Let The Wind Rise (Sky Fall, #3)(79)

The air feels too heavy to move—or that might be my head. Between the searing heat and the shallow breaths and the scratchy eyes, it’s hard to concentrate. Still, we manage to lock arms and form a chain, and Aston takes the lead, sending us charging down the rock face as fast as our shaky legs will carry us.

Maybe the winds fuel our sprint.

Maybe I’m just dreading the fight ahead.

But it feels like only seconds before we reach the battle.

The smell is indescribable.

Filth and waste and roasted flesh all mix with the dry scent of parched earth. I’m gagging with every breath, and then choking on the dust.

Everywhere I look, gray figures writhe on the ground, some still, others wailing and clutching their faces with blistered hands. I notice a few Gales collapsed among them and try to convince myself they’d already fallen in the battle. It helps to see so many guardians still standing.

They move as weak and wobbly as we do, but they’re ready for a fight, weapons raised as they fan the dust away from their eyes.

The Living Storms have broken their ranks and scattered—their roars mixed with the hiss of the unraveling simoom—but through the haze of grit I can see them tearing our way.

“We’d better head over there,” Vane shouts, pointing to where two Storms are closing in on an injured Gale.

“We’ll never get there in time,” Astons says, letting go of me to aim his wind spike. “I’d rather hoped to hang on to this longer, but . . .”

He lets the spike fly.

His aim is flawless—hitting one of the Storms through the shoulder before exploding the other’s head in a burst of yellow steam.

“Two down,” Vane calls. “Thirty-four to go. And that was our only weapon. Just, y’know, in case anyone’s keeping track of these things.”

“Actually,” Aston says, squinting through the murk. “I think the spike survived. I’m going after it.”

He takes off toward the carnage, and we start to follow, until a roar to the east stops us cold.

I turn and find Os and another Gale battling five Storms between them.

“They need our help!” Solana shouts.

“Okay, but how?” Vane asks. “I’m still not feeling any winds down here, are you? And there’s also that.” He points to three Storms tearing toward us from the other direction.

“We need a distraction,” Solana says, closing her eyes as she snarls a scratchy command.

A ruined draft and a Southerly seep from her skin and coil around her.

“This looks like a terrible plan!” Vane shouts as the drafts launch her toward the Storms. “What are you going to do up there without any weapons?”

“No idea!” she calls over her shoulder. “But I begged the winds for something to make them lose interest in you guys, and I guess this is the answer.”

She waves her arms and hollers insults until the Storms turn to chase her, and she flies toward where Os is fighting.

“You realize she’s basically bringing them three more enemies to fight, right?” Vane asks. “I’m not sure the wind thought this one all the way through.”

I’m not certain either.

But we don’t have time to worry about it.

Four more Storms shift paths and head our way.

We race the opposite direction, but they gain with every step. Aston tries to fight his way back to us, but he’s tackling three of his own. And all the other Gales are fighting battles. Which leaves me with one final, desperate idea.

I’m certain Vane is going to hate it, so I turn my face away from him as I focus on my Westerly shield.

We need help, I tell the loyal wind. I need you to do what you did in Death Valley. If we don’t get more winds, everyone is going to die.

My shield tightens its hold, not wanting to abandon me.

Please, I beg. We need wind more than anything.

The draft sings of impossible choices as it untangles itself.

“Thank you,” I whisper in Westerly. “And hurry!”

“Please tell me you didn’t just do what I think you did,” Vane says.

“It’s our only option.”

“No, there’s still this.” He asks his shield to wrap around me, and the wind blankets my skin. I try to send the shield back, but Vane covers my mouth with his dusty palm. “Please, just let me do this. It’s the only way I’ll be able to concentrate.”

I want to argue—or pull him even closer—but the four Storms chasing us have drawn so near that I can feel their pull dragging us toward their funnels.

My feet float off the ground, and Vane jumps on top of me, rolling us away as soon as we crash. I lose track of which way is up. Everything is tumbling tumbling tumbling—until we crash into a pile of bodies.

A couple of them are still alive, clawing and flailing with their blistered hands.

“Yeah, no thanks,” Vane says, kicking a Stormer away and grabbing another’s black windslicer.

I do the same, and we both point them at the injured Stormers.

“What do we do?” Vane asks. “Kill them so they can’t come after us—and maybe put them out of their misery? Or leave them and not get our hands bloody?”

“I can’t tell,” I admit. “My instincts are all over the place.”