The Continent (The Continent #1)(66)

The waiting is agony. I feel as I did in the glass pod—trapped, helpless, a bystander unable to stop the events unfolding around me. And in truth, isn’t that the way of it? Here I am, sheltered once more while those I love face imminent and terrible danger. Here I hide, trembling and afraid, my own life safely removed from peril. The walls that protect me now are stone, not glass, but there is no true difference.

I see my father, his hand outstretched atop my mother’s on the door of the pod. Vaela, he said, be safe. My breath catches in my chest at the memory of his words, at the love that shone in his eyes, and at the strength of his silent plea. No—not a plea. A goodbye.

Were Noro’s words tonight also a farewell? Even if he intends to return for me, I have seen what the Topi can do. I have watched them paint the snow with the blood of the Aven’ei and laugh like madmen, intoxicated by the frenzy of slaughter.

My fingers trail restlessly along the edge of the knife case. If I could kill but one Topi, how many Aven’ei might I save? The thought sets my heart racing, for as Noro said, I am no warrior. My training has scarcely begun. If I were to try to fight, I would almost surely die.

But I might kill one. One Topi whose thirst for blood cannot be quenched except in death. One Topi who could otherwise, on this very night, send Noro to his grave.

One might be enough.

Moving as though in a dream, I get to my feet and open the drawer in the stand beside the bed. The black leather belt that allows me to wear my knives rests inside beneath a tangle of other items; I remove it from the drawer, fix it around my waist, and methodically tuck each of my six blades into the sturdy sheaths. Then I lace up my boots and fasten a heavy woolen cloak about my shoulders.

Forgive me, Noro. My life is worth no more than that of any other.

The wind whips the hood from my head the moment I step outside; the pelting rain is like a spray of icy daggers against my skin. Shielding my eyes, I make my way down the front walk to the road, only to step back with a gasp as the branch of a white birch tree cartwheels past and crashes into a stack of crates at the end of the lane. The shriek of the wind is shrill, almost frantic—like the wail of an accursed spirit lost to some otherworldly torment. Shivering, I press forward, struggling to see in the darkness and violence of the storm. No one is in sight, and the lights are out in all of the houses in this row and the next. The sky is still as black as sin.

I head up the road and round the corner to find that an enormous cherry tree has been uprooted and deposited thirty feet from where it once grew. Everywhere, there is debris—broken pots, slate roof tiles, clothing ripped from wash lines. I hurry through the mud and pick my way up the lane in the direction of the village gates. There is a distant pounding to be heard—at first, I mistake it for the rain, but it is too rhythmic, too monotonous to be natural. It grows louder as I advance, and I stop for a moment, puzzled.

Boom. Boom. Boom-boom-BOOM. Boom. Boom. Boom-boom-BOOM.

Suddenly, I recall the words that Yuki spoke to me the first time we met: I can’t begin to imagine a life without the drums of war.

I take off running, splashing through the deep puddles and trenches wrought by the rain. The muscles in my legs burn and ache as I race toward the gates, the mud sucking at my boots with every step. As a flash of lightning sets the sky alight, the village entrance comes into view. The shock of the scene so startles me that I slip and stumble forward, my hands and knees sinking deep into the sodden earth.

Hundreds lay throughout the square, dead or dying. A great many more are locked in battle, while the village gate lies in a twisted ruin, breached by some terrible force. The few buildings that line the entranceway are bright with flames, despite the downpour.

I scramble to my feet and move quickly toward the right-hand tower, taking a circuitous route that leads me away from the heart of the fighting. When I reach the wall, I press my body flat against the stone and try to catch my breath. Several feet away, a man—a Topi—calls out to me; he is flat on his belly, his hand clawing at his hair. A closer look reveals that he has been separated from his legs. He calls out once more and then becomes still, one more dark, lifeless figure claimed in the assault.

Grateful for the cover of darkness and shaking with fear and cold, I move silently along the wall until I find the stairwell leading to the walkway. Atop the rampart, there is no one left alive; I discover only the bodies of a dozen or so Aven’ei archers. I avert my gaze as I creep along, moving back toward the tower. The clash and grinding of metal becomes more pronounced as I near the village entrance, and finally, concealed behind the battlement, I peer out beyond the wall.

The fighting is concentrated just inside the gate, but dozens of smaller skirmishes continue on either side. With each burst of lightning, there are new horrors to be seen: the silhouette of a Topi hatchet as it is drawn back, an Aven’ei swordsman cleaved nearly in two by his own (confiscated) weapon, a gurgling fountain of blood pulsing upward from the thigh of a man on the ground below. And as the battle rages on, I begin to wonder if I might serve any purpose here at all, or if I will merely end up dead without ever unsheathing a knife. What can I possibly do against mighty warriors such as these?

There can be but one answer: find a Topi who is alone and surprise him. I have not the skill or stealth of an itzatsune, but the thunder and the everlasting torrent of rain may serve to conceal me long enough. At least, that is what I hope.

I wait, watching carefully when there is enough light to see, searching along the edges of the battle for any man who may be isolated. And at long last, I find one.