The Ravaged World (Book 2 of the Exiles Series)

One: Magnus

I wake to footsteps.

It's the middle of the night, stars dotting the cloudless black sky and glowing like eyes in the night. The air is cool and calm and smells of pine sap. That would be because I'm sleeping in a pine tree--not my home of choice, by any means, but in this place I'm a wanted fugitive and my actual home is currently out of commission. I have cuts all over my body, as a result of the barbs that drive into my skin every time I climb up here. And there are other injuries--deep inside, ones that may never heal. At least, not while I'm here, reminders of what I did surrounding me.

Noises at night are normal, so I'm not at all frightened when I hear movement in the trees. My eyes flutter open and I sit up slowly, almost leisurely. Probably just a spider, I reason. Not that spiders aren't scary. Here, they're mammoth, much bigger than a human and twice as vicious. But I'm no target. I'm high up, covered. Nothing will get me here.

Just as I decide it's ok to go back to sleep, I hear more noises. Voices. Muffled by distance or brush or just quiet, or option D, all of the above. At this time of night, voices are an uncommon circumstance. Even those that have only been here one day are smart enough to know to NEVER, EVER to go in the woods at night--that is, if you want to survive. No one survives spider attacks. Well, I can think of an exception. Someone I haven't seen for only a few weeks but feel it's been many, many years. I watched her board the boat without me today, alone and cold and serious. Injured arm to her chest. My doing.

The voices are coming closer, I can tell. I start to separate them from one another. I hear a deep voice, a guy's, and low voice, but not as low as the man's, a woman's. I crane forward on my perch, not believing what I'm hearing. Only kids live here. What the hell is going on?

"He should be somewhere around here," the woman says. She has a strange voice, harsh but quiet. I hear heavy boots scrape the ground, along with a quiet, metallic ping. Oh, my God. Even though no one's told me, I know these people are coming for me. I know because I hear the responding ping through my veins, making my blood run cold. The tracker.

Only a day or two before I was sent here, my dad (well, not really my dad, one of his minions) put a tracker in me. He pulled me out of my room (me, ten years old, very much defiant and clawing and kicking,) and sent me to a dank room in the basement to...yeah. Pretty rough treatment. I think I was knocked out.

"Shut up, shut up," I tell the tracker from between gritted teeth. The continuous noise is driving me crazy. The ping has now increased to a throb inside my arm so annoying that I feel like I can't move. The foolish, optimistic part of me wishes that they find me just so the noise will stop.

Suddenly I hear the footsteps stop nearby. The only sound I can hear is the tracker, and blood pounding through my skull. "He should be up here," the guy says.

As loud as I dare, I peer down from my hiding place, although I instantly realize what a terrible idea that is. The people are right below me, and hear the tree rustle as I move. As I look down, the search party looks up, and I'm staring into gray eyes as cold and hard as steel.

I shrink back, trying to remain hidden. So it was my year to go back, I think. Darn. Because I know that that means I have to go back there--the place I despise more than this wretched island. At least here I have freedom, there I am a slave.

"Found him," the female voice, laced with mockery, crowes. She smiles, tight lipped and squarish.

"I have to admit," she remarks loudly, like she owns this whole place. Like there's nothing to be afraid of. "I would've thought it'd be harder to find you." The guy, gun in hand, looks up with a hard look that says, I will use this thing if I have to.