by Katie Cross
“Jikes,” Miller said, recoiling. “He’s dedicated, all right.”
Merrick stood. The mud and sharp leaves itched. He wanted to jump back into the stream and wash the irritants away. Instead, he motioned with a jerk of his head.
“Let’s go.”
Slipping through the forest with his natural camouflage proved more difficult than Merrick had expected. Flakes of mud and leaves peeled away as he moved. When he arrived at a thinning in the bracken, he paused. The lay of the trees would determine how this scene played out.
Pete tapped on the map where he thought they stood. Merrick nodded and pointed to Miller. Miller craned his head back, surveyed the branches, grabbed one, and disappeared into the tree. A thin bottle of clear liquid strapped to his hip sloshed. A heavy, weighted pouch dangled from his neck.
Merrick kept a fist in the air until three pinecones dropped to the forest floor. Miller’s ready. He motioned the rest of the contingent toward the southeast corner for twenty paces.
The trees protected them from Tiberius’s gaze, but twigs snapped and leaves rustled in their wake. Tiberius would hear. Merrick didn’t care.
When they stopped again, Neilsen stepped up to Merrick’s side.
“You ready?” Merrick mouthed, pointing to the south. Nielsen grinned and faded into the trees, the cast on his injured arm flashing as he strode. On Merrick’s signal, the twins rustled through the brush on the right. Within minutes, everyone was in position.
Merrick pulled in a long, slow breath. “Be good to us, Sanna,” he murmured. “We need you.”
His heart jumped into his throat and lingered there with dull, empty thuds. Do your job the way I told you, Merrick thought, staring where the twins had left. Just do what I said.
What felt like hours later, a rustle of branches and the hiss of two subdued voices carried through the near-silent forest.
“Quiet, Pete.”
“That’s the wrong way.”
“You stepped on a damn branch. The—”
Merrick’s stomach turned cold as their voices grew in volume. It felt so counterintuitive. He clenched his fists. Not too loud, boys … The twins left a short span of silence, then shuffled forward again.
“Are you kidding?” Jack hissed.
“My stomach growled! It’s not my fault. I didn’t eat breakfast.”
Easy, Miller, Merrick thought, his eyes darting to the tree tops. His fingers wrapped around a rock. Wait for Neilsen’s signal.
Merrick lobbed the rock into the trees where Neilsen had disappeared. Seconds later, an ear-splitting scream rang through Letum Wood. Birds scattered. A burst of heat flashed on the back of Merrick’s neck, surging from the tree tops twenty paces away. Branches turned to crackling flame and gray smoke.
“That was Neilsen!” Jack hissed from nearby.
“A damn lion’s eating him!” Pete shouted.
“Lions don’t breathe fire. It’s a bloody forest dragon!”
The sound of their feet running through the underbrush passed right by Merrick. Yes, he thought. Just as planned. The twins screamed Neilsen’s name as they streaked by, pounding past with running feet and fading voices. Heart pounding, Merrick lay on his stomach.
Come on, Sanna, he thought. Come on.
“Hey!” a gravelly, old voice rang through the trees. “Get outta here, you rotten lizard. I told you to stay away from witches!”
Merrick almost shouted in relief. Yes! Sanna had come! Tiberius would never suspect a trick now.
Neilsen screamed again. The shrill, pained sound grated on Merrick’s nerves. Fire billowed from the branches above a second time, leaving an acrid scent of smoke on the air. Merrick’s heart leapt into this throat when the crashing sound of something heavy moved through the trees behind him.
Tiberius.
“Neilsen!” the twins screamed, their voices farther away. “Where are you? We can’t see you.”
“Dragon!” Neilsen yelled. His voice squeaked with fear. “There’s a forest—”
The final burst of fire cut him short. Sanna’s answering bellow rang through the trees. As expected, Tiberius sprinted through the bracken, shoving branches and trees aside. “Guardians!” he bellowed. “Where are you?”
Merrick crouched low in his spot. The natural lay of the land would funnel Tiberius right past him. Then came the not-so-easy task of getting the token. From Tiberius.
While in motion.
The natural path split in two. Tiberius would slow down to decide where to go next, which is when Merrick would reach up and grab the token. Tiberius sprinted faster than Merrick had anticipated. Merrick drew in a deep breath. Just grab the token, he thought.
Tiberius didn’t slow. He bypassed Merrick on the ground, covered with leaves and forest debris, by veering—correctly—to the left on the game trail without stopping.
“Guardians!” he bellowed. “Make yourself known.”
Neilsen screamed again. Merrick shoved off the ground in a panic. As soon as Tiberius found the Guardians, he’d know. Miller wouldn’t have enough concentrated ipsum and fire powder to do another burst of flame. Tiberius disappeared into the trees, and Merrick followed. The token bounced around Tiberius’s chest, suspended from a thin piece of twine.
Neilsen’s gut-wrenching screams of pain grew louder as Merrick followed Tiberius through the bracken. Tiberius, a surprisingly quiet runner for such a giant body, slowed. Merrick’s heart nearly stopped as Tiberius spilled onto a strange sight. Merrick skidded to a stop, remaining back in the trees.
Pete, Jack, and Neilsen sat on the ground, leaning back against a tree trunk, their lips pressed together in silent laughter. The moment Tiberius burst through the trees they stopped, eyes wide, and stared. Tiberius’s brow grew heavy.
Merrick sprinted, threw himself on top of Tiberius’s back, and thrust his arm forward. His fingers closed around the twine. When he yanked, the frail string snapped. Tiberius dropped to his knees. The token popped free. Sparks erupted from the square in long strands of light.
Victory.
Tiberius shoved to his feet, his eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. He whirled around, hand on his sword.
“What the hell just happened? Where’s the damn forest dragon?”
Neilsen averted his eyes. Pete pointed to Merrick, and Jack put a hand over his eyes and cleared his throat, tilting his head in Merrick’s direction. The sound of running feet interrupted the deafening silence. Miller raced into the clearing with a wild grin, a curl of smoke spiraling above his right ear. His gaze darted to Tiberius, then the twins. He shrank back. Merrick pushed back to his feet while Tiberius glowered, swinging his sword in an arc.
“There was no dragon,” Tiberius bellowed. “Was there?”
Merrick swallowed.
“No, sir.”
Several seconds passed while Tiberius’s hot bursts of breath calmed. He opened his mouth, then closed it. His nostrils flared. The token burned in Merrick’s hand, smoking from the display. He couldn’t even feel gratified that he’d just bested the Head of Guardians—who didn’t like him anyway. He might not live to survive it. What if he’d broken some sort of rule? Could Tiberius declare this unethical?
Tiberius sucked in a deep breath through his nose, snatched the token from Merrick’s hand, and muttered, “Visit the Gatehouse in the morning.” He ground his teeth. “You pass.”
His footfalls disappeared into the leaves as he stalked through the forest. Merrick held his breath until he felt dizzy and then let it out in one great whoosh. The Guardians waited until long after Tiberius left to explode in a chorus of victory.
Merrick pounded all of them on the back with profuse gratitude but stared at the spot where Tiberius had stood with deepening fear. He’d just passed, accepting a position that would keep him in the Central Network for two more years.
Without permission.
Wolfgang,
I have been invited to—and qualified for—the Captains of the Guard. The training begins next w
eek in the Borderlands, where I can do more reconnaissance on the Western Network activity I’m hearing rumors of.
This extends my obligations by at least two years. I understand that it may also sign my exile order. For now, I feel the ends justify the means, and I apologize for having to act without seeking your permission.
—M
M,
What the Majesties don’t know won’t hurt them for now. Continue your work. For both of our sakes, I suggest you find something to report that will impress them.
—W
Merrick squinted, one hand shielding his gaze from the fading glare of the sun. A bead of sweat trickled down his neck in the increasing almost-summer heat. Twentieth birthday, and he had to stand in the broiling sun, peering at … well … nothing.
“Ah,” he muttered. “There it is.”
In the distance, a small red circle, no bigger than his palm, hung from a tree on the outskirts of the forest. Letum Wood cast a long shadow this late in the day, bringing an early darkness to the meadow.
With long strides, he returned to the contingent of Guardians hoping to become elite Archers. They stood in a straight line stretched across the middle of the outer meadow, hundreds of paces from their target. When he glanced back, a hint of red flickered from the depths.
“All right, Guardians,” he said. “Your final Qualification test begins. I want your arrow in the middle of that disc. You have three tries. If you hit it during one of the three, you pass.”
The Guardians didn’t respond. They stared downrange with assessing eyes, listening to the sounds, analyzing the strength and timing of the breeze, and becoming one with their targets. Just as he had taught them. He paused, soaking in the wet silence of the meadow. Almost two years in the Central Network, and he still couldn’t get used to the humidity.
Merrick folded his hands behind his back.
“Draw.”
Without a sound, each Guardian nocked an arrow, pulled their bow strings back to their cheeks, and assumed the correct stance.
“Release!”
A volley of arrows raced through the air, disappearing in a hiss. The Guardians released their second, and then their final arrows. The distance was too great to tell whether they’d made it.
“At ease.”
Just as he opened his mouth to release them, a black scroll drifted in front of his face. Merrick blinked. Only Tiberius used a black scroll, and a black scroll meant he wanted something. Merrick snatched it from the air with a growl. Why would Tiberius send a message at the end of all day Qualifications?
Merrick shoved the scroll into his pocket.
“Retrieve.”
While the Guardians transported to their targets, Merrick glanced over his shoulder. Tiberius stood on the Wall, his arms folded across his chest. He could feel his piercing glare even from this distance. Tiberius disappeared.
Merrick couldn’t explain the gut-punch he felt when Tiberius disappeared, but it felt as if all the air had left his chest. Several Guardians returned, exultant. Merrick shoved Tiberius out of his mind.
He’d deal with him later.
Twenty minutes later, Merrick ducked into the Gatehouse. Tiberius sat at the table, scrolls spread around him. Crumbs littered the coarse curls of his coppery beard. A warm fire crackled in the hearth.
“Did you need something, sir?”
Tiberius frowned.
“No.”
Merrick pulled the scroll from his pocket. “You sent this message.”
“I didn’t send that. I’d never interrupt a Qualification.”
Merrick moved to open the scroll, but an unexpected voice from behind stopped him.
“I sent it.”
He whirled around to find Derek Black, Head of Protectors, standing behind him. The lamplight flickering on the walls cast his face in shadow, highlighting lines of fatigue that seemed deep as canals. Derek propped his hands on his hips, his dark hair skewed as if he’d recently run a hand through it. Merrick had seen Derek several times but never interacted with him.
“You sent for him?” Tiberius asked, setting both hands on the table and pushing himself up. “Why?”
“To talk.”
Derek’s easy reply dissipated some of the building tension. Tiberius growled. “We’ve talked about this. You know how I feel about—”
Derek waved him off. “Later, old friend. Come, Merrick, into my office.”
Merrick licked his lips and forced his feet to follow. Behind him, Tiberius sputtered into silence. Within ten strides, Merrick stood in Derek’s office, alone with the Head of Protectors. One of the most famous and revered witches in the Central Network. Merrick’s palms started to sweat.
Derek stood behind his desk, but didn’t sit. Instead, he leaned back against the wall, studying Merrick with a shrewd gaze.
“You didn’t come right when I summoned,” Derek said.
He said it so matter-of-factly it didn’t sound arrogant or perturbed. If anything, Derek seemed curious. Merrick clenched his fists. A low current of energy had started to hum in his veins. The Head of Protectors summoned a Captain for a one-on-on conference for only one reason.
“My Guardians were qualifying for the Archers contingent. If I had left, their testing work today would have been wasted.”
“You stayed even though Tiberius could have demoted you for the delay?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why?”
“It wouldn’t have been fair.”
Derek paused, then straightened. Merrick’s heart beat so hard it made his ribs ache. “I called you in here to extend an offer,” Derek said.
“An offer, sir?”
“To try out for a Protectors slot. Are you interested?”
A brief shot of panic made Merrick pause. What would Wolfgang say? Her Majesties? He dismissed it. Derek wouldn’t take kindly to hesitation.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Be in the upper bailey tomorrow morning. 5:30. Meet me at the white circle.”
Merrick’s stomach clenched like a cold fist. The white fighting circle. He hadn’t been there since Guardian training, and he didn’t relish returning. He’d walked away with a healthy dose of humility, a sore jaw, and a black eye.
“Yes, sir.”
And just like that—he’d been invited to prove himself for a slot in the most secretive, talented Brotherhood in all of Antebellum.
“Oh, and Merrick? Be there on time.” Derek smiled in wry amusement. “The Brothers don’t wait.”
W—
Derek Black asked me to try out for the Protectors. I accepted the invitation, but can withdraw. I await your orders.
—M
M—
Proceed.
—W
Merrick retched three times that night.
Every time he closed his eyes, the white circle filled his mind. He woke up in a cold sweat around three in the morning, kicked the covers off, changed, and transported out of the chilly walls of the Ranks. The excitement of Derek’s offer had quickly spiraled into an oblivion of anxiety. When it came to proving himself for the legendary Brotherhood, no previous training could prepare him. Not even the Masters—certainly not a measly two lines.
Merrick stalked up the Wall stairs and into the cool morning air. He wanted to climb. He wanted to dig his fingertips into ledges of rock and move from shelf to shelf. He longed for the snow-drenched peaks of his mountain home. He satisfied himself with sitting on the edge of the Wall, overlooking Letum Wood until the sun peeked above the skyline. With a knot in his stomach, he headed for the upper bailey. Eleven witches milled around the white circle. The low murmur of their voices died when he approached.
A broad chap the size of a bull waited in the middle of the circle. Balfrey. Famous for tearing a strip of thick leather in half with his bare hands. Derek stood off to the side, arms folded across his chest.
Merrick kept his chin high.
“Early this morning,” Derek called with a jaunty grin. “A w
ise decision.” He spread his arm toward the white circle. “Meet the Brotherhood.”
All of them stared a hole right through his chest.
“The rules are simple,” Derek continued. “You fight the Brotherhood. No magic. No cheating. Your challenge begins with Balfrey.”
Merrick stepped into the circle and tucked his hair into a tight bun against the nape of his neck. The strands pulled against his head. Balfrey grinned, crouching, the bulging muscles of his arms rippling beneath his tight shirt. “You ready?” he asked.
How could I be?
Merrick nodded.
Balfrey charged.
Merrick ducked out of the way just as Balfrey’s hand reached out, grabbed his shirt, and yanked. Merrick stumbled, caught himself, dodged a blow, and fell on his back from a swift sweep of Balfrey’s massive leg. Seconds later, a beefy arm wrapped around his neck. He clawed for freedom. His vision turned to fog and then darkness. The pressure around his neck released. Merrick rolled away, sputtering.
Balfrey seized Merrick’s shirt and yanked him to his feet. He clapped him on the back, nearly knocking him over. “Good try,” he said, brushing him off. “But you don’t stand a chance.”
“Yanno,” Derek called. “Your turn.”
Merrick attempted to pull his mind back together, but a short, lean witch with dark skin and bright eyes replaced Balfrey. He cracked his knuckles with a maniacal smile.
God of mercy, Merrick thought. They’re enjoying this.
“Ya ready?”
Yanno plunged into the circle. No matter how quickly Merrick slipped away, Yanno followed. Yanno danced on the balls of his feet, fists flying into Merrick’s ribs. The sudden shock woke him out of his previous haze. He crouched into a fighter’s stance. They sparred for several minutes. Yanno darted back and forth, moving in and out with ease. If Merrick struck him—which he couldn’t be sure—Yanno gave no sign.
I’m going to die, Merrick thought, ducking a wide swing. Something hit the side of his head, and all went black.