Page 48 of Barbarian Daddies

Once we reach the base of the hills, however, all ten of us present can smell it. Death. Blood congealed on the ground somewhere at the top. And a familiar scent. I bolt before everybody else as I run up the hill and zigzag between the wild plum trees until I find him. My heart stops as I suck in a deep breath and quickly look around.

“No,” I whisper, staring at my cousin’s eyes, glassy and wide open, affixed to the sky and devoid of life. He’s been dead for at least a couple of days, his skin so pale, his lips almost black.

Maur and Oyon catch up first, followed by the rest of our tracking crew. I hear someone gagging but don’t turn around. I can’t blame them. I’d gag, too, if I weren’t so worried about Cynthia. Maur and I sense that she’s alive, but as long as we can’t find her, we’re on edge.

“His throat,” Oyon says, approaching the body with slow and careful movements. “A small knife did this. One blow. He bled out in seconds. He didn’t suffer.”

“Where the fuck is she?” Maur snarls, his hands balled into fists. “And what the fuck were they doing out here?”

Oyon gives me a troubled look, then points at the base of the tree. “She sat here,” he says, nostrils flaring. “She was scared, Kai. Terrified. The scent she left behind, her sweat, I can still smell it. Two days later, and I can still smell it. She was scared out of her mind. Bound and left to sit here. And look,” he bends down to show us more tracks. “Those are Dahlen’s knees in the ground. His knees, I’m telling you.”

“What are you trying to say, kid?” I ask him, not yet ready to accept the gruesome possibility, even though I can see it on everyone’s faces—including Maur’s. We’re all thinking it at this point.

“I think Cynthia was Dahlen’s prisoner,” Oyon mumbles, barely able to meet my gaze. “Why else would she be bound? Why else would he drag her across so many miles and so far away from our territory? Maur has a point. He could’ve taken her up the river, not out here.”

Maur gasps, his eyes widening as the pieces of the puzzle start fitting together in ways neither of us had ever wanted to even imagine. “The traitor,” he whispers. “Kai, think about it for a second.”

“The Sky Tribe knew we were coming to Sapphire City. They’ve picked up on our positions before, during other missions. Always one step ahead of us somehow,” I say, nodding slowly.

“We thought Dahlen froze when they ambushed us outside the northern gate,” Maur replies, his lips twisting with disgust. “He was just standing still so the Sky Tribe wouldn’t shoot him, too. And all those times he went missing, where do you think he went?”

We had assumed he was maybe still shell shocked from the ambush. What if Dahlen was just pretending while continuing to betray us?

“How else would the Sky Tribe have known to hit our council spot? And our territory? That was a precise and targeted attack. Our military barracks. Our silos. Cynthia’s study and lab,” I say, following my brother’s reasoning.

“And he grabbed Cynthia to take her back to Sapphire City,” Maur says. “He didn’t think she would escape the first time. I mean, we were just as surprised to see her running toward us like that as he was.”

“He was in on it with the Sky Tribe,” Oyon says, and the others in our crew offer subtle nods of agreement, anger and disappointment drawing deep shadows across their faces. “He went after Cynthia as soon as the jets came in. It was timed with unsettling precision, and these tracks keep telling me she wasn’t free, that she didn’t want to be here.”

“Then who killed him?” Maur asks, nodding at the body. “Do you see any other tracks around here? I certainly don’t.”

Oyon nods and starts following another set down the hill. “This is Cynthia. Dahlen’s blood was on her, dripping. See it?”

“Yes,” I reply.

“She ran down this way,” Oyon replies. “We could follow them as far as they take us.”

“Where will they take us, though?” I ask.

He looks ahead, squinting and flaring his nostrils again. “Shit.”

“What?” Maur grunts, already on high alert.

“The second hill over there. See that flame?” Oyon points, and we follow his red gaze. “That’s a Sky Tribe camp. A small one. I count about ten of them.”

“There’s twelve of us,” one of the other fighters in our crew says. Salim has always been bolder and eager to take on the enemy, even if he stood alone against them. “We can handle them.”

Maur thinks about it for a moment, crossing his arms as he stares at Cynthia’s tracks. “They probably have laser weapons. This can’t be a direct attack.”

“No, but we have the darkness of night on our side, and we’re far better accustomed to the wilderness than those city slickers,” Salim shoots back with a cold grin.

It’s a fair assessment and has been historically proven, at least since the civil war started. We’ve always had a sharp advantage against the Sky Tribe out in the field, particularly in wooded areas and uneven terrain. And Salim is right about another thing. The darkness of the night. We’re Fire Tribe folks. We may serve the fire, but we move best in the darkness. The shadows are our friends.

Thirty minutes later, eight of the Sky Tribe soldiers lay dead on top of the second hill, the campfire still burning and casting its orange glow across their bloodied faces. We’re keeping the last two alive since we couldn’t find Cynthia anywhere.

Oyon comes back from a quick tour of the hilltop while Maur and Salim tie the prisoners’ wrists with leather strings, tight enough to make them wince in pain.

“There’s no trace of her anywhere,” Oyon says. “They never had her.”

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