War Storm (Red Queen) - Victoria Aveyard Page 0,113

So many dead it makes my head spin.

And I’m sending her right back into danger.

“Thanks for doing this, Cam,” I murmur, my voice almost inaudible. As if a simple thank-you means anything.

With a grin, she glances over her shoulder at me. Her teeth gleam in the weak light of our lanterns. In spite of the dire circumstances, I’ve never seen her smile like she does tonight.

“As if you could get this done without me,” she whispers back, almost teasing. “But don’t thank me, Barrow. I’ve been dreaming about a day like this since I was a little girl. New Town is not going to know what bleeding hit it.”

“No, it will not,” I mutter to myself, thinking of the morning ahead of us.

Fear and nerves carve me up, as they did on the flight from the Rift. We’re about to storm the tech slum she was born in, a place hemmed in by walls and guards and decades of oppression.

And we’re not the only assault on the move. Miles to the east, the rest of our coalition is heading toward Harbor Bay

The Rift soldiers will attack from the sea, with the Laris fleet ready on the wing. Tiberias and Farley are in the tunnels by now, ready to lead the main bulk of the army up into the city. I try to picture the three-pronged assault in my mind. It’s nothing like any battle I’ve survived before. Neither is this, separated from the fire prince, from Farley. From so many dear to me. At least I have faithful Kilorn still resolute at my side. There is some symmetry here, I guess. We return to who we were before. Creeping in alleys, clad in dirty clothes. Our faces obscured and unfamiliar. Shadows. Rats.

Rats with sharper teeth and longer claws.

“These trees are rotting,” Cameron says aloud, drawing a hand down the black bark of a barrier tree. One of thousands in this cursed forest. Created by greenwardens, the trees were meant to trap and filter out pollution from the slum. They ring all the tech towns, marching up to their walls. “Whoever grew these doesn’t care to maintain them. Whatever they’re supposed to do, they aren’t really doing it anymore.

“They think they’re just poisoning us,” she continues, her voice seething. “They’re poisoning themselves too.”

We move under the cover of Haven shadows and the muffling ability of Farrah, one of my old newblood recruits from the Notch. Instead of disguising our fifty troops individually, they mask us as a group, throwing their abilities over us like a blanket. We’re invisible and inaudible to anyone outside their circle of influence, able to pass in plain sight. We can see and hear one another, but no one a few yards away can see or hear us.

Premier Davidson steps softly behind me, flanked by his own guards. The vast majority of the Montfort army will assault Harbor Bay, but a few key newbloods are here with him. They don’t have their usual uniforms. Even Ella, Tyton, and Rafe have their hair covered, wrapped in scarves or a hat. They all blend in with the rest of us, dressed in discards—rags, hastily patched jackets and threadbare pants. All tech-issue clothing, courtesy of the Whistles network smugglers in Harbor Bay. I wonder if a thief passed them on. A girl with no other choice than to steal. No other way to survive.

The air thickens as we approach, and more than a few of us cough, gagging on the taste of smoke and fumes. The sickly sweet scent of gasoline settles over us, as if the dirt beneath our feet is saturated with it. Overhead, the greasy red leaves of the barrier trees tremble in a slight wind. Even in darkness, they look like blood.

“Mare.” Kilorn nudges my arm. “Wall’s coming up,” he says in warning.

I can only nod in thanks, squinting through the trees. Indeed the squat, thick walls of New Town loom ahead. Not as impressive as the diamondglass of a royal palace, or as intimidating as the high stone walls of a Silver city. But still an obstacle to overcome.

Leadership suits Cameron, though she’ll never admit it. She squares her shoulders as we approach, drawing herself up to her towering height. I wonder if she’s even turned sixteen yet. No teenager should be as calm, collected, and fearless as she is.

“Watch your feet,” she hisses over my head, letting the message pass through our ranks. With a click she switches on her dim, red flashlight. The