She flushed with pleasure, or it could be running in the heat of the day, which had warmed up with the sun. Light blazed forth, hurting my eyes, and I wondered whether I would ever get fully accustomed to it.
My forearm burned but it wasn’t enough to slow me down. Fade wouldn’t thank me for questioning his strength, so I didn’t ask about the bloodstained patch on his shoulder. Still, he was moving well, keeping up, so he couldn’t be in too much pain. I’d check on him later, provided he let me.
That was a long, grim day with only basic stops for sanitary functions and to gulp some water or swallow a handful of cheese. By nightfall, Tegan’s face was white with exhaustion and pain she wouldn’t acknowledge, but she didn’t ask any quarter. According to Longshot’s notes, this was a bruising trip, much longer than two days by wagon. But he had to care for the mules and let them rest, plus he was towing trade goods whereas we moved as fast as humans could.
The moon was high by the time I spied our destination across the plain. I didn’t know what I had been expecting, but this wasn’t it. From what I could see, this was nothing like Salvation, and a fearful sensation crawled up my back. I stopped, breathing hard, and when I did, exhaustion rushed in like a drowning wave, weakening my limbs to water.
“It looks like the ruins,” Stalker said.
I nodded. “Only it’s not completely destroyed.”
This was an old-world town, but they had cordoned off the heart of it with metal fencing, embankments, and ditches. There were lights too, different from the ones that burned down below or even in Salvation. These were odd and fixed, not fire at all, but more like magic from the stories Edmund told of long ago.
“Have you ever seen anything like that?” I asked.
Both Stalker and Fade shook their heads, but Tegan was studying the glimmer with a fascinated frown. “Not since I was a little girl. We had some in the greenhouse at the university that filled up with light from lying in the sun. Those look a little like that, only bigger.”
“I didn’t know old things like that still worked,” Stalker said. “We scavenged items sometimes but we couldn’t figure out how to operate them, except the tins.”
“That’s because you’re savages,” she said.
“We were,” he agreed quietly.
“How late is it?” I asked Fade.
He checked his watch. “Nearly midnight.”
I sighed. “We don’t have a choice. This isn’t the right time to make our appeal, but waiting won’t help, either. Let’s go.”
Though the perimeter looked deserted, I didn’t trust my eyes. My senses told me we were being watched. So I picked an easily tracked path across the field, waiting for a warning or a voice asking me to state my business. Neither came, right up until I set foot on the metal ramp that led down into the pocked street, similar here to what it had been in Gotham. I could see where the citizens of Soldier’s Pond had tried to keep the surface smooth, filling holes with packed mud and dirt, but it didn’t seal well enough to hide the damage, even at night.
“Which are you,” an unseen male called, “itinerant or tourist?”
I had no idea what either of those words meant. After glancing at Tegan, who shrugged—apparently she didn’t either—I answered, “We’re messengers, carrying word from Salvation.”
“Why didn’t they send Longshot?” the man asked.
I relaxed a fraction. If I wasn’t mistaken, his tone contained a certain fondness, born of camaraderie and nights spent swapping stories. “I’m sorry. Longshot died in the last battle.”
“I think you’d better come in.” Something clanged, and a moving shadow showed me the security measure that would’ve crushed us had we taken another step down the ramp. “It’s clear for you to cross. Hurry now.”
Not wanting to inconvenience our host, I ran, and the others followed me. Behind us, the heavy weight went back up in cadence with grunting men who hauled it into place. Six of them stepped into the light afterward, led by the man I knew instinctively had invited us into Soldier’s Pond. They all wore dusty green clothing, patched more than once, and they held themselves like warriors with shoulders back, spines straight, and their chins inviting trouble. All of them were pretty close to Edmund’s age with silver growing among the bristles on their jaws. They all wore weapons on their hips, similar to the rifle, only smaller, and long-handled knives on their thighs.
“You said you have word from Salvation and Longshot couldn’t carry it. There’s been trouble?”
“An incredible amount,” I said honestly. “I mean no disrespect … but are you the elder?” That was what they’d called the leader in Salvation, and what we called Whitewall down below.
“That’s an old word for it … and, no, as it happens, I’m not. I won’t make you tell the story twice. Davies, you’re head watchman while I’m gone. I’ll take our guests to see the colonel.”
One of the men nodded as our escort led us through the warren. This was old-world construction, patched and shored to retain functionality. We didn’t have the means to build like this anymore, however. The size and shape of the structures was uncannily similar, one house after another stamped out with complete precision.
“It’s eerie,” Fade said beside me.
“More like a child’s model than a real town,” I agreed softly.
“This way. I’m Morgan. If we have to wake the colonel, I can’t guarantee how well your news will be received.” His tone held an odd, amused note that I couldn’t interpret.
I didn’t expect it would be glad tidings, so that hardly mattered, but the leader’s reaction could determine whether we succeeded. Morgan led us to a large building with a long front porch; there were lights affixed all over the top of it, which made me think it was some kind of headquarters. Inside, it bore out that initial impression with tables and chairs littered with papers, some of which had yellowed with age, others appearing to be recently manufactured. I could tell the new sheets came from Salvation, as they carried its imprint in the form of a tree thrice encircled. So among other things, Soldier’s Pond relied on Salvation for stationery, which was a fancy word for paper, according to Momma Oaks.
Candles burned, the wax crackling down into saucers, and there were a few lamps unfamiliar to me. They gave off an unpleasant smell as they burned, the flame flickering inside the glass like a trapped firefly. There were chairs too, where a few tired, worried-looking men were sprawled. I wondered which one was the colonel—and what a colonel was. It must be a title, similar to Elder Bigwater, since he wasn’t actually the oldest man in Salvation, unlike down below. Maybe he played a role like the Wordkeeper’s, consulting on important matters. But none of my speculations proved to be right when the colonel turned around; I could tell this was the person we sought by the way Morgan approached, and I smiled, both pleased and chagrined.