Meritorium (Meritropolis Book 2) by Joel Ohman Page A

tugging his head against the neck manacle, and raising his eyes to look meaningfully at Orson, daring him to return his gaze.
    “I think we know where you stand,” Orson snorted. “But, hey, we’re not in Meritropolis, and I’m not commander of even a dung heap now, so we can do whatever you want.” He paused, now turning to look at Charley square in the eyes. “At least until we meet up with my father. He doesn’t take so kindly to people ignoring his wishes.”
    Charley thought of Alec. The thought struck him that fighting for revenge wasn’t really fighting for what was right, was it? He pushed the thought out of his mind. He was fighting to bring down the System, that was the right thing to do —it had to be.
    “I’m going to do more than ignore his wishes,” Charley said softly, his eyes blazing, and focused straight ahead. But not before he saw the strangest of looks on Orson’s face.
    It looked very much like satisfaction.
    ***
    “Release them!” An elderly man in tattered rags straddled their path, his knobby knees jutting out to each side. “The prophet says that slavery—” he drew the word out with a preacher’s cadence, his voice rising in a fevered pitch—“is evil!” Unkempt hair spilling in all directions, his eyes wild and possibly showing signs of inebriation or worse, the man zeroed his frantic gaze in on Marta, perceiving her as the leader.
    “You!” He lifted a bony hand, slowly stretching out a long pointy nail, dark and curved like a bird’s talon. “Do you repent of your transgressions?”
    Charley watched from well behind the confrontation, still chained in the zippo harness and with eyes wide, as Marta returned the old man’s stare without flinching. She remained motionless, finally breaking the silence with a shout of her own. “I do not! Do you intend to obstruct our path, or will you let us pass and live to preach another day?”
    Charley was impressed with Marta’s resolve. Apparently, her strategy was that Circumcellions, when engaged, must be confronted head-on.
    The old man drew himself up to his full height. He looked absurdly like a dancing skeleton: his scrawny chest swelling up and gangly limbs splayed to each side. “I guard this road to Meritorium with my life. I rejoice to die a martyr for the cause!”
    “As you wish.” Marta drew her blade, advancing a step closer.
    The man laughed maniacally. Charley thought it almost certain he was abusing some sort of substance stronger than alcohol. “But, just one moment—” He cackled again, a high screeching sound that floated back on the wind to Charley and sent the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. “ Agonistici , gather your Israelites!”
    Orson swore. “Great, that means there’s more than just him. And ‘Israelites’ are what they call their weapons.”
    “They have weapons?” Hank asked.
    “Just clubs,” Grigor said. “They believe it’s wrong to use swords or any type of blade.”
    “Wait, I thought they wanted to die?” Charley asked, watching the old man do a little hopping dance back and forth, side to side, as more raggedy, club-wielding Circumcellions joined from the periphery.
    “Oh, they do,” Orson said. “But it’s all about how they die that’s important. Fighting for what they believe in, stopping slavery or whatever, gets them more glory in the afterlife.”
    “So that’s why they go to such lengths to provoke people?” Charley said slowly, watching the man continue his dance, taunting Marta and her cadre of armed men, each of whom looked like they could just push their way past him. “They really do want to die …”
    “Yes,” Grigor said simply. “They are a much more formidable opponent than they look, particularly because they are almost always in a large group, and heavily intoxicated. The combination of drugs, groupthink, and religion is a dangerous mix.”
    “Maybe they’ll win and set us free,” Charley said.
    Orson corrected him with a flutter of