Buff doesn’t ask any more questions after that. In fact, no one says much, just keep running, getting slower as we tire. I’ve got half a dozen cramps, from a dull ache in my calves and shoulders, to a sharper pang in my side. I fear by the time we reach the top we’ll be too exhausted to do much to help anyone.
I bite away the pain and try to focus on the situation at hand. If these men are here to attack ice country—and what else could they possibly be here to do?—then they’ll go for the palace first. It’s the only real threat to stopping them, what with the well-armed and trained guards, the thick, stone walls, and the head of the dragon, King Goff, hiding behind it all. Which means that—
That—
I can’t say her name, can’t even think it, but I know it’s the truth.
She’s in grave danger. More than she is with Goff.
“We’ll save her. We’ll save Jolie,” Skye says, on my other side.
I say nothing, just keep running.
The day is dark as the clouds seem to thicken for war. At some point snow starts falling, but I barely notice it. Then it starts falling harder, thicker, and I look up at the sky, feeling cold and wet all over my face.
Autumn has arrived.
I put my head down and keep running.
~~~
Before we reach the town we can smell it. Burning. Fire. Destruction. Violence.
It hangs in the air like a haze, coating everything; every breath, every movement, blackening our skin and our hearts. Smoke rushes in living columns above the trees, far thicker and heavier than the exhaust created by fireplaces, a stark contrast to the whiteness of the falling snow. Smoke caused by fire that’s eating bigger things than a few logs of firewood.
I throw the weariness and fatigue off me the same way I discard my coat, which has become too hot and heavy, as stifling as the dense forest.
Quickly and completely.
I half-notice Siena picking it up and pulling it tightly around her shoulders.
Exhaustion is nothing. Pain is nothing.
My sister is everything.
Jolie is everything.
Saying her name in my head stings me like the nettles on a pine branch, and I wince, but I don’t stop. Will never stop until she’s back in my arms.
Finally—freezin’ finally—we break through the trees and see the village standing before us, spotted with snow. The Brown and Red Districts sit heavy and low at the base of the slope, with their rows of small, densely clustered houses, while the houses of the Blue and White Districts rise above, with their tall columns and pointed roofs, generous gaps between each residence. All burning, swept with orange and red and the darkness of the black riders, ripping holes and tears in the blanket of snow covering everything.
And above them all…
Above them all, the palace, an impenetrable barrier protecting the king and his men.
Smoke pours from beyond the gates.
“Hurry,” Skye says, grabbing my arm with one hand, a blade gripped tightly in the other.
I lead the way into the Brown District, where most houses are burning, spitting mountains of black clouds. A dark rider and his horse run off a ways, and we watch as he closes in on a group of Brown District Icers, who have organized themselves and are brandishing planks and clubs. The rider sweeps past them, slashing with his sword, cutting them down one by one. They don’t get one good shot in before they fall. I scream something indecipherable and I think Buff does too.
The enemy rides on, seeking out his next target. A cluster of children run from a burning house, shepherded by a slightly older, but still young, girl. Her mannerisms are so familiar, surprisingly mother-like despite her young age. A wad forms in my throat when I realize I know her.
“Darce!” Buff shouts, warning his sister of the rider that’s now only a few gallops away.
But she doesn’t hear, not amongst the children’s cries and the crackle of flames and the pound of horse’s hoofs—and the screams of the men not five houses down.
Buff takes off and the rest of us do too, because we’re not separate people now, not anymore, we’re like a single living, breathing creature, with lots of arms and legs and more hearts than anyone could ever break.
But we’re also too slow and too far away and too late. Far too late.
The rider closes in, his sword out, level with Darce’s neck. Buff screams and screams and screams—
And I think I’m screaming too, my throat hoarse and dry—
And the rider raises his sword—
And my body’s all tensed up, preparing itself for the slash, slash, slash and more slashes that’ll destroy Buff’s life far worse than mine’s been destroyed, that’ll change him forever—
But it never comes.
It never comes.