Please, I beg the winds, give us the strength to end this.
“Os got the warning,” my mother announces, stroking her newly returned crow. “And the other birds are finishing up their rounds.”
“I guess that means it’s time to do this, right?” Vane asks, tightening his grip on my hand. “You sure you’re up for it?”
“I have to be. We need an Easterly.”
He leans closer, whispering only for me to hear. “But I need you more. We could use your mother—”
I shake my head. “I don’t trust her. Besides, I’m staying with you.”
“Will you two please remember that there are people with eyes here, having to watch this sugary mushiness?” Aston interrupts.
Vane shoots him a glare—but Aston’s right.
Still, I feel myself twining my fingers tighter with Vane’s. “Okay, we’ll give the command on three. And then—depending on what happens—we’ll charge into battle. Ready?”
I wait for each of them to nod.
Vane agrees first.
Then Solana.
“Oh, why not?” Aston tells me.
“One,” I count. “Two.”
I steal an extra breath before I call, “Three!”
In perfect harmony, we all shout, “Scorch!” in our native languages.
The winds double their span, blasting the four of us backward. We skid across the ground as the winds swirl so fast they tear off chunks of rock and pulverize them.
The battle goes quiet as the Stormers halt to stare.
“Is that how this is supposed to work?” Vane asks as the funnel stretches higher and higher. “I thought it was going to, y’know, move.”
“It’s heating up,” Aston says. “Ever rub a stick between your palms and watch the friction spark?”
The air does seem to be getting hotter.
And hotter.
And hotter.
“Maybe we should back up,” Vane says.
But there isn’t far to go. The hill slopes down on one side, and butts us up against the spire of rock on the other.
“EVERYONE COVER YOUR MOUTHS!” Aston shouts, and I bury my face in my hands as the storm blasts into a cyclone and swirls toward the battlefield.
The simoom stretches wider with every second, gouging the earth as it moves, smashing it into silt and fanning it through the sky until the air is so thick I can barely see my hands. The grit burns my eyes and throat, and I wish we’d been smart enough to tear strips of fabric from our jackets and make face masks.
Someone grabs my hand and I scream—then choke on the dust.
“It’s okay,” Vane shouts, pulling me to my feet.
We stumble toward the others, all of us coughing so hard it nearly knocks us over.
“This storm will burn out in a few minutes,” Aston rasps. “So we should start making our way down. We’ll want to hit them when they’re scrambling to regroup.”
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.