Water & Storm Country (35 page)

They collide with the Soakers, bodies and
swords flying everywhere.

The Soaker officer, a big man with a long
sword, steps away from the pack of bodies. His hat is different
than the other officers, longer and arched at the top. I know who
he is: the admiral. Admiral Jones, the leader of the Soakers. He
gestures at Gard, who stabs a Soaker and then dismounts, patting
Thunder on the rear. Obediently, Thunder runs up the beach, toward
and then past me, making for the safety of the plains.

Another Soaker officer attacks Gard, but he
tosses him aside like a child and steps forward, sword in hand.

That’s when I see him slinking away from the
crowd.

A boy.

A boy wearing a blue officer’s uniform.

The Evil hisses in my ear.

L
ightning crashes,
splitting the sky in half. Thunder booms, crashing through my ears.
Men die, as insignificant as fleas compared to the power of the
storm.

My father’s forgotten about me in the midst
of the battle, and now he faces off against the war leader of the
Stormers. I’ve only ever seen him from far away, from safe on the
ships. He’s so much bigger this close. They call him Gard. Fighting
him is what my father has always wanted. It’s also my chance.

Slightly back from the fray, I feel numb.
None of this matters to me—not when she could be dying in the rain.
Dying by my very hand. Not when a reunion with her sisters is
possible.

I turn and run back for the boats, grab the
side and push as hard as I can.

I’m going back to her.

“Stop right there,” a voice says from
behind.

He doesn’t turn right away, so I say it
again. “Stop.” My voice is calm, when in my head I hear only
killkillkillkill.

This time he turns, white-faced and
rain-slick. He raises his empty hands.

I raise my sword.

“Who are you?” I ask.

“Lieutenant Jones,” he says.

Jones!
It can’t be. This boy can’t be
the admiral’s son, can he? But even as I raise my sword I know that
he is.

killkillkillkill

“Please,” he says. “My father’s a bad
man.”

“Yes,” I say. “You all are.”

Passion takes two steps forward; I’m close
enough to slash him.

Yesss, ssslasssh him
, the Evil
says.

“No…no,” he says, but there’s not much
strength in his voice. Only…sadness. For what? For who? “I didn’t
want any of this to happen. I never knew…”

There’s a roar behind us and I glance back.
Gard’s unleashing a barrage of heavy blows on the admiral, forcing
him back. Soon, Gard will finish him. So if I finish off Lieutenant
Jones, the Soakers—or what’s left of them—will be leaderless.

I turn back to the boy, who hasn’t moved.
“You’re saying you’ve done nothing wrong?” I ask, angling my sword
beneath his chin.

No more quessstionsss!

Am I controlling the Evil, or is it
controlling me? I still can’t figure it out. I grip the sword
tighter and fight off the urge to shove it through the boy’s
neck.

“I—I…” He can’t get the words out. I expected
him to flat out lie, but instead he seems to be taking the question
rather seriously. Swords ring out. Men grunt and groan and yell. “I
hurt her. The Heater girl, Jade. I hurt her because he said he
would kill her if I didn’t. And I killed a man for her. And I saved
that Heater boy from Hobbs. I killed him too. I had to. And I—”

“Stop,” I say, cutting him off. I have no
idea what he’s rambling on about, but it sounds honest, like he’s
ashamed of some things and proud of others, but all in all it
doesn’t sound too good. Killing people, hurting people, saving
people. A lot of stuff about Heaters. “Do you deserve to die?” Why
am I asking him? Why am I delaying what I know I have to do?

The boy stares at me with huge eyes. “I—I…”
The stutter is back. Him thinking, taking the question seriously.
“I…maybe. I don’t know. Maybe.”

His answer surprises me.
He sssaysss kill
him, ssso kill him. Do it. Do it. DO IT!

I see Paw’s face, so innocent, so much
potential. He beckons to me to save him. But the admiral’s son
would’ve been only a small child, or maybe not even born, when Paw
was killed.

And Mother. It was the Icer guards that
killed her, although she never would’ve ridden to ice country if
not for the sins of the Soakers. But was this boy really involved
in all that? Doubtful. Is he really the one to blame? The one to
kill to bring me peace?

Yesss.

“You can kill me,” the Soaker boy says,
surprising me once more. “But please, let me see her one more time,
let me touch her, let me tell her how sorry I am. For everything.”
Suddenly, as young as Lieutenant Jones looks, he’s no longer a
scared boy to me, but a man, his words filled with fire and truth.
And goodness. I don’t want them to be—want to hate every last thing
about him, but I can’t.

Nooo! He tricksss you! The Sssoaker tricksss
you!

killkillkillkill

I grip my sword tighter, heat rolling through
my knuckles.

killkillkill

Strength roars through me. Enough strength to
cut clean through him, to
end
him.

killkillkill

But it’s not me, it’s not me,
it’s…notmenotmenotmenotmenotme…is it? Paw’s face. Mother’s face.
Father’s face….Father! His face, his calm demeanor, his words—yes,
his words.

Our existence is not all about killing
Soakers…the more important choice is not when to take a life, but
when to spare one…your choice and your choice alone…it will change
everything.

But no, it’s not my choice. The Evil,
whatever it is, has taken over, is controlling me. Its lust for
blood must be satisfied.

Yesss!

No! It
is
my choice. You are not my
master. You are not me.

That’s when I realize.

I realize.

The. Evil. Is. Me.

It has been all along, my lust for revenge, a
hot desire to bring someone—anyone—to justice for the death of my
family. My choice and mine alone. Not the forest, not some mythical
Evil forcing me to perform horrible acts. An excuse to make bad
decisions. A scapegoat for my own anger.

Me.

KILL!

“No!” I scream, startling the boy, making him
jump back, his hands shooting to his neck as if he expects to have
to hold it together because I’ve stabbed him. But I haven’t.

You will never find peace
, the Evil
says.

“I already have,” I say.

The Evil spits and screams and
fades…
fades…
fades
…
away, until it’s gone. And I know it’s
gone forever.

I turn Passion and ride back toward the
battle, determined to help end it.

What was that?

Jade’s face was flashing over and over and
over in my mind, and I knew it was because I was going to die, and
all I wanted was to see her before I did. But then…

Then the Stormer Rider turned away. She
spared me.

My hands return to the boat, and all I want
to do is push off, to paddle back to the Mayhem and make sure she’s
okay.

Something stops me. A feeling. Guilt mixed
with strength mixed with anger. Someone has to end this, and it
might as well be me.

I run—no, sprint—up the beach, chasing after
the Stormer Rider girl. Beyond her the battle rages fiercer than
ever. Riders, on horse and on foot, battle seamen and officers
alike, cutting, slashing, ending each other’s lives.

My father is locked in a one-on-one battle
against the Stormer war leader. He’s outmatched, but his red-faced,
deep-lined hatred is making up the difference. So much hatred.

Enough for all of us.

Enough to fill the world.

Enough!

The Stormer leader pushes Father back, seems
to have him right where he wants him, and then he—

—I can’t believe it but he—

—he stumbles, loses his balance, falls.

My father springs at him and the war leader
barely manages to block his attack from his knees, raising his
sword.

Enough!

I make right for my father—who continues to
slash at the fallen Stormer leader—from behind, and he doesn’t see
me coming. I’m almost positive Gard sees me, but he doesn’t give my
presence away with his eyes, just continues to protect himself from
my father’s slashing sword.

I’ve got him in my sights, closer, closer,
closer, on silent feet. I close my eyes and—

—lower my head, flexing every muscle in my
body in preparation for the impact, and—

—crash into the backs of his knees, sweeping
him off his feet, only then opening my eyes to find my arms wrapped
around his legs, his body flush with the drenched sand.

His sword scattered off to the side.

And Gard’s sword at his neck.

Father’s face is awash with the paleness of
surprise, just a flicker as he stares at me in bewilderment. But
the flash is gone in an instant, replaced by an anger so red and so
fierce I wonder if his head will explode. He spits in my face, but
he has so little moisture in his mouth that I can’t feel it amidst
the rainfall. “You’re no son of mine,” he says.

“If only that were true, Father,” I say. “If
only.”

I stand, turn toward the remains of the
battle, which is finally winding down, with most warriors on both
sides exhausted, injured, shooting glances in our direction, trying
to figure out what’s happened, which leader won the day.

“STOP!” I scream.

Any heads that were facing away from me turn,
the Soaker girl who saved my life included. Her eyebrows lift in
surprise, as if I’m the last person she expected to see back up on
the beach.

“Stop,” I say more calmly. “Enough. Admiral
Jones is defeated. We must fight no more. The time for war is over.
He”—I point at my father—“is to blame.”

My father goes to say something, but Gard
warns him off by poking him in the skin, drawing a trickle of
blood.

“He’s lied to us all,” I say, my voice
gaining strength with each honest word. “He
created
our
hatred for the Stormers, because he lives for violence, for
control, for war. When really it’s him and him alone that has
brought us here. He trades bags of dried seaweed for the children
of fire country, only to force them into battle, only to be
slaughtered by his own men. You should be ashamed of yourselves. We
all should.”

There’s silence, and then a laugh.

My head twists back to my father, whose
entire body is convulsing with laughter, oblivious to his neck
bouncing against Gard’s sword, which continues to slice into him,
spilling blood from ragged breaks in his skin.

He looks completely mad.

“Shut it or you die,” Gard says.

“No,” I say. “Let him speak.” Gard’s eyes
bore into me, but then he pulls the tip of his blade back an
inch.

My father’s laughter fades. “So what?” he
says. “So what if I live for this—for all of this? So what if I get
my slaves for worthless bags of sea plants? So what? It’s my life,
I’ll do what I want.”

One of the Heater warriors—the girl with the
sword—steps forward, by my side. “What the scorch did you say ’bout
them bags of sea plants?”

The admiral laughs again. “Goff, Roan—your
leaders are fools! They perpetuate the child slave trade to save
their own lives from the disease, but guess what? There was no
magical Cure! They were just worthless plants! None of us are safe
from the Scurve. None of us. Which is why none of this matters.
What we do, what side we’re on, who we kill. We’ll all die in the
end anyway.”

“Kill him,” I say. He has nothing left to
offer us. He’s caused so much death, drove my mother to take her
own life. “Kill him,” I repeat.

My father snarls at me. “You don’t give the
commands! You’re nothing! You never were! You couldn’t even save
your mother’s life.”

No more. I will hear no more. Calmly, I draw
a knife from my belt, step forward, and drive it into his
heart.

Although the lightning is distant now, the
storm moving past us, I’m as shocked as if every bolt is running
through my body.
He came back. The boy came back.

No, he did more than that. Much, much more.
He helped end the battle, killed his father. Showed he’s not like
him at all—not the enemy.

He leaves the knife stuck in his father’s
chest, stands, looks away, out to sea, toward one of the ships.

Still riding Passion, I approach him and he
shrinks back slightly, eyeing my sword warily.

“I’m sorry about before, I didn’t—”

“It’s okay,” he says quickly. “I
understand.”

I nod. That’s all I need. “Go to see her—the
girl you were talking about. We’re okay now.”

If I chased him with my sword he wouldn’t go
any faster. He sprints away, down the beach, shoving a boat with
all his might and clambering on board, his arms working the paddle
wildly.

I look away from him, take in the carnage
around me. Bodies—so many bodies—broken and bleeding, many of them
not moving, some of them groaning and rolling about in agony.
Realizing the battle is over, the Healers who rode behind the
Riders are creeping from the forest, picking their way through the
bodies, tending to those that still have life in them.

Gard says, “That was unexpected.”

I shrug. “My father was right,” I say. “As
always.”

Gard looks at me strangely, but doesn’t
respond.

“Is it really over?” I ask.

“There is always evil in the world, Sadie.
But for now, I think it’s over.”

The pain in my hip screams out, but I ignore
it, urging Passion toward the plains, where I last saw Remy.

Skye and Siena wave at me to stop, but it’s
Passion they should be heralding, because she halts without any
command from me. “Where’s that wooloo boy goin’?” Skye asks,
pointing out at the water. I turn and follow her gaze. Lieutenant
Jones is halfway to the ship that’s missing the wind-catcher, the
one where all the activity was when we first arrived.