The arrows slackened, and the attacking foot soldiers pushed forward.
The rout is on, thought the Master. He turned his spyglass toward the barricade where Crusoe shouted orders at the children. He’d seen the cables at Robinson’s feet and knew their purpose. They ran to two hastily erected scaffolds edged against the light poles with four rusty barrels raised on both sides.
Unfortunately, the catapult-bearing trucks were too far away from the barrels to spur the trap. It was a classic blunder. The boy had staked his defense on what he anticipated his enemy to do rather than dictating the direction of the battle himself. It would prove his downfall.
“Call Cassa,” the Master told Viktor.
Viktor disappeared. A few moments later, the stoic, masked figure walked out of the shadows.
“The battle’s almost over,” the Master said. “Ready the pack and my horse. Crusoe will have an escape plan, likely one that takes him through the southern gully. I want him taken quickly, but only if the girl is with him.” Cassa nodded and started to turn when the Master called again. “There will be children among them,” he said. “Let nothing deter you from the prize.”
Cassa nodded again, but with less vigor. If the Master wanted children dead, he would comply, but he didn’t have to like it.
Friday shouted orders to the Reds and Greens atop the roof, making sure they heard the strength in her voice.
Behind her, the Greens pitched water on the fire licking up over the sides of the wall. But with each throw, it made it harder to see the action below. As the smoke rolled over her, she coughed longer and harder.
A Halfer green girl blackened by soot soon ran up holding an empty vat.
“I’s ’posed to say we’s running short on water!” the girl shouted.
“How much is left?” Friday asked.
The girl held up eight fingers.
Eight barrels. Meaning they’d already used a third of their supply. Given the size of these latest projectiles, she estimated they had less than ten minutes before they would run out of water.
“Focus on the area above the northern entrance. We need to protect those below.”
The girl nodded and left. That’s when Friday noticed Snapfinger and several archers moving away from the western side of the building.
“You!” Friday shouted. “Back to your posts!”
“We’s needed below,” Snapfinger spat.
“You are needed here! We have the high ground. It is all that’s keeping their warriors from storming this place!”
“What good is Troyus if we burn to death in it?!” Snapfinger shouted.
“Refuse my command, and you won’t have to wait to find out.”
Snapfinger gnashed her teeth, but her troops fell back. Friday reminded herself not to lose track of the girl.
Robinson knew the battle had turned in the enemy’s favor. But his resources were limited, and his trump card now looked like it would never pay off. That’s when Dustynose rushed up from behind.
“A pack of Fire Lords snuck in through the west entrance,” she said. “They tried to take the mother plane, but we dirted some, and the rest run off.”
“If they reach their commanders,” Robinson said, “more will be coming that way. What’s the situation up top?”
“Your fem’s keeping the Reds sharp,” Underfoot said, “but the water’s almost gone.”
“When it goes, so do we.”
“You got a plan?” Dustynose asked.
Robinson looked over the parking lot, his eyes settling on the motorcycle that had crashed in front of the barricade. Smoke puttered from the tailpipe.
“Fang!” he shouted before waving the teen over. “I’m going to try something. If it doesn’t work, I want you to spring the trap without me.”
“You’ll be cut off,” Fang said.
“At that point, it won’t matter. Won’t harm the Fire Lords much either, but it’ll buy you time to collect your people and make for the gully.”
“Orphans don’t run,” Fang snarled.
“If you stay here and Troyus burns, there won’t be any Orphans left. A real leader knows when it’s time to pull back and get his people to safety.”
Fang’s eyes narrowed, but the message seemed to sink in.
“What will you do?” Fang asked.
Robinson looked to Dustynose and Underfoot.
“They came for a show. I’m going to give them one.”
Friday saw the figure run for the Fire Lord’s downed mechanical steed and knew it was Crusoe. As he revved its engine and rode away, another large truck loosed a firebomb, this one flying higher than before. When it struck the greenhouse’s protective structure, a wave of fire rolled over the rooftop.
As Robinson speed across the parking lot, he was certain he would lose control at any second. He’d ridden a bicycle back in New London as a child, but it was a relic—a toy one of the merchants of the Clutch kept as a novelty. These feats of engineering with levers, grips, and pedals were different. He had watched the Fire Lord riders enough to see the right hand and foot determined speed, but he had no clue what the left side did.
When the whine of the engine screamed, Robinson kicked his foot down and felt the motorcycle jerk into second gear. He had no time for any further experimentation. Two motorcycle riders turned after him. Rather confront them, he steered the bike around the western entrance of the mall, away from the main battlefield, hoping they would follow.
The rooftop was ablaze. Flames melted through the plastic housing and threatened to bring the entire structure down on the children’s heads if something wasn’t done quickly. Friday shouted for water. No one heard her in the chaos.
Two Greens cowered under the greenhouse frame where the projectile had struck. It was already bowing from the heat. As it started to collapse, Friday kicked a table covered with soil over the top of them moments before the support beam snapped and the fire spilled in. Friday yanked the children out safely.
Reds and Greens stumbled through the smoke and fire. Friday covered her mouth and nose with her shirt but continued to cough. She saw Underfoot pushing against the tide of fleeing kids. He took out a knife and used it to cut open the filtration cables that ran overhead. When water sprayed out over the fire, Friday felt a modicum of relief. Then she turned just in time to see Snapfinger charging with a knife.
Robinson heard the explosion, felt the heat singed his back. He looked back to see the motorcycles were right on him. He expected the closest Fire Lord to ram him. Instead, the man reached for another one of the glass firebombs tied to a lanyard around his neck. Robinson didn’t hesitate. In one swift motion, he pulled his pistol, turned, and fired. When the bottle broke, the man was doused with fuel. Blinded, the man went down. Sparks ignited the fuel, and the motorcycle detonated.
The second rider swerved to Robinson’s right, forcing him to aim across his body. Before he could line up a shot, the rider rammed Robinson, and the pistol flew from his hands. The motorcycle shook for an instant before it went down. Robinson went flying. He felt a crushing blow to his shoulder as it hit the cement. When he came to a stop, he turned to see the Fire Lord braking for a final pass.
The rider saw the pistol and gunned his engine before his adversary could reach it, but Robinson surprised him by turning and running toward him instead.
Robinson watched the rider power the front wheel off the ground. At the last moment, he jockeyed left, then right, swinging his axe. He clipped the rider’s head and flailed backward. Unfortunately, his boot stayed linked to the motorcycle, which dragged him across the rough cement and over the southern embankment.
Robinson wobbled to his feet and ran for his bike, stopping long enough to pick up the lanyard of firebombs left behind. He quickly counted them—four in total—before kick-starting his bike and speeding back into the fight.
Friday caught Snapfinger’s wrists, but her momentum sent them both tumbling over the planters to the floor. The girl was strong for her age, a
nd her eyes burned with fury. She snarled as she mounted Friday, her blade taking aim at her heart. She put her weight behind the blade, and in doing so, revealed she knew nothing of leverage. By throwing her weight forward, Friday could shift her hips back and kick up with her legs. Snapfinger catapulted over and landed hard on the roof. Before she could regain her feet, Friday stripped the blade away and slammed it under her chin. Snapfinger gurgled, her eyes wide with surprise as her mouth filled with blood. Then the light went out in her eyes.
Friday sat back, rasping. She reached for her belly but found no wounds. Her relief was more intense than she expected. She looked at the dead girl lying at her feet and felt pity for her. The girl had grown up in a boy’s world, much like Friday, and she had proven herself with strength and determination. She had fought for what she believed was right. The only difference between the two was that Friday had learned along the way that you can’t do it on your own. Maybe if the girl had lived longer, she would have figured it out. Sadly, she would never get the chance.
Friday struggled to her feet to try and help Underfoot douse the flames.
Three more salvos flew from the Fire Lords’ trebuchets. One fell short and exploded in the parking lot. One struck the mall’s wall. The other erupted atop the mall again. Robinson could see the fire raging there and heard the shouts of children scrambling to put them out. He knew if Troyus had any hope of survival, those three trucks had to be destroyed now.
Robinson sped for the closest truck, where two Fire Lords doused another projectile with kerosene. They were in the process of loading it when they saw Robinson’s approach. Before they could send up an alarm, Robinson pulled a glass firebomb from his lanyard and tossed it at them. With the kerosene tank open, the fuel line ignited and the truck exploded.
The Fire Lords in the second truck all turned in unison. A flamethrower turned toward Robinson, forcing him to veer sharply in front of the truck to slip under the fiery tongue that nearly licked his back. Robinson veered again as he tossed his second glass firebomb toward the truck’s window, but it exploded on the outside and did little damage.
Two motorcycle riders turned from the field to run him down. Robinson raced toward the eastern end of the parking lot with them hot on his tail. He pulled his third glass firebomb and tossed it overhead. It exploded in front of the lead rider, who cranked left and ran into the steel base of a light pole.
The second rider closed in, but Robinson knew the layout better than he did. He steered through a small gauntlet of caltrops he’d set up earlier. The pursuing Fire Lord never saw them. When his front tire clipped a caltrop, it blew, and he catapulted over his handlebars only to be impaled on another caltrop in front of him.
Friday had managed to help Underfoot quell the rooftop fires, but the roof itself had become unstable. Of the children that had remained behind, a dozen Reds remained at their position, arrows flying.
Friday told Underfoot to finish out the fires before calling out to the Reds, “With me!”
They rushed for the stairs together.
The Master and Viktor watched Robinson as he sped around the parking lot, keeping the Fire Lords’ attention squarely on him. With two cars and two motorcycles pursuing him, no one was expecting him to pull up in the middle of the lot and turn to face his trackers.
“What’s he doing?” Viktor asked.
The Master grinned appreciatively. “Offering himself as bait.”
Friday wanted to yell out to her husband, but she knew he was doing the only thing he could. She ordered the Reds to spread out and provide cover when or if he turned back for them.
Robinson felt the thrum of the motorcycle as it idled. He saw two cars splitting out to the far sides of the convoy. The riders, however, cut a path straight for him. As he pulled his pistol from the holster, he knew he’d only have one chance to draw the trucks out. One chance to save Troyus and drive the intruders away.
He took two deep breathes to slow the adrenaline pulsing through him. For a second, he wondered if his wounded shoulder would even have the strength to raise the pistol. But all those thoughts went away when he saw the thrower on the back of the first bike rise, a firebomb in his hand. Robinson lifted the pistol and fired.
The bullet struck the rider in the face, catapulting both riders backward. As the firebomb exploded, it set off the others with a single concussive blast. The bike rolled past Robinson, fully aflame.
The second rider ducked low to evade the incoming gunfire. When Robinson’s pistol ran empty, he cranked the throttle, kicked the bike into its lowest gear, and released the clutch. The bike leaped from beneath him—an unwieldly missile that slammed into the closing motorcycle that sent both Fire Lords splaying across the cement.
Both enemy cars tore at him simultaneously. Robinson knew he wouldn’t be able to dodge them both, so he ejected the used magazine from his pistol, replacing it with his reserve. One of the cars was smaller and had a roll bar and a flamethrower turret operator on the back. Robinson dropped to his knee and squeezed off rounds. The fourth or fifth bullet struck the turret operator, and as he fell back, the nozzle opened, encasing the driver in a fiery sheath. He leaped out of the way of the driverless car only to find himself in the path of the second one, a convertible. He emptied his clip into it, but the car kept coming. The driver had him dead to rights. Then, miraculously, a wave of arrows flew overhead, killing the driver and the man inside. The car slammed into another light post, a smoking relic.
With the lesser vehicles out of the way, Robinson knew what happened next would decide the battle. He turned to the two trucks and screamed. Words didn’t matter, but that he challenged them was more important. After an interminable moment, black exhaust spewed from the trucks as they lurched in his direction. Relief flooded Robinson before he realized he was in open ground with no cover and two flame-spitting trucks hurtling at him. Only then did he turn and run.
Friday watched Robinson limp toward her and the line of Reds she’d amassed in front of the barricade, though arrows would be little use to him now. That’s when Fang shouted for them to fall back. Friday saw he had the cables that ran to the western barrels in his hands.
Robinson waited until the trucks were at full speed before he gave the signal. Fang and the others jerked their cables. The barrels atop the left platform spilled four hundred gallons of kerosene under the left truck the same time a globule of burning fuel dropped to the ground. A great whoosh went up as the truck burst into flames.
But the second set of cables had snapped thirty feet away. Robinson hadn’t seen it—he was too busy running—so Fang raced past him, reaching for the frayed end of the cable just as a second set of hands grasped it behind him. Underfoot. Fang was surprised to see the boy there, but when he nodded, the pair pulled with all their might. The barrels upended, splashing the back half of the right truck, which also burst into flames.
The children cheered and Underfoot smiled at Fang. But then the smile turned to one of horror. Fang’s head snapped back to the truck, which continued rolling in their direction. The flamethrower’s operator flailed in the back of the truck, but his hand must have melted over the open valve. Fang shouted, but Underfoot was frozen. So the leader of Troyus leaped and shoved him out of the way a moment before the fiery geyser washed over him.
The orphans screamed. Dustynose and a few Reds ran forward with blankets to put Fang’s flames out before carrying him back to the barricade. When the pulled off the sheet, it was clear he would not live. With great effort, he looked at Robinson and smiled.
“Who be the might-mighty now?” Fang rasped.
Robinson couldn’t think of what to say, so he simply nodded. Fang gasped and went still.
Some of the younger orphans sobbed, but the older ones were quick too console them. Dustynose pulled a sobbing Underfoot close.
It was the snarl of engines that made everyone turn. Atop the embankment, the remaining Fire Lords were already turning away. Robinson expected the children to chee
r, but mostly they remained silent. At first, he thought they were too shocked to understand the battle was over and that they had won. Then it dawned on him. They had never known the cost of success would be so high. These were lessons people had learned since the dawn of time. The dead care not for the battle’s outcome, and even the victors feel the terrible sting of loss.
The Master watched the fireworks with amusement but not surprise. Even the manner of the boy’s victory—riding around on the back of a fuel-powered steed—failed to shock him. The lad had always found the most creative ways to survive. He once thought it luck, though some still believed the boy was touched. The Master knew both inclinations were false. Crusoe was smart and prepared. And he acted as if every moment might be his last.
If he was being truthful, the Master admired the youth. They weren’t so different. They both held lofty aspirations and would accept nothing less than their complete realization. But even a land as sprawling and untamed as this one couldn’t afford two pioneers. Before the trail of tomorrow’s history could be blazed, the ground must first be razed and anointed in enemy blood.
Viktor approached the Master as he lowered his binoculars.
“The pack grows restless,” Viktor said. “Even from up here, they’ve caught the scent of the battlefield. Shall we attack?”
“No,” the Master said. “The boy will ensure their defenses remain high tonight.”
“Cassa could slip inside unseen.”
The Master shook his head. “There is no need. The pair was headed out on foot this morning before turning back. I have a hunch they’ll want to resume their journey soon.”
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