Fire Country

I have no time to think, and anyway, thinking’s not my skill. Nothing’s my skill really, ’cept my speed, and what good’s that ever done me?

  My broken arm throbs, as if a reminder.

  With no other choice, I give myself over to my legs, knowing full well what a stupid decision it is.

  As I dart across the bluff, I see a few startled eyes following me, probably thinking I’m headed back to the village to get help. But I know there’s no help there. Anyone capable of helping is here, and I’m not seeing any of the other women or Younglings in a hurry to do a searin’ thing, so that leaves me. Scrawny. Runty. But fast.

  I cut hard to the right, into a narrow passage that slices between the bluff and provides access to the killing fields below. It’s the same path Hawk took earlier.

  Running with only one arm is harder’n you’d think. Or at least harder’n I thought it’d be. I expected having one bum arm would be no big deal, ’cause when you run it’s your legs doing all the work anyway, right?

  Wrong.

  I’m all off balance, which makes me clumsier’n ever, unable to run in a straight line. First I bash into one wall of the passage, bruising my good arm, and then into the other wall. The second time is my bad arm, which, with the Medicine Man’s herbs wearing off, sends scythes of pain through the entire right side of my body.

  Knock pain. Burn pain. Pain is nothing when my best friend since I was four is out there.

  I’ve always liked the feeling I get when I run. Wind through my hair and on my arms, drying the beads of sweat that accumulate faster’n they can evaporate. My mind clear, the effort required to pump my legs and arms is enough to clear my head of all the garbage inside. When I’m running is the only time I can think clearly.

  Well, this time ain’t like that at all.

  The wind buffets me, bashing me around like a brambleweed. My skin is hot. I’m sweating but it provides no relief from the heat inside me. And my mind is the worst of all, cluttered beyond belief.

  Circ. Killers. Circ. Killers. Hunt. Hunters. Circ. Prey.

  The Hunters have become the Prey.

  And I’m running into the midst of it all. Clearly when the sun goddess was handing out brains I was last in line. It’s one of my favorite jokes, one Circ has heard me tell a hundred times. His response: perhaps the sun goddess had a surplus, and you got all the leftover brains.

  I ain’t no genius.

  With the wooloo thoughts I got going through my head that’s so full it’s empty, I should be cracking up, rolling on the ground with laughter, but I’m not. I’m just running, running, running. And emerging from the space between the bluffs.

  Wow.

  From up above, the grazing field looked so small, almost surreal, with little men with tiny weapons fighting fist-sized beasts. As a spectator, no matter how much you care about those on the field of battle, you’re still detached from it. Separated.

  As I race out onto the field, it all suddenly becomes very real to me. The bluffs loom over me like a dark tower, casting a shadow across the desert, cutting the dead bodies of both men and tugs in half, as if they’ve been eaten away by vultures and Cotees. The field itself is huge, not just a game board like it appears from above. Hard-packed sand and durt go on forever, marred only by tiny tufts of wildgrass, which is the only reason the tugs were here at all. The tugs are behemoths, even in death. They lie crumpled in the durt, dozens of them—surely it woulda been enough to feed the village for the winter.

  But that was before the Killers. Now we’ll be lucky to get off the field alive.

  I skid to a stop and my heart skips a beat when I see them. Black flashes of heat in the distance. Definitely headed our way. There’s not much time left. Find Circ.

  Frantically, my eyes dart every which way, bouncing around so quickly that there’s zero chance of me finding him. I take a deep breath, try to calm my frayed nerves, focus on each thing I see and hear. Men yelling. The Hunters, bandying together, at least eighty strong. I search for anyone I know and spot my father at the same time as he spots me. He’s the only Greynote who fights these days. The others are too old and decrepit, many in early stages of the Fire.

  His eyes are alight with something. Fear? No. Concern? No. Anger? The snarl on his lips gives away his emotion. “Go!” he yells across the field, his finger pointing back up to the bluffs.

  His one word sums up our relationship. Whether his command is to keep me safe or not, I know he’d speak it even if we weren’t in mortal danger. Hot tears well up, but I blink them back just as quickly. No time for tears, or fears, or the pain throbbing in my arm. Find Circ.

  I ignore my father, continue to scan the desolate field, trying to remember something important, some clue as to where I’ll find Circ. Everything looks so different from this vantage point. Up above, I knew exactly how things were laid out, where Circ was in relation to the hurd, to t’other Hunters. Down here it’s all one big bloody mess. A man groans nearby, pierced by sharp horns in two spots, round circles of blood.

  The black smudges are no longer smudges. They’re Killers, so full of detail I wanna scream. I can see their eyes, reflective yellow. They should be staring in a million directions, preparing for the hunt, but I feel as if all their eyes are on me. Their mouths are agape and snapping, two-inch-long fangs the showcase piece in their collection of razor sharp teeth. They’re so close now I can see the muscles rippling in their legs as they run. Death on four feet.

  Circ must be amongst t’other Hunters. He’s nowhere else…

  What was I thinking? Why am I here? I have about as much chance of protecting Circ as becoming part of the male-only Greynote club when I turn thirty. If he sees me I’ll only distract him from defending himself.

  I turn to run back to the bluffs as my father ordered, when I spot the man who groaned earlier. The two spots of blood have widened and his head’s lolled to the side, tongue hanging out. He’s dead. But there’s something about him that means something. Something important. Two spots of blood. Two horn injuries.

  The fifth Hunter killed by the biggin! I’m close to where it all went down. Then I see him, the monster-tug himself, a big ol’ pile of flesh and fur and bone now. And behind his dead carcass, voices, no more’n whispers, but clear as day now that I know where to listen.

  As scared as I am of the Killers, there’s no way they’ll attack us or the Hunters, right? I mean, why would they? They’ve got fresh, dead tug meat all over the place, just begging to fill their hungry stomachs, so surely they’ll go straight for that.

  There are cries to my right from the group of Hunters. The Killers, who looked so much like they were staring at me, heading for me, have veered off toward the larger group, who are shooting volley after volley of pointers at them. What the scorch? They’re going straight for them, as if they don’t even see the tug feast in front of them. Something’s seriously wrong.

  Fifty feet away. Feathered pointers stick from their black fur, but it don’t stop them.

  Thirty feet. More pointers pierce their flesh. One goes down, yelping, as a sharpshooter puts one through its brain.

  Ten feet. With a dozen snarls from the Killers and five times that many yells from the Hunters, the battle begins. ’Fore I can return my gaze to the biggin, I see one Hunter get mauled and another stab his slasher-blade through a Killer’s throat.

  I realize that I’ve crouched down, instinctively maybe, but more likely ’cause my legs are shaking at the knees. This is no place for a girl with one arm.

  I head for the biggin.

  ~~~

  A hand appears over the monster-tug. Then a face. Circ!

  His expression is grim, determined. Then he sees me and it morphs from eyebrow-raised shock to wide-eyed fear to a decision in the form of a nod: We’re getting out of here.

  Another face appears. Hawk. The baggard! If we weren’t in this searin’ life or death situation, I’d have half a mind to march up to him and knock him clear into tomorrow.

  Hawk pushes o
ff of the dead tug and hurdles it, landing in a crouch in front of me. Circ moves around the butt end of the biggin, sort of limping, holding onto his gut like he’s eaten some undercooked ’zard and is about to spew. The injury from that tug hurt him worse’n I thought. That’s why he didn’t join the rallying Hunters to face the Killers. Hawk mighta stayed with him to help get him to safety, but more likely he stayed ’cause he’s a burnin’ coward.

  Ignoring Hawk, I head for Circ. Our eyes meet. “We’ve got to g—” he starts to say, but then we both see it on the edge of our vision. A dark shape, a moving shadow that’s not a shadow.

  One of the Killers has broken away from the pack and is locked on Circ, probably seeing him as the weakest link, smelling out his injury as if it has a nasty odor, like drying blaze. I’m injured too, of course, with my broken wrist, but I don’t have enough meat on my bones to make even a snack for this monster.

  I run. Every instinct is telling me to run away, to head in the opposite direction, but they’re survival instincts, not life instincts. In life there’s only one choice: run to Circ. I keep my eyes ahead, on Circ, try to forget about the Killer, pretend we’re just Midders again, playing feetball…and Circ’s got the ball.

  I’m two steps away and the shadow is all over me. Tackle the guy with the ball.

  One step. Blackness everywhere.

  I turn my uninjured side toward the front just before I collide with Circ. Even still, it’s like running into a hunk of rock at full speed. Circ doesn’t have any soft bits on him at all.

  At the same time, a burst of air rushes past me. Claws scrape between my shoulder blades. I cry out.

  Circ’s a fighter. ’Fore today, I already knew it, but I’ve never really seen him in a situation where death’s not only possible, but likely. He’s on his feet in an instant, pulling my tangled arms and legs behind him, urging me to “Run, Sie, run!” He pushes me and heads in the other direction at full speed, right for the Killer, as if he doesn’t have a set of crushed ribs and who knows what other injuries. I thought I was saving him, but now he’s saving me.

  ’Cause of my momentum, I take at least five steps ’fore I’m able to stop. There’s heat all around me, pushing in: on my back, practically tearing through me; on my arm, which, having broken free of the sling, is dangling from my side again; but the worst heat is what I’m now forced to watch: the heat of death and war. Someone hasta die. The Killer or all of us. Running is no longer an option.

  Circ’s chasing the Killer, and the Killer is chasing Hawk, who’s decided to ditch us for the relative safety of the high ground. Circ’s fast as scorch, but the Killer’s faster and has a headstart. When Hawk looks back his eyes are so wide and white it’s almost comical, like a Totter’s in a ghost maze when we celebrate the Day of the Dead.

  The Killer leaps. At the last second Hawk dives to the side and rolls, rolls, rolls, end over end. The Killer misses again and I think this time it really grizzes him off, ’cause he lets out a growl that sends shivers buzzing up my spine. Unlike Circ, Hawk is slow to his feet, probably a bit dizzy from all the rolling. The Killer stops so fast I’d think it was impossible if I didn’t just see it happen. The predator cuts to the right, pounces on Hawk, his teeth bared and dripping clear and red ooze, a mixture of its own drool and the blood of its last victim, one of t’other Hunters. My feet are stone, too heavy to move. After the Killer rips out Hawk’s throat, I’ll be next.

  If my feet are stone, Circ’s are clouds, floating across the desert, graceful and light. But these are winter clouds, full of lightning, and right ’fore Circ launches himself at the Killer, his body seems to darken. His slasher-blade—the lightning—flashes against the darkness of his body as he crashes into the beast.

  No, no, sun goddess, no!

  Take Hawk, take me.

  Not Circ.

  Not my best friend, not someone so good, so pure, so perfect.

  The Killer is on him, shaking and twitching with excitement. I can’t see its face but I know why it’s excited. Tearing and biting. Clawing and ripping. Feasting on the blood of my world. To me—everything. To the Killer—just a meal.

  I’ve got no sense left in me, if I had any to begin with. I run right at it, determined to kill it ’fore it can take any more of my friend, or more likely die trying. I’m weaponless, but I see the tip of Circ’s slasher-blade peeking out from the edge of the Killer’s skin. Circ’s final gift to me.

  I hold my breath, reach for the blade, feel it’s warm steel on my fingertips, try to pull it toward me so I can get to the handle. It won’t budge. It’s trapped under something, Circ’s body, or the Killer, or both. I strain against the weight, desperate to get it out before the Killer notices my presence, but I’m not strong enough. Never strong enough.

  The Killer’s no longer moving. It’s frozen. It knows I’m here and is contemplating the best way to turn and rip me to shreds. The blade is my only chance and I’m desperate now. I scrabble at it, try to follow the gleaming metal down to the handle. My fingers only get two inches before brushing against blood-matted fur. The blade almost seems to come from the Killer’s skin, like it’s hiding it within him, well out of my reach.

  It’s still not moving.

  ’Cause it’s dead.

  Chapter Nine

  This clinches it: I’m destined to be in trouble for the rest of my life.

  I tried my best to save my friend’s life—although I think I got more in the way’n anything—nearly dying in the process, and then watched him escape death by a hairsbreadth—and now I’m in trouble for it.

  “This is the last grain of sand, Youngling!” my father says, his face red again. He was one of the forty-nine survivors, including Circ and Hawk, of the Killer attack. Evidently their group was the only unlucky one. All of the other hunting parties came back with minimal deaths, all from the horns and hoofs of tugs.

  “I have a name!” I spout, surprising even myself. I’m talking back to my father more’n more these days, which is probably stupid, but I can’t seem to help myself. He makes me so angry, madder’n a Cotee who watches its dinner get swooped away by a sneaky vulture ’fore it gets even one bite.

  “Your name should be Brainless,” Father says.

  “Roan, go easy,” my mother says. I look at her, surprised, but she’s expressionless. She’s never stood up for me. I always get the feeling that she wants to, but either she’s too scared or too smart to do anything.

  My father whirls on her, momentarily taking the pressure off of me. “How dare you! I’m trying to save our daughter from herself. She could have been killed today. And you will address me as Greynote, Woman.”

  In my head I hear it as my father wanting to be called Greynote Woman, or perhaps Greynote the Woman. A snigger escapes my lips, bringing his attention mercilessly back to me, his eyes blazing.

  “I have a name, too,” my mother says, her voice no more’n a whisper. My initial shock at her interference turns to amazement. What’s going on? It’s like me and my mother’ve both had enough of it—all of it. My father’s punishments and anger and outbursts. And now we’re fighting back as best we can.

  My father’s head bounces back toward my mother. He takes two strides until he looms over her, at least a head taller and twice as big. For a moment he reminds me of the Killer and I have the urge to rush him from behind.

  “Enough!” he snaps. “From both of you. Woman, you will leave this instant or I will make you leave.” I admire my mother’s nerve as she stares at him, holding it for two moments longer’n I woulda had the guts to do. When she breaks her gaze, her eyes meet mine, flash I’m sorry, and then she walks out the hut door.

  I’m determined to plead my case ’fore my father turns on me again. “I was only trying to—”

  “I said enough, Siena,” my father says, surprising me by using my name for the second time in as many days. Averting his eyes, he stalks around the edge of the hut, drawing flaps of tugskin over each of the three windows. Next he’ll g
o for his snapper, I know it.

  “Father, I—”

  “Stop. You not only put yourself in danger, but the entire village too. We simply cannot have pre-Bearers running around trying to be heroes. If you die, you cannot be in the Call, can you? Siena, you will Bear a child when you turn sixteen, nineteen, and twenty-two, just like all the other girls. You understand?” His voice is lower, less angry, almost petulant.

  I nod, even while thinking, It really is just about breeding, ain’t it?

  “I’ve tried the snapper, I’ve tried threatening, I’ve tried everything I can think of. There’s only one option left. You’ll spend a day in Confinement.”

  ~~~

  ’Cause my day in Confinement won’t begin until tomorrow, I go to find Circ, a final rebellion ’fore Father punishes me. I don’t even try to hide where I’m going, but Father doesn’t try to stop me either, because there’s some big important Greynote meeting he hasta prepare for and I’m suddenly the least of his worries.

  Circ’s sitting on a pile of sand outside his family’s tent, staring into the fire pit, which ain’t lit. A gust of wind is sweeping the gray ash in circles, almost hypnotically.

  “Some day,” I say as I plop down next to him.

  Circ keeps staring into the pit. Maybe he’s in a trance. “Did steam come out of your father’s ears this time?” he asks.

  “More like out of his butt,” I say, snorting.

  Circ laughs, his eyes alight as he finally looks up at me. “What’d you get? More blaze shoveling?”

  “Not exactly. Confinement.” I don’t mention being forbidden to hang out with him.

  “What? He can’t do that! You’re only fifteen.” His smile is gone but the holes in his cheeks are deeper’n ever.

  “He can do whatever he wants,” I say, picking up a stone and chucking it into the fire pit.

  “He’s not Head Greynote yet,” Circ says, throwing his own stone.