Fire Country

“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.

The moment they reach us, Feve lets out a guttural cry and melts into them, heading for the Glassies, who have stopped fighting, as stu

With renewed vigor the remaining Hunters and Wilde warriors start fighting, chasing after the Glassies, who finally have the sense to retreat. They cut them down, not stopping until they’re all dead, badly injured, or racing away on their chariots.

Only then, with my heart pounding, my throat dry, my hands shaking, do I let myself believe that we’ve won.

I crouch down in a circle of unburnt land, hug my knees, and, amidst a fiery inferno, thank the sun goddess.

~~~

“He wants to burnin’ talk to you,” Skye says. “But I tol’ ’im he could shove it up his blaze shooter.”

Normally my sister’s antics and uncouth way of speaking would make me smile, but not after the blood I’ve seen spilt today. Brione’s dead. Crya, too. Lara pulled through although I’m told I can’t see her yet, ’cause she’s being attended to by a few of the Marked, whose healing skills are coming in handy considering MedMa’s the only one in the village who can help.

So when I hear Skye’s words today, I can only sigh.

“I’ll talk to him,” I say, wondering why I say it. I reach a hand into the smoky air, batting at the wisps of gray as if they’re something tangible I can knock away. My fingers go right through the haze. The village was spared, barely, whether by the sun goddess’s will or Mother Nature’s fickle sense of pity. The wind’s changed, pushed the brush fires far, far away, off into the desert. Those who are least injured and not attending to the wounded are busily chopping away the tufts of grass and foliage closest to the village, just in case the fire returns.

“Just let ’im die,” she says.

My head jerks up and my eyes meet Skye’s. “He’s dying?”

“Searin’ right.”

I hesitate. My stomach feels light as a raft of emotions tumble through it. Relief is definitely there. A tang of celebration for sure. But, to my horror, there’s a touch of sadness, too. Why I should be sad ’bout the death of the man who ruined my life—who ruined all our lives—I do not know. I guess ’cause I still have the memories of the good times, ’fore he became a monster, ’fore he turned his back on everyone and everything but himself.