The Princess Trials (The Princess Trials #1)(102)
It’s a stupid move. Those girls left me alone to fester in the Barrens, not knowing if I would get attacked by any of the dangerous creatures lurking in the dark, and not caring that the reinforcements would be rushing to avenge my attack on their comrades.
I should run down into the trees, but the notion of encountering whoever started that fire down the mountain scares me more than a furious Amstraad soldier wanting to shoot me in the face.
I glance up at the window, and the pale face of an Artisan girl stares back. It’s the pink-haired girl who excelled in Mistress Pavane’s class. I search her expression for clues, such as the barest shake of her head, but she only leans forward and nods.
The Noble girl who sat across the aisle from me pokes her head out of the door and scowls. “Are you coming, or should we leave you to become the bride of a two-headed Foundling?”
My shoulders relax, and I quicken my steps. “Fine.”
She pokes her head back into the vehicle. Just as I reach the door, she ducks, revealing Constance Spryte with a pistol held in both hands.
A gunshot rings through the air. I leap aside, but intense heat sears my left shoulder. With a pained hiss, I fall backward and roll down the mountainside amid a rain of gunfire. Clouds of dry earth fill my mouth and eyes and throat as I tumble toward the source of the fire. I grab at desiccated undergrowth to slow my descent, but only uproot the plants.
My head slams into the side of a tree trunk, sending a shock of pain across my skull. I scramble around the shelter on my hands and knees and sit at its base. Somehow, I managed to hold onto the gun, but my hands shake too much for it to be of any use.
Everything aches. I’m sure I’ve knocked my shoulder out of joint, but the pain is nothing compared to the bullet wound. Breathing hard, I raise my trembling fingers to the injury and snatch them away. Right now, the best thing I can do for myself is to leave it alone. There’s no telling how long I can survive if I catch an infection or get blood poisoning.
“Zea-Mays Popcorn,” shouts Ingrid’s taunting voice. “Where are you?”
I clench my teeth, wondering what kind of idiot she thinks I would be to answer.
“We took a vote,” she says. “Should we return to save you, or should we return to eliminate you from the Princess Trials?”
My shoulder wound has a pulse of its own that pounds in sync with my rapid heart. I lean against the trunk and breathe through the pain. Why on earth would she concern herself about the trials with Prince Kevon taken prisoner?
“Guess what?” She pauses. “The majority wanted you dead.”
I shake my head. If I ever got Ingrid alone…
“We’ve found a cache of weapons,” she says with a giggle. “When King Arias arrives to rescue us, we’ll tell him that you fought bravely to save our lives, but the hijackers were merciless and took out their frustration on your poor, Harvester body.”
The most powerful flashlight I’ve ever seen shines down the mountainside and illuminates my tree. A tight fist of panic squeezes my chest, and I regret every decision I’ve made since Mouse offered to keep me safe.
“Damn it.” I clutch the side of the trunk and pull myself up. The light swings to the left toward the source of the fire, and I run right down the slope.
The earth is dry and erodes under my feet, but I stumble in the semi-darkness for a better hiding-place.
“Bring me Popcorn alive or dead,” Ingrid’s voice booms through a loudspeaker.
I shake off the terror that prickles down my spine. No one authorized to use royal weapons would leave the safety of the vehicle to come after me. Not even Ingrid Strab. The announcement is designed to make me panic, stumble through the wilderness, and fall to my death.
“There she is,” someone shouts.
Footsteps pound down the mountainside. Maybe an animal darted across the flashlight’s beam because the girls are going in the wrong direction. Excited cries fill the air along with the shots of at least three different guns. My hands curl into fists. Ingrid wasn’t joking about having found more weapons. If every Noble has descended from some dead Phanglorian king, I’m in a whole stack of trouble.
The slope flattens, and the ground no longer sprays out clouds of dust with each step. I continue through a copse of tall, thin trees whose dry leaves crunch underfoot. The sharp, menthol scent of eucalyptus clears my head and brings the throbbing pain of my shoulder into sharp focus.
Every crunching footstep, every snap of a twig or a piece of dried bark sends prickles of alarm across my skin. At this rate, the girls will hear me and know which way to point their guns.
Up ahead, a huge white tree reflects in the moonlight. It’s not as big as the persimmon tree in Rugosa, and its branches aren’t as thick, but they might support my weight. It looks like a dozen trunks have grown close together to form a single tree whose roots snake across the ground, but I doubt that any of these Nobles can climb as high as me in their slippers and gowns.
I sprint to the base of the tree and run up a prominent root that’s over a foot in width. As I reach for the trunk, a large hand grabs the back of my neck and flings me to the ground.
My stomach lurches. I land on my hands and knees and turn around to meet the black eyes of my attacker. This is no Noble or Amstraadi or any competitor in the Princess Trials. His head is as broad as his shoulders with bulging eyes, a bridgeless nose, and ears that recess into the front of his face.