Focus, Enebish.
I clench my fingers tighter, until red crescents stipple my palm. Finally the darkness slips over Kartok, and I breathe a little easier, knowing we’re cocooned in shadow.
We walk in silence, and even though I try to be discreet, he catches me examining his scars across the dimness. “They called me Maggot,” he says without looking at me. “Because I was so white and wriggling in the pit where they kept us.”
I can tell by the set of his jaw he’s bracing for me to respond with sympathy, but I know from experience that isn’t what someone with injuries like ours needs or wants. “They call me Enebish the Destroyer.”
“And are you?” His dark eyes glitter like wet tar in the moonlight.
I shrug and smile. “You’ll have to wait and see.”
“A murderer and a maggot.” Kartok chuckles. “What is Temujin thinking, placing his rebellion in our hands?” His spindly fingers stroke the wide sleeves of his cloak, and when he speaks again, his voice is serious. “Deadly or not, I’m grateful for your assistance. I could only transport one or two recruits at a time myself. But with your help, our numbers will swell until that damned fool on the throne is forced to negotiate with us.”
“Do you think he will?”
“We will make him,” Kartok says with vicious resolve. He crouches behind the last boulder and stares across a clearing at a line of torches and tents that extend for leagues and leagues. So far, I can’t see the beginning or the end. Blue-and-gold banners wave in the midnight wind and mounted warriors ride in serpentine patterns through the tents.
“Shouldn’t they be more concerned with guarding the perimeter?” I whisper.
“You would think so, wouldn’t you?”
I watch the guards make their constant rounds. “How have you managed to rescue anyone under these circumstances?”
“Security has gotten tighter as our rebellion has gained traction, but it’s never been easy. I usually try to create a diversion—spook the horses, set a tent on fire, send up the alarm of attack—in order to give our recruits time to slip from their tents and run like hell to the Boneyard. The trouble is, the guards have caught on to my tactics. Last week five warriors attempted to flee, but only two of them made it.”
“What happened to the others?” I ask, even though I know the answer.
“They were dragged back to camp and beheaded before the rest of the troops.”
My stomach upends and I vomit into the dirt. I’ve been so consumed with the possibility of losing control of my power, or losing Serik, and betraying Ghoa, I failed to realize people’s lives would quite literally depend on my ability to successfully shield them.
They’re deserters,half of my mind retorts.They deserve whatever punishment they have coming.
But I still don’t want to watch them die. I don’t want their deaths to be on my head. Especially when I’m facilitating their desertion. And I can’t even claim that it’s part of my mission; Ghoa would never encourage me to go this far.
“Are you ready?” Kartok asks when the nearest guard dismounts. “After you slip into camp, stop at these three tents”—he shows me a diagram etched onto his forearm—“collect the recruits, and return here. I’ll be hiding several hundred paces away, ready to create havoc in case of disaster.”
My voice is trapped behind a lump of guilt and terror, but I manage to nod.
“Well?” Kartok asks when I still don’t move.
I look up at him, searching for some sign or guarantee that I’m not a failure for betraying my country like this. That I’m not driving a saber into Ghoa’s heart and severing our sisterhood for nothing. What I get is a rough shove to the back.
“Forge your own confidence, Destroyer,” he says as I stumble into the clearing.
My darkness sputters for half a second before I regain my balance. But even once I’m steady, the threads yank at my hands as I walk toward the tents—like a horse taking the bit in its teeth. I yank back. I can do this. Ihaveto do this. It’s the only way Temujin will release Serik.
I shuffle closer to the tents, so focused on blending the shadows and keeping my injured leg quiet, I’m completely ambushed by the smell.Bleeding skies.I cover my face with my vambraced arm. I’m used to the stench of unwashed bodies and sweaty armor, but this smells like rotten meat. Not just a day or two old, but left to molder in the sun for weeks. It’s so strong, I can taste it.
The quiet hits me next. Even in the middle of the night, army encampments never truly sleep. Pages are always running errands. Generals are always barking orders. Warriors moan and thrash as they wake from the throes of nightmares. But not in this camp. It might as well be a graveyard. The extreme stillness feels like beetles creeping across my flesh. Not only is it unnerving, it’s problematic. I can only blot out forms, not the tread of running feet.
I slip down a row of tents, and sticky mud sucks at my boots. The air is cold enough, the ground should be frozen, but it’s a river of brown muck from so many chamber pots being emptied in one location. The filthy containers lie on their sides, spilling excrement, and I gag as I pull my boots free—nearly running straight into a mounted guard. I bite down on my scream and skid to a halt, breath held to keep it from billowing in front of my face. For a second I even close my eyes. My heart batters against my rib cage like a fox in a trap.
The horse blows and sidesteps, its eyes rimmed white, but, thankfully, the rider looks straight through me. He murmurs to his horse and urges it on with a stern kick.
Once they’ve trotted away, I double over and take two deep breaths. Then I readjust my hold on the night and dart to the first tent I’m to visit. I bend myself through the door like a shadow, and find seven warriors huddled in the center, staring as the tent flap drops back into place, seemingly by itself.
They’re gasping and shaky, most of them seriously wounded, many of them not a day older than fourteen. Their blue-and-gold uniforms are shredded and coated with blood, and several clutch broken limbs and angry gashes. Not only that, they’re horrifically emaciated—gaunt spines and knobby ribs protrude like broken bones through their tunics. It’s blindingly clear how the Zemyans are advancing. I doubt they even need to call upon their sorcery. A stiff winter wind could blow our warriors over.
