Several trees to my left, an owl hoots, slow and mournful. I grip the hilt of my long stone knife as Dad’s signal fades into the silvery night sky.
It’s time.
Seconds later, the highwaymen materialize out of the dark forest, moonlight gliding over their drawn swords like ice. Ten men walking two abreast. Four are shorter than my six-foot frame, though the length of their swords takes away the advantage of my longer reach. I’m faster, though.
I’m always faster.
They pass Dad’s tree, and now I can make out the details of their clothing. Coats cobbled together with sleeves from one jacket, a hood from another. Mismatched shoes. Pants covered in patches and seams until the original design is impossible to distinguish.
Highwaymen are scavengers who pillage the remains of the cities that once were, salvaging anything they can lay their hands on to use or sell at one of the city-states. I don’t care what they do to the ruins of the old cities. But highwaymen are also notorious for attacking travelers or Tree Villages throughout the Wasteland, stealing anything of value and often leaving their victims wounded or dead.
I take a deep, slow breath and close my mind to anything but what lies in front of me. A whisper of sound disturbs the night, followed immediately by another. Two men in the middle of the group drop to the ground, dead. Willow’s arrows still vibrate in the soft flesh between their eyes.
Even as the rest of the men turn, shouting to one another and drawing their swords, two more arrows fly. Two more men fall.
Men scramble for the trees, tripping over roots and branches, shoving one another out of the way.
Willow draws her bow, and a man in the front shouts her location but never gets the chance to attack. Dropping from my tree, I land just behind him and snatch a handful of his hood. Then I yank his head back, whip my knife up, and slit his throat. Releasing him, I flip backward, narrowly avoiding the slash of another man’s sword as it slices through the air in my wake. He rushes toward me, but Willow buries an arrow in his back, and he stumbles to his knees.
Two more men attack me, and I crouch, waiting until they’re almost upon me. Trusting Willow to drop the one to my left, I lunge for the other, spin to the inside of his sword arm, and bury my knife in his chest. He coughs once and sags against me. I lay him on the ground.
Dad drops from his tree, lands behind the two remaining men, and laughs. In each hand he holds a wickedly curved knife. The men whirl around, but Dad is no longer there. Diving between their feet, he slashes each of them behind their kneecaps as he rolls forward and flips around to face them.
The men scream in agony. One falls to the forest floor. The other limps to a stop and tries to hold his sword steady. It isn’t going to help him. An arrow streaks past and the man falls to the ground with a heavy thud.
Dad whips his hand in the air. “Leave the other for me, Willow.”
Bile climbs up the back of my throat as my father advances on the injured man.
“Dad,” I say as the man clutches his leg and moans in pain. “He’s already down. He isn’t a threat now. Just make it quick.”
I’m trying to stop floodwater with a river stone. Once my father begins, he never stops.
I turn away, trying to block out the sound of the man’s screams as Dad draws out his victim’s death with vicious glee. When the screams finally fall silent, I draw in a breath of icy air and force myself to sound calm.
“Let’s get the bodies away from the village before we draw any wild animals to us,” I say, bending to scoop my hands under the arms of the man with the arrow in his back. He moans softly, and I stiffen.
I know what I should do. What Dad and Willow would do. I should slit his throat and toss him onto the pile without a second thought. And if he had a weapon out with intent to attack, I would.
But the thought of killing a now defenseless man makes my stomach churn.
Worse, though, is the thought of what Dad will do if he discovers that we have a survivor. It would be an act of mercy to kill the man myself.
I lean forward with my knife ready.
Chapter Three
“Surrender,” he gasps, and I freeze, inches from slicing into him.
“What?” I whisper.
“I surrender. Take me as your prisoner. I surrender.” His words are nothing but faint, pained gasps, but they land on me like physical blows.
No one has ever surrendered to us before. No one has ever been given the option. I think of the dusty jail cell in the village council house and wonder what the village elders would do with an actual prisoner.
He moans again, and reaches a hand toward the arrow in his back. I kneel on him before Dad or Willow can see him moving, cover his mouth with my gloved hand, and rip the arrow free in one swift motion.
His scream vibrates up my arm. I press my hand against his mouth until he falls silent and try to figure out what to do. My thoughts churn rapidly, and my hands shake as Dad’s training, my own instincts, and the memory of Eliah’s trusting voice calling me brave all collide inside my head.
“What you got there?” Dad asks, and I jump.
Standing, I step over the man, and lift the arrow so Dad can see it. My voice is hoarse as I say, “Thought I’d get an early start on retrieving Willow’s arrows.”
“Well, don’t just stand there. Clean it off,” he says.
I nod and bend to wipe the arrow clean on the forest floor. My chaotic thoughts slowly settle as one irrefutable idea takes hold of me and feels—finally—like truth.
I can’t kill this man. It isn’t courage, and it isn’t rebellion against Dad’s rules. It’s a simple fact. I don’t have it in me to kill an unarmed man, and I’m not going to pretend I do. If Dad calls it weakness and tries to beat me for it, I’ll handle it.
It’s time.
Seconds later, the highwaymen materialize out of the dark forest, moonlight gliding over their drawn swords like ice. Ten men walking two abreast. Four are shorter than my six-foot frame, though the length of their swords takes away the advantage of my longer reach. I’m faster, though.
I’m always faster.
They pass Dad’s tree, and now I can make out the details of their clothing. Coats cobbled together with sleeves from one jacket, a hood from another. Mismatched shoes. Pants covered in patches and seams until the original design is impossible to distinguish.
Highwaymen are scavengers who pillage the remains of the cities that once were, salvaging anything they can lay their hands on to use or sell at one of the city-states. I don’t care what they do to the ruins of the old cities. But highwaymen are also notorious for attacking travelers or Tree Villages throughout the Wasteland, stealing anything of value and often leaving their victims wounded or dead.
I take a deep, slow breath and close my mind to anything but what lies in front of me. A whisper of sound disturbs the night, followed immediately by another. Two men in the middle of the group drop to the ground, dead. Willow’s arrows still vibrate in the soft flesh between their eyes.
Even as the rest of the men turn, shouting to one another and drawing their swords, two more arrows fly. Two more men fall.
Men scramble for the trees, tripping over roots and branches, shoving one another out of the way.
Willow draws her bow, and a man in the front shouts her location but never gets the chance to attack. Dropping from my tree, I land just behind him and snatch a handful of his hood. Then I yank his head back, whip my knife up, and slit his throat. Releasing him, I flip backward, narrowly avoiding the slash of another man’s sword as it slices through the air in my wake. He rushes toward me, but Willow buries an arrow in his back, and he stumbles to his knees.
Two more men attack me, and I crouch, waiting until they’re almost upon me. Trusting Willow to drop the one to my left, I lunge for the other, spin to the inside of his sword arm, and bury my knife in his chest. He coughs once and sags against me. I lay him on the ground.
Dad drops from his tree, lands behind the two remaining men, and laughs. In each hand he holds a wickedly curved knife. The men whirl around, but Dad is no longer there. Diving between their feet, he slashes each of them behind their kneecaps as he rolls forward and flips around to face them.
The men scream in agony. One falls to the forest floor. The other limps to a stop and tries to hold his sword steady. It isn’t going to help him. An arrow streaks past and the man falls to the ground with a heavy thud.
Dad whips his hand in the air. “Leave the other for me, Willow.”
Bile climbs up the back of my throat as my father advances on the injured man.
“Dad,” I say as the man clutches his leg and moans in pain. “He’s already down. He isn’t a threat now. Just make it quick.”
I’m trying to stop floodwater with a river stone. Once my father begins, he never stops.
I turn away, trying to block out the sound of the man’s screams as Dad draws out his victim’s death with vicious glee. When the screams finally fall silent, I draw in a breath of icy air and force myself to sound calm.
“Let’s get the bodies away from the village before we draw any wild animals to us,” I say, bending to scoop my hands under the arms of the man with the arrow in his back. He moans softly, and I stiffen.
I know what I should do. What Dad and Willow would do. I should slit his throat and toss him onto the pile without a second thought. And if he had a weapon out with intent to attack, I would.
But the thought of killing a now defenseless man makes my stomach churn.
Worse, though, is the thought of what Dad will do if he discovers that we have a survivor. It would be an act of mercy to kill the man myself.
I lean forward with my knife ready.
Chapter Three
“Surrender,” he gasps, and I freeze, inches from slicing into him.
“What?” I whisper.
“I surrender. Take me as your prisoner. I surrender.” His words are nothing but faint, pained gasps, but they land on me like physical blows.
No one has ever surrendered to us before. No one has ever been given the option. I think of the dusty jail cell in the village council house and wonder what the village elders would do with an actual prisoner.
He moans again, and reaches a hand toward the arrow in his back. I kneel on him before Dad or Willow can see him moving, cover his mouth with my gloved hand, and rip the arrow free in one swift motion.
His scream vibrates up my arm. I press my hand against his mouth until he falls silent and try to figure out what to do. My thoughts churn rapidly, and my hands shake as Dad’s training, my own instincts, and the memory of Eliah’s trusting voice calling me brave all collide inside my head.
“What you got there?” Dad asks, and I jump.
Standing, I step over the man, and lift the arrow so Dad can see it. My voice is hoarse as I say, “Thought I’d get an early start on retrieving Willow’s arrows.”
“Well, don’t just stand there. Clean it off,” he says.
I nod and bend to wipe the arrow clean on the forest floor. My chaotic thoughts slowly settle as one irrefutable idea takes hold of me and feels—finally—like truth.
I can’t kill this man. It isn’t courage, and it isn’t rebellion against Dad’s rules. It’s a simple fact. I don’t have it in me to kill an unarmed man, and I’m not going to pretend I do. If Dad calls it weakness and tries to beat me for it, I’ll handle it.
