Ice Country (23 page)

She laughs again. “Ain’t that the truth,” she
says. “Did you see how I rode that big fella like a searin’
tugbull?”

“I did,” I laugh. “I was most impressed.”

“Ain’t you wonderin’ why I’ve never kissed
nobody?” she asks, changing the subject quicker than a rabbit
hopping to his hole when he hears the hoot of an owl.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” I say. “But
yah, I figured you’d have kissed dozens of guys by now.”

“You callin’ me a shilt?” she says, her tone
darkening.

“What? Nay! I mean, I don’t know what that
even is. All I meant was that as beautiful as you are I’d think
guys would be lining up across fire country for a chance to win you
over.”

“Flattery won’t git you far with me,” she
says.

“How about honesty?” I say, finally feeling
the words flowing the way they’re meant to.

“I wanna kiss you,” she says
matter-of-factly, like she’s saying she wants another plate of
gruel, or the sky is red, or ice country is cold, or any of a dozen
other normal things to say.

“You—you do?”

“Scorch yes, I do, Dazz. Yer smoky, you make
me laugh, I ’spect without even tryin’, and you got a good heart.”
Be asleep, Buff. Be asleep.

“We should try,” I say, feeling my blood
rushing all over the place, waking up my whole body.

“This is a searin’ thick wall,” she says.
“And this hole ain’t big enough to git more’n a hand through.” As
if to demonstrate, she sticks her fingers through. My confidence is
roaring like a just-woken beast, and I feel like the old Dazz, the
one who could catch girls’ attention, even if he couldn’t keep
them. I grab her hand, kiss it, stars flashing behind my eyelids.
Ice this wall! I’ve got the urge to pound my way through it, fist
by fist, without regard for my bones breaking.

I give her hand back, look through at her.
There’s a wildness in her eyes and I know everything I’m feeling is
mutual, and she’s considering pounding away too, meeting me in the
middle, in a big old pile of dungeon rubble. “Bars,” I say, but
she’s already moving in that direction, gone from sight.

I rush along the wall to the bars, jam my
head and arms through, feeling the metal poles cinch around me,
stopping me. Her head’s through too, and she’s reaching for me, and
our hands are touching, and now our arms—I’ve got one hand in her
hair, running through it wildly, and the other on her jaw, cupping
it, touching the dark bruise where Big hit her.

I strain against the tightening bars, feeling
the dull pressure of the metal as it bruises my ribcage, but keep
pushing, getting another inch, Skye doing the same, trying, trying,
icin’ trying to—

—meet in the middle where—

—her lips can meet mine, where—

—she can get her first kiss, and me, my first
real
kiss, her lips closing in, so close I can see the pink
tinge on them but then—

—we can’t go any further, and we’re just
dangling there, hugging each other awkwardly, wishing we had
another inch. Just one more inch.

The dungeon door creaks open.

W
e stop moving. Stop
struggling against the bars.

“What do you think yer doin’?” a familiar
voice says.

Can’t be.

Can’t.

I’m dreaming up the whole thing. Skye’s
words—
I wanna kiss you
—weren’t real, at least no realer than
my imagination made them.

I pull back, and Skye does too, strain on her
face as she wedges back between the bars. I do the same, grunting
as the metal tightens, tightens, tightens, and finally releases me.
The whole time I’m trying to look past Skye, but I can’t see
anything except the top bits of an open door, dark and empty, and
then—

Still dark. Still empty. The darkness is
trying to creep into the dungeon while the blazing torches fight it
away. And then—

A big old head fills the space, towering
close to the top of the door. The head grunts and I know it’s
true.

Skye slips back into her cell and all is
revealed.

Abe stands there grinning, or at least I
think that’s what it is, all crooked and honest-like. Behind him is
Hightower, rising a head higher, the head I saw filling the dark,
empty space, grunting a greeting, like he always does. And the
biggest shocker: Brock’s there too, scowling, looking like he’d
rather be anywhere else.

“What the…?” I say. And then in one breath,
“Whatthechillareyoudoinghere?”

“You know them?” Skye says, looking back at
me sharply.

“Of course he knows us,” Abe says. “I was his
master not that long ago.”

“His master? Dazz—these’re the men you worked
at the border with?”

I nod. Skye’s face clenches with anger. “I’ll
kill ’em,” she says.

“Do that and Daisy here’ll spend the rest of
his days rottin’ in this cell,” Abe says.

“What are you doing here, Abe?” I ask again.
“There are guards all over this place. If they catch you…”

Abe raises a hand, silencing me. “Don’t worry
’bout the guards. We’re ’ere to git you out.”

“Out?” I say. “What are you talking about?
Why would you—”

“Don’t question it, kid, we ain’t got much
time.” As Abe stomps over to my cell, he jangles a set of keys in
his hand.

“How did you—what did you…?” I can’t get the
words out, because I’m so confused it’s like I’m standing on the
ceiling, and everything’s up instead of down, right instead of
left, backwards and twisted. Abe’s helping me? I mean, he already
did, but now he’s really helping me, like
if-he-gets-caught-his-head-will-roll kind of helping.

“Later,” Abe says, turning a key in the lock.
The cell door swings open.

I hear, “Abe?” from down the row. Buff stands
up, rubbing his eyes, probably thinking he’s dreaming too.

“Yah, Fluff, it’s me and the whole gang.” He
leaves me to gawk at Tower and Brock, who’re waiting by the door,
Tower looking the other way. There’s a click and a moment later
Buff’s by my side, as free as I am.

Everyone’s waking up now, making tired and
curious noises. Wes crawls over to the bars, eyes as wide as if
he’s been awake for hours. Abe says nothing, just opens his door
too.

“We gotta go, kid,” Abe says to me. “We ain’t
got a spare second ’fore more guards’ll come.”

I look at Skye, who’s looking back at me,
horror all over her face. “What about them?” I say.
What about
her?
I add in my head.

Abe shoots me a look, rolls his head around.
“C’mon, kid, really? You expect me to break out a bunch of
Heaters?”

“I’m the only Heater,” Circ says. “You can
leave me if you like. Get the others out.”

“No,” Siena says. “If he stays, I stay.”

“You’re all stayin’ as far’s I’m concerned,”
Brock growls. “Abe, we gotta go. Now!”

“You comin’ or what?” Abe says, staring at me
and my two brothers, one by blood, one by everything else.

I look at Buff, then Wes, and last at Skye.
Go
, she mouths.

“Not without them,” I say. “All of them.”

~~~

It doesn’t take more than a minute for Abe to
unlock all the cell doors. He doesn’t seem happy about it, but I
think the thought of leaving empty handed is worse to him than
leaving with his hands way fuller than he expected.

“Why’re you doing this?” I ask him as he
snaps open the last lock, Skye’s. She’s watching us both
curiously.

“Later,” Abe says.

“Thank you,” I say, clapping him on the
shoulder.

“Don’t get all snowy on me or I’ll throw you
back inside and eat the key,” Abe says.

“Thank you, too, Tower,” I say. Hightower,
well, he does his usual. “And Brock,” I add, half-joking.

“Shut the chill up ’fore I smash yer face
in,” Brock says. I shut up.

Abe moves for the door and so does everyone
else, but I let them go past. Brock hands each of them a weapon as
they pass by, a sword or an axe or a knife. The weapons gleam
bright and new and look suspiciously like the ones the guards are
always carrying.

The only one who doesn’t move is Skye, still
in her cell. “This is our only chance,” I say.

“Them fellas, they delivered the Heater
children to the king?” she asks.

“Yah. And so did I,” I remind her.

“But you only did it once. And you told us
why. They probably did it again and again and again, countless
times. They mighta been the ones who gave him my sister.”

“Maybe,” I say, “but I don’t think they
wanted to. There’s something I’ve been missing. And they’re helping
us now—that’s more than anyone else has done. We can describe your
sister to them, maybe they’ll remember her.” I’m pleading now,
trying to get her outta that cell, so we can escape together, so
maybe one day we’ll be able to finish what we started before Abe
showed up.

She swallows hard, steps out, so close to me,
closer than we’ve been since I chased her in the forest.
Dangerously close. My heart drums harder. The feelings from before
return. There’s no time for this but I have to touch her, have to
do something, before it’s too late. She brushes past me and Brock
hands her a short dagger.

“Aren’t you the icy one,” Brock says.

“Shut yer tughole,” Skye says.

Smiling, I say, “Don’t mess with her,” and
slap him on the back, ignoring both the look he gives me and the
axe he tries to.

~~~

There’s blood and bodies on both sides of the
passage, littering the path beneath our feet. I look back at Brock
with a question, and he says, “Don’t get Hightower worked up. It
ain’t pretty.”

Walking behind Skye, I step around and over
the bodies, staying close, feeling her closeness like a promise. A
promise of what could be if we ever get outta the palace.

We climb the steps leading out to the main
hall, but I have to stop halfway up when Skye stops in front of me.
Everyone stops, and I see Hightower bending his neck to look around
the corner. Then, without even the smallest grunt, he motions for
us to follow.

With soft footfalls, we sneak into the hall,
leaving the piles of bodies behind us in the dungeons. Skye and I
walk stride for stride, while Brock jogs past us, cradling the axe
I refused, moving toward the front of the column, as if he’s just
itching for us to run into more guards.

“Follow my lead,” Skye says as we approach
the high, white archways that lead to the palace courtyard.
I
plan on it
, I think to myself.

The archways fly away overhead and fresh,
cold air fills my lungs, sharpening my senses.

A cry goes up from one of the watchful tower
guards. A dozen other wall guards turn and let out a chorus of
shouts, alerting the groundsmen, who are lounging in the yard,
probably not expecting any action from behind the safety of the
high, stone wall.

Our group breaks into a run, scattering
across the yard, making us each an individual target. An arrow zips
past my head, so close its tail feathers leave behind a buzzing in
my ear. The wall guards are shooting at us.

I dart left, following after Skye, who’s
moving faster than the wind now that we’re outside, opening up her
long strides, just a blur of brown and grace. A guard stands
waiting, clutching a two-headed battle axe, his face harder than
the metal of the weapon he’s carrying.

Skye closes in.

He swings—

—but she’s already ducking, ramming into him
shoulders and head first, knocking him flat on his arse, the axe
spinning away over his head. She raises her knife over her head,
slams it down without hesitation.

I gawk at her as she climbs off the dead
guard, making the act of killing look so easy that I wonder how
many times she’s done it before. More times than my zero, that’s
for sure.

While I’m acting my usual idiot-part and
standing around watching Skye in action, I see a shadow closing in
from my left. I turn sharply, catching the glint of metal before I
see the face of the guard wielding the long sword.

I jump back, narrowly avoiding getting
slashed to ribbons as the guard brings the sword chest-high across
the empty space I was just standing in. Anger floods my face with
warmth as I rock back on my heel and then spring forward, using my
arm and hand like a club, bashing him over the head. I finally see
his eyes, but only when they widen and roll back into his head. He
slumps to the ground.

I pick up his sword.

I throw it back down, having never really
used one before.

Another guard rushes me, wielding a battle
axe. Maybe even a fool with a sword woulda been better than what I
am now: a weaponless fool.

I dodge his first slash and, getting inside
his weapon’s arc, crush my elbow into his jaw. But he recovers
nicely, jabbing my nose with the butt end of the axe. It hurts like
chill and I see stars for a second, feeling the discomfort and
metallic taste of blood running from the inside of my nose down my
throat.

When I grab the handle of his axe, he pulls
back on it sharply, trying to wrench me loose, and we grapple with
it for a few seconds, him pulling, me pulling, the axe slicing
around at a blank spot of air.

When I’m sure he’s pulling with every last
bit of his strength, I let go. He goes flying, taking two stumbling
off-balance steps before rolling onto his back, still clutching at
the axe handle, as if he thinks it will protect him against—

—cracking his head off a pillar. He shoots me
a final helpless look and then his eyes close, his shoulders
weaken, and his fingers uncurl, letting the axe slide away. Two
down.

There are grunts and cries all around me. I
whirl around, trying to take it all in, but it’s too much.
Everything’s a blur of movement and fighting and killing. This is
no pub fight. This is real. People are dying. And then—