by Jess Corban
She turns to Trinidad on her right, motioning for her to shoot.
The horses shift just enough that I’m able to see Trin’s metal armbands as clearly as her concern. Her gaze quickly darts from a thick tree trunk to a shuttered hut, up to the network of bridges and buildings in the mahogany tree, then back to Jamara. She mutters something to the Apprentice, too quietly for us to hear. Jamara snarls back an impatient answer.
With a subtle resignation visible, perhaps, only to me, Trin obediently raises her bow, an arrow already nocked. My mentor’s aim is unforgiving. If she shoots, not only will Torvus die, the might of the Brutes will be unleashed on her. That’s the plan. I can’t let that happen. I won’t.
Before I can think about the merit of what I’m about to do, I scream, “Trin, don’t!”
She hesitates at the sound of my voice, glancing toward my hidden perch in the great tree, peering carefully into the tangled limbs. The tip of her arrow sags at the same moment an impatient Jamara raises her own bow and shoots, poorly, at Torvus. Jamara’s arrow misses by three meters—an embarrassing attempt at assassination, really. But Jamara’s notoriously bad aim doesn’t matter. Torvus instructed the Brutes that a direct attack was their signal to defend their home, their cubs, their lives.
When we were kids and feeling particularly adventurous, my sisters and I would canvass the brushy borders of Bella Terra, imagining we were wild animals, mystical fairies—whatever suited our age and mood. In these ventures, we’d occasionally spot a termite mound bulging from the brown earth or clinging to the bark of a palm. If my adventurous spirit turned mischievous—which, for some reason, only ever seemed to happen to me—I’d bat at the thing with a long stick. One strike was all it took for the inanimate structure to come alive, seething with tiny, angry mites that rushed around like a swirling cloud over the surface of the earth.
Jamara’s intended strike stirs the camp like that now, drawing buzzing Brutes from hidden tree trunks and canopy huts like a frenzied wave, the air suddenly filled with yelling, whooping, and flying coconuts. So many coconuts.
Torvus is no fool. He knew the Alexia’s bows and horses would give them the advantage in the open. Instead, the Brutes utilize their network of high perches and treetop bridges to handicap their enemy. For now, no Alexia can shoot; their hands are busy holding the reins of their bucking, prancing horses, or shielding their heads from the barrage of catapulted fruit.
Already some Alexia scatter, losing control of their panicked horses and galloping headlong into the darkening Jungle. Others fall into carefully concealed pits, horses and all, or get tangled in heavy nets dropped from the canopy.
Brutes zip from one end of camp to the other on the speed lines, creating the illusion that they can fly. The sky flyers carry axes but don’t throw them. In fact, as I scan the frantic commotion, I realize the Brutes don’t seem to be killing Nedéans at all. Arrows hit horses and a few women hold injured arms, but I don’t see a single fatality. Not yet, anyway. Could Torvus actually have listened to me? Could they be trying to spare Alexia lives?
A dozen of the oldest Brutes join Torvus on the ground. Galion, Jem, and Théo immobilize horses with windmilling bolas, which bind the animals’ legs and send their riders sprawling. As soon as a rider hits the ground, Jase, Rohan, or Torvus jumps into action, disarming and quickly binding her, wrists to ankles. They move through the ranks this way, impossibly fast, working their way outward from the tree.
It appears the Alexia force has already shrunk by half—bound, netted, trapped in pits, or knocked unconscious by coconuts. Jamara walks her horse backward toward the outskirts of the skirmish.
Bri sees her at the same moment I do and rocks forward onto her toes. “Oh no she doesn’t,” she protests, suddenly jumping to her feet.
“What are you doing?”
“There’s no way she’s getting out of here alive.”
She slings her bow over her shoulder and practically jumps for the quickest route down: a speed line angling from our platform to a landing point fifty meters from the tree’s base. Gripping the curved wooden bar, she flies down the rope like a hawk zeroing in on its prey, though landing with far less grace. Undeterred by her near-face-plant dismount, Bri picks herself up, draws an arrow from her hip quiver, and weaves in and out of horses, trees, and bodies toward our former fellow Candidate, dodging coconuts and ignoring everything and everyone else in her way. When she gets within ten meters, she takes shelter behind a trunk to steady herself, then leans into the open and takes aim.
Jamara turns her horse in a circle, trying to calm the steed amid the mayhem. She catches sight of Bri just as Bri’s arrow strikes her horse’s chest. The animal stumbles sideways, sending Jamara careening into the ground.
I hold my breath as Bri sprints toward the fallen Apprentice, swapping her bow for the Alexia short sword at her belt. Jamara struggles to rise, barely managing to get her own sword in a defensive position before Bri comes down with a hacking slice. Jamara blocks the attack, then pushes herself to her feet. For such a large woman, she moves with surprising speed. Bri and I have both been the unhappy recipients of that quickness, and we understand the strength of her fists. No one could beat her in hand-to-hand combat during training. Bri and I both had the bloodied faces to prove it—one of the few memorabilia we shared. If Bri loses her weapons, she’ll be in trouble.
The duel is marked by adrenaline and fury on both sides, but Bri’s thirst for revenge fuels her with uncanny precision and a skill I’ve never seen in the Amal girl.
A sudden, pained scream rattles the other side of the tree, one level above me, stealing my attention from the face-off. I watch in horror as a young Brute pitches forward and tumbles toward the ground, dropping his bow, smacking into branches and ripping through leaves as he falls.
Scanning the ground below, I can’t see who shot the arrow, but one thing is clear: the steady stream of aerial projectiles from above has lessened to a trickle. The Brutes are running out of ammunition. As the supply dwindles, the Alexia have the good sense to reach for their bows.
I know I promised Rohan I’d stay in the tree, out of danger, but how can I let Bri go after Jamara alone while I sit here fiddling with fletching like a frightened child? No—even if I can’t bring myself to shoot any Alexia, I can at least help Bri keep Teera’s Apprentice from escaping.
I fumble for a handful of Brute arrows to supplement my quiver, stuffing the wooden shafts tip-down into the leather slots on my thigh.
Bri’s hasty exit on the speed line leaves me only one option to get down from this tree. Scrambling onto the platform, I draw the rough rope hand over hand, lowering myself haltingly and not nearly fast enough, meter by agonizing meter. In a sparser section between branches, I’m helplessly exposed. An arrow whizzes past my ear and I shudder, quickening my pace. Apparently, my Alexia uniform doesn’t offer me immunity. Jamara mentioned apprehending traitors. Are they watching for me?
Another arrow grazes the rope just above my head, confirming my suspicion. Several strands pop and fray. What remains of the rope creaks under the sudden strain.
My arms pull frantically, muscles burning with effort. “Hold, you stupid rope!” My only hope is to reach the bottom and find cover. Twenty meters to go . . . fifteen . . . Another arrow thunks into the platform railing, and the splayed rope looks ready to give way. If it snaps, I’m dead.
I scan the ground for the attacker just as the Alexia archer disappears under Théo’s bulk as he slams into her. They tumble like Jungle cats, rolling into the brush. She struggles mightily, but the Brute pins her arms, then wrenches her weapon away, tossing it to the side.
The rope frays further, dropping the platform another few centimeters. I could try to reach above the tear in the rope and climb it back to the ledge, but I’d still be exposed. Panicked shouts and clanking metal fill my ears, muddling reason. My heart races with every tip and sway.
Sway. Sway! Maybe I can create enough momentum to reach a nearby bra
nch. I start swinging side to side, carefully at first, then with more force, coaxing the platform into a rhythmic swing. Closer, closer . . . If I can just . . .
Suddenly, the last strand of rope gives way. The platform drops from beneath me, the momentum of my final swing carrying me just far enough to wrap my fingers around a thin limb. My feet grope for a foothold, finding nothing but air. The platform shatters against the Jungle floor, alerting every Alexia in the Jungle to my precarious position, including the last archer on earth I’d want to have sights on me: Trinidad.
She turns Midas away from the Brute she has just shot, spots me, and for a split second we lock eyes. Hers narrow into the same suspicious golden slits as the night she caught me outside the Center. She doesn’t hesitate to take aim.
Trinidad—no! I scream. At least I mean to, but the sound gets blocked by the panic squeezing my windpipe. Weeks of secret training under her remarkable skill leave me no doubt what will happen when she shoots.
This is it. I’m going to die here. And not at the hand of just anyone, but the mentor I abandoned, the friend I asked to risk everything for me. Honestly, I suppose I deserve what’s coming.
From the edges of my vision, Rohan careens into view, glancing from me to Trin, then racing to reach her before she can release her arrow.
Before he can get there, Trin tightens her grip on the riser, steadying herself for the long-distance shot. She squeezes her eyes shut, then focuses again. At the last second, the tip of her bow shifts left, almost imperceptibly. When she lets the arrow fly, it slices through the air as fast and straight as a shooting star, burying itself into the thick bark of the mahogany’s trunk three meters from me.
Trinidad doesn’t miss. She had a clear shot at an immobile target, yet I’m still dangling here, very much alive.
But Rohan doesn’t know her like I do and is still in motion, rushing her horse. Midas swirls and snorts, but the massive Brute launches himself deftly from a boulder, tackling Trin from her mount. Her bow flies from her grasp as she hits the ground under him, knocking her head hard. Dazed, but coherent enough to keep fighting, she uses her momentum to roll him onto his back, then connects a direct blow to his nose before reaching into her boot for a familiar small blade. Blood surges down Rohan’s chin as he flips her over, pinning her under him. He grabs her armed hand and wrenches the blade free. Then he reaches to her belt and draws her short sword—her last weapon. For a sickening moment, I fear he might run her through with it. But instead he glances above him, then jumps up and retreats several paces.
“Now!” he shouts to hidden fighters overhead.
As the Alexia scrambles to her feet, an enormous weighted net falls from the tree, knocking her back to the ground and pinning her in place. Lightning-fast, Rohan draws a cord that cinches the net like a coin purse right under Trin’s legs, then fastens it tight.
Once she’s secure, he searches the canopy for me. Finding me still dangling, his eyes betray uncharacteristic panic. “Hold on, Reina!” he yells, sprinting toward the tree.
My fingers barely keep their grip on the rough bark.
He shouldn’t worry about me. He should be helping the others.
As my arms burn with the strain of holding on, a bizarre, alarming thought flashes like a storm cloud releasing its charge. Would it be so bad if my hands gave out? Would an arrow to my chest be unwelcome? I’d join Tre, and Mother, and Callisto on the other side—be free from the ache of missing them. I’d leave this frightening, cruel world behind . . . could forget about injustice and Teera, the Brutes and my terrible decision to murder my best friend. I’d be free.
Then, like a whisper, like a breeze in the leaves, my mother’s voice brushes against my cheek.
Remember who you are, Rei of Sunshine.
I squeeze my eyes shut, as tightly as my hands grasp the fragile limb tethering me to this world.
Remember who I am.
And who am I?
I’m Reina Pierce, daughter of Leda Pierce. I might be flawed and afraid—a murderer, no better than Dáin—but I have fight left in me. I’ll face what I’ve done, and I won’t let Tre’s death be for nothing. I will live to thank Trin and tell her the truth. I will live to repay Rohan for trying to save my life with no thought for his own.
I hear him shout my name a second time, and I know I have much yet to live for. So I reach deep down for the brio I must still possess somewhere inside, and wrench it free. It shakes loose with a guttural cry.
The thin branch arcs under my weight as I force one hand over the other, bobbing and floundering toward the trunk.
“The ledge!” I hear Rohan shout. I make the mistake of looking toward his voice. The void between us makes my head spin, and my pulse beats wildly. But I see the wide ledge fastened to the trunk, maybe two body lengths below my dangling toes.
Swinging my legs like a pendulum, I try to gain enough momentum for the jump. Back. Forth. Back. Forth. Release! For a terrifying moment I’m falling through the air—long enough to decide this is the stupidest idea I’ve ever had—then my feet collide with solid wood. My momentum slams me into bark, but I’m too elated to feel pain.
I made it! I didn’t die. A juvenile laugh gurgles from my chest, and I fling my arms wide against the tree.
I scan the ground for Rohan, eager to share my momentary euphoria, but he has been drawn away by two Alexia—Fallon and Valya—parrying both their swords with his own weapons. Nearby, Torvus and the others, bloody and growing weary, struggle now to keep the Alexia from the heart of camp. Their circle of protection is shrinking. At least two dozen Alexia surround the eight remaining Brutes, and they’re closing in.
Swords flash and arrows fly. Jase swings with practiced precision, but his wounds and evident weariness are taking a toll. Covered in sweat and blood, he calls out warnings and looks to defend the other Brutes even as he fields a barrage of attacks himself.
Jem jump-flips from a boulder over an attacker’s head, but when he lands, another Alexia’s arrow pierces the back of his thigh. He hobbles backward, trying to pull the tip free even as the first Alexia advances. Théo takes her out just in time, but not before his arm is sliced by an incoming blade.
I scan the chaos for Bri, finding her on the outskirts of camp, still locked in a vicious fight with Jamara. Bri’s hair is matted across her cheeks and neck, and a line of blood trickles down her right arm. She holds her short sword in one hand, a Brute spear in the other, alternating between weapons as she tries to find a weakness in Jamara’s defense. Bri appears to be slowing, the fiery passion that rent her from the tree fading into sheer exhaustion.
The Apprentice’s tunic has been slashed through, leaving a gaping hole on one side of the multicolored robe. Her skin is smeared with mud, perspiration, and blood, but she’s still fighting. Frighteningly, she looks to be gaining the upper hand.
I have to do something.
A speed line runs from this platform to the ground, maybe a hundred meters from Bri. Unfortunately, the curved bar used to glide down the rope is missing. It should be here, or attached to a guideline on the other end to draw to myself. I glance around but don’t see anything else to use. I consider Rohan’s bone knife, but holding a blade isn’t going to work unless I want to slice my hands or the rope on my way down.
Arrows? One seems too flimsy, but four together might hold my weight. It’s risky, I think, then laugh at the irony. More risky than breaking out of hidden cells, marching into the Jungle unannounced, dangling twenty meters above the ground? I suppose I can take my chances.
Holding the bundle of arrows over the rope, one hand on each side, I jump from the platform and fly over the battle below. As I soar through limbs and across camp, my stomach bumps into my tonsils in a strange, weightless rise. But it’s not just the thrill of flying that forces my gut into unnatural places. The carnage on the ground twists my stomach too.
The second my boots touch soil, amidst the chaos and danger, I long for Callisto. For speed, for strength, for
courage. A passing arrow rattles my resolve, but I force my feet to run. I can’t let Jamara kill Bri. Their battle has taken them far from the center of camp, and I hunch to keep low, darting from one stump, one bush to the next, keeping my eyes on them all the while.
When Bri trips on a protruding root, Jamara knocks her sword from her grasp. Bri takes the spear in two hands and runs at Jamara, who shifts at the last moment. Bri lunges a step too far. Jamara drops her own weapon to wrench the spear from Bri’s hands.
I run faster, jumping over logs and ducking under branches, but I’m still too far to save her.
Jamara lunges at her with the Brute spear. Bri sidesteps just in time. But with no weapon of her own, Bri’s speed will only grant her luck so long. She’s running out of tricks. Jamara has her cornered now, pressed against a boulder.
“You should have gone back to Amal,” Jamara sneers victoriously, drawing her arm back, ready to deliver the final blow.
“Nooo!” I scream, still ten meters too far.
My voice grows and reverberates, echoing through camp like a mighty call to action. Alexia and Brutes alike pause at the guttural sound increasing in volume even though I’ve fallen silent.
A unified Brutish cry, followed by more than a dozen Brute bodies, bursts from the Jungle toward us. Some run with torches, all are smeared with mud, baring their teeth and brandishing weapons.
A Brute with a shock of red hair, illuminated in torchlight, leads the charge.
Dáin reaches Jamara within seconds. In a flash, he swings his harpy eagle club over her outstretched spear, cracking it in two. Then, without so much as flinching, he runs her through with the blade in his other hand. The Apprentice from Kekuatan drops to her knees, then falls face-first onto the Jungle floor.
Dáin glances at Bri and cocks his head to one side, as if trying to remember why he shouldn’t kill her, too. Then, as if recalling that reason, he sprints off in search of another target.
For once, Bri is stunned into silence. We stare at Jamara’s fallen body. Though the world is undoubtedly better without her malevolence, standing over the crumpled form of someone you ate dinner with a fortnight ago is sobering. The loss of any life, however justified, carries weight.