Текст книги "Fire Country"

Автор книги: David Estes

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FIRE COUNTRY

A Dwellers Saga Sister Novel

Book One of the Country Saga

David Estes

Published by David Estes at Smashwords

Copyright 2013 David Estes

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Discover other exciting titles by David Estes available through the author’s official website:

http://davidestesbooks.blogspot.com

or through select online retailers.

Young-Adult Books by David Estes

The Dwellers Saga:

Book One—The Moon Dwellers

Book Two—The Star Dwellers

Book Three—The Sun Dwellers

Book Four—The Earth Dwellers (Coming September 2013!)

The Country Saga by David Estes (A Dwellers sister series):

Book One—Fire Country

Book Two—Ice Country (coming April 5, 2013!)

Book Three—Water & Storm Country (coming June 7, 2013!)

The Evolution Trilogy:

Book One—Angel Evolution

Book Two—Demon Evolution

Book Three—Archangel Evolution

Children’s Books by David Estes

The Nikki Powergloves Adventures:

Nikki Powergloves– A Hero is Born

Nikki Powergloves and the Power Council

Nikki Powergloves and the Power Trappers

Nikki Powergloves and the Great Adventure

Nikki Powergloves vs. the Power Outlaws (Coming in 2013!)

This book is dedicated to my wife, Adele.

Without her, I’d still be in a cubicle.

THE LAW

*****

In its original form, as approved by the Greynote Council

Article 56

A Bearer shall, upon reaching the appropriate age of sixteen years old, be Called to a man, no younger than eighteen years old, to Bear children, immediately and every three years thereafter.

This is THE LAW.

Chapter One

When I’m sixteen and reach the midpoint of my life, I’ll have my first child. Not ’cause I want to, or ’cause I made a silly decision with a strapping young boy after sneaking a few sips of my father’s fire juice, but ’cause I must. It’s the Law of my people, the Heaters; a Law that’s kept us alive and thriving for many years. A Law I fear.

I learned all about the ways of the world when I turned seven: the bleeding time, what I would hafta do with a man when I turned sixteen, and how the baby—my baby—would grow inside me for nine full moons. Even though it all seemed like a hundred years distant at the time, I cried for two days. Now that it’s less’n a year away, I’m too scared to cry.

Veeva told me all ’bout the pain. She’s seventeen, and her baby’s five full moons old and “uglier’n one of the hairy ol’ warts on the Medicine Man’s feet.” Or at least that’s how she describes Polk. Me, I think he’s sorta cute, in a scrunched up, fat-cheeked kind of way. Well, anyway, she said to me, “Siena, you never felt pain so burnin’ fierce. I screamed and screamed…and then screamed some more. And then this ugly tug of a baby comes out all red-faced and oozy. And now I’m stuck with it.” I didn’t remind her Polk’s a him not an it.

I already knew about her screaming. Everyone in the village knew about Veeva’s screaming. She sounded like a three ton tug stuck in a bog hole. Veeva’s always cursing, too, throwing around words like burnin’ and searin’ and blaze—words that’d draw my father’s hand across my face like lightning if I ever let them slip out of my mouth like they’re nothing more’n common language.

In any case, everything she tells me about turning sixteen just makes me wish I didn’t hafta get older, could stay fifteen for the next seventeen or so years, until the Fire takes me.

It’s not fair, really, that boys get to wait until they’re eighteen ’fore their names get put in the Call. I’d kill for an extra two years of no baby.

Veeva told me something else, too, something they didn’t teach us when I was seven. She told me the only good part of it all was when she got to lie with her Call, a guy named Grunt, who everyone thinks is a bit of a shanker. I’ve personally never seen him do a lick of work, and he’s always coming up with some excuse or another to avoid the tug hunts. Well, Veeva told me that he makes up for all of that in the tent. Most of what she told me made my stomach curl, but she swore on the sun goddess that it was the best day of her life. To her, shanky ol’ Grunt is a real stallion.

But even if there was something good about turning sixteen, there’s still no guy in the village that I’d want to be my Call. I mean, most of them are so old and crusty, well on their ways to thirty, and even the youngest eligible men—the eighteen-year-olds—include guys like Grunt, who’ll also be eligible for my Call ’cause Veeva hasta wait another two years ’fore she can get child-big again. No matter how much of a stallion Veeva claims Grunt is, I don’t wanna get close enough to him to even smell his fire-juice-reekin’ breath, much less lie with him in a tent.

“Siena!” a voice whispers in my ear.

I flinch, startled to hear my name, snapping away from my thoughts like a dung beetle scurrying from a scorpion. Laughter crowds around me and I cringe. Not again. My daydreaming’s likely cost me another day on Shovel Duty, which we like to call Blaze Craze when our parents ain’t listening.

“Youngling Siena,” Teacher Mas says, “I asked you a question. Will you please grace us with an answer?” One of the only good things about turning sixteen’ll be not getting called “Youngling” anymore.

I feel twenty sets of eyes on me, and suddenly a speck of durt on my tugskin moccasins catches my attention. “Can you please repeat the question, Teacher?” I mumble to my feet, trying to sound as respectful as possible.

“Repeating the question will result in Shovel Duty, Siena, which will bring your total to four days, I believe.”

I stare at my feet, lips closed. I wonder if Teacher not repeating the question is an option, but I’m smart enough not to ask.

“The question I asked you was: What is the average life expectancy for a male in fire country?”

Stupid, stupid, stupid. It’s a question that any four-year-old Totter with half a brain could answer. It’s blaze that’s been shoveled into all our heads for the last eleven years. “Thirty years old,” I say, finally looking up. I keep my eyes trained forward, on Teacher Mas, ignoring the stares and the whispers from the other Younglings.

Teacher’s black hair is twisted into two braids, one on either side, hanging in front of his ears. His eyes are dark and slitted and although I can’t tell whether he’s looking at me, I know he is. “And females?” he asks.

“Thirty two,” I answer without hesitation. I take a deep breath and hold it, still feeling the stares and smirks on me, hoping Teacher’ll move on to someone else. The fierceness of the fiery noonday sun presses down on my forehead so hard it squeezes sweat out of my pores and into my eyes. It’s days like this I wish the Learning house had a roof, and not just three wobbly walls made from the logs of some tree the Greynotes, the elders of our village, bartered from the Icers, who are our closest neighbors. I blink rapidly, flinching when the perspiration burns my eyes like acid. Someone laughs, but I don’t know who.

Teacher speaks. “I ask you this not to test your knowledge, for clearly every Youngling in fire country knows this, but to ensure your understanding as to our ways, our traditions, our Laws.” Thankfully, the heads turn back to Teacher and I can let out the breath I been holding.

“Nice one, Sie,” Circ hisses from beside me.

I glance toward him, eyes narrowed. “You coulda helped me out,” I whisper back.

His deeply tanned face, darker’n-dark brown eyes, and bronzed lips are full of amusement. I hear what the other Younglings say about him: he’s the smokiest guy in the whole village. “I tried to, dreamer. It took me four tries to get your attention.”

Teacher Mas drones on. “Living in a world where each breath we take slowly kills us, where the Glass people kill us with their chariots of fire, where the Killers crave our blood, our flesh, where our neighbors, the people of ice country, are bound tenuously by a flimsy trade agreement, requires discipline, order, commitment. Each of you took a pledge when you turned twelve to uphold this order, to obey the Laws of our people. The Laws of fire country.”

Ugh—I’ve heard this all ’fore, so many times that if I hear one more mention of the Laws of fire country, I think I might scream. Nothing against them or anything, considering they were created to help us all survive, but ’tween my father and the Teachers, I’ve had enough of it.

Watching Teacher, I risk another whisper to Circ. “You coulda told me what question he asked.”

“Teacher would’ve heard—and then we’d both be on Blaze Craze.”

He’s right, not that I’ll admit it. Teacher doesn’t miss much. At least not with me. In the last full moon alone, I been caught daydreaming four times. Wait till my father finds out.

“The Wild Ones steal more and more of our precious daughters with each new season.” Teacher’s words catch my attention. The Wild Ones. I’ve never heard Teacher talk about them ’fore. In fact, I’ve never heard anyone talk about them, ’cept for us Younglings, with our rumors and gossip—not openly anyway. My head spins as I grapple with his words and my thoughts. The Wild Ones. My sister. The Wild Ones. Skye. Wild. Sis.

“It is obvious I have captured the attention of many of you Younglings,” Teacher continues. “It’s good to know I can still do that after all these years.” He laughs softly to himself. “Surely you have all heard rumors of the Wild Ones, descending on our village during the Call, snatching our new Bearers from our huts, our tents, and our campfires.” He pauses, looks around, his eyes lingering on mine. “Well, I’m here today to confirm that some of the rumors are true.”

I knew it, I think. My sister didn’t run away like everyone said. She was taken, against her will, to join the group of feral women who are wreaking havoc across fire country. The Wild Ones do exist.

“We hafta do something,” I accidentally say out loud, my thoughts spilling from my lips like intestines from a gutted tug’s stomach.

Once more, the room turns toward me, and I find myself investigating an odd-shaped rock on the dusty ground. Hawk, a thick-headed guy with more muscles’n brains, says, “What are you gonna do, Scrawny? You can’t even carry a full wash bucket.” My cheeks burn as I continue to study the rock, which sorta looks like a fist. In my peripheral vision, I see Circ give him a death stare.

“Watch it, Hawk,” Teacher says, “or you’ll earn your own shovel. In fact, Siena’s right.” I’m so shocked by his words that I forget about the rock and Hawk, and look up.

“I am?” I say, sinking further into the pit of stupidity I been digging all morning.

“Don’t sound so surprised, Siena. We all have a part to play in turning this around. We must be vigilant, must not allow ourselves even a speck of doubt that maintaining the traditions of our fathers is not the best thing for us.”

“I think the Wilds sound pretty smoky,” Hawk says from the back. There are a few giggles from some of the more shilty girls, and two of Hawk’s mates slap him on the back like he’s just made the joke of the year.

“What do we do, Teacher?” Farla, a soft-spoken girl, asks earnestly.

Teacher nods. “Now you’re asking the right questions. Two things: First, if you hear anything—anything at all—about the Wild Ones, tell your fathers; and second—”

“What about our mothers?” someone asks, interrupting.

“Excuse me?” Teacher Mas says, peering over the tops of the cross-legged Younglings to find the asker of the question.

“The mothers? You said to tell our fathers if we hear anything about the Wilds. Shouldn’t we tell our mothers, too?”

I look around to find who spoke. Lara. I shoulda known. She’s always stirring the kettle, both during Learning and Social time, with her radical ideas. She’s always saying crazy things about what girls should be allowed to do, like hunt and play feetball. My father’s always said she’s one to watch, whatever that means. I, for one, kinda like her. At least she’s never made fun of me, like most of t’others.

Her black hair is short, like a boy’s, buzzed almost to the scalp. Appalling. How she obtained her father’s permission for such a haircut is beyond me. But at least she’s not a shilt, like so many of the other girls who sneak behind the border tents and swap spit with whichever Youngling they think is the smokiest—although at least they’re not following the Law blindly either. I’ve always admired Lara’s blaze-on-me-and-I’ll-blaze-on-you attitude, although I’d never admit it for fear of my father finding out. He’d break out his favorite leather snapper for sure, the one that left the scars on my back when I was thirteen and thought skipping Learning to watch the Hunters sounded like a good idea.

“Tell your fathers first, and they can tell your mothers,” Teacher says quickly. “Where was I? Oh yes, the second thing you can do. If the Wilds, I mean the Wild Ones, approach you, try to convince you to leave, whisper their lies in your ear, resist them. Close your ears to them and run away, screaming your head off. That’s the best thing you can do.”

Pondering Teacher’s words, I look up at the sky, so big and red and monster-like, full of yellow-gray clouds as its claws, creeping down the horizon in streaks, practically scraping against the desert floor. And a single eye, blazing with fire—the eye of the sun goddess. It’s no wonder they call this place fire country.

Chapter Two

Circ agrees to meet me later on, when it’s time to take my punishment for daydreaming in class. But frst, I want to go let my frustrations out to Veeva, who’ll understand them better’n most.

I cringe when I hear an eardrum-shattering scream from inside her tent. Her baby’s got a set of lungs on him alright.

When I push through the tentflap, Veeva’s all in a tizzy, muttering under her breath, rushing about, her hair a mess of curls around her face. She looks like she’s about to scream, too. All I know is if she does, I’m making a run for it.

She shoots me a look when I enter, but doesn’t stop her frantic rushing. “Searin’ Polk’s been burnin’ tossin’ his nuggets all day. He’ll eat everythin’ I got”—as if to illustrate, she stops, shaking her ample breasts wildly—“and more, but then he chucks it all back up no more’n five moments later. Ohhh, yer in fer a real treat, Sie, just wait till it’s yer turn. We can laugh all the way to the wooloo-hut together!”

’Fore I can respond, Polk lets out another shriek that’d shatter the glass windows in my family’s hut. “Shut that vomit-hole of yers, Polk!” Veeva shouts, which only serves to enhance the volume of the squirming baby’s cry.

“Lemme take him,” I say, dodging puddles of barf to grab Polk, who’s rolling around on a tugskin blanket. “You clean up the mess.”

Veeva’s shoulders drop, and she gives me a grateful half-smile. “Yer one of the good ones, Sie,” she says, tucking a blanket between Polk’s mouth and me. A precaution against the barfing. Maybe I shouldn’t’ve been so quick to scoop the little bugger up.

Veev goes about mopping up the floor, talking a mile a second. “Ya know, kid,” she says, even though she’s only a year and a half older’n me, “’sides gettin’ to lie every night with my man…” She pauses, looks up at me, licking her lips.

“Eww, gross, Vee!” I exclaim. Polk’s surprisingly quiet, staring up at me with big eyes that would almost be cute if he weren’t such a little vomit-sprayer.

“What? I ain’t gonna lie. Grunt may not look it, but he gits a scorch of a lot smokier when the sun goddess goes to sleep.”

I shake my head as a mental image of Grunt’s fat belly bounces across my mind. “Agh, too much information, Vee!”

Veeva laughs, goes back to her cleaning. “Well, it’s true. Anyway, ’sides the fun parts, this whole baby-makin’ business ain’t as fun as it sounds.” I’m not sure when it ever sounded fun, but ignore it and let her continue. “Gettin’ waked up in the middle of the burnin’ night, havin’ to change his bundle, havin’ to feed ’im, havin’ to figure out what the scorch he wants when nothin’ seems to work.”

Ugh. Even with what Veev calls “the fun parts,” the whole thing sounds like a whole lot of work. I still got half a year, I remind myself, trying not to think about how things’ll change when I’m a Bearer.

~~~

“Why would the Wilds whisper lies in my ear if they’re going to kidnap me anyway?” I ask Circ the first chance I get after leaving Veev’s tent. My voice sounds funny ’cause I’ve pinched my nose shut with my finger and thumb.

Circ laughs at my voice, and then says, “They’re not going to kidnap you, Sie.” I snort, ’cause his voice sounds even funnier with his nostrils clamped tight. My fingers come off my nose for a second and I get a whiff of the blaze pit that sits a stone’s throw to the side. Screwing up my face, I pinch harder, until it hurts. A little pain is better’n the smell.

“I don’t mean me me. I mean hypothetically speaking. If the Wilds were to try to kidnap me”—I look at Circ, trying not to laugh at the sight of his squashed nose—“or any other Youngling girl, why wouldn’t they just grab her from behind, put a hand over her mouth, and carry her away in a tugskin sack?”

“Maybe they’re all out of tugskin?” Circ says, cracking up and losing the grip on his nose. He sticks out his tongue as the foul odor sneaks up his nostrils. The tips of his moccasin-covered feet are touching mine as we sit cross-legged across from each other. We’ve sat this way since we were Totters.

“C’mon,” I say, clutching my stomach, “I’m being serious.” The only problem: it’s hard to be serious when I can’t stop laughing.

“I don’t know, Sie, maybe it’s easier if they can convince you to come with them, rather than having to haul your tiny butt away with you kicking and screaming.”

It’s a good point, but still…

“Something just doesn’t smell right,” I say, and we both crack up, but then just as quickly fall over gagging from the thick, putrid latrine air.

“Let’s get this over with, then we can talk,” Circ says, covering his mouth and nose with a hand.

I smile behind my own hand. “Thanks for helping me with Blaze Craze,” I say.

“Just promise me you’ll stop daydreaming in class. I don’t ever want to have to do this again.” He plucks his moccasins off with his spare hand, one at a time, and then pulls his thin white shirt over his head. I’ve seen him shirtless a thousand times, from Totter to Midder to Youngling, but this time I force myself to look closer, ’cause of what all t’other Youngling girls are saying about him. Circ is so smoky. What I wouldn’t give for five seconds with Circ behind the border tents. You’re close with Circ, aren’t you, Siena? Could you give him a message for me? Of course I say I will, but I never do. If they don’t have the guts to say whatever they want to right to his face, then they’re not good enough for him. Plus, the thought of Circ behind the border tents with some shilty Youngling makes me a bit queasy.

Anyway, I try to see Circ from their perspective, just this once. To call his skin sun-kissed would be the understatement of the year, like calling a tug “Sorta big,” or a Killer “Kinda dangerous.” It’s like the sun is infused in the very pigment of his skin, leaving him golden brown and radiant. He’s strong, too. Almost as strong as iron, his stomach flat and hard, his chest and arms cut like stone. But he’s always been this way, hasn’t he? Still staring at his torso, present-day Circ fades from my vision and is replaced with images of him growing up. Circ as a Totter, five-years-old, small and a bit pudgy in his stomach, arms and face; Circ turning eight and becoming a Midder, less chubby but still awkward-looking, with too-long arms and legs; Circ at twelve, a full-fledged Youngling, much taller and skinnier’n a tent pole, not a bulge of muscle anywhere on him.

The images fade and Circ stares at me. “What?” he says.

“Uh, nothing,” I say, shaking my head and wondering when Circ became so smoky. It’s weird how when you’re around somebody so much you don’t seem to notice the changes in them. It’s like with every passing year he’s become more’n more capable, while I stay just as useless as ever. He’s good at everything, from hunting to feetball to Learning. And all I’m good at is daydreaming and getting in trouble. He’s smoky, and as my nickname suggests, I’m Scrawny.

“You were daydreaming again, weren’t you?” His words are accusing but his tone and expression are as light as the brambleweeds that tumble and bounce across the desert.

“You caught me,” I mumble through my hand.

I see his grin creep around the edges of his fingers. He stands up and offers a hand. “Care to shovel some blaze with me, my lady?”

Despite my self-pitying thoughts, he manages to cheer me up, and I take his hand, laughing. He pulls me up, hands me a shovel. While I carry my shovel, Circ wheels a pushbarrow, and we follow our noses toward the stench, which becomes more’n more unbearable with each step. You’ve done this ’fore, I remind myself. You just hafta get used to the smell again.

If the smell is bad, the heat is unbearable. Although the heart of the summer is four full moons distant, you couldn’t tell it by the weather. The air is as thick as ’zard soup, full of so much moisture that your skin bleeds sweat the moment you step from the shade, as if you’ve just taken a dip in the watering hole. All around us is flat, sandy desert, which radiates the heat like the embers of a dying cook fire. With summer nipping at our heels and winter approaching, almost everything is dead, the long strands of desert wildgrass having been burned away many full moons earlier. A few lonely pricklers continue to thwart death, the usually green, spiky plants turned brown by the sun, but rising stalwart from the desert; we call them the plants of the gods for a reason, bearing milk even in the harshest conditions. Without them, my people might not survive the winter.

We reach the edge of the blaze pit and look down. It’s a real mess, as if no one’s been here to shovel it for many quarter full moons, maybe even a few full moons. It’s gonna be a long afternoon.

“Maybe we can just cover it with durt,” I say hopefully.

Circ gives me a look. “Don’t be such a shanker—you know it’s not full yet.”

“I’m not a shanker!” I protest.

“Well, you sure sound like one,” Circ says, grinning. Now I know he’s trying to get me all riled up.

Determined to prove him wrong, I roll up my dress and tie it off at the side, and then clamber down the side of the pit, feeling the blaze squish under the tread of my bare feet. Gross. Some even slips between my toes. Cockroaches scuttle out of my path. The smell is all around me now, a brownish haze rising up as the collective crap of our entire village cooks under the watchful eye of the hot afternoon sun. Not a pleasant sight.

Gritting my teeth, I start shoveling. The goal is to even it out, move the blaze that’s around the edges to the center. You see, people come and dump their family’s blaze into this pit, but they’re sure as scorch not gonna wade down into the muck and unload it in a good spot; no, they’re gonna just run up to the pit as fast as they can, dump their dung around the edges and then take off lickety-split. That causes a problem: the blaze keeps on piling up around the edge, usually the edge of the pit closest to the border tents, until the pit is overflowing despite not being even close to full. Then a lucky shanker like me—not that I’m the least bit shanky—gets punished, and hasta use a shovel and old-fashioned sweat and grit to move the blaze around. Or if the pit is full, you get to cover it with durt so people can start using the next one. That’s what I was hoping for earlier.

Anyway, I get right into it, heaping the scoop of my shovel full of stinky muck and tossing it as far toward the center as I can get it. Some of it splatters my clothes, but that’s inevitable, so I don’t give it another thought. Clothes can be cleaned, but the job’s not gonna get done without us doing it.

A moment later Circ’s beside me, and within two scoops, his bare chest is glistening with a thin sheen of sweat that reflects the light into my eyes like thousands of sparkling diamonds. Every once in a while, one of us gags, our throats instinctively closing up to prevent any more of the blaze haze from penetrating our lungs. Can a person die of excessive blaze fume inhalation? With three more Shovel Duty afternoons to come, I’m certainly gonna put that question to the test.

Scoop, shovel, gag, repeat.

It goes on like that for a while, neither of us talking, not ’cause we don’t want to, but ’cause we can’t without choking. At some point I become immune to the smell, but I know it’s still there, like an invisible force lying in wait for its next victim. My s’posedly nonexistent muscles are all twisted up, as if a hand is inside my skin, grabbing and squeezing and pounding away. Each shovelful gets smaller and smaller, until there’s almost no point in scooping so I stop, try to jab the shovel in the blaze so it stands upright, but I don’t do it hard enough and it just falls over.

Circ stops, too, and looks at me, a smile playing on his lips. “You look like blaze,” he says, full on laughing now. I feel like blaze, too, but I won’t say that.

Instead, I get ready to tell him the same thing, but then I notice: although his legs are spattered and dotted with brown gunk, from the knees up he’s spotless; he’s dripping beads of sweat like the spring rains have come early, but he doesn’t look tired; his tanned arms and chest are machine-like in their perfection. He doesn’t look like blaze at all, so I can’t say it, not without lying, and I won’t lie to Circ.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean—I was just joking around,” Circ says.

My eyes flick to his. How does he know what I’m feeling? Does he know what I see as I look at him, that I see him as perfect? I realize I’m frowning.

“No biggie,” I say, my lips fighting their way against gravity and exhaustion into a pathetic smile. “I was joking, too.”

Circ studies my face for a moment, as if not convinced, but I look away, scan the pit, try to determine our progress. “Ain’t much in it,” I say.

I feel Circ’s stare leave me, like it’s a physical thing touching my cheeks. “We did more than you think. Another thumb of sun movement and we should be nearly there,” Circ says.

Another thumb of sun movement? Ugh. Maybe I’m a shanker—but that long might kill me. I think I make a face ’cause Circ says, “Don’t worry, we’ll do it together. Let’s rest for a while and then we’ll start again.”

Rest: I like the sound of that. There’s nowhere to sit in the pit, unless you want to sit in a big ol’ pile of blaze, so we climb back out, slipping and sliding on the slope. Once I almost fall, but Circ grabs me by the arm and keeps me upright. My head’s down when we near the top and I hear a voice say, “Having fun yet, Scrawny?”

I look up to see three Younglings staring down at me. Hawk’s in the middle.

Stopping, I let Circ pull up alongside me. Caught by surprise, I’m tongue-tied, unable to find the right words to send these blaze-eaters packin’. Circ, on the other hand, always seems ready for anything. “Get the scorch out of here, Hawk. We’re working.”

“Mmm, shovelin’ blaze. And from the looks of it doin’ a pretty grizz-poor job of it.” One of his mates, a guy they call Drag, coughs out a laugh.

“Like you’d know anything about it,” Circ says, taking a step forward.

“You’re right. I dunno a searin’ thing about blaze, other than it comes out from between my cheeks about a day after I eat a load of tug meat. And then you get to shovel it.” He laughs. “But the only thing I don’t understand, is why you’re here, Circ. Wasn’t the punishment for Scrawny?” There’s a gleam in Hawk’s eyes that makes me shiver, despite the oppressive midafternoon heat.

“I don’t abandon my friends,” Circ says calmly, although I see his fingers curl into fists. “And don’t call her that.” Another step forward, just one away from the lip. Hawk’s friends take a step back, but Hawk doesn’t move.

“But that’s what she is, right? I mean, look at her. She’s skinny, not an ounce of muscle on her—”

“Watch it.” Circ’s voice is a growl.

“—she’s got legs that are wobblier than a newborn tug’s—”

“Shut it!”

“—and her chest is flatter than the Cotee Plains.”

Circ moves so fast I almost slip again just watching him. I don’t even see the step or two he takes before he’s on top of Hawk, pounding away with both fists. Hawk’s doing his best to block the blows, but he’s making a strange high-pitched noise that tells me plenty of Circ’s punches are getting through. Drag and the other guy, Looper, seem so stunned at first that they just stand there, but then they finally get their act together and jump on top of Circ, each grabbing one of his arms from behind, pulling him away from Hawk.

Circ struggles, but they’ve got him so tight he can’t get his arms free. I’m frozen, as if the coldness of ice country has suddenly descended from the mountains, gluing my feet to the sludge beneath me.

Hawk stands up.

They’re going to hurt him—

Hawk steps forward, wipes a string of blood from his nose, his mouth all screwed up.

–all ’cause of me—

The first punch is below the belt and Circ groans, doubles over, unable to protect himself.

–I hafta do something.

My feet finally move, come unstuck, as if someone else is controlling them. I’m not Scrawny anymore, not a Runt, not Weak, not any of t’other names I been called my entire life. I’m Siena the Brave, and Circ is my friend, and he needs me.

Hawk sees me coming and moves to cut me off, but he’s too slow. My muscles ache from the shoveling, but I block it out, block everything out, ’cept for getting to the guys holding Circ’s arms; if I can just unloose one of them…

I trip. Maybe on the lip of the blaze pit, maybe on a random rock I don’t notice, maybe on my own feet for all I know—it certainly wouldn’t be the first time—but regardless, I start tumbling headfirst, out of control, my arms and legs flailing and flopping like an injured bird as I try to regain my balance.