Deception (32 page)

I should, but any softness that once existed in me has disappeared.

Before either of us can say another word, Quinn runs up to us. “Found the highwaymen’s campsite just west of here. They had two wagons full of supplies.”

“Where are they?” Logan asks.

“Over there.” Quinn points, and I turn to see two new wagons, each pulled by a sturdy-looking horse, resting at the southern edge of the meadow. “One of the wagons has blankets and bedrolls inside. The other is full of weapons, jars of fruit, sacks of jerky, bolts of cloth, and boots. Looks like they’d just come from a successful trading mission. Which makes finding
these
very suspicious.”

He holds out his hand, and we stare at the pile of silver coins spread across his palm. On one side is a bold, raised
C
.

“They traded with Carrington,” I say, and hunch my shoulders as an itch of awareness prickles the hair on the back of my neck. “They’re too close to the northern city-states for a trading mission with the actual city-state of Carrington. Highwaymen don’t travel that far.”

“Which means they most likely traded with the army,” Logan says.

“The army would’ve been fully provisioned before they marched on Baalboden,” Quinn says. “And the highwaymen’s wagons are full, so whatever they traded, it wasn’t food, weapons, or cloth. I don’t like it. I sent Frankie and Thom south to search for signs of anyone else close to us. I have a bad feeling about this. What did the highwaymen have that was valuable enough for the Commander to buy?”

The itch on the back of my neck becomes a terrible need to get out of the open. Get the people into the Wasteland.

Run.

“Information,” Logan says, and he’s already moving. “They traded information about other routes to the northern city-states, and they must’ve done it yesterday, which means the army has had enough time to catch up to us. We’re in trouble. Let’s go.”

A shout goes up from the eastern edge of the meadow. We spin toward the noise and stare as Frankie and Thom thunder out of the forest, their horses galloping at top speed. Frankie locks eyes with us and yells, “Move, move, move! The army is coming!”

“South! Go south! Find the bridge.” Logan waves at Frankie to take the lead, and as the horse races past us, Logan yells to the crowd of survivors who stand frozen in horror, packs on their backs, food in their hands. “Follow Frankie. Men carry the children. Guards, grab your weapons. Get those wagons moving.” When everyone just stares at him for a heartbeat, he screams, “
Run!
”

The crowd breaks. Men grab children and race south into the tree line. Women hike up their skirts and follow. Nola, Jodi, Drake, and Elias climb into wagon seats and slap the reins to get the animals moving. Quinn and Willow run to the highwaymen’s wagons, leap aboard, and reach back to haul slower-moving people into the wagon beds before sending the horses careening into the forest.

“I’m going in the medical wagon,” I say as I run south beside Logan. “I’ll kill anyone who tries to get inside.”

“Be safe,” he says, and leaps for one of the supply wagons.

I’ve nearly reached the wagon when Ian runs up to me. His eyes are lit with a wild light as he grabs my arm.

“This is it. This is our chance. The Commander is in range.”

The medical wagon bounces over a rock, and Sylph’s cry of pain scrapes my heart raw.

“Move,” I say, and try to step around him.

“Rachel, we need the device. We can end this.” His grip hurts my arm.

“Logan has the device, and he’s in another wagon. Go talk to him if you—”

“We had a deal.” Ian’s voice is furious, but I don’t care. The entire field is in chaos, the Commander isn’t in front of us yet, and Sylph needs me. I’m not going to spend the last moments of her life trying to con Logan out of the device when I should be helping get everyone to safety.

I wrench my arm free and shove Ian aside. Before he can say another word, I grab the back of the medical wagon and jump onto the step as our people scramble into the trees while in the distance, a line of Carrington soldiers breaks out of the eastern forest and races toward us.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

LOGAN

T
he meadow quickly empties as wagons and people rush into the trees. I crawl into the back of the supply wagon and focus on my plan as we rumble our way into the forest.

Frankie returns to tell me the bridge is thirty yards away and that people are already crossing it. His horse pants heavily as he gives me his report, and then he wheels south again to shepherd the people in the right direction.

Thirty yards away. Thirty yards of thick trees, rock-strewn ground, and dense underbrush. We’re never going to make it.

We
have
to make it.

The consequences for failure are unthinkable.

I just need to buy us enough time to get every man, woman, child, and wagon over that bridge. I pray the bridge is strong enough to support our weight as we cross. We don’t have any other options.

Jodi is driving the supply wagon I’m in. The wheels bounce over roots and bushes, flinging me to the side, and threatening to toss her off the driver’s bench entirely. She hangs on to the reins with fierce determination as I yank the crates I need out from under the bench. Prying their lids loose, I do a quick count.

Fifteen jars of acid. Sixteen of glycerin.

More than enough to blow up a bridge.

Perfect.

“Stop the wagon!” I call to Jodi, and to her credit, she obeys without hesitation. Scooping up a jar of each substance, I leap from the wagon and wave Thom on when he whips his horse toward me. “Go to the bridge. Get everyone across. I’ll be there soon.”

“If you’re going to face down that army by yourself, you’ll need some help. I’m staying.” His voice brooks no argument, but he isn’t going to sway me.

“Thom, go. I’ll be right behind you, I promise.” A flash of Carrington red winks between the trees. They’re gaining on us. I look around quickly. At least forty people still haven’t managed twenty yards, much less thirty. I meet Thom’s gaze. “Save these people, Thom. I need them out of here or I can’t buy us the time we need. Save them. Please.”

He nods and reaches down to haul a struggling woman onto his horse. As he moves to help others, calling out encouragement and instructions, I turn to face Carrington’s army and find Jodi standing beside me, a jar of acid in one hand and a jar of glycerin in the other.

“Get in the wagon,” I say sharply. “There’ll be flying debris. I need you safe.”

She tightens her grip on the jars and sizes up the soldiers racing toward us. “Do I throw them at the same time?”

“Jodi—”

“At the same time?” Her voice trembles, but her hands are steady, and with the first line of soldiers less than fifteen yards from us, I don’t have time to talk her out of her foolish courage.

“No, throw one and then the other. High and to the left. The jars have to shatter against the same spot on a tree trunk. Choose the biggest tree you can reach.”

She nods, and I take a deep breath. The soldiers are ten yards away. It’s time. “Now!”

I whip my arm back, aim for the right, and throw the jar of glycerin as hard as I can. It arcs up, falls swiftly, and shatters against the trunk of a red maple. I hurl the acid after it, just as Jodi’s second jar slams into the same cypress trunk she’d already coated with glycerin.

The cypress explodes in a shower of splinters, branches, and shards of bark the size of my arm. Seconds later, the maple explodes as well, and both trees topple to the ground. A handful of soldiers are crushed beneath the trunks. Still more are bleeding from gaping wounds to their heads, arms, and legs.

None of those who bleed are injured in their vital organs. The Dragonskin they wear sees to that. Still, the path we cut through the forest has been obliterated, and uninjured soldiers must waste precious seconds running around the debris.

We can’t afford to let those seconds go to waste.

“Drive.” I grab Jodi’s tiny waist and toss her onto the driver’s bench. Then I vault into the wagon bed and scoop up two more jars. As the wagon bounces its way across the forest floor, I brace myself against the wall and watch for my opportunity.

The soldiers are pouring over the debris, stepping on their dead and injured if they must. Already, less than ten yards separate us. “Tell me when we reach the bridge,” I yell to Jodi.

The man closest to the wagon meets my gaze and draws his sword.

I heft my jars.

Four more soldiers hurtle out of the trees, intent on flanking us.

I need a little more time. Just a little more time to get safely onto the bridge.

Five more men close in from the other side. All I see in front of me is a sea of red military jackets and drawn swords.

“Bridge!” Jodi calls back.

“Are there any stragglers?”

Two others join the ranks of those closing in on us. Six yards separate us.

Five.

“All clear,” Jodi says. “We’re the last ones. Should we cross it?”

“Get the wagon onto the bridge and then stop.”

The wagon lurches onto a wooden bridge that lists to the left. The boards are the color of fig pudding and feel slippery and soft beneath the metal wagon wheels. Jodi yanks the reins sharply, and we come to a stop. The bridge sways in a jerky, sickening rhythm that fills my head with visions of my people tumbling to their deaths in the river below.

Carrington’s front line is two yards from the bridge.

From us.

A long, flat rock juts out of the ground in front of the entrance to the bridge. I leap from the wagon, aim, and throw both jars at the same time. They smash against the stone and explode in a shower of glass, dirt, and slivers of rock, leaving a deep crater where the rock used to be. The force of the blast throws me against the wagon, and I dive underneath it as debris rains down. The soldiers closest to the explosion are thrown onto their backs, their skin riddled with cuts. The soldiers behind them now have to climb over the injured and carefully skirt the crater without falling off the sheer face of the drop to the river below.

I’ve bought us all the time I can. It will have to be enough.

“Go,” I say to Jodi as I leap onto the wagon step and peer around the canvas to assess the scene before me.

The bridge is a narrow strip of wooden planks held in place by iron pillars that arch over the top of us like a naked canopy. Rust covers every inch of iron and eats through some of the pillars until the metal curls away from its moorings like it longs to reach the water below. Two wagons are still carefully negotiating the swaying planks. Their wheels bite into the rotting wood, making it sag dangerously. Here and there, a board has snapped in half, leaving gaping holes and forcing the wagons to the far side of the bridge, where they slide precariously close to the edge. At least fifty people still struggle to get across—gripping the rusty pillars, skirting the holes, and in general moving slowly enough that Carrington’s soldiers will run them through with a sword before they ever have to worry about drowning.

“Move!” I scream to them. “Go faster or you’ll die.”

Some of them pick up their pace. Some of them don’t. Their heavy packs, their exhaustion, or sheer, abject terror keep them crawling along the bridge at a snail’s pace.

I’m not going to lose them. Any of them.

We’re one third of the way across. Carrington soldiers are skirting the crater and carefully climbing onto the bridge. I leap from the wagon’s step and reach for the first straggler.

“Get in,” I say, and half scoop, half shove a woman with gray hair and stooped shoulders into the wagon. The next two stragglers get unceremoniously tossed into the wagon as well.

I glance behind me and see a line of red-jacketed soldiers coming for us, walking two abreast. The bridge jerks and shudders beneath their momentum, but they don’t hesitate.

“Faster,” I say to Jodi, and race ahead of her to help a man struggling to carry two toddlers. As soon as the wagon pulls abreast of us, we dump the children inside and the man hurries to pick up a woman who clings to a rusty pillar streaked with black.

I look back. Carrington’s men have reached the one-third mark. We’re now a little more than halfway across. We’re never going to make it.

Hoofbeats slam against the planks, and I turn to see Thom riding toward me, his broad face filled with determination. Instantly, I come to a decision. I’d wanted to toss jars of acid and glycerin out of the back of the wagon as we sped to safety, blowing up a chunk of the bridge in our wake. But there are too many people between me and the other side, and the bridge is already too unstable to risk blowing up any part of it before all of my people are on solid ground again.

Jodi and the man who was carrying the toddlers can get most of the remaining people into the wagon. Thom can shepherd the rest across.

I’ll wait here with my jars and my sword and hold Carrington off as long as possible. If I soak the boards with glycerin, it will only take one jar of acid to destroy this section of the bridge. I’m a strong swimmer. If I don’t get injured by flying debris or crushed by metal pillars, I have a chance to survive this.