The Hanging City (96)

I run and run and run, slipping through any cover I can get, ignoring the jagged rocks and thorns that bite at my bare feet. I don’t have time to put on my shoes. I don’t have time to do anything but run, run, run.

My father will be furious. He’ll send men after me.

With luck, I will never have to face them.



I don’t stop running.

My heart burns my blood, my blood burns my muscles, my muscles burn my bones, and the sun burns my skin. I dash through every ditch, descend every hill, wind through every skeletal thicket and tree graveyard I find. I rush toward the Pentalpoint, looping around just in case Terysos, the closest human township, has its own scouts.

The evening is turning blue when I trip, skin my knees, and vomit over gravel and dust. I try to will my body to calm, to preserve its water, but it dry heaves and shudders, like I’m a wet rag wrung.

My stomach takes its time to settle. My muscles skip and twitch as though they’re still running, and my wild, knotted hair sticks to my face. Water. I need water.

Light-headed, I stumble to my feet and look around. This is the place . . . or close to it. Isn’t it? What if I guessed wrong? I can see the faintest indigo line in the north—the distant mountain range. I know this area fairly well. I should be close. And yet I doubt myself.

My hips creak as I stagger forward, searching, pulling sweat-slick hair from my face. My throat feels raw. My feet are shod—I couldn’t keep them bare forever—but they thrum just off beat with my heart, swelling in their confines. The cut on my upper thigh radiates and chafes.

I wander for a quarter hour, every hair on my body standing with each sound, even if it’s just the wind or a rare snake. Stars, what if it’s too late? What if I missed the time? But what else can they expect? No roads lead from here. No signs, no designations. Only the stars, which haven’t yet emerged.

I try to swallow and find I can’t. My tacky tongue sits too large between my teeth.

I see movement to the southwest. Squint, wondering if it’s an illusion. But it shifts against the night in the dying ripples of heat. Whether this is a trollis scout or a human soldier, I have so few options that I drag my feet toward it.

A few minutes pass before I realize it is indeed a trollis, and alone. I raise heavy hands to show I’m unarmed. Exhausted, I stop and wait for him to come to me. He holds a bow and nocked arrow in his hands. He’s the shortest trollis I’ve ever seen, even shorter than Perg. His stout body still looks strong, his skin is the shade of night, and his large ears sit high on his head. I don’t recognize him.

He stops eight paces from me.

I speak first. “Qequan sent you?” I don’t recognize my own voice.

He keeps his distance. “What have you found?”

I lick my lips, though it does no good. “The army is trying to lure trollis out of Cagmar. They want the scouts increased, so they can pick them off. They plan to draw you out for open battle.”

The trollis’s expression doesn’t change a hair. “Doesn’t matter now.”

My back straightens. “Doesn’t matter? Has Cagmar mobilized?” Qequan’s voice echoes in my memory. Mayhap we’ll streamline things and put you on the front lines.

Azmar, please wait for me.

His eyes narrow. “Not for you to know.”

I tell him everything else I found out, which isn’t as much as I thought, once it’s spoken out loud. I detail my father’s map and his army, its supplies, and its weapons.

“I don’t know if they’re merging with another army or not,” I confess.

The trollis frowns. “I’ll pass it along.”

Relief winds past my lips. “How far is the rest of your party?”

“You will not be attending me.”

My gut drops to my feet. “Wh-What do you mean? Qequan promised. I got the information you need.”

He squares his shoulders. “But we do not yet know if it’s true information. My instructions were very clear. The council will reinstate you only if your findings prove correct.”

I gape. Shake my head. Sputter. “B-But where am I to go? I’ve no provisions—” A cough squeezes my throat, and I turn away, but my coughing only emphasizes the scratchiness of my throat. I can’t catch my breath.

Mercifully, begrudgingly, the trollis hands me a half-full waterskin. I take it and suck the liquid down. “Th-Thank you.”

He squirms, as most trollis do when thanked. Handing back the waterskin, I beg, “Please.”

“Go to your humans.” He shrugs, uncaring. “Return when you fulfill your bargain with the council.”

I shake my head. What if my father’s plans change? But I don’t speak it. I don’t want to give this scout any reason to doubt me.

“I can’t. Please.” My tears are made of dust. “I had to flee them to meet you here. They’ll know I’m loyal to Cagmar if I return.”

He stiffens and looks past me. “You were followed.”

Closing my eyes, I shake my head. “No. I-I don’t think so. But I can’t go back.”

He steps away. “Then find shelter, human. If you follow me, I’ll have to kill you.”

My lips part, but the resolution on the scout’s face doesn’t yield. The trollis will not take me in. Not until . . . what? My father attacks? When will that be?