Brigends (The Final War Series Book 1) (7 page)

The sick children in the mud challenged that pathetic notion. Their plight galvanized his motivation and from that day forth, every decision he made was for what he believed was the greater good.

Adi placed her head on his lap and drifted asleep to the same memory. Out of the freezing rain a savior had scooped her up in his arms and transported her to a better life. As a starving child, she found a haven in his world.

He placed his hand on her head. She was his child, as were Anton and everyone else under his command. They were his children. The phantom he was chasing after — he didn’t want to think of it as a part of him.

He thought of the Zolarian witch, Milari. Did she think he would fall for her tricks? Did she trance him to come to New York? Did she think he could be misled so easily?

No. He will show her. He will show them all!

Emil, do you know what you’re doing
? The question had a voice of its own.

The fortifying of his pride was nothing short of a feeble effort to prove his righteousness. The nipping mystery of his actions preyed on him, keeping him from sleeping. Did the ora starbursts have any connection with the accursed crystal in his pocket? It couldn’t be a simple coincidence.

Wakeful but tired, he passed the night stroking Adi’s hair and contemplating possibilities. He didn’t stir again and she slept peacefully.

Zoe’s choice

She babied her ribs, cringing with each step her left foot made. Working through the discomfort, she pushed to keep going.

The last viable portal available was a ghost town. Daybreak had arrived and the station’s inhabitants were out looking for their next meals. Her footsteps resonated off the walls as she limped, leaving an eerie vibe in the deserted interior.

Hundreds of the Lo-5’s worse-off called the Carroll Street Station home. The squatters treated the place as a toilet. The stifling stench of human discards choked the air. Zoe had no respect for the dregs living in this filth. Her philosophy —
never blame anyone for what your hands have wrought
— refused to pity anyone, least of all these people.

The clang of a glass bottle froze her pulse. A hunched over old woman shuffled along with no real intent. They both stopped and acknowledged one another. Compassion tried to resurface, but Zoe hammered the impulse into the deepest parts of her apathy and continued her trek. The beldam resumed her existence unabated to the stranger’s apathy.

Zoe slid her narrow profile between two wall panels at the end of the platform adjacent to the tunnel opening. A few tight shuffles past the breech and she entered an abandoned utility room. From there an unremarkable door led to the blackened intestines of the city where few were brave enough to venture.

It had been many years since she had used this route, but she was able to negotiate the many detours off the top of her head. The further she delved the more silent and claustrophobic the path became. Without a handheld torch to penetrate the blackness, she relied on touch, feeling the walls with her hands and the floor with the tips of her boots.

An hour later, she arrived at the gates of Agarha.

The brigend mark bothered her again. She rubbed the itch that would never disappear. Stirring in her bunk, annoyed and unable to relax, she squirmed. The thrashing made her side throb. Thankfully, her ribs weren’t broken. It wasn’t like when she was a kid and could recover quickly from almost any wound. At this age, she could’ve been laid up for a solid week.

She didn’t want to admit it, but field duty was no longer agreeing with her. The notion of letting someone else do the grunt work had its appeal. Yet, commanding from the rear instead of out front like a real leader bothered her more than any bullet wound or knife cut ever could. Be that as it may, her aches argued for her retirement.

Lost in a torrent of emotional conflictions, she laid motionless on top of her blanket, rubbing her tender ribs. Unable to sleep was an aggravation too much to bear.

She sat up and looked around her quarters. On a good day, the Spartan room tended to suck the warmth from her spirit. On this bad one, the barren walls mocked her isolationism with renewed determination. She had considered hanging artwork to dampen the bleakness, but whenever she found the time, the chore would go unfinished. It wasn’t laziness enabling her procrastination; it was indifference.

The growing combination of pungent sweat and industrial dirt on her clothes couldn’t be ignored. She stripped off the reminder of the day’s events and stood naked, letting the chill of the room stab at her. She was a tired old woman, busted by countless injuries. Her once vibrant olive tone had faded to a quilt of ashen blotches. She straightened her posture to fool her mind into believing she was a girl, but there wasn’t enough passion to sustain the lie. Her shoulders wilted.

If John had lived to see her in this condition, would he still think her beautiful? Would he have wanted her?

More important than her vanity was the question, would he have been ashamed of what she had done — so soon after his sacrifice?

Muck what-ifs. Seeing how he didn’t live to see her as an old woman or to view the shame that haunted her, dwelling on such regrets was a waste of energy.

On the foot of the bed was the boy’s shemagh. Zoe picked it up and examined the length. It was fresh, with little evidence of real use. She brought it close and covered her mouth with it, inhaling a whiff of his scent. The coarseness of its material dangled loose and scuffed against her thigh. She didn’t care.

This is wrong, her spirit rebuked.

She folded the cloth and placed it on the bed. Standing vulnerable in her tomb, she admitted to being weak.

She needed absolution. Opening the bulky drawer of the desk, she lifted a thin chain with a lonely metal tag. Placing the strand around her neck, she brought the flat disc near her lips with the worship of a benediction. She kissed it, bestowing its blessing on her.

Zoe went to the one redeeming refuge where she could recover in absolute loneliness, the scalding heat of the shower. There, no one could hear her as she cried, leaning against the stall and letting the water wash the past from her scarred body. Holding the dog tag between her index finger and thumb, she rubbed its scorched surface and chanted,
I miss you, John
, until his name lost any resemblance of meaning.

Cleaned and recovered enough to function, she wandered the stone corridor unsure of her destination. It was early evening and Agarha’s citizens spent their leisureliness socializing. The children ran up and down the length of the hallway, laughing and hollering. She enjoyed hearing their play; it reminded her of happier times.

Arriving at the big wooden doors, she hesitated. She didn’t understand why; it was a strange feeling. Taking a deep breath, she shrugged off the doubts and pushed open one of the heavy panels.

The glow from the fireplace bathed the study in a golden light while embers in the hearth broke loose and crackled above the dying fire, creating dancing shadows on the ceiling. The quilt of lighted darkness enveloped her as she gently shut the door.

The room was straight out of a Victorian novel, except more hospitable than anything Dickens could have ever imagined. Bookshelves along the walls buckled under the weight of innumerable books. Obscure works of art, ranging from original frescos to Renaissance knockoffs, dangled from the adjoining edges of the cases. In the middle of the room was a large dining table, draped in a white linen cover. On top were stacks of tied leather folders, each containing thousands of loose documents.

Near the far corner, on a raised surface, she found him sleeping soundly in his high-back chair. His elderly body by no means reflected the powerful man she knew him to be.

She sat down on the floor beside the chair. As a child, she would lay her head on his leg and listen to his soothing voice as he read books to her.

Zoe rested her head on the Old Man’s leg and he placed a hand on her shoulder out of habit. Looking up, she whispered, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Oh, it’s quite alright, Zoe dear,” he said, opening his eyes and smiling. “I’ve been waiting for you. I was beginning to worry.”

“Yeah, I heard you were calling for me. I’m sorry that I wasn’t here.”

“Don’t apologize. I’m a grown man and very capable of taking care of myself.”

“I know, Papa. Are you okay?”

“Of course, you’re home.”

She kept her head next to his leg, paying extra attention not to lean too heavily on the bones.

He had been waiting anxiously for her return, but suddenly lost the urgency when he sensed her sadness. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

She lifted her head and shied away, pretending she wasn’t sneaking a hand up to wipe a tear. Leaving his side, she went to the big table. Zoe the Soldier was coming out. He allowed the charade, hoping with patience to learn the reason for her sorrow.

“You were right,” her voice popped. “There is something happening at the Zolarian facility. There’s been a lot of activity. Even that bastard Orock showed up for a while.” She waited. “By the way, Chadwick and Bronson are dead. Hunters got the drop on us.”

The loss of the young men ripped at her conscience, as did every man or woman she had ever lost under her command. This time, though, their deaths served to compound a stronger grief.

“It’s a good thing you made it home safe.”

She continued, ignoring his support. “Whatever they’re planning, it’s going to happen soon.”

“Suggestions?”

“I don’t know. It would help if you told me what you are sensing.”

“I could, but then you wouldn’t be able to see the larger picture.”

She stopped and stared at him with a familiar frustrated expression. Zoe hated when he wouldn’t answer with straight answers. She suspected he enjoyed annoying her. “I hate it when you do that.”

“I know,” he grinned. “But, you’ll have to trust me. If I were to explain everything, we would be here for days.”

She didn’t want to hear that excuse, but accepted it nonetheless. “My suggestion, as captain of the guard, we do what we always do — hunker down and wait things out.”

“Wise action.”

Leaning against the table, her pretense of strength faltered and her eyes watered. It wasn’t the death of her guys filling her with despair.

“Zoe, what’s wrong?”

She couldn’t hold back and the tears flowed. He was about to stand and go to her when she rushed over and knelt in front of him, burying her head in the blanket on his lap. The breakdown caught him by surprise.

“It’s the hunters.”

“What happened?”

She told him how Chadwick and Bronson died, and how she fought the hunters responsible. But, it was
the boy
who caused her the greatest distress.

The Old Man listened.

“He could’ve killed me. I’m nothing to him, but money to be collected.”

He touched her cheek with his palm and felt the heat of her tears. At first she didn’t react to his caress, but soon she put her hand on top of his and held it in place.

“He let me go.”

“His heart kept him from doing it. He did the right thing.”

“I guess I should be grateful.”

“Good, because I am.”

He could feel the muscles in her face form a smile. She looked up at him. He wiped the wetness from her cheeks.

“I know these years have been tough for you. For that I’m sorry. You’ve always been the strong one.”

“I don’t feel strong.”

“Oh, my dear, but you are. Even when you were that sickly girl I found wandering the streets, I could see the strength within you. It was a beacon, calling out to me.”

She reached up and hugged him. He wrapped his arms around her and they stayed that way for a while.

Sensing her heart renewed, he gambled with what he had to say next. “While you were gone, something did happen.”

“What?”

“The what of the matter is not important.”

“Tell me.”

“I have to ask more from you,” he said carefully. “I’m afraid you’re not going to like it. It involves the boy.”

She tried to pull away, but he clutched her hands and held them tight. “He has a part to play in what will soon happen.”

“No, don’t you dare —”

“Please, listen to me. I told you this day would come.”

Zoe cheated and used her strength to pull away, but she didn’t leave the room. She folded her arms and roamed as he explained the situation. Divulging too much information would have been an action contrary to his character, so he gave her only what he deemed necessary for her comprehension.

She stood in front of the wrinkled forgery of Rosso Fiorentino’s
The Holy Family with the Infant John the Baptist
, letting its disproportionate sadness converge with her own. The bewildering disconnection between the infant John and the Holy Mother embodied spiritual regrets. Within the eloquent brushstrokes of the virgin’s expression was a mirror of Zoe’s own reality.

If she didn’t love her Papa, she would have hated him for what he was asking of her.

“I’ll get on it tonight,” she conceded.

He held up the lei coin, delivered to him earlier in the day. “You’ll need this.”

She went to him and snatched it, then slowly walked out without saying another word.

He had expected the renewed bitterness. To be honest, what she was enduring was entirely his fault. Regretfully, he regretted nothing... not even this one regret.