The Last Escape Read online

  A surge of water cascaded over the edge of a precipice.

  Ella covered her mouth at the sight of the waterfall. The rushing water was both beautiful and dangerous. She'd heard stories of waterfalls, but she'd never seen one herself—neither in Davenport nor Brighton. Bray watched her reaction.

  After a few more steps, William cried out. "Boot prints! Full ones!"

  Bray and Ella ran alongside him and studied his findings. The prints were round and unmistakably human, but overlaid with the bare tracks of demons. Ella shuddered with fear.

  "They're being chased," Bray concluded. "Three survivors, judging by the prints. And several demons."

  Ella considered the demon they'd seen in the water. Hopefully the other monsters had shared its fate. They pushed on, hiking up the bank, following the prints in the wet ground and the slippery moss. The tracks were scuffed and frantic. Midway up the incline, Bray stopped and pointed at the imprint of a hand.

  William had already forged past it. Bray shouted his name, and the boy doubled back. They stared at the wet earth. Ella traced the outline of a palm, the indent of thin fingers in the mud.

  It looked like a girl's. Or maybe Ella just wanted to believe that. It could just as easily be a young boy's.

  Ella took the lead. She charged up the incline, as if the survivors might be waiting for them at the top. Her boots slipped in the wet soil. She sensed Bray and William behind her, following her closely. Her sword and her bag swung wildly, but she tore on, stopping only when she'd reached level ground.

  The river's current raged over the falls. Trees lined the bank, leaning out over the water. She scoured the shores, hoping to find survivors, demons, or any answers to her questions.

  Please don't let us find bodies.

  But she found nothing, save more footprints to follow.

  Ella continued at a frantic pace. Her pulse quickened. Each demon footprint was a reminder of the fate that might've met the survivors.

  The fate that might've met Melora.

  Chapter 15: Blackthorn

  Blackthorn stood on the dais, looking out over rows of farmers, tailors, cobblers, and merchants too poor to buy themselves or their sons out of service to the militia. They stood in ragged rows in the square—six hundred men, drilling with axes, scythes, and swords, most weapons and tools that had been passed from father to son for generations. They followed commands with a sloppy laziness that exposed their true thoughts. They hated the drills. They believed they were a waste of time. Because of that, a day would come when the beasts would gather in tromping hordes and rush at the line of them. The militia's petulant attitude toward their training would be paid for when that day came. It was only through training, commitment, and experience that men could be transformed from individual pig chasers into a solid, unbeatable mass. Sure, some would stand—a few warriors, brave of heart. But the rest would run. Many would even shed their weapons to lighten their load. It wouldn't matter. They'd all die.

  That was the point, wasn't it?

  They'd die, so that the lucky townsfolk who remained behind might live rather than starve. A sacrifice for the greater good.

  Blackthorn's only other hope was that, in the coming slaughter, enough would remember their training that their lives would be traded for a goodly number of beasts.

  All of these men had been training since the day of their seventeenth birthday. Militia participation was compulsory. They all drilled for a solid week at least twice a year with their six-hundred-man cohort. Each cohort could be activated within half a day. That was the heart of the system that Blackthorn had instituted. After the last great demon war, he swore that the townships would never be at the mercy of a cavalry of too few men, and the wavering bravery of volunteer farmers.

  Across the three townships and the twenty-seven villages—twenty-six villages, now that Davenport had been dealt with, thanks to Ella Barrow—twenty-two cohorts could be mustered, equaling thirteen thousand men. Add to that the eighteen hundred men in the city guards, and the elite of them all, the cavalry, and Blackthorn had over fifteen thousand men to take to war on the demon hordes.

  Among thirty-five thousand women and children, that would leave a sparse two or three thousand adult men across the townships, none of whom could swing a blade. Or so they claimed. Blackthorn knew most of those were merchants, or sons of wealthy merchants who supported Blackthorn politically and financially, to avoid their military duty. The question for Blackthorn was how many of his precious cavalry, how many of the city guard, and how many of the militia he could leave behind, and still avert a famine for those who stayed.

  To answer that question, Captain Tenbrook walked beside Minister Beck along the far edge of the square, Scholar Evan in tow. They were coming to deliver Tenbrook's assessment of Beck's famine prediction. They were coming to deliver the dire news of how many needed to die, so that the rest could live.

  Blackthorn turned his attention back to his rows of militiamen and waited.

  Chapter 16: Beck

  Through a light flurry, under pillowy gray clouds, Beck walked into the square. Lines of militiamen stood rigidly at attention. He turned to Tenbrook. "This isn't the time of year for drills. These men should be all in the field, harvesting what they can before the early freeze."

  Shaking his head, Tenbrook said, "Superstition wins."

  "They still don't believe they can harvest until the full moon, despite the snow?" Beck asked, rhetorically. He snorted. "Ignorance will kill us all."

  "It's what they believe," offered Tenbrook.

  "Will General Blackthorn do nothing to force them?"

  "Though most of us would like to believe otherwise, General Blackthorn's power is not absolute."

  Beck shook his head and looked back to Evan. "How pervasive is this devotion to superstition?"

  Evan's face turned thoughtful. "Interestingly, Novice Franklin came to me with a similar question."

  "And?" Beck asked, irritated to have to ask twice.

  "I don't have a full answer yet. It's not as black and white as it seems. May I provide you with some conclusions in a day or two?"

  Beck frowned and looked back at Tenbrook.

  Tenbrook took the opportunity to switch topics. "While I was sitting with Scholar Evan this morning, he spoke of his ideas about mortality rates and population levels."

  "Oh?"

  "Yes, due to punitive measures taken to enforce our laws."

  Beck glanced harshly at Evan. He'd have preferred not to have this discussion with any of Blackthorn's lackeys. It was on the table, though, so it made no sense to avoid it. He stopped walking and turned to Tenbrook. "Evan told you how excess executions in one generation leads to smaller populations in subsequent generations?"

  "Yes."

  "What about that do you question?"

  Tenbrook looked at Evan and said, "My understanding is that, if not for the excess executions, we'd have more people alive to fight off any demon horde that might come before our walls. At least, according to your scholar, here."

  Scholar Evan stood quietly, hands at his sides.

  "Yes," Beck said, nodding. "It follows that more people will give us all a greater chance for survival during a war."

  "Yet, we face famine," said Tenbrook. "We can't feed the people we have. It seems the executions have been good for us. If not for them, famine would have come to our doorstep many years ago."

  Beck hadn't thought of the two contradictory problems in that light. Perhaps this Tenbrook was smarter than he'd given him credit for. He looked at Evan. "What are your thoughts?"

  "It would have made no difference," Evan answered.

  "How is that possible?" Tenbrook scoffed.

  Evan looked at Beck, waiting for permission to speak. Beck nodded.

  "You see," Beck began, "if a thousand more people were alive right now, some would be soldiers, some would be merchants, and some would be farmers. More farmers produce more food. It is simply a question of proportion. We would still
face the problem we face, only we would have more people to face it with."

  Shaking his head, Tenbrook said, "Why do we face this problem now, after three hundred years? What has changed?"

  Beck cut in, "As well-read as you are, you know this isn't the first time we have faced famine."

  "No," answered Tenbrook, "but on the other occasions, there was some proximate cause, was there not? One time an infestation of rats ate through the grain stores. One time a demon horde came over the wall in winter and ruined our supplies. There has always been some specific event. True?"

  Beck nodded. It was true.

  "The only proximate event we have is the weather." Tenbrook held out his hand, letting a snowflake alight his palm. "We have always had weather fluctuations. Why is this cycle so different?"

  "Proportion is the proximate cause." Evan answered. "After the last great demon war, General Blackthorn reprioritized military service. My belief is that an unintended consequence of this was a larger clergy class to shepherd the souls of men whose consciences were not hardened for war. It also resulted in a more influential and larger merchant class as a support system for the general's militarization."

  "Please explain further," Beck told him.

  "Yes," Tenbrook agreed.

  Evan rubbed his palms together, a nervous habit that preceded something he'd rather not say.

  "You opened this line of questioning," Beck told him, "Out with it, man."

  Evan looked at the ground, "Let me start with a hypothetical. Suppose you have a lone village of a hundred men, women and children—twenty-five men, twenty-five women, and fifty children of various ages."

  "Roughly the proportional mix of our population, right?" Tenbrook asked.

  "Roughly," Evan confirmed. "The children do what they do. They help with the chores. They eat. They play. Some learn, but most don't. The women tend to the children, prepare the meals, assist in the fields, and see to the needs of their men. The men are the farmers or soldiers or merchants." Evan looked at each of the other two.

  "We understand so far," Beck told him. "You are not talking to simpletons."

  "Yes, of course." Evan looked around nervously again. "Suppose all of those twenty-five men were farmers. In that case, they could produce more food than was necessary. They could store food away to feed them during drought or blight. They would likely never go hungry. All available resources would be allocated to food production."

  Shaking his head, Tenbrook said, "In that hypothetical village, everyone would die."

  "Exactly," said Evan.

  "Why?" Beck asked, irritated he hadn't already reached the conclusion.

  "There'd be no one to fight the demons when they came," said Tenbrook.

  "Exactly," Evan confirmed.

  Nodding, Beck said, "Of course."

  "If, instead, all of those farmers were soldiers," said Evan, "they could defend themselves from demons but they would all starve, because there'd be no one to grow the food and tend the pigs."

  "Of course," said Beck.

  "Indeed," said Evan, "If they were all merchants, all scholars, or all clergymen, you get the same result. Is that as obvious to each of you as it is to me?"

  "Yes," said Beck. "Of course. You belabor your hypotheticals. Let us move on to the meat of your argument."

  "My argument is that a society functions—maybe not thrives, but functions—when you have a balance of farmers and soldiers, when you have enough farmers to feed and store, but also enough soldiers to defend the village."

  "That makes sense," said Tenbrook. He pointed at the militiamen in the square. "Farmers can be both, though."

  "Of course," said Evan. "But in our society, we also have men who are solely one or the other. In addition, we have merchants and clergy—people who add a benefit to our society, but don't fill a role necessary to its survival. The point I'm trying to arrive at is this: for a given number of people, we must have a certain proportion of farmers. Farmers must support the needs of everyone and store away food for the future. If the proportion of farmers falls too low, famine will come. Farming is a long-term process. Fields must be cleared one year and planted the next. Animals must be allowed to have babies so that the herd grows with the population rather than shrinks. For too many years, the proportion of farmers has been too small and we have killed our animals too young. We have too many soldiers, too many merchants, and too many clergymen. That is the problem, Minister Beck and Captain Tenbrook."

  Beck had never thought of the situation in that light, but now it seemed completely obvious. Tenbrook nodded, admiration for Evan's analysis clear on his face.

  Beck said, "A sustainable proportion must be restored."

  "Yes," Tenbrook agreed.

  "Well," said Evan, "As we've already discussed, that alone is not enough to avoid the famine. The famine is inevitable. With this early snow, it will come this winter. On that point, there is no doubt. The only question is the date of its arrival."

  Tenbrook said, "I'm certain of the question General Blackthorn will ask. How many people can we sustain?"

  "I don't understand," said Evan.

  Tenbrook looked sternly at Evan. "Given our current food stores and herd counts, if you could wave a magic wand and reduce the population size to a sustainable level, what would that number be?"

  "Assuming we moved forward with an eye to maintaining the correct proportion of farmers?" Evan asked.

  "Yes," Tenbrook answered.

  "The number would be thirty-one thousand."

  Tenbrook's shoulder's sagged. "Thirty-one thousand?"

  "The situation is dire," Beck confirmed.

  "Nineteen thousand people would effectively have to disappear or stop eating for the rest of us to avoid a famine."

  Beck nodded. He knew this number already. "You and I both know the chaos that follows a famine. Only one in ten or twenty will survive. If we don't find a solution at least forty-five out of fifty thousand people might die."

  Pursing his lips and scratching his head, Tenbrook said, "That makes a loss of nineteen thousand souls seem almost palatable."

  Chapter 17: Ella

  After cresting the hill next to the waterfall, William cried out, "Over here!"

  Ella ran to her son's side, following a path of soft ground that had been worn through the grasses next to the stream. A log had fallen from one bank to another, creating a bridge. On the side closest to them were a slew of tracks. She traced an invisible line over the worn bark and to the other side, seeing imprints on the distant shore.

  "Look over there. Blood," Bray noticed, pointing at the middle of the log.

  Ella studied the dark stain and swallowed the sick feeling in her throat. The air was thick with demon scent. She searched the rushing current but saw no evidence of anything, human or otherwise. If someone had been injured, they'd kept going. Either that or they'd been swept away by the rapids. She pictured the demon they'd seen further downstream, its body swollen, its lips blue. She shuddered.

  She studied the turbid water. The thought of crossing made her dizzy. The river spit hungrily, ready to claim them. William was already mounting the log, prepared to make his way across.

  "Be careful," Bray warned. "The bark's slippery."

  Ella sheathed her sword and leapt onto the log. She grabbed hold of her son's shirt, steadying him. They made their way across. She kept her eyes glued to the battered, wet wood. Her legs shook at the prospect of falling, and she focused on putting one foot in front of the other. Soon, they reached the other side.

  When they were safe, Bray climbed after them. Unlike Ella, he kept his sword in hand. His pace was much faster, and within seconds, he'd leapt onto the bank with a grunt.

  He pointed to several boot prints in front of them, filling in with a light coating of snow.

  "See the way the boot prints turn? They were waiting for one another," he noted. "It looks like they all made it."

  "I don't see any more blood," William affirmed.

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nbsp; They trekked on, until the roar of the river faded and the ground became hard again. They followed the faint traces in the leaves and bramble. Several times, Ella glanced over her shoulder, checking for demons scrabbling after them, but the smell of the monsters had dissipated.

  The path was broken and easy to follow—evidence of animals and earlier travelers, according to Bray. "I don't come this way often," he said.

  "How come?"

  "Too dangerous. Demons often choose the way of least resistance. You're more likely to encounter them here than deeper in the forest."

  "What about the tree bridge? Don't you cross it to get to this side?"

  "No. I would've crossed where the stream thins. There's a place where you can step over the rocks, if you tread carefully."

  Ella nodded as she walked, asking questions between breaths. "Where do you think the survivors are going?"

  "My guess is they don't know the area well. They're traveling like the demons or the soldiers would; their concern is to put distance between them and Davenport." Bray stopped to examine a scuff on the ground. "I don't blame them, but they'll be easier to catch that way. If they were smart, they'd veer off into the forest."

  Ella stayed silent, contemplating the Warden's words. The perils he described could just as easily happen to them. Blackthorn's men would check the paths—not only for the survivors, but also for her.

  They traveled for another hour, navigating the twists and turns of the narrow path, listening to the intermittent chirps and chatter of woodland animals. A few times, critters skirted through the trees, scared up by the traveler's footsteps or reacting to the sudden cold and snow. She thought of the deer they'd seen several days prior, wondering how many other strange animals lurked in the forest. They were days away from Brighton, miles away from Davenport, isolated from everything she knew.

  As the path narrowed, so did the group, and soon they were traveling one behind the other, holding back branches and skirting overgrown thicket. They'd just rounded a large oak tree when William ducked into the forest.