The Skylighter (The Keepers' Chronicles Book 2) (31 page)

Críquete reached into the coffin and raised Leão’s head a bit, tipping it back so his mouth hung open. “If you rub his throat, his body will swallow on its own. That might help.”

Pira didn’t say anything but did as the Seer suggested. Sure enough, the water she’d managed to get into his mouth disappeared down his throat.

“He seems like a nice boy,” Críquete said, looking into Leão’s face. “I would have chosen someone like this for my daughter. Alas, it was not meant to be.”

“Your daughter? You have a daughter?”

“Of course. You’ve met her.”

Pira looked around the camp, wondering if she was one of the many captured girls with dead eyes and listless movements. “Where is she?”

“Not so far now.” Críquete settled Leão’s head back into the box. She pointed to the east, over the hills pockmarked by open-faced mines. “You’ll see her. Soon. A few days.”

“If you say so.”

Críquete nodded, looking into the afternoon sunlight, her gaze blank. “Or I will. One way or another.”

Pira snorted. “Do you ever say anything clear enough to be helpful?”

“I told you to run fast when the opportunity presented itself. But that warning wasn’t enough.” She reached under her skirt and withdrew the long hammer handle. “You forgot this.”

Pira wished her temper and her pride had allowed her to listen to Críquete’s previous warning. She took the handle; one end was cracked, probably why it had been discarded.

“When will I need it?” she asked, gripping it harder, feeling the wood bite through her calluses.

“I don’t know, but you’ll have to keep it hidden.”

“I will.” She placed it into the box next to Leão. No one would search him for a weapon.

Rain turned the trail between the wall and Performers’ Camp treacherous. The few surviving Performers, weak after Jacaré’s and Rafi’s efforts at healing them, stumbled over loose gravel and damp stone.

Yara leaned against Johanna for support. She’d always been a vibrant woman, an eye-catching entertainer, but with her voice broken and her face somber, she seemed a faded version of herself.

“I was making dinner and watching my children try to train our new puppy.” She paused, wiping the tears out of her eyes. “I looked up and saw someone unfamiliar standing at the back of the wagon, and wondered if he was from another troupe or . . . I don’t know.

“I’ve always trusted other Performers without question. Isn’t that silly of me, knowing what I know about the rest of Santarem?” Yara raised her fingers to her throat. “Were we delusional to think that because we were isolated and didn’t involve ourselves in politics, we were safe?”

Johanna didn’t answer that question. Arlo had been steeped in the kingdom’s turmoil, but maybe he’d chosen to spy for King Wilhelm—and to save Johanna’s life—in an effort to keep the gritty fingers of war from reaching into their perfect little valley.

The conversation broiled in her mind and left her stomach bubbling with a sick sense of responsibility. Her fathers, both Arlo and King Wilhelm, had given their lives to protect the things they loved. And now Rafi . . .

She checked the line of Performers following her, and saw Rafi swing the arm of an injured Skylighter over his shoulder. Her heart swooped at the simple, thoughtful action, then plunged to her feet when he caught her looking. His mouth opened as if he was going to call to her, but she couldn’t bear to hear anything he had to say.

Seven days and Rafi would be another body cooling in the ground.

She couldn’t acknowledge him. If she opened her mouth now, she wouldn’t be able to say anything coherent—she’d either rail on him for thinking he could so calmly plan to sacrifice his life, or burst into hysterical tears because he was exactly the kind of person who would give up everything for those he loved.

His eyes were on her back; she could feel the warmth of his stare, trying to thaw the chill that had penetrated to her very soul. Ignoring him, ignoring the comfort he’d try to offer, she marched on.

Two wagons blocked the trail that led into Performers’ Camp. Four Fireswords stood behind the barricade, weapons dangling from their sashes, and the short bows they used for hunting slung across their backs.

“Stop!” a voice shouted from a small gap between the axles. “Don’t come any farther.”

“James, it’s me, Johanna.”

“Prove it.”

“You can see me,” she said, edging closer to the wagons with her hands held out to her sides. She heard Rafi’s voice from somewhere behind her, calling her to stop, but ignored him. “Isn’t that enough?”

“Not after what happened the other night. We let six of our own into camp, and the next morning those six plus twenty others went missing.”

Yara cleared her throat, raising her head to meet James’s grim visage. “James? We’re back. Well . . . some of us.”

James leaped onto one of the driver’s seats, bow pointed at Yara. “I see four . . . five Performers, plus Johanna and two strangers. Where’s Elma? Where’s Didsbury? Wh-where’s . . .” He swallowed and started again. “Where’s Julia?”

Julia.
Johanna wiped her hands on her pants, as if she could wipe away the blood that stained them. Julia was one whose shot Johanna had missed horribly, one that Rafi and Jacaré had tried and failed to save. James had been in love with the young contortionist since they were both in swaddling.

“She’s . . . we’re the only survivors,” Johanna said, struggling with the words.

The arrow swung to point at her. “They’re all
dead
?”

“Yes.”

A flickering, iridescent bubble suddenly surrounded Johanna, and the Fireswords shouted in fear and surprise. James released the arrow and it stuck in the shield at Johanna’s knee level. She hopped back from the point and exchanged a surprised look with James.

Rafi strode through the crowd, blue fire licking up his arms. “We’re not here to hurt you. We’re here to save you. Move aside and let us in.”

Murmurs of “Keeper” and “demon” rolled among the Fireswords.

“Please, Rafi. Stop. Can’t you see they are frightened?” Johanna stepped in front of him, blocking his way. “James! James!” She had to shout to be heard over the men’s frantic arguments. “James, when you were six, you ate a tree frog and it made you sick for days. If it weren’t for that dreadful medicine Elma gave you, you would have died.”

Except now I know the truth. That medicine was a ruse.

The arguing stopped, and the light around Rafi and the shield he’d created to protect Johanna winked out. The wagons rolled aside and James stepped through. “You can come in, Jo. And the rest of the Performers, but everyone else stays out.” His fingers twitched nervously on his sword’s hilt.

“They’ve stayed in Performers’ Camp before.”

“That was
before
, Jo.” James snatched his spent arrow from the ground in front of her feet. “We don’t let anyone in. Not anymore.”

“Go,” Rafi said, nodding toward the camp. “We need their help. You have to convince them to stand against Sapo.”

She knew he was right, but she also knew that recruiting these people might mean leading them to their death.

So much loss, and more to face.

With the death of her brothers, with the invasion of the valley, with the collapse of the barrier, someone had to take on the mantle.

Elma’s prophecy seemed well on its way to becoming true.

Dom crouched in the weeds, watching a man unwind a length of braided fuse. He couldn’t see Belem’s troops through the crush of the forest beyond, but he could hear the tromp of hooves as they approached through the trees.

The salvaged powder had served its purpose. The bridges had collapsed to their foundations, leaving a wrecked mass of wood and stone. Belem’s troops had only two remaining options if they intended to invade: turn north, pass through Cruzamento and enter Santiago by way of Camaçari, or cross the ravine and ford the river, leaving their wagons, siege engines, and ballistae on the far side.

“Lord Dom,” said the breathless fuse man. “It’s ready. I’ll light it on your order.”

“Wait till the first line of horses are in the ravine, but before they start to come up the far side,” Dom commanded.

Belem’s soldiers would be forced to overwhelm Santiago’s with sheer numbers now that they had neither surprise nor superior weapons to their advantage. The newest reports from Maribelle’s relay suggested that the attacking army outnumbered Santiago’s by nearly six to one—significantly more than the original estimate.

The odds wouldn’t have been so alarming if Fernando’s troops hadn’t been mired on the South Road. Even at the horses’ fastest gallop, they wouldn’t reach Santiago before Belem did.

The newly appointed Captain Demian lowered his spyglass. “Two minutes.”

Dom’s heart hammered with the deliberate blows of a blacksmith at his anvil, but he gave a sharp nod. “Go to, Captain.”

“On my mark,” Demian yelled, raising his arm.

A row of infantry, each specially selected for this duty, raised slings overhead. The next row of soldiers loaded half-full wine bottles into the pockets.

Mother Lua,
Dom prayed.
I know I’ve never deserved your blessings, but today I’m begging you to spare my people. Please, Goddess, let this work.

“Hold,” Demian yelled.

The first line of Belem’s troops broke through the trees. Longbowmen, as Dom had suspected, with cavalry pressing between the ranks. The bowmen nocked their arrows and pointed them skyward, to use loft to get distance from their shots.

“Shields!”

Santiago’s infantry created a wall of steel and wood, protecting their bowmens’ torsos and legs, but leaving their heads and arms exposed so they could get a clear return shot.

Terror mixed with the stench of sweat and alcohol. Dom licked his lips, tasting salt on his skin, took a breath, and licked them again, but he didn’t turn or break, eyes focused over the top of his shield.

With a twang and hiss, Belem’s bowmen released their second volley, and the cavalry charged. Shields shifted, blocking most of the arrows, but a voice shrieked in pain somewhere down the line.

“Bows, fire at will,” Demian commanded.

Horses screamed as Belem’s men fell from their mounts. Dom counted the seconds in his head, waiting for the first row of horsemen to disappear into the gully, the second row following close behind. His fingers twitched, wanting to give the sign, but he waited . . . waited . . . waited.

“Now!”

The fuse man dropped his torch onto the pitch-soaked rope, and a speck of flame raced across the wet field.

The first line of cavalry started their ascent up the ravine’s steep side.

Demian looked to Dom before giving the order, “Slings, light! Slings, fire!”

The bottles ranged in color from glistening gold to deep maroon, each with a burning length of bandage trapped under the cork. On another day it might have been a beautiful sight as the glass caught and reflected the light from the sun and their flaming fuses.

Instead it was raining death.

Glass shattered, and the burning
Álcool Fogo
splashed over men and horses. Their cries rent the air, blotting out the crash of breaking glass as the bottles exploded, shards sinking deep into unprotected flesh.

Then the cannon powder went. It hadn’t been enough to fill two barrels, so Dom had spread it out. Four small casks had been packed halfway with powder and filled the rest of the way with metal filings, bits of broken blades, and all the nails the township could spare.

Three lines of Belem’s cavalry were decimated. Only four riders of the first one hundred who tried to pass through the ravine survived, and they were easily picked off by Santiago’s arrows. Horses reared as blood blossomed on their coats, and riders tumbled from their saddles.

The wind shifted, and instead of fear and sweat Dom smelled burning meat. He clenched his jaw shut to stop from heaving all over his troops.

The men around him cheered, almost drowning out a voice calling his name from somewhere deep inside their ranks.

“Dominic!”

Maribelle jumped off her horse and pushed her way to the line of commanders. She waved a piece of paper as she ran.

He broke away from the group and rushed to her. “What are you doing—”

“Camaçari,” she panted. Her black hair was slicked down with sweat. “Small group coming from the north. Already here.”

“What?”

“They were in hiding. On this side of the ravine. Not more than fifty.”

Understanding exploded in Dom’s mind like one of his liquor-filled bottles. “Demian! They’re going to flank us.”

From the corner of his eye Dom spotted the arrows arching through the blue sky, whistling toward them.

“Shields!” Multiple voices took up the shout, but it was too late. The north end of Santiago’s line collapsed, and the screaming started anew.

“Get down!” Dom yelled, hauling Maribelle to the ground beside him. He rolled on top of her, protecting her with his body.

Their faces were a breath apart. Maribelle’s dark eyes widened as her skin went gray with terror.

“Your horse. Where did you leave it?”

Her long lashes fluttered, and she raised her hand as if to touch his face. “D-Dom.” Her tawny skin was stained dark with blood. He sat back, holding Maribelle close. Her other arm was wrapped around her stomach, half covering the arrowhead that protruded from above her right hip.

He froze. He couldn’t think, couldn’t understand, couldn’t
breathe
. The call to fall back sounded, and he didn’t move, staring with a sick fascination at the arrow that had pierced all the way through her body.

“I—I think,” she said, stumbling over the words. “That we could have been good together.”

“Shh. You’re fine, Maribelle.” He wasn’t sure if that was the truth, but it felt like the right thing to say. “It’s not that bad of an injury.”

“Lord Dom!” Someone jostled him, trying to pull him upright. “We must move now.”

Dom slipped his arms under Maribelle’s knees and shoulders and stood. She felt too light in his arms.