sitting Indian style on the ground, her eyes drooping. “We’re exhausted,” Britton said to Swift. “Let’s give everyone a half hour to grab some shut-eye before we move.”
“You sure that’s safe?” Swift asked.
“No,” Britton answered, “but it’s probably smarter than blundering back into the Source ready to drop dead. Can you keep the air heated without that fire?”
Swift nodded, and Britton turned to Wavesign. “Can you get that put out, buddy?”
Wavesign’s effort was as uncontrolled as ever, but the fire was quickly doused, the rocks splintering further and hissing loudly. Swift quickly dried the damp patch that the young Hydromancer had left. “All right, people,” Britton said. “Grab some shut-eye if you can manage it. We go soon.”
He slumped alongside Therese and leaned against her shoulder. She didn’t respond, but neither did she push him away.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I tried to do what I thought best…”
“Later, Oscar,” she said, her voice exhausted. “Later. Let’s get out of here first.”
He nodded and drowsed, grateful for the smell of her, the soft warmth of her shoulder against his.
The moon made a sparkling show of the trees and rocks as the enrollees gathered together for warmth. Swift’s heated air made that largely unnecessary, but Britton knew that the closeness to one another kept the panic at bay. They weren’t alone, and that was a start.
Britton closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of the night — the frost crackling, insects foraging, Marty making an effort at quiet and failing miserably. The little Goblin was far too excited to rest, and he paced the small enclosure, staring at his surroundings. Britton himself thought he couldn’t sleep, the adrenaline keeping him awake and alert to sounds; turning each frost-snapped twig into the footfalls of an approaching enemy, but fatigue won out in the end.
He didn’t know how long he dozed, drifting in and out of consciousness against Therese’s shoulder. Fear and pain were momentarily forgotten. Britton sank into the warm glow of her nearness and drifted off to sleep.
A cold wind brushed his cheek, lifting him from the warm comfort of sleep and Therese nestled against him. The warm air had dissipated, replaced by the reality of winter cold. Britton buried his face in Therese’s hair and clung to the fleeing threads of his slumber. Beyond it lay cold and hardship, and if he could stave it off for just another moment, he would. But the chill breeze blew again, bringing a regular rhythm to his ears, a gentle and familiar pattern that called him to wakefulness. Whup whup whup whup whup.
Britton shot awake. It was the sound of a helicopter. He reached out his arm and accidentally swatted Marty, who must have crawled to snuggle up against his back. The Goblin stirred weakly, and Britton reached over and pressed a finger to his lips.
Whup whup whup. The sound grew louder, closer.
Therese stirred. “What’s…”
Britton shushed her fiercely and pointed upward.
As the sound of the rotors passed into the distance, Britton propped himself up on his elbows. All around their small makeshift camp, the enrollees were crouched in silence, casting terrified eyes skyward.
“What the hell was that?” Swift hissed.
“I don’t know,” Britton answered. “Could have been the Weather Channel, could have been the SOC. We can’t stick around to find out. Let’s get moving.”
He turned to Marty. “You ready?”
Why was he there? Why was he doing this? He shuddered as he realized that he already knew the answer.
The group froze as the rotors pounded the air overhead again. They stood still, necks craned skyward until the helo passed overhead again, and the sound faded in the distance.
“They must be flying a search pattern,” Britton said. “It’s the only reason they would be going that slow.”
Britton was grateful for the thick clouds that had blown in while they slept. Little moon and even less starlight penetrated the forest canopy, leaving a black sea whose rocky bed was dotted with the gnarled columns of tree trunks. Night was thick around them.
“All right.” Britton used his best command voice, loud enough that the group winced and snapped their gazes to him. “Nothing more to be gained by hanging around. Let’s get this show on the road.”
CHAPTER XXXIII: BETRAYED
— Avery Whiting
The gate yawned across the clearing, eight feet high, its shimmering static surface offering a glimpse of the palisade wall in the distance. Long triangular banners draped down its surface, hidden in the darkness. Britton knew they were crudely painted in the likeness of a bird skull, striped red and orange.
“Heptahad On Dephapdt,” Marty whispered, his voice grave. “Sorrahhad. Much fight.”
Britton turned to the enrollees. “All right, the folks behind those walls may look just like Marty, but they are not friends. We get caught by these guys, and we’re done. But if we keep together, keep quiet, and keep moving, I’m confident we can get past them unnoticed. It’s a chance, but as rough customers as these folks are, they’re a cakewalk compared to the SOC, and it’s a far better bet than staying here. Everybody tracking?”
Swift nodded. “Peapod, I need you at the rear of the group, keep folks moving,” Britton said. She nodded and took up her position.
“All right, let’s do this.” Britton turned and stepped through the gate. He was briefly swamped by the intensity of his senses but shrugged it off, sighting the palisade wall and scanning the darkness for any movement. All was cloaked in shadow. Torchlight flickered from the turret that the creatures had repaired long since the rocket from one of the raiding Apaches had destroyed it. A new wooden structure jutted from one of the towers like some kind of cancerous growth, braced by roughly hewn crossbeams, crowned with a peaked slate roof. Its sides glistened wetly.
Peapod ushered the last of the group through. They stood gaping at the giant palisade wall, pointing and whispering to one another. Britton shut the gate quickly and began herding them away from the fortress. Tired and injured, the group made slow going. Wavesign’s cloud pulsed with chunks of ice and hail, his terror magically palpable.
“It’s amazing,” Swift whispered to Britton, running his hands over the saw-toothed grass.
Britton put a hand in the small of his back, pushing him along. “Later. If we’re caught here, it’s going to get ugly.”
Swift slapped the hand down. “All right, all right. I’m moving.”
Britton opened his mouth to say something, and all words fled.
Directly before them, just a few meters away, a rickety tower had been erected. Wooden crossbeams supported a slate-covered platform some thirty feet from the ground. Above the platform, three logs rose, lashed together to form a crossbar.
