3. Knee-Deep in Deceit
Knee-Deep in Deceit
“Zora Ravenal.” The Marshal tapped a sword across the shoulder of my new armor, her cape flowing behind her as she knighted me.
I stood on a platform at the front of the military hangar. Hundreds of soldiers stood before me, the desert warm at my back.
“The Democratic Commonwealth is yours to defend,” the Marshal said with gravitas. “The freedom of Westmere from the Draconis Empire’s tyranny is now your responsibility.” A heavy metal helmet was placed on my head. “So you are knighted, Mage.”
Soldiers fell to their knees in unison, bowing as they lifted their right pointer fingers—the symbol that Antichthon’s first democracy was still standing. Their hopeful faces were burned into my brain. No one grimaced as they looked up at my scars. Not anymore.
The pomp of the knighting ceremony still played on repeat in my mind a week later.
Now, I blinked rapidly in the hot wind, trying desperately to stop overthinking. Needing to get outside of my head and back into my body, I focused on the dizzying heights.
Chop—Chop—Chop—Chop.
Matte black helicopter blades spun overhead. This was my fifth training flight this week, practice for the Storm Wars and a new way to try to forget my quest. It had been two weeks since the Iron Ritual, and I was beginning to think I’d never be warm again.
Life had settled into a routine:
1.Morning run or flight: Sprint through the dunes. Try not to think about dire scorpions until I collapse and can’t remember how doomed I am. Or, more preferably, jump face-first from a helicopter.
2.Training at high noon: Try, and fail, to conjure water magic while the Marshal whispers blistering insults about me, my ancestors, and my bird.
3.Evenings: Lie exhausted in bed and feel sorry for myself. Eat dinner with the other Knight Mages, the twins, and hide my tears from them.
“MIST FAILURE INCOMING,” the Admiral bellowed over the intercom.
Our helicopter kept flying straight up—a steep ascent—into the violet sky. In the first light of dawn, silver streaks of magic shimmered, dancing in the atmosphere. I stood in the open doorway, balancing as the smell of fuel filled my lungs.
The worst part of my schedule was about to get infinitely worse. I had storm magic, but I could barely use it.
On top of that, the Marshal had quietly informed me yesterday, after I’d stared at a cup of water with my arm outstretched for three hours straight (nothing happened), that tomorrow my “quest” would start.
Today was tomorrow.
I stared numbly down at the sand, leaning forward into the wind.
“Me scared of heights!” Squire squawked as he shook on my shoulder, hiding behind my long braid. Apparently he’d developed a crippling fear of heights—five seconds ago. Who am I to judge his fears? Old god knew I struggled with my own.
I craned my neck, eyes watering as the temperature dropped. The desert flashed below us: orange sand rolled in endless peaks and troughs. Sunlight attacked, impossibly bright, cutting through the dark lenses of my goggles.
I miss Mom, and my snowboard, and the frosted Barren Forest of the North.
“T-MINUS TEN SECONDS.”
Dry air whistled as my scarlet shorts and sleeveless shirt whipped vigorously against my exposed limbs.
Chop—Chop—
Long blue tendrils of the Mist rose up from the ground, chasing after us. A loud groan echoed, and the vehicle shuddered as the Mist attacked the helicopter’s engine.
The propellers stalled.
We jerked violently, and my stomach rose like I’d flipped on my snowboard. Laughter burst from my lips.
“ABORT!” the Admiral shouted as he leaped from the open door with his arms and legs spread wide. The dramatics of Midlanders never cease to amaze.
The engine seized.
We banked to the right, the nose tipping down, straight toward the sand. “ABORT, KNIGHT MAGE,” crackled disjointedly over the failing intercom. “KNIGHT, YOU MUST ABORT THE—”
I jumped forward with all my might, flipping straight out of the helicopter, tumbling through the open air with my knees tucked up. Squire plummeted with me, screeching.
Rule of survival: Have a terrifying amount of fun.
Eyes closed, I rolled head over heels. WHOOSH. Behind me, the helicopter deployed its oversized parachute, airbags exploding across the bottom as metal groaned, dramatically slowing its descent.
“ZORA!” Squire screeched into my ear, shattering the moment.
“Fly, darling.” I pried him off my shoulder and gently tossed him up into the air. Squire plummeted like a rock beside me, spinning helplessly. He shrieked, magic sparkling around his beak.
“Fly!” I demonstrated, flapping my arms as I twisted and spun.
Squire unfurled his wings, catching air. I hurtled past him. He spun with happiness, then pulled into a nosedive and followed.
The great separator in nature: When you see danger, do you run to it or away from it? Sand in the wind burned my skin as exhilaration sparked in my soul. Laughing, I spun faster. Why was I ever afraid?
I saluted the Admiral as I spiraled joyfully through the whistling air. Lucky, lucky girl. Squire grabbed my braid with his beak and yanked as if trying to stop my descent.
Closer.
Closer.
Closer.
I could do anything I wanted. The Emperor will never catch me. I was too blessed to die. He will learn. You didn’t mess with a girl who had fate on her side.
I deployed my parachute, and it yanked me upward. My spine ached, and the straps across my chest and thighs dug deep. No time left to direct the momentum. My stomach flipped, weightless, and then gravity won. I slammed down, rolling through the dune, ropes tangling behind me.
Unlike powdery snow, sand fought back. Coughing, I lay spread wide.
Squire settled on my forehead, his talons pricking my skin. “You alive?” he chirped aggressively. He’d never quite gotten the hang of proper grammar usage.
“No, I’m a ghost.” I laughed.
Squire hooted, “A wraith!”
Just like that, my eyes burned with the pressure of unshed tears.
Mom loved retelling the ancient fairy tales about immortal mermaids, witches, vampires, elves, keepers of the forest, wraiths, fae, and shifters with two hearts—one animal and one human.
She said the epic romances about soulmates could teach us a lot about ourselves.
The ground vibrated as the helicopter bounced and slid to a stop a hundred feet away, surprisingly upright. The blue fog of the Mist dissipated from the now inert engine.
Two pilots clad in black climbed out as a dozen dire horses ridden by soldiers in scarlet uniforms galloped over.
Layers of muscles bunched as the steeds’ long legs easily navigated the sands, and their fangs flashed opal.
Silver plumed from their noses as they breathed the magic in the atmosphere.
The cavalry dismounted and attached chains to the helicopter.
“HAUL.”
Whips cracked. The dire horses bolted, dragging the chopper back to the hangar. Other horses trotted out past them, fitted with empty tankards in sled beds. They were off to retrieve fuel from the stockpiles in the abandoned refineries out west.
Groaning, I stumbled to my feet, joints popping.
Carved lines bisected the dune, the only indication that a two-headed snake had recently slithered past.
Cobalt fangs flashed, silver magic wafting from its orifice as eight legs crawled beside my foot. I screamed. The giant dire tarantula was twice the size of my boot.
My feet tangled in the chute lines as I fell backward, kicking. Squire screeched. I scrambled away on all fours, the arachnid disappearing into the sand. Revolted, I hurried away. Spiders are not animals. They’re the spawn of monsters, and no one can convince me otherwise.
Nauseous from the encounter with the arachnid, I trudged through the thick sand, back toward the hangar of the Scorpion Hole.
Outside the entrance, two soldiers dressed in silver armor jousted—my fellow Knight Mages, the famous magical twins.
Crack. Their long poles collided as they rode past each other, a variation of the crest of the Commonwealth: a Knight jousting at a golden-scaled, fire-breathing dragon.
I waved.
Ella pulled up her Knight visor, calling out my name as she raised her hand. Axel saluted me mockingly. Six years ago, they helped me during the Great Siege of the North, and now we were once again reunited, this time living together.
Half lost in memories, I returned my gear.
Inside the hangar, swords clanged together as scarlet soldiers thrust and parried.
Another group climbed ropes attached to the ceiling.
Hundreds more stomped in formation, broadswords strapped across their backs.
They bowed to me deeply, reverence on their faces.
Shadow Swords nodded to me shallowly, their expressions indifferent.
Farther off in the corner behind the horse stalls sat a small mailroom for soldiers to send messages to loved ones. A row of blue-feathered homing dire falcons waited on the windowsill, silver wafting from their beaks.
Dozens of helicopters and fighter jets sat parked on wooden pallets.
The jets had fusion-propulsion engines, the rotating silver mechanism sleek and shockingly large.
The reusable helicopters were ready to be hauled out for training exercises, but the planes were saved for battle.
There was no technology left that could prevent a jet from crashing once it broke the sound barrier.
At the far end of the hangar, seven missiles stood taller than people. Red button remote launchers and long metal arrows with tiny wires on the arrowheads—target designators—sat in a locked glass box on the wall. They look just like I remember.
Rumor had it, even larger missiles were located somewhere nearby, as well as a deadly atomic weapon rigged up to something important, and it was the only reason why the Empire hadn’t massacred all of us.
The Atomic Paradox: Would the atomic bomb explode first as the Mist attacked? Or would the Mist attack in the split second after it was activated, rendering it inert before it exploded?
I shivered.