Page 98 of Kingmakers, Year One

Hedeon Gray, by contrast, is treating it like the Battle of Stalingrad. He’s shaping up to be an excellent second-in-command, having shaken off the disappointment of not being Captain himself.

“I don’t care if you’re tired!” he bellows at a couple of Freshman Accountants. “Get the fuck back out there and guard that flag!”

It’s good to have him supervising the defense, because as the game is wearing on, the Juniors are getting increasingly nasty intheir attacks. There’s no need for violence—all you’ve got to do is snag someone’s tail and they’re off to jail. But the Juniors are deliberately hitting us with tackles and elbows to the face in an attempt to intimidate and demoralize.

Hedeon and his brother Silas, without actually speaking to each other, are ramping up our defenses in response, Hedeon’s organizing groups of Freshmen to hide and attack from the side as the Juniors rush our flag, and Silas jumps into an all-out brawl with two of the most violent Juniors.

I’ve got to keep an eye on Silas, because he’s brutal, without thought or strategy. He bowled over one of our own teammates while attacking one of Pippa’s Seniors, spraining the kid’s ankle so bad that he had to hobble off to the infirmary.

His face is expressionless as he watches our injured player depart the field.

Hedeon locks eyes with me and gives one slow shake of his head, before returning to the task at hand.

I sent Ares out with my best attack squad to steal the flag from the Sophomores, but now that I’ve seen the silver smoke, I know that won’t do any good—their flag has already been captured. Hopefully Ares saw it as well, and he’s turned his efforts to some other purpose.

If the Sophomores are out, technically we’ve already secured our position in the next round. We’re just battling for bragging rights. But there’s also the little matter of my bet with Calvin Caccia. I don’t fancy coming down to breakfast naked tomorrow.

I’ve got to get that fucking flag—either the Junior’s or the Senior’s.

“You got this covered?” I say to Hedeon.

“Yeah.” He nods. “Nobody’s laying a hand on our flag.”

I look around at my remaining Freshmen. My army is getting thin. Too many have been captured and we haven’t managed to break them out again.

My options are limited. I consider Matteo Ragusa, then discard that idea—he’s clumsy as fuck, and more likely to trip me than help me. Then I see Jules Turgenev, bleeding heavily from the nose thanks to one of Calvin’s goons.

“Jules,” I shout. “You’re with me.”

Jules falls into place next to me, running easily over the uneven ground. He’s filthy with dirt and blood, but that hasn’t wiped the haughty expression off his face, like he’s a prince forced to consort with commoners.

“Where are we going?” he demands.

I hesitate.

The Juniors are the obvious target. I know exactly where their flag is located—on top of a rocky outcropping, as far back in their territory as possible.

By contrast, Pippa has been moving her flag around continuously. She never keeps in the same spot for more than ten or twenty minutes, which means it isn’t always fully protected, but it’s difficult to plan an attack ahead of time without knowing where it will be.

The Junior’s flag is heavily protected. I only have Jules with me. We’re unlikely to make it through alone. Plus, Ares probably switched his strategy to attack the Juniors once he saw that the Sophomores weren’t an option anymore.

“We’re going to the river bottom,” I tell Jules.

He raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything.

The Seniors got the best territory—the area surrounding the one and only river on the island, which cuts through one of the most heavily forested areas. It suits Pippa’s strategy of stealth and mobility.

“How do you expect to find the flag?” Jules asks me.

“By getting a better vantage point.” I nod toward a wind-blasted pine.

Reluctantly, Jules follows after me as I hoist myself up into the tree. We climb higher and higher, the trunk swaying alarmingly under our combined weight. Once we’re as far up as we can go without risking the increasingly thin branches breaking away beneath us, I wedge myself against the trunk and peer around, looking for signs of movement.

Jules seats himself likewise, shaking his shaggy blond hair out of his face and pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.

“At least there’s time for a smoke.” He extracts one long cigarette from the pack and holds it to his lips in the European way, pinched between thumb and forefinger.

I pluck it out of his hand before he can light it.

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