Jared jerked the tip of the Marmack's knife away from his face for a second time and felt his left arm start to tremble. His strength was fading. The apostate was stronger than he was and they'd been wrestling on the narrow walkway atop Bountiful's southern wall for what seemed like hours already. He'd been trying to reach his own knife for some time now but the man had his right arm pinned.
After letting Bountiful's defenders waste arrows and stones on ill-equipped cannon fodder, the Marmacks' elite troops had come over the wall like dogs on a bone. The fact that a good part of the Blessed's fighting force was struggling to contain the destruction caused by the Marmacks' catapults meant that the walls weren't as fully manned as they might have been. Whoever was leading the Marmacks knew their business.
The man on top of Jared grinned, displaying twisted teeth the color of mud, and suddenly doubled his efforts. Just as his arm was ready to buckle and Jared was beginning to realize that this might really be the end, the Marmack shifted his weight onto his left knee, freeing Jared's left leg. Acting more on instinct than rational thought, Jared brought his knee up between the man's legs as hard as he could. The man let out a feral squeal of pain, blowing spittle and rank breath into Jared's face. Suddenly the worst of the apostate's strength was off of him and Jared flipped him onto his back, unsheathing his own knife in the process and ramming it deep between the Marmack's ribs. He twisted the hilt and pushed up; the man died with a wet gurgle; dark blood stained his greasy beard.
Pulling his blade free, Jared stared lightheadedly down at the man he'd just killed and took several slow breaths. If there had been any other enemies nearby he would surely have been killed, but when he shook off his shock a moment later and looked around, he saw that he was the only person left alive for at least thirty feet in either direction. The ramparts were thick with the bodies of Marmacks and Blessed alike; many of the raiders had come over the wall without stopping, leaping off into the village below, intent on stirring up violence inside Bountiful itself.
The horrible cracking noises had ceased, for the moment anyway. Peering over the battlements to make certain his section was truly still for the moment, Jared found the nearest ladder leading down and made his way to the gates.
Elder Betenson was yelling at a group of men bracing the great oaken doors with timber. They'd managed to stop the battering ram for the moment then. Jared had to stop and catch his breath before attempting to speak.
"What's happened?" Jared croaked. Elder Betenson, momentarily satisfied with the reinforcements to the gates, looked at him with bloodshot gray eyes.
"What're you doing off the wall, boy?"
"They've retreated from the southeastern corner," Jared said.
"Who's left in your unit?"
Jared only shook his head. Elder Betenson grimaced.
"Good you came to me then," he said, turning to call out orders. "Hamblin! Bennion! Cluff! The southeastern corner needs reinforcements!"
Reinforcements doesn't quite cover it. Maybe he's trying to be encouraging.
Elder Hamlin, who had a nasty looking gash running down his cheek, called back in frustrated defeat.
"Where am I supposed to find the men for that?"
"Send half of the riflemen up," yelled Elder Betenson. Elder Hamlin looked as if he might argue further, then shut his mouth, nodded, and turned away, beginning to bark orders himself. Elder Betenson always held the riflemen in strict reserve; they were meant to be a last line of defense. If he was using them now....
"Is it that bad?" Jared asked. Elder Betenson nodded grimly.
"We bloodied them well enough, but we lost half of our men doing it," he said.
Jared swallowed and felt panic grow in his chest. He forced himself to avoid asking about friends and family, of either of them—he didn't want to know. Not yet.
"They've pulled back," Elder Betenson said, "but they'll come again soon. They've got the numbers."
Jared couldn't help but breathe a sharp sigh of relief when he saw his father running down the gate lane to them. Elder Meacham clapped his son on the shoulder and spared him a small smile, but then got directly to business.
"One of the Scouts just reported in," said Elder Meacham. Aside from being dirty and smoke-charred, Jared's father looked in one piece.
"Which one?" asked Elder Betenson.
"Cragun."
"What about Holdaway?"
"No one else has come back," said Elder Meacham. "Cragun says the bottom of the peninsula's swarming with Marmacks, Glade. The force they've got here is just a fraction of them."
"That's it then," said Elder Betenson. "Come with me."
Jared followed his father and the master at arms, not knowing what else to do at the moment. Elder Betenson led them to the Council building.
When they entered, Bishop Royce was standing in the main entryway instructing a group of Deacons, who were obviously being used as messengers. Jared saw Dallin Orton among them.
"A word, Bishop," said Elder Betenson. Bishop Royce dispatched his young pages and joined them. No one told Jared to leave, so he stayed.
"How's it going?" asked Bishop Royce. "Last update said that—"
"In short, not well," said Elder Betenson. "I'm sorry to be curt, Farren, but we don't have much time. Where's the prisoner?"
The conversation Jared heard over the next few minutes made the blood leave his face.
Apparently a small group of raiders that had gotten over the western wall at the beginning of the attack, while the catapults were still active, included a somewhat high-ranking Marmack clan leader. A bowman had recognized the complicated combination of Marmack markings that indicated his rank and knocked him out with a blunt arrow once he was inside the walls. Elder Betenson had ordered him chained and held. The Marmack had so far responded to all attempts to question him with filth and violence.
It was the means of said questioning that Jared found shocking. Elder Betenson did not mince words when he described his intentions. A few minutes later the Bishop led them to Storehouse 2, which served Bountiful as an armory. The Marmack was shackled and shut up in one of the small, locking, windowless rooms that served as safe repositories for dangerous weapons and substances. After collecting a few implements from an adjoining room, Elder Betenson entered the room himself, asking them to wait for him outside and fetch him if any reports of Marmack movements came in.
The next ten or so minutes were tense for Jared and, he thought, his father and the Bishop as well. No one spoke; Jared's father looked bleak. Bishop Royce was clearly praying. There was shouting from within the room, which stopped quickly. A few minutes later a scream, then silence; then shrieking like Jared had never heard from a man's mouth that trailed off only after a full minute had passed. There was some muffled conversation then, and more yelling that cut off suddenly, with ominous finality.
Elder Betenson emerged from the little room a few moments, wiping his hands on a rag. Jared felt his own hands trembling and clasped them together to make it less obvious.
I don't know what's worse, he thought: the fact that Elder Betenson just tortured a man to death or the fact that my father and the Bishop just stood and listened to it happen. He shivered involuntarily and felt sick. And so did you, he reminded himself.
When Bishop Royce opened his eyes, they were wet with tears.
"There are over three thousand Marmacks on the peninsula," said Elder Betenson, without preamble or prevarication. "Bishop Royce, my official recommendation is that we begin evacuating Bountiful at once."
Neither of the other two men argued. Jared knew perfectly well why they didn't, too: there were around 300 people in Bountiful, only 120 of whom were legitimate fighting men, and a solid half of those were now dead or wounded. Even counting women and children, they were outnumbered ten to one.
"We may still have a chance if we use the northern Scout tunnels," Jared's father said. "The Marmack presence at the tip of the peninsula has been minimal."
"See to it, please, Elder Meacham," said Bishop Royce. "I'll join you momentarily."
"What of the storehouses?" asked Jared's father.
The Bishop spent a moment in thought.
"Every family in Bountiful should have emergency supplies prepared, Bishop," said Elder Betenson. "We cannot take all of our provisions with us. As of now they can only aid our enemy."
"Fire them," said Bishop Royce. The two words seemed to have cost him something, just by saying them. They hit Jared hard as well, though for a different reason. The idea of destroying the storehouses reminded him of something, he just couldn't think of what. It didn't matter now.
Elder Betenson turned to Jared's father.
"Tell Hamblin and Higbee to use the oil reserves," he said. "They'll burn faster, and hotter."
Elder Meacham nodded.
"What about Ever's party?" asked Jared suddenly. "If we leave...they'll have no idea what happened to us. If they come back, and we're not here—"
"I'm afraid we can't worry about that right now, Jared," said his father. "We'll be lucky to get out of here alive as it is."
"I'll go," Jared said. He said it without thinking. Either that, or he'd been thinking about nothing else since the attack had begun. Since he found out Ever was going north, maybe. The three older men shared a look, but none spoke. Jared took this as encouragement.
"I can track them easily enough," he explained. "Catch up with them, let them know what's happened."
"Which only means they'll know where we're not," said Elder Betenson, "if and when they ever get back here. How will you find us?"
Jared's father was nodding in agreement.
"Better to wait until we have some idea of where we're headed, at least," he said. "Then we can send someone out—"
"No," said Jared, surprising himself as much as Elder Meacham. Jared never interrupted his father, let alone disagreed with him publicly on so important an issue. "If there are that many Marmacks on our peninsula, there's no way of knowing how many more of them might be in the region. We know they've been scouting us for months, and we know they've come by boat to Red Rocks and the Neck. As far as we know, they're based out of Jerusalem, right?"
Elder Betenson nodded, his face unreadable.
"Then it would stand to reason that they've at least scouted the land to the northeast. I talked to Elder Orton. He sent Ever and the others across Jerusalem Sound this morning." It was hard to admit to himself that she was gone. He'd been so busy staying alive that he had barely had time to think about it.
"You think they're walking into a trap," said Bishop Royce.
"If not a trap, then at least a more dangerous situation than they anticipated. There's just..." he began, not sure how to say what he was trying to say.
"What is it, son?" asked his father.
"Take your time, lad," said Elder Betenson, as calm as if the entire village wasn't coming down around their ears.
"This is it, isn't it?" Jared said. "Bountiful's done for. If we can get out, we'll be taking hundreds of women and children into Marmack occupied territory, hoping against hope we can get some of them away.
"Ever—the party going north is our last hope," he finished. "Wherever we go from here, if they can't find what they're looking for, there may be nothing left for us."
Bishop Royce looked at him carefully, then put his hand on Jared's shoulder.
"I gave up trying to predict Heavenly Father's plan for us a long time ago. I say we let him go," he said, looking at Elder Meacham. "That is, if you can bear it."
Jared's father was looking at him strangely and Elder Betenson, of all things, was chuckling.
"I figured the boy'd find a way to go after that girl, Barek," said Elder Betenson, clapping Jared's father on the back. "I'm surprised he didn't manage it sooner." Elder Meacham frowned at Elder Betenson, then looked back to Jared.
"Someone has to do it, Father. It might as well be me."
After a moment, Elder Meacham nodded. He was nothing if not decisive.
"Ready your things, then. Say goodbye to your mother. I'll meet you at the Bringhurst Scout tunnel."
* * *
Jared stared at the full scout pack propped against the headboard of his bed. It was smaller than the heavy, framed trekking packs Ever and Acel and the rest had gone off with; Scout packs were designed for speed and stealth. It contained only the most basic necessities for surviving in the wild, plus a few extra items Jared had added, just in case. It was made of leather and oiled canvas. Its straps and buckles were adjustable and detachable, for use as slings or splint bindings, if necessary.
It hadn't taken him any time at all to get it ready. It had been packed for days.
He had started packing the night he found out Ever had been chosen to go north. She hadn't had time to seek him out, then, and he wasn't ready to talk to her yet in any case. The idea of her leaving was still too fresh. But that night, after his parents and his younger sister were asleep, Jared took the pack down off the wall and began filling it with gear. He'd added a few things each night since, finishing last night before going to bed with his eyes wide open.
It was as if there was a veil carefully placed between the part of Jared's mind that openly accepted the fact that Ever Oaks was leaving on a journey from which she might not return and another, less accessible part that nonetheless acted of its own volition. He hadn't allowed himself to pierce that veil. It was in that other, secret part of himself that Jared found the determination to pack his things for a departure he hadn't yet accepted as inevitable. And it was in that same corner of himself that the feelings that buzzed in the presence of Ever herself secretly lived and grew.
He left his house quickly and found his mother and sister helping with the fire-fighting crews. He knew as soon as he laid eyes on them that his father had already been there. His mother's face was blackened with soot, if also fierce with determination; his sister looked tired and scared. He hugged them viciously and didn't stay long enough to crack the brave façade he knew they were all putting on. When he left tears had made narrow, clear pathways through the grime on his mother's face.
Then Jared made another decision that he had, he realized, also been coming to for days: he sought out Erlan Ballard.
He found him shadowing his father, Elder Ballard, in precisely the same way that his father shadowed Elder Cardon. The three of them formed a strange little procession wherever they appeared across Bountiful; Jared could have found them by the villager's complaints alone. Apparently both Elders Ballard and Cardon, and by extension Erlan, felt it beneath their dignity to join the bucket brigades that were still at work putting out the worst of the catapult fires.
Jared had to pull Erlan away—literally—but eventually he managed to get him alone. The nearest private space was the council building, which was full of the Bishop's pages and scribes, who were frantically carrying out a variety of orders related to the evacuation of Bountiful. The quietest place in the building turned out to be the council chamber itself.
The room was dark and empty, but the sunlight that shot through the high, narrow windows in broad beams gave it a peaceful atmosphere at odds with the chaos that reigned outside.
"Well? What is it?" asked Erlan. "What was so important that it couldn't wait?"
"They're evacuating the holdfast, Erlan," said Jared. Erlan raised his chin a fraction upward.
"I already know that," he said. "My father and Elder Cardon were in the middle of discussing the matter when you showed up. I hope you didn't drag me in here just to tell me something I already—"
"Just shut up and listen," Jared said. His patience with the boy in front of him—who despite being the elder of the two of them Jared nonetheless thought of as a boy—had officially been exhausted. "Ever's gone. She left with Acel and Rolan and Chy when the attack broke out."
"What?" said Erlan, angrily. "No one told me—how can they just leave?"
"I told you to shut up. Elder Orton got them out as soon as the Marmacks arrived at the gates, and the Bishop backed up his decision. The point is they're gone. They're headed north."
"Three elders abandoning Bountiful at a time like this?"
"Come on, Erlan," said Jared, "you know as well as I do that if this attack didn't break us, the next one would. We can't stay here. We've got to find someplace else to go."
"I do not know that, Jared," said Erlan. "What I know is that Bishop Royce made a decision to abandon our home without a vote of the council—and without the advice and consent of his first advisor, I might add. Elder Cardon is furious. The fact that Royce and Meacham are cowards doesn't—"
"What'd you say?" Jared's voice was eerily calm. He stepped closer. "Say it again, Erlan."
His friend—was he really his friend anymore? Had he ever been?—swallowed visibly, his face slackening.
"I didn't...I may have spoken too qui—"
"I'm only going to say this once, Elder Ballard, so listen close. You're entitled to think whatever you want. You're entitled to say whatever you want, no matter how much of a damned fool it makes you look like. But one thing you never seem to have learned is that everything has consequences. There will be some if you go on talking like that."
Erlan didn't respond; Jared couldn't read his face. Was he angry? Afraid? Both? It didn't matter, he supposed.
"Look, Erlan," he said, "I don't have time for this. That's not why I'm here. I'm here because I'm going after her. After them. Someone needs to let them know what's happening, and they could use the extra man anyway. I'm here to ask you to come with me."
In any other situation, the look on Erlan's face would have made Jared laugh. He looked like Jared had just asked him to turn apostate and take a Damned wolf for a pet. Given the current circumstances, however, all Jared felt was disgust.
"Are you—are you serious?" said Erlan. "That's the most—why would I...?"
"Damn it, Erlan, she's your wife!"
Erlan laughed. He actually laughed.
"My wife? In some technical way, I suppose, but really, Jared..."
"In some technical way?" Jared repeated, incredulous. Was he actually hearing this?
"—you're being a bit dramatic, don't you think?" Erlan finished, a strange smirk on his face.
Jared paused, staring over Erlan's shoulder into a high shaft of sunlight.
"I can't believe we were ever friends," he said.
"Is that supposed to mean we're not, anymore?" Erlan said.
"I just...I can't believe you, Erlan. I can't believe this is the man you've become."
"Who the hell are you, anyway?" Erlan snarled, his anger sudden and vicious. "You think because you're popular and good with a bow—th-that...th-that makes you better than me?" He was stuttering. Erlan had stammered as a little boy; his parents had thought it incurable until he suddenly got over it when he got his growth. It only came out now when he was very upset.
"No, Erlan."
"Some friend you are," he continued, his eyes shining with something like hate. "Some friend who has d-d-dalliances in the w-woods with the girl promised to his best friend. You think I don't know? You think I don't hear what people say?"
"I don't know what people say, Erlan," said Jared. As little as he wanted to be having this conversation right now, he found Erlan's anger refreshing. He'd been beginning to think his old friend didn't care about anything or anyone at all.
"No, of course you don't, because Jared Meacham doesn't care what anyone thinks. Jared Meacham's above all that. Jared Meacham does whatever he wants. Jared Meacham—"
"Come with me, Erlan," Jared said, trying one last time. "We'll go after her together. We'll make sure she's all right. You and I can work all this out—"
"Hah!" barked Erlan. Jared stopped talking and watched as Erlan seemed to get ahold of himself. When he spoke again, he had his voice under control; he was the same, emotionless Erlan again.
"If you care about her so much, you go after her. You two deserve each other. She's a—"
Jared glanced at him almost lazily.
"Think about it," Jared said.
Erlan held his tongue.
"Goodbye, Erlan," Jared said. "God be with you."
* * *
His father, stolid, unimpeachable, and ever-present, was waiting for him outside the Bringhursts' cellar. Something must have shown on Jared's face, because his father began to look concerned. Thankfully, he misinterpreted what it was.
"They'll be all right," Elder Meacham said. His mother and sister. That's why his father thought he was upset. Jared just nodded.
"Here," his father said, pushing something heavy into his hands. Jared looked down, felt cold metal and oiled leather.
"A pistol?" he asked, wonderingly. His father had given him a gunbelt, complete with a tooled leather holster for the heavy firearm. It was a blued steel revolver with a polished wooden grip and a six-inch barrel. Its lines alone, precision engineered, revealed it as a relic of another age. His father nodded.
"I had Elder Betenson touch up the bluing. Two rifles were as many as we could spare, and we gave them to Acel and Chy," he explained. "We'll need the rest if we're going to get everyone out of here in one piece. But this...this is only useful in close quarters. You'll get more use out of it."
The Blessed had few firearms, and most of those were rifles, which were more useful for hunting and defense—at least the type of defense the people of Bountiful, who put their faith in strong walls and a low profile, were likely to need. Pistols were even rarer, especially antiques like this, but due to whatever technological magic the Old People had mastered, they were still functional if you cared for them right.
"Thank you," Jared said, buckling the belt around his waist and tying down the thin strap that kept the holster stable on his thigh. It was a large caliber; the rounds stored on the gunbelt were long and thick.
"If I find them—"
"Then you'll do what you think is right. Just as you are now."
"Where will you go?" Jared asked.
"Initially, to sea," said Elder Meacham. "We'll get as many women and children and others into the longboats as we possibly can and put out into the Sound. From there, I don't know. Away from here. North, most likely. We may very well end up following a similar path. Have faith. You'll find us, when it's time."
Jared paused, looking out at Bountiful stretching away to the south. Seeing the columns of smoke in the air, something clicked in his mind.
"They're burning the storehouses," Jared said. His father squinted in confusion.
"The Marmacks," Jared continued. "Why would they destroy the storehouses unless..."
"Unless they're here for something besides our food," finished Elder Meacham, a new understanding in his kind eyes. He pressed his lips together. "At Elder Barrus's cabin—you said—"
"They didn't take any of his stores," said Jared. That had been the feeling he'd had, the one he couldn't shake: the Marmacks weren't here for the storehouses. Or at least, they weren't their first priority. Elder Meacham looked haunted for a moment.
"Who knows why men do the things they do. Does it even matter?"
His father put his hands on Jared's head then, murmured a short blessing, and took his son by the shoulders.
"I believe in you, Jared," he said. "Now go."
Then Jared was moving, ducking into the dark cellar and opening the hidden door to the tunnel that led out of Bountiful—away from his home. He spared a moment to wonder if he'd ever see it again, then dispelled the thought as quickly as he'd had it. He stopped only to light a small lantern he'd brought just for that purpose, then trotted down the tunnel as quickly as he could.
Hedidn't think about the fact that thousands of Marmack apostates were convergingon Bountiful. He didn't think about theincredible difficulty and the slim chance of success his father and the Bishopand the rest of the Elders would have in moving the entire village off of thepeninsula and away from the Marmacks safely. He didn't think about the distinct possibility that he would never seehis family, or anyone else he knew, for that matter, ever again. He thought about the path in front of him,and the person he was going to find, and what lay ahead. When he came out into the light under thewall, Jared started running.
Thanks for reading! Have a great weekend, everyone!