Black Order Read Free

another.
    “Go,” he ordered.
    The pair of boats set out again, engines winding up to a full throttle.
    Within moments, they had vanished into the smoky pall as Breslau burned.
     
     
    Tola heard the boats fade into the distance.
    She treaded water behind one of the thick stone pylons that supported the ancient cast-iron Cathedral Bridge. She kept one hand clenched over the baby’s mouth, suffocating him to silence, praying he gained enough air through his nose. But the child was weak.
    As was she.
    The bullet had pierced the side of her neck. Blood flowed thickly, staining the water crimson. Her vision narrowed. Still she fought to hold the baby above the water.
    Moments before, as she tumbled into the river, she had intended to drown herself and the baby. But as the cold struck her and her neck burned with fire, something tore through her resolve. She remembered the light glowing on the steeples. It was not her religion, not her heritage. But it was a reminder that there was light beyond the current darkness. Somewhere men did not savage their brothers. Mothers did not drown their babies.
    She had kicked deeper into the channel, allowing the current to push her toward the bridge. Underwater, she used her own air to keep the child alive, pinching his nose and exhaling her breath through his lips. Though she had planned for death, once the fight for life had ignited, it grew more fierce, a fire in her chest.
    The boy never had a name.
    No one should die without a name.
    She breathed into the child, shallow breaths, in and out as she kicked with the current, blind in the water. Only dumb luck brought her up against one of the stone pilings and offered a place to shelter.
    But now with the boats leaving, she could wait no longer.
    Blood pumped from her. She sensed it was only the cold keeping her alive. But the same cold was chilling the life from the frail child.
    She kicked for shore, a frantic thrashing, uncoordinated by weakness and numbness. She sank under the water, dragging the infant down with her.
    No.
    She struggled up, but the water was suddenly heavier, harder to fight.
    She refused to succumb.
    Then under her toes, slick rocks bumped against her boots. She cried out, forgetting she was still underwater, and gagged on the mouthful of river. She sank a bit more, then kicked one last time off the muddy rocks. Her head breeched, and her body flung itself toward shore.
    The bank rose steeply underfoot.
    On hand and knee, she scrabbled out of the water, clutching the baby to her throat. She reached the shoreline and fell facedown onto the rocky bank. She had no strength to move another limb. Her own blood bathed over the child. It took her last effort to focus on the baby.
    He was not moving. Not breathing.
    She closed her eyes and prayed as an eternal blackness swallowed her.
    Cry, damn you, cry…
     
     
    Father Varick was the first to hear the mewling.
    He and his brothers were sheltered in the wine cellar beneath Saints Peter and Paul Church. They had fled when the bombing of Breslau began last night. On their knees, they had prayed for their island to be spared. The church, built in the fifteenth century, had survived the ever-changing masters of the border city. They sought heavenly protection to survive once more.
    It was in such silent piety that the plaintive cries echoed to the monks.
    Father Varick stood, which took much effort for his old legs.
    “Where are you going?” Franz asked.
    “I hear my flock calling for me,” the father said. For the past two decades, he had fed scraps to the river cats and the occasional cur that frequented the riverside church.
    “Now is not the time,” another brother warned, fear ripe in his voice.
    Father Varick had lived too long to fear death with such youthful fervor. He crossed the cellar and bent to enter the short passage that ended at the river door. Coal used to be carted up the same passage and stored where now fine green bottles nestled in dust and oak.
    He