‘What was that?’ Blake could not keep the fear out of her voice as she looked in the direction of the shaft. A long ditch now ran between the trees, reaching all the way to the wall. It took her a few seconds to realise what it was.
The tunnel had collapsed.
Kingsley.
Her feet were moving then, pounding the earth as she ran towards the hole where the shaft had been moments earlier. ‘Kingsley!’ Collapsing to her knees, she began clawing at the mud, dragging up enormous handfuls of debris and clay and throwing it aside. ‘Kingsley!’
A large hand clamped around her arm, pulling her to her feet and away from the ditch.
‘You need to leave.’ The commander spoke the words calmly but firmly into her ear.
She struggled against his grip. ‘My brother’s down there.’ It was a dangerous confession, but a part of her hoped he might help.
The commander spun her around, forcing her to look at him. ‘My men are coming. If you stay, they’ll hang you alongside him.’
Every second they stood there talking was another second her brother was without air. Panicked, Blake reached into her pocket for her knife, but the commander caught her wrist in a vice-like grip, dipping his head so he was eye level with her.
‘You can’t help him. Go home to your family. They’re going to need you.’
Her breaths came fast as she tried to process the words being spoken at her. Yes, her sisters would need her. Her mother needed her.
The sound of dogs barking made Blake jump. She glimpsed them through the trees.
‘Run,’ growled the commander, releasing her with a hard shove.
Blake staggered backwards, struggling to draw breath as the dogs tugged against their restraints, closer now. Regaining her balance, she took off at a run towards the village.
Chapter 2
If a defender stood a chance of surviving Chadora’s savage coastline, he needed to have been raised on the horror stories passed down from predecessors. The stories were lessons for future defenders, a historical narrative of how to return alive instead of being eaten by small fish or washed up on the rocks days later.
As part of a defender’s training, they would descend an eighty-foot cliff face to the turbulent sea below, plunge into the icy water, then navigate the sharp rocks and violent currents all the way to the flat rock half a mile offshore. The distance was manageable for a fit man, but being a strong swimmer was no guarantee. The sea fought intruders, lifting them high before sending them crashing down again.
Harlan had completed the swim more times than he could count, because the warden insisted on pushing his only son harder than any defender before him. Perhaps he felt the need to prove that Harlan was worthy of his position. Heaven forbid Shapur Wright was accused of favouring blood. It was not enough that Harlan had reduced crime in the merchant borough, and done so without losing any men under his command.
His father liked to keep him slightly off balance at all times.
As Harlan dragged himself up onto the rock the morning after the tunnels collapsed, he could feel his father’s sharp eyes on him from atop the wall. He was certain the man’s vision could penetrate even the thickest of fog. He had made it to the halfway point. Now he had to make it back to the wall.
Resting too long was a sign of weakness, so Harlan fought the urge to sit and catch his breath. He blinked against the water spraying him from the south and raised his arm to inspect a gash above his elbow. He had known the rock was there, but there had not been a damn thing he could do to avoid it when that wave hit.
He walked to the edge of the rock and dove in. The water roared in his ears. Clean strokes, powerful kicks, carefully planned breaths, and an ability to read the water. Those things would get him to the cliff in one piece.
Seaweed swirled around him, wrapping his leg like a hand trying to pull him under. He removed it with his other foot without breaking rhythm.
A rock appeared in front of him. He rolled left and let the water carry him a safe distance away from it. It was foolish to trust the tide though. He had seen it carry men out to sea and swallow them whole.
When Harlan emerged from the water, legs trembling and blood striping one arm, he bent, tearing mussels off the rocks and shoving them into the pockets of his trousers. Later, he would hand them out to the children who played along the port wall. When he could fit no more, he walked to the vertical cliff face and began the long climb up.
The key to not falling to his death was to test everything before using it to bear his weight.
He was sweating profusely by the time he reached the top, his heart drumming in his chest. As he stood on the narrow ledge between cliff and wall, he looked up, and sure enough, there was his father looking back at him.
No one else had been sent to the flat rock that day.
Taking hold of the rope, Harlan scaled the wall and climbed over the embrasure, dropping to his feet in front of his father. Shapur’s eyes lowered to Harlan’s bloodied arm.
‘Slower than last time,’ he said.
