Ice Country

In my grasp, the sword seems to gain weightand I almost drop it, awkwardly bringing my offhand up to balanceit. I hear Hobbs snort, but I ignore him, because this is my time,my day.

My right.

Slowly, I raise the sword to eye level,watching in awe as it seems to catch every ray of red sunlight,sending them shooting in all directions.

My right. My sword.

“Why don’t you give it a try?” Hobbs says,and I sense something in his voice—a challenge.

“Hobbs,” Cain says sharply, sounding sternerthan I’ve ever heard him.

“Uhh, aye,” I say, looking between them,wondering why Hobbs looks so mischievous and Cain so angry.

I move a safe distance away, raise my swordto attack position, my feet planted firmly as I’ve been taught. Istart to swing, but stop when Hobbs laughs. “I mean against a realopponent,” he says.

I look back, my prideful chest deflating.“Sir?” I say. I can’t possibly fight him. He’s a man, and I’m….not,regardless of my age and who my father is.

I can feel a crowd gathering, their bootsshuffling on the deck. I whirl around, taking them in, the eyes—somany eyes—staring, waiting, watching. To see what I’ll do. A test.This is exactly the kind of thing my father would do.

My chance—

To prove myself—

To him.

Maybe my last chance. My mother’s face,open-mouthed and screaming. Pleading and pleading.

I grit my teeth, shake my head, nod firmly atHobbs. Raise my sword with two hands in his direction.

He laughs, deep and loud. “Me? You thoughtyou were going to fight me? Please, kid, don’t insult me. You’llfight someone closer to your own size.” At the same time as I feelangry heat swallow my neck—because he called me kid on theday I become a man—I breathe out a silent sigh of relief. Perhaps Ihave a chance after all.

I look around, seeing a couple of the guys Ipractice with, Jobe and Ben, looking almost as scared as I feel,afraid they’re about to be asked into the circle with me to provetheir manhood in front of an audience. “Who?” I say, my voicequivering around the single word.

“We don’t want to give you more than you canhandle for your first real fight,” Hobbs says, walking a lazycircle around me. Meaning…what?

“You’ll fight one of the bilge rats,” hesays, the edge of his lip turning up.

“What?” I say, more sharply than I intended.What the hell is going on? “But I can’t possibly…”

“You can and you will,” my father interjects.“Remember what I taught you, Son.”

I frown, remembering his lessons well. Thebilge rats are nothing more than swine, less than human, here toserve us and be trodden under our feet. Nary better than animals,they are. When I asked him where the bilge come from, he said,“From nowhere,” like they just popped out of the ground or werefished from the ocean or dropped from the sky. He wouldn’t say anymore than that and I knew better than to ask.

I nod. If this is what I must do to become aman, I’ll do it.

“Bring him in!” Hobbs hollers and I sensemovement on the port side of the ship. The crowd parts and aski

Less than human.

The big oarsman shoves him forward and hetrips, nearly falls into me, but I catch his arm firmly, hold himup. He stares at the sword in my other hand, his jaw tight. For amoment I look at him—really look at him—like I never have before.For this one time, he’s not just an animal, not just an object tobe ignored, like my father always taught me. He looks so human, hisskin browner than mine, aye, but not so different than me afterall.

He jerks away from my grip and a piece of hisdirty, tattered shirt comes away in my fist. I stare at it for amoment and then let it drop to my feet. Hobbs hands the boy an oldsword, even shorter than mine and blunt and rusty around the edges.Unblinking, the boy takes it, swallowing a heavy wad of spittlethat slides down his throat in a visible lump.

How can I fight someone like him?

I have to.

But how? He’s so weak-looking, so scared…

I have no choice.

“Fight,” Hobbs says, backing away, smilingbigger than ever.

I raise my sword, which has fallen loosely tomy side. The bilge rat continues looking at his rusty blade, as ifit’s a snake, but then suddenly grips it tightly, his brownknuckles turning white. He lifts his chin and our eyes meet, and Isee…

—hurt

—and anger

—and fear, too, but not as much asbefore.

His mouth opens and he screams, right at me,a cry of war.

I take a step back just before he charges,cheers rising up around me like sails on a summer wind.

Chapter Two

Sadie

The wind rushes overme and around me and through me, blasting my dark hairagainst my back, flattening my black robe against my chest.

I lengthen my strides, the dark skin of mylegs flashing from beneath my robe with each step. Muscles tight,heartbeat heavy, mind alive, I race across the storm countryplains, determined to surprise my mother with the speed of myarrival back at the camp.

Lonely dark-trunked leafless trees force meto change my direction from time to time, their bare scragglybranches creaking and swaying in the wind like dancingskeletons.

I can already see the circle of tents in thedistance, smoke wafting in lazy curls from their midst, evidence ofthe morning cook fires. Although I left when it was still blackout, the sky is mixed now, streaked with shards of red slicingbetween the ever-present dark clouds.

With the camp in sight, I call on every bitof strength I have left, what I’ve been saving for my final sprint.I go faster and faster and faster still, unable to stop a smilefrom bending my lips.

I close in on the tents, sweat pouring frommy skin as excitement fills me.

That’s when I hear the scream.

Carried on the wind, the cry is ragged andthroat-burning.

I stab one of my dark boots in the ground,skid to a stop, breathing heavy, swiveling my head around to locatethe bearer of the yell. My breath catches when I see it: a ship,moving swiftly along the coast, the wind at its back filling itswhite sails, propelling it forward as it cuts through thewaves.

A boisterous cheer rises up from the ship,and I exhale, forcing out a breath before sucking another one in.The Soakers are here!

Instinctively, my gaze draws away from theship, following the coastline, easily picking out the other whitetriangles cutting into the base of the scarlet horizon. Moreships—at least a dozen. The entire Soaker fleet.

I’ve got to warn the camp.

I take off, pushing my legs to fly, fly fly,muttering encouragement under my breath. Before I reach the camp,however, a cry goes up from one of the lookouts, Hazard, a huge manwith the blackest skin I’ve ever seen, even blacker than a cloudy,starless night. He yells once, a warning, and soon the camp is fullof noise. Commands to rush to arms, to secure the children, toready the horses are spouted from the mouth of the war leader, whoI can just make out between the tents.

His name is Gard, and if Hazard is huge, thenhe’s a giant, as tall and as wide as the tents. He’s already on hishorse, Thunder, which is the largest in the herd, the only onestrong enough to carry our war leader’s weight. Gard and Thunderturn away as one to the south, where the other horses are tied.

I dart between the first two tents I come to,slip inside the camp, and narrowly avoid getting trampled by adozen men and women warriors charging to follow Gard. The Riders.Trained from birth to be warriors, to defend my people from theSoakers, they ride the Escariot, the black horses that have servedmy people in peace and war for every generation since the GreatRock landed on earth.