“Not after what happened the other night. We let six of our own into camp, and the next morning those six plus twenty others went missing.”
Yara cleared her throat, raising her head to meet James’s grim visage. “James? We’re back. Well . . . some of us.”
James leaped onto one of the driver’s seats, bow pointed at Yara. “I see four . . . five Performers, plus Johanna and two strangers. Where’s Elma? Where’s Didsbury? Wh-where’s . . .” He swallowed and started again. “Where’s Julia?”
Julia. Johanna wiped her hands on her pants, as if she could wipe away the blood that stained them. Julia was one whose shot Johanna had missed horribly, one that Rafi and Jacaré had tried and failed to save. James had been in love with the young contortionist since they were both in swaddling.
“She’s . . . we’re the only survivors,” Johanna said, struggling with the words.
The arrow swung to point at her. “They’re all dead?”
“Yes.”
A flickering, iridescent bubble suddenly surrounded Johanna, and the Fireswords shouted in fear and surprise. James released the arrow and it stuck in the shield at Johanna’s knee level. She hopped back from the point and exchanged a surprised look with James.
Rafi strode through the crowd, blue fire licking up his arms. “We’re not here to hurt you. We’re here to save you. Move aside and let us in.”
Murmurs of “Keeper” and “demon” rolled among the Fireswords.
“Please, Rafi. Stop. Can’t you see they are frightened?” Johanna stepped in front of him, blocking his way. “James! James!” She had to shout to be heard over the men’s frantic arguments. “James, when you were six, you ate a tree frog and it made you sick for days. If it weren’t for that dreadful medicine Elma gave you, you would have died.”
Except now I know the truth. That medicine was a ruse.
The arguing stopped, and the light around Rafi and the shield he’d created to protect Johanna winked out. The wagons rolled aside and James stepped through. “You can come in, Jo. And the rest of the Performers, but everyone else stays out.” His fingers twitched nervously on his sword’s hilt.
“They’ve stayed in Performers’ Camp before.”
“That was before, Jo.” James snatched his spent arrow from the ground in front of her feet. “We don’t let anyone in. Not anymore.”
“Go,” Rafi said, nodding toward the camp. “We need their help. You have to convince them to stand against Sapo.”
She knew he was right, but she also knew that recruiting these people might mean leading them to their death.
So much loss, and more to face.
With the death of her brothers, with the invasion of the valley, with the collapse of the barrier, someone had to take on the mantle.
Elma’s prophecy seemed well on its way to becoming true.
Chapter 65
* * *
Dom
Dom crouched in the weeds, watching a man unwind a length of braided fuse. He couldn’t see Belem’s troops through the crush of the forest beyond, but he could hear the tromp of hooves as they approached through the trees.
The salvaged powder had served its purpose. The bridges had collapsed to their foundations, leaving a wrecked mass of wood and stone. Belem’s troops had only two remaining options if they intended to invade: turn north, pass through Cruzamento and enter Santiago by way of Camaçari, or cross the ravine and ford the river, leaving their wagons, siege engines, and ballistae on the far side.
“Lord Dom,” said the breathless fuse man. “It’s ready. I’ll light it on your order.”
“Wait till the first line of horses are in the ravine, but before they start to come up the far side,” Dom commanded.
Belem’s soldiers would be forced to overwhelm Santiago’s with sheer numbers now that they had neither surprise nor superior weapons to their advantage. The newest reports from Maribelle’s relay suggested that the attacking army outnumbered Santiago’s by nearly six to one—significantly more than the original estimate.
The odds wouldn’t have been so alarming if Fernando’s troops hadn’t been mired on the South Road. Even at the horses’ fastest gallop, they wouldn’t reach Santiago before Belem did.
The newly appointed Captain Demian lowered his spyglass. “Two minutes.”
Dom’s heart hammered with the deliberate blows of a blacksmith at his anvil, but he gave a sharp nod. “Go to, Captain.”
“On my mark,” Demian yelled, raising his arm.
A row of infantry, each specially selected for this duty, raised slings overhead. The next row of soldiers loaded half-full wine bottles into the pockets.
Mother Lua, Dom prayed. I know I’ve never deserved your blessings, but today I’m begging you to spare my people. Please, Goddess, let this work.
“Hold,” Demian yelled.
The first line of Belem’s troops broke through the trees. Longbowmen, as Dom had suspected, with cavalry pressing between the ranks. The bowmen nocked their arrows and pointed them skyward, to use loft to get distance from their shots.
“Shields!”
Santiago’s infantry created a wall of steel and wood, protecting their bowmens’ torsos and legs, but leaving their heads and arms exposed so they could get a clear return shot.
Terror mixed with the stench of sweat and alcohol. Dom licked his lips, tasting salt on his skin, took a breath, and licked them again, but he didn’t turn or break, eyes focused over the top of his shield.
With a twang and hiss, Belem’s bowmen released their second volley, and the cavalry charged. Shields shifted, blocking most of the arrows, but a voice shrieked in pain somewhere down the line.
“Bows, fire at will,” Demian commanded.
Horses screamed as Belem’s men fell from their mounts. Dom counted the seconds in his head, waiting for the first row of horsemen to disappear into the gully, the second row following close behind. His fingers twitched, wanting to give the sign, but he waited . . . waited . . . waited.
“Now!”
The fuse man dropped his torch onto the pitch-soaked rope, and a speck of flame raced across the wet field.
The first line of cavalry started their ascent up the ravine’s steep side.
Demian looked to Dom before giving the order, “Slings, light! Slings, fire!”
The bottles ranged in color from glistening gold to deep maroon, each with a burning length of bandage trapped under the cork. On another day it might have been a beautiful sight as the glass caught and reflected the light from the sun and their flaming fuses.
Instead it was raining death.
Glass shattered, and the burning Álcool Fogo splashed over men and horses. Their cries rent the air, blotting out the crash of breaking glass as the bottles exploded, shards sinking deep into unprotected flesh.
Then the cannon powder went. It hadn’t been enough to fill two barrels, so Dom had spread it out. Four small casks had been packed halfway with powder and filled the rest of the way with metal filings, bits of broken blades, and all the nails the township could spare.
Three lines of Belem’s cavalry were decimated. Only four riders of the first one hundred who tried to pass through the ravine survived, and they were easily picked off by Santiago’s arrows. Horses reared as blood blossomed on their coats, and riders tumbled from their saddles.
The wind shifted, and instead of fear and sweat Dom smelled burning meat. He clenched his jaw shut to stop from heaving all over his troops.
The men around him cheered, almost drowning out a voice calling his name from somewhere deep inside their ranks.
“Dominic!”
Maribelle jumped off her horse and pushed her way to the line of commanders. She waved a piece of paper as she ran.
He broke away from the group and rushed to her. “What are you doing—”
“Camaçari,” she panted. Her black hair was slicked down with sweat. “Small group coming from the north. Already here.”
“What?”
Understanding exploded in Dom’s mind like one of his liquor-filled bottles. “Demian! They’re going to flank us.”
From the corner of his eye Dom spotted the arrows arching through the blue sky, whistling toward them.
“Shields!” Multiple voices took up the shout, but it was too late. The north end of Santiago’s line collapsed, and the screaming started anew.
“Get down!” Dom yelled, hauling Maribelle to the ground beside him. He rolled on top of her, protecting her with his body.
Their faces were a breath apart. Maribelle’s dark eyes widened as her skin went gray with terror.
“Your horse. Where did you leave it?”
Her long lashes fluttered, and she raised her hand as if to touch his face. “D-Dom.” Her tawny skin was stained dark with blood. He sat back, holding Maribelle close. Her other arm was wrapped around her stomach, half covering the arrowhead that protruded from above her right hip.
He froze. He couldn’t think, couldn’t understand, couldn’t breathe. The call to fall back sounded, and he didn’t move, staring with a sick fascination at the arrow that had pierced all the way through her body.
“I—I think,” she said, stumbling over the words. “That we could have been good together.”
“Shh. You’re fine, Maribelle.” He wasn’t sure if that was the truth, but it felt like the right thing to say. “It’s not that bad of an injury.”
“Lord Dom!” Someone jostled him, trying to pull him upright. “We must move now.”
Dom slipped his arms under Maribelle’s knees and shoulders and stood. She felt too light in his arms.
“Not the only reason I came . . .” She shook her head as if to clear her thoughts. “Fernando is bringing help.”
“I know.” He ran over the uneven ground and heard her cry out as he threw her across his saddle.
She blacked out long before he reached the estate, and he wasn’t able to make sense of the rest of her message until much later.
Chapter 66
* * *
Johanna
The balcony that wrapped around the upper floor of the Council House was packed with Performers. They stood shoulder to shoulder, faces grim. The air in the building was close, full of woodsmoke, spices, and fear.
Johanna stood in the center of the floor and told the story simply, without pomp or pageantry. It wasn’t the kind of tale that required an ornate delivery or tricks to evoke an emotion from the audience. No one spoke, no one moved, all were focused on her in the center of the floor as she relayed the truth about Elma, about Keepers, about essência. In the grim lines of their faces, the pallor of their skin, and the way they leaned toward one another for support, she knew they believed her. But believing her and fighting beside her were two different things.
“Yesterday we lost twenty-one of our own. They were your friends. Your parents. Your siblings, and your loves.” She saw the words take their toll. Poor James hunched over the railing, his head in his hands, his face hidden. “Their deaths will mean nothing if we refuse to take action. We’ve hidden in our valley for too long, pretending to have no part, no sway, no power to affect the goings-on of Santarem.”
She raised her eyes, connecting with the people, before leveling her gaze on the four remaining elders. Elma’s chair had been draped with a swath of gray cloth. Johanna ran her fingers over the funeral embroidery before continuing. “If you want to become a puppet, to have your free will stripped away by a power-hungry madman, then sit here in your wagons and wait. Wait for the fireballs to crash among the tents and burn them to cinders. Wait for the lightning to strike down your children. Wait to have a collar strapped around your throat and become a mindless slave.
“But if you want the sacrifices of Elma, and Didsbury, and Sergio, and Olivia, and Julia, and all the others to mean something, then join me. Follow Lord DeSilva and me. Together, with his power and our help, we have a chance to save Performers’ Camp and ultimately all of Santarem.”
There was a moment of silence, of breath held in anticipation, then with a gasp, sound returned in a cacophony of discussion, arguments, and sobs.
Guilherme, one of the oldest men in Performers’ Camp, raised an age-spotted hand. The volume decreased, though the voices didn’t silence entirely.
“Johanna, you’re saying we have two choices: We stay here and become slaves, or we fight. Are there no other options?”
“What about the Keepers? Would they accept us?” said another.
“Could we go to the Wisp Islands?” shouted a third.
“Is there any way to convince them to leave us alone?”
Johanna shook her head, sickened and disappointed that her people were so blind to the dangers facing them.
Then she felt a hand take hers. It was small, with a callus across the thumb and pad of the palm. “I know what it feels like to lose my will to another,” Yara said. “And I will die before letting it happen again. I will fight.”
Enzo, another one of the survivors, took Yara’s other hand. “I will fight.”
Those who had been captured formed a line, faces brave and determined.
The younger members, those nearest Johanna’s age who barely had any memory of the Ten Years’ War, were the next to join them. The line continued up the stairs, around the curve of the balcony.
The voices quieted, the arguments ceased. All heads turned to the four elders. The woman nearest Johanna, a white-haired grandmother, placed her palsied fingers over the point where Yara’s and Johanna’s hands met. “I will fight,” she said, her words thin and reedy.
Guilherme’s age-clouded eyes followed the linked hands. His bottom lip protruded, his face a mask of deliberation. “Well then.” He raised his hand and reached for Johanna’s. “We will all fight.”
Chapter 67
* * *
Jacaré
Rafi was strategizing, using sticks, rocks, and shallow trenches in the ground to map out routes and describe defenses. “We can’t stay in the valley,” he said as he placed a rock over a squiggle in the dirt that was meant to illustrate the narrow road that led into Performers’ Camp. “The trail itself is defensible, but there are ways through the trees. Then we’d be at a disadvantage. They’d have the high ground and we’d have nowhere left to run.”
He drew a line that represented the coast, the inlet that formed Santiago’s harbor, and described how they’d be forced into the ocean or to move a long line of people along the beach. His voice and actions were passionate, so certain that his side would find a way to prevail because they were fighting for freedom and equality—as if fighting for the goodness guaranteed victory.
Watching Rafi work made Jacaré sick with anger. Rafi was young and in love, and so thoroughly soaked in essência that it rolled off him in waves, but Jacaré knew too well how this story was going to end.
“Stop, Rafi.” Jacaré leaned against the log—the very log Tex had rested against a handful of weeks ago—and folded his arms across his chest. “Even if Jo is successful in recruiting a fighting group from these Performers, we cannot go to Santiago along the coast. We’ll be strung out and easy targets. If we head due south, we’ll have to pass through Camaçari. We won’t have the men to hold off Ceara’s troops. And in the end none of it will matter. The fight will come to you.”
Rafi looked up; his dark eyes reflected the flames from the fire. He wiped his eyebrow with the back of his fist, cleaning away the smudge of dirt there. “Aren’t you some sort of military commander? Don’t you have some strategy to suggest? Don’t you want me to destroy the Nata?”
Jacaré didn’t answer. Amelia wouldn’t have let Rafi leave the wall alive unless it served her purposes.
“I know your leader intends me to fight this battle for her,” Rafi said, snapping the stick he’d been drawing with. “If I win, she gets what she wants. If I lose, then I’ll have weakened her enemy.”
T
he little kernel of respect Jacaré felt for Rafi grew roots. “And you’ve given her a week to marshal her troops.”
“That too.” Rafi nodded and rose from his crouch. “I learned battle strategy from my father, but nothing about magical battles. I need you to tell me what I’m going to face and the best ways to take down a mage.”
Jacaré wanted to laugh. “I had a decade of training, and even then I was unprepared. A few days . . .” He made a vague hand gesture. “Even with the power of every Keeper in existence, you won’t stand against someone like Sapo.”
“So you’re saying I’m destined to fail?”
“Yes.”
The fist crossing Jacaré’s jaw came out of nowhere. His head bounced off the log, and he raised his forearm barely in time to block the second shot. Rafi knelt over him, one hand gripping Jacaré’s shirt, the other raining blows on his head and arms. Jacaré rolled to the side, throwing an elbow that caught Rafi’s ear. They rolled again, coming close to the fire.
“Stop!” a voice shouted. “What are you—Rafi, stop!”
Jacaré wasn’t sure how Rafi had managed to get on top of him again, but he dimly recognized a few other people in the clearing, all working together to break up the fight. Johanna had her arms tight around Rafi’s middle, looking tiny and angry as she tried to pull him away. Another man, a Firesword maybe, held Rafi’s right arm with both of his own.
Rafi looked nothing like a Keeper, not with his curly black hair and dark eyes, but he moved like one. Jacaré couldn’t remember the last time someone had bested him in a fight. The boy moved faster than anyone Jacaré had ever seen—maybe the power from the barrier had enacted more than a magical change on the boy. Maybe it had been a physical one as well.
And maybe that meant they had a chance.
The Skylighter (The Keepers' Chronicles Book 2) Page 25