by Marie Lu
I find myself lingering for a moment on Aramin’s image. Around us, some other Strikers are pale with terror, a few of them pausing to retch before hoisting their weapons and preparing themselves for our last stand.
Aramin must know that none of us will return from this night. But even now, I see no hint of fear on his face, no sign of doubt or uncertainty, no wavering in his stance. His head stays held high; his eyes flash in a fiery, almost insane defiance. A smile even plays at the edges of his mouth.
This is why he is our Firstblade, why he was chosen so young. Here, with his hair up in its fierce knot, he looks every inch the leader I’ve seen cutting through Ghosts on the field. He seems to relish the coming battle and the chance for us all to strike back, one last time, against our impossible enemy. On my other side, Jeran has his head turned in Aramin’s direction, his jaw clenched tightly shut.
Then he, Adena, and I exchange a final look. In the sky, I feel Red’s pull, the rage in him pouring ceaseless and unending.
“Weapons!” the Firstblade shouts.
I pull out my swords in unison with the others. The sliding of metal against hilt rings out across the night.
There’s a moment of calm.
“It’s been an honor, Strikers,” the Firstblade calls out.
We lift our fists to our chests and pound out a final Striker sign.
Then Aramin lowers his blade at the wall. “Attack at will!” he shouts.
On instinct, I step forward in sync with everyone else. My attention focuses on nothing but the steel walls and the shrieks coming from beyond them. In my periphery, I see Adena and Jeran on my left.
We march outward in a ring to our deaths.
As we glide through the city streets, I see crowds of people teeming along the roads in a panic, heading in our direction and away from the walls. Marans. They’re fleeing by the thousands, their faces pale with terror, cringing every time they hear the scream of a Ghost come from beyond the walls. Some of them clutch children in their arms. Others carry prized possessions—everything from clothing to gold to family heirlooms.
When we reach them, they stream past us and run toward the back of the city, where tunnels lead into the forests on the south side of Mara.
It’s useless. But I keep my eyes forward and let them flee. We are surrounded by thousands of their bodies, crushing upward against us in a panic. Children wail in their parents’ arms. Families call out for one another over the chaos. Over the walls hurtles another fireball. It barrels right into a set of buildings and explodes in a shower of flames. Dozens of people are caught in its inferno.
The Strikers don’t flinch. I don’t stop moving. We go on as the citizens run behind our line.
Suddenly, I see familiar faces as I continue to push forward. Some of the people running with the crowd are the same Senators who had been waiting in the arena for my execution. Among them, I see Jeran’s father and brother.
How powerful they’d always seemed. How cruel. But now they are no different from the rest of the crowd, disheveled and desperate. Their eyes flash with fright. Jeran’s father is coated in a film of mud and dirt, as if he’s already fallen several times in his mad rush. In his arms are an assortment of gold and silver—bracelets, cuffs, necklaces, candelabras, and shoes. He snaps at his wife to keep up with him, but has no spare hand to help her along. She runs several paces behind him, her face red and swollen from crying, smoke, and exhaustion. Jewels drip from her arms. Gabrien runs alongside them, ignoring the others around him, elderly and young alike, uninterested in anything else except the path they’re taking.
As they draw near, they see Jeran. Their eyes lock for an instant with his.
Jeran’s father winces, and for a moment he looks like he wants to avoid his son in his path and find some other way to get to safety. There’s embarrassment in his gaze along with his panic.
But Jeran doesn’t stop moving. Instead, he points wordlessly behind himself with one of his swords, telling him with the gesture to get back behind the Strikers’ moving line.
Gabrien glances at me, bewildered, as if unwilling to believe that I will let him pass. I just stare back at him, this man who had smirked at me at the National Hall’s banquet.
You have spent your entire lives sneering at the ground I walk on. The style of my clothes and the tint of my skin. The food that I eat. The language of my people, the signs I use because I cannot speak aloud. You have wished for the death of my loved ones by barring them from the safety of your doors, even as you take from them what you like—their jewelry, their customs and food, their traditions. You have taken advantage of my silence in every way, robbed me of my dignity and my pride. You have used me for your own gain.
Now, in your hour of greatest need, you will use me again.
And yet, I will still risk my life to save yours. I swore an oath to this country on the day I donned this coat, to protect you and every other citizen from harm so long as there is breath in my body. While you try to escape through the tunnels, I am going to turn in the direction of danger and head out beyond the wall. I’ve done it my entire life, and I will do it now. One final time.
Jeran’s family rushes by. As they go, I see how their heads hang low as they scramble behind me—this Basean rat—for safety.
Why would you do this? they seem to ask in their gazes.
Because my mother taught me that, in spite of everything, I must choose goodness.
The moment passes. The people scramble past us and in the direction of the tunnels along with everyone else. I don’t bother watching them go. I already know that they’ll survive this onslaught. Somehow, people like that always seem to get another chance.
It doesn’t matter now. My eyes narrow at the wall towering before us. My hands tighten against the hilts of my blades. I’ve trained my entire life for this.
Ahead of us, soldiers standing by the one-way tunnels leading to the Outer City and the battlefield rush to raise the vertical gates. Steel grates against the ground as they crank giant levers against the wall, and inch by inch, the gates lift to reveal dark passages.
I take a deep breath. Beside me, Jeran breaks into a run. Adena draws the crossbow from her back, secure with her favorite weapon in her hands. She has some kind of new arrow notched to it, yet another one of her contraptions.
She winks at me when she sees me stare. “People are going to remember us, Talin,” she says. “I’ll make sure of it.”
Her grin is so infectious that I find myself smiling back. My attention returns to the tunnels before us, their mouths now gaping open. Through them, I can feel the rush of cold air funneling in from the other side. My walk breaks into a run too.
If we’re going out, then I’m grateful to be alongside this team. Rats, orphans, disgraced children.
We are Mara’s saviors.
33
The Outer City’s shanties are already on fire when the other Strikers and I emerge from the tunnels leading from the Inner City. Behind us, a series of explosions shake the darkness we just came through. When I glance over my shoulder, I see the tunnels each collapsing one by one, permanently sealing us out of the city.
There’s nowhere for us to go now except into the battle.
The scene before us is a nightmare. Ghosts tower over the shanties’ shacks, their faces twisted with cracked, bleeding skin and scarlet, fanged mouths, their shrieks a mix of fury and agony. They turn that anger and pain onto the shanties around them.
My attention homes in immediately to the east shanties, where my mother’s house stands. Would she even still be there? My mother is no fool. It’s likely that she fled the instant the Federation’s flags came into view—but there’s nowhere for her to go that would be any safer. The house is located on the far side of the shanties, a good distance from where the soldiers are now striking. Anywhere else in the shanties will be more dangerous.
People run screaming down every mud-strewn street. As I pass them by, their eyes flicker to me with wild, desp
erate hope. The Strikers are here! I can see the light on their faces, as if we’re some sort of miracle that can hold the Federation at bay.
One man with his baby slung around his chest even runs up to me and clasps my hand in desperation, speaking rapidly to me in a language I can’t understand. I shake my head vigorously at him and point to the outer rims of the shanties, away from the Inner City gates.
Some refugees are trying to head to the open plains beyond the Outer City, only to run headlong into approaching Federation troops. The enemy is marching in from all angles now, a line of red along the horizon growing steadily closer. Other refugees clutch their children and belongings and stream toward the back of the Inner City walls. They know that there are escape tunnels installed underground. If the nobles are fleeing through there, then they might have a chance too.
I want to tell them all to turn back. Even if they made it there, Maran soldiers wouldn’t let them in, not without letting the Inner City’s residents go first.
But there’s nowhere else for the refugees to go. So I try to ignore their terrified faces and keep running in the direction of my mother’s house.
As I reach her street, I see a couple of her neighbors still frantically grabbing their belongings. Nana Yagerri is one of them. She drops the pans she’s holding and then runs up to me, waving her arms.
“Talin!” she signs as she reaches me. Her figure is bent double, and she’s wincing from her sprint. Her gnarled hands clasp mine in a trembling grip before her fingers move wildly. “Your mother isn’t here. She’s already left. She wanted me to go with her, but I couldn’t leave all this—” She pauses to look at the humble shack that she’s poured so much love into maintaining.
My mother already left? I put both hands firmly on Nana Yagerri’s shoulders and squeeze them once. “Where?” I sign.
“She ran toward the walls,” she signs in response. Another explosion rocks the ground somewhere in the shanties behind us, and she lets out a startled cry. “They’re setting everything on fire, Talin! What will we do!—”
She’s going to die out here, with her few pots and pans and precious belongings. I take her hands in mine and start pulling her away from her house.
She resists at first. “Talin, my things!—” she starts to wail.
I shake my head sternly at her, then hoist her up onto my back. There’s no time for any of this. With her still crying, I push away and hurry along with her toward an area of the Outer City that still hasn’t been burned yet.
Is that where my mother might be too?
A patrol of Federation soldiers appears at the end of the street. I see them tossing torches on the roofs and shooting anyone nearby who isn’t clad in Karensan scarlet.
I dart sideways into an alley, but not before one of them sees me. He whistles loudly—I hear their voices as they shout something to one another.
He’s calling for a Ghost. I don’t bother to wait.
As I dart off with Nana Yagerri clinging to my back, I hear the unmistakable shriek of a Ghost round the corner behind us. Its voice changes pitch when it sees our fleeing figures, and I hear the click of its claws as it starts to chase us. Nana Yagerri screams at the sight.
I won’t be able to outrun it. So instead, I skid to a halt, ease the old woman off my back, and turn around to face the Ghost. My eyes narrow—I draw a long blade in one hand and my gun in the other. The Ghost snarls as it lurches toward me. Someone has stabbed clean through one of its eyes, leaving nothing but a ruined socket and blood dripping down the side of its face. Shreds of blue fabric hang from its fangs.
I lift an arm to rest my gun against, then aim straight at the creature’s neck cuff. I fire three times in rapid succession.
They all strike true—once, twice, thrice. The cuff shatters, leaving its neck exposed. I shoot again, but the Ghost darts away from my line of fire and breaks into a low, jolting sprint.
I push Nana Yagerri out of the way and crouch. My muscles tense. The Ghost draws frighteningly close.
At the last instant, I break into a run, aiming headlong at it. Its mouth opens wide—it lunges at me. I leap up and kick off exactly against its open jaw, then twist in midair. I land squarely on its upper back, then whirl around and wrap my arm tightly around its neck.
It lets out a bloodcurdling scream, then thrashes in an attempt to throw me off.
No time—I have to move fast. Already my grip is slipping. I bring my drawn sword down hard on the back of its neck, burying the weapon so deep in its throat that the blade comes out the other side. Somewhere from the alleys, Nana Yagerri screams.
I still haven’t severed the Ghost’s main artery, though. The creature twists around in fury and tries to claw me off its back. I duck, avoiding its poisonous nails, then yank out a dagger and saw it across its throat as hard as I can.
The skin breaks with a sickening rip, and then I feel the blade cut the vein. Blood gushes in a torrent onto the ground.
The Ghost lets out a hoarse, choked cry, stumbles, and collapses. I leap off its back and land nimbly beside it. I don’t bother watching it in its death throes—I instantly run toward where Nana Yagerri’s voice had come from.
When I turn the corner, I freeze. She’s struggling against the grip of two Karensan soldiers who have already found her. One of them hits her hard across the face. She cries out, blood on her mouth, and stumbles backward. Her eyes meet mine in panic.
I have no time to stop them. Even as I lift my gun, the other soldier is already slashing out with his sword. He shoves the blade through the old woman’s back. It cuts through her fragile body as easily as a needle.
Nana Yagerri’s eyes go wide. She collapses forward as the soldier shakes her off his sword.
And all I can think of is the night I’d run with my mother, trying to ignore the sounds of others getting cut down behind us by Federation troops. All I can remember is my mother lying on the ground, weeping and holding my hand, telling me everything was going to be okay even as she dripped blood along the ground.
I’m attacking before I even realize it. My gun swings up at the first soldier—I shoot him straight between his ribs. He grunts and falls. As for the soldier who’d killed Nana Yagerri, I grab him by his hair before he can even think to swing his sword at me. I yank his head back, then cut him as I just cut the Ghost.
He grabs at his torn throat, his eyes wide with terror at the sight of my face, before crumpling in a heap.
All I can spare Nana Yagerri is a wave of grief. She had taught me how to sign, had given me back the gift of communication. Now she’s gone.
There are so many Federation soldiers nearby, swarming through so many streets. Everyone will die here tonight. I clench my teeth. And yet, I have to keep fighting. We don’t have a choice.
My mother.
Where could she have gone? My eyes scan the darkening shanties, now lit with flaming shacks. If she’d run from our home, then which way—
I haven’t finished my thought yet when an arrow comes slicing through the air and embeds itself in the ground at my boots.
I draw both my blades and whirl in the direction it came from. My eyes go up to the roofs.
And there I see my mother crouching, armed with a crossbow and a dagger, her eyes ferocious in the twilight. She gives me a grim nod.
Mara will fall tonight, and the Federation will sweep over the land. But right now, I can’t help staring up at her in awe. This is my mother, the huntress, the doctor. The one who would come home to her village with a kill slung over her back. The one who had somehow managed to flee with me into Mara and kept us alive all these years.
“Where did you go?” I sign up to her.
She hops down to the ground and comes up to my side. “The metal yards,” she replies, holding up a sheet of old steel that she’s transformed into a shield.
The scrapyards. Of course. The Federation has no reason to raze the yards the way they’re destroying the Outer City. They’ll salvage the metals there for their
own use. It’s a brilliant hiding place, at least for now.
My mother hoists her crossbow on her back. “But first, I think you could use some help,” she tells me. Her eyes tilt skyward, to where the silhouette of a Skyhunter sweeps. “Your Shield seems to be busy with his own fight.”
Red. Even now, I can feel the fury pulsing through our bond as he attacks the Federation’s troops.
I can’t help but smile. My mother has been through invasions, conquests, and poverty. She can do this too. I nod at her and start running back in the direction of the other Strikers defending the gates. My mother runs easily beside me.
This battle isn’t finished yet. And even if the Federation wins in the end, we’re going to make sure they feel the cost.
34
I see Red the instant we round the bend of the Inner City walls. He’s fighting a pair of Ghosts guarding the Premier on his steed—but to my surprise, he’s not attacking them in the efficient way that he usually does.
As this realization hits me, I feel a jab of pain through our bond. One of his wings is severely injured. The way he slices through the air is uneven. As if on cue, another rivulet of agony seeps through the tether that binds us. This time, it’s so sharp that I wince.
Beside me, my mother frowns. “What’s wrong?”
I nod up in Red’s direction, then see the silhouette of a winged figure gathering to protect their Premier. Another Skyhunter. The sight chills my blood. They’re going to make a strike at Red if we don’t get help for him.
My gaze scans the rest of the battlefield. Strikers are converging near the gates in an attempt to hold off the overwhelming tide of Federation troops, their silhouettes dark and exaggerated behind the veils of smoke and flame that blanket the Outer City shanties. Others have turned their attention up to the ramparts, where a Skyhunter is sweeping among them, cutting Maran soldiers into pieces as though they were made of air.
I turn my attention back to Red. He’s decided to take aim at the Premier. If we can help him, if we can secure the slightest chance at taking him down—maybe that alone would cripple the Federation in this battle.