The Echoes of Sin by Chris Philbrook

Author:Chris Philbrook [Philbrook, Chris]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction
ISBN: 9781522922889
Goodreads: 28363324
Publisher: Chris Philbrook
Published: 2016-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

Sergeant Dunwood and his two men arrived at the primary intersection in the southern half of Ockham’s Fringe near out of breath and only the slimmest of margins from being perforated by falling arrows. In the center of the X-shaped road crossing sat the deepest of Ockham’s three wells. Running from the cylindrical hole in the earth was a giant hose made of knit canvas and rubber. The hose crossed the street to the engine wagon led by Corporal Beckett. The brass fittings held the pulsing tube filled with well water in place as two men atop the wagon feverishly operated a hand-driven pump. Both soldiers worked in unison well, but they were rushed and fatigued. Covered in sweat, soot, and water, they kept one eye on their partner to keep pace, and one eye on the sky for the fiery tipped arrow that had their name on it.

Leading away from the engine was another thick hose carried on by the rest of the fire crew. They held on tight as the pressurized water blasted out at the side and interior of a two story home with a stable built underneath the living space above. Enormous flames jetted out from the stable, fed by precious air and piles of dry straw and old wood. Dunwood’s experienced eyes assessed the home and judged it a loss. The fire team was wasting precious time soaking what would be rubble in mere minutes. The houses on each side could be saved, but only if they were soaked from shingle to stone to prevent their catching.

“Where is Beckett?” Dunwood screamed as he ran up to the three men holding the hose. Dunwood’s men held shields aloft above his head, and no sooner had he asked his question, he heard the panging strike of an arrow hit the steel a foot from his temple. A spent, broken arrow clattered to the ground at his feet.

One of the older and larger soldiers at the rear of the stack of men shrugged, bothered by the question. He looked beaten and frustrated. “We don’t know.”

“What? How do you not know where your unit leader is?” Dunwood felt his own anger rise to match his frustration over the night’s attacks.

The old private shrugged—a humorous gesture given that he seemingly fed all his strength into controlling the animated hose—“The Minister took him off to tell him something just as the attack started, and he never came back. We don’t know where he went!”

“Minister Fitch?” Dunwood asked just below a yell.

“Yes!” the private said, back to focusing on the ornery hose he and his friends held firm.

“Where did this happen?” Dunwood demanded.

“Five homes back. Maybe six,” the private said, tipping his helmeted head in the direction he’d last seen his leader. “They slid down the narrow alley to talk. There’s a brown rain bucket with an arrow in it where they went. North it was.”

Dunwood pondered the information and decided guidance should be the next step. “This house is lost. Turn

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