Chapter 27 Between Faith and Fear
Chapter twenty-seven
Between Faith and Fear
Lark bounced in the back of the Jeep on another bumpy ride to a city she’d never seen—this time without cooing pigeons to mind.
Captain Luke and Harlan led the way on their motorcycles.
They left the main highway for a narrow, windy road through farming and fishing country, making the two-hundred-kilometer trip take longer.
Skye said it was because a bridge was out.
Crossing a still-standing, crumbling bridge, Clearwater came into view—a busy port crowded with flatboats and barges to the right, and rising behind it a monstrous, oval concrete structure with a battered flag waving an orange paw print.
“What’s that?” she asked. Lark had never seen a structure so immense before, its top rail jutting above the trees.
“Clearwater Arena,” Diego replied. “Used to be Memorial Stadium, and where this town is, used to be a university. Their sports mascot was a tiger. Folks around here still remember. Lord Whitfield, the one who sent for us?”
Lark glanced at Diego long enough to nod before returning her gaze with interest to the vista across the river. Church steeples pierced the sky, buildings jumbled in color, and hydropower wheels churned along the shoreline, the wide river hugging the aptly named city.
“His father was the Clemson Tigers’ last football coach, led them to the national championship victory.
Old Forest Whitfield was a legend, one the people gladly followed.
He brought order to the region after the ruin, then passed the torch to Rowan, who declared his loyalty to King Frost during the formation of Verdancia.
Whitfield and his formidable wife remain Queen Frost’s staunchest supporters. ”
They drove under a long banner reading, “Welcome to Clearwater. Tigers never die.” The Jeep rattled over brick streets, weaving between horse-drawn trollies, bicycles, scooters, and pedestrians.
She spotted a truck or two parked beside businesses or factories.
A fueling station’s sign announced, “Best Ethanol in Clearwater.” Houses sported wide front porches with gardens and chicken coops in the back.
Grain silos and warehouses loomed near the port, with corrugated tin cafes and ramshackle wooden shops circling midtown.
But at the hub towered the old stadium. They passed a stately library and several well-preserved heritage houses before pulling to a stop in front of The Tiger Tribute printing house.
“He’s supposed to be here,” Skye said. “Wait and keep your eyes peeled.” She hopped out of the driver’s seat, following Luke into the brick building.
Wes stood, stretched, and questioned, “If tigers never die, how come I’ve never seen one when I come here?”
Diego rolled his eyes before stabbing Wes with a sarcastic expression. “You know that means the Fighting Tigers’ spirit, you mud-mired rust-brain.”
Wes chuckled and lit a homeroll.
It seemed to Lark that Clearwater thrived on its past glory and present grit—a place where culture and community had survived the worst, now reaching for the best. Resilience.
“Wow!” A trio of blond-haired children bounced over to touch the battle-worn, rust-spotted Jeep with the reverence they might a holy book, their small hands leaving smudges.
“Is this a real Jeep?” the oldest asked.
“Can we ride in it?” the youngest added, eyes wide with awe.
“Yes, and no,” Diego answered. “But you can touch it.”
“Children!” scolded a slender woman with wheaten hair and a short plaid skirt as she rushed to grab the smallest one’s hand.
She offered Diego an embarrassed smile. “Sorry about that. They get so excited when we come in from the farm once a month. I think this is their first time seeing a real Jeep.”
“No problem, ma’am,” Wes answered with a gallant smile and bow before sitting back down.
“Are you soldiers?” the oldest child asked. The middle-sized one had yet to speak.
“We are,” Lark answered, amused by their enthusiasm.
Then his eyes rounded like saucers. “You’re a girl!”
Lark laughed. “Yes, I am.”
As the mother herded her brood away, Luke and Skye emerged from the newspaper office with a strapping young man, sandy curls flopping over his head with abandon.
His manner tensed when he saw the military vehicle waiting with a squad in uniform.
No one brandished weapons, but his eyes flashed with a hint of panic.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Frye,” Luke coaxed in a mild tone.
“We aren’t arresting you. You are in no trouble at all.
Queen Frost was worried for your safety and wanted to ensure you arrived in one piece at the capital.
That’s the only reason for a military escort—well, that and we don’t have an abundance of motor vehicles here.
Most are reserved for security and trade-transport purposes. ”
He nodded, seeming to relax a little. Diego stood up and waved with a smile. “There’s a seat beside me you can have. Ever ridden in a Jeep before?”
“No,” he answered. “There’s a world of things I’ve never done before.”
“Well, come on then,” Wes encouraged with a “hurry up” gesture. “I want to hear all about Core technology. I’m Wes Walker.”
“Nathan Frye,” he said. Grabbing the rollbar, he climbed into the back and settled on the bench beside Diego, dropping his pack between his feet.
“Diego Marin.” He extended a hand. Nathan took it in a firm grip. “And that’s Lark Sutter, the rookie. Don’t let her looks fool ya—she’s a real stormborn brightwire.”
Lark waved. “We won’t hurt you, Nathan. Neither will Queen Frost.”
He shook his head as Skye cranked up the engine. “We’re making a quick stop at that fuel depot. Anyone wanting a pit stop, that’s it until we’re back in Nelanta.”
Everyone’s hands shot up, followed by chuckles.
“I can’t believe the queen of Verdancia wants to talk to me,” Nathan declared in bewilderment. “I’m just a farmer, nobody of consequence.”
“And I’m just a swamp rat,” Lark countered. “But I’m willing to bet you’re something special. How else would you have been able to break free, cross the borderlands, and brave a new world?”
“That’s right,” Wes agreed as the Jeep rumbled down the bumpy brick street. “Now, tell me all about Core technology.”
Azaleen chose her upstairs meeting lounge to interrogate the defector.
With its pleasant breeze and inviting atmosphere, the room would put him at ease.
She’d also hidden a listening device in the shared wall with her office, letting her hear every word.
Her plan was simple: introduce the young man to key members of her staff and excuse herself to let the men have the room.
She feared he might be too nervous to reveal anything important in front of the head of state.
But Beaudean was a fellow farmer, and Shaw had also defected from the north.
Naturally, General Stark needed to be there, but the more relaxed and among friends he felt, the more likely he’d reveal a useful piece of information.
Standing in the war room as she waited, Azaleen studied her map table, envisioning various routes the Iron Army might take to invade. No matter how she shuffled her troop markers around, there was no way to fortify them all. That’s why she had called the special council meeting the night before.
“We need a larger army,” she’d told them. “General Stark and I can’t defend the kingdom against a Republic invasion if they split their superior force and attack on two fronts. We simply need more boots on the ground.”
“What do you propose?” Camille had asked. “You know we’re working on a treaty with the AlgonCree, but they haven’t promised military backing yet.”
“We need them,” she’d agreed, “no doubt. But negotiations are slow, and we don’t know how long Irons will wait before making his move. It could be this summer.”
“The treasury won’t stretch any further,” Vera insisted, stone-faced and clearly uncomprehending of the danger.
“Surely you aren’t suggesting subscription?” Rosalind was aghast. “We could launch a fresh publicity campaign, promise more incentives for enlisting.”
Vera had glared venomously at the education secretary, her severe bun pulling her face tight. “What part of ‘we have no more money’ don’t you understand?”
“We must conscript more soldiers,” Stark declared. “There isn’t time to court volunteers.”
“You can’t take laborers from the farms,” Beaudean argued. “Summer is here. If you think our coffers are bare now, imagine if we’ve no cotton to trade come fall.”
“Enough! I’ve made my decision. Ms. Fontaine.
” Azaleen turned to her chief of staff. “Captain Moreau is leaving early in the morning for Clearwater. Make sure he carries a letter to Lord Whitfield to accompany our invitation to the festival, asking him for military support. I’m certain he’ll raise a levy and quickly reinforce our ranks. ”
As she thought back over the meeting, Azaleen was more convinced than ever that it was the best course of action.
She hoped to receive a reply when Luke returned with the defector.
It should be soon, she thought, staring at the map with a tactician’s eye.
But do I send them north, to reinforce Stonevale, or south to guard the coast?
“My queen,” Sabine announced her presence at the door. Azaleen straightened, glancing up expectantly.
“Are they here?”
“Yes,” she answered with a reassuring smile. “Captain Moreau took the young man, Nathan Frye, to freshen up for an audience with the queen.”
“Round up Beaudean, Stark, and Shaw,” she instructed, “and seat them in the upstairs lounge. Then ask the captain to bring Mr. Frye in.” Keeping her gaze on Sabine, Azaleen hesitated.
She felt a sudden urge to ask about Lark.
It was silly. If anything had happened, her chief of staff would have reported that first.
“Is there anything else?” Sabine asked, a teasing twinkle in her eyes.