79

Marcus

I crawl on my belly to peer over the ridge, staying low and out of sight. The wind whistles through the pines, bringing with it the smell of wood smoke from the camp below. “How far behind are the Aturnians?” I ask Samsen, who still has his phantom up.

“Two hills back.”

“Not long to wait.” Kaylin rubs his hands together like we are about to bet on a sure-to-win horse.

The plan, simple if not foolproof, is to nab the mounts just before the Aturnian troops stumble over this ridge. Just in time to take the blame for our theft. “I hope this works.”

“It’s Gollnar down there.” Kaylin chuckles. “They fight first, ask questions later.”

He might be right. “Two birds…”

“One stone,” Piper agrees. “Gollnar’s love for Northern Aturnia is fickle. They may be aligned, but at least they’ll argue, giving us a head start.”

“And please,” Ash says. “Speak Aturnian if chased. It will add to the ruse.”

I motion Tyche forward. “You’re in first. We’ll be right behind you.”

She stares blankly, taking halting steps.

“Tyche? You can do this?”

She presses her lips together and nods.

I turn to Samsen and Piper. “Ready?”

They raise their fists and silently melt away.

I point back toward the tree line as Ash and Kaylin lead the horses away. We’re set.

Belair and I climb over the ridge then crawl on our bellies, concealed in the tall grass. When we reach Tyche, we raise our phantoms, insisting they be silent as we creep closer to the camp that shines like a small city beneath us.

I raise my fist and pump it once.

On my signal, Tyche calls air from all the fires and the light in the valley winks out. While the camp stirs, shouts going up, Samsen calls seven fresh mounts. They look like rocking horses, the way they move with their hobbled front legs, rearing up in short leaps until Piper and Tyche can unbuckle the restraints. Samsen’s phantom hoots, keeping them quiet and under control. In moments they are away, the steeds following Piper and Samsen into the woods. Tyche runs after them. Hard part done.

But the fires are quickly relit. Suddenly, two enemy phantoms, a razorback hog and a short, twisting alter that rolls end over end, spot the thievery and charge after Tyche, bringing up the alarm.

“Grab Tyche and run!” I shout to Belair in my best Aturnian.

He sweeps her up onto his back and sprints for the woods. The sun leopard, almost black under the stars, lags behind, ready to deal with the guards. The razorback gives chase, but it’s no match for the cat. Belair’s phantom turns on it, shows fangs, and lunges, saber claws extended. The razorback bucks and squeals but can’t throw the cat. The red leopard rips into the hog’s throat and it goes to ground, but by now, our location is no longer secret.

The other phantom, the rolling and twisting alter, heads straight for De’ral. When it reaches his feet, it turns into a thousand stinging tendrils, roots digging into the earth to trap him. Each vine climbs up the warrior’s thick legs. I’m half in, half out of phantom perspective and seeing everything from above as well as the sidelines. De’ral tries to kick free of the vines but they cling tight.

“Rip it out by the roots!” I boom, the pain bringing tears to my eyes.

De’ral reaches for the base and tears it out of the ground. Using my phantom’s hands, I crush it to powder that floats away on the breeze. By now the camp is armed and heading straight for us. The guards spread out, searching the valley. Calls go up, all Gollnarian. I stand beside my phantom, ready to fight. Samsen knows what to do if I don’t make it back. Warn Baiseen. That’s all that matters. I grit my teeth and take a deep breath.

But nothing happens.

The night breeze ripples through my hair, strands sticking to the stubble on my jaw. Where are they? The guards and their phantoms don’t come up the rise to give chase. They run the other way. I hear shouts and challenges, but the object of attention is not me. Are they blind? Can they not see the threat before them? I stop questioning it and, De’ral at my side, run flat out toward our rendezvous point.

Deeper in the woods, I spot Tyche, her phantom up and calling.

“You sent the entire camp in the wrong direction?”

“Seemed best.”

“So it is. Well done.” I help her up. “How would you like a ride on my warrior?”

She swallows, and her impala squeaks.

“He won’t drop you, I promise, and we must be very fast.”

Tyche kneels for a moment, and her phantom disappears. De’ral picks her up and holds her close to his chest with both hands.

“Run!” I lead the way, charging through the woods until the clearing is in sight. Ash and Kaylin have tacked the new mounts and released the old ones that linger around the fringe.

“Marcus!” Ash waves, holding a spare horse. She rides bareback, her saddle left behind when she fell. “This one’s for Tyche.”

De’ral tries to put Tyche straight into the saddle, but the horse shies away. He sets her down on the ground and I call him in, the horse calming immediately. The girl climbs into the saddle, the stirrups already shortened all the way, and I mount the horse Samsen holds for me.

“Ride on!” I cry and set the pace, a dead run to Baiseen.