In Love and Sacrifice

Chapter 1

Chapter 1Annabell Brown

I was nearing the end of my stint with the NEA, having gleaned plenty of useful information about their numbers and movements outside the city—the majority of which had been gathered from the soldiers I shared guard duty with. I kept a hip flask of twenty-five-year-old bourbon. It was in short supply since The War and was a big-ticket item on the black market. I was barely of drinking age during the Second Wave when I was drafted, so hadn’t been much of an alcohol connoisseur, but knew decent whiskey when I tasted it. Some I knew of experimented with stills, sometimes with great success, but this was different. I allowed myself one small sip, reveling in the small fire it built in the pit of my stomach.

Other than the odd comment, I let my companion, one Private Robert Guerrero, talk and talk and talk while I committed to memory locations, numbers and weapons counts to report back to the general. It had been two months now and I was itching to return home. I hated the feeling of reaching for my hip only to remember my guns weren’t there. Instead, I had been armed with the light weight Walther most troops fresh out of training camp carried.

Training camp had been a cinch, and lying about who I was during The War was even easier. The general hadn’t liked it when I suggested I join the next group of Fort Snow soldiers on one of their information-gathering visits to the city, but I couldn’t lead my people properly unless I led by example. The general, being the one who taught me the importance of being a good leader in the first place, couldn’t exactly argue. Heading back to the barracks, I decided to take the back stairs in order to avoid the castle’s many painted ladies. I had given one or two my attention when warranted, but the majority merely acted as spies for the Duke. It made them rats in some eyes, but it was one way of feeding their families, and these days, sometimes all you could hope for was a few extra coins or something to barter so your children would be fed.

One floor up from my barracks, I stopped short when I heard the Duke speaking to one of his advisors. It sounded like the long-faced, greasy-haired one they called Blackthorn.

“But Your Majesty, you could have any woman in this city, any woman for miles, for that matter, for your bride.”

The voices were muted, but my ears were keen.

“I don’t want any woman, Blackthorn, you fool,” the Duke replied, his unusually soft voice increasing in volume only slightly. The Duke was like a snake. Quiet and slippery, right up until he sunk his fangs into you. “I want the headstrong beauty, Claire Munro.”

“But, her age, my lord, surely there are younger, ahem, more fertile women, who can provide you an heir?”

I heard the Duke slam his fist on a table or desk.

“Dammit, fool! She had children once, she can have them again. A good breeding lineage. You only need to look at Claire’s mother to understand that. I have built this city from the ground up and I am its one true leader. It is only fitting I have a woman befitting of royalty to grant me a son to take over these lands in my stead.”

I grimaced. Sure, it had been fifteen years since the world had gone to s**t, but the medieval antics one witnessed these days were sometimes just too dramatic. I assumed The War and following plague would cause people to come to understand just how important peace was. But now I was resigned to the fact the world would never change, and that was why I continued to fight tyranny.

My thoughts drifted to Fort Snow. More than that, the nearby Sioux village. The village that helped heal the invisible wounds that ran so deep within me, left there by things I had seen and done in the name of peace. Being a soldier made me feel alive, and I was good at it, but it didn’t mean some of my actions hadn’t broken me to the depths of my core. Aside from Fort Snow, Sioux Lookout was one of the only places I’d ever felt completely free.

The Duke’s seedy voice brought me back to my senses.

“Claire Munro’s husband was killed in The War and the plague took care of her children, so she has few close ties. She will be wise enough to manage the castle while I grow the New Earth Army across the entirety of North America and beyond. The only problem is, my attempts are continually stymied by her mother sticking her nose into my advances.”

“If the mother is an issue, Milord, there are ways of dealing with the situation,” crooned Blackthorn.

“Hmm,” said the Duke. “You speak the truth, but it would have to be done quietly. Let me think about this further, Blackthorn. However, it’s done, there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do to have Claire Munro. Mostly in my bed at night.”

The Duke laughed harshly and their voices faded as they walked away down the corridor. I strained to listen and inched further up the stairway, finally able to hear them again.

“Yes, quietly, Blackthorn. That way Claire will fall into my arms with grief and be my bride before the year is out.”

There was more, but I’d heard enough. This was all I needed. I wasn’t due back to Fort Snow for another two weeks, but knew I couldn’t let an innocent woman die because the Duke wanted into some woman’s pants.

I recognized the name, but I had only seen her a time or two. From a distance. About seventy-five castle staff lived within the compound, while the surrounding area was home to more than ten thousand.

Claire Munro, from what I observed, worked in the castle library, and always wore city staff issue skirts and blouses. The Duke felt it important to keep everything the same, in order to keep order. People wore outfits designated to their particular tasks. Freedom of expression and certain forms of art and music were frowned upon. Library books were focused on agriculture, ironwork, and studies of math and science, while fiction was rare.

Library workers were in charge of educating castle children, so she must have had a past in education of some sort. Definitely higher learning, anyway. The Duke wanted only the best education for the children of his lords and military, and judging from his conversation with Blackthorn, his own future children with Ms. Munro.

I hadn’t spent this much time thinking about one person for a long time, and I shook my head free of any further thoughts about Claire Munro, other than her and her mother’s safety.

Ms. Munro’s mother, Helen McCauley, on the other hand, I was quite familiar with. A great lady, she worked in the kitchen. Whenever I was allotted firewood delivery, Helen would always hand me a hot scone or two before I left. Her hair was more salt than pepper, and I guessed she was about sixty. Despite her age she had a sparkling laugh and amazing figure, and a wit which consistently reminded me of the way things had been in the past.

As I finally made my way down to my barracks I considered how, if I had to, I could save Helen McCauley without blowing my cover. The last thing I wanted to do was let the general down. After what we had been through, I was ready to follow him anywhere. He and the remainder of our unit was all the family I had left. I sighed, and after some thought, turned right and headed to the stable instead of turning left to my barracks.

Two dogs were snoozing in the moonlight; one, some sort of husky cross, eyed me carefully, then stood up and followed me silently after I made a small hiss and hand gesture. I drew a few symbols on a piece of paper using a notepad and pencil I kept in my jacket, and fastened it to the underside of her collar. I knew the dog would remain virtually undetected in the night and make it to Grady—my second in command from the 2-6—as she had before on more than one occasion when I’d needed to send information to Fort Snow. I gave the dog a scratch behind the ears and whispered a few words. With a quick tongue swipe on my nose, she was gone.

I’d done what I could for the night and returned to the barracks, nodding a greeting to Lieutenant Allen. He was one of the good ones. There were good people here, a lot of them. Most realized just what the Duke was, but how was he different from politicians of the past? The world was no stranger to politicians who used their power to benefit the rich and step upon the poor. Things changed and people changed: they became harder somehow. Kindness remained, but innocence and joy was lost. Removing my boots, jacket, and city issue gun, I took another moment to wish I had my own six guns, and crawled under the covers of my bunk. I was asleep within minutes.

At a point in the Third Wave, weapons became scarce, so whatever could be scavenged was used. Our unit, the 2-6, were allotted twelve pairs of six guns. Familiar in the hands of John Wayne, or Clint Eastwood, the guns were not considered fashionable or effective for a war seeped in technology. But under the tutelage of the general, and as technology and weapons systems of the time failed or were destroyed, the 2-6 came to be respected and feared for our guerilla-type attacks and accuracy with our weapons. So much so, we earned the nickname Gunslingers.