Drake’s grip tightens. “You aren’t responsible for Ian—”
“No, but I am responsible for the safety of our people.” I glare at him, though he isn’t the cause of my anger. “I took that responsibility when I agreed to lead us across the Wasteland, and I failed. More than that, I brought danger right to our door.”
“The point is that you tried to protect us.” Drake’s voice is firm.
My fingers clench around the tech I hold until the blood drains from my knuckles. “Is knowing that I tried enough for Smithson?” I look at Frankie. “For you?”
“There it is,” Frankie says. “I was wondering when we were going to get around to this.”
Drake removes his hand from my shoulder and leans toward me.
“I got this one.” Frankie carefully sets the transmitter down, raises his fist, and pokes his finger into my chest. Hard.
“Now, you listen here. That’ll be about enough foolishness out of you.”
I blink and sit up straighter, but he isn’t finished.
“You don’t fool me one bit. Sitting here thinking that all of our misery is yours alone to carry and that you’ve got to come up with all the answers. Thinking that we regret choosing you for our leader, and that if we’d known you were Logan McEntire from Rowansmark with a lunatic for a brother we’d have made a different choice.”
His words strike deep, bruising an already painful wound. I open my mouth to answer, but he isn’t finished.
Quietly he says, “Who you’re related to and where you were born have nothing to do with this. We followed you because you took action against a tyrant when none of us found the courage to do it ourselves. Because you kept your head in a crisis and rescued us. Because you had a plan. You always have a plan. And because you’re the kind of leader who feels responsible when someone on your watch dies, even though you weren’t the cause.”
His finger digs into me. “You weren’t the cause. You hear me? We make our own choices. We’re responsible for those choices and nothing more. And speaking of choices, you aren’t the only one in this fight. You don’t have to figure out how to watch the Commander, take down Rowansmark, and rescue Rachel by yourself. Why on earth do you think the six of us joined you and Willow in the Wasteland? You think we just wanted a tour of the northern city-states? We’re here because we’re in this together.”
He drops his hand, and waits. When I don’t respond, he says, “Are you just going to sit there looking like you got all the sense knocked out of you, or are you going to say something?”
I swallow and pick up the transmitter he dropped. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Sure you do. You just overthink everything all the time.” There’s a smile in Drake’s voice.
Frankie smacks his hand against my knee. “It’s actually pretty simple. The Commander and James Rowan got into a pissing match, Ian lost his mind, and the rest of us got caught in the middle. And now we’re going to fix it or die trying.”
Warmth fills me, loosening the ever-present knot of tension at the base of my neck. I might have a series of nearly impossible tasks in front of me, and I might have ruins lying behind me, but I’m not alone. “What would I do without the two of you?”
Frankie snorts. “Flounder around with nothing but half-baked nonsense in your head.” He smacks my shoulder affectionately, and I shake my head even as I smile.
“Frankie and I can help you keep an eye on the Commander. We’ll split up our guard shift so that one of us is always awake,” Drake says. “As for your fears about Rachel . . . I can’t tell you not to worry. If it was Nola, I’d be sick over it.” His voice is quiet.
“That’s hardly a pep talk.” Frankie glares at him.
“It’s reality.” Drake’s voice is calm and measured. “Rachel’s in tremendous danger, but then again, so is Ian. Rachel knows how to fight, and she’s got plenty of reason to want Ian dead. We have to believe that Ian really does need her alive to compel you to bring the device to Rowansmark, and failing that, we have to bet on our girl to know how to defend herself and take him down.”
“She’s strong, even though she’s badly injured,” Frankie says.
“Now who’s screwing up the pep talk?” Drake smacks Frankie’s back.
“It’s okay.” It isn’t, but I don’t want to talk about Rachel. I don’t want to imagine all the ways Ian could be torturing her. I don’t want to think of her facing him down alone.
Drake gives me a gentle smile. “We’ll do everything we can to get to Rowansmark in time to rescue her.”
“And then what?” I ask.
“Then we show Ian what happens when you mess with the people of Baalboden.” Frankie’s voice is grim.
I nod like I agree with him, but that wasn’t what I meant. What happens when this is over? When we defeat Rowansmark, destroy the tech, and punish Ian and the Commander for their crimes?
When all is quiet, and there are no enemies left to face, when it’s just the two of us, will we be able to pick up the pieces of our lives and make them fit together?
I’m still wrestling with that question as the rest of our group returns, eats dinner, and settles in for the night. Still wrestling as Drake leaves his bedroll to join Gregory for a shift guarding the horses, while Nola, Willow, and Jodi take advantage of the darkness to bathe in the stream without worrying about one of the Commander’s men leering at them.
Still wrestling when the first scream pierces the air.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF–NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
LOGAN
I’m out of my bedroll, my sword in my hand, and running toward the stream before the echo of the scream dies. Behind me, Frankie, Smithson, and Adam stumble to their feet, cursing and grabbing for their weapons. Connor isn’t far behind. I race past the Commander’s tent as he lunges out of the flap.
“The stream!” I call as I race forward. Another scream splits the air, followed by a litany of vitriolic cursing that can only be one person.
“Willow!” I skid down the slippery bank and launch myself into the water. The horses tethered beside the stream throw their heads into the air and stomp their feet as I scan its dark, glittering surface.
I can’t find Nola, Willow, or Jodi.
Fear pours through me. Where are they? I splash farther into the stream, and hoofbeats thunder behind me.
“Logan, down!” the Commander yells behind me.
I throw myself to the side as a horse gallops through the water, narrowly missing my body. A glimpse of the rider makes my pulse pound. Bearded face, clothing patched together, and a belt full of weapons.
Highwaymen.
I twist away from the horse as its rider doubles back, aiming for me again. Onshore, I hear the clash of steel against steel and more hoofbeats as highwaymen pour out of the trees and charge toward us. Highwaymen on horseback streak through camp, chasing down those of us who were standing guard around the horses, while other highwaymen slash through the tethers and steal our mounts.
“Protect the horses!” the Commander’s voice cuts through the melee, but I turn away. Let them fight for the horses. I’m going to find the girls.
After I take care of the highwayman currently yanking his horse around to face me again.
He spurs the animal forward, and I dodge to the left. Planting a boot in my chest, he sends me sprawling into the water. My sword spins out of my grasp, and I don’t have time to find it. The horse is lunging for me again while its rider raises his voice in a sharp, high-pitched war cry.
A chill goes down my spine as the cry is answered all along the banks of the stream—from both sides—as well as from inside the Wasteland. This isn’t the small, half-competent band of thugs we encountered on our way to Lankenshire. This is a huge, well-organized group of fighters. They’ve cut us off from one another, and if we don’t figure out a strateg
y fast, they’re going to hunt us down and kill us one by one.
The highwayman attacking me spurs his horse forward again. I dig my boots into the slippery soil beneath me, pivot into the side of the horse, and grab the man’s weapon belt.
He twists in the saddle, attempting to pry my fingers off the belt before I can drag him off the horse, but I’m not letting go. I need both the weapons and the horse.
I need to stay alive long enough to rescue my people.
He grabs a dagger and slashes toward my hands. I let the leather belt slide through my fingers and snatch his leg instead. He leans away from me, instinctively anticipating an attempt to pull him off the horse. I knock the stirrup away from his boot, hook my hands beneath his foot, and heave with all my might.
He goes over the other side, but doesn’t let go of the reins. The horse crashes down on top of him. I snatch the horse’s bridle, pull it to its feet, and scramble into the saddle. The man lies unmoving beneath the water.
Quickly, I take stock of the situation. The Commander, Frankie, Orion, and Smithson are fighting back-to-back against a pair of mounted attackers. Adam and Connor are at the edge of the stream, their swords drawn while more horsemen circle them. I can’t see Drake, Gregory, Peter, or the girls.
I need weapons. I slide off the horse, reach beneath the water, and tug the belt of weaponry off the dead highwayman. Something bumps my foot, hard. I fumble for it in the dark and finally wrap my hands around the object. Pulling it free, I hold it up and time seems to slow down as I stare at Willow’s bow.
A tremor runs through me. Willow wouldn’t give up her weapon unless . . .
I refuse to finish the thought. She’s alive and fighting somewhere. The bow was probably on the bank of the stream while she bathed, and it got kicked into the stream by a horse. That’s a logical explanation. That’s the only explanation.
It has to be.
Hauling myself back into the saddle, I sling the bow over my back and grab a machete with a wicked-looking blade from the dead highwayman’s belt. Then I yell a war cry of my own as I spur my horse toward the shore.
The horsemen circling Connor and Adam wheel to face me. Adam lunges forward and drives his sword into the leg of the closest rider while I gallop straight for the other three.
Another cry echoes across the water, but this one is a high-pitched whistle like a farmer might use to call his dog. Instantly, the riders wheel about and spur their mounts northeast. All of our horses are gone. We’re left with the horse I stole from my attacker and the horse beneath the highwayman Adam stabbed. The man jerks his reins, but Adam slaps the flat of his blade against the rider’s hands. Connor jumps forward, his weapon slicing into the rider, and then I reach them.
I grab the man’s heavy leather coat and throw him toward Adam. The Commander grabs the riderless horse’s reins and glares down at the man lying on the ground. “Kill him.”
“No!” I leap from my horse and shove the reins into Connor’s hands. “We need answers first. They have our horses. The girls are missing. And who knows what else they took from camp?” I meet the Commander’s gaze and see the moment he realizes that his tent was left unguarded while he dealt with the attack. The device could be gone. Anger floods me at the thought that everything I’ve worked for, everything I’ve sacrificed to find a way to rescue Rachel and take down Rowansmark, could be ruined by a band of thugs.
The man coughs out a pained laugh and says in a rough voice, “Why would I tell you anything? You’re going to kill me either way.”
The Commander crouches, grabs the man’s face, and then says, “All he needs to be able to give us answers are his tongue, his lungs, his heart, and his brain.” He looks up at Adam. “Carve the rest of it out of him, one piece at a time. Start with the eyes.”
The man blinks, his gaze darting wildly between the Commander and Adam. I lean down, and the man’s gaze lands on me.
“Do you know who this is?” I nod toward the Commander.
The man tries to shake his head, but he can’t get free of the Commander’s grip. “Just a small group of travelers with a few items of value.”
“Items like our girls?” Adam asks, his voice shaking with rage. The point of his sword hovers inches above the man’s left eye.
When the man doesn’t reply, I say, “How much do you know about the city-states?”
“I don’t—wait. Wait!” The man digs his heels into the ground and tries to push himself away as Adam’s sword drops lower. “I know a little about the city-states. Some of them.”
“What do you know of Baalboden?” I ask.
The man swallows. “It’s . . . we don’t go there.”
“And why not?” the Commander asks, his voice a lethal slice of fury.
The man’s eyes dart toward the Commander and then focus again on Adam’s sword. “Because the leader won’t give you a trial or time in the dungeon like some of the other leaders. He’ll . . .” The man stares as the moonlight glides over the Commander’s face, lingering on his scar. “You’re Commander Chase.”
“I am. And I’m very interested to hear what you think I do to those who anger me.”
The man’s voice is faint. “You make an example out of them. Carve them up and burn the pieces.”
“And that’s how I treat those who haven’t wronged me personally,” the Commander says. “Imagine what I do to those who kill my men and steal from me. Adam, the left eye. And then an ear, I think. After that, I’ll ask my first question.”
“No, wait! I’ll talk. Please.” The man’s voice shakes. “Please, I’ll tell you what you want to know. The girls—”
“I don’t care about the girls. I want—”
“Yes, we do.” I glare at the Commander. “We care about the girls. And the horses. And anything else your friends stole from us.”
The man’s words rush from him as if he hopes by talking fast enough, he can avoid the inevitable. “We took them to our camp. The girls, the horses . . .”
“Orion, check my tent. See if my belongings are there,” the Commander snaps.
See if the device is still there, he means. If it isn’t, he’ll lead the charge to track down the highwaymen, and we’ll have to pray the thieves don’t decide to experiment with the tech. If they realize what they’ve got, there’s no way we’ll ever get close enough to their camp to rescue the girls.
No way we’ll be able to ransom Rachel from Rowansmark either.
“It’s gone!” Orion calls. No one needs to ask him what he means.
My heart sinks. Frantically, I start running scenarios.
“How far away is this camp?” the Commander snarls at the highwayman.
“A day’s journey by horseback. Northeast. At the old city just south of the big mountain. You can’t miss it. Please, let me go. I won’t tell them you’re coming. I won’t even go in that direction. They’ll never know—”
“No, they won’t.” The Commander stands, wraps his hands around Adam’s, and drives the sword through the man’s eye and into the ground beneath his head.
The second he stops twitching, I yank the sword free and wipe it clean on the bank. “Adam, my sword fell to the bottom of the stream near the body of a highwayman I killed. The current isn’t strong enough to have taken it. I need to use your weapon and ask you to retrieve mine at first light.” Shoving the sword into my sheath, I meet his gaze.
“I’m going with you,” he says.
“There are only two horses left. We can’t all go. I need you to help Frankie. . . .” I look around, realizing I haven’t heard anything from Frankie since the start of the fight.
“Frankie? Frankie!” I stalk toward the camp, my hands cold and shaking, as I see him hunched over a prone figure. It takes three steps for my brain to acknowledge that the person he’s crouched beside is crumpled in an awkward angle no living person could achieve. Another five steps before I’m ready to acknowledge that the person I’m looking at is Drake.
Drake, who gathered a g
roup of revolutionaries long before I even dreamed of standing up to the Commander. Who sent his daughter to save my life while I was locked in Baalboden’s dungeon. Who stood by me and offered me quiet, consistent support and loyalty no matter what was going on around us.
Drake, who was my friend.
“Oh no.” I sink to my knees beside Drake’s trampled body. My throat closes and my eyes sting as I reach my hands out toward him as if I can somehow fix this.
Beside me, Frankie sobs once, and then curls over his knees and pounds the dirt with his fist.
“Who is it?” Adam calls from beside the horses, his voice shaky.
“Drake.” I have to force his name past my lips. I feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach, my lungs refusing air even while I struggle to find words that won’t be enough. That are never enough. An hour ago, Drake was sitting next to me, encouraging me, treating me almost like a son. Laughing with his longtime friend, Frankie.
Now he’s one more in a list of people who’ve been ripped from us too soon.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and swallow hard against the lump in my throat. “We’ll have to bury him when I get back—”
“Go get Nola.” Frankie raises his eyes to mine. “Get Nola and Willow and Jodi.”
“Peter and Gregory are dead too,” Orion says as he walks the perimeter of our camp. The Commander swears viciously.
“Here,” Frankie whispers. He shoves something at me, and I wrap my hand around the slim outline of the Rowansmark device. “The highwaymen didn’t get into the tent. I did. Figured it would be easier to keep the Commander in line if we had all the cards on our side. Now I want you to use it. You hear me? You do whatever you have to do to rescue our girls.”
The device seems to weigh a hundred pounds as I move toward my bedroll, snatch my cloak, and shove the tech into an inner pocket. You do whatever you have to do.
He means that I should use the tanniyn. .
I think of Jodi, tiny and trying so hard to be fearless. Of Willow, unflinchingly doing the right thing despite how she was raised. And Nola, gently reaching past Smithson’s angry silence when no one else could. And I think of the stories about what highwaymen do to the girls they capture.