J?kob’s shout sliced through the mountain air before he even reached Matáo; his lungs were burning, but the scent of woodsmoke and burnt thatch fueled him in ways he'd never known. He found his brother already alert, his nostrils flared, and eyes deep in thought. J?kob pointed toward the valley where the haze of Echo was rising in thick, black plumes that did not belong to hearth-fires. They turned to run, but the path brought them face-to-face with a vision of terror: Nìa and Jessie were stumbling toward them, Nìa’s leg bound in a blood-stained blanket scrap and her face paler than bone.
The girls’ words came in frantic, jagged bursts. They spoke of the crimson-armored wave and the three men who were even now scaling the cliffs in pursuit. Matáo and Jonah did not hesitate; they reached for their bows and ordered J?kob and Joel to lead the girls to the sanctuary of the Great Sycamore.
J?kob led them to the ancient tree, his mind clicking with a sudden, sharp clarity. He ushered the girls and Joel into the hollow of the trunk before setting out to find a way to mask their presence. He found a massive elm that had been split by a summer storm years prior; its bark was peeling away in thick, leathery sheets. He worked with a frantic care, prying a single, massive slab of the timber-skin away until he had a piece wide enough to serve as a door. He hauled it back to the Sycamore, fitting it over the opening just as Matáo and Jonah emerged from the treeline.
“The three at the cliff are dead,” Matáo said, his voice dropping to a low, hard vibration. “We caught them before they crested the lip, but their absence will no doubt be found by morning. When they don't return, the red-suits will send a larger force.”
He knelt to inspect Nìa’s leg, his brow furrowed as the girls recounted the fall and the horrors Jessie had witnessed in the streets of Echo. The picnic supplies had been abandoned at the base of the cliffs to facilitate their escape: a loss that meant they were now trapped with nothing but the meat J?kob had taken earlier that day.
J?kob set his makeshift door in place; it was a perfect deception, the rough grain of the elm bark blending seamlessly with the Sycamore’s own trunk. Inside the hollow, the darkness was absolute until J?kob lit a stub of tallow from his cache. The small flame cast dancing shadows against the wood as they made their plans. Matáo and Jonah volunteered for the watch, splitting the night to ensure at least one set of eyes remained on the ridge.
Hunger began to gnaw at them as the night deepened. Matáo, restless in his vigilance, returned to the cliff’s edge to survey the valley. He crawled on his belly through the wet grass, looking down into the basin. The three scouts lay in a tangled heap on a ledge below; beyond them, the fires of Echo were beginning to die down into a low, vengeful orange glow. Seeing no immediate pursuit, Matáo returned to the tree and decided on a calculated risk: they would build a small, shielded fire to cook the venison.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
While the meat hissed over the embers, J?kob gathered a final handful of berries from the defiant bush, and Joel ventured to the spring for water. Jonah, knowing the weight of the second watch would soon fall to him, retreated to a corner of the hollow to find what sleep he could.
Jessie, her hands still shaking, tended to Nìa’s wound. She used a small copper pot J?kob had stashed in the cave months before to boil water, sterilizing strips of her own blanket to create a fresh bandage. The smell of the roasting meat filled the hollow, a cruel contrast to the memories of the screams still ringing in their ears.
“Keep watch on the spit, Jessie,” Matáo whispered as he stood. “J?kob and I must hide the deer carcass; if a scout finds a fresh kill so close to this ridge, they will know we are near.”
They dragged the deer into a dense thicket of pines, burying it under a mound of boughs and dead leaves. Once the evidence was hidden, Matáo looked toward the cliff again. He decided they could not leave their supplies at the base, nor could they leave the scouts’ bodies where they might be spotted by the first light of dawn.
He told J?kob to remain at the summit as a sentry, instructing the boy to let out a low, melodic whistle if any movement appeared in the valley. Matáo then descended the slick stone with the grace of a mountain cat. He reached the ledge and heaved the bodies over the side, watching them disappear into the shadows below.
From his perch, J?kob watched his brother move through the gloom. Matáo gathered the abandoned picnic baskets and then turned his attention to the fallen men. He worked with a grim, efficient silence, dragging the bodies into the deep timber where the undergrowth was thickest. When he finally returned to the summit, he was laden with their belongings and a new, lethal weight: he had stripped the iron swords and daggers from the dead soldiers, along with their unneeded purses.
They returned to the tree to find the others had drifted into a fitful, nightmare-heavy sleep. Only Jessie remained by the dying fire, her eyes wide and haunted. She handed them the last of the venison, and as they ate, she spoke of the village again; she told them of the severed head, the woman pinned to the road, and the sight of her own parents being dragged into the darkness.
J?kob and Matáo listened in a cold, intensive silence. The birthday celebration was a lifetime ago; the world they knew had ended with the setting sun. They sat long into the night, whispering of paths through the mountains and ways to strike back, until the exhaustion finally claimed them both.
