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Rush’s ears rang as he dragged himself away from the flames. Searing heat washed over him, agitating his already burning skin. As he crawled toward a huddle of forming crewmen, his feigned courage crumbled, leaving only a terrified boy. When he reached the other survivors, he curled into a ball and fought to steady his breathing.
Roaring flames replaced the rhythmic pound of collinades. Cries of pain and distress rose from the crew instead of their shouts of triumph only minutes before. At that moment, he welcomed the thought of his jail cell in New Atlantis. Anything would be better than the battle.
A firm hand snagged the collar of Rush’s shirt and hoisted him upright. “What do you think you’re doing, soldier?” A bearded man with silver hair glared at him. His single eye burned with the same fire that consumed the top deck—a patch covered the other eye. “This battle is far from over. Seize your wits and listen up.” The man released him, and Rush swayed on his legs. He inhaled deeply and nodded.
The eye patch man shouted orders to account for every crewman. A brief tally revealed all but two to be alive. The other powder monkeys had been in the room when it exploded. Some survivors had been burned badly; others appeared unscathed.
With everyone gathered, the man glanced around and seemed to weigh his options. Rush followed his gaze until it stopped on the parachutes hanging from the bulkhead. He kicked a boot at the cannonball hole, widening it enough for a person to fit through. “Parachutes! Everyone, find a chute and prepare to jump. This ship is going to burn, and we’ll burn with it if we don’t hurry. We may make it out alive if we meet up with the ground forces.”
Rush’s heart pounded in his ears as he grabbed a parachute. He donned it on his back, pulling the straps tight, and joined the mass of men jumping out of the hole one by one. They fell like raindrops, plummeting for a few heartbeats before the silken parachute opened and carried them down. His stomach did a flip. Being up high was one thing. But jumping from an airship hundreds of feet in the air? He watched the parachutes open and float into an ocean of soldiers and gunshots.
Voices turned his attention upward, and he peered through the flames at the top of the stairs.
He locked eyes with a rebel.
Rush froze.
The soldier stood beside other raiders two decks above, their forms twisting in the rippling air. He squinted through the fire, brandishing a cutlass. His mouth moved when he spotted Rush, shouting unintelligible words.
Rush lurched forward. “Go! Go! The rebels are on board!”
A few crewmen hung back, but they fought to jump first after hearing his words. They disappeared in moments, leaving only Rush in the deck. With a last glimpse over his shoulder, he swallowed, placed his hand on the release strap, and jumped over the edge.
His hair and clothes thrashed from the air surging around him; a steady roar drowned out the sounds of battle. After a few moments, he yanked the release strap. Breaths felt as long as days as he plunged downward. His stomach dropped to his toes while his heart lept into his throat. Had he grabbed a faulty pack? Already, his mind depicted scenes of smashing against the rocks. But the dark blue chute eventually unfurled, and he jolted against the straps, legs dangling over empty air. Hundreds of feet above the ground, his only hold on life was a cloth dome.
With a glance around, he spotted only the troopships unloading their cargo—his parachute blocked all but the edges of the warships above. Two dozen crewmen floated under his feet. Ant-sized soldiers flooded into the ravine and unleashed deadly puffs of smoke.
As the ground neared foot by sluggish foot, Rush grew bored. The stress of battle flowed from his limbs, and he sagged under the weight of fatigue. What was he supposed to do now? He had no training in infantry combat, no instructions to attack. The one-eyed man only said to meet the ground forces. Most crewmen had already landed and scrambled off to join the fight.
Part of him cowered in fear. The defense of Hast was an afternoon tea party compared to this. Rockets, cannonballs, and ballista bolts littered the sky. Explosions rocked the very roots of the mountains. Bodies fell on both sides as musket balls flew.
But Lewis’ face returned to his mind, and he remembered his brother’s courage in the face of impossible odds. If God didn’t mean for him to avenge his brother, he could at least honor him by dying for the same cause.
With the battlefield stretching before him, Rush traced his route across the rocks.
Joining the infantry in open combat would be useless. The Arcians had already alighted and charged down the river path, forming into lines and sending volleys of lead into the rebel ranks. He could only hope to sneak behind enemy lines and cause whatever damage was possible.
His feet touched solid ground, and he shrugged off the parachute pack. The stream gurgled beside him, the sheer ravine walls rising on either side. He had landed in a narrow stretch—the canyon widened ahead, the stream pointing to the battle. Setting his jaw, he shot across the rocks.
Something fizzed overhead; he looked up as he ran.
A rocket dove toward him, leaving behind it a trail of white.
He dove, covering his head with his hands and squeezing his eyes shut. Rocks scraped his arms as he slid.
Boom.
Stones pelted his neck and hands. Sulfur clogged the air; he coughed. Pulse pounding in his ringing ears, he pulled himself to his feet and stumbled forward through the smoke. He shook his head, clearing his vision, and found shelter behind a boulder. Without a weapon, Rush could only watch the armies rip each other apart.
After several volleys, the gunfire ceased. Both sides sprinted toward each other with bayonets fixed and mouths shouting battle cries. The orderly lines dwindled to a melee of stabbing and grappling. The boy shrunk away, seeing some men he trained beside collapsing with fatal wounds. When would this ever end? Crisp mountain air bit through his ragged coat. He shivered.
As the sun neared its peak, the Arcians broke through the rebel line and sent them into a retreat. Blue-coated soldiers charged after the fleeing parties, splintering into skirmishes along the ravine. Rush rose—this was his chance. With a quick check in all directions, he darted beside the river through the disarray.
Cannon fire still rattled the earth, launching iron balls into the airship battle that still raged among the clouds. A musket ball whizzed past his ear; he tripped on a rock and dodged a fleeing party of rebels.
Just ahead, the stream gushed into the cave. Panic shoved him across the final distance, and he plunged into the darkness.
Inside, sounds of battle mixed in a blend like one of Rush’s kitchen creations. Shouts, gunshots, explosions, and rushing water—they echoed and bounced around to create an unintelligible clamor.
Evidently, some Arcians had already breached this location—bodies from both sides littered the way and dyed the river red. More sounds of conflict came from within.
He followed the tunnel’s twist and turns beside the river until it flowed into an underground lake. A path ran around the water’s edge to a plain of stone littered with lean-tos and tents. It was a whole underground city with paths between the buildings and fires forgotten in the fight
But one sight stopped Rush in his tracks.
His mouth dropped open as his eyes landed on Ward.
The man slumped against the cave wall, and at first sight, he appeared dead. His shirt was blood-soaked, and he remained motionless.
Rush could only stand and stare. This man had influenced his every action for months; now he lay dying before him.
Further watching revealed he wasn’t quite dead. He groaned and turned, placing his hand on the wound in his stomach.
He was still alive.
Fury filled Rush. He clenched his teeth and saw for the thousandth time this man loose a musket ball into his brother. The same fate would soon capture Ward. Something deep inside Rush found grim satisfaction in that.
But the job was not finished yet. Ward’s fellow soldiers might return and help him. Rush edged closer, his steps death-silent, toward the musket that lay beside Ward. His breaths came slowly. Everything faded but the man and the dark deed he had done.
His eyes fixed on Ward, Rush snatched the musket from beside him. He checked—it was already loaded.
He trained the barrel on Ward’s chest.
His finger inched toward the trigger.
It wrapped around the lever, and scores of memories flashed before his eyes.
Olive stood behind him in the kitchen of his house. Vance stood on the Embark, pouring his heart out. A dragon screamed toward him, talons outstretched. A book opened below a dripping tree.
Love your enemies.
Rush squeezed his eyes shut, and his finger twitched. He had been handed the perfect opportunity. Why couldn’t he just do it already?
Bless them that curse you.
His breath quickened, and he urged his hands to act. But they wouldn’t.
Do good to them that hate you.
Rush pried his eyes open to see Ward staring back. He looked through half-closed eyelids and saw the gun in Rush’s hand. Despair filled his face. He dropped his head against the rock. “Do it.”
The barrel drifted lower. A war raged inside Rush’s chest, infinitely more fierce than the one outside. One voice said, He deserves it. But another said, So do you. Rush had been forgiven, too. By Vance, by his parents, by God. Why shouldn’t Ward have that same grace?
His emotions protested. But…he killed Lewis.
The second voice answered, Love your enemies.
The gun slipped from his hands and clattered on the stone.
Ward studied Rush as the boy crouched and reached toward him. Rush lifted Ward’s shirt, sucking in air at the wound in his stomach. If someone didn’t help him at once, this man would die.
Rush kneeled and held his forehead. This man had ruined him. He had shot his brother, devastated his town. He deserved death if anyone ever did.
Overcome evil with good.
Rush slumped beside the raider, dropping his head against the cave wall. He knew what he had to do. He had always known, but now it screamed at him like a diving dragon.
The decision had been made already. No excuse, no reasoning could release him from what he knew. He pulled himself upright and looked at Ward in the eyes. “You…” He swallowed. His sight blurred with tears. “You killed my brother.”
Ward only stared at him.
Rush reached for his own sleeve and ripped part of it off. Then he darted to the lake, soaked the cloth, and returned to Ward. He wiped away the blood and cleaned the wound before wrapping the cloth around Ward’s stomach. Before long, it also showed spots of red. Rush had to get a doctor.
Ward coughed up blood. “Water…”
The Rush scanned for something to hold water. Ward moved his arm toward a flask at his side and dropped his head back against the stone.
Rush snatched the flask and ran to the lake. He dunked the bottle, air bubbles rising to the surface, and carried it to Ward. Water ran down the sides and wet his hands.
Ward lifted his hand, and Rush gave him the bottle. The man guzzled its contents, but coughs sent most dribbling down his chin. “Thank you.” His voice was hoarse.
After drinking more, Ward leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. Rush jerked away. Was he about to die? After all this? But his chest still rose and fell at a regular rhythm, and with fuller breaths than before. The boy’s limited knowledge helped, but he still needed a doctor.
Rush cast a last glance at him before racing back out of the cave. He followed the path beside the river, passing several Arcians and raiders running toward the scene of battle. They payed him no mind.
The trek lasted forever, but finally, the pure light of day leaked into the tunnel’s darkness. He rounded a bend and stumbled out under a sky at war.
His eyes landed on a rebel airship seconds before its hull blasted open, sending the rockets stored inside into a fiery frenzy. They fled in every direction, striking the ground, exploding mid-air, or rupturing on another airship. Flames engulfed the side and crept upward to the balloon.
Two Arcian ships crawled with fire; the others rained rockets on the rebel airships. Around boulders, pockets of infantry clashed for control of the cannons.
Rush stumbled back a step. His breaths quickened. Another cannon boom vibrated in his chest. That reminded him of Ward, which reminded him of his mission to get a doctor.
A doctor!
He edged along the battle’s outskirts, eyes peeled for any makeshift medic tent. There, beside the landed troopships, men lay on sheets in rows as a medic darted between them. Rush sprinted toward him.
“Medic! Medic!” His yells caught the attention of the thin man ahead. His head shot up and he scampered to where Rush stood.
“Are you alright? Where are you wounded?”
Rush shook his head. Blood covered his hands and shirt, but it wasn’t his. “No, not me. Follow.” He spun around and picked his way across the war-torn canyon.
The medic turned to another man. “Take over for me!” He nodded; the medic ran after Rush. They both breathed hard by the time they returned to the underground city. While they came closer to Ward, the medic glanced around with wide eyes. “So this is where they’ve been living all along…”
Rush took his hand and pulled him forward. “There’s no time! He’s almost gone.”
The medic nodded firmly and took his gaze from the camp. He fell in behind Rush and wormed between the homes.
At least until he saw Ward.
They came to a stop just before the rebel, who, Rush noted, still breathed. The medic fell to his knees and withdrew a pouch of supplies, but hesitated. “I don’t know what side you’re on, boy, but this is…this is my enemy. You know that, right?”
Rush could only stare at Ward, at the longer time between each breath. “I…I know. I used to hate him, too. Now please, he’s dying.”
The medic looked from Ward to Rush and back before setting to work. Rush crouched beside him and watched as the medic removed the bandage and treated the wound. His tools went to work. Rush’s panic finally eased, and he dropped against the cave wall, staring at the camp beyond.
A few minutes later, the man stood and stowed his equipment. “I’ve done all I can. Now you’d just better pray he makes it out of this one alive. That’s a nasty wound.”
Rush rubbed his chest and smiled. “Thank you.”
He nodded again, darting back to the tunnel, back outside.
Rush remained by his side for hours. He watched the wound, watched for bleeding, refilled the water flask as many times as Ward wanted. Arcians and rebels ran past on the other side of the camp, shouting, shooting.
Eventually, the boy nodded off and slumped against the stone. The noise of battle woke him many times, and he would check on Ward before drifting off again.
One time, when he awoke, the noises had stopped. No gunshots or shouts came from the cave. No more booms shook the world. But the tired, bloodied face of a worn captain looked at him. Vance smiled.
“There you are. We thought you might have died, but Cal said he saw you near the lake.” Then his face twisted with confusion. “Is this a friend of yours?”
Rush pushed himself to his feet and looked down at Ward. His face finally seemed peaceful, resting, rather than pained. “He killed my brother.”
Silence. Rush looked up at Vance. His mouth hung ajar. “This is him? This is the man?”
Rush nodded.
“And you…you helped him? You got a medic.”
Rush looked down. He couldn’t put in words what that battle inside him had been like. It was the hardest thing he had ever done, but also the best. After he dropped the gun, all the tension and bitterness and hate washed away. His heart ached for Lewis, but it did for Ward as well. He hated the evil that drove this man to live as an outlaw. Rush hadn’t been that different from him so long ago.
But how would Vance understand that? How could he explain? So he only said, “Yes.”
He looked from Rush to Ward. He had never shown surprise before, but now he did. His air of authority dropped away, revealing a young man who had seen far too much darkness for his age. And then Rush truly saw him for what he was—just a man. He, too, had been hurt. He, too, had seen death and pain. But he learned to give it up. Why didn’t Rush realize all this sooner?
The captain straightened, picking back up his professionalism and covering his wounds. “Well. I’ll tell Cal to treat him with the utmost care. You need to come with me. You are still under court sentence, and we have work for you to do.”
Rush nodded. He stepped toward the captain but cast one last look at Ward. He slept peacefully.
If he thirst, give him drink.
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