My feet moved swiftly toward the stream where the berries grew. Even if I hadn’t made the walk several times with Sivo by my side, my nose and ears could guide me through the press of perpetual blackness. I had learned how to use the wind currents, how to listen and feel the airflow change and alter given the location of objects. The world had its own voice and I listened to it.
I heard the swift burble of the stream before I smelled the crisp water. I risked moving a little faster, knowing that the sound of running water helped mask any sound I inadvertently made.
I stepped from the tree line up to the stream and squatted along the pebbly ground and drank greedily. Icy water dribbled down my chin and throat. I swiped at it with my hand as I sank back on my heels, listening as a fish splashed close to the surface.
Aside from the rain catch we rigged atop the tower, the only water we had was what Sivo carried back in buckets. It was a laborious and dangerous process.
Rising, I dried my hands on my jacket and moved to the boonberry bushes. I flipped open the flap to my satchel and began plucking berries, stuffing a few into my mouth as I worked, letting the dark, tart flavor burst on my tongue. My bag was almost full when I heard the anguished shout. I felt it like a vibration through me.
I ceased to chew. That very human scream was close. My mind raced, mentally mapping the area, seeing so vividly what I couldn’t see in darkness. The stream. The tower. The direction in which the shout originated.
With a sinking sensation, I realized the reason for the shout. It was one of several traps Sivo left out to catch game. Sometimes he caught a dweller and finished it off. One less to plague the land.
I flinched as another agonized shout stretched long over the air. A person was out there and in trouble because of us. My stomach muscles convulsed. I didn’t even know this faceless individual, but I wanted to grab him, shake him, slam a hand over his mouth, and command him to silence. He couldn’t have lived this long and not known the importance of silence. Sivo’s voice whispered through me, ordering me to turn my back and come home.
Listening to that imaginary voice, I dropped the flap on my satchel and turned for the tower, my footfalls just short of a run over the spongy ground.
And then I heard the first dweller.
It was a signal cry, beckoning forth more of its brethren. Long and keening, sharp and discordant as no human could make. The eerie call ground through me like nails on glass. My heart seized and then kicked into a full sprint. Where there was one dweller—
An answering call followed, then two more in fast succession. I counted rapidly in my head. Four dwellers.
Inhaling, I searched for the sound of them, trying to determine how close they were. Weaving through clawing vines and trees, I listened, tasting the air for copper. The blood of the dead always drenched dwellers. They were coming. The air was already thicker with a layer of loam and copper over the forest’s usual odor of rotting vegetation.
I pulled my sword free as I ran, flexing my sweating palm around the aged leather hilt. The wind thinned, the current shifting, blocked by a large object ahead. The tower.
I recognized the slope of the ground beneath my feet as I neared home. I was going to make it. Elation bubbled up inside my chest. The cold hand of fear began to loosen and slip free.
Then another cry came. Longer, plaintive and hungry. Ice shot down my spine. That made five.
I was almost home, but for the person caught in the trap, fear was just beginning.
I stopped a few feet from the hidden door. My chest heaved from my run, blood surging hotly through my veins. Sivo’s and Perla’s voices whispered in my head, urging me to uncover the secret door and dive inside the tunnel so that I survived.
I shook my head. There had to be more to life than hiding and counting the days until your last breath. There had to be more than looking away when someone lost his life. There had to be . . . more.
Adjusting my grip on the hilt of my sword, I turned from the tower and plunged back into the woods.
THREE
Fowler
I FLUNG THE iron trap to the ground with a curse. Bits of Madoc’s flesh stuck in its angry, bloodstained teeth. Dagne whimpered and jerked to the side even though the trap was in no danger of hitting her. She reached out and lightly touched her brother’s arm.
Her huge eyes settled on me. “You can fix it, yes?”
A huff of disbelief escaped me as I squinted down at Madoc’s ruined leg. I couldn’t see much, and not just because of the dark. Blood covered his shin, soaking the shredded fabric of his trouser leg. He would have been better off if the trap had snapped his neck.
“You can carry him, right?” She nodded, as though expecting that I would agree.
Absolutely. I could carry a thirteen-year-old boy and fight off dwellers simultaneously.
I looked up as though I could find a way out of this in the tight canopy of vines and branches overhead. A glimpse of moon winked down between leaves, mocking me.