The crowd was getting louder. “Go back to where you came from!” someone said.
“He’s right!” A woman said. “My husband wouldn’t be dead if we hadn’t attacked the SLS!”
Duncan pointed at the last woman who had spoken up. “That’s right! Fifteen hundred dead. Fifteen hundred! All because we made an unprovoked attack on a peaceful neighbor. There will be more unless we moderate, unless we choose cooperation over competition. Many, many more will die.”
Bartz stepped in with his own bullhorn. “This is pure tripe. I will not stand for this—”
“Prove it!” Duncan said, his eyes bulging. “Prove to us right now that what I said isn’t true. Did fifteen hundred not die? The wives and sons and daughters here today beg to differ. Or do you challenge my statements about this so-called emissary? Prove to us this emissary isn’t an Old World smartphone. Take us to the Barnyard right now and let us explore the many bunkers you have built. Prove to us that I’m lying!”
“I will do nothing of the sort,” Bartz responded. “I will not waste time placating another crazy Adherent. You’re sounding more and more like Lord Henneson, a known criminal who has proven his lunacy. I think you have had enough time, Jones.” He gestured to Thorpe.
“And now, people of Seeville, they wish to silence me!” Duncan’s eyes were wide. Many people were following his every move and nodding with him. “Will we stand for this?”
“No!” some people said.
“Get him off the stage,” said another railroad man, but the chorus was getting louder. Duncan had ignited a small but energized following in the crowd.
Thorpe tried to grab the bullhorn from Duncan but he evaded him. Meeker’s enforcers stepped out to pursue Duncan.
Duncan kept speaking as he ducked and swiveled around them, pulling out of their grasp. “It’s up to all of us to stop this madness. Demand the truth! We want the truth!”
A large contingent of the crowd began chanting. “We want the truth! We want the truth!”
The enforcers managed to tackle Duncan and wrestle the bullhorn from his hand. This only made the crowd’s chants even louder. People started yelling at one another. A scuffle broke out.
Duncan was pulled to the back of the stage and held by two enforcers.
“Let him go!” someone yelled over the cacophony.
“We want the truth! We want the truth!”
Thorpe gave the bullhorn to Prakash and motioned emphatically with his hand. She handed it over to Kline like a hot potato. He had a glazed expression for a moment, and then took a step forward. “Please, please, people of Seeville. Let’s all try to calm down.”
Kline’s words were too little, too late. Many in the crowd had lost loved ones in the Grand Caverns battle. Many were still charged with emotion. And Duncan’s speech was finally enough to embolden the groups of Adherents. Seeing a lord backing them on the stage gave them courage.
Conflicts began breaking out between Adherents and those siding with the railroad all over the crowd. The scuffles blossomed into full-fledged fistfights. Enforcers tried to break into the crowd to stop the altercations, but it only made people push back on them defensively, and then more brawling ensued. People were pushed, shoved, and trampled. People began to flee.
Bartz stared at the turbulent mob, glared at Duncan, and said something in Thorpe’s ear. He turned about and headed off the stage through the back entrance, followed by two of his enforcers. Thorpe escorted Kline and Prakash through the same exit. The goons holding Duncan pushed him away and followed Thorpe.
Duncan made his way to Madison, massaging a bicep.
“Well, you certainly stirred up the hornet’s nest,” Madison said.
“Yes,” Duncan said with some satisfaction, “and I suppose we better get out of here before we get stung.”
Benjamin reached them at the front. They managed to avoid the main scuffles and navigate back through the dispersing crowd. When Madison was sure they were clear of the fray, she slowed and then sat down on a stoop to catch her breath.
“I just need a minute,” she said, panting, “then we can get to the chariot.”
“Of course,” Benjamin said.
Things in Seeville were falling apart quickly. She wondered about Cecile and her team. So far they’d heard nothing of their expedition. They could be dead, for all she knew.
When she was ready to stand again, she glanced once more into the sky. A gray contrail emanated from the hammer-shaped craft, drawing a spear through the blue firmament. The tip of the spear was a red object tearing the atmosphere into smoke.
The hammer was already delivering its payload to earth.
Her enemies were blazing trails in the heavens, but of her allies she knew nothing and could only fear the worst.
HIC SUNT DRACONES
The sign read Fever lands—beware. It was etched into a heavy metal placard, only slightly rusted, affixed to the top of a fence post. The fence was man-high, spanning to the left and right of them through the underbrush of the forest.
“Hic sunt dracones,” Cecile said.
“Is that French?” Owen asked.
“No, Latin. It was often written on Old World maps. It means ‘Here be dragons’. They wrote it because they either didn’t know what was on that part of the map, or they didn’t want people to go there.”
“Are you saying these aren’t fever lands?”
“No. At least, I’ve been here, and I didn’t get sick. The sanctuary is accessible via a raised plateau just beyond this fence.”
Cecile stared them down. Over time, Flora had come to realize that Cecile did this whenever she was trying to gauge someone’s intent, or if she was trying to flush out someone’s hidden reservations. Flora averted her eyes, as she always did when Cecile did her staring routine.
“Let’s camp here,” Cecile said. “It’s getting late, anyway. The sanctuary can wait one more day.”
Flora looked back at Talon, who’d been near the rear with one of Cecile’s men. His eyes were downcast.
She remembered hovering over him when he woke up after the battle. He had shrapnel in his back and leg, but the wounds had been mostly superficial. Still, there was the chance of infection, and he must have been in a fair amount of pain. Of course, he would never admit it.
Underneath the maroon armband, green makeup and dark robe he looked more like Granger than ever. But it wasn’t the Granger from years ago, rather the fleeting image of Granger from the fateful day up on Monticello. His face was drawn, his skin taught, and his muscles lean. He showed a strength built on foundations of duress and hardship, a life without such luxuries as regular square meals or idle time.
For some reason, when he first saw her, she thought he would smile, or cry—do something to show he was glad to see her. She hoped their reunion would break the dam of emotion that he had built up over the years. But it was a foolish thought. Why would he? Surely he hated her for leaving him and the girls with Reed. No, when he woke his face was just as closed as ever, just as defiant.
Talon began unloading his pack and looking for a place to set up their tent. Flora followed him.
“How are your injuries?” she asked.
“They’re fine,” he announced and they proceeded to set up the tent in silence.
When the tents were up Cecile’s men prepared a stew using a skinny fox carcass and some squash. Cecile and her men would exchange a few words in French as they prepared the food, but otherwise silence reigned. When done, the stew looked barely palatable, but they were all so famished they could have eaten their own shoes.