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Laughter trills through the air and is carried on a mild breeze. Buttery sunlight bathes the world around me in a golden glow, illuminating emerald grass and cobalt skies. Peace filters all that I hear, all that I see, and a happiness I’ve never known fills me.
Along the streets and pathways of Cassowary, mothers and fathers stroll with their children while other men and women hurry along and exchange pleasantries as they make their way to whichever destination awaits them. The sights and sounds cause my heart to swell. Much has been accomplished. And while many here credit me with those accomplishments, I can’t help but think it is the resilience of the human spirit that has prevailed, its refusal to accept being hunted to extinction.
Five years have passed since the Urthmen city of Kildare was destroyed. Since then, humankind has flourished. Nearly every person who roamed the continent has made his or her way here to Cassowary, filling our city so that three years ago, construction of additional cities began. Remi, Galway and Listowel, the three walled metropolises we’ve built, are each within thirty miles of one another, strategically placed close enough that assistance can be swift if needed. Fortunately the need for assistance has been scarce.
More than two years have gone by since any Urthmen have attempted an attack on one of our cities. Unorganized and poorly executed, the attempts were futile. Our walls have never been breached. Their bumbling efforts, coupled with our technology that exceeds anything the Urthmen have and the fact that we have in our possession more than two hundred automatic weapons, translated to their prompt annihilation. The guns, found at the underground military bunker known as Castlerock, were devoid of ammunition when first we happened upon them. Now, however, bullets have been made for them and they are evenly spread out among our four cities. When I consider that nearly forty-thousand people reside in each city, fifty guns per location is a pittance. But it’s still more than the Urthmen have, and that provides us with a tremendous advantage.
Having such an advantage is a circumstance that at one time was inconceivable. I never dreamed conflict with Urthmen would be virtually nonexistent, that there would be something very close to peace. Human beings—my people included—occupy the central portion of the country. Dubbed Humanlands because it is solely inhabited by human beings, a roughly two-hundred square mile portion of land has been carved out and unofficially claimed as our own. In the last two years, Urthmen haven’t bothered us and we haven’t bothered them. But we remain prepared.
My eyes scan the land before me. And our preparedness comes into razor-sharp focus. I amble toward a space reserved for training and pause.
The shrill whistle of an arrow careening through the air is immediately followed by the sound of wood splintering and a pronounced thwack. My eyes zero in on the target, an animal hide painted and stretched tightly over packed hay, and see that the archer hit her mark with laser-point precision, striking the bull’s eye and splitting the nock of the arrow already there down to its shaft. Not noticing me yet, she dives, rolls and springs to her feet then pulls another arrow from her quiver, launching it so quickly her movements are a blur to me. It, too, races to the center of the target on a deadly hiss. Her skill and agility are unmatched. I am held by both almost as much as I am held by her beauty. Plaited hair in an array of bronze, gold, and streaks of palest blonde trails to the small of her back, and silvery-blue eyes, filled with determination and focus, are trained straight ahead. She is a vision, the epitome of poise and beauty combined. And as deadly as any person I’ve ever met. Coined the finest archer in Cassowary, my sister June has blossomed in the five years since Kildare was destroyed.
No longer clumsily hefting a wooden sword with lanky limbs, cords of muscle ripple from her back and shoulders and down the length of her arms. Her actions are precisely orchestrated, each confident and purposeful. The pride I feel when watching her train is unsurpassed.
Suddenly aware of my presence, June smiles broadly, and I see the faintest thread of the nine year-old girl who used to race toward me, grinning, in her expression. “Avery!” she calls out to me and waves. With lithe strides, she makes her way toward me.
Joy fills me fully. All that she was, all that she has become and currently is, causes my breathing to snag and tears to blur my vision. “Hey June,” I say when she is before me. “Training hard I see.”
“Always,” June replies with a slight nod of her head.
“That’s why you’re the best archer we have.” I beam at her.
Lowering her chin as a faint blush tints her cheeks pink, she works a weedy tuft with her foot. “The best, hmm, I don’t know about that.” Her modesty, though completely unnecessary, is yet another aspect of her unparalleled grace.
“You are, June. No one else would argue that point.” I gesture to the field on which she trained, to where men and women spar with swords and various weapons, honing their skills.
Her eyes meet mine, warmth sparkling in their depths. “I don’t know what they’d say.” She shrugs and chews her lip self-consciously.
“Well I do.” I reach out a hand and place it on her shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “And there isn’t a finer archer among us.”
A small smile curves her lips. “Did you see the arrow I split?” she asks of the double bull’s eye she nailed.
“Yes, I did. Then I saw your crazy dive and roll move before you popped up to your feet.” I pause to shake my head. “I don’t know how you do it. If I tried that, if I fell to the ground as hard as you did, there’s no way I’d be able to get up, possibly for days. Old age, you know?” I chuckle self-depreciatingly.
“Old age? You’re only twenty-three, for goodness’ sake!” She giggles, her laughter mingling with the sounds of the courtyard.
“Yeah, well, I feel every one of those twenty-three years,” I laugh and am about to continue making fun of myself when a pair of arms encircle my waist. The familiar fragrance of mint, leather, spice and musk surrounds me. Sully. I’d know the feel of him, the warmth of his skin, and recognize his scent, anywhere. The stubble of his beard grazes the sensitive skin of my neck as he sweeps his chin up to my cheek and kisses it.
“Hi beautiful,” his voice is as smooth as heated honey and makes my heart feel as if it has tripled in size. I turn and embrace him, reveling in the fact that five years together has not dulled the flutter in my belly whenever he’s near.
June clears her throat. “Hey Sully,” she says. “Have you heard from Oliver?”
Feeling the slight shift in Sully’s posture—the faint tick of tension—before he utters a word, I release my grip on him and turn so that I face both he and my sister.
The small muscles around his jaw bunch briefly before he says, “No. The radio communication must still be out.”
Though I know radio transmission has been spotty of late, not hearing from one of our four walled cities is unsettling.
June’s brow pleats. “Really? For this long? That’s never happened before.” She’s concerned for him. All of us are. June sees Oliver as an older brother.
At nineteen, Oliver has grown into an impressive man. With looks so similar to his late brother, Will, at times it pains me to look at him. Tall and broad through his shoulders and with bronze skin that looks perpetually sun kissed he is nearly as pleasant to look at as June. But his looks are not what make him formidable. It is his presence. Impressive and authoritative without being overbearing in the least, his personality is pitch-perfect for leadership. He is calm and level-headed, fair and direct, now, at nineteen. Because of his nature, he leads the city of Galway. Second only in size to Cassowary, Galway is thirty miles north of us. Will would be proud of his brother.
Thinking of Will causes my throat to tighten. I’m grateful when June’s voice interrupts the sad and final images of him that flash in my mind.
“I haven’t heard from Riley since the day before yesterday.” She chews her lower lip contemplatively and furrows her brow. “I’ve never gone this long without talking to her.”
“They must be having trouble with their radios.” Sully’s words are hollow. Even he doesn’t believe what he’s said. I wonder whether June picks up on it.
I exchange furtive glances with him and am relieved when June excuses herself to retrieve her arrows before rejoining our conversation. While she’s gone, I turn to face Sully. Splaying my hands at my sides, I ask, “Okay, what’s on your mind?”
Sully folds his arms across his chest. “I’m worried.” He shakes his head slowly and I feel the blood in my veins chill several degrees. “We haven’t been in touch with anyone in Galway for more than twenty-four hours. Oliver should have sent someone here to report.”
Anxiety creeps up the length of my spine. Still, I force words from my lips. “I’m sure there’s a reason.”
Sully looks at me and arcs one eyebrow, as if he sees straight through me. “Well, if I don’t get any word from him in the next few hours, I’m going up there.”
“And I’ll go with you,” I add.
June returns and looks between Sully and me. “We’re going to eat.” I leave out the part that Sully and I are concerned. “Why don’t you come with us?”
“I’m starving.” Her hand settles on her flat belly.
I smile. “Yeah, I’d imagine all that flipping and tumbling you were doing would make you work up an appetite.”
June blushes and rolls her eyes. “Yeah, I guess,” she mumbles.
I link my arm in the crook of her elbow and together, the three of us make our way across the courtyard toward the dining hall. Though we’ve done this for five years now, the notion of not hunting for my food and cooking it myself is still a strange one. The residents of Cassowary work together, divvying the chores so that the needs of the whole are met. No matter the job, all here are equal. All are important.
As we draw near to the dining hall, the rich scent of roasting boart meat infuses the air. I peek at some of the plates before those who are seated on the benches at the tables. Potatoes, mashed and spiced, sit upon nearly every plate. The sight of them makes my mouth water, and brings to mind the first time I had them when in the underground city. While I’d rather forget that day in New Washington, my affinity for mashed potatoes began then.
“Oh look, your favorite.” June nudges me with her elbow and points with her index finger on the other hand to the potatoes.
“Mm, I know.” I make a point of widening my eyes exaggeratedly.
June tosses her head back and laughs.
We continue to a counter and are served our food then sit at a table. No longer known as Azlyn I am greeted by my birth name, Avery. I scoop a forkful of potatoes and am about to slip it past my lips when a sound halts my hand as well as the beat of my heart. The mournful toll of our warning bell, a bell that’s only meant to be rung when an enemy approaches, fills the ether. My head snaps toward Sully who sits beside me, and I pause a moment, regarding him to ensure he hears it too. Straining to hear against the hammering of blood against my eardrums, the deep, desolate notes continue to chime. Cold washes over me, bleeding my body of every ounce of warmth, and leaving in its wake the bitter awareness that the Urthmen are here, and the semblance of peace we’ve enjoyed may have come to an end.