We’ll never outrun them.
Not in our condition.
Not with healthy winds too few and far between as the Stormers close in.
But I refuse to accept only this brief glimpse of freedom.
If we can’t flee, I’ll fight as hard as I have to.
I beg my Westerly shield for wisdom, and search the air for other brave drafts. Amazingly, I find a Westerly, an Easterly, a Northerly, and a Southerly.
I’m about to weave them into a wind spike when all four drafts change their songs, singing of teamwork and embracing our heritage—and each draft is stretching in a different direction.
The Southerly pulls toward Solana. The Northerly toward Gus. The Westerly toward Vane. And the Easterly wants to stay with me.
I hadn’t considered that combined, our heritages represent all four languages. But the winds seem to have decided to put that into action.
“My wind is giving me a command,” Vane says.
“So is mine,” Solana agrees.
“I think we’re all supposed to say the word at the same time,” Gus adds, his voice already stronger now that he’s surrounded by fresher air.
“But we should wait for the best opportunity,” I whisper, even if my instincts are already twitchy.
The Stormers move closer.
Closer.
“Now!” I shout.
Together, the four of us switch to our native tongues and give our winds the same command.
Swelter!
The winds weave into a cyclone, but spin the opposite direction, and the rushing downdraft feels like a foehn. The heated, snow-melting winds usually form on the leeward side of a mountain. But the power of four seems to be able to harness the same force and amplify it.
The foehn creates a wave of melted ice as Raiden’s unnatural winter seeps away in the rush of dry heat. The water crashes into the Stormers, washing them down the mountain and causing enough chaos for us to flee.
A pipeline would be a huge help, but I can’t feel enough untainted drafts to build one. And honestly, I’m not sure if Gus could handle the blast. As it is, I’m dragging him through the sky, begging my Westerly shield to carry us faster.
Vane and Solana catch up, and we head for the forest. I’m hoping the trees will hide us until we have a chance to form an actual plan.
“There’s too many of them,” Vane shouts, pointing to the trail of reinforcements chasing us down.
I shudder when I see two Living Storms among the ranks, and I can’t help worrying it’s proof that Aston and my mother never got away.
“Solana, can’t you do anything?” Vane asks.
“The need isn’t giving me any commands!” she shouts back.
I’m not sure what that means, but a funnel of fire erupts behind us, turning the world to flashes of blinding color and deafening howls and squeals.
“Was that you?” Vane asks Solana.
“No, it was me.”
The familiar voice doesn’t seem real until two figures dart out of the shadows.
One wears a ripped hooded cloak. The other has long dark hair.
My emotions turn to thunder as I gape at Aston and my mother.
“I thought you left,” Vane shouts.
“So did I,” Aston says as he snaps his fingers and sends another firewhirl spinning to life.
The burning spiral cuts a wall of flame through the tress, and when a Living Storm tries to push through, its funnels ignite.
“That should hold them off for a bit.” His smile fades when he notices Gus. “I see Raiden’s tricks haven’t changed. I can carry him. You both look . . . weakened.”
“How do we know you’re really on our side?” Gus asks.
“The fact that I launched the fire at them seems like a pretty big clue,” Aston tells him. “And because I could be safely back in my cave, but I was convinced to linger in case you got yourselves into this kind of mess. And . . . because I know your pain.”
He holds up his punctured hand.
“If you want to stick with the pretty girl, I don’t blame you,” Aston adds. “But only do it if you’re both strong enough.”
“I can handle it,” I promise, readjusting Gus for a better hold.
“We should control our speed,” my mother says, keeping her eyes anywhere but on me. “Too much force might tear apart his injuries.”
“That’s what happens when you send someone off to be tortured,” I snap.
She still doesn’t look my way, but her whole body goes rigid as she mumbles something I can’t hear over the squealing.
“What’s that noise?” Vane asks, making me realize the sound is more than the pressure in my head. “Is that the Stormer’s gadget?”
My mother nods and holds up a silver spinning anemometer. “It sprang to life when you led the army this way. That’s how we knew to be ready.”
“The Stormers use them to keep track of each other,” Vane explains to me. “So when it goes off, we know they’re close.”
“How many Westerlies can you gather?” Aston asks Vane.
“I feel three,” he says.
“There’s a fourth one if you stretch your consciousness closer toward the mountain,” I tell him.
That earns me far more attention than we have time for, so I head off their questions with a quick “Yes, Gus and I had the fourth breakthrough. Once we get somewhere safe I’ll explain how it happened.”
There’s something sad about Vane’s posture as he nods, and I wonder if he’s bothered we share his language.
But I don’t have time to consider such trivialities. I’m helping Vane gather the Westerlies when the sky goes still and the winds holding us waver and fade.
We barely manage to stay airborne as Raiden shouts, “You’ll never leave this mountain!”
His voice is everywhere and nowhere. A ghost of shadow and flame.
“Surrender now,” he snarls, “or experience a new realm of pain.”
“I think we’ll go with option C!” Vane shouts back.
Only two Westerlies manage to break through whatever wall Raiden has created, and it doesn’t feel like enough. But Vane weaves them around us anyway.
“You’ll regret leaving,” Raiden warns us. “You have no grasp of the price you’ll pay.”
“Grasp this!” Vane shouts, ordering the Westerlies to rise.
Aston launches another firewhirl as the winds blast us away—the forest blurring with sparks and smoke as we streak through the sky.
I’d feel more triumphant if Gus weren’t coughing and sputtering.
“We need to slow down!” I shout. “The speed is tearing him apart.”
“If we do, they’ll be on us in seconds,” Vane argues, pointing to the anemometer, which is still squeaking, warning us there are Stormers on our tail.
“Maybe not,” Aston says, testing the air with his fingers. “I don’t feel any Stormers nearby.”
“But I still feel the chill,” my mother whispers.
Gus coughs again and Aston’s eyes widen and he shouts a dozen curses as he grabs my mother’s needled blade and swipes it toward Gus’s throat.
“What are you doing?” I scream.
“Trying to save him.”
He slashes Gus’s neck before I can pull away.
The blow barely grazes Gus’s skin, and there’s so much shouting and squealing and flailing, I can’t figure out what anyone is saying, until my brain catches two words:
Suicide draft.
“NO!” I scream. “GET RID OF IT!”
Aston slashes again.
But the windslicer does nothing.
Neither do any of the commands Aston and Solana shout.
And Gus keeps choking harder and harder, right up until the moment his neck snaps and his body goes limp and cold.