Its flight is fast and true, and it pierces Chev’s parka just below his collarbone. Rainwater tinged red with blood streams down his chest.
Chev lets out a small sound—more gasp than moan—and collapses to his knees at my feet.
On the beach below, Lo’s clanspeople scramble for cover as rocks rain down on them from the southern cliff. Like an anthill kicked by the toe of a boot, measured order is replaced by frantic motion. Screams rise—people may be hurt—but I hardly notice. All my attention is focused on Chev.
Crouching beside him, I place one hand on his chest and one on his back, then gently ease his weight backward until he is sitting on the ground. His eyes flash wide, staring blankly over his suddenly pale cheeks. I bend close to him, squinting at the place where the spearhead penetrated the hide of his parka, but with the rain still falling, it’s impossible to distinguish how heavily he is bleeding. I don’t dare remove the spear. Instead, I press both hands against the wound.
“We need to get him to the healers,” I say. Dark red liquid leaks between my fingers before diluting to a pale pink stream that collects in a pool in his lap. “I can’t tell how hard he’s bleeding. . . .”
I look up to ask you for help getting Chev to his feet, but you are not watching me. You don’t appear to be listening to me, either. All your attention is on your spear. You snatch it from the grass at your feet and raise it to your shoulder.
Chev sees you, too. He reaches forward and grabs the hem of your pant leg. “No.” Both of us startle at the strength of Chev’s voice. Despite the haze that begins to cloud his eyes, his voice is clear. “He’s of our clan. He’s Dora’s son—”
“He just tried to kill you—”
“He tried, but he failed. That doesn’t make it right for you to kill him.”
Your face hardens. You will not listen, I think. You will not obey your brother. But then you let the spear slide from your shoulder, roll to the edge of your fingers, drop from your hand. It splashes in a puddle and thick mud splatters my face.
As I drag the back of my hand across my chin, you drop to your knees and reach around your brother’s waist. An embrace? Before I can process your actions, you spring to your feet. “Fighters from my clan are posted at the foot of this cliff, guarding the trail that leads up here. I’ll send help,” you say, “but I have to get down there. I have to help protect my people.” Before I can answer, you turn on your heels and fly down the trail to the beach.
“My knife,” Chev breathes. “She took it—the blade I keep in my belt.”
It’s all I can do not to take off after you. These are the people who set fire to my camp, who caused the pain I saw on Pek’s face. One of them has already tried to kill Chev. Any of them might try to kill you.
I grab your spear from the mud, wiping it clean in the crook of my elbow so that I can get a firm grip. I realize there’s no question—I must follow you. But I can’t leave your brother here to bleed to death. And I don’t know how long your clanspeople can hold back Lo’s followers and keep them from reaching this cliff.
I’ll get Chev out of here. I’ll get him into the healers’ hands, and then I’ll be by your side, fighting.
“Can you stand?” My eyes sweep over your brother’s face. He rests on the wet ground, leaning back on his elbows, his eyes closed. “Chev?”
I lunge forward, repeating your brother’s name, but he gives no response.
This is it, I think. He’s slipped away. The worst has happened.
But I’m wrong. The worst hasn’t happened. Not yet.
A noise from behind me—a rustling of branches, a foot catching on a stone or root, a missed step.
I turn and look up into the face of the bowlegged boy who threw the spear that hit Chev. He is so young—he cannot be older than Kesh. A trickle of blood runs from a gash above his right eye. One of your clanspeople guarding the trail must have wounded him as he fought his way past.
Orn . . . Dora’s son.
This is my last thought—Dora’s son—when a heavy club swings down and hits me square in the temple, sending me sprawling into the mud.
TWENTY-EIGHT
The blow knocks me onto my stomach, the sudden, icy black taste of mud in my mouth. I orient myself quickly—to my right lies Chev, his eyes wide, his face the pale gray of mist—to my left lies the hasty, random pile of stones you and I gathered. I stretch out my left arm and my fingers coil around the perfect one—a heavy rock three times the size of my fist. I grasp it awkwardly, its sharp edges digging into my palm, as I thrust myself onto my back.