The Commander can’t hurt me if I refuse to feel it.
I let the memory of Dad and Oliver dissolve my terror and straighten my spine. Raising my chin, I tighten my grip on my knife while I say, “You took something of mine, too.”
His laugh is a bitter poison spilling from his lips. “I suppose you think we’re even now, you foolish girl.”
Soldiers step aside as the horse comes closer. I have forty yards before he reaches me. Maybe less. My knife is a reassuring weight in my left hand. I lower my arm, and the soldier holding me tightens his grip. I flip my knife blade around and aim for what I hope is the artery in his thigh.
I’m only going to get one chance at this.
Meeting the Commander’s eyes, I raise my voice and speak as clearly as possible. “We won’t be even until you lie dead at my feet.”
A faint thwing disturbs the air, and an arrow flies past me to bury itself in the Commander’s chest. I don’t know whether to celebrate that someone—most likely Willow—had such excellent aim or to be sorry that I didn’t get to destroy him myself.
I don’t get the chance to decide because the Commander sneers, reaches for the arrow, and yanks it free. I stare at his chest, waiting for the blood to come. Willing it to come, but it doesn’t.
He’s wearing armor. Only one city-state equips its soldiers with armor, which means the soldiers in red must be Carrington, and any blows we aim at their chests will be useless. No wonder Willow’s arrows had such little effect on the attackers.
“Aim at his head!” I scream.
The Commander throws the arrow onto the ground and spurs his horse forward. Willow doesn’t fire again. Either she’s out, or she has her hands full defending the survivors inside the Wall from the soldiers who overran the gate. Either way, I’ve got seconds before the Commander reaches me. Seconds to get free of the soldier who pins me, release the blade at the end of my Switch, and prepare to kill the Commander or die trying.
I jab the knife into the soft meat of the soldier’s leg, and he stiffens, his grip on my Switch arm loosening slightly. Before he can recover, I snap my head back, smashing my skull into his nose. Bright lights dance at the edge of my vision as I crush his instep with my boot and whirl around, my Switch already swinging for his head.
He lunges forward, blocking the Switch with his sword while blood pours from his nose, and then balls up his fist to punch me in the face. I whip my knife arm up to block him, but someone hurtles through the air and knocks the soldier to the ground.
Quinn sits astride him, his dark hair flying in the wind as he wrenches the man’s sword arm into an impossible angle. The soldier screams in agony as the sickening crack of a bone ripping apart from its tendons fills the air. I jump over them, grip my Switch, and face the Commander. I’ll have to unseat him from his horse. A slice across the back of his knee followed by a blow to his chest should do it. Once he’s on the ground, I’ll attack quickly and without mercy. Just the way he taught me.
“Rachel, get inside the city!” Quinn snaps at me, but I can barely hear him past the pounding of my pulse.
Fifteen yards. Fifteen yards and the Commander is mine. His dark eyes mock me as he reaches for his sword. He thinks he can crush me beneath the hooves of his horse like I’m nothing.
Like the ones he took from me were nothing.
Hatred is steel running through my blood, and it feels like courage. I lift my Switch and keep my knife pressed close to my body, ready to slash the back of his knee at the last moment.
Ten yards. I call up the memory of my father’s face and hold it steady.
Eight yards.
Strong hands wrap around my waist from behind and lift me off of the ground.
“No!” I wrench myself to the left, trying to break free, but the hands just clamp down harder. “Let me go!”
Seven yards.
“You aren’t sacrificing yourself today,” Quinn says, and hauls me toward the pile of rubble that covers the entrance to Baalboden.
“That’s not your choice.” I elbow him, but he won’t relent, and I don’t want to fight hard enough to hurt him. “Quinn, that’s not your choice.”
Six yards.
Quinn’s hands loosen. “Then I’ll fight with you.”
For a moment, I remain resolute, facing the Commander. I can end it now. One way or the other. I can find peace.
But what good is peace if it comes at the expense of someone who doesn’t deserve to die? Quinn is an exceptionally good fighter, but he can’t hold off an army by himself. If I take down the Commander, the army will finish us both.
I have enough blood on my hands. I won’t add Quinn’s.
Swearing viciously, I grab Quinn’s hand and pull him toward the gate. He moves quickly, and together we scramble over the slabs of wreckage, trying desperately to reach the top before anyone can stop us.
Hoofbeats thunder toward us as the Commander screams at his soldiers to capture me and kill Quinn. Soldiers swarm onto the rubble behind us as we climb the ruins, skid down the other side, and then run away from the gate.
Thom yells, “All clear!” and strikes a pitch-coated match. Soldiers reach the top of the gate’s wreckage and begin sliding down the other side as Thom lights the fuse and then runs with us toward the relative safety of Lower Market. We’ve put twenty yards between us and the gate when the giant shards of stone and steel explode with enough force to drive all of us to our knees.
Thom hits the ground beside me like a load of bricks and lies still. I reach for him as a second explosion splits the stone skin of the Wall beside the gate and sends several tons of debris crashing into the gap, burying the soldiers who were climbing into the city. The Wall is sealed off once again, though it won’t take long for Carrington to come up with a new plan of attack.
Thom stirs beneath my hands and coughs sharply. Frankie sinks to the ground beside him and gently brushes his fingers against the lump rising out of Thom’s skull. I cough, too, and swipe tears from my watering eyes as I scan my surroundings.
Dust, ash, and the sharp tang of hot metal lie heavy on the air. Some men outside the Wall scream in pain. Others yell for medical aid and grappling hooks. Men cry out in front of us, too, as Willow yanks arrows out of dead soldiers and sends them flying into the neck, forehead, or eye sockets of the Carrington soldiers still alive inside the Wall. The last two soldiers flee toward the ruins of Lower Market. Holding a handful of arrows, Willow takes several running leaps forward, drops to her knees, and takes them both down in less than ten seconds.
I look away before I can see the blood that pours out of their wounds and spreads across the soot-stained cobblestones beneath them.
The sudden stillness feels just as loud as the explosion. I look over the group again, searching for injuries. Quinn kneels beside Willow, checking to see that his sister is okay. Ian wipes at a cut on his forehead but otherwise seems unharmed. Drake rubs his left thigh and winces as he stands. Frankie wraps an arm around Thom’s shoulders and helps him to his feet. Thom sees me watching and smiles a little.
It takes everything in me to force myself to smile back.
Logan reaches my side and crouches down. “Are you okay?” His hands are stained with the blood of the soldiers he killed, and I push myself to my knees before he decides to touch me.
“Rachel, are you okay?” he asks again, and a hard little shudder works its way down my spine.
The man who brutally murdered Oliver and set in motion the chain of events that killed my father is just outside the Wall with an army of soldiers who are apparently willing to die for him. We’ve blown up the gate and are trapped inside our ruined city like sheep led to slaughter until the tunnel is at least one thousand yards long. And I gave up my chance to destroy the Commander because I couldn’t bear to let Quinn be caught in the crossfire.
But Logan doesn’t need to hear that. He has a terrified group of survivors to protect from a danger that is suddenly all too real. He has decisions to make, argumen
ts to win, and problems to solve. The least I can do is give him one less thing to worry about.
Ignoring the voice inside my head that whispers I’m only protecting Logan so that I can protect myself from talking about things I don’t want to face, I smile reassuringly and say, “I’m fine.”
The lie leaves a bitter taste in my mouth as we get to our feet and check to see that the rest of our group survived the blast. I cast one more glance over my shoulder at the pile of metal and stone that seals off the entrance to Baalboden. Just outside the Wall, the object of my hatred is still breathing. Still living. Still waiting for the vengeance I promised my father when I lay on his grave.
The icy silence within me presses close as I imagine the Commander slowly bleeding to death at my feet. Holding that thought, I turn my back on the Wall and walk away, ignoring the way Quinn’s eyes follow me as I go.
Chapter Seven
LOGAN
We lost four men at the gate. They were my responsibility, and now they’re gone. All my planning, all my careful instruction, all for nothing because Drake refused to do his part.
That his refusal saved Rachel and me makes the guilt I feel that much worse.
I don’t look at him as I give the order to strip the soldiers’ bodies of anything we can use. Weapons. Scabbards. Boots. We’re in no position to leave a single item of value behind.
“They’re from Carrington. The Commander is with them, along with the guards who fled into the Wasteland with him like the cowardly dogs they are,” Rachel says. Her voice trembles a little when she says the Commander’s name, but she lifts her chin and stares me down—stares everyone down—as if daring us to call her weak. “They’ll have Dragonskin on beneath their tunics.”
“What’s Dragonskin?” Quinn asks as he flips a body over and pulls his sister’s arrow free.
“Impenetrable armor worn beneath a soldier’s clothing. Kind of like a metal tunic with tiny interlocking scales,” I say.
“It’s thin and lightweight, almost the density of a cotton tunic, so it doesn’t hamper movement or slow them down,” Rachel says. “That’s why Willow’s arrows weren’t stopping the soldiers until she aimed for their heads.”
Drake bends down to tug at the bloodstained jacket of a soldier who died with Willow’s arrow in his throat. Rachel balls her hands into fists and looks away.
“It’s Carrington’s design, and they don’t trade it out to anyone. Ever,” Drake says, his eyes on me. “It’s their best-kept secret. They also don’t leave their city-state and attack others. They don’t have to. Because all of their soldiers wear Dragonskin, everyone knows attacking Carrington is futile unless—”
“Unless you have a weapon capable of destroying metal,” I say without meeting his eyes.
“The Cursed One can destroy metal.” Willow scrubs a handful of arrow tips against the bright green blades of grass that have pushed their way through the blackened soil at the edge of the path. “Looks like your Commander—”
“He’s not our Commander. Not anymore.” Rachel’s voice is cold.
“Fine. The man formerly known as your Commander must have explained the facts of life to Carrington, and they’re scared that if someone else gets ahold of the device to control the Cursed One, all the Dragonskin in the world won’t save them from being incinerated.”
“He must have promised them safety or shared control of the device in exchange for working with him,” Drake says as he removes a pair of almost-new boots from the feet of a dead soldier. “What do you think, Logan?”
I think he should’ve blown the gate and taken the survivors out of the city the way we planned. I’m spared the necessity of answering him when Willow laughs and says, “I just met the Commander, and I can tell you I wouldn’t trust him to keep his word unless I had a sword already cutting into his neck. The leader of Carrington is either stupid or is planning a double cross of his own.”
“Well, that isn’t going to be our problem,” Drake says, and stands, the soldier’s boots in his hands, while Frankie rips the bloody tunic off of the body and reveals the silvery sheath of armor underneath. “We’ll be out of the Commander’s reach soon. Right, Logan?” Drake reaches out to clap a hand on my shoulder, and I step back.
He nods. “Figured something was eating at you. Out with it, then.”
Willow slides her arrows back into her quiver and bends to help Ian remove another soldier’s Dragonskin. Thom slowly crouches down to unstrap a scabbard. Quinn unlaces a pair of boots, his eyes on Rachel, who frowns at Drake and me.
“You should’ve blown the gate,” I say, and my words are too small, too weak to contain the sharp sting of impotent fury raging within me. I look at him, at his steady brown eyes holding my own, and my fingers curl into fists. “We had an agreement, Drake. A plan. And four men died today because you didn’t keep your end of the bargain.”
“No, four men died today because they, like the rest of us, wanted to keep you safe.”
I slam my left fist into my right palm. “Do you think that reasoning makes it better? We exchanged four lives for two today. That’s a poor bargain any way you look at it.”
“So if the situation was reversed, and it was me and Frankie outside the Wall, you’d have blown the gate and left us to the mercy of that army?” Drake asks, his voice calm.
I glare at him.
Willow stands, tosses the Dragonskin onto the pile of goods we’ve assembled, and looks at me. “He’s got you there.”
“It’s a hard thing to have someone give their life for yours,” Quinn says quietly. “The debt feels impossible to repay.”
“They didn’t have to give their lives,” I say. “We’ve lost so many people already. We didn’t have to lose anyone else.”
“It was their choice,” Drake says. “Every person who went outside the gate knew their lives were in danger. One of the boys we assigned to the watchtower saw movement in the Wasteland. We had enough warning to gather a small team of people ready to keep the gate open for you.” He reaches for my shoulder again, and this time I let him. “I only took volunteers, Logan. They believed you were worth it. Don’t shame their sacrifice or their courage by calling their motives into question.”
I can’t find an answer to this, but Rachel steps forward and wraps an arm around Drake’s waist. “Thank you,” she says.
“You’d have done the same for me,” Drake says.
“Yes, but you’ve earned it,” she says quietly. She’s right. Without Drake and Nola’s aid, I might have died in the Commander’s dungeon. As far as I’m concerned, Drake can ask me anything he wants for the rest of my life, and I’ll do it.
“Oh, I think you’ve earned it, too.” He smiles and wraps one arm around each of us. For a moment, I’m back in my cottage with Oliver’s arm wrapped securely around my shoulders, his love for me a constant presence I’d learned to depend on. The ache of missing him grows larger when Drake lets go and steps back.
“So are we going to stand around hugging all day, or should we figure out how to tell the camp their psychotic ex-leader has returned with friends?” Willow asks.
“Maybe we should also figure out how to explain to them that we’re now trapped inside the city until the tunnel is finished,” Ian says as he brushes bits of grass and dirt from a scabbard and then slides the soldier’s weapon back into its resting place. “Of course, I guess if you really do have a device that can control the Cursed One, we could just call the monster and set it loose on the army. Problem solved.”
He flashes me a grin. My stomach clenches as I remember the desperate screams of Baalboden’s people while the beast turned the city into their funeral pyre.
“We aren’t using the Cursed One as a weapon,” I say.
Ian shrugs. “Seems the easiest answer to our problem.”
The last time I believed that line of reasoning, the device failed, and Baalboden was destroyed. I’m not risking it again. Not when I have the tunnel at my disposal.
“We??
?ll leave through the tunnel.” A glance at the sky shows that the shadows of twilight are already gathering. “I want us out of here tomorrow morning, even if we haven’t reached the one-thousand-yard mark I set for us.”
“Suit yourself.” Ian bends to lift a handful of Dragonskin tunics. He’s taller than me, all angles and sharp edges, but he’s strong enough to toss five tunics over his shoulder and scoop up three swords as well.
Thom, ignoring Frankie’s strident insistence that he take it easy because of the lump on his head, gathers up the knives we found strapped to the soldiers’ ankles. The weapons look small in Thom’s massive hands.
“We’ll sleep in the compound tonight and leave at first light,” I say.
“No one’s going to be happy about sleeping in the Commander’s home,” Frankie says, his lips turning down like he’s just bitten into something sour.
“It’s that or stay out in the open and hope Carrington can’t get into the city.” I hold Frankie’s gaze. “I’m sure you can find a way to convince them.”
I turn to Quinn. “We need to double the guards tonight in case we didn’t get every soldier that came through the gate. Use people from your sparring class if you have to.”
As the rest of the group divides the supplies into bundles they can carry, I take the remaining Dragonskin tunics and jerk my chin toward the northbound road. “Let’s go.”
They match my pace as we leave the grass-lined path behind and enter what used to be Lower Market. The streets, a swath of broken cobblestones and haphazard piles of debris, cut a path through the burned-out husks of stores, tents, and food stalls. I turn the corner at what’s left of Jocey’s Mug & Ale, and my boots grind bits of glass that lie across the soot-covered cobblestones like diamonds.
Rachel’s mouth is a thin, pressed line, and her eyes are shadowed by the same demons that seem to haunt her when she wakes screaming from her nightmares. I let the others move ahead of me and fall into step beside her.