Deliverance

by Redwine,C. J.

  “You can’t kill me.” He sounds insulted.

  I smile. “We both know I can.”

  “Samuel and Heidi would punish you in ways you’ve never dreamed.”

  My smile grows. “No, they wouldn’t. I have to arrive in Rowansmark alive and well or they’ll pay the consequence for their failure. You, on the other hand, never have to arrive at all.” I turn my back on him and walk away.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF–NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  CHAPTER FIVE

  LOGAN

  I can’t tell what time it is, but several hours have passed since I pled guilty before the triumvirate and was once again locked with Willow in Lankenshire’s dungeon, this time with Rowansmark trackers as our guards. The dungeon creaks and a draft blows from the end of the corridor closest to us, making the light in the hanging oil lanterns outside our door flicker. The entire place smells of damp stone mixed with the harsh metallic tang of the iron bars that hold us here.

  I pace the floor, swinging my arms in circles as I walk. I need to be limber. Loose. Ready.

  Rescue could arrive at any minute.

  We need to survive the ensuing fight. And then, once we’re out in the Wasteland surrounded by the Commander’s men, we need to survive yet again.

  Willow stretches slowly, arching her back as she stands on her tiptoes. The silver wire she pulled from her braid gleams dully against her wrist.

  It’s the only weapon we’ve got.

  The dungeon door creaks open, and voices drift down the corridor. Willow meets my eyes, and we both tense. Waiting for the sound of conflict. Swordplay.

  Something.

  Instead, the steady cadence of boot steps approaches our cell. Seconds later, the head tracker, the man with the shaved head who first confronted me in Lankenshire’s square earlier today, comes into view, fully outfitted for travel. Two more trackers are at his back.

  “Open it.” The head tracker gestures toward our cell door, and then looks at me, his dark eyes fierce. “Fight us, and I’ll start cutting off body parts.”

  “What’s going on?” I ask as Willow and I back away from the door. The metal bars swing outward, and the two men step inside, leaving the head tracker in the corridor.

  “Transfer to Rowansmark,” one of the men says as he steps toward Willow.

  The dungeon door clangs open again, and more voices fill the space. More trackers, all dressed for travel. More swords standing between us and freedom.

  “I thought we weren’t leaving before dawn,” I say, but of course we are. I would’ve done the same thing. What better way to short-circuit any attempts at a double cross than to significantly alter the expected timeline? I kick myself for not anticipating this.

  The tracker smiles, but it isn’t friendly. “We’re leaving now. Surely it doesn’t matter to you one way or the other, does it?”

  “Not at all,” Willow says, her smile just as dangerous as his. “I’ve always wanted to travel the Wasteland with a full escort of uniformed idiots.”

  “Willow—”

  “Let her run her mouth,” the tracker says. “It will make punishing her for her part in your treachery all the sweeter.”

  Willow laughs as one of the men inside the cell grabs her upper arm and pulls her toward the door. “One of your kind already tried to kill me once. Three guesses where I left his body.”

  The tracker holding her spits on the floor. “You didn’t best a tracker. You’re nothing but a Tree Person.”

  Willow whips her body around and snaps a kick straight into the man’s windpipe. He falls to his knees, clutching his throat while his face turns red as he gasps for air.

  “Still think I’m nothing?” she asks. I shove past the tracker beside me as she wraps her fingers around the wire at her wrist.

  “Willow.”

  She looks at me. I don’t shake my head. I don’t look at her wrist. I give nothing away as I beg her with my eyes to remember that her weapon might be the only leverage we have. If she reveals her secrets now, when we’re surrounded by trackers and have absolutely no chance of escape, we’ll be improvising with nothing but wishes and thin air.

  Slowly, her fingers relax and move away from the wire. Seconds later, I’m grabbed roughly from behind and another two trackers rush into the cell to wrestle Willow into submission. The man she kicked lies on the floor, moaning and retching, but at least he’s still breathing. The last thing we need is for the head tracker to decide that Willow deserves to give her life for the life of one of his men.

  “Get them out here,” the head tracker says as he pulls his sword and looks at Willow. “You’re lying. Do you know how I know that? Because if you’d actually killed a tracker, you’d be dead as well.”

  She rolls her eyes. “You mean because of the little internal bomb you all have in case you get killed in the line of duty? Please.” She nods toward me. “We saw that in action when we killed a tracker on our way back to Baalboden. You know an easy way to avoid getting hurt by flying body parts? Stand back and shoot an arrow. Also, you might want to rethink the whole if-you-kill-me-you-will-pay-dearly strategy, because the biggest danger is the mess. Kind of hard to injure someone when all that’s left of you are scraps.”

  “Enough!” the tracker barks at Willow as the men holding her pull her to a stop right in front of him.

  Panic surges through me at the way he studies her. He might not kill her, but he’s going to punish her, and I don’t think I can stop it.

  “We’re cooperating,” I say, and walk faster, half dragging the tracker who grips my arms as I struggle to catch up to Willow. “We’ll do whatever you say.”

  The head tracker doesn’t look at me. The torchlight gleams against his shaved head as he bends his neck to stare at Willow. The men holding her shove her to her knees. She keeps her head held high and glares.

  “I told you that if you fought me, I would start cutting off body parts.” The head tracker’s voice is cold.

  “She didn’t fight you.” I try to move closer to Willow, to somehow put myself between her body and the sword that points steadily at her heart, but the man holding me jerks me to the side. My shoulder slams into the stone wall of the corridor. “She didn’t. She’s ready to show you where she hid the controller. She’s ready to go to Rowansmark if you want her to.”

  I try to sound calm, but my words come out too fast. Too desperate.

  I can’t stop him from hurting Willow, and everyone in the dungeon knows it.

  The head tracker glances at me. “She kicked Jefferson in the throat,” he says.

  “Jefferson deserved it.” Willow’s voice is as proud as the tilt of her chin. “It’s one thing to take me into custody for simply obeying my leader. It’s another to insult me and get away with it.”

  The man nods slowly, and I draw one shaky breath of relief before his next words rip that away from me. “He behaved dishonorably, but it was a small infraction. You admitted to killing a tracker—”

  “I make it a habit to kill those who are trying to kill me.”

  “—and then you tried to kill Jefferson for merely insulting you.” His sword wavers as he looks Willow over as if trying to choose where to make his first cut. “I’m a man of honor, and I am responsible for my people.” His eyes flash to hers. “I pay my debts.”

  Her lips peel back from her teeth in a snarl. “So do I.”

  “Take me!” I blurt the words before the thought has finished forming. “Punish me instead. I’ll pay her debt.”

  The head tracker frowns. “Only family members are allowed to assume the pain atonement for each other, and that’s only when the offending member is either too young or too infirm to satisfy the debt owed.”

  Willow glares at me. “I can take whatever he gives me and then some.”

  “I know.” I hold her gaze. “I know you can, but you shouldn’t have to. You’re only her
e because I asked you to hide the device. It’s my fault. All of this. My fault.” I look at the tracker again. “She’s my family now. And I deserve to take her punishment.”

  “Don’t be stupid, Logan,” Willow snaps. “I don’t need help. I don’t want help.”

  The door at the end of the corridor groans as more trackers enter the dungeon. At this point, there must be at least a dozen hovering near the exit, waiting for us. One of them, a tall woman with narrow shoulders and a pointy chin, calls out, “Sir? We’re ready.”

  I push away from the wall and drop to my knees. The tracker holding me adjusts his grip but doesn’t let go.

  “We’re wasting time,” I say. “You want to get the controller and be on your way to Rowansmark before the army outside this city realizes you’re gone, don’t you? Then punish me.”

  “Logan, don’t you dare—”

  “Punish me!” I raise my voice to drown out Willow’s protest, and the head tracker smiles slyly as if he’d only been waiting for an excuse to hurt me.

  “Grab his hand.” One of the trackers holding Willow lets go to reach for me.

  “Don’t release her, you fool! Didn’t you learn anything by watching Jefferson nearly get his throat crushed?” The head tracker steps closer to me while behind him, another man rushes toward me.

  “Logan McEntire, if you do this, I will never forgive you.” Willow’s voice shakes. She twists against the men holding her but can’t get any leverage.

  Before the man can reach me, I lay my left hand on the rough, cold stone beneath me. If I have to lose a hand, better to make it be the one I don’t use to hold a sword. My mouth goes dry as the tracker grabs my wrist, anchors my palm to the floor, and spreads my fingers wide.

  “Don’t touch him!” Willow’s voice echoes through the dungeon, silencing the trackers at the exit.

  “It’s okay, Willow.” I meet her eyes and try to speak like it isn’t taking every ounce of stubbornness I have to keep from trembling. “I’m responsible.”

  She curses, her eyes glistening in the torchlight as the head tracker raises his sword. Her voice is full of violent promise as she says, “I swear to you if you hurt him, nothing—not your stupid trackers, your precious technology, or your army—will be enough to keep you safe from me.”

  The head tracker swings his sword.

  The blade slices through skin, muscle, and bone and slams into the stone floor. My little finger rolls away from my hand, and blood pours from the wound. For a second, I can’t feel anything. I stare at my finger as if trying to force the sight of it lying separate from my body to somehow make sense to me. Then pain hits hard, searing my entire left arm with fire. Sweat beads along my skin, and I feel like throwing up. Passing out. Both.

  I press my lips closed and swallow the cry of agony that wants to escape. Some small, savage part of me welcomes the pain. The debt I owe isn’t to Rowansmark, and it certainly isn’t to this tracker, but I spoke the truth when I said I felt responsible for Willow, for Rachel, for every person in Baalboden who suffered because of who I am and what I chose to do. Losing a finger isn’t nearly enough penance, but this wasn’t about absolution. This was about assuming the full burden of leadership. Willow is mine to protect, and I’m through with failing those I love.

  The pain subsides beneath a wave of shock that clouds my thoughts and makes me feel sleepy and faintly dizzy. I lean my face against the wall and try to draw in a breath while above me, the tracker says, “Cauterize it, and let’s go.”

  “No,” I say, my stomach pitching as I remember the unbelievable pain of being branded with white-hot metal in the Commander’s dungeon.

  The man who held down my hand stands, plunges a dagger into the flame of the nearest lantern, and looks at me.

  “No,” I say again, and struggle to sit up. My hand throbs in time with my heartbeat, and blood rushes out of me in a steady stream. I try to tuck my wounded arm against my chest, but the man holding the dagger crouches beside me, the edges of his blade glowing orange.

  I gulp for air, and brace myself, but I can’t contain my scream as he presses the hot metal against my bleeding flesh. For a moment, I’m back in the Commander’s dungeon, lying on the filthy floor while a member of the Brute Squad sears the Commander’s brand into the side of my neck. Nausea churns through me, and I choke as I try to move away from the source of my agony.

  Dimly I realize that Willow is shrieking a nonstop litany of death threats so inventive, I’d admire her resourcefulness if I wasn’t busy trying not to vomit.

  “Be quiet,” the head tracker says, “or I’ll cut off his entire hand.”

  Willow’s mouth snaps closed, but the look in her eyes promises that the very second he doesn’t have her fully restrained, she’s coming after him.

  “Get them up. We’re leaving.” He turns on his heel and marches toward the exit. The trackers on either side of me haul me to my feet. My knees shake, but they hold me.

  Beside me, Willow is dragged to her feet as well. She ignores the men holding on to her and looks at me. Her eyes are haunted and furious.

  “Nobody stands in my place. Ever.” Her voice is still shaky.

  “Let’s go!” the female tracker calls to us. The men assigned to us begin pushing us down the corridor.

  My skin feels clammy, and I keep sucking in deep breaths of damp dungeon air as if the oxygen will somehow chase away the lingering pain and nausea that swamp me. I meet Willow’s eyes.

  “A true leader protects his people. More than that, family stands up for family.”

  Her expression softens for a second. Then she glances at my left hand, at the blackened stub that used to be a finger, and everything about her hardens.

  “I protect my family too, Logan.” Her eyes find the back of the head tracker as he organizes his people into two lines on either side of the exit.

  Before I can reply, the dungeon door flies open with a resounding crash, and all hell breaks loose.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF–NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  CHAPTER SIX

  LOGAN

  Men dressed in the dark blue uniform of Baalboden’s guards, along with a few who wear the golden talon patch of the Commander’s Brute Squad, pour into the dungeon, their swords already flashing. The trackers respond, moving like a synchronized unit as they pivot into position and engage the intruders. The harsh screech of metal against metal fills the air, and the head tracker yells for his people to defend the gap and keep Willow and me safe. The men holding Willow and me pull us backward until we’re in front of our open cell again, a good thirty yards from the fighting.

  Willow laughs as a man in a green-and-brown Rowansmark uniform falls to the floor, his eyes staring at nothing. Seconds later, his body explodes in a cloud of bloody mist that briefly obscures the others fighting there.

  More of the Commander’s men enter the dungeon, their faces set with purpose, but still they’re dying faster than the trackers. The Baalboden guards rely on strength and force. The trackers use precision, strategy, and a lethal understanding of the fastest methods to destroy the human body. Sheer strength is intimidating, but strategy only requires an opponent to make a single mistake.

  Willow struggles against the men who hold her, but they move in sync to keep her subdued. I tense my muscles, considering the best way to get free of my keepers, but nothing workable comes to mind. My hand throbs mercilessly, and my stomach feels like I could be sick at any moment.

  I start calculating the odds and running scenarios just to have something besides the pain to think about. Baalboden guards are dying at a ratio of nearly two to one. Every time a tracker falls, the others pivot to keep a Baalboden man between themselves and the imminent explosion. Willow can say what she wants about the trackers being unable to cause much damage to others with this strategy, but it’s clear that damage isn’t the point. Distraction is, and it’s work
ing in Rowansmark’s favor. If this keeps up, we’re going to end up going to Rowansmark as prisoners with no leverage and no feasible way to defeat the armies that wait for us.

  That scenario is unacceptable.

  A few more guards rush through the doorway, but they’re immediately fighting for their lives. The trackers, working back to back, have found their rhythm—slash, pivot, parry, kill—and the Commander’s men have neither the expertise nor the space to maneuver into a better position. We need to give the trackers something else to worry about. Fast.

  “Fight harder!” A cruel voice chops the words into sharp pieces as the Commander steps into the doorway, his dark eyes lit with a predatory gleam while the scar that bisects the left side of his face pulls his mouth into a lopsided grimace. “I want the boy.”

  Two more guards flank the Commander and rush into battle. There are so many fighting in the small confines of the corridor that it’s impossible to see the action clearly. But even in the confusion, I can see that Rowansmark is winning.

  The Commander sees it, too. With a roar of fury, he draws his sword and steps toward the closest tracker.

  He’s seventy-five if he’s a day. There’s no way he can best a tracker. Not for long. He’ll die, killed by the certainty that no one is his equal, and without the Commander’s credibility with the northern city-states, I’ll be left with no way to convince them to commit troops against Rowansmark. No way to keep my promises.

  No way to save Rachel.

  This time the bile at the back of my throat has nothing to do with my injury. I want the Commander dead. I’ve wanted it since the moment my mother bled to death and left me to fend for myself on the streets of Baalboden. I used to warm myself on freezing winter nights with the fantasy of one day climbing the fence around the Commander’s compound, sneaking into his bedroom, and driving a knife through his heart. The events of the last few months have only added fuel to the flames of my hatred. I want him dead, but if he dies, so does my chance to rescue Rachel.