“Sie! Come on!” Skye shouts, having realized I didn’t follow her.
We run back to t’others, where Wilde is standing ’fore them, speaking. “…and you are all my sisters,” she says, firmness and emotion in her clear voice. Despite the pounding of my heart and the shortness of my breath, her voice instantly calms me, like it always does, like spring rains on the desert sand.
“Today we stand for those who can’t defend themselves, against a soulless enemy who destroys because it can. We will not remain idle while the freedom of others is threatened. Not when we have the power to do something about it. And we do have the power. As individuals we are strong, as Wildes we are invincible!”
A cheer goes up that surely both the Glassies and Heaters’ll hear, but stealth doesn’t matter now.
The moment of death is upon us.
~~~
With whoops and hollers, we launch ourselves into the desert.
The battle’s already begun and the work of death waits for nobody. Streams of Hunters pour from the village, as volleys of pointers zip like flocks of birds overhead. A Glassy chariot crashes when its driver is killed by a pointer, straight through his chest. It flips, bounces, bashes into another chariot, which spins wildly ’fore crashing against a prickler, toppling it.
Thunderous booms sound across the desert but the sky is clear. It ain’t thunder, but the Glassies’ fire sticks, exploding and hurting anyone in their path. Hunters drop in waves, but are quickly replaced by a new line. The two forces move steadily closer. My initial exhilaration turns to fear.
What’ve I done?
Another chariot crashes, filled with pointers and blood.
We’re close now and both the Glassies and Hunters seem to simultaneously realize they’re not alone. Shouts erupt from both sides of the desert.
The lead archer brings us up short while Skye, Brione, and their warriors—which include Lara—charge ahead. On her signal, we nock our pointers, aim high above the Wilde warriors.
“Now!” she screams.
A chorus of twangs hums in my ears as our pointers are loosed. Dozens of Glassies die, but I can’t tell whether my pointer was involved. At least half the Glassy fire sticks turn our way, booming intermittently. Wilde warriors drop like twigs of scrubgrass. I can’t tell if Skye or Lara got hit.
A strangled groan gurgles from my throat. So much death. So much. I string another pointer on command. Release it, try to watch its flight. Almost miraculously, it embeds itself in the chest of a Glassy on foot, who was aiming his fire stick toward the Wildes. His legs crumble and his fire stick falls harmlessly aside.
We manage one more deluge of pointers ’fore our warriors get too close to risk hitting them. “Charge!” the lead archer shouts. We take off, carrying our bows in one hand and a pointer in the other.
I glance toward the village, where the number of Hunters is dwindling already. If we didn’t arrive when we did…
The thought catches in my throat.
Just then, however, a second wave of Hunters races from the village, clutching bows, like us. The archers.
So much is happening, I can’t keep up with it, my head swiveling back and forth. Wilde warriors are dying. Glassies are dying. Hunters are mostly dead. Not Skye or Lara, please not them, I plead with the sun goddess, who’s at war, too, her eye beating down upon us with fury at our mindless violence.
There’s a raucous shout from the south. Dozens of Glassy chariots growl over the dunes. The second wave.
There’re too many.
It’s over.
~~~
A hand grabs me from behind, twists me ’round.
I swing my bow at my attacker, catch him in the face, but still he holds on. “Siena, hold up, it’s me.” The warmest voice I’ve ever heard.
Through the tangle of our grappling arms, I see him. The Marked One. Feve.
The last person I expected to see. Or wanted to see.
“You!” I say, dropping my bow and swinging at him with clenched fists.
“Siena, stop,” he says, blocking my fists.
But I don’t stop, can’t stop. If it wasn’t for him, the Hunters woulda never found us—so many lives woulda been saved. “This is your fault!” I scream, kicking at him.
Cries of pain and death are all ’round, but I’m trapped in this weird place with a person I’d hoped to never see again. “Sie, I can explain…”
His words are grains of sand and I’m the wind, full of sandstorm fury. I wail on him and he doesn’t try to defend himself. “I can fix things!” he screams and I stop.
“Fix things! Look ’round you, Feve.” I wave my hand at the battle happening beyond us. “There’s no fixing this.”
His face seems to crumble when he sees what I mean—
BOOM!
A Hunter drops, his chest red—
A Glassy wanders aimlessly, a Hunter spear protruding from both his stomach and back—
A Wilde warrior strikes down a Glassy with a swift slash of her blade—
I spot Skye, graceful and powerful, hacking at half a dozen Glassies near her, who seem shocked by the intensity of her violence. One of them raises a fire stick.
I dive for my bow, snatching a pointer from my back in one swift motion, perhaps the most graceful moment of my life, my heart hammering outside of me, my eyes held open by determination…
I take aim.
The Glassy fires, a burst of red and black flame shooting from the end. Noo! No, Skye, no!
She doesn’t drop, doesn’t fill with red.
He missed! The searin’ Glassy missed!
Flames burst from the ground beyond Skye, as if his shot has rebounded and is coming for her. The flame quickly spreads, rippling orange and red, racing along the desert floor, devouring the scrubgrass and licking at the dead and injured bodies littering the durt. The wind changes, gusting north, and the fire turns with it, roaring toward the village.
A firestorm. Ten times worse’n a sandstorm.
Sun goddess save us all.
Chapter Thirty-Five
As I watch in horror at the spreading fire, I see a flash of movement from the corner of my eye. The Glassy, shocked at first by the fire he started, takes aim at Skye, who’s slashed down every blade-bearing opponent ’round her.
’Cept for him.
I raise my bow, trying not to quiver. Find my target. Steady, steady. Twang!
The sound is crisp and sharp and perfect. The Glassy clutches the shaft of the pointer in his neck as he falls.
Skye jerks ’round, her eyes wide, her face taut, sees me. Frowns when she sees the Marked One beside me. “They’ll be here any moment,” says the warm voice that I hate.
“They’re already here, you idiot!” I scream. “Are you blind!” The air is full of smoke and I cough, choking on the noxious gas. I gasp as the wind changes again and the fire winds a circle ’round us through the scrubgrass.
A horn sounds, surrounding us, as if it’s in league with the fire, making it impossible to figure out the direction of its origin. “Not them,” Feve says. “Them.” He motions to the west, where the dunes are suddenly filled with hundreds of brown bodies, their skin marked, a stampede of men and life.
The ground rumbles as they approach and I know I should be scared, ’cause they’re charging right toward me, but I can only watch in awe as, like a hurd, they move as one, brandishing strange black-handled weapons with dual blades. They dance ’round and jump through the snaking cords of fire.