already emptied one each. I'll get this over there."

Jingo rushed over and collected the empties, then rushed them back and tossed them into the open box of bullets. He grabbed a handful of bullets and started stuffing. "You and I need to be mindful of everything," Jingo told Beck. "We need to load with our hands and watch elsewhere with our eyes."

"You told us that already," said Beck.

"Yes, but don't just watch the trees. Watch the demons coming across the grass in front of us. If a lot of them get close, toss a hand grenade or several. The others need to keep shooting."

"Will they get that close?" asked Beck, casting a worried look in the direction of the many hundreds, who were even now running up the sloping ground.

Jingo glanced again at the demons as he finished with one magazine and started on another. "You see how many are coming into our trap? It is not a matter of if they get close, but when."

Chapter 85:  Fitz

Still looking east, the direction from which the strange thunder was coming, Fitz startled when a hand grasped her shoulder. She spun to see the anxious face of one of her captains.

"Look!" the woman said, pointing west along the curve of the wall.

Far past the stair steps built to funnel the monsters to their deaths inside the wall, far past the ends of the lines of slingers and fighters, at their backs, even, demons were coming over the wall, dozens and dozens. That meant there had to be hundreds, if not thousands, outside the wall in that direction.

Fitz turned toward town to see Ginger's cavalry just disappearing into the distance.

A rider from a tower along the western edge of the wall was heading in the opposite direction—not toward Ginger's squadrons, but toward Fitz's command tower.

Damn that rider! Had she not seen Ginger's squadrons going into the city?

Fitz needed to divert Ginger's riders out of the city and to the southwest wall.

To the captain, Fitz, ordered, "I need you to get down there, gather two cohorts of slingers from the rear, and run to face those demons. When that rider passes you on the way here, tell her to race to Ginger in the square, as fast as she can, and tell her and her riders to get back here. Go, now! You need to run!"

The captain's wide eyes confirmed to Fitz that she understood just how urgent the situation was. She bounded across the tower's floor and flew down the ladder.

A few seconds later, Fitz saw the captain running to get around the large semicircle of women fighting the horde that poured through the spigot of the main gate. Fitz turned her attention back to the southwest part of the wall. Even as Fitz watched, the trickle of dozens of demons coming over turned to a flow of hundreds.

She glanced toward the rolling thunder to the east, wondering what terror the demons were bringing through the forest over there. Could it be any worse than what was already here?

Chapter 86:  William

William watched the battle from the trees, his personal band of demons gathered behind him, all eager to enter the fray, salivating for a mouthful of warm flesh. He'd told them to stay in the forest, rather than run out into the fields around Brighton and join the others.

They'd followed his orders and waited.

William was their brother and their leader. He didn't want any more of them to die. He wanted to run away from the battle and find a place far away from Winthrop's lunatics, where he'd not have to watch another of his brothers getting hacked to death and eaten, or watch another of his friends burned for the sin of not groveling to Winthrop's cruelty.

Still, William couldn't turn away.

He wanted vengeance.

Winthrop's soldiers were arrayed in a circle, fighting outward at the demon horde that surrounded them. Most of the demons, realizing there wouldn't be enough meat for all of them, seemed to be flowing around Winthrop's army, trying to get over the walls and partake in what would surely be a massive feast inside.

With that happening, the pressure on Winthrop's men was easing, so much that it was starting to look to William like they might survive, and Winthrop might live. And if Winthrop didn't die, William and his brothers would never be safe, whether they went back to the Ancient City or ran away into the forest.

Winthrop had come to find them once. Nothing would stop him from coming again.

Winthrop had to die.

Unfortunately, the longer William watched, the more it looked like that wasn't going to happen.

That made William angry.

He had to do something to change it.

Winthrop had to pay a price for what he'd done to Phillip and Jasmine.

For what he'd done to Brighton.

Turning to his demons, projecting all of his hatred of the burnings, and Winthrop's killings, William yelled, "Kill Winthrop! And kill all the priests and priestesses who stand by him!"

Chapter 87:  Bray

Bray and Kirby hid in the trees on their horses, watching thousands of dirty, naked demons crash into Winthrop's blood-printed men, fighting. Demon shrieks and men's cries merged into what sounded like a single noise. Men and women fought, fell, or fled. The battle, which had started near the gates of Brighton, had quickly extended past where he and Kirby were hiding. The fighting mass had a life of its own, moving in all directions, like some giant animal with a thousand appendages. Winthrop's army had lost their order. A dozen or so men on horseback rode through the crowd, trampling demons and sometimes their own brothers and sisters to stay alive.

There was too much to look at.

But Bray needed to find William.

He looked through the people on horseback, finding a stark white figure that looked like Winthrop, trying to stay balanced as he rode among the fray. The rest of the horses in the middle of the field seemed to hold men, but no one small enough to be William.

Had he fallen already? Bray didn't see any unmanned horses.

Maybe William hadn't made it this far.

Bray shook his head, not ready to accept that fact. He was still looking from horse to horse when thunder cracked the air. Bray looked around and up, but the noise wasn't coming from overhead in the clouds.

It was coming from the forest, to their right.

"Guns!" he hissed.

"I thought it was a troll fart."

"What?" Bray looked back at Kirby like she might not be that smart.

"Like I wouldn't know it was a gun." Kirby backed away from the tree line on her horse. "We need to move. We might not get another chance."

"Wait," Bray said. "I see something!"

From somewhere in the trees to their left, a pack of demons spilled from the forest, snarling and yowling as they ran diagonally across the field and toward the riders on horseback.

William was among them.

"William!" Bray said, louder than he would've dared, if he hadn't been so startled.

He watched as William ran next to the demons, quickly engulfed by moving bodies and disappearing. What was William doing? Had he lost his mind? Or was he back with his demons? Bray raised his sword. Whatever William was up to, Bray couldn't let him die, now that he had finally found him.

"What are you doing?" Kirby asked from behind him.

Bray didn't answer. With an enraged battle cry, he rode out into the field to get William.

Chapter 88:  Winthrop

Winthrop couldn't believe his eyes. The stones from the heavens were laying the demons low. The slaughter of the earth-shaking stones had come to a stop, but only after dead demons beyond number lay between his disciples and the forest.

Now his god brother, the daylight moon, was weeping tears, smaller stones, in a pounding rain that filled the sky, wreaking havoc on the beasts between his army and the wall. Demons were falling, dead or wounded, and getting trampled by their greedy brothers.

He looked to the sky and thanked his divine siblings.

Now, his thunder brother was coming out of the forest somewhere in the east.

All around him, fighting in an unbroken circle of brawn, his blood soldiers hacked and stabbed, killing and dying, while the horde of demons ran out of bodies to throw at them. It reminded him of those dreadful nights on the hill near the Ancient City when the hordes came in numbers Winthrop couldn't imagine existed in the world. But they all fell beneath the blades of his chosen.

Just as they were doing now.

Right as Winthrop's fear started to turn to hope, a line of demons sprinted out of the forest.

More?

Winthrop's fear redoubled.

How could there be?

The demons raced across the acres of bodies, oblivious to the carnage all around them, focused on him, and only him.

Winthrop understood immediately. They were coming to murder him. There was no doubt.

Winthrop pointed and yelled at his priestesses and close priests, the ones who'd been with him from that first night in the woods, the ones who'd surrounded him and protected him from any monster who fought his way through the line of his soldiers.

But…

What's that?

At the head of the new line of demons, Winthrop saw something strange.

The boy!

It was the kid, Rowan, fleeing from the demons. Maybe his god brothers had sent the boy back to him. Maybe the boy was a sign.

"The boy!" Winthrop shouted. "They're after the boy! Let him through the lines. Save the boy!" Winthrop was relieved. The demons weren't coming for him, after all.

One of the priests stared at the coming line of demons. "I see him, my Father."

"Run, you fool!" shouted Winthrop. "Save the boy!"

The priest shouted at two other men to follow him to the line of fighting men. They pushed through the battling army and found a clear path for Rowan.

Winthrop was pleased. The gods were giving him a gift by returning the boy.

Rowan passed between two soldiers, and the pursuing demons piled up as they skidded to a stop, staying out of range of the priest's swinging swords.

Winthrop raised his face to the sky, uttering the god-speak phrases his tongue had found on its own. That was the only way to praise the other gods and himself for being the source of such a wondrous little miracle. The boy should have been dead, after disappearing on the night of the demon attack. Now he was a gift—no, more than that, an omen, a resurrection. Victory would come. There was no more need to fret, no need to quake. Only killing and burning remained, chores for his chosen before filling their bellies on a feast of demon carcasses.

Praise to me!

Winthrop opened his eyes to look down at the boy, expecting Rowan to bow at the feet of his horse.

But the boy wasn't there, offering his thanks.

With anxious eyes, Winthrop looked up and saw the men who'd gotten the boy through the line. They were on their backs with demons on top of them, fighting against shredding teeth while more demons flowed through the gap in the line.

And that damn boy!

He was running along behind the line, stabbing a knife into the hamstrings of Winthrop's defenders.

Winthrop's priests fell and the demons charged over them.

No!

Oh, no!

The boy was some kind of evil fiend, an impish spawn of hell, a terror.

Winthrop wailed as the formation of his chosen disintegrated around him.

Chapter 89:  Fitz

Fitz watched from her tower as the circular formation that Winthrop's army had been holding disintegrated.

"Oh, no!" She had no mercy in her heart for Winthrop, but she fretted for the men and women who fought for him. They'd held out through so much of the battle, killing untold numbers of demons with heavy losses of their own, and just when it looked like some of them were going to survive, they failed.

They were all going to die.

With the weight of that on her heart, and the fear that the demons would soon have only Brighton to fight, Fitz turned back to the battle inside the wall. She looked toward the city, hoping to see Ginger's mounted warriors coming, but she saw none of them.

Where were they?

Looking across a mile of potato and corn fields to where the west gate's towers stood, Fitz saw most of the cohort that had been guarding that gate running toward the demons that were pouring over the wall south of them.

The main body of her army was fully engaged in the fight at the south gate and the nearby walls. The women, boys, and old men on the west end of the line must have realized the demons were coming over behind them, and they were starting to run.

It was the moment Fitz feared most: her soldiers, armed with spears and bladed weapons, turning their backs on the demons and getting tackled from behind. Dying because of their fear.

As Fitz watched, the western flank of the line frayed and she saw the disintegration as though it was a living thing coming toward her, destroying her army as it went.

"You haven't lost!" Fitz yelled futilely. Even if there had been no battle under way, the fleeing soldiers were too far away to hear.

Fitz glanced back toward town. Still, Ginger's mounted warriors were not coming.

Fitz scanned quickly across the rest of the battle. On the east side of the main gate, her women were still holding the line, killing the demons flowing over the wall. They were backing up, and their line was expanding with women setting aside their slings and joining the fight in front of them with spears and whatever other weapons they had. At the main gate, it was the same story. They were holding their own. Fitz had no orders to give, nothing to do but wait and hope the numbers worked out in Brighton's favor when all the killing was done.

It was the fraying line at the west end that was their doom. If the retreating cohorts' fear caught on, the whole defense would collapse, and it would be a very dark day in Brighton.

Fitz turned to one of the last of the captains in the tower with her. Getting the attention of that one, she said, "I'm going to rally the fleeing women. I need to stop this. Come find me if something more urgent arises."

"You can count on us," the woman confirmed as she glanced at the fraying line. "Go." The anxiety in her voice told Fitz the woman understood.

Fitz crossed over to the ladder and all but fell to the ground with hands and feet pausing on wooden rungs just enough to slow her descent and keep her from breaking her ankles at the bottom.

Once her feet were on the ground, she ran to her horse and mounted it with ease. Her six personal guards were there, in their saddles and waiting. That was a blessing that could make all the difference. Seven women swinging swords from the backs of horses would do so much more to bolster the spines of her panicked soldiers than one woman riding solo.

Fitz drew her sword as she spurred her horse. "Follow me!" she called to her guards as she sped off on her giant, black beast.

Chapter 90:  Melora

"I'm out!" Melora shouted, as she ejected her magazine and tossed it back to Jingo and Beck, who were feeding her, Ivory, and Oliver with ammunition.

To her right, Oliver and Ivory still fired.

"Here," said Beck, breathing heavily from effort or panic, as he put two magazines into Melora's hand.

Melora jammed a full magazine into the underside of her rifle and laid the barrel across the log, leveling it as she found her next target. She pulled the trigger and fired at a beast. The creature pitched forward and hit the ground face first.

Melora shifted slightly left and fired again. Blood exploded from a demon's shoulder as it spun and went down. But that one would be back up. Melora was learning the difference between a kill shot and a wound, and she silently chastised herself for the poor aim.

Every bullet was of a limited supply, of which she expected to run out at any moment.

With every pull of the trigger, it felt like her finger was straining under a heavy weight. She'd never have guessed in all her life she could do something so many times, so quickly, that she'd cramp her finger. And her shoulder flared fire each time the rifle's butt punched back with the gun's recoil.

Melora, along with Ivory and Oliver, were killing demons on a scale that eclipsed her imagination many times over. The sloping pasture was covered with so many dead that only a few strands of the knee-high grass still stood, and even those were stained red.

Still, the demons peeled off from the larger mass assaulting the main gate and crossed nearly a mile of pasture for their chance to tear violently into the shooters.

"It looks like no more demons are coming from the right!" Ivory announced next to Melora, giving her a hint of hope. It seemed like they'd killed all the ones that had been skirting the circle wall, looking for an alternate entrance to Brighton.

Twice since the shooting started, Jingo had pitched hand grenades to kill large bands of demons who'd managed to get too close. Each time it happened, both Beck and Ivory threw grenades, as well. Melora and Oliver were told not to, as neither could throw the weighty little bombs far enough to avoid endangering themselves.

"Those demons are gone, but there are many more. When will they stop coming?" Oliver called from where he was shooting, echoing Melora's thoughts.

"Just keep firing!" shouted Beck.

Melora fired again, crying out as her shoulder flared pain. Suddenly Jingo was on a knee beside Melora. "Are you okay?"

Melora fired, blew out the back of a demon's skull, and quickly shot again, "My shoulder hurts!"

"You're doing a good job."

Melora nodded and kept shooting.

"We're going to make it," Jingo told her. "War is terrible. Don't lose hope."

"I'm okay!" Melora yelled. She knew that if she stopped fighting, she'd die. Only living people felt pain.

"Who's that?" asked Oliver, as he squeezed off another round.

Melora glanced left and paused for a moment, trying to understand what Oliver was seeing. She saw a glimmer of movement in between some demons that looked like a human.

Her first thought was that the vanguard of Blackthorn's cavalry was charging out of the woods. Melora nearly shed tears of relief, thinking she and the others were saved.

But no cavalry followed that first rider as he swung his sword, racing through the mass of surprised demons coming at Melora.

She kept shooting the monsters as she watched the rider, thinking he was an even braver idiot than she was, tearing through all those twisted men, untouched by their teeth and tearing fingers.

But he had a familiar look to him.

He—

Melora gasped.

It couldn't be.

Bray!

That murdering piece of pig shit!

Melora didn't ask herself what he was doing all of a sudden in the middle of the battle. She didn't speculate as to how he'd managed to steal a horse. No question was as important as the hatred she felt for him, and how completely that hate made all her fear of the coming horde seem like an irritant that could be ignored. She switched her aim to Bray.

Shooting demons was easy. They ran directly at her in a bloodthirsty frenzy. They were targets, and once she sawed them down, her barrel didn't swerve, didn't juke.

Bray was different. He rode across her field of vision left to right, galloping and swerving around demons, swinging his sword. He wouldn't stay still for her.

"Who's that?" Oliver asked.

She didn't answer.

Before anyone else could ask, Melora fired.

Bray carried on, unfazed.

She lined up her rifle sight and fired again.

Missed.

She silently cursed and redirected her fire at the closest of the demons that were still charging her position. She killed several, and guessed she had a few brief seconds to try again for Bray before he got too far away.

Melora aimed again, taking her time. Bray paused, looking toward the log from which she, Ivory, and Oliver shot their weapons, probably wondering what the hell he was seeing and hearing. Melora pulled the trigger.

Bray lurched back with the impact. His arms flew out as he pitched back off the saddle.

His horse reared and started trampling demons as it panicked.

Through all the demons between them, Melora couldn't see if Bray got back to his feet, but one thing she saw for sure was that he didn't remount his horse, and that meant that even if the bullet didn't kill him, he was as good as dead.

Without a trace of guilt for what she'd just done and with no time to revel in the satisfaction of justice delivered, she went back to killing demons. Oliver seemed to have redirected his focus to the battle.

For Ella, she thought, gritting her teeth.

Chapter 91:  Bray

Bray felt an invisible punch that toppled him from his horse.

His shoulder screamed pain.

At the last second, he clutched the reins, saving himself from landing on his head, but the air exploded from his lungs as he hit the grass on his back.

The horse bolted, dragging him across the ground next to it with demons all around.

He'd gotten a glimpse of Melora, Ivory, and some kid, holding guns as they hid in the nearby trees, and he'd seen Melora aiming at him. He guessed he'd been shot, like those demons he'd seen fall under Kirby's gun. But none of that mattered now, because the twisted men would surely rip him apart before he'd have the chance to think about it again, or his horse would stomp him to death. He'd never see William again.

Bray cried out as his legs slid underneath the horse and demons lunged for his flesh. The horse whinnied and reared up, stomping demons in front of it, spraying Bray with blood and knocking back a few of the twisted men. Bray pulled his legs away to avoid a crushing hoof, but he kept hold of the reins.

The horse was panicked and about to flee again.

That might be his only chance to get out of the tangle of demons.

The horse broke into a gallop, and Bray cried out as he was dragged again through the unforgiving grass, sliding over bodies of dead demons and slick patches blood, doing his best to keep hold of the reins. His body ached from dozens of new bruises as he was battered against the ground. He had no control.

He managed to hold on for a few seconds, escaping the immediate mob of demons, and then he lost his grip and fell.

He watched the horse gallop past hungry, pawing twisted men, and into the forest, which was only twenty yards away, and then he was alone, lying on his side. Bray grunted and turned his head.

His sword was gone.

He hadn't gotten far enough.

Demons encircled him. He searched frantically for a weapon, but all he saw was a mass of stomping, bare feet and wart-covered bodies. One of the demons shrieked in triumph as it reached him, tugging at his boots. Another lunged for his face.

The demons were going to kill him.

Bray felt a surge of anger as the demons surrounded him with open mouths and tearing hands. His coming death should have been fitting for a man that had spent his life killing the demons.

But it didn't feel so fitting now.

Chapter 92:  William

Men were screaming all around. Odd thunder rolled through the daylight sky. Demons howled. Blades thunked into skulls and blood spewed, coating everything in red, giving the air a taste of death.

The blood was life, someone else's life, leaving the body as the soul sank to that dark place where nightmares are born, never to breathe under a blue sky again.

William knew that taste of blood well, remembering it from his first kill on the mountain the night that Bray had robbed and abandoned him and his mother.

As it was now, the blood was warm on his skin, and in a perverse way, it felt like power.

But it was sick power, coming only from a brutality and hate so strong that it felt like a spike through his heart every time it spilled.

It was a tempting power, too. Each time William felt it, it beckoned him to try and kill again, to lean in close and feel a man's last breath wash over his face as the man's eyes went glassy and false, as the man's heart stopped beating, and the enemy turned from man to meat.

Warm to cold.

Loud to quiet.

Something to nothing.

A new memory to haunt tomorrow's dreams.

One of Winthrop's priestesses lay on the ground beside William, shrieking and fighting as one of his demon brothers ripped at her throat.

All around him, the priestesses and Winthrop's closest priests fought desperately against the demons overwhelming them.

Farther away, the unbreakable iron circle of Winthrop's chosen soldiers had disintegrated. A thousand men, the last of those who'd fought together like a single, brutal beast, keeping their enemies in front of them where their sharp swords could do their butchery, were now individuals, surrounded and outnumbered, giving the power of their warm blood to those who took it.

At the center of the battle stood William, untouched by beast and man, watching as a dozen of his demon brothers surrounded Winthrop's wild-eyed horse. It kicked and bucked, charged in fits, and stomped, all the while throwing a blubbering Winthrop back and forth in the saddle.

With a face stretched in desperation, Winthrop held on, knowing hell surrounded him in the gnashing teeth of the tormenting demons.

He bellowed his cowardice for all to hear.

It was sad to see such a majestic horse terrorized out of its mind, saddled with a mountain of useless lard. William didn't want to see the beast injured. He didn't want to see it killed, but Winthrop was on its saddle, and Winthrop had to die for what he'd done to Jasmine and Phillip.

For what he'd done to Brighton.

A demon leaped at the horse, trying to gouge at its eye.

The beast, though, had better instincts, and it reared high to avoid the attacking demon.

It happened at a bad time for Winthrop, who was still recovering his balance from the horse's last dodge. Winthrop lost his grip on the pommel, and as the horse went near vertical on its hind legs, Winthrop rolled back and somersaulted backward over the horse's tail, smashing onto the corpse of one of his dead priestesses on the ground.

The horse, suddenly relieved of its burden, bolted through the demons, running for the forest and safety.

William stepped closer as his demon brothers engulfed Winthrop, biting and tearing.

Winthrop struggled and shrieked.

William wondered if his demon brothers understood his wish for vengeance, or whether their bloodlust was just running so high that they were acting on their own.

As if to answer him, one of the demons jumped to its feet, came off of Winthrop, and hurried over to William.

It reached out, took William's hand, leaned over, and spit something into William's palm.

Surprised, William caught a bloody gob as warm spit oozed over his fingers.

He recoiled as he stared at the lump in his hand, a dribbling mess with two huge, hairy nostrils in a roughly triangular shape. Winthrop's huge nose. Horror struck William as he dropped it on the ground and stepped away.

This wasn't how he'd pictured vengeance.

He looked down at the bleeding, mucous-covered mess.

This was a horror worse than Brighton, worse than the burnings.

Another and another demon hopped up to bring gifts he hadn't asked for, but William kept backing away as the demons piled up things around his retreating feet: an ear, a finger, and then a toe.

William looked at Winthrop, who was screaming so unceasingly he barely had time to breathe.

That made William scream, too.

The demons stopped what they were doing, confused, and stepped away from Winthrop, leaving him alive, blubbering loudly with most of his fingers, his nose, and ears gone.

They didn't understand William's reaction.

They were following William's instructions, even if he hadn't spoken them.

Winthrop moaned, sounding more like a dying demon than a man. He had a long time of suffering ahead of him before dying.

William couldn't watch any more. He ran.

Chapter 93:  Bray

Bray kicked at the demons around him, punching and flailing, but his efforts were useless. For every one he beat back, another took its place. The wound in his shoulder had robbed him of good use of his left arm. He couldn't get to his feet. The demons had him pinned. He cried out as one of the demons tore off a piece of his shirt, scratching his skin. Hot demon breath filled the air and savage hands clawed at his clothes.

Is this how it ends?

He'd failed Ella, and now he'd failed William too.

Gunfire.

A few of the demons lifted their bulbous heads and turned to look.

One of them shrieked as half its head exploded.

Bray had a moment of hope before a dead demon fell on top of him, and then another. He cried out and pushed at the prone bodies, hit with a new fear—he might suffocate under their dead weight. More and more demons toppled onto him, crushing his ribs. He pushed with his good arm, managing to get a few off, but there were too many and they were too heavy. Bray yelled and struggled, afraid he was wasting the last of his breath.

A voice he recognized shouted his name.

Suddenly, the weight on top of him subsided. He looked up through his haze to find Kirby pulling demons off him, a scowl on her face. "You idiot! What did you think was going to happen, running out there like that?"

Bray caught enough breath to answer. "I was going to get—"

"Enough."

She let go of him long enough to raise her gun and aim at an approaching demon, exploding its head with her Tech Magic, and then she tugged at Bray's good arm. To the left, the battle continued raging near the Brighton gates. To the right, gunfire continued to explode.

"You're going to have to run, because I can't carry you."

"I can stand," he said with pride.

Bray winced through the pain and got to his feet.

Dying demons were all around.

"You need to teach me how to use that gun," he said, motioning at the metal object in her hand.

"Are you going to gawk at it, or are we going to get away?"

With some struggle and Kirby's help, Bray managed to hurry back toward the trees. He looked for some sign of William, but he was gone. He hadn't caught a glimpse of him since that first, initial peek through the trees. He didn't see any sign of Melora, Ivory, or the kid, either.

"You're lucky I didn't leave you, after you were shot," Kirby said.

"Did you see William?"

"I caught a few glimpses, after those demons attacked the man in the robe."

"Was it Winthrop they were attacking?" Bray asked.

"I'm not sure who it was. But afterward, William ran off in the trees."

"If it was Winthrop, he deserved it," Bray said with disgust. "Where are the rest of the horses?"

"In the woods, tied up," Kirby said. "I even managed to corral the one you lost. Let's go!"

They stepped over the bodies of dead, blood-printed men and women, avoiding a few demons that were in their death throes. About ten yards from the forest, Bray paused and hunched down next to the body of a dead man, grabbing the sword lying next to him. And then Kirby tugged his arm, leading him across the remaining steps of the field and into the forest, away from the battle that was still raging between Winthrop's men, the demons, and anyone in Brighton foolish enough to step outside the wall.

Chapter 94:  William

William ran without looking back, fleeing the field with its gore, blood, and bodies.  His hands were stained red with Winthrop's blood. He wiped them on his pants as he balanced his knife, running from the field and into the trees, pushing away the sound of Winthrop's screaming and the images of pieces of him piled on the ground. He didn't want to think about it any longer. He couldn't.

Winthrop would die from what the demons had done.

William had given the command.

He'd made the decision, and he didn't regret it—he'd done it for Brighton, and for all the people Winthrop had killed. But William felt no vindication in Winthrop's impending death. He felt hollow.

Warm to cold.

Loud to quiet.

Something to nothing.

But still alive.

That image was terrifying. And underneath the satisfaction of bloodlust was a strange sense of emptiness. He hadn't brought Phillip or Jasmine back.

The call of blood was too tempting to ignore. And it would keep calling, as long as William was with the demons. They would follow his orders, but to what end? At their core, they were beasts, just like the animals in the wild, driven by instinct and the need to feast. They would never show him the kindness that he'd received from Jasmine or Phillip.

He didn't want to be like them. He couldn't.

He needed to get away. He needed to protect himself. He clutched his knife in his hand as he kept running.

Several of his brothers ran next to him, looking over at him for orders, but he waved them off.

"Go!" he shouted.

He realized his hands were shaking. Confusion crossed the demon's faces as they stopped running, heeding his orders. They resisted the urge to follow, much as he resisted the urge to stay with them.

They were his brethren.

But he couldn't be with them anymore.

William kept running, the scent of Winthrop's coppery blood in his nostrils, as he fled farther and farther into the trees.

Chapter 95:  Bray

After collecting the horses, Bray and Kirby rode them far enough into the forest that the sounds of battle had grown quiet. They dismounted so Kirby could take a look at Bray's wound, keeping an eye out for demons or escaping soldiers.

"Sit against the tree," Kirby said, motioning toward a thick oak.

Kirby pulled her pack from her shoulders and dug through it, removing a thin blanket and a flask of water. Then she instructed Bray to remove his shirt. He grimaced as the fabric of his shirt stuck to the blood on his shoulder, and then he was looking at his own bare skin, a wound the size of a small acorn in the middle of it, and another one on back. Kirby poured some water from the flask over the wound.

"I can't tell for sure, but it looks like the bullet passed through," Kirby answered.

"You were just trying to get my shirt off."

Kirby couldn't help a thin smile.

"So I'm going to live?" Bray asked, hoping to earn some sympathy. He winced from the pain in his shoulder.

"It looks like it," Kirby said, adding, "But you should've expected something like this, going out there like that."

"I wanted to help William," Bray explained. "But he was gone before I could get to him."

Kirby watched him. For a second, he thought she was going to chastise him further, but she said, "You were brave. I'll give you that."

"If I hadn't been shot, I would've rescued William." Bray smiled through his pain.

Kirby smiled as she ripped off a piece of blanket, tying it around Bray's shoulder.

Bray kept quiet as he figured out how much he wanted to say about Melora, Jingo, Ivory and whoever else they were with. Finally, he said, "The people who shot me had guns, like you have."

"I saw them through the trees. You don't have to lie to me anymore," Kirby said. She pulled the blanket taut on his shoulder, a little too hard. "I know you know them. Or, at least, some of them."

Bray watched her in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"I know them, too. Those are the people I met in my people's settlement. I know you're a Warden. I was considering killing you as soon as you told me your name, shortly after we first met." Kirby scooted back and watched him. Her gun was in her holster, but Bray suddenly wondered if he should reach for his sword.

"I'm not sure what you're talking about," he tried.

"Melora and Jingo told me about you. They told me about William and how he was infected. At first, I wasn't sure it was the same boy. And then you said your name was Bray, and I knew who you were. Melora told me you killed her mother, Ella. I probably would've killed you then, except I believe that you were actually trying to save William."

Bray frowned as he realized his lies hadn't been as convincing as he'd hoped. "Why did you agree to come with me?" He watched her. "Why save a boy you've never met? Or have you met him, too?"

"No, I've never met William." Kirby got to her feet, looking around at the woods before pulling up the layers of clothing on her back, revealing a line of warts going up her spine. "I wanted to help, because I know what he's going through. I'm infected, too."

Bray couldn't hide the shock on his face. As he stared at the warts on Kirby's back, he recalled a similar moment, when he'd met Jingo. But he'd made a mistake then, and looking at Kirby, he wasn't going to repeat it. "So you know I don't have a son," he said, adding, "or a daughter."

"Yes," Kirby said with a half-smile. "Although I'll admit that was clever."

Bray winced. "It was Melora who shot me. I saw her through the trees, right before I fell. She hates me for what happened to Ella. I don't blame her. But Ella's death was an accident. I wanted to tell Melora, if I ever saw her again."

"I figured it was her," Kirby said, keeping her smile. "She reminds me of myself, in some ways. But explaining yourself to someone with a gun isn't smart."

Bray tried to ignore the blazing pain in his shoulder. "You're probably right." He stared at Kirby as she lowered her shirt, figuring some things out. "Did you provide them with those guns?"

"Yes," Kirby said. "I trusted they would use them to make Brighton better. But the way it looks, they might die before that happens." Her face turned sad. "That's what happens in war, oftentimes, I'm afraid. It happened to my people. But you know that."

"Why didn't you take all your guns?"

"I only have two hands. What am I going to do with a mountain of guns?"

"Does that mean there are more at your settlement?"

Kirby didn't answer.

Returning to the subject at hand, Bray said, "We should still try to find William. We might have a chance if you think you know which way he went. Where did you see him run off to?"

Kirby pointed east through the trees. "I think he ran in that direction."

Bray looked around the forest, as if he might encounter William wandering through the trees, but all he saw were tree trunks and brush. "I don't know how much luck we'll have, but I want to try to find him. I owe him that much."

Chapter 96:  Fitz

Instead of galloping toward the interior of the east wall, where demons were spilling over and fighting the courageous women still standing there, Fitz took a wide berth and rode around the retreating fighters, making sure they saw her charging in the opposite direction from which they were running, heading toward the demons. While she was riding, she cast one last glance back toward the center of Brighton. Still no Ginger, and no squadrons of mounted warriors.

The hopelessness was overwhelming.

The top edge of the circle wall was solid with beasts crawling over and dropping to the ground. The fraying end of her line was turning into a rout as the screams of a thousand fleeing women was loud enough to catch the ears of those farther down the line.

Her inexperienced army of housewives and old men was shattering, and Brighton's future was crumbling with every panicked step they took away from the battle.

None of the fleeing women saw that. None had room for bigger thoughts other than those of their friends running and the sharp teeth coming to shred their flesh. They only wanted to live through the next few seconds and minutes.

That was panic.

Fitz raised her sword as she thought this might be the end.

And then something happened.

The horses of her guard formed up on her flanks, galloping in the chevron formation she'd heard tell of so often in the tales. It wasn't something Fitz had ordered her riders to do, not something they'd trained for. The horses had done it on their own, carrying their novice riders the way they'd been trained since they first carried a rider.

The chevron!

Just like the stories of that great battle.

Women, the fastest of them, those farthest ahead of the others flew past, heading for the false security of Brighton's houses and buildings.

"Stand, and fight!" Fitz yelled. "Turn! Don't run!"

No one listened. All they did was swerve to avoid getting trampled by the oncoming wall of horses.

Fitz yelled again into the thick of the retreating women. Some women slowed, but none stopped; they were too easily carried by the fearful tide around them.

"Run and die!" Fitz shouted. "Stand and live!"

Ahead of her she spotted Adam-John, bloodied but able, running with a spear in hand, eyes wild with terror and seeing nothing but the trampled grass in front of him, the next place to drop his fleeing feet to get one more step from the monsters coming to steal his life.

Fitz yanked hard on her reins, stopping her horse, and it reared its front legs at the sky right in front of Adam-John.

Fitz's guard came to a stop.

Adam-John halted, looking up at Fitz and her horse.

The front hooves of Fitz's horse slammed hard on the earth in front of Adam-John.

Fitz pointed the sharp tip of her sword at Adam-John's face, drawing his attention up the length of the glimmering steel and into her fiery eyes. "Look at me!"

Adam-John's eyes were glassy. His mouth opened, but no words spilled out.

"Find your courage!" Fitz told him. "Die here, as a man, or die in the streets of the city as a coward!"

Adam-John looked over his shoulder at the women running past, at the demons coming behind.

"If you don't stand," Fitz told him. "All of us will die!"

One woman, and then another, came to a stop by Adam-John, looking at Fitz, hearing her words.

Fitz raised the tip of her blade and pointed it at the demon multitude. "I choose to fight until I have no more breath." She caught Adam-John with a piercing gaze. "Make your choice."

With Adam-John and the two women beside him still standing, Fitz spurred her horse and trotted around them. "Ride with me!" she shouted to her guard. "No demon will reach the city!"

As the horses reached a full gallop, Fitz passed the last of the retreating women.

She tore into the chasing demons, swinging her sword and letting her horse do what it had been trained to do, charge and trample, using its momentum to knock the demons down before killing them under its hooves.

With the wall coming up in front of her, Fitz veered in the direction of the main gate, to run along the face of the wall, stomping and hacking, her guard following. She already felt the weight of the sword in her untrained arm, already doubted she could haul it back for another kill, but she had no choice. She had to fight on until there was nothing more to give. All of humanity's future depended on it.

Demons were all around them, with more coming over the wall.

Fighters retreated all along the flank.

The whole western half of Fitz's defense was collapsing.

She rode through demons until a solid line of women was standing firm to her left, nearly two hundred yards from the wall, killing demons as they'd been trained, protecting one another with their formation. She'd come to the part army that hadn't retreated.

As she passed, a contagious cheer rose on voices that spread down the line.

Buoyed by the ovation, Fitz understood immediately that her value to the army was not in killing demons with her sword, but in bolstering the fragile spirit of her people, giving them a reason, helping them find the and strength to fight on.

She wanted to ride past the main gate and beyond, but she had to turn. She had to go back to where the lines had broken.

Leading the horses in a wide U-turn, Fitz saw the swath of broken demons marking the trail her small formation had taken through the throng, and that boosted her confidence more.

She kicked her horse and yelled, swinging her heavy sword.

Demons fell.

Blood splattered.

Her arm burned, and her hand felt numb wrapped around the hilt of the blade.

Where the line had disintegrated, far out in the field, a new line was forming, jagged, gapped, and messy, but taking shape.

There was hope.

Fitz led her horses along a path in front of where the clumps of women were gathering their courage and turning. "Fight!" she yelled. "Fight!"

Ahead, she saw a row of women, a hundred strong, straight, formed up as they'd been trained, shoulder-to-shoulder, strength coalesced from fear, spears pointing forward, efficiently killing the demons coming at them. And in the center of the line, taller than most of the women around him, Fitz saw Adam-John, spear raised, yelling orders and encouragement to the women and boys around him.

In the distance, galloping like a savior from out of the city streets, Fitz saw Ginger's flaming red hair flowing in the wind, with two hundred riders behind, swords raised, coming to kill.

They're here!

In front of the coming horses, Fitz saw her disintegrating army come to a stop, learning bravery from the coming riders. No, they're not just riders, Fitz thought.

They're a cavalry.

Tears of joy flowed down Fitz's face as she led her small formation in another turn, riding along the wall and back toward the main gate, to the center of the battle.

Chapter 97:  Oliver

"Did we win?" asked Oliver, giddy for having lived when he thought for certain he was going to die.

Jingo put a foot on the log and looked across the field. Countless demons lay in the grass, most dead, many dying. A smattering of twisted men walked among them, wounded and dazed, or just confused. Jingo pointed in the direction of the main gate. "The battle is inside the wall now. We've done our part out here."

"What do we do now?" asked Beck.

"We go in," said Ivory, jumping to his feet and tucking magazines into his belt.

Nodding, Jingo said, "He's right."

Oliver stood up, stiff from tension, sore in his shoulder from where the rifle had pounded him with every shot. "I'm ready."

Jingo gave everyone a quick look. "Make sure all of your magazines are full. Check your hand grenades. Make sure you have enough."

Oliver already knew his magazines were full, but he checked anyway. As the battle had wound down and there were fewer and fewer targets coming, Jingo and Beck caught up on keeping the magazines topped off. Still, Oliver checked the one in his gun and each of the six Kirby had given him.

"Tuck them into your belt, like I did," Ivory told him, walking over. "They won't do you any good in your backpack. You won't be able to get them out fast enough."

"What about the wagon?" Beck asked, pointing at the last few cases of bullets and hand grenades still on the aluminum cart.

"We'll come back for it," Jingo told him. "It'll do us no good to bring it along."

"It'll slow us down," Ivory added.

"Between us, with our magazines full, we've got over a thousand rounds of ammunition, plus what we carry for the pistols," said Jingo. "And we've got the hand grenades. I don't know how many demons await us inside, but we'll be able to kill a lot before we need to come back here to reload."

"Let's go, then," said Beck, "While there's still a Brighton left to fight for."

Rifle in hand, Jingo stepped over the downed tree, the rampart that they'd defended all through the battle. "Spread out," he told the others. "Walk in line, side by side, but about ten paces apart. Shoot anything that can still walk. Ivory, you take one end, Melora you take the other. You two are the best shots. Oliver, you're in the middle."

Oliver had killed his share of demons. He didn't need to be protected. "Why do—"

"As a favor to me," said Jingo. "Let's not take an unnecessary risk."

The group lined up and spread out, Oliver in the middle, Jingo to his left and Beck to his right, Melora on one end, and Ivory on the other. They walked at a brisk pace across the field in the direction of the main gate, shooting any demons still on their feet as they went.

Chapter 98:  Fitz

Panting, after what seemed like hours atop the horse, slaughtering demons with the aid of her cavalry, Fitz and her beast stood still behind the battle line where the people of Brighton, still fought side by side.

They weren't really fighting anymore.

Her fighters were advancing toward the wall, walking over the bodies of thousands and thousands of dead demons, exterminating those who were trapped between them and the wall who they now outnumbered.

Some demons were climbing the wall, trying to get back outside. More were running through the narrow gap in the open gate.

"We did it," said Ginger, from her horse beside Fitz's. "We won."

Fitz felt the battle in every joint and every muscle of her body. Her horse stomped and snorted. It was ready for more. "It's not over yet."

Ginger pointed at the line of women, advancing on the remnants of the horde. "They'll finish the brutes."

Fitz nodded at the gates, "We need to take the cavalry through the gate and kill all that we can outside the wall before they escape into the forest."

"But we've won," Ginger told her. "We don't need to risk ourselves."

"We do," Fitz insisted. "There may still be men out there, fighting for their lives."

"Winthrop's army?" Ginger spat. "They were coming here to tear down our walls and kill us all."

"Husbands, brothers, and sons," Fitz told her, not rising to the argument. "We need to save as many as we can."

Ginger nodded, respect written on her face. "Yes, General."

Fitz laughed. "I'm no general."

"Yes, my Queen?" Ginger smiled widely to let Fitz know the title was a bit of a joke.

"I don't know if I need a title." Fitz raised her sword. "You are the general of our cavalry, Ginger. Why don't you lead us out?"

"No," Ginger answered. "Lady Fitz, you saved us today. You lead us out."

Fitz stood in her stirrups and waved her blade in the air. "Don't clean your swords yet, ladies. We have more killing to do." Fitz pointed toward the gates. "Follow me."

She trotted her horse with Ginger behind and the cavalry lining up single-file to go back out through the gate for the second time that day.

Chapter 99:  Fitz

Fitz spurred her horse to a full gallop as she rode through the partially open gates.

Behind her, nearly two hundred women on horseback followed. A dozen demons loitered in the funnel created by the partially open doors, and Fitz killed one of them as she pushed through into the open. The cavalry behind her would take care of the rest.

Knowing she couldn't slow, Fitz galloped into the corpse-strewn pasture in front of the gates, looking quickly from right to left to gauge the situation. She needed to turn in the correct direction so she could lead her cavalry at what she expected would be hundreds—and hoped wouldn't be thousands—of demons.

What she saw surprised her.

Halfway to the forest, several hundred soldiers stood in no kind of order, with sagging shoulders and weapons hanging from their hands. Hours of face-to-face fighting had splattered them with so much gore that they looked human only in silhouette.

No live demon was close to them.

None of the army was fighting anymore.

They were the paltry remains of a military force nineteen thousand strong, the proudest ever assembled in the three hundred year history of Brighton.

The vicious horde she'd expected to find outside the wall was nothing but a few hundred upright demons scattered across a carpet of bodies, demons, men, and women. Most dead, many wailing as their lives seeped out through their open wounds.

The cracking thunder that Fitz had been hearing all day was more pronounced outside the wall, and she heard it again, popping in rapid bangs. Looking to her left, she saw many of the demons in that direction making their way over the corpses toward a line of five people in the distance.

They were the source of the abrupt thunder.

In front of those five people, the disoriented demons fell.

Fitz didn't understand what she was seeing. It didn't make sense that the demons would fall over and die just by going in their direction.

Fitz veered her horse toward the strange people.

The horses that had already made it through the gate rode behind her, and in moments, her cavalry was riding abreast, charging at the rear of the demons that were moving toward the noisy five people.

The hooves of the horses created a thunder so loud they drowned out all other sound.

The demons in front of Fitz's cavalry turned to see what was coming. Some stopped, some fought, and others stumbled. More sprinted away trying to save themselves.

None of those choices helped them.

All fell under the hooves and swords of her cavalry.

Seemingly as soon as it began, it was over. All the demons were on the ground behind her horses, dying or dead, and Fitz was slowing her horse as she rode toward the line of five strangers.

One lowered his odd, noisy weapon, and pulled a hood up over his head at the horses drew close.

Fitz rode straight for the shortest of them, the one in the center, the one she assumed was the leader.

The short one stepped forward as Fitz brought her horse to a stop. Fitz didn't believe what her eyes were telling her.

It couldn't be.

"Oliver?"

Oliver lowered the dull metal weapon he was holding as he walked forward, looking at her. "Fitz?"

Fitz wiped a bloody sleeve across suddenly damp eyes. "Yes, Oliver. It's me."

Confusion overrode Fitz's other emotions. She couldn't find any words.

"I—" Oliver didn't know what to say as his voice cracked and tears betrayed him. He ran to Fitz's horse, looking up at her the whole way. "Are you okay?"

Fitz almost laughed. She shook her head and said, "I'm fine, Oliver. None of this is my blood."

"I didn't think I'd ever see you again."

"I thought the same."

Fitz looked from Oliver to the strange device in his hands, the one she'd seen doing impossible things, just moments earlier. "Who are these people you are with? And what is that thing you are holding?"

"It's a gun," said a man, coming up behind Oliver. "A rifle. Tech Magic. Just like the myths."

Fitz looked at the thin, haggard man, and recognition triggered. "Minister Beck?"

"The same." Beck nodded, as he looked her up and down. "I have to admit, I'm surprised to see you on that horse."

Fitz tensed as the joy of her reunion faded. She lifted her sword, prepared to fight again. "You were expecting Tenbrook?" Fitz drilled Beck with a hard stare, a stare that said she didn't care about the weapon in his hand. She'd die for Brighton, if she had to. "Tenbrook's dead. And no one like him is coming back."

"Fitz is our leader," Ginger added. "You aren't anything anymore, Beck, except maybe a criminal." Ginger raised her sword, too.

"Beck's okay," Oliver said, stepping up and putting a hand on Fitz's leg. "He's—" Oliver glanced back and forth at the line of woman on horseback around Fitz. In a low voice, he said, "Before we left, I was working with Beck to overthrow Tenbrook. Beck's a good guy."

Fitz sat up straight in her saddle and looked down at Oliver. "Stay near me, Oliver. You and I will talk later." Looking down on Beck, she said, "Brighton has changed in your absence. There is no Tenbrook. No cavalry, except what you see here. No blue shirts, and no Council of elders. There is a New Council that governs Brighton."

Beck held a look on his face that said he wasn't sure how to react.

"What Beck means to say," said a strange man next to Beck, stepping forward and throwing back his hood. "Is that we want change, too."

Women on horses gasped.

Fitz tensed.

Ginger raised her sword.

"Wait!" Oliver yelled. "Stop!"

"Do I surprise you?" asked the hoodless, wart-covered man, looking only at Fitz, "A demon, a monster, who speaks?" He let his weapon hang on its strap and raised his hands. "I mean you no harm." He looked over at Beck. "Obviously, Brighton has changed for the better during Beck's absence."

"It has," Ginger spat. "What do you want?"

"Listen to him," Oliver pleaded with Fitz. "He's three hundred years old. He knows everything. His name is Jingo."

Fitz shook her head, ready to brush off Oliver's fantasy beliefs, but the confident look on Oliver's face convinced her to listen.

"I am three hundred years old," Jingo confirmed. "I am what you would call an Ancient. I lived in the time before the spore. I grew up in the magical times of your legends."

Shaking her head, disbelief clear on her face, Fitz asked, "Why are you here?"

"I am here to guide Brighton out of brutality and ignorance, if that's what you want," announced Jingo. "I'm here to help you. All of you."

"Please listen to him," Oliver pleaded. "He's my friend."

Fitz looked down at Oliver, inclined to accept his recommendation, even though the women around her looked on with equal measures of awe and hate. While riding up to the five, they'd all seen what the five's guns could do, killing demons at a distance with the noise of thunder.

But they'd been fighting through the whole of the day with demons that looked just like Jingo. It didn't make sense.

"You've seen what we can do working together," Jingo said, pointing all around them at the demons they'd slayed. "That is what we hoped for. We came here to help, as I said."

"How can we be sure of that?" Ginger asked.

"Perhaps you don't understand the power of the weapons we hold," Jingo said. "If you'll allow me, I'll demonstrate."

Ginger raised her sword at Jingo. "You don't want to do that."

"It's okay!" Oliver said, holding up his hands to calm everyone. "Let him show you."

Jingo pulled a strange, round metal device from his pants, pulled off a piece, and hurled it in the opposite direction. An ear-splitting crack echoed across the field as the device suddenly came apart, spraying dirt, pieces of dead demons, and fire in all directions.

"Melora, Ivory, show them what our guns can do," Jingo said.

The young man and woman next to Jingo turned around and pointed their strange weapons at five demons that were loitering out by the tree line, deciding whether to run or attack again. Ivory and Melora fired their guns across the distance. The demons all fell to the ground with blood spewing from wounds.

Fitz and her women stared at the aftermath in awe, looking between Jingo, his group, and the destruction.

"If we wanted to come into Brighton by force, we could," Jingo said. "That's why you must believe me when I say that was never our intention. We don't mean anyone harm. We're here to help you with your change, in whichever way you need us."

Jingo looked over at Beck. Feeling the weight of Jingo's glance, Beck agreed. "It's true."

"See, I told you," Oliver said, next to Fitz. "We're on the same side."

Before Fitz could consider a response, a woman on horseback came galloping up, stealing everyone's attention with her urgency. She glanced quickly between the strange group of people, Fitz, and the debris from Jingo's strange weapon. Then she said, "We've found Father Winthrop, Lady Fitz."

"Dead?" Fitz asked, though she had no expectation to the contrary.

"No," the woman answered. "He's terribly wounded."

Fitz nodded. "Bind his hands and feet and take him inside." Fitz turned to Ginger. "Tell Winthrop's soldiers they are welcome to enter Brighton if they give up their weapons and accept the authority of the New Council. Tyranny no longer rules. We do. They must respect that and they must treat women as equals, or they'll be exiled." She made sure to look at Beck as she spoke.

"What of these people?" Ginger asked, cocking her head at Jingo, Beck, and the young man and woman, apparently named Ivory and Melora.

"I'll deal with them," Fitz answered.

Chapter 100:  William

William ran until the screams in the distance were quieter and the thunder of the battlefield sounded like it was tapering off. He wondered if Winthrop's gods had finally gone quiet, mourning the loss of one of their brothers. Or maybe his arrogance had irked them and earned their enmity.

He didn't care. All he cared about was that he was alone.

The demons were no longer running with him. Their shrieks had long faded as they raced back toward the field, probably heading for whatever scraps were left behind.

William slowed as he reached a patch of forest with tall, wide trees, and a fallen oak, lying sideways. The ground was mostly open and covered with half-frozen moss. He found a narrow section of the fallen tree that was the right height to sit on. William's lungs heaved from the exertion of running, and his heart thumped rapidly in his chest. He needed to catch his wind.

He bent down, cleaning some of the remaining blood from his hands on some leaves, which were stuck to the ground from the cold. He looked around the quiet forest, then up at the clear sky visible through the tops of the trees. It was almost peaceful enough to make him forget the horrors he'd witnessed on the battlefield.

Something crashed through the forest from the direction in which he'd been running.

William looked around, wondering if his demons had disobeyed his commands. He searched for some sign of them, ready to tell them to go on their way again.

More crashes.

Voices?

He raised his knife.

Flashes of clothing through the trees told him he'd stayed too long. William got up from the log, watching as several blood-printed men ran into the open, catching sight of him before he could duck out of sight.

"It's the demon boy!" a man exclaimed, surprise lighting his face as he stepped into the open. He was clutching his ear, blood dripping through his fingers as he nursed a battle wound.

"I saw him in the field!" said another man with shaggy hair. "He killed Winthrop! He was helping the demons!"

"He killed our god!"

Fear turned to anger as the men shouted to some others behind them and a dozen others emerged, most covered in blood, theirs and their enemies'. One man was doubled over with bite marks on his stomach, coughing. But most were able-bodied and angry enough to kill William.

"You did this!" said the first man, with the ear wound. "You brought the demons to us. You killed our god!"

"Murderer!"

"God-killer!"

Hearing the shouts of others, several more men charged through the forest, catching sight of what was happening, their fear changing to anger as they found a focus for their retribution.

William backed up and raised his knife.

But the tree was behind him. He couldn't jump over it and run without turning his back, and if he did, he'd most likely be stabbed.

Twenty men surrounded him, swords drawn, murder on their faces. The demons were gone. William's twisted men were back on the field, fighting alongside their brothers.

William was alone.

Chapter 101:  Bray

Bray and Kirby mounted their horses and headed in the direction in which they'd last seen William going, listening to the distant shrieks of battle. They rode between trees and over beds of frozen moss and curled brown weeds, well outside the trail they'd been riding, into the thick overgrowth. Bray's arm still blazed with pain, but the strip of fabric Kirby had used to tie it off seemed to have stopped the bleeding. Bray kept his sword in his good hand and used his left to hold the reins, cussing under his breath from the pain of his injury as he guided his beast and the other horses. He watched for demons or danger.

"Are you sure we're going the right way?" Kirby asked.

Bray didn't need to ask her to know the double meaning behind that statement. "I know where I saw him," he said. "I have a good sense of direction, regardless of what you might think."

For one of the first times since he'd met her, Kirby resisted commenting.

They rode by bodies of dead demons, men, and women who had gotten far enough away from the battlefield to die in the woods. Bray found himself checking the ground as well as the forest between the trees, thinking he'd find a small body lying among the foliage. William might've survived the battle outside of the Brighton walls, but Bray didn't know how long his luck would hold.

He thought back to when he'd seen William running into the battlefield. Was that the last glimpse he'd have?

They'd been traveling for what felt like too long when screams and loud voices echoed through the trees.

Unlike the cries of battle, these were close.

Listening intently, Bray could almost pick out a voice that might be William.

"Up ahead! I hear something!" Bray said, charging through the underbrush and leading Kirby and the horses faster. Kirby didn't argue. She kept her gun out, clutching her horse's reins as she followed.

The cries got more insistent, frantic, as Bray and Kirby closed the gap. They saw glimpses of men through the trees, hollering and wielding their swords. Bray kept going, ignoring the pain in his arm and the sting of chafed skin from being dragged by the horse, recognizing the high-pitched voice he heard screaming in the distance. It was the same one who had screamed at him when he'd killed Ella.

William.

"Leave me alone! Get the hell away from me!" William yelled.

Bray wouldn't let William down again.

He charged through the trees, holding his sword ready as he entered an arena of blood-soaked, mostly shirtless men who had backed William up against a fallen tree. William's face was plastered with blood. One of the men held a knife that might've been William's, taunting him. Another cocked back a bloody fist, making it obvious he'd already hit William once.

Bray didn't hesitate. He slashed at the nearest man, cutting the back of his neck before he could utter a warning. Then he swung his sword again, knocking another man to the ground. The others had already turned to find Bray and Kirby coming through the trees.

"Get out of here!" Bray yelled at William. "Kirby, I've got them!"

Bray heard the crack of gunfire behind him, but he didn't stop charging at the men, slashing and fighting at one man who tried to swing at him. He knocked the man back with a slice to the chest, then cut another man's arm, knocking the sword from his hands. Anywhere he saw flesh, he struck. Having seen William bloodied, his seething rage was a force he couldn't quell. For too many days, Bray had watched William from a distance, kidnapped by these men, forced into who knew what kind of perversions.

William had always been just out of reach, too far from help, or surrounded by demons.

Bray had been powerless to do anything.

No more.

Bray directed his horse into the middle of the thickest cluster of men, knocking one aside and trampling others. He heard the screams of the men as his horse reared up and hooves met faces. He kept swinging at anything he could see, keeping a tight hold on the saddle so he wouldn't fall. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw William darting to the other side of the fallen tree and taking cover.

An enraged, bloodied man ran at Bray, but his head exploded before Bray could reach him. Bray didn't stop, even as he heard Kirby's ancient gun firing behind him. He charged at the men.

A group of four men coordinated an attack at Bray, running at the horse's flank. He slashed the air and cut them back, knocking a sword from one man's hand, cutting another's hand clean off. The wounded man cried out and stared at the bloody, dripping stump as Bray fought another. Numbers didn't mean anything to him anymore. He'd make good on his promise to Ella and William.

Soon, he was past the men and turning around for another charge, his breath heaving, his sword dripping blood. On the ground behind him were the bodies of over a dozen men. He watched as Kirby fired on several more wounded who were getting up, knocking them back to the ground for good. And then Kirby was grabbing for something in her pants pocket, lowering the gun.

What was she doing?

Four men remained. Their eyes darted from Bray to Kirby as they determined a next move. They were angry. Whether it was misdirected anger at losing to the demons, or the adrenaline of battle, they weren't giving up.

Bray figured out what they were going to do before they did it. One ran for Kirby, while the other three ran toward the tree and for William.

"Cowards!" Bray roared as he drove his horse after them.

Kirby screamed, "Get William!"

Bray rode at the men, swinging at the closest and knocking him down, then goring the second in the back. The man fell with a muted cry as the horse stomped over him. The last man was already over the log and heading for William, who had managed to get to the other side of it. Bray steered his horse in their direction, intent on leaping over the downed tree and striking him down, before he realized that the trampling, war-driven horse might not stop for William. At the last moment, Bray pulled up his reins and leapt from the saddle, hitting the ground with a thud. The landing shook his shoulder, but he kept going.

William was scrambling from the man's eager grasp, barely avoiding capture as the man leapt for what he thought might give him a chance at life. William's face was a bloodied mask of fear.

With a feral cry, Bray dove at the man, catching hold of the bottom of his pants and tackling him to the ground. The man fell with a thud, his wind burst from his body, and his sword flew from his grasp. William scurried just out of reach and to a safe distance in the trees. Bray clawed the man's back as he scooted up from the man's legs to his waist, pinning him to the hard ground. The man tried to turn his head as if to utter a plea, but Bray was beyond talk. He raised his sword with his good arm and sliced the back of the man's neck.

Bray heaved winded breaths as he watched the dead man's face hit the dirt. He held up his bloody sword.

He looked around.

It was as if he'd broken from a dream.

All over the forest, men lay dead. None moved. None threatened him, or William, or Kirby.

Kirby.

He looked over his shoulder, finding Kirby holding her gun over the body of the man that had run at her. She was grinning and sticking a thumb in the air. "I guess you do know how to fight," she said.

With the threat past, Bray turned to William.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

William wiped the blood from his face, but he didn't say anything. He looked as if he were too shocked to speak. His curly hair hung in a mop over his forehead, and his shirt had been pulled down over his back, exposing one side of the lump on the back of his neck. Another fear hit Bray. He recalled the words he'd overheard Jingo speaking in the Ancient City.

"Men descend into depravity after being infected, but some are able to avoid that madness by keeping their distance."

Was William mad? He considered the way William had run among the demons again in the battlefield. Was William too far gone? What if William's body was a shell, housing a vicious mind?

Maybe Bray had already failed William—and Ella—a long time ago.

"William?" he asked again, suddenly certain the boy wouldn't answer, that his suspicions were true.

William stared at him with a blank look, wiping more blood from his face, revealing a gash on his forehead that the men had caused. His eyes were the same brown color that Bray had remembered. He looked like he wasn't going to speak.

Slowly, the look on William's face turned to recognition.

"You saved me from those men," said William simply.

Relief washed over Bray at the sound of William's voice. "You're damn right I did."

"But why? You killed my mother." William looked confused, not angry.

"It was an accident," Bray said, looking around, as if more men might show up. "It might be the stupidest thing I've ever done. I took the most precious thing from you, and all I can do to make up for it is tell you I'm sorry and ask you to forgive me."

William stared at Bray, no expression on his face.

"Maybe we can talk later." Bray looked around again. "Right now, you need to believe me when I say we're trying to help you."

William watched Bray for a moment, as if he was deciding something. Or maybe he already had. His face bore none of the anger that he'd had when he last saw Bray on top of the tower. He seemed tired, in shock, maybe. The gods only knew what he'd been through.

He looked around at the dead, blood-printed men. Then he looked back at Bray. "Where will we go?"

"Anywhere but here. Let's hurry, before more of those savages show up."

William nodded. Then he collected his sword and followed Bray to Kirby and the horses.

Chapter 102:  Oliver

The afternoon was waning, and no living demon was inside the circle wall. Any outside had run so far into the forest that no one was worried they'd ever return.

Fitz's soldiers still stood in the towers along the walls, keeping watch anyway. The cohorts that hadn't had to fight were stationed at each gate, just in case the battle wasn't truly over. The piles of rocks keeping the main gates propped open were removed and the gate closed.

All of the wounded were being tended to.

Through it all, Oliver had stayed by Fitz, riding on a borrowed horse as she tended to all manner of decisions.

Finally, she had some time for him, and they'd rode away from the wall where all of the fighting had taken place. Fitz led Oliver to the temple, where they dismounted and walked up the steps.

Still covered in the grime of the battle, or in Oliver's case, the dirt of living in the wild for weeks, they both stood there, staring through the remains of the charred doors and into the blackened ruins of the Temple.

Fitz told Oliver the story of what had happened to Franklin, and Oliver cried while doing his best to suck his tears back in and stand straight and stern.

Finally, Oliver asked, "Is he still in there?"

Fitz gestured to the rubble under the collapsed roof, fighting back tears of her own. "Yes, but he's nothing but ash and bone. At least he's in the company of people who loved him."

Oliver nodded through his tears.

"In time, after the first days or weeks of pain pass, maybe that thought will soothe you," Fitz said. "But right now you need time to grieve."

Oliver blubbered like a woman, with Fitz's arms around him. He cried until his eyes hurt, his nose was running, and he couldn't cry any more. Feeling shame for his emotions, he wiped his face and pulled himself together enough to speak. "I'm not a child. And men don't cry. I'm sorry."

"You don't have to apologize. You loved him," Fitz murmured. "I loved him, too. Crying is what people do. It's okay."

Oliver shook his head as he let go of Fitz and turned around to sit on the steps.

Fitz sat beside him, close enough that they still touched. She put an arm over his shoulder. "I know Franklin was the closest thing to family you had. Now that he's gone, you and I will have to be one another's family."

Oliver sniffled and nodded.

"You can be my little brother."

Oliver put an arm around Fitz's waist and held her. "Why did Tenbrook do it?"

"Questions like that are only a way to torture ourselves," Fitz said. "We can't change what happened. Trust me, I asked a thousand such questions after Tenbrook killed Franklin. I berated myself for my choice to encourage Franklin to be what he was, what everyone in Brighton saw in him. He was a hope for something different, and that hope got him killed."

Fitz shuddered as she pointed across the square to the Cleansing platform, and the dais where the councilmen sat on Cleansing day. "All of this is evil. We watched while we allowed our friends and relatives to be burned. We all cried too many tears, and we all walked our sad path because we thought that was the only one ahead of us. Franklin didn't believe that. He went to the market and talked to everyone who would listen. He taught in the Temple, and he preached in the fields. Franklin was like a light in the darkness, and as I came to realize on all those nights when I was crying into my pillow, there was nothing I could have done to make Franklin anything other than what he was. He was destined to shine so bright that we'd all have to look."

Fitz was crying by then, unable to speak for all the grief coming to the surface.

Oliver and she sat together, holding one another until Fitz had cried away enough of her loss that she was able to piece her words together again. "Franklin was what Brighton needed. He showed us all the sickness in our city's soul, and he made us believe we could heal it, even though it cost him his life."

"Tenbrook killed him," Oliver spat, without the strength of the hate he thought would come with his words.

"Evil men can't stand in the light," said Fitz. "But what the Tenbrooks of the world will never understand is that when everyone heard Franklin speak, they became a part of him, and he became part of them. Tenbrook killed Franklin, but he didn't extinguish that flame." Turning to look Oliver in the eye, Fitz said, "Franklin lives in my heart, and your heart, and most importantly, he lives in the hearts of everyone in Brighton. He's the light in our darkness, showing us the way to reach the dawn."

Nodding as he dried the last of the moment's tears from his face, Oliver said, "It still hurts."

"It will, for a while," Fitz told him. "Maybe always."

"So you really are the new General Blackthorn?"

Fitz laughed, though her eyes were still full of tears. "No. I hope not. Maybe I'm the first Fitzgerald."

Oliver laughed, too, and snot burst out of his nose, which he wiped on his sleeve.

"Brighton is different now," said Fitz, pointing to the other side of the square, where Blackthorn's former residence sat on the corner. "I live there."

"In Blackthorns' house?" To Oliver, it didn't seem possible.

"You'll live with me, too," said Fitz. "There's room for ten or twelve, at least. Ginger lives there, too, and so do a few of the other women who are helping."

"Helping?" asked Oliver

"We have a New Council—not just three, but sixteen of us. We're trying to figure out how to make Brighton a better place."

"How will you do that?"

"In truth," answered Fitz, "we haven't had much time to talk about that part of it. We've spent most of our time preparing for this day. Survival had to come first."

"Survival?" mused Oliver sadly. "Father Winthrop used that word once when I asked him why we burned so many people on Cleansing day. 'Survival,' he said. If we didn't kill the unclean, the spore would taint us all and Brighton would die."

"This was a different kind of survival," said Fitz. "We had to defend Brighton."

Oliver apologized immediately. "You're right. I think you saved Brighton from the demons."

"We all did it together," Fitz corrected.

"I've heard so many lofty words," Oliver continued, "from Father Winthrop, from General Blackthorn, from Minister Beck, from Jingo. I saw all those men in Blackthorn's army get killed in the forest by the monsters. The demons killed the soldiers in a canyon on the way to the Ancient City, and they massacred us on a hill by the river. All along I heard words that made sense, and I heard words that sounded insane. Even when Father Winthrop spoke his insanity, everyone raised their swords and followed. And they all died thinking they were doing something noble. I don't understand. Maybe I'm too young. I know what words mean. But I see words lead men to do evil things, to one another, and to themselves. How do you know when your words are good words and not bad ones?"

Fitz wrapped her arm around Oliver and pulled him close again. "Maybe it's not your words. Maybe it's what's in your heart when you say them."

Nodding, Oliver said, "You have a good heart."

"So did Franklin," replied Fitz. "Let's try to keep that heart alive."

Chapter 103:  Bray

Bray, Kirby, and William rode the horses deeper into the forest. Every so often, Bray glanced back at William, as though he might disappear. Sometimes it felt like William was a ghost he'd been chasing since the Ancient City. But this William was real, and Bray would make sure he didn't go anywhere this time.

"At least we have someone to ride the extra horse," Kirby said with a smile.

William smiled back. He kept his fingers clutched on the reins as he rode.

They traveled away from Brighton, keeping a steady pace and looking out for danger. They hadn't seen any men—or demons—since the last encounter.

He wasn't sure where they were going, but the only thing they were clear on was that they needed to avoid Brighton.

They traveled for a long while, keeping a steady but appropriate pace for the horses, until the sun disappeared below the tree line and the sky turned crimson orange.

"We should find a place to rest," Kirby suggested.

"Not a bad idea," Bray agreed.

They kept traveling, until the trees around them were just getting dark and they came across a building that was three or four stories tall, covered by dying brown weeds, stuck in the middle of the forest and reaching above the tops of the trees, as though the Ancients had dropped it there.

"I've stayed in this ancient building a few times," Bray said, pointing at it from his horse. "It should be safe. We'll just have to find a place for the horses on one of the lower levels."

"I've stayed here, too," William said, recognition crossing his face as they halted their horses.

Bray looked back at him with a frown. "You have?"

"I stayed here with mom on the first night we left Brighton."

A wave of guilt hit Bray as he looked up at the old structure, which contained parallel layers of ancient stone, each with gaps about five feet wide between them where he could see inside the building, which was filled with shrubs and bushes. Square posts supported each level. He envisioned Ella and William staying there, keeping each other safe from the demons in the wild. That image gave him a sadness he didn't know how he'd ever be rid of. "Do you want to look for another place?" he asked William.

William stared up at the building, his eyes glossed with memories. For a moment, Bray thought he was going to tell them to keep going. "Actually, I think I'd like to stay here. It has a nice view."

"It certainly does," Bray agreed.

"We slept on the roof. We saw the mountains from up there. I think I'd like to see that again." William smiled.

Bray nodded, looking away. He wanted to tell William that he'd buried his mother on a rooftop, too, that he hadn't forgotten her.

He would, in time.

Sensing the mood, Kirby said, "Why don't we head inside?"

Bray and William agreed, and they guided the horses into the building, following the sloping floors up. The garage was darker than outside, filled with weeds and bushes, but enough light slanted through the gaps in the levels to see where they were going.

"At least I know what this place is, now," William said. "It's a building where the Ancients stored the objects that carried them from one place to another. Like the one we saw in the Ancient City, Bray. Remember?"

"I do," Bray said.

"Cars, you mean," Kirby said. "This is a parking garage."

Bray and William looked at her in surprise. "How did you know that?"

Kirby just smiled.

Chapter 104:  Fitz

Insomnia.

All those nights spent preparing for battle until she was ready to drop, planning and arguing, even fretting when she finally did get to bed, the last thing Fitz expected when the battle was over was insomnia.

She'd tried to sleep.

She'd laid in bed for most of the night, but a line of worries marched in circles inside her head, picking up recruits as they went, chanting her inadequacies, telling her that every solution to every question had a better answer than anything she thought of.

Finally, she gave up and went down the stairs to Blackthorn's great room, sat in his ornate old chair by his ancient table, and watched the embers smolder in the hearth.

One of the girls who kept the house tidy, one of Blackthorn's former serving girls, was awake and found Fitz. Before the room grew cold, the servant girl piled logs onto the fireplace, and then she asked if Fitz wanted breakfast, even though sunrise was still hours away.

Fitz reluctantly agreed.

Stroking the table's fine, polished wood, Fitz fought off memories of a naïve girl from a life that no longer seemed hers. Tenbrook had brutalized her at the table where she now sat. She'd never forget that, or what he'd done to Franklin.

Fitz still had wounds that ached in her soul, still wore scars on her skin, branded there by Tenbrook's inhuman fetish.

Time heals all wounds?

Can anyone live long enough to heal more than they bleed?

In the frenetic days preparing for the battle, Fitz hadn't given much thought to what victory would feel like. And now, instead of celebrating, she found herself with a new crop of worries.

Over against the wall sat an aluminum wagon filled with several boxes of bullets and hand grenades, Tech Magic hauled over the mountain by Oliver's new friends. Extra ammunition, they'd called it. They'd asked her to protect it, so others in town wouldn't steal it. The wagon was worth a fortune. It was a trove of power, and it was a reminder of a whole list of decisions that seemed to have no obviously good answer.

The wagon stood by the wall, not because Fitz wanted what it held, or knew what to do with it. She knew she had no right to steal property, let alone the most valuable thing that had ever rolled into the walls of Brighton. But she couldn't leave the wagon with Ivory and Melora. They were both staying in Ivory's father's house in a part of Brighton where people stole whatever they could sneak away with.

The wagon couldn't stay there.

Even letting Ivory, Melora, Beck, and Jingo keep their Tech Magic rifles concerned Fitz.

What evil could a man like Tenbrook reap with a rifle in his hands?

Round and round the worries went.

She'd had Jingo and Beck escorted by the cavalry to the Academy.

A mistake?

Possibly.

But Jingo had to go somewhere secure until the demon-killing fervor in town subsided and the women who'd won their battle could be counted on to face him with their heads, and not their hearts. Still, secrets never stayed under wraps for long. By morning, everyone in Brighton would know that a three hundred-year-old, wart-covered genius was holed up in the Academy.

Would the townsfolk decide he was a cannibal or a Tech Magic savior?

She pictured a mob of women with torches, building a pyre, or storming the Academy.

Would it come to that?

If it did, how many would die once Beck and Jingo started firing their rifles? Hundreds? Thousands? If Jingo and Beck were to be believed, the five with rifles had killed thousands of demons with no help from Fitz's army.

And having put Beck back with his people in the Academy, would the revolution he'd been plotting against Tenbrook be redirected against her and the New Council?

Fitz heard the sound of someone coming down the stairs, but she didn't turn her eyes away from the flame.

"Why are you up?" asked Ginger, as she came into the room.

Fitz shook her head. "I can't sleep."

Ginger paused and listened for sounds from outside. "The victory chants seem to have finally tired out."

"Yes, they stopped a while ago," Fitz told her, looking up to see Ginger's red hair standing out in every direction from her head. "I think the storm finally forced the tired townsfolk to get some sleep."

"The howling wind woke me up," said Ginger.

"It's snowing. Did you notice?"

"Yes." Ginger scooted a chair out and took a seat to Fitz's left. "Maybe the early snow means good luck this time." Ginger noticed the look on Fitz's face. "But it looks like you're still worrying. What about?"

"At this very moment?" Fitz looked back at the blazing fire in the hearth. "Brighton's future. The questions are all too complex, and I don't know any of the answers. What bothers me most is what happens when the next Tenbrook comes."

"There'll be no next Tenbrook," Ginger said firmly. "You're our leader. Where would a Tenbrook come from?"

"One day, I'll die," said Fitz. "And someone will come after me. Maybe that person will be good. I hope so. But everybody in Brighton knows the story of our founders, Lady and Bruce. Lady was strong. She knew everything, never made a mistake—"

"According to legend," Ginger interrupted. "But legends are just lies with all the crusty parts polished off."

"Yes." Fitz laughed darkly. "But I don't know who followed Lady as the leader of Brighton, or who came after. The legends don't tell us those things. But eventually those leaders led to Blackthorn, and Winthrop, and Tenbrook."

"And Beck," added Ginger.

"Do you think Beck's a bad man?" asked Fitz. "I never knew him well. I got to know Scholar Evan, and he held Minister Beck in high regard."

"I don't trust him." Ginger looked like she wanted to spit. "He was part of the Council."

Shaking her head, Fitz mused, "The Council was just Blackthorn, though, wasn't it? Everybody in Brighton knew who was in charge. And it wasn't Beck."

"But Beck was there at every Cleansing," argued Ginger. "How many burned while he sat on the dais and watched? His hands are as bloody as Blackthorn's."

"All of us watched," said Fitz. "Thousands, all afraid to raise a sickle or a pitchfork to a few hundred blue shirts and cavalry. Are our hands bloody, too?"

Ginger turned to the fire with a scowl on her face.

"What about Winthrop?" Fitz asked.

"A pig," spat Ginger. "Don't compare him to any woman in Brighton."

"No comparison," said Fitz, shaking her head. "That's another issue we face. With all his injuries, I don't understand why he won't die. What will we do with him?"

"Burn him, of course." Ginger sat up straight in her chair and turned to Fitz with an intense look on her face. "No one deserves it more than him."

"I agree," responded Fitz, "but when we put him on the pyre, does that not make us just like him? We'll stand on the dais and proclaim his death, and someone will put a torch to the wood, just as the Elders did to many others."

"Everyone will jump at the chance."

"And everyone will be guilty."

"Guilty isn't the right word," Ginger argued.

"Again, I agree with you," said Fitz. "But I'm afraid of what happens after that. Even if putting Winthrop on the pyre is right, will that make it easier to burn the next one? And the next? And if we do that, does there come a day when the pyre waits for anyone we dislike? And what about The Cleansing? Do we still burn the unclean?"

Ginger crossed her arms and slumped in her chair. "Maybe Winthrop will do us all a favor and die tonight."

"Knowing him, he won't. It's ingrained in his bones to hurt others," said Fitz. "While his heart beats, others will suffer."

"Let's burn Winthrop," said Ginger resolutely, "and then ban the pyre. Let's do away with it."

"What about the unclean?" asked Fitz. "What about the Cleansings?"

"You have a three hundred-year-old genius monster in the Academy. Maybe he knows."

"Should we put him on the New Council?" asked Fitz.

Ginger laughed. "I'm not sure what some of these women will do…"

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know," admitted Ginger. "I honestly don't. Half of the women in Brighton are pig-headed and ignorant. But…"

"But?"

Ginger smiled, and her eyes were a little glassy with held tears. "We beat the demon horde together. All of us. No General Blackthorn. No militia. No cavalry. We did that, we weak and stupid women." Ginger laughed out loud.

"No man will call women weak and stupid again," said Fitz, with resolve on her face. "Not in Brighton."

Chapter 105:  Beck

"You've been quiet ever since we got to the Academy," Jingo said.

Beck broke from his trance, looking from the chair he was sitting in and around the library, which was lined with mostly empty shelves, homes for books the Academy hoped to add to their meager collection. Ancient artifacts gave the shelves the appearance of purpose. Old pictures covered the walls.

Earlier, the room had been filled with the Scholars, welcoming him back. After the kind words had been said, almost everyone had retired to their quarters except Beck and Jingo. Beck could still hear some of Fitz's cavalry women in the hallway. They were shifting and talking, and it didn't sound like they were leaving.

"We should probably stay here a while," Beck said.

"A smart idea," Jingo said, nodding. "The townspeople are already deciding what to do with Winthrop. They don't trust us."

"I spoke with Adam-John about being my representative, until things settle," Beck said.

"Probably good, as well," Jingo agreed.

"He'll be requesting a seat for myself and a few others from the Academy on the New Council. And for you, of course."

"Hopefully they grant it," Jingo said with a nod. After a pause, he asked, "Are you upset about what happened to Scholar Evan?"

"I feel like his death has been added to the toll of many others on my hands." Beck stared from the walls, back to his hands. "Evan knew what he was participating in. But I feel responsible, just the same. Lack of planning and logic has led to many of the outcomes that have plagued Brighton. I was sad to hear of his death, and the deaths of the other insurgents."

Shame filled Beck's face as he realized he'd barely given a thought to the Academy—or Brighton—in his absence. He'd been too busy worrying about keeping himself alive.

"As you know, there is nothing that can be done to change the past," Jingo said.

"Of course not, but I hope to avoid such things from happening in the future." Beck sighed. "Perhaps being in the wild has given me a new perspective on what it means to survive. We separated ourselves from the demons by the circle wall, but maybe we weren't so different, after all."

"A keen observation."

Beck fell quiet for a moment, reflecting. "In any case, I'm glad to be back to Brighton. We'll see where things go from here."

Chapter 106:  Fitz

Unexpected pounding on the door startled both Fitz and Ginger.

Ginger stood with her hand on her sword, looking to Fitz.

"Who can that be?"

"I have no idea," said Fitz.

Ginger opened the door to a flurry of snow and Adam-John rushing in out of the cold.

Though Ginger had drawn her sword half out of its scabbard, no other person followed Adam-John in. She glanced quickly at the dark outside, and closed the heavy door.

"It seems no one is sleeping tonight," said Fitz, motioning to one of the chairs at the table.

"Why are you here?" demanded Ginger, suspicious.

"I saw the fire burning through the window as I crossed the square," said Adam-John.

"Why were you crossing the square so late at night in this weather?" Ginger pushed.

Adam-John was taken aback as he realized he was being interrogated. "I meant no harm." He pointed through the window in the direction of the main gate. "I was doing my work."

"Work?" Ginger asked. "What work do you have at night? You should be sleeping, like the rest of them."

"Ginger," Fitz said in a calming voice. "Let him tell us why he's here."

Adam-John turned to Fitz but glanced at Ginger once more, uneasy. "You may think it odd, but I gathered many of the Scholars and some volunteers who had their numbers." Adam-John paused, pursed his lips, and then continued. "We were counting the dead."

"Our dead soldiers?" asked Ginger.

"Why don't you sit?" asked Fitz, waving a hand again at the chair. "Ginger, would you run to the kitchen and see if you can get something warm for Adam-John to drink?"

"I'm no serving girl," Ginger shot back.

"Good people show their guests hospitality," Fitz told her.

Ginger scowled at Adam-John and then headed to the open door that led into the kitchen.

"We counted our dead soldiers, as well as the wounded," said Adam-John. "We also counted the dead demons."

Fitz nodded. "Why tonight, with the snow coming down?"

"Some kinds of knowledge can only be learned when they are available."

"I don't know what that means." Now Fitz was suspicious.

"Me, neither," said Ginger, coming out if the kitchen with three cups nestled in her hands. She crossed over to the table and sat them down, scooting one each in front of Fitz and Adam-John. She seated herself in front of the third cup.

"We made new weapons for the battle," said Adam-John. "We tried tactics that have never been attempted before. I believe it is important to know which weapons and which tactics were most effective. As we counted the dead demons, we tried to guess what had killed them: a spear, a stone, horse trampling, falling off the wall, or the large stones from the catapults…or bullets."

Fitz sat up straight and looked at Ginger, who was just as curious. "Bullets? How many did Oliver and his new friends kill with their rifles?"

"Nearly two thousand," answered Adam-John.

"You're lying," Ginger told him, with no hint of doubt.

"I'm not," answered Adam-John. "Go outside the wall when the sun comes up. Dig through the snow and look at the bodies yourself. If the wounds do not convince you, then look at where the bodies lay in the fields near the east gate. No one was there to kill them except the five with rifles. If you believe I'm lying, it's easy enough to find out the truth yourself."

Ginger huffed, but didn't say more about it.

"What else?" asked Fitz.

"It may seem obvious, but we won a great victory today. The numbers prove it. But nearly seven hundred women, men, and children were killed." Adam-John looked down at his hands in sudden shame.

"What?" asked Fitz.

"Most of our dead we found lying face down with bite marks to their backs and necks. It appeared to us they were slain while fleeing. If they had not fled… If I had not run away, fewer would have died."

"Cowardice kills," said Fitz.

Adam-John coughed, and seemed stuck.

"Speak," Ginger told him.

Looking at Fitz, Adam-John said, "I was a coward. I ran. When you rode that horse up to me in the battle, it shamed me. You made me stand my ground. You had courage, when I didn't."

"Are you trying to apologize?" Ginger mocked.

Fitz put a hand on Ginger's arm to silence her.

"Yes," admitted Adam-John. "I am trying to apologize. Fitzgerald, you saved me, and you saved Brighton." He drew a deep breath and went on. "I will not let false humility keep me from saying that I am more intelligent than most women. I'll admit, though, that it was bigotry that made me look down only on women. With the exception of Minister Beck and Scholar Evan, I'm more intelligent than every man I've ever met."

"So we're all stupid?" Ginger scoffed. "Doesn't sound like an apology to me."

"I am good at what I do," said Adam-John. "I study. I learn. I try to figure things out. But you, Ginger, have shown a talent with the sword, and led the cavalry with great success. And you, Fitzgerald, led Brighton. More importantly, you charged into the horde with only a sword in your hand and six riders at your back. You should have been killed. I thought you would be, but through your bravery, all of Brighton lives."

Adam-John took another deep breath and collected his thoughts. "I understand now that perhaps different people have different talents, and all those talents have value. No one is better than another. They are simply different. What I'm trying to say, in the most convoluted way, is that you have my respect. I can't speak for Brighton, but I can speak for the Academy. You have our respect and support as the leader of our city."

As unexpected as that was, Fitz said, "Thank you. Sincerely."

"What about Beck?" asked Ginger, not quite as taken by Adam-John's newfound humility as Fitz. "Oliver said he was planning to overthrow Tenbrook. Any child would guess he could only do that with the full support of his underlings in the Academy. Does he still have designs on making himself the king of Brighton?"

"That was never his desire," Adam-John argued. "We at the Academy saw the sickness in Brighton, just as you did. It was that sickness we wanted to cure. We wanted to cure it with knowledge."

"It sounded like swords to me," Fitz told him.

"It was," admitted Adam-John, "initially. But armed rebellion was only a means to make a change that needed to be made. Was that not the method you chose when you did away with Tenbrook?"

"It was." This time it was Fitz's turn to admit something.

"Our hope was to change Brighton's direction," said Adam-John, "to make it a less brutal, less superstitious, less ignorant place. The famine that General Blackthorn wanted to avoid by killing the army in the Ancient City could have been avoided through proper planning, based on facts and good choices, not Father Winthrop's superstition, or Blackthorn's fetish for sustaining his cavalry and his blue shirts at the expense of Brighton's welfare."

"We're in agreement on our goals," Fitz told him. "Do you believe together we can make Brighton this better place that you hope for?"

"We've taken a first step," said Adam-John. "I will work with you to succeed, if you'll accept my assistance."

"I will," Fitz told him, "but what of Minister Beck? Will he work with us, or will he undermine us and foment revolution?"

"He tells me he will support us," answered Adam-John, quickly. "However, he believes his experience in governance is too valuable to dismiss, and he wishes to do his part."

"He wants to be on the New Council?" asked Ginger, still not convinced of the Scholar's sincerity.

"He does," answered Adam-John.

"How do we know we can trust him?" asked Fitz.

"If my word has any value, I vouch for Beck. He is egotistical and self-righteous, but he is a good man. He will always put Brighton's needs above his own."

"You're just saying that because you're one of his girly Scholar boys," Ginger spat.

Looking at Fitz, Adam-John said, "Franklin and Oliver were Winthrop's novices. You worked for him, as well. Would you defend Winthrop's reputation?"

Fitz looked at Ginger.

Ginger glowered and changed the subject. "We're going to burn Winthrop."

Fitz nodded to confirm. "He doesn't want to do us the favor of dying on his own."

Adam-John looked disappointed.

"You're not happy about that?" asked Fitz.

"Burning Winthrop would be a fitting end. He's a wicked beast of a man."

"But?" asked Fitz.

"Before his death," said Adam-John, "Franklin spoke out against the pyre. After Tenbrook's fall, you spoke out against it as well. When will the last pyre burn? Or will we fall into the ways of our predecessors and repeat their mistakes?"

"Winthrop can't be allowed to live," Ginger argued. "You know that, don't you? Please tell me, with all the intelligence you claim to have, you at least know that."

"For his crimes," agreed Adam-John. "Yes, I know that."

"What do you suggest, then?" asked Fitz. "Do you have another idea?"

"Perhaps," said Adam-John, "you do not burn Father Winthrop. Instead, leave it up to the people of Brighton."

"Ask them?"

"Not exactly," said Adam-John. "If it were up to me, I'd pass the word that the pyre will be no more. Brighton will face its future without it. How we will handle the infected men and women? I don't yet know, but murdering them without knowing whether they might turn—or become more intelligent, like Jingo—is a sin that we can commit no more. Just the same, we cannot use the pyre to kill those who fall into political disfavor. We all know too well it has been used for that in the past."

Fitz and Ginger both nodded agreement.

"We should spread the word that if the people of Brighton want our last pyre to be for Father Winthrop, they'll need to build it with their own hands," said Adam-John. "Every woman, man, and child in town who wants to see him on the flames should bring one piece of wood and stack it in the square. At sundown tomorrow, if a pile of wood exists that is tall enough to do the work, we put Father Winthrop on the pole and send him to his gods."

"And if there is no pile of wood?" asked Fitz.

"Then the New Council will have another difficult question to answer next time they meet."

Chapter 107:  Ivory

After a long cold night outside, trepidation filled Ivory as he stepped through the front door of his house, the morning sun at his back. The last time he'd set foot inside, he'd found Minister Beck waiting at the table, telling him his father had died. Now the place was empty. He could still smell the faint remnants of the last rabbits he'd cooked, mixed with the odor of several rotting vegetables he'd left behind in his rush to get away and back to the Ancient City.

It was hard to believe how much things had changed during his last trip—for him, for Melora.

For Brighton.

"Come in," Ivory said, turning and motioning to Melora.

She walked in behind him. "This is your home."

"It is." Ivory shrugged as he looked around. "Although it doesn't feel like it at the moment. The house always has a certain strangeness to it, after so many days in the wild."

"It's bigger than my home in Davenport," Melora said.

They walked over to the table and set down their rifles and bags. Ivory began unpacking some of his things. "I'm surprised you wanted to stay out so long last night, helping Adam-John and his Scholars instead of coming back to sleep or celebrating with the others."

"The Scholars and volunteers were doing important work," Melora said, taking a seat at the table. "I liked watching you count. I thought I might learn something." She drummed her fingers nervously.

After days in the wild, Ivory had learned to read her mood. She wanted to say something.

"What is it?" he asked.

Melora sighed. "There was another reason I wanted to count the bodies."

Ivory stopped what he was doing and paid closer attention. "Were you looking for a relative?"

"No. All of Ella's family—my family—are dead. They were killed when Blackthorn spiked them." Melora sighed. "I was looking for someone else."

"Who?"

"Bray."

Ivory furrowed his brow. "You think he might've come back to Brighton?"

"I don't think; I know. I saw him when we were out in those woods shooting at the demons, Ivory. He was on a horse. I don't think you saw him, but I did."

"He was fighting the demons?" Ivory asked with surprise. "Or what was he doing there?"

"I don't know. I only saw him for a few moments. But I shot him, Ivory. I shot him, for what he did to Ella." Melora watched Ivory's reaction. She lowered her head, looking sideways at Ivory. She seemed guiltier for keeping her secret than for what she'd done.

"Most of the wounded were consumed by demons," Ivory said, as he thought about it. "He probably died."

"I didn't find his body when we were out looking. That's why I was out there. I wanted to make sure he was dead."

Ivory nodded slowly as he took a seat across from her.

"He deserved it, for what he did," Ivory said, taking her hands. "He killed your mother. That's reason enough." Ivory watched her. "I still feel bad about Ella, about William—"

"Don't, Ivory. " Melora looked away before she could finish the sentence. "I can't talk about it anymore. Jingo was right. There was nothing more we could do for William. Just like he said. But I think there are things we can do here."

Ivory reached across the table, taking her hand. "I agree with you." He looked around the room, then at the table, remembering the conversation he'd had with Beck. "A while ago, Beck offered me a way into the Academy. I wasn't convinced, at the time, but with Jingo here, it might be different. He has hundreds of year's worth of knowledge. He's like an encyclopedia."

"A what?"

Ivory laughed. "I'll explain it to you, some time."

Melora nodded. "You'd better." She smiled.

"I want to believe things will be better for us here."

"I hope they will be."

"We should get some sleep. We haven't gotten more than a few hours, in the past few days."

"I think you're right," Melora said. "I don't even remember what a bed looks like."

Chapter 108:  Fitz

The world was blanketed in a layer of fresh white snow. The clouds were the color of dirty cotton pulled over the sky, hiding the blue and the sinking afternoon sun.

Only the people of Brighton brought color to the world, wrapped in their winter clothes, with cheeks red from the cold as they massed in the square.

Over the heads of the women, men, and children, a haze of white hung in the air as their breath froze into fog, like the quiet hate that murmured between them, perhaps afraid to voice it out loud, perhaps ashamed of the choice they'd each made.

Branches and twigs covered the Cleansing platform, where generations of women had been shamed in their nudity before a thousand leering men as they were fondled and judged, crying out of fear that the pyre might take their loved ones. It was the place where Fitz pierced Tenbrook's intimate flesh with a razor-edged sword to make him feel the emasculating retribution of Brighton's oppressed meek, showing him their anger and strength.

For every woman in Brighton, the Cleansing Platform was the deepest pit of Brighton's shameful soul.

Father Winthrop stood at the top, not presiding over the affair, but tied naked to a pole for all to see. His face was a mask of scabs and oozing bites centered by the gaping hole of his sinus cavities where his nose used to be. Most of his fingers and toes had been bitten off. Whatever parts of him weren't scabbed were bruised. What wasn't bruised was crusted in filth, mud from the battlefield, or filth of his own making.

Even with a nearly unrecognizable face, everyone knew the body on the pole belonged to Father Winthrop, Councilman, Bishop of Brighton, erstwhile deity, self-proclaimed god of war, who hung there like a captured animal, suffering the vindictive blood lust of thousands.

The crowd stood far back from the pile of wood. They'd all seen their share of pyre deaths. They knew how those flames could singe anyone who dared loiter too close.

Only Fitz stood in that barren circle, one woman, alone with her torch, to face that grotesque monster. It was her choice, her responsibility to take the final step away from Brighton's dark past into its ambiguous future. She had to touch flame to wood and make it real. It was the moment the door behind closed and the path ahead opened up.

She suffered no qualms about what was about to happen. She wanted it. The people of Brighton chose it.

With the massive pile of green wood they'd collected, Fitz knew they wanted something more than just death.

They wanted Winthrop to suffer, and to suffer long.

Everyone in Brighton knew that dry kindling and seasoned logs burned the fastest, making the hottest flame. Everyone was an expert in pyre preparation, even those who had never built one. They all knew dry wood paved the quickest path to death once the flames started.

And they all knew where to place that first torch. Lighting dry wood all around the base would start the fire in earnest, and bring the fastest death, minimizing the victim's suffering.

But to put the torch at the top of the woodpile, especially a green woodpile, was a punishment saved for the Council's most hated victims. That kind of fire might burn all through the afternoon, slowly roasting instead of immolating, taking hours for its flames to roar hot enough to kill.

Alone, with the torch in her hand and the snowflakes drifting slowly down, Fitz climbed to the top of the pile, taking care where she placed each foot, making sure each step was solid.

With one eye swollen shut, Winthrop watched the torch out of the other. His breath hissed through his gaping sinuses, and he moaned words in a language no one spoke.

After climbing as high as she could venture, Fitz stopped, close enough to smell the stench of a man shitting down his legs, close enough that the puss and blood blew out in a mist from the wound on Winthrop's face and moistened her skin.

Enough demon gore had splattered Fitz the day before that such things no longer made her squeamish.

"Winthrop, do you understand what is about to happen?"

Winthrop's good eye spun wildly in its socket as he tried to find lucidity. After a long, uncomfortable moment, the eye settled on Fitz and Winthrop's head leaned toward her.

"Do you understand why you've earned this?" asked Fitz.

Winthrop's mouth slopped open and closed. His lips formed shapes around silent words, and then he stiffened.

For a moment, Fitz thought he'd just lucked into dying.

And then he spoke.

"I know you," Winthrop chortled, surprising Fitz with his sudden coherence. "You foul slut. You're no banshee. No Blackthorn ghoul. You're that stupid whore that Franklin burdened me with."

"I am what your malice made me," Fitz told him, feeling not anger but resolve. She waved her empty hand at the survivors of the war, who were all spread out in the square, all fixated, quiet. "We are all what you made us: dirt scratchers, pig chasers, ignorant peasants, and worthless whores. But we are Brighton. We're better than you. We are tomorrow's light."

Fitz held the flame close to Winthrop's face to give him a taste of what was to come. "You are yesterday's ash."

He wailed.

She dropped the torch onto the green wood near the top of the pile and turned to climb down, not looking back as Winthrop bellowed and the fire crackled on green twigs, slowly, ever so slowly, spreading.

Fitz crossed the width of the barren stone circle around the pyre and only turned around to watch when she was among her people.

Everyone looked on, patient.

They waited.

Eventually, the flames, small and yellow, found their way to lick Winthrop's damaged feet and he screamed in a shriek more shrill than any young girl.

Chapter 109:  Oliver

At the edge of the square, sitting on the steps of the Temple as the wind caught in the stone walls and whipped white flakes and gray ash around them, Oliver and Jingo watched black smoke rise into the sky, the result of Winthrop's fat burning off in the fire.

He'd screamed for such a long time, longer than anyone Oliver had ever heard on the pyre, so long that it made Oliver feel ashamed for taking part in such a cruel spectacle by having added his own green branch.

"Have you ever seen somebody burn?" Oliver asked.

"Not since the fall," answered Jingo, as he adjusted his hood over his head. "But back then, and in the years since, I believe I've witnessed every kind of cruelty a man can do to a man."

"Does it make you feel bad?"

Jingo nodded.

"Everyone must feel bad about it, right?" Oliver asked.

Jingo said, "Not always, but they should."

"Then why do it?"

"Why do we do such things?" asked Jingo. "Why did you do it?"

"I added a branch to the pile this morning when I heard they'd burn him if the pyre was big enough. I sat here most of the day, watching the pile of wood grow." Oliver clasped his hands together and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, still unable to take his eyes off Winthrop's flaming corpse. "I didn't feel wicked when I did it. Winthrop was a terrible, cruel, disgusting pig of a man. He's done things to me, to Franklin, to Fitz… He doesn't deserve to be alive."

"But?" Jingo asked.

"I didn't think I would feel so bad when Winthrop burned," said Oliver. "I thought it would feel like all the other times, when I looked at the clouds and pretended it wasn't happening. But I helped put Winthrop on the pyre. I put my branch in the pile. That means I'm partially responsible."

"That's okay," Jingo told him. "It's good that you feel this way."

"Why?"

"Because it means you are human," answered Jingo. "A good person. You feel empathy for others. Some of these others feel it, too, I hope. It means Brighton doesn't have to be a cruel place that kills its people. It means there's hope for the future."

"It hurts when you see people burn," said Oliver. "When you hear them scream. Growing up with it, it seemed normal. I hated it, but I got used to it."

"I'm not blaming you for being born here," Jingo said.

"I've been coming to the square since I was a baby, I guess." Oliver nodded at the square. "They did the Cleansings twice a year. Did I tell you that?"

Jingo nodded again.

"When my mom and dad burned, I cried. I wasn't supposed to, but I did." Oliver looked away with shame.

"Everybody cries." Jingo patted Oliver on the back. "It's normal. It's healthy."

"In Brighton, we aren't supposed to."

"I know. I never understood that." Jingo shrugged.

Oliver watched the fire burn a bit more before saying, "Minister Beck doesn't seem like an evil man, but he was part of the Council. For all my life, he sat up there on the dais while they put people on the pyre. Do you think he's empathetic? Do you think he's evil?"

"What do you think?"

"If you'd asked me two days ago, when we were in the forest, or at the settlement by the sea, I'd have said he was my friend." Oliver looked over at Jingo. "Do you think he'd say the same about me?"

Jingo nodded. "Now that you're back in Brighton, are you saying you don't believe he's your friend anymore?"

"Now that we're back, it's like he's not the same friend that escaped with me from the demon battle on that hill and saved my life in the river. It feels like he's Minister Beck again, and maybe he's a monster, because he did his part to make Brighton the place it was."

"Maybe," said Jingo, taking a long pause before proceeding. "But do you ever wonder if Brighton's past was cruel because it had to be?"

Oliver snapped his head around to look at Jingo. "Evil? Cruel?"

"Perhaps." Jingo shrugged. "I've learned many things through all my years, both by reading and by watching people behave, and it doesn't matter how much one knows. Sometimes the right answer is still difficult to find. Did you know there were once seven billion people on the Earth?"

"Billion?" Oliver asked. "I can't even picture what that means."

"Of course not. It is an unimaginable number, even for me. Now, if our little part of the world is indicative of how the rest of the world fared over these past three centuries, I'd guess there are less than a million people on the whole planet. Maybe fewer. That's one person today for every seven thousand that were alive in the days when I was a young man. If Brighton suffered a proportionate loss of life today, do you know how many people would still be alive in this city?"

"No." Oliver's head was swirling with numbers he was trying to figure his way through.

"Three."

"No."

"I'm serious," said Jingo. "Just three."

"That doesn't seem possible."

"But it is what has happened." Jingo straightened up and stretched his back. Sitting on the stone steps wasn't comfortable. "Which makes me think those three people would be pretty special."

"I guess," Oliver agreed.

"It makes me believe that the million people still left on Earth are extraordinary. It makes me think that it's easy for us to condemn their choices, like we're doing now, but we'd be wrong to do so."

"Why?"

"As cruel as Brighton's choices were in the past, maybe they were the choices that helped people survive."

"I think you talk in circles sometimes," said Oliver.

"It's okay to believe the past is cruel and still hope for a better future," said Jingo. "Just be careful when you judge others for their choices. Winthrop was part of Brighton's cruel past. And maybe because of him, the cruelty lasted longer than it should have. You and Brighton have chosen to put that past behind you. Perhaps you should not judge yourself, or others, too harshly in this circumstance. Focus instead on what you can do to make the future you want for the children you will one day have."

"I like that idea," Oliver said, looking up at the snow falling from the sky. He put up his palm, catching a snowflake in his hand.

"You know what?" said Jingo. "So do I."

Chapter 110:  Bray

Snow came the first night they stayed in the parking garage, leaving the forest peaceful and white.

With the sky still overcast and threatening to drop more snow, Bray and Kirby decided to stay another night. Bray's wound needed time to scab over and stop bleeding, and none of them wanted to get caught with no shelter should the weather turn into a blizzard.

The sun was setting as Bray, Kirby, and William climbed to the roof to catch a last glimpse of the horizon before they retired to one of the lower floors. All around them were blueberry bushes and small trees that had lost their leaves for the winter, leaving their gray branches standing against the white. Most of the tall brown grass stood through the snow, giving the horses something to graze on without risking the dangers of the woods all around them.

"How's your shoulder?" Kirby asked.

"I'll survive." Bray shrugged his good shoulder as he cleaned the wound. "At least, if you what you told me is true about gunshot wounds."

"Every one is different, but I think you'll be fine. It will probably just hurt like hell as it heals." Kirby smirked as she pulled out a flask and started drinking from it. "Believe me."

Bray didn't have to believe.

He knew.

After a while, William left their sides to explore the rooftop, as he'd been doing for most of the day and previous night, in between tracking game in the forest and making sure they had enough to eat. Bray and Kirby remained near the roof's edge.

"It looks like you taught him well when you were with him before," Kirby said.

"He really took to tracking, when I was traveling with him and his mother."

"And he's good at hunting," Kirby said. "I've never seen a kid eat so much rabbit in so few bites."

"I'm sure he's eating better now than when he was with the army. Did I tell you what they ate?"

"I don't want to know." Kirby made a face.

Bray gave a sideways smile at William, who was studying one of the half-frozen blueberry bushes across the rooftop nostalgically. Bray and Kirby looked past the tips of the trees at the mountains stretching across the horizon. Another long day was slowly turning to night.

"I haven't said anything more about his mother," Bray said quietly, after a long pause.

Kirby sighed as she took another sip from her flask. "Don't rush it. He's been through enough."

"Yeah, he has," Bray said. "And I still need to tell him Melora shot me." Bray grimaced.

"We'll have plenty of time to talk to him later."

Bray couldn't help his grin.

"What's so funny?" Kirby demanded.

"You said 'we.' Does that mean you're traveling with us?"

"For now," Kirby said evasively. "But I'm not giving you my guns." She laughed. "We'll see what happens. I'll come with you for a while, as long as you still promise to give me Blackthorn when I leave."

"Give you who?"

"The horse," Kirby said, annoyed.

"About that…" Bray smirked as he recalled one of his lies.

"That's not really the horse's name, is it?" Kirby deduced, with a knowing glance.

"No," he admitted.

Bray kept his smile as Kirby looked out over the horizon. William interrupted the silence by rushing over to them and pointing off the rooftop. "Over there!" he cried. "Look!"

Bray and Kirby got to their feet, startled enough to reach for their weapons. But William wasn't pointing out danger. He was pointing at something else. Tiny specks of snow were falling from the sky, landing on their clothing and coating the rooftop.

"It's snowing again," Bray said.

"It's beautiful from up here," Kirby said, spinning and looking at the sky.

Bray dusted some of the small, white specks from his shirt.

"I'm not showing you the snow," William said. "Over there."

He pointed again. This time they saw what he was looking at. Deep in the distance, in the direction of Brighton, gray smoke billowed into the sky. Even without being next to it, Bray could already recall the acrid smell of charred skin that probably accompanied it.

"Smoke from the pyres in Brighton," he said grimly.

Kirby's expression was equally grave.

They watched the smoke in silence for a few minutes as the snow continued to fall, until the storm obscured their view and dusk deepened. Turning to Kirby, Bray asked, "Does that mean the battle didn't go well?"

Kirby sighed. "Maybe peace will finally come to Brighton. Or maybe not. We'll have to see."

William cleared his throat, prompting them to look at him.

"I'm never going to know," William said resolutely. "Because I'm never going back there. Not in a million years."

Bray stared at William for a moment. "You know what, William? I'm not, either." Pointing at his shoulder, he said, "Bad memories."

"Where will we go, then?" William asked.

"There have to be plenty of places better than Brighton."

"Do you know of any?"

Instead of answering, Bray unslung his bag, taking out his father's map. He unfolded it as William watched in awe.  Flattening it out, Bray pointed at the lines and drawings, which were just visible in the fading daylight.

"What's that?" William asked.

"My father started filling out this map when he was alive. He never got to see much past Brighton or the other townships. I promised myself one day I'd fill it in. Maybe that day has come."

William stared at the map, unable to pry his eyes away from it.

After studying it awhile, Bray finally put the map away. "We should probably go downstairs and get some rest. If we stay up here, we'll wake up with a blanket of snow over us.  We'll have plenty of time to look for places tomorrow. But for now, let's get some sleep. Tomorrow's a big day."

"What do you mean?" William asked.

"Kirby is going to show us how to use her guns."

William looked over at Kirby expectantly. Kirby chuckled as they headed down to the lower level.

"Is that a yes?" Bray asked.

"We'll see."

THE END

Follow Bray, Kirby, and William in the sequel series, THE RUINS, available
now for pre-order on Amazon!

Final Words

Thank you for coming along on the journey through six books. It's been a journey for TW and I, as well. Hopefully you were surprised by some of the events that played out.

I have to admit, TW and I were, too.

When we started writing The Last Survivors series (TLS is what we call it between ourselves), we'd emailed back and forth a bit, and had a few phone calls, hashing out a bucket full of ideas and a rough concept of where our story would start, and how it might finish.

But like many things in life, plans go awry, or as I like to think, they evolve as better ideas supplant older ones. That definitely happened in TLS. And although the general arc of the story remained intact, we surprised ourselves how we moved along that path.

The most surprising character was Fitzgerald.

Fitz was only a minor character when we first introduced her, but as she got shuffled back and forth between the chapters written by Piperbrook and I, we each grew much more attached to her. Her interesting back-story and personality made her hard to get away from. It became easy to imagine Fitz in a growing role, such that she'd eventually became the central female protagonist, a role we'd initially planned for Melora.

Alternatively, William was slated to grow into the primary antagonist, eventually leading the demon army against Brighton. We grew to like the kid too much, and couldn't bring ourselves to do that to him. At least, not the way we had originally intended. Fortunately, we had Winthrop, who I'd planned to write as the Bishop of Brighton, but more in the vein that Franklin filled. But from Winthrop's very first scene, as I started creating him, I was tempted by the dark side of my imagination, and I shoved Winthrop down the low road until he grew into a truly vile man. As the story grew, he became the obvious choice for Brighton's central villain. (Of course, for a time, Tenbrook, another unplanned character, was reaching for that crown.)

Anyway, Piperbrook and I have had a great time writing this series, and we hope you've enjoyed it. We can't thank you enough for giving our stories a chance, when there are so many good books out there competing for your reading time.

As usual, I'll ask one quick favor, please go out to the website where you purchased your copy and leave us a star-rating and/or a few words to let others know what you liked or didn't like about the series. It makes a huge difference for us, and frankly, lets us know more about what kinds of stories to write in the future.

Thank you so much!

Bobby Adair & TW Piperbrook

P.S. Many of you have asked the question, what's next? For those who want more THE LAST SURVIVORS, THE RUINS (A sequel series to THE LAST SURVIVORS), will take place directly after the events of this book, and will follow Bray, Kirby, and William as they head into the wild.

You can pre-order THE RUINS, Book 1 now on Amazon. For a sample chapter, turn the page! Thanks again for reading!

THE RUINS (AVAILABLE FOR PRE-ORDER NOW!)

Chapter 1:  Bray

"Don't worry, I survived another night," Bray said, removing the bandage to check on the gunshot wound on his shoulder. "In case you were worried."

He grinned at Kirby, who was just stirring underneath her blankets, rubbing her eyes. She made a face at him, but didn't answer. William was lying next to her, still sleeping. Bray could see the thin outline of the boy's body, rising and falling as he breathed.

After escaping the battle at Brighton unharmed—except for Bray—they'd spent most of each day on horseback, working their way over the mountains and hitting deeper snow, heading east and north toward the settlement where Kirby's people were from, where they'd all breathed their last breaths, leaving her alone in an unfamiliar land.

When they were back down on the plains again, with the ocean on one side and the mountains on the other, they'd found places where the snow only thinly covered the ground and the horses were able to graze.

Bray, being unfamiliar with the landmarks, knowing he was in a part of the world he'd never travelled before, guessed they were getting close to the settlement.

Normally, Bray would've avoided traveling in the winter, preferring a warm bath and warmer women to keep him company, but he'd made the decision to leave Brighton, and he meant to keep it.

Now, with the morning sun peeking through the forest, spearing the snow-covered ground and fighting back the cold that seemed to have deepened overnight, Bray watched William sleeping. He was still concerned about him. They'd had a few conversations about his mother, Ella, but most of them had ended with William looking away, seemingly lost in a swirl of thoughts that had plagued them all since leaving Brighton.

Bray couldn't blame the kid.

They were all dealing with things.

Kirby stood from her blankets, and Bray glanced at the gun strapped to her side. She'd refused to let him fire it, telling him that it would be a waste to spend the ammunition on anything other than killing demons.

"We should be at the settlement today, right?" he asked Kirby.

"Yes," Kirby said, looking around the forest. "It's a few miles southeast."

"Your Tech Magic hurts like hell," Bray said, as he continued cleaning the bullet wound in his shoulder with some water from his flask. "I can't wait to get one of those guns for myself and try it out on something other than me."

Kirby chuckled quietly. "Tech Magic. You people from Brighton really are backward."

Bray frowned as he pointed toward the horses, which were drinking from the brook next to where they slept. "Backward? You were the one who had never seen a horse."

"The people in my settlement never had them," Kirby explained, not for the first time. "Just like your people never had guns. Horses were the things of legend. The knowledge of the old world—the Ancients, as you call them—is spread differently, depending on where we come from. I think that's something we're both figuring out, as we travel further from our homes."

"You're right about that," Bray agreed. He'd seen enough since the battle of Brighton to question what he thought he knew about the wild, though he wouldn't freely admit it.

After he'd finished cleaning and tying off his wound, Bray stoked the remains of the dying fire they'd built the night before so he could cook breakfast. Kirby collected her things, falling into the dark mood that seemed characteristic of her since they'd been nearing her settlement.

Bray noticed she'd been eating less, staring between the trees while she rode, and even missing some opportunities to make a joke at his expense.

He wondered if she was looking for ghosts.

Bray knew her people were dead. Kirby had told him several times what had happened to her settlement. She'd been very clear she didn't want to be there any longer than needed.

"Don't worry, you'll have food in your stomach soon," he said to Kirby.

"I don't feel much like eating," Kirby said.

"You're not sick, are you?" Bray asked.

"No, nothing like that," she answered vaguely as she walked over to check on William, a habit she'd developed over the last couple of days. Bray wondered if her sympathy for William—and the fact that they were both infected—was one of the things keeping her here.

Confirming William was still asleep, Kirby joined Bray by the fire. "Did you hear the demons howling last night?" she asked.

"I think so, but they never got close," Bray confirmed.

"With so many killed near Brighton, it's hard to believe there are any demons left," Kirby said.

"We'll be getting further away from Brighton. Who knows how many are out in other parts of the wild?" Bray shrugged as he reached for the rabbit from his bag. "All I know is, I'd feel a lot safer with an armful of guns." He grinned.

Kirby smiled back as Bray hung the rabbit over the fire on a stick. Movement from William's blanket distracted them. William was waking up. He rubbed his eyes, cast aside his blanket, and then pulled his shirt higher over his neck. It seemed like he was still hiding his warts, even though he was in no danger with Bray or Kirby.

Maybe he was ashamed.

"Did you sleep well?" Bray called over to William.

Confusion crossed William's face for a brief moment before he remembered where he was. "Yes," he said. "It was cold, though. And I thought I heard demons in the night." William stood from his blanket. "Did I, or was I dreaming?"

"It was demons," Kirby confirmed. "But we're okay. You don't have to worry."

William nodded, but he no longer seemed fearful of the twisted men.

And why would he be? William could talk to the vile, stinking things. Bray wouldn't have believed it, had he not witnessed it several times in the Ancient City.

A few times while they were traveling, Bray had seen William staring between the trees as the demons screeched far away in the forest. Bray had promised to keep William away from the twisted men. But with so many temptations in the wild, that promise was a continuing challenge.

Who knew taking care of Ella's boy would be so difficult?

"Thank god the demons didn't come near here." Bray turned the rabbit in the fire, hoping to change the subject. "They stink like a man who has spent three years in the wild without bathing. Nobody needs that stench ruining breakfast."

"We already have your stench doing that." Kirby laughed at Bray.

Ignoring her, Bray said, "As soon as we're done eating, we'll get moving."

**

After stamping out the fire, they rode the horses through several miles of smooth snow that was getting shallower. Kirby led, while Bray and William rode behind, sometimes single file when the trees were too thick and clustered, sometimes next to each other. Bray looked for signs of demons or men, but saw nothing except the small footprints of an occasional squirrel that had stayed out past the warm season.

"There's less snow here," William observed, looking at the ground.

"You're right," Bray agreed.

"We're heading toward the ocean," Kirby explained. "My settlement is on the water, north of the place you call the Ancient City."

"I still can't believe you've never seen the Ancient City," Bray mused.

"My people were so busy fighting off demons that we didn't have time to explore," Kirby shrugged. "We planned to, of course. But most days we were lucky enough to just eat."

"I remember you said your settlement was built with wood."

"Yes," Kirby said. "We built it in a valley by the ocean, down a slope, and protected by a wooden wall. Almost immediately after we landed our ships, the demons started attacking."

"Ships," Bray said, the word as much of a marvel as the concept behind it. "We haven't talked much about where you settlers came from."

Kirby looked away. "Across the ocean," she said. "I've told you most of what you need to know. The place I came from wasn't much better than here."

Kirby didn't elaborate, and Bray knew better than to push, especially with the mood she'd been in.

They continued riding until the snow transitioned to hard ground. The weather had warmed, but every so often, a frigid breeze blew, giving Bray a chill that made it worse than where they'd come from. Bray figured it was from the ocean. He'd felt similarly cold in the Ancient City.

They were riding up a hill, and the horses were working harder, bobbing their heads and keeping a steady pace. When they reached the crest, Kirby halted, putting up a hand so that Bray and William would stop, too.

"This is—was—my home," Kirby said, pointing down the hill.

Below them was a large, bowl-shaped valley, blackened by fire. Down the slope were thousands of trees that had been cut down to stumps, and the remains of what must be Kirby's people, now reduced to skeletons.

Past the bodies and the stumps were the remnants of the stockade—tall, wooden logs, many of which had been knocked over or burned, and dozens of tall, wooden houses that extended high into the air. On the shore, hanging half in and half out of the water, more incredible than anything else Bray had seen, were enormous, metal objects, the backs of them rocking with the swells of the ocean.

"Those are your ships," he put together.

"Yes," Kirby said sadly. "All that is left of them, anyway."

"They carried you here?"

"Yes, but they're too rusted and destroyed to use. Most are tipped, as you see."

"What happened to them?" William asked.

"They were washed up by a hurricane we had years ago," she answered.

"A hurricane?" William asked, furrowing his brow.

"A bad storm." Kirby fell silent as she looked across the valley.

After a moment of reflection, she trotted her horse into the edge of the valley. "Be careful," she warned, pulling her gun from her holster. "Last time we were here, the demons were making homes out of my settlement. I expect it will be even worse now."

Bray and William drew their swords.

They led their horses behind Kirby through the maze of stumps and bodies, unable to pry their eyes away from the destruction. Everywhere Bray looked was a skeleton, lying at some ugly angle, or bones that were scattered and no longer in the shape of a human. William stared from one to the next, as if he was recalling something. God knew he'd seen enough.

"During the days after the fire, and after the demons attacked, I looked for some of my people," Kirby said quietly as she rode. "Some of them ran into the forest. As I mentioned, some of them had gone crazy from the spore. But I thought the ones that were lucid would eventually come back to get more weapons, or to search for other survivors. None did. I'm pretty certain they're dead."

They kept riding between the stumps until they reached a gap in the wall. Bray peered through the broken timbers, catching sight of the tall, wooden buildings that stood all over the settlement and crept several stories into the sky. The structures had large, square bases, but narrowed as they got higher, leading up to what looked like observation platforms at the top. Past them, about a hundred yards away, were the ships and the water. Bray saw no signs of demons anywhere.

"Maybe the demons left," he said. "That will make it easy to get the guns and leave."

Kirby nodded as they rode quietly. "The guns are in one of the ships," she said. "We'll go right there, and then we'll leave."

They kept on, riding next to one of the buildings.

William tensed on his horse. He pointed. "What was that?"

Bray and Kirby followed his gaze. Deep in the distance, down by the water, two men with bows crept across the ruined settlement. It looked like they were heading for the ships. Like Kirby, they wore strange, green and brown clothing, but their hair was long and unkempt, so much that it looked to be in a few, solid tangles. Bray could just make out some strange markings on their faces.

"It looks like some of your people survived," Bray said, looking over at Kirby as they watched the men in the distance. "I recognize the outfits."

Kirby glanced sideways at Bray with a look of fear that he'd never seen her wear. "Those aren't my people."

THE RUINS BOOK 1 AVAILABLE FOR PREORDER NOW ON AMAZON!

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Since THE RUINS isn't out yet…

If you'd like to read something else by T.W. Piperbrook, the CONTAMINATION series might be your thing. It's a fast-paced, action-oriented zombie series with a twist. Check out the Boxed Set HERE.

If you'd like to read something else by Bobby Adair, Ebola K might be a good choice. It follows the collapse of the society through the story of several people struggling through an ebola epidemic. GET IT HERE.

Text copyright © 2016, Bobby Adair & T.W. Piperbrook

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author/publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, places, or events is purely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Contents

TITLE PAGE

CREDITS

PREFACE

THE LAST SURVIVORS - BOOKS 1, 2, 3, 4, & 5 RECAP

Chapter 1 - William

Chapter 2 - Oliver

Chapter 3 - William

Chapter 4 - Bray

Chapter 5 - Oliver

Chapter 6 - William

Chapter 7 - Bray

Chapter 8 - Oliver

Chapter 9 - William

Chapter 10 - William

Chapter 11 - Bray

Chapter 12 - Oliver

Chapter 13 - William

Chapter 14 - William

Chapter 15 - Bray

Chapter 16 - Fitz

Chapter 17 - Oliver

Chapter 18 - William

Chapter 19 - Oliver

Chapter 20 - Oliver

Chapter 21 - William

Chapter 22 - Winthrop

Chapter 23 - Oliver

Chapter 24 - William

Chapter 25 - Oliver

Chapter 26 - Bray

Chapter 27 - Bray

Chapter 28 - William

Chapter 29 - Oliver

Chapter 30 - Fitz

Chapter 31 - Oliver

Chapter 32 - Fitz

Chapter 33 - Bray

Chapter 34 - Fitz

Chapter 35 - Bray

Chapter 36 - William

Chapter 37 - Jingo

Chapter 38 - Fitz

Chapter 39 - Jingo

Chapter 40 - William

Chapter 41 - Demon

Chapter 42 - Bray

Chapter 43 - Fitz

Chapter 44 - Bray

Chapter 45 - Bray

Chapter 46 - Fitz

Chapter 47 - Fitz

Chapter 48 - Bray

Chapter 49 - Fitz

Chapter 50 - Fitz

Chapter 51 - Bray

Chapter 52 - Fitz

Chapter 53 - Fitz

Chapter 54 - Fitz

Chapter 55 - Bray

Chapter 56 - Oliver

Chapter 57 - Fitz

Chapter 58 - Fitz

Chapter 59 - Fitz

Chapter 60 - Bray

Chapter 61 - Fitz

Chapter 62 - William

Chapter 63 - Bray

Chapter 64 - Fitzgerald

Chapter 65 - William

Chapter 66 - William

Chapter 67 - William

Chapter 68 - William

Chapter 69 - Winthrop

Chapter 70 - William

Chapter 71 - William

Chapter 72 - Oliver

Chapter 73 - Fitz

Chapter 74 - Fitz

Chapter 75 - Oliver

Chapter 76 - Winthrop

Chapter 77 - Fitz

Chapter 78 - Bray

Chapter 79 - Jingo

Chapter 80 - Winthrop

Chapter 81 - Fitz

Chapter 82 - Fitz

Chapter 83 - Fitz

Chapter 84 - Jingo

Chapter 85 - Fitz

Chapter 86 - William

Chapter 87 - Bray

Chapter 88 - Winthrop

Chapter 89 - Fitz

Chapter 90 - Melora

Chapter 91 - Bray

Chapter 92 - William

Chapter 93 - Bray

Chapter 94 - William

Chapter 95 - Bray

Chapter 96 - Fitz

Chapter 97 - Oliver

Chapter 98 - Fitz

Chapter 99 - Fitz

Chapter 100 - William

Chapter 101 - Bray

Chapter 102 - Oliver

Chapter 103 - Bray

Chapter 104 - Fitz

Chapter 105 - Beck

Chapter 106 - Fitz

Chapter 107 - Ivory

Chapter 108 - Fitz

Chapter 109 - Oliver

Chapter 110 - Bray

Final Words

The Ruins Chapter 1 - Bray

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