I meet Willow’s eyes for a split second, hoping she can read my expression, and then I moan and go limp like I’m losing consciousness. The tracker to my left loses his grip. I bend at the waist as if I’m about to be sick, then plant my feet and come up fast. My right fist plows into the tracker gripping my right arm. His head snaps back, and our momentum carries us into the wall. I wrap my hands around his neck and use him for leverage as I slam my boots into the chest of the other man. He stumbles into the trackers who hold Willow. One of them goes down, and she bursts into action.
The tracker I’m holding brings his arms up fast, breaks my choke hold, and punches my kidney so hard I nearly double over from the pain. I pull my injured hand close to my body to minimize the tracker’s opportunity to use my wound against me, and we trade blow for blow.
I don’t have time for this. Even now, the Commander could be dead.
I also don’t have the stamina. I’m woozy from blood loss, and one good hit to my left hand will incapacitate me with pain.
“Logan, down!”
I drop, landing hard on the dungeon floor, and Willow leaps over the top of me. The tracker I’m fighting braces himself, but instead of crashing into him, Willow lands in a forward roll, snatches his dagger from his boot, and drives it into his inner thigh as she stands.
The tracker goes on the offensive, but he’s off-balance and losing blood. Willow lands a blow on his collarbone and then digs her thumb into the soft spot behind his ear. His eyes roll into the back of his head, and he drops.
I turn and find the other three trackers who were holding on to us sprawled on the dungeon floor, unconscious.
“Look at that. Four trackers taken down by a Tree Person,” Willow says, a feral gleam in her eyes.
I get to my feet and see that the Commander is still standing. Still fighting. I suspect that has nothing to do with his prowess and everything to do with the fact that the surviving members of the Brute Squad have converged to stand like a shield between their leader and the remaining seven trackers.
What’s left of the dead trackers is nothing but a mist of bone and blood smeared across the dungeon, all that remains after each body explodes once the heart stops beating. I can’t tell how many of the Commander’s men litter the dungeon floor, but only five remain standing. Seven trackers. Five Brute Squad guards. And us.
“We need to distract—”
My words die as an arrow flies past me and buries itself in the throat of the closest tracker. I turn to see Willow holding a bow while she tugs another arrow free of the quiver strapped to the back of an unconscious man. She grins.
“Nice of Rowansmark to come down here all weaponed up and ready to travel.” The arrow zings past me, and another tracker goes down. The first man lies on the floor, his eyes staring at nothing. Seconds later, his body explodes, sending bone and blood flying. The head tracker, who’d been facing away from us as he engaged the Commander’s men in battle, whips around.
Surveying the scene, the head tracker locks eyes with me. Fury coats his words as he shouts his orders. “Monroe, Thristan, and Ella to the door. Kill anyone who stands in your way. Lysford, with me. I want the prisoners alive, but I don’t need them pretty.”
I grab the dagger that still protrudes from the unconscious tracker’s thigh and brace myself. Willow is still trying to pull another arrow free when Lysford and the head tracker reach us.
“Willow!”
She flips to her right, narrowly avoiding Lysford’s sword. I lose sight of her then because the leader swings his blade at me. I leap back, and he attacks. He holds a dagger in one fist, his sword in the other, and he moves with efficient, lethal power. I block one blow with my right arm and am forced to use my left as well when he quickly parries.
He drops his sword and grabs my injured hand instead. Pain screams up my nerve endings, and brilliant sparks flash across my vision. He pins my left arm, effectively blocking my ability to retaliate, and crushes my charred flesh against his palm. I’d kick him, but my knees suddenly feel like they won’t hold me.
I grit my teeth to keep from crying out, and he laughs.
“What a waste of time this was. You should know by now that you need your best and your brightest when you challenge Rowansmark, but what did you bring to the fight? An old man and some poorly trained soldiers. Pathetic.” He leans closer, his hand still crushing mine.
Sweat beads along my forehead, and my breath comes in harsh bursts as I say, “That’s not all I brought.”
“That’s right.” Willow rises up behind him. “He brought me.”
The tracker releases my injured hand and half turns as if to block her. She leaps onto his back, wraps her legs around his waist, and reaches her right arm across his throat to grab the spool of wire circling her other wrist.
He whirls around and slams her against the wall, but she doesn’t let go. I lunge forward, my dagger flashing, before he can flip his short blade around and plunge it into her. He parries my blow, leans forward, and throws himself against the wall again.
Willow grunts, but doesn’t lose her grip. Digging her left hand into his shoulder, she wraps the loose end of the wire twice around her right wrist.
Whipping her right arm across his throat, she lays the thin silver wire against his skin. He stiffens and swings his fist toward her head, but she’s already in motion. Pulling the wire taut, she uses it to balance herself as she lets go of his waist and moves her feet to the small of his back so that she’s crouched against him with nothing but the pressure of the wire keeping her from falling. A line of blood wells up as the wire bites through his flesh.
He grabs the wire with both hands, but it’s too late. I can see the desperate fear in his eyes as she twists them both away from the wall and pushes off from his back to launch herself toward the floor, the wire firmly wrapped around his neck.
He’s dead by the time they hit the ground.
“Willow, move!” I shove the tracker off her as the anatomical trigger inside of him begins ticking down. She grabs my arms, and we roll behind the man with the wounded leg seconds before the head tracker’s body bursts apart. A shard of bone embeds itself in the stomach of the man we’re using as a shield. I stare at it as I get to my feet.
“So much for saying no one could get hurt with the scraps of a tracker,” I say.
“I stand corrected.”
Behind us, the dungeon is quiet. I glance at the doorway and find the Commander with three surviving Brute Squad guards watching us. Every tracker still alive lies on the floor unconscious or badly wounded. The Commander’s eyes flicker between Willow and me as if trying to understand how a girl could beat one of Rowansmark’s best. I turn my back on him and lean down to help Willow to her feet.
One of the trackers she knocked unconscious is starting to stir. She moves toward him, and I put my good hand on her arm.
“Leave him. Someone has to absolve Lankenshire of responsibility here.”
“Fine. But I get his weapons.” She wrestles a quiver of arrows off his back and picks up the bow she discarded earlier. I take a sword, a scabbard, and the dagger I used against the tracker. We turn toward the door and find the Commander, flanked by his three Brute Squad guards, standing a few yards behind us with their weapons pointed at our hearts.
“Kill the girl,” he snaps.
“No!” I jump in front of Willow before she can finish whipping an arrow into her bow. A tall guard with squinty eyes stops just short of driving his sword through my stomach on his way to Willow.
“Get out of his way, or you die too.” The Commander’s voice is ruthless.
Willow tries to sidestep me, but I mirror her movements. I’m not worried that she can’t defend herself. I’m trying to keep the Commander alive.
The irony is nearly unbearable.
Willow peeks around me and glares at the Commander. “You stupid fool. I’m the only one who knows where the device is hidden. If you kill the girl”—she mocks the Commander’s chop
py cadence—“you ruin everything you’ve worked for.”
A muscle in the Commander’s jaw jumps, and he levels his fierce glare on Willow. “You have a big mouth.”
“I need a big mouth to keep up with my big brain.”
The scar that bisects the Commander’s face knots and prickles. His voice is soft as he says, “Watch yourself, girl. The very second you fail to be useful to me, you will die. Slowly.”
Willow laughs, a dark sound that has the guard in front of me tightening his grip on his sword.
“We need to hurry before the trackers wake up or Lankenshire soldiers arrive,” I say, trying hard to sound calm though the pain in my hand and the stress of trying to keep Willow and the Commander from killing each other on the spot is making me wish for a dark corner to crawl into for the next twelve hours.
The Commander glances at me briefly, and then waves a hand at the skinny guard who still has his sword aimed at me. “Fine. If the girl is the one who knows where the device is, we’ll take her with us. Kill Logan. Leave his body as a lesson about what happens to those who turn against me.”
The guard lunges toward me, his sword flashing dully in the torchlight. I grab for the sword in my scabbard, already knowing that I can’t get my weapon free in time. Something brushes past my hair, and an arrow slams into the guard’s throat. He chokes, frothy blood bubbling from his lips, and drops his sword to wrap both hands around the arrow.
Willow notches another arrow before the guard’s knees hit the dungeon floor.
“Who’s next?” she asks.
“How dare you defy me?” The Commander’s voice shakes as he reaches for his sword.
“Wait!” I say before Willow can loose her arrow. Before the Commander can charge her. Before the plan I scraped together falls apart and leaves me with absolutely no way to keep my promises.
“You need me alive,” I say to the Commander.
“Why?” The Commander hurls the word at me.
“Because I know how the Rowansmark tech works. Because I can not only use it, I can improve it. And because I know the full extent of what waits for us at Rowansmark and how to use their mistakes to our advantage. You and I are the only ones who can convince the rest of the northern city-states to give us troops so that we can defeat James Rowan and break his hold over this continent.”
“And how are you, an outcast traitor, supposed to help me gain troops from the other city-states?” he asks.
“I can disarm the beacons Rowansmark installed in every city-state. We offer them immediate protection and long-term results, provided we get the troops we need to mount an offensive on Rowansmark soil.”
The Commander waves at his men to lower their weapons. Willow slowly relaxes her grip on the bow. The Commander and I stare at each other in silence for a moment. Finally, he nods. “Take him.”
The Brute Squad guard on his left grabs a length of chain from the dungeon’s wall and approaches me.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Willow asks, her fingers tightening on her bow again.
“I’m locking up my investment before he can commit treason against me again.” The Commander’s scar pulls at his lip while his dark eyes bore into mine.
“It’s okay, Willow,” I say as I hold out my wrists.
“We really need to discuss your definition of okay.” She lowers her weapon. Neither of the Brute Squad guards looks reassured.
I don’t blame them. The metal chains are cold against my skin as the guard wraps my wrists tight. My left hand throbs, and my vision blurs when one of the chain link smacks against the stub that used to be my finger.
“Let’s go,” the Commander snaps.
I take a few steps forward and pause in front of him. Straightening my shoulders, I look him in the eye. Let him see that I don’t fear him. That I won’t pretend to honor a coward. His eyes narrow as I meet his gaze, but then his lips curve into a predatory smile.
“I’m going to enjoy killing you someday,” he says softly.
I swallow the words I want to spit at him, and give him a predatory smile of my own as Willow and I brush past my former leader and into the darkened hallway beyond.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF–NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
CHAPTER SEVEN
RACHEL
“How long have you been a tracker?” My breath breaks up my words in harsh rasps, as if someone reached down my throat and scoured my lungs with sand. I sit on the ground, my back leaning against the log Samuel is using as his guard post, and hold my injured arm against my chest while my eyes continuously move over the dark expanse of the Wasteland, hoping to catch sight of Quinn.
Not that he’d let us see him until he was already on top of us. He’s too well trained to make that kind of mistake. Still, I look for him, my body tensed. Quinn won’t abandon me. I just hope he understands that I’m not going to return to Lankenshire until Ian is dead.
“Why do you care?” Samuel doesn’t sound irritated, but he doesn’t sound happy either.
“Just making conversation.” I cough.
He waits for me to find my breath again and then clips his words short. “Night shift guard duty isn’t the time for making conversation.”
I know that, but I also know that if Quinn catches up to us tonight, which is unlikely given his injuries and the fact that our wagon moved swiftly through the afternoon, the best help I can offer is to keep Samuel distracted.
I make my voice sound small as I say, “I’m sorry. It’s just that . . . I’m hurt, and I’m a long way from anyone who actually cares about me, and I feel very alone.” I have to blink my eyes against the sudden sting of tears as the truth of my words settles into me.
“I’m not your counselor,” Samuel says.
“Who else am I supposed to talk to? Ian?” My laugh is bitter. “I can see how well that would go. ‘Hey, Ian, let’s forget about all the innocent people you killed because you assumed Logan knew where he was from! Let’s forget about how you destroyed my city for a crime your own father committed against your leader!’” I cough again and then ask, “How fast do you think he’d stick his sword in my mouth just to shut me up?”
“I myself am wondering what it would take to shut you up.”
I shift my weight and the rough, splintery bark behind me scrapes loudly against my leather cloak. Samuel sighs.
“Why don’t you go lie near Heidi and get some sleep?”
“Not tired.” I lie with all the conviction of the miracle-cure salesman Oliver once threatened to whip if he didn’t stop giving the poverty-stricken people in South Edge false hope while he pocketed their hard-earned coins.
“You can barely keep your eyes open. Your lungs are damaged. You’re obviously in pain. Go get some rest.”
“I’ll sleep in the wagon while we travel. Alone.” I drag in a breath and make sure my voice trembles as I say, “I need you and Heidi to be awake so you can make sure Ian doesn’t . . . hurt me.”
Having the two trackers for an audience will make my plan to kill Ian harder to pull off. Still, if Samuel feels protective of me instead of allied with Ian, it will be worth the extra risk.
Samuel doesn’t reply. The incessant chirrup of crickets joins the soft, mournful hooting of an owl and surrounds us with the quiet nighttime noises of the Wasteland. The loneliness in my chest spreads through my veins until I want to shove the emotion into the bleak silence that still lurks in the dark corners within me. The last time I traveled the Wasteland with a virtual stranger, my best friend Sylph had just married the boy she loved, Logan was depending on me to rescue him from the Commander’s dungeon, and belief that my father was alive and could make everything right again was a brilliant flame of hope within me.
Now my father is gone. Sylph is dead. And if Ian is to be believed, Logan can’t track me down until he finds a way around the Commander and his borrowed army.
I don
’t realize I’m crying until hot tears spill down my cheeks. Wrapping my arms around myself, I hunch over my knees and struggle to stop. To breathe. To believe that I can see this through, even if I have to see it through alone.
“Twenty-three years,” Samuel says quietly.
I sniff and wipe my palms across my cheeks, trying hard not to look humiliated. It’s one thing to act like a damsel in distress. It’s another thing to feel like one.
“What?” My voice sounds thick and unsteady. I clear my throat.
“I’ve been a tracker for twenty-three years. Joined the military for my mandatory three years of service straight out of school and was recruited for the tracker squad from there.”
“Oh.” I sit up, pulling my wounded arm close. My fingers press lightly against the burned flesh, even though I no longer need the pain as distraction. “So you’re old enough to know Ian’s father.”
Samuel’s jaw clenches, and he turns to examine the trees. I scramble to fill the silence with something that will grab his attention again.
“I thought you might be as old as my father. Maybe you knew him too? He visited Rowansmark at least twice a year as Baalboden’s top courier—”
“Jared Adams, the man who abused his diplomatic privileges and stole proprietary tech from Rowansmark.”
“He didn’t steal it. It was given to him.”
“Through an illegal transaction that Jared, with his years of experience, would’ve immediately recognized as something that ought to be reported under the Diplomatic Trade Agreement. But he didn’t report it. He kept it. So yes, I know who Jared Adams is. Every tracker knows who he is.” Samuel’s voice is flat.
“Was.”
He turns toward me. “Was?”
“He’s dead.” The words are too easy to say. They roll off my tongue as if they don’t carry the weight of all I’ve lost wrapped inside their syllables.
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