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Authors: Jeri Smith-Ready
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steeply sloped ravine. The tracks of Lycas’s team led down a gentle trail to his left, no doubt because of the pack horses, which meant Nilik could make up ground by climbing straight down and up the other side of the ravine. Maybe he’d even catch them before the end of the night. Then on to Velekos, and vengeance.
He clambered down the steep wall, grasping rocks and shrubs to keep from falling into the streambed. By the time he reached the bottom, his knees ached from the strain, and his strength was beginning to ebb. Wolverines weren’t made for climbing, he reminded himself.
The stream was nearly dry, unusual even for this time of year. Everything seemed to be dying. It was as if the presence of the Ilions had made the land lose its will to live.
A short hop took him over the stream, and after a moment to catch his breath, Nilik climbed, letting the memories stoke his strength.
He’d wrangled every detail of Lania’s death out of his uncle, horrors Lycas hadn’t told the rest of the family. The Descendant monsters had strewn parts of her body all around Velekos, displaying them on street corners. At the entrance to her own neighborhood, the Acrosia, the place where the revolution was coming to a boil, her head had been placed on a pike.
Nilik’s foot slipped. His hands scrabbled for a grip but seized only loose soil. He slid several feet before a jutting stone knocked him off balance, backward into nothing.
He yelped, anticipating the bone-crushing impact on the streambed. But as he fell, his body took over, twisting and bending by instinct, then relaxing just before the ground slammed into him.
Nilik stared at the damp soil beneath his face. Nothing hurt. Last month such a fall would have broken his limbs, maybe even killed him.
Kneeling on all fours, struggling for breath, he thought of Lania. No one knew what they’d meant to each other. No one knew how a year ago, on her family’s last visit, they’d stolen three hours alone in the drafty tent of one of his friends. No one knew how Nilik had begged her to stay in Tiros where it was safe, how he’d sworn to marry her after their Bestowings.
He pressed his forehead into the mud. They hadn’t made love, though they’d come close. Now he regretted stopping, regretted his stupid assumption that someday they’d have another chance, another time when he could make it perfect for her.
He thought of the pale, freckled skin on Lania’s shoulders, the gleam in her green eyes as she’d touched him and held him with the urgency of the besieged. The Descendants had carved that skin and extinguished that gleam forever.
Nilik’s fingers dug deep into the soil, and he swallowed a shriek of anguish. They would pay. If it took his last breath, they would pay.
He got to his feet, stretching cautiously, feeling for sprains or wounds from the fall. Nothing. He checked his dagger belt to make sure his weapons were fastened into their sheaths.
As he passed his hand over the hilt of each blade, a surge of power coursed through him. Wolverine had altered more than Nilik’s body. His mind was now calmed only by thoughts of cutting, twisting, ripping. The bloodlust was like a constant tang on the back of his tongue.
This time instead of climbing the rocks, he loped up the path, following the trail of Lycas’s troupe.
Hundreds of steps later, he reached the top of the ravine, panting. He stumbled as he stepped onto the flat land, and he longed to sink down and rest his screaming legs.
“Halt!”
Nilik froze at the sound of the unfamiliar voice from above.
“Put your hands over your head,” the voice boomed. “Now!”
Nilik hesitated. With his new strength, he could take on several Descendant soldiers, but not without his weapons. He raised one hand over his head, while letting the other drift past his dagger belt. His thumb opened the clasp that held his favorite blade, the one Lycas had given him last year, as if he’d known they would someday be
He clambered down the steep wall, grasping rocks and shrubs to keep from falling into the streambed. By the time he reached the bottom, his knees ached from the strain, and his strength was beginning to ebb. Wolverines weren’t made for climbing, he reminded himself.
The stream was nearly dry, unusual even for this time of year. Everything seemed to be dying. It was as if the presence of the Ilions had made the land lose its will to live.
A short hop took him over the stream, and after a moment to catch his breath, Nilik climbed, letting the memories stoke his strength.
He’d wrangled every detail of Lania’s death out of his uncle, horrors Lycas hadn’t told the rest of the family. The Descendant monsters had strewn parts of her body all around Velekos, displaying them on street corners. At the entrance to her own neighborhood, the Acrosia, the place where the revolution was coming to a boil, her head had been placed on a pike.
Nilik’s foot slipped. His hands scrabbled for a grip but seized only loose soil. He slid several feet before a jutting stone knocked him off balance, backward into nothing.
He yelped, anticipating the bone-crushing impact on the streambed. But as he fell, his body took over, twisting and bending by instinct, then relaxing just before the ground slammed into him.
Nilik stared at the damp soil beneath his face. Nothing hurt. Last month such a fall would have broken his limbs, maybe even killed him.
Kneeling on all fours, struggling for breath, he thought of Lania. No one knew what they’d meant to each other. No one knew how a year ago, on her family’s last visit, they’d stolen three hours alone in the drafty tent of one of his friends. No one knew how Nilik had begged her to stay in Tiros where it was safe, how he’d sworn to marry her after their Bestowings.
He pressed his forehead into the mud. They hadn’t made love, though they’d come close. Now he regretted stopping, regretted his stupid assumption that someday they’d have another chance, another time when he could make it perfect for her.
He thought of the pale, freckled skin on Lania’s shoulders, the gleam in her green eyes as she’d touched him and held him with the urgency of the besieged. The Descendants had carved that skin and extinguished that gleam forever.
Nilik’s fingers dug deep into the soil, and he swallowed a shriek of anguish. They would pay. If it took his last breath, they would pay.
He got to his feet, stretching cautiously, feeling for sprains or wounds from the fall. Nothing. He checked his dagger belt to make sure his weapons were fastened into their sheaths.
As he passed his hand over the hilt of each blade, a surge of power coursed through him. Wolverine had altered more than Nilik’s body. His mind was now calmed only by thoughts of cutting, twisting, ripping. The bloodlust was like a constant tang on the back of his tongue.
This time instead of climbing the rocks, he loped up the path, following the trail of Lycas’s troupe.
Hundreds of steps later, he reached the top of the ravine, panting. He stumbled as he stepped onto the flat land, and he longed to sink down and rest his screaming legs.
“Halt!”
Nilik froze at the sound of the unfamiliar voice from above.
“Put your hands over your head,” the voice boomed. “Now!”
Nilik hesitated. With his new strength, he could take on several Descendant soldiers, but not without his weapons. He raised one hand over his head, while letting the other drift past his dagger belt. His thumb opened the clasp that held his favorite blade, the one Lycas had given him last year, as if he’d known they would someday be
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