The Bone Wall (38 page)

“We’re too late,” Cullan whispers at my side.

“No, the wall still stands.” I close my eyes and rest my check on the dirt and rock, swallowing a strangled breath, attempting to calm my racing heart and queasy belly. I know who’s out there: River Walkers, Two Timbers, Black Dogs, The Clan, and Brothers of the Scar, the Biters who rallied when Heaven fell. All would share in the murder and rape, the slaves and doves, though this Garden is the Clan’s to loot.

“Rimma?” The colonel gently touches my shoulder. “You have to look before we ride back.”

With a nod, I lift my face from the earth and gaze into the gathering night and flare of distant fires.

“How many People?” he asks. “Two hundred?”

“A thousand, Cullan. There are four gates, each guarded against escape. And you can’t judge numbers by the flames. Biters don’t require fire to cook, and the air is warm enough to forgo additional heat. Those larger blazes are for celebration—forty, fifty men and women around each. That’s….”

“Six hundred,” he finishes the count.

“Add the children,” I remind him. “That’s a thousand.”

“How many in the Garden?”

“Exactly two thousand. About a third men, a third women, the rest children.”

“Will they fight alongside us?”

The palms of my hands press on my eyelids. “I don’t know.”

“Rimma?”

“I don’t know,” I snap, facing him. “I don’t know them. I know the Biters, Colonel. Hundreds of them are from the Gardens, people from Heaven I know by name; many are children. There are Touched down there who saved my life, who wouldn’t hurt one of these fucking bugs.” I slap my arm, furious as he grimaces at me. I lower my voice. “Shit, Cullan. For all I know, my mother’s down there.”

The man blinks at me and rubs his scarred cheek. With a cant of his head, he informs me it’s time to go. Night has scoured dusk down to a jade smear on the western horizon. I crawl backwards, stagger down the slope, and ride.

Back at our camp, we strategize. Angel stares, horrified. Her eyes chisel into me, unspoken accusations flaying my soul. I scarcely understand what’s happening. Every shred of resolve escapes me; every fiber of my body seeks to run, to flee an impossible choice.

Cullan briefly glances my way before summarizing the plan for his officers. “We surround them tomorrow, two companies at each gate. When we’re in position, the horn at the farthest gate will sound our attack. Just as we always do, slay the Touched first, and then kill all those who resist. Our goal is Sanctuary. But as far as we know, among the People we’ll find some who were captured from other Gardens. I suspect many will welcome our efforts. Take prisoners and we’ll sort it out when the battle’s over. Any questions?”

“Colonel, what about Sanctuary?”

“We revert to our original plan,” Cullan replies. “Unless something unexpected happens, which it undoubtedly will. Any other questions?”

“When do we head out?”

“As soon as it’s light enough to see our feet.”

My head swimming, I retreat from the firelight with my gear, hiding in a cottonwood’s shadow to think—or stop thinking—to force down the panic trembling in my hands. A whetstone in one fist, I needlessly sharpen the razor edge of my curved knife, the steady scrape counting time, slowing my heartbeat. Angel finds me, as I knew she would.

“You sanctioned this mission,” I remind her before she opens her angry mouth. “Let’s pass around the blame, shall we?”

She staggers as if slapped across the cheek. “To save, not to murder,” she snaps, quivering with fury. “Tell Cullan that we should leave here, Rimma. We can’t annihilate five packs. Almost half are children; there are women we know, men who’ve done nothing to harm us. This is deceivers’ evil, ancient evil. We have to make other choices.”

“What other choices?” I ask her, my knife grating over the stone.

“To open our eyes and end this blind righteousness,” she cries, her tears glistening. “To stop justifying destruction. To finally cease breaking the world.”

“You suggest we walk away and leave Sanctuary to its fate?” The scraping stops as I pause for an answer that fails to come. “How many of us survived the River Walkers?”

Her shoulders slump as a sob gasps from her chest. When she doesn’t reply, I press on, “I’ll tell you, Angel, one hundred eighteen. Multiply that by five packs for a total of, maybe, six hundred—out of two thousand.”

My steady rasp resumes as Angel sinks mutely to the dirt, her legs folding, forehead resting on her knees. “We can’t keep adding bones to the walls,” she pleads.

“Who’s down there among the fires?” I ask. “Slaves from Retreat? Women from Utopia forced to open their legs to any Biter who demands it? Children of Paradise being raised by the Black Dogs that slew their parents?”

“The Fortress does the same,” she argues.

“That doesn’t make it right, Angel. You think I don’t see that?” My hands drop as I shut my eyes. She might answer “yes,” and she wouldn’t be far from wrong, her sister so utterly blind. Do I perceive with any more clarity now as I grope in the dark? Will my actions be any different? My answer is “no.” I’ll sneak down toward the west gate with one-hundred-fifty men and when the signal blares, I’ll kill as I always do.

“What about the Touched?” she asks in a choked whisper.

“If they don’t kneel in surrender, I’ll kill them,” I reply, admiring the deadly glint of my knife.

**

A hint of sun recoils behind an ominous bank of iron clouds. Overhead, stars still twinkle, oblivious to the approaching storm. The wind smells of turmoil, of wetness. My crossbow slung on my back, knives sheathed, I leave Angel behind at the camp without a farewell. I’ve no room for sentiment, no place for soft words and whispered cares. The lock on my heart lacks a key; it will require a sledge to break open. I choose the lesser evil perhaps, but evil nonetheless. There’s no escape for me.

So far south, the Biters don’t expect us. Amassed, the packs outnumber any threat and so their precautions are weak, almost nonexistent. The open land alone works to their advantage as we can only slink so close. I’m in position outside the west gate, storm clouds slow in coming, the world a spinning top on the verge of wobbling. Time decides to crawl while we wait for our soldiers to reach the farther southern gate.

Once the Black Dogs pressed the descendants of Paradise against Heaven’s wall, offering a bleak choice—die by our slings and arrows and magic fire, or fling your bodies against God’s shield and incinerate yourselves. Perhaps there was also a third choice, surrender and join. Yet, who could fathom such a possibility amidst horrifying fear and chaos?

Now, we will drive the packs against the wall of Sanctuary, offering the identical choices. Might they kneel and join us? Do they even know it’s an option?

“I hate this fucking waiting,” Zane complains. Beside me, he slouches back on his elbows, his black mop of hair shading the blue, lunatic eyes.

“How long?” Peeps asks. On his first rotation, the skinny mason’s apprentice fidgets with no idea what’s ahead.

“How the fuck do I know?” Zane replies, spitting a wad of phlegm into the sand. “As long as it takes.”

“Can’t say,” Scout says, studying the storm clouds. “But I’d rather sit here doin’ nothing than what’s comin’.”

Never one for words, Dagan nods thoughtfully as he cleans his nails with his knife.

“Not much longer,” I offer. “Midday.”

“When it fucking starts raining,” Zane mutters. “Fucking weather.”

The shield wall pops and hisses, a cascade of azure light rippling over its surface, delicate fractures, for a brief instant, webbing the surface in a spidery lace. The light blinks off, hums, and then the faint sheen of immense power snaps back on. Little time remains for Sanctuary’s descendants.

“Shit,” Peeps whispers.

“You ain’t
seen
shit,” Zane chuckles.

Not far from us, Major Javlan rests on one knee in the scrub with his captains, drawing diagrams in the dirt with a stick, formulating a useless plan. Gideon, Khiry, and Flint look on, nodding for the sake of agreement. We all know what’s next, bloody chaos. The captains disperse, seeking lieutenants who pass orders down to sergeants who gather us so we can nod respectfully and then do what needs doing.

Mace squats in front of me, scratching at his stubbly neck, pocked and red with rash. Zane, Dagan, and Scout grimace as he waves over the rest of the squad. Dontae and Cannon, two sandy-haired brothers from my first raid with Dex, lean in to listen, the other men shuffling over in bent crouches.

“We’ve little cover for a sneak attack,” Mace starts off.

“No shit,” Zane adds, earning himself a glare.

“Our best defense is strong offense,” the sergeant continues. “We go in hard, fast, and loud, catch them off their guard.”

“Hard to aim when you’re running and screaming,” Cannon complains, his bow across his knees.

“No shit,” Zane adds with a grin.

“Shut the fuck up, Zane,” Mace orders. “Let me finish.” He claws the rash on his neck and faces the rest of us. “Archers, when you’re in range, drop and take your shots. We do like always, aim for the cripples. We take them out and hope none of us are torched.”

My lips work and I inhale, prepared to speak but scraping for the right words. What would I say? That we should yell for surrender, demand they kneel, be discerning because so many Touched are gentle and kind. So many Biters are simply ordinary people who’ll run from us in terror. It never stopped me before, so why now? A war rages within me, alien thoughts jamming my throat. “We should yell—”

A horn blares in the distance, and before I can finish my words, our horn echoes loudly in my ear, jarring me. The men around me curse and roar, scrambling to their feet, dust flying, weapons poised to kill as they charge like howling demons toward the Biter camp. Bolts of lightning skitter crookedly across the sky, spearing clouds, ripping them apart with a clap of bloodlust. I sprint over the rough ground with a racing heart, wind whipping my hair, bow ready.

Ahead of me, the shield wall sparkles topaz, cracks and sputters. The bone wall heaves from the earth, a reminder of horrors past, a premonition of horrors to come, a warning we refuse to heed. Trapped between, the Biters scream and run, mindless of direction, women clutching children, men leaping for weapons, bellowing and charging to meet us. Ahead of me, Dagan flares, his body pitching forward and rolling, the silent man screaming.

I drop to a knee, scan the camp, and find a man with a staff. My bolt hisses with the thunder and crackle of the wall, skewering him in the throat. The bow cocked and loaded, I shoot a woman in the chest. Cock and load, I aim and press my trigger, targeting the men as our ranks close. Twice more I sink bolts into flesh, and then the charge erupts into a swarming, hacking, screaming mass of killing.

My bow abandoned, I draw my knives and dart forward, lunging through a gap, slashing wildly, speckled with blood as I sprint between the men toward the panicked women. “Kneel,” I yell, running among them. “Kneel!” Suddenly I’m blind, tumbling hard, forehead to the dirt, my knife slicing my hand. One arm folds around my head as I lie in the dust blinking, fingers to my lids, expecting the pressure of a blade stabbing between my ribs.

The roar of battle nears, shouting, grunting, and screaming, metal clanking and clashing. Blood and rain splashes over my arms, and the deathblow doesn’t land. My vision floods with light, the world flashing into focus. Zane hacks at a man on the ground beside me, his black sword hacking like a cleaver as he laughs, blood and gore flying from the pounded wounds.

Lungs heaving, I scramble to my feet. He sees me and grins, blood in his teeth as he points with his chin over my shoulder. Ducking and spinning the spear grazes my arm and stabs at the ground. The Biter towers over me, off balance. I ram my dagger into his groin, again in his gut, his body on top of me, hands on my neck as I sink my blade up under his ribs. He lets go and topples to his knees, hit from behind by a falling man, Peeps with his jaw missing, wide eyes staring at the clouds.

Rain hisses over us, adding to the roar. The shield glitters with blue light beneath the gray veil. A pipe slams into my back, pitching me forward, almost to my knees. I twist, stumbling, the pipe arcing through the rain into my raised arm, snapping the bone. Knocked on my ass, I’m scrambling backwards in the wet clay, whimpering, my blades lost, the pipe sailing up to bash my head, the Biter howling with rage. Then he’s twisting, grunting, eyes wild, Cannon behind him, stabbing, blond hair slick on his head. The pipe clatters to the stones. Then Cannon’s head cracks forward, the back of his skull smashed in by an ax.

The woman wielding the ax stares at me with almond eyes, bewildered, as I scream for her to kneel. I’m scrambling to my feet, my arm in wild pain, desperation flaring in my skin. It’s Sarai, the woman from Utopia who first told me how to survive among the Biters. “Kneel,” I howl at her, bloodied and stumbling toward her, grabbing the pipe from the squelching mud. “Kneel!” I roar like a mad woman. She raises the ax, backing away, and Zane runs her through. The ax drops, her eyes wide as her fingers fumble with the blade jutting from her stomach. Her mouth opens to scream, blood bubbling up in a red vomit, spewing over her chest. The sword tip vanishes and she sinks to the red dirt.