The World to Come
by Eildon Rhymer
What if the Dark had won at the end of Silver on the Tree? The world is sliding into darkness, and only tattered remnants of the Light remain. Will, Bran and the Drews grow to adulthood, and each to their own destiny in this World to Come.
Part two: chapter seven
LaughterThey did not often laugh, these men who were fast becoming the most feared men in Britain. They smiled, though. With such men, a tiny smile could carry more meaning that another man's laughter.
They smiled in the van, but Bran was not meant to see it. He was sitting at the front, his body turned towards the window, his chin resting on his hand. Everything about him shouted that he did not want to be here. He was staring outside, pretending that these men did not exist. That was what they thought, anyway. In reality, his eyes missed nothing, hidden behind their dark glasses. Reflections in the windows brought him their smiles. The mirror brought him their smirks.
I will show them, he thought. He could not ignore this. He never had been able to. He still bore the scars from the fight that had landed him in prison, years before. Sometimes it seemed as if his whole life was scars.
They reached their destination. The men trooped out, and formed up, armed and professional. There were no smiles now. These men were good; Bran knew that. Sometimes he was proud of them, and sometimes he was almost scared by them. It was not good to enjoy inflicting pain.
Bran took his place at their head. He was their superior officer, but he had never gone out in the field. He gave orders, and he received the reports afterwards. He saw the prisoners, but he had never seen a capture. People under his command had killed, but he had never seen it happen.
He had dreamed about this the night before; dreamed about blood on his hands, and screaming. In his dreams, the dying man had gazed at him with enormous sorrow, and his eyes had been Will's.
"You will do your duty as you always do," he told them. His own gun was heavy and awkward at his hip. "This changes nothing, except that I am here to watch it."
A spy had reported that a Resistance group was due to meet in this builders' yard tonight. Three of them, he said, and one of them either a sorcerer, or a close companion of them. Because he disappeared into nothing, I swear to you, the spy had protested. All such reports had to be investigated. Traps had to be set, even if they caught nothing.
His men fanned out, their black uniforms blending into the semi-darkness. Bran followed them, but stayed behind. No-one was watching him, so he was able to take his glasses off. With them removed, he could see a little better, but not much. Everything was shades of grey, even the sky. When the moon rose, it, too, would be sheeted with grey. There was always something burning; always smoke in the air.
Something twisted painfully inside him. A memory filled his mind, so strong that he could smell it. A clean mountainside, a crisp sky, and the air so fresh that it went right through you and washed everything else away. Coming home, breathless, skin tingling, and…
No. He pushed it aside, and strode quietly after his men. They had taken up positions behind crates, and were readying themselves for action, communicating with hand signals. They knew their jobs well. How many raids had they gone on, Bran wondered. This was nothing out of the ordinary for them, and they all knew exactly what to do.
These were the men that he was commanding. Why am I here? he wondered, as pure panic shot through him. What can I say to them?
That, too, he pushed aside. He was here because he wanted to exterminate the Light and all its works. His guardian had procured him this position, but he deserved it, too. He had ruled his school by sheer force of personality. No-one had helped him to that position but himself alone. He had ruled boys then, and these were men, but he had been a boy at school, and now he, too, was a man.
He had the right to be here. They would obey him.
"Anything, lieutenant?" he said coldly, kneeling down behind the man.
The lieutenant shook his head. "Nothing yet. We need to go further in. Too obvious here. We must secure our positions and wait. Sir." It was added too late, and thus became an insult.
Bran took a deep breath against the fury that was bubbling inside him. Not yet, he told himself. Not with everything at stake.
"Do that," he ordered them. "Remember, if anyone comes, you are the capture them, rather than kill them. They must be questioned."
He said it too loudly. All these men knew it already. He caught another smile, almost hidden in the darkness. Too late, he remembered that he had not put his glasses back on. He did not like anyone to see his eyes. It made him feel almost afraid.
His men moved on, slinking like shadows into their hiding places. Bran went with the lieutenant, following as silently as he could. His skin prickled, as if someone was watching him from behind, their gaze boring into the back of his neck. Will? he thought. He changed it to a challenge. These sorcerers could steal a man's thoughts, and plunder all their secrets. If you are here, Stanton, then we have you. You will die.
He blinked, clenched his fists at his side. When he opened his eyes again, he found himself entirely alone. His men had slithered into their hiding places, and had melted into the night. Bran was entirely exposed. He imagined his pale skin shining like a beacon in the night, a target to all enemies.
Calm, he thought. Don't show it. Never show it. He carried on walking, and there was the lieutenant, crouched low between two piles of pallets. Some silent message was passing between him and the two men with him, but all faces were wiped clean when Bran crouched down beside him. They were laughing at me, Bran thought. He started trembling inside.
They waited in silence. Minutes passed. The sky darkened noticeably, and Bran started to get pins and needles in his legs. He wanted to stand up, but could not. He wanted to ask questions, but that was impossible. He was the commander there, even though he had never been out in the field before. Even commands would sound weak, he thought, because they would imply that he had been questioning. Take your positions, and wait all night, if necessary. He had written that command so many times. Now he had to live it.
No-one came. Bran had questioned the spy himself, and he had been most insistent. Maybe the spy had been deliberately supplied with false information. Maybe the spy himself had been spied upon, and the Resistance had changed their plans, knowing that this meeting was compromised.
Or maybe they had come, and the sorcerer amongst them had sensed the trap. There was nothing these minions of the Light could not do. Maybe they had come. Maybe they were still here…
Bran's shoulders itched again. It was all he could do not to whirl around, not to jump to his feet and shout his hatred and challenge into the night. Quiet, he thought. Still. He caught one of his men looking sideways at him, just the briefest glance. He tried to calm himself. He tried not to fidget or shift in the slightest.
A gunshot sounded, and Bran jumped. Something tore past his face, hot and loud, and he heard a thud and a cracking sound in front of him. "Down!" someone shouted, and Bran obeyed, throwing himself onto his face. Feet were moving all around him, and there was answering fire. A rain of dust and splinters fell down in front of Bran's eyes, and he wrinkled his nose, and gave a faint cough.
I was almost shot, he thought. His mind was busy processing what he had seen. If I hadn't jumped…He bit his lip. Saved by weakness.
People were shouting; no stealth now. And here was their commander, face down in the dirt.
Bran stood up, and very deliberately pushed his shoulders back, standing as tall and as implacable as he could. He still itched at the base of his neck, as if someone was watching him, watching him through sights on a sniper rifle, readying to kill… Guns sounded. How many bullets were criss-crossing the air?
He swallowed, but he walked on, and drew his own gun. He did not wear his glasses, and he was protected only by his long coat. Let them try, he thought, but it came out less defiant than he had wanted it to, and more like a plea. Let them try, because…
"We have him!" someone shouted. The gunshots stopped. Not too far away, Bran heard kicks and cries of pain. "Stop that," he heard the lieutenant say, a hiss of command. "Take him to the commander."
"Wherever he is," someone muttered. The lieutenant must have heard it, but he made no rebuke.
Bran stood tall and still, halting in the middle of an open area, gun still in his hand. Let them see him there, and know that their commander was not afraid. He had been there with them, not grovelling in the dust where they had pushed him.
They saw him, and dragged their prisoner before him. "This is the man, sir." This time the lieutenant spoke respectfully enough.
"There may be accomplices," Bran told him, not yet looking down at the prisoner. "Continue the search." The lieutenant nodded, but gave no orders. Of course, Bran thought, the orders had already been given, and the search was already underway.
Bran took a deep breath, and looked down at the man who had tried to kill him. Him! he gasped, but he said it coldly, hiding the trembling within. "You."
The spy spat bloodily at Bran's feet. So the whole thing had been a trap, of course. There had been no sorcerer, and no meeting. The spy had met with Bran several times before, enough to know how much Bran hated sorcerers. This had all been a deliberate trap for Bran, designed to draw him out.
Bran started trembling inside, and his fists clenched with fury. This man had manipulated him. He had reached into Bran's heart, found its weakness, and cruelly played upon it. The Light had done exactly the same. The Light, that this man served and followed…
"I should kill you for this," Bran swore.
The spy nodded. "I expected no less."
Why? Bran wanted to cry. Why me? Why do you hate meHe felt personally betrayed by this, as if he was standing at the tree again, and the Old Ones were… No! He bit his lip, forcing all that back in. He kept the fury, though. He could not lose the fury.
"Why do you serve them?" he demanded, hands trembling at his sides. "They're evil. They lie. They lie about everything, and they trick you and they pretend…"
"No, that's your lot," the spy said. He got a kick for that, from one of Bran's men. Bran winced inside, but loved it, too.
Bran grasped the spy's chin. "Why me?" he hissed.
"Because you were in my reach," the traitor said. "You were mine. I took the chance. I saw your weakness. I tried…" He shrugged, but Bran could see the terror racing behind his mask of unconcern. "I failed. Now I die."
"No." Bran released him. His hand felt dirty, tainted, but he resisted the urge to wipe it. "Now we take you away and question you."
Again he saw a look flicker between two of his men. He knew what it meant. A desk-officer only. He lacks the stomach to kill. He's a joke. A freak. Just look at him.
The prisoner's head sagged forward, but then he was on his feet, in a sudden whirl of motion. He tore himself out of his captors' grip, and hurled himself bodily at the lieutenant, knocking him down. He almost fell himself, but then was up again, running wildly, dodging, head bent down and cushioned by his arm.
Bran raised his gun. Lacks the stomach to kill… The lieutenant was fumbling for his gun. Betrayed me. Tricked me - me personally. His heart was trembling; his hand was steady. Offered me everything and snatched it away…
He pulled the trigger, and the spy fell. He struggled for a moment to get to his feet again, then slumped down, hand outstretched.
Bran shot him again. This time, nobody was laughing. No-one would laugh at him ever again.
End of part two: chapter seven