The Wastelands (Part II of the Runner Series)

Chapter 18

The bright sun makes it difficult to see clearly. I strain to make out the features of our attackers, squinting into the glare cast by Phoenix. There are roughly a dozen people spread out around us, menacing with their polished steel swords aimed at our throats.

We are frozen in place for either a moment or an eternity. A familiar voice sounds at the edges of my hearing and I whip my head around, searching for its source.

"Kay!"

I blink forcefully, relief spreading through my body. "It's us!" I yell back at Will. "Lower your weapons!"

The swords don't waiver. "Are you hurt?"

"No, I'm fine!" I glance towards Jaron, noting the way his leather-wrapped knuckles furl over the hilt of his deadly staff. On my other side Luca has his bow notched and pointed at Will. "Gods' sake." Exasperation gets the better of me. "Will everyone please relax?"

Will gives a signal and the City soldiers finally bring down their swords. A few seconds later the Wasters do the same, straightening out of their attack positions but remaining wary.

I ignore the nervous shuffling around me and tear across the sand towards the outskirts of the circle. Will sheaths his sword, catching me as I fling myself at him, lifting me bodily up and holding me tightly against his thick chest. My heart is in my throat as I clutch at him, my arms knotted around the back of his neck.

"Gods, I was so scared." His husky voice murmurs next to my ear before he draws back and kisses me, his hands buried deeply in my knotted hair.

When we come apart he rests his forehead against mine. I can feel the slightest tremor in his shoulders and whisper a quiet assurance to him. "It's all right. We're all right."

He inhales heavily and almost instantly composes himself, drawing up to his full height and looking over my head at the gathered Wasters and Miners.

Jaron steps forward, making a point of keeping his spear in hand, albeit lowered.

"You are the commander." It isn't a question.

"I am." Will releases me and moves towards the centre of the group. "Commander Will Cain, at your service." He extends a hand to Jaron, his posture ramrod straight and formal.

There is a tense moment as Jaron studies Will's outstretched palm. I fight the urge to roll my eyes, knowing that every one of Jaron's moves is as careful as Will's own. This extended pause is merely another deliberate tactic by the Waster chief.

He finally dains to reach forward and clasp Will's hand. They draw apart, remaining eye-to-eye as they consider one another. I glance around the circle, realizing that every Waster and Miner man and woman present are forcefully rigid, never looking away from the scene.

"Commander. I am Jaron, Chief of Camp Pic dil Cir. I am here to discuss the terms for meeting with your Queen." Jaron finally speaks and I don't bother trying to keep my face straight, instead smiling widely at his words.

If Will is taken-aback he hides it well. "I am pleased to offer them." He glances around the dusty hilltop. "I regret that I can't offer you a place to sit."

"This suits me fine." Jaron's sentence overlaps Will's and I notice a twinge of indignation cross Will's features. Jaron smirks slightly, widening his stance and looking every inch as though he was born of this desert.

"As you wish." Will raises his chin. "As a guest of the Queen you will be permitted an escort of your own choosing." He glances over Jaron's shoulder at the rest of the Wasters. "This appears to be adequate."

"We will bring our weapons." Jaron jumps ahead, one brow raised as he awaits Will's response.

Will's cheek twitches ever-so-imperceptibly. "That is permissible."