Page 49 of The Traitor Queen (The Bridge Kingdom 2)

“Leave it.” Lara pushed past him, unfastening the animal’s saddlebags, handing them over before removing her own. Untacking both animals, she gave them several strokes on the neck before shouldering her bags.

“We’re going to die out here,” he said to her.

Instead of answering, Lara held up a hand to shield her eyes as she stared into the distance. “Not yet. Now walk.”

Hours passed, every step an act of will, every breath painful. But Lara didn’t falter, and he refused to be the first to break.

They climbed a dune that seemed to reach to the sky, a mountain of sand that slid and moved beneath Aren’s feet, causing him to stumble. To fall. To climb back up again only to repeat the process.

He was so thirsty. Thirsty in a way that he hadn’t known possible, the need for water so terrible that panic was creeping in, like being caught underwater and desperately needing to breathe. Except this torture seemed to go on forever.

Reaching the top of the dune, he stopped next to Lara, panting for breath, knowing he should look back to see how close their pursuers were but unable to summon the energy for it.

And then he lifted his head and saw what had caused Lara to pause in the first place.

The wall of sand had to be a thousand feet high, lightning crackling through it, the thunder echoing across the dunes moments later.

Lara didn’t move, staring into the storm as if mesmerized, the wind sending her hair trailing out in a golden cloud. Tearing his gaze from her, Aren watched the eight men on camels in the distance, their arms flapping as they beat their mounts to greater speed.

“Lara!” His mouth was dry as bone. “Can the camels outrun the storm?”

She turned around to regard the rapidly approaching force. “That’s what they’re banking on. Catching or killing us, then racing toward the edge where they’ll take cover in tents until it blows over.”

“Then we fight them and take their animals.”

And maybe, if they weren’t both on the brink of dying of dehydration and exhaustion, it would be a plan. But they had no arrows left to whittle down the ranks, and even pulling his weapon from its sheath took almost all the strength Aren had. It wasn’t a fight they’d win.

And from the grim expression on Lara’s face, she knew it. “The storm needs to fight this battle for us.” Breaking into a jog, she headed into the nightmare of wind and sand.

26

Lara

It was their only chance.

Most would have thought it a mirage or wishful thinking, but she’d seen the shiver of green in the distance, some sixth sense ingrained in her from a life lived in the desert. All they had to do was race the storm.

Her head pounded, a steady percussion that rivaled the growing volume of the thunder, but still she pushed onward, dragging Aren with her.

He stumbled and fell, but she helped him up, pulling his arm over her shoulder even though her knees were barely holding her own weight. A backward glance revealed riders coming ever closer.

What had her father offered them? What reward, what riches, were worth them riding toward potential death in order to claim two lives?

Or maybe it wasn’t a reward.

Maybe it was fear of what her father would do to them if they failed to bring back her and Aren’s heads.

The winds were rising, filling the air with sand, and Lara stopped to adjust her scarf so that it was tight over her mouth and ears and did the same to Aren, but with him, she covered his eyes. “Don’t let go of me,” she shouted, then led him onward.

Her eyes stung from sand and grit, her body incapable of making tears to flush them.

But she could smell it. Water. Salvation.

They were so close.

She heard the shouts of her father’s men even as the sun disappeared from the sky, concealed by the rapid swirl of sand. Minutes. They had minutes until the storm was on them and all sight was lost.

They had to keep going.

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