by Emily Colin
When Eva and I came upon the camp yesterday, seeing the bottleneck had given me confidence that allying ourselves with the Brotherhood wasn’t a fool’s errand. As part of my training as a bellator, I’d spent a great deal of time studying battle strategies. This one dated back to millennia before the Fall: In a land far beyond the borders of the former Empire, a small army had held off a far larger one by blocking a mountain pass called Thermopylae…the only way into the territory that the smaller force held. It had worked beautifully for fourteen days, until someone betrayed the smaller army and the larger one used an alternate route to annihilate them.
We’d come here yesterday in daylight and seen the tripwire, concealed under a blanket of leaves in front of the entrance to the pass and connected to explosives flanked with projectile rocks. Trained warriors happening upon the camp in daylight would notice it—but those coming here by night wouldn’t be so fortunate.
I’d noticed a few other machinations, too, scattered along the way—a rockfall triggered by brushing a vine that crossed the entry path; a trap built from sharpened stakes, laid in a hole and covered by a wooden frame. Camila, the weapons specialist, had shown us yet another, to ensure we avoided it: a cartridge from one of the Brotherhood’s guns—weapons we don’t have in the Commonwealth—wedged into a hollow stalk of bamboo set atop a small piece of wood and a nail that acted as a firing pin. She’d lowered the whole ensemble into a shallow vertical pit and hidden it beneath a piece of sod. If an approaching enemy stepped on the sod, it would trigger the firing pin, setting the cartridge tunneling up through the bamboo and into the offender’s foot.
None of these traps have been activated; we would’ve heard the commotion if they had. Crickets chirp in the trees, and in the distance, I can hear the flow of the stream that serves as the camp’s water supply. There’s no hint of a blaze above the tree line, no acrid scent of smoke. But I trust Eva, and when I think of one of the Bellatorum’s creeds—we enter the circle at night and are consumed by fire—an alarm sounds in the back of my mind, nagging and insistent.
At the camp’s perimeter, I can see the Brotherhood’s two scouts, Adrien and Fadel—who goes by Fade—peering into the woods. They’re armed with guns, holstered at their sides…but their manner’s calm, as if they don’t sense a threat. Adrien’s taller figure bends toward Fade’s, listening. From where I stand, I hear the low murmur of their voices, conversing in the tones of men who are trying to pass the time.
“Eva,” I say, “are you sure?”
At the sound of my voice, Adrien’s head swivels and he focuses on me. “Westergaard,” he says, his tone wary. “What are you doing awake? Ronan meant it when he said you two didn’t need to stand guard tonight.”
“It’s not that,” I say. “Eva thinks—”
“I don’t think. I know.” She strides toward them, head tilted skyward as if to scent the air. Whatever she smells must disconcert her further, because she shakes herself all over like a dog shedding water. “The Bellatorum—the Thirty—they’re coming. They’ve lit a fire to corner us. We have to break down the camp and run.”
Fade stares at her like she’s lost her mind. “How do you know that? Are you in touch with them somehow?”
“No. I can’t explain it. But I can smell the smoke.” She looks desperately from Adrien to Fade to me, then back again.
Adrien shakes his head. “I’m not fleeing in the middle of the night based on your word. For all I know, you’re leading us straight into an ambush.”
“An ambush?” Eva’s voice cracks. “They tortured me. They tried to kill Ari!”
“So you say.” Jaxon, Ronan’s surly second-in-command, has emerged from his tent and is staring us down with the cynicism that’s his stock in trade. “I trust there’s a good reason you’re making a commotion in the middle of the night.”
Eva folds her arms across her chest. “The Bellatorum is coming. We have to—oh, to the nine hells with all of you. I don’t have time for this.” She strides through the clearing, heading straight for Ronan—who emerges from the mouth of his tent just as she reaches it. His graying, rope-like strands of black hair are tied back with a piece of cord, and his brown skin blends into the shadows—unlike Jaxon’s, who is so pale as to be almost iridescent.
“There’s a fire—” Eva begins, but Ronan cuts her off.
“I heard what you said. And we have no time to waste. Adrien, start breaking down the tents. Jaxon, wake Camila and Mateo to put some more safeguards in place and take point. Westgaard and Marteinn, you’ll go with them to guard the pass. Fade, get the others.” His voice is even, the tone of a man who expects to be obeyed.
Fade snaps to attention and goes to fulfill his orders. All around us, the camp starts coming to life, full of the dismayed, unnerved sounds of citizens who have been woken in the middle of the night and ordered to evacuate. One by one, they come spilling out into the clearing—Isobel, the navigation specialist; Mei, the camp’s botanist and healer; Camila, their weapons expert; Mateo, her assistant; and Leah, who functions as an intelligencer.
Jaxon’s hand drops to his gun. “Sir,” he says, “no offense meant, but are you just going to take Marteinn’s word for it? What if she’s leading us right into a trap?”
Ronan levels Jaxon with a glare. “Her word is enough.”
“But—”
“I’m done debating this.” His voice is steel. “Westergaard, who can we expect them to send?”
I take an instant to ponder this. I’d lay odds it’s what remains of Efraím’s Thirty, the best warriors the Bellatorum has to offer…or would that be Kilían’s twenty-seven, now that Riis is disabled, Eleazar is dead, and there was no time to replace Samuél?
“It’ll be the Thirty,” I tell Ronan, my voice expressionless. “What’s left of them, anyhow. You can expect twenty-seven fighters. Kilían will lead them.”
Kilían is the Commonwealth’s Lead Interrogator, Efraím’s second-in-command. With Efraím dead, he’ll be the Bellatorum’s new commander. He’s also a resistance informer, but in this case, if the Executor jumps, he’ll have to say how high…which means that even though he’s been the Brotherhood’s ally, we can’t count on that tonight.
Ronan knows this as well as I do. His jaw sets, and he turns to Jaxon just as Camila makes her way to our side, her dark hair tied back and her hooded eyes narrowed with alarm. Ronan acknowledges her with a nod.
“Camila,” he says. “You and Jaxon will go across the tripwire with Marteinn and Westergaard. Check our defenses along the way and rig anything else if you’re able. We’ve got a three-week hike ahead of us and we can’t afford to leave our gear here, so you’ll be buying us some time. It’s likely twenty-seven against eleven; the numbers aren’t on our side. Disable or kill as many of them as you can while we break the camp down, and I’ll signal you with a gunshot when we’re ready to go. Then you run, and they’ll follow, right across the tripwire. With luck the explosion will take out enough of them to give us a decent head start.”
It’s a solid strategy, although I feel less than thrilled about fighting alongside Jaxon. Even though the Brotherhood has guns, the Bellatorum are the superior warriors. The Thirty’s skill with edged weapons and hand-to-hand combat is unmatched. One on one, Eva and I could take any of them. Twenty-seven on four…well, that’s another story. The guns will have to even the score.
Without a word, Jaxon pivots and starts heading toward the pass, Camila on his heels. I glance down at my weapons belt, then pull a couple throwing knives loose and hand them to Eva. She takes them with a tense but grateful smile and slips them into the pockets of her gear.
We make our way out of the clearing and down the narrow path that leads through the woods to the pass. Ten feet down the path, the wind changes—and then I smell it. Smoke, bearing toward us on the coming breeze. A moment later, I see it too: A rim of red around the far-off trees, blazing into orange against the dimness of the night sky. As I watch, the flames lick higher, and in the de
pths of the forest, I hear a distant crash as a tree gives up the fight and falls.
I turn 360 degrees. Everywhere I look—aside from behind us—there are flames in the distance.
We enter the circle at night and are consumed by fire.
“By the Sins,” I mutter. Eva’s right—they intend to box us in, to trap us.
But how did she know they were coming?
There’s no time to interrogate her. Later, if we live, I will get the answers I crave. Instead I pick up the pace, bypassing the traps Camila laid and stepping over the tripwire. I come up even with Jaxon, who turns his head and fixes me with a glare.
“If this is a trick,” he says, enunciating every syllable, “I’ll kill you myself.”
I let my lips curve up in a facsimile of a smile, thinking how pleasant I would find it to have him at my mercy. He rather reminds me of Jakob Riis, who attempted to conceal his jealousy under a barrage of needle-sharp barbs—and wound up falling twenty feet to the ground after my boot coincided with his face. But Jaxon and I are supposed to be allies, so I keep my thoughts to myself. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” I say instead, raising an eyebrow. “I mean you no harm tonight. Eva and I will fight at your side.”
His only response is a disbelieving snort.
The four of us emerge at the head of the pass and fan out, scanning the woods. Jaxon and Camila draw their guns; Eva and I grip our sverds. Smoke rides the air, creeping through the forest, searing my lungs.
In the labored breath between one moment and the next, my former brethren burst from the trees, faces painted black as pitch and the rising inferno of the flames behind them—looking much like the demons I’ve seen in paintings depicting the nine hells. Camila and Jaxon’s guns fire in quick succession, and two of the lead bellators fall, dark blood staining their gear. With a roar, the ones behind them charge.
It’s too dark for me to make out who the Thirty has lost. Not Kilían; his red hair would give him away. The shadows thrown by the flames wreak havoc with my vision, stretching behind the bellators’ figures and making them loom larger than life—like massive, hooded beasts. Next to me, Eva tenses.
One of the Thirty breaks free of the pack and barrels toward me, teeth bared—Frederik, I see as the light from the fire falls on his face, not a shadow-beast but just a man after all. “Traitor,” he hisses.
I draw a throwing knife from my belt and put it through his heart.
Frederik crumples to the dirt yards away, but there is another right behind him—Mikhael, one of the first warriors I sparred with after my Choosing. He charges me, a throwing star palmed in one hand and a knife in the other. I duck as the shuriken leaves his hand, whistling through the air where my head had been, and send a blade hurling his way. The wind takes it, bearing it slightly left of where I intended…but it opens a nasty cut on his forehead nonetheless. Blood pours down, half-blinding him.
“Exile,” he snarls at me. “Your soul will burn—"
That’s all he manages before Eva emerges from the shadows behind me, sverd in hand. His eyes widen, the whites flashing in the blackness of his face, as she brings down the blade and severs his head. It rolls through the dirt to land at my feet, his mouth open, forever on the verge of condemnation.
Jaxon and Camila’s guns thunder, one covering the other as they reload. I wish desperately for something to plug my ears; bellators use all of our senses in a fight, and I feel sorely off-balance—but if I can’t distinguish between the nuances of sound, neither can the Thirty. I just hope we’re able to hear the single shot that will serve as Ronan’s signal.
At least ten bellators lie slumped in the grass, their blood black in the flickering firelight. The flames are still far enough away so they don’t pose an imminent threat—but the fire itself is raging, devouring the forest. I can hear it coming closer, hear the trees in its path that topple to the ground. We are running out of time.
Eva fights by my side, the broadside of her sverd reflecting firelight as she wields it. I have a moment of fierce pride in her…and then a throwing knife comes whistling through the air, a foot from my face. It finds its mark—in Camila’s throat. Her face turns toward me, mouth wide in an O of shock as her knees give out and she tumbles, face-down, into the blood-soaked grass. Her fingers twitch. Then she lies still, a puddle spreading beneath her body.
Jaxon bellows in rage and disbelief, screaming her name. The bellators howl back, a cry of triumph, and the two in front seize the moment, sending their knives flying toward him. I don’t think; I just act, hurtling in front of him and raising my sverd to block the onslaught. I do as I’ve been trained, letting my body anticipate what my mind cannot, using my limbs as an extension of my weapon, ignoring the burn in my lungs from the smoke. There’s no room for fear; it is my enemy, as surely as the men before me. There is only the roar of the flames and the sob of my breath and the flash of my blade.
Metal screeches on metal as the blades bounce off my sverd and clatter to the ground. Over the roar of blood in my ears, I hear Jaxon cursing viciously as his gun clicks on an empty chamber and two of the bellators close in, sensing the presence of a vulnerable foe. I reach backward, pressing one of my spare blades into Jaxon’s hand. He takes it, and I pull my dagur, balancing it in my right hand as I hold my sverd in my left, grateful for my ambidextrous nature in a fight. I told him I’d have his back, and I will. I’d appreciate his having mine—but I have no idea of his ability with a blade.
In front of me, Eva cleaves through the swarm of bellators who are still standing. Three charge her at once, their faces concealed by the shadows; she whirls and ducks, parrying with astonishing speed. A sverd grazes her forearm, and I hiss a warning—but even as her blood drips onto the pine needles that cover the forest floor, she draws back her arm and skewers the warrior who wielded the blade. She yanks her weapon free, foot-sweeps the bellator who charges her—Erik, once Kilían’s apprentice—and comes face-to-face with the last of the triad: Kilían himself, his red hair gleaming roan and vermilion in the light of the flames, his sverd gripped tight in his hand.
Eva freezes, and I see her weigh the options: To kill him would be to take the life of our ally. To let him go free would compromise his cover.
His lips move, soundless over the shouts of his fellow warriors and the hungry crackle of the flames. Trained in the art of subterfuge, I can make out his words, the counter-response to the Brotherhood’s callsign: Easy, Marteinn. A wolf does not bite a wolf.
They circle each other, Eva tense and coiled. I see her lips pull back in a snarl.
And then the gunshot sounds—a single crack, audible in the distance. I’m close enough to see the relief that colors Eva’s face. Her hand rises, beckoning to Kilían—the universal sign for catch me if you can—and then she turns and runs, sprinting past me. Jaxon and I follow, heading for the pass and the tripwire it conceals. I can hear the dozen remaining bellators stampeding after us, as I knew they would. Part of me wants to warn them that this is a trap, to give them a chance to surrender—but I know better. They would rather die at the point of my blade—or be blown to bits—than lay down their arms to an agent of the Brotherhood.
I get a brief glimpse of the moon silhouetted by licking flames as we leap over the tripwire and flee for the camp. Behind me, I can hear the bellators coughing as they push their lungs to the limit. My eyes sting and burn, tears blurring my vision, but I don’t let up. We have a fifteen-second head start, no more.
Jaxon’s feet pound the earth at my side—fast, but not fast enough. I grab him by the rough material of his shirt, stiff with blood where a blade’s grazed him, and drag him along with me, paying no attention to his indignant huff.
Thirteen.
The flames are closing in, heat and light and choking plumes of smoke. They gobble up the trees on either side, so that we race through a column of fire.
Eleven.
“Exile cowards,” someone yells after us, voice disintegrating to ash on the wind. “Sta
nd and fight.”
Nine.
Eyes streaming, muscles protesting, I fix my eyes on Eva’s back as she runs. In her black gear, with her midnight-dark braid, she moves like a swirl of ink in water, disappearing and reappearing through the smoke.
Seven.
A tree falls, blocking our path. Eva leaps it, and Jaxon and I follow. A branch catches my leg, ripping my gear pants and slicing my thigh. Blood slicks my skin, and I have a moment to think how absurd it would be to survive an attack by the Thirty, only to be ignominiously done in by a spruce.
Five.
The singing sound of a blade comes from behind me, and I swerve, dodging left, then right, to confuse their aim. The blade misses, arrowing past Eva and vanishing into the smoke. I hear it thud to the ground; a moment later, the handle crunches beneath my feet.
Three.
A spiral of flame shoots across our path, arcing into the trees on the other side. The forest is consuming itself; I pray to the Architect that it doesn’t take us with it.
Two.
Jaxon’s foot catches on what I hope is a root rather than one of Camila’s traps and I yank him upright before he can drag us both down. A thick layer of smoke slides along the forest floor, wrapping around our ankles, slithering upward. Above us, I see the improbable flash of lightning.
One.
The first of the bellators catches the tripwire and a massive explosion shakes the forest, hurling me through the air. I land hard, skidding over branches, gravel, and the Architect knows what else, fetching up on my side. Tree limbs and rocks come hurtling through the clearing, deadly missiles that would have killed or maimed us if we were still standing. It rains fire, and I roll instinctively, putting out the sparks that land on my clothes.