Horde (Razorland 3)

He flinched far inside his eyes, but he nodded. “I saw that coming. I’ll break the news to your mother.”

I didn’t correct him, even in my head. They weren’t my foster anything. These folks had become my family, along with Fade, Tegan, and maybe, to a lesser degree, Company D.

In the morning, I went to see the colonel before breakfast. I found her in the HQ, listening to reports on Freak movements on the other side of the forest. Though they didn’t go out looking for trouble, Soldier’s Pond always had good intel, but the colonel erred on the side of caution. Deep down I suspected she felt unprepared for her position, just as I did, so she was reluctant to send men out to die. But while humans cowered, the horde grew.

“Colonel Park,” the scout was saying. “There’s no activity in the forest, but there are hunting parties circling around. It’s only a matter of time until they reach us.”

“If you want us to help defend the town, we’ll need more men,” I murmured.

“Good morning to you too,” the colonel said. “You don’t believe in small talk, do you?”

“Not so much. We also need provisions, whatever you can spare.”

“I’d ask how many times you intend to make me turn you down before you give up, but I suspect the answer is infinite. Because you don’t give up.”

I smothered a smile. “I’m not known for it.”

“I’ll talk to the quartermaster and see what we can spare without running the risk of privation this winter.”

“Thanks.”

“Have you given any thought to your command structure?” she asked.

When I shook my head, I received a lecture on the necessity of running a tight ship, whatever that meant. She laid out how a proper army should be run, stressing the importance of a clear hierarchy. Colonel Park scanned the room as if checking for unfriendly ears, then she added, low, “I wish I could do more to help you. But my advisors are frightened, cautious men. They think if we maintain a neutral attitude, the Muties won’t engage.”

“I’ve seen that proven false, time and again. Salvation did nothing to provoke the monsters, just went about their business. Same with Appleton, so far as I know.”

“I believe you. I just hope it doesn’t take a tragedy here to motivate them.”

“Why don’t you overrule them?”

“Because when my father died, he left me only provisional power.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“‘Colonel’ used to be an earned title, but I inherited the role from my father. Since I was younger than anyone expected, due to the bleeding fever, when I took over from him, there were conditions set on my administration of the armed forces.” Likely she could tell I didn’t understand, so she clarified, “My authority is subject to checks and balances from my advisors.”

“So they can gainsay you. That’s too bad.”

With a few more polite words, I let her get back to meeting with the scouts. In that moment, I felt a bit sorry for her. It would be awful to be in charge, but not really, with people second-guessing every move. She had information and resources at her fingertips but she didn’t have the freedom to use any of it as she deemed fit, at least, not without arguments and endless voting. Sometimes disasters required quick, decisive action.

We stayed in Soldier’s Pond more than two days. It took longer for Edmund to outfit all the men, and Momma Oaks convinced the quartermaster to let her have multiple bolts of unused cloth; so while Edmund made boots, she was madly stitching uniforms. In that time, the colonel procured cornmeal, dry beans, and Morrow dug up a recipe for hardtack, which consisted of flour and water, baked multiple times until the ingredients were like small bricks.

“What’re we supposed to do with this?” I asked, when the storyteller brought me to the mess to show me what the cooks had created.

At this hour, the room was empty apart from the harried workers, who had been experimenting with the recipe for hours, and us. Morrow frowned, likely at my lack of imagination. “If you crumble them, they thicken a stew. Crushed and mixed with milk or egg, they become pancakes. Or we can eat them like this if there’s nothing else. They last forever.”

With each soldier carrying his allotment of beans, cornmeal, dried meat, and hardtack, we should do well for the rest of the campaign, at least until the cold set in. Soon there would be tubers and fruit on the trees, more berries and wild greens. My concern was the scarcity of game with the horde hunting in our territory, but we couldn’t stop fighting for fear of hunger.

“You think we’ll run across cows and chickens in the field?” I teased. “That seems likely. I bet we’ll have pancakes in the skillet every morning.”

“You’re cruel to a man who spent hours paging through dusty old books for you.”

I raised a brow. “For me? Or Tegan?”

It was no secret, the way he looked at her when she was helping the men. I’d also observed how he sought her out during quiet moments and that he seemed to enjoy their training sessions a whole lot, maybe because he got to be close to her. I didn’t think Tegan had noticed how he felt, but I had gotten better at paying attention to such details, after the misunderstanding with Stalker. My heart hurt when I remembered him, but the alternative was forgetting, and that was the final kind of death—when nobody told your story anymore.

“I’d like her to eat more,” he admitted. “She’s too skinny. So are you.”

“That accounts for everyone in Company D.”

With a small, sly smile, Morrow offered, “Well, I’m more concerned about the eating habits of some than others.”

“Me too. Thanks for your effort on this.” I turned to the cooks. “The colonel wants you to bake five hundred more of these.”

They grumbled, but it was a measure of my status that they just went back to work. Morrow seemed impressed as we left the mess together, but I didn’t let him run off. I wasn’t done with this conversation yet.

“You’ve had access to all kinds of books,” I said. “More than we’ve seen in any town or village we’ve visited. Gotham was the only place I ever saw that had so many. A lot of them were ruined, but plenty more could still be read. Have you been there?”

I knew Morrow was a wanderer—that he wasn’t from Soldier’s Pond—but he had been oddly reticent about his past. He sighed as he shook his head and started walking. I had no idea where he was going, but I didn’t mean for him to leave me behind, so I quickened my pace. We ended up in the cowshed we’d used for training. There was nobody there, just the animals, so at least it was private.

“No. I’m from the west … a village called Rosemere.”

I’d seen it on Longshot’s maps, but I couldn’t place it. Though it was listed, it wasn’t on the trade routes he’d drawn. “Where’s that, exactly?”

“On the Evergreen Isle.”

That was why he hadn’t traveled there. Longshot only covered land routes, and you had to cross the water to get to Rosemere. “You don’t talk about it much. Was it bad there?”

“No,” Morrow said softly. “It was heaven.”

“Then why did you leave?”

“The usual story. I loved a girl who didn’t feel the same, so I vowed to see the world and make her sorry I left.”

“Did it work?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t been back.”

“Tell me about it?”

The storyteller was in his element, painting a picture for me in words. He spoke of a jewel of a village with white stone cottages and charming gardens in bloom, of the market where all manner of lovely things were sold, of a sturdy dock where men went out in small boats to cast their nets and women in head scarves hung out their washing while calling cheerfully to one another. Of the Evergreen Isle, he said even more.

“You have to see it to believe. Forests all around, green as far as the eye can see. It’s lush and unspoiled, no other ruins, and there have never been any mutants.”

That seemed odd. “Why not?”

“They can’t swim. I’m not sure why, but I’ve seen them try a few times from the ruins on the other side of the river, and they always sink like stones.”

I bet Dr. Wilson would have a theory, but there was no time to detour to Winterville to ask him; with the delay for provisions, we had lost our momentum and needed to get back to the fight. But I filed that information away as a weakness I could exploit, provided I figured out the way to do it. Since the Freaks got smarter and more knowledgeable with each generation, they doubtless would be wary when it came to water.

“That doesn’t explain all the books … or your fancy knife work,” I pointed out.

Morrow seemed annoyed that I hadn’t been distracted by his eloquent descriptions. “You’re pushy, you know that?”

“I usually accomplish what I mean to.”

“The first adventure I ever went on didn’t lead me far from home,” he said. “But it was dangerous. See, on the other side of the river, we have ruins, similar to what I imagine Gotham is like. So I swam across to explore, and in my wandering, I ran across a building full of books, you can’t even imagine—”

“I can, actually. We found a place like that in Gotham. It’s called a library.”

“I know that,” Morrow said. “I suspected you didn’t.”

“I so enjoy it when people assume I’m stupid.”

He shook his head. “Not that, just very focused on killing.”

“Go on,” I prompted.

“I barely made it out … the ruins were crawling with Muties.” That sounded like a story I’d like to hear, and maybe it was even akin to Fade’s and mine. But I needed answers so that all the pieces added up, so I didn’t ask him to elaborate. Morrow went on, “I was in bad shape when I stumbled out of the river, and my father was livid. As soon as I recovered, he dragged me to a man in the village who was teaching his sons to fence, a family tradition. And my father insisted I learn. He said I had to be able to defend myself if I meant to take foolhardy risks.”

“You took to it,” I observed.

“Yes, well. I had the proper build and I like the elegance of it, though I enjoy the bloodshed less.”

“I’ve noticed. And the stories…?”

Morrow nodded, slightly annoyed with my impatience. “I couldn’t forget all those books … so I went to my father and I demanded the use of one of the boats. It took me weeks, but I recovered as many as I could and brought them to Rosemere. Now, we have the only library in the territories.”

“Books people can borrow anytime they want?” I asked, impressed by the notion.

“Yes. I’ve read more than anyone I know.” It wasn’t a boast, just a statement, and that explained much about him: why he was so in love with stories and so set on writing his own.