Hero at the Fall (Rebel of the Sands #3)(39)

Then another Skinwalker surged out of the darkness towards the soldier.

‘Close the gates!’ the captain was calling, even as his men took aim at the newest Skinwalker, catching it in the chest, sending it reeling back. ‘Close them now!’ He called the same order in Albish, unsure in this muddled army who was manning what.

The soldiers started to retreat quickly, keeping their guard up, as the huge iron gate was lowered over the entrance. Albish and Mirajin guns clattered, pointing at the Skinwalkers. There were dozens of them slinking through the dark now, darting in and out of focus. Drawn out from their mountain hiding places, looking for more bodies to devour.

A shot went off by my ear. I didn’t have to check if it had hit its target. I knew it hadn’t by the way the soldier was holding the weapon. The Albish held their guns like they were afraid of them, too used to magic defending them. I didn’t ask permission before I knocked the gun from his loose grasp and aimed. Three Skinwalkers went down in the dark before the gun clicked empty. Damn it.

‘Where do you keep your ammunition?’ I asked in Mirajin, not bothering to summon up the few words I knew in their language, what with the gunfire filling the air and all. The soldier shook his head blankly at me, even as I gestured with my empty weapon. I rolled my eyes, exasperated, turning to the captain.

He looked troubled. ‘We don’t need to turn this into a battle,’ he said. ‘We can wait them out until morning behind the walls—’

‘All that’ll happen then is that they’ll lose interest in us and head for the houses further down the mountain,’ I snapped. We could defend the fortress. The men and women of Iliaz’s villages wouldn’t have as many guns and soldiers ‘Now, where do you keep your ammunition?’

The captain looked grim. ‘There is a tent by the east gate.’

I ran, dashing around the central building of the fortress and heading for more bullets. I saw the tent there, propped against the outer wall, sticking out like a sore thumb in the northern Albish colours, clashing against the fortress’s warm stone.



Inside, the tent was lined with weapon upon weapon: guns and swords and rifles and even a few things that might’ve been bombs, all neatly stacked up, a little arsenal ready to march on Izman, if needed. I was reaching for a cache of bullets when I saw the gilded rifles lined up neatly to one side.

And I stopped.

Outside were raised voices, more gunshots, and, further away now, the sounds of an invasion of ghouls being held back. I’d been in a whole lot of fights in the name of the Rebellion now. I’d been afraid in them before. Or I’d felt nothing, everything in me focused on staying alive. But the anger I had felt tonight, that was new. It surged from some dark part of my soul, older than I was. Old as my bloodline, old as the desert. Our desert – not theirs to march their armies through and claim through bargains and alliances, all while putting their dead in the ground so our monsters could thrive. It was our desert, not theirs and not the Gallan’s and not any other northerners’ from the edges of the horizon.

And I wasn’t going to let them have it.

The Skinwalkers they could handle without me. That was just one fight. I had a war to win. Quickly, I grabbed a knife from the wall and got to work on my sabotage.





Chapter 14

I was nearly done when I realised the guns had stopped. I heard voices, the clatter of soldiers’ feet. Cursing under my breath, I quickly moved things back where they ought to be.

After the near invasion of the Skinwalkers, the yard of the fortress would be crawling with soldiers. I needed some cover to get back to my room without any questions. I took a deep breath as I raised my hands a little, just enough to draw the sand up in a small cloud, low to the ground. It wasn’t a sandstorm, just a bit of dust. Nothing us desert dwellers weren’t used to – that’s why we wore sheemas. But if the Albish didn’t know enough to burn their dead, I doubted they’d be smart enough to cover their faces from the desert sand.



I could feel my powers resisting, curling away from me as I tried to draw on them for the third time in one day.

I tugged up my own sheema and ducked out into the cloud of dust. I struggled to keep up the storm as I moved back towards the entrance. But I didn’t need to keep it up for long, just long enough to get back inside the fortress. The pain in my side nagged at me as I moved slowly, dodging figures in the dust as I went.

It got worse with every step I took. I couldn’t take the strain much longer.

And then I felt a resistance against my power, prodding at first, and then more insistent. Without warning, I felt something try to rip it away from me, like a hurricane, wanting to gather up the sand and fling it to one side. I clung to it all the tighter.

It was the Albish Demdji, or whatever they called themselves, moving the air against my sand.

I cast around for an escape as I leaned against the wall for support.

There, an open window, straight above me.

Did I have enough strength in me to reach it? I wasn’t sure. Secretly, I was afraid I’d used up all my powers drawing the cover I’d needed to get this far. I sent up a silent prayer that there was no one on the other side of that window.

I moved unsteadily, shakily, my power slipping in and out of my grasp for a moment before I managed to grab a firm hold of it. The sand rushed up below me, a sudden surge lifting me, pulling at my hair and skin and clothes, driving me up the sheer wall.