Halo (Blood and Fire Series (A Young Adult Dystopian Series)) (12 page)

FREETOWN

I hear Freetown before I see it. A surging, pumping, throbbing sound punctuated by the call of individual voices. Some laugh, some shout, some cheer. Jada abandons us about fifteen minutes later. She freezes in the darkness, one paw lifted, ears still as she listens. Ryka, nothing more than a shadowy outline in front of me, his hair turned to silver by the stark moonlight, lets out a sharp, low whistle and hisses, “Go home, Jada.”

She obeys and bolts, leaving the two of us to make our slow, stumbling progress towards the town. It’s not long before I start seeing the burning orange glow of fires, and red and green lights dancing up ahead. Ryka halts and rounds on me, quicker than I like.

“The knife,” he says, holding out his hand.

The lights up ahead are reflected in the deep pools of his dark eyes, making the colour hard and flat. He shoves Cai’s holostick towards me and I take it and slip it into my back pocket before he can snatch it back.
 
I don’t even get the chance to give him the knife; he steps forward until there can’t be any more than six inches between us, and he reaches down and draws it from my belt. It disappears back into the corresponding loop on his belt where it belongs.

“You must really love that knife,” I say. There are at least eight weapons on his belt, so it’s odd that he got so bent out of shape for just one. It’s pretty, certainly, but it isn’t the most impressive piece of metalwork he’s wearing.

Ryka pulls his lips into a tight line and his breath blows hot against my cheek. “I don’t love knives,” he says, his voice stiff. “A knife is a tool
―
a utensil. It’s used for defending yourself when you have to. I love being
alive
.”

My first thought is that he seems overly angry by my statement, but I don’t say anything. It won’t get me anywhere, and right now I have bigger things to worry about.

Freetown.

Ryka stares at me a moment more, way too close for comfort, and then steps back. “Come on. There might be some hot food left if we’re lucky.” He pushes forward and I follow a little slower than before. How am I going to be received here? I have no clue what these people will be like or what they know about the Sanctuary. If everyone here thinks like Ryka, I might not get the warmest of welcomes. And why
would
they welcome me? I’m an escaped member of a restrictive society, without any money or skill, other than in killing, of course, and let’s face it
―
I have nothing to offer them. I’m a burden. A mouth to feed. I shuck off the creeping, uncomfortable sensation just in time for Ryka to breach the boundary of the tree line. And there it is.

The river we’ve been following this whole time stands between us and the bright scar of a town nestled into the valley up ahead. Dark silhouettes make up the skyline, shifting with every gust of air that breathes out across the water. Tents. Thousands of them. Some are tiny and could barely fit two crouched people inside, others so big they look palatial. Even from here it’s obvious they have many rooms and sleeping quarters. In the dark, they’re all a muted brown shade, but I get the feeling that will be different in the daylight.

This isn’t what I was expecting. When Ryka said Freetown was an actual town with twenty thousand people, I assumed there would be buildings. Solid structures. Street lights and actual streets to put them on. There are no streets here, though. Only muddied walkways that weave haphazardly through the seas of flapping material. Hundreds of night fires burn, some dangerously close to the fabric of tattered, worn tents. The ink-black shapes of people flicker and twist around the flames, nothing more than tiny specks from this distance.

Ryka points to a small wooden bridge that spans the river, turned green with moss and lichen at the edges of its rickety nailed planks. “Are you ready?”

“Yes.” I sound pretty convincing, but I know the sad truth. I’m a liar. Shame I can’t trick myself along with Ryka. Regardless of my nerves, I have choices to make about who I want to be now, though, and I don’t want to be a coward. “Where are you going to take me?” I don’t even know that Ryka is going to take me anywhere. He could abandon me as soon as we walk into Freetown. There’s nothing stopping him from doing that, and after all the arguing and face-pulling he’s done since we met, he will probably be glad to see the back of me. He starts walking towards the wooden bridge, more confident now that home is in sight. “To Grandfather Jack,” he says. “He’s in charge here. Along with the priestesses, of course.”

“And people call him Grandfather?”

A dry look passes over Ryka. “They do.”

“But he’s not really their Grandfather, surely?”

“You’re smart for someone who’s done nothing but crush skulls and bite peoples’ ears off their whole life.”

My mouth drops open. “I’ve never bitten anyone’s ears off!”

“Finally! The truth!” Ryka hits the bridge and his boots make a hollow clomping noise as he takes long strides to the other side. The planks of wood feel spongy underfoot. They are probably well past a little maintenance and in need of replacing altogether. I hurry across, trying to dispel the images of falling through the rotten wood and plunging into the water below. My legs are jelly by the time I get to the other side.

Ryka rolls the sleeves down on his shirt and pulls the band from his ponytail so he can re-tie it, capturing the wisps of blond that have escaped. “Whatever you do, don’t tell Jack your little fantasy story, okay? That story doesn’t end well.”

I grit my teeth and consider jamming the knuckle of my bent index finger into his side. That would really hurt, and seeing him squirm would frankly make my day. He stalks off towards the tent line before I can do more than picture it, and I trail along behind him. My hands start to shake as we pass the first haphazardly pitched tents.

Some of their flaps are open, and inside there are families eating and women in long skirts rocking babies to sleep. In others, groups of teenage boys play cards and roughhouse, scrubbing each other’s heads with their knuckles, laughing raucously and shoving one another over. The smell from the night fires is everywhere
―
a bitter, biting constant that should make me panic, but instead seems to calm my nerves. Intermingling with it are a thousand other smells, some more pleasant than others. Cloves, cinnamon, and anise flood my senses, forming a map of memories on my tongue; spiced meats and sugary scents, unwashed bodies and soiled clothing, butter and yeast and excrement
―
all of these are underpinned by the crisp, clean smell from the forest, which wafts on the breeze. It cleanses the palate, wiping away everything before it.

Every time we pass a fire where people gather around it, Ryka inclines his head and grunts out a greeting. More often than not the people crouching around the flames rise as he passes, averting their eyes politely. Some of them don’t, though. Some of them jeer and grin at him, laughing when he makes some joking remark about beating them bloody at training in the morning.

I watch everything. There’s a strong possibility that I’m not going to be able to stay here, and I want to be able to find my way back to the bridge if I have to make a quick exit. Ryka leads me through a maze of tents, occasionally skating on the mud where the pathway turns muddy. Wooden planks have been placed down so people can navigate the boggiest areas, but my boots are still clogged with stinking brown sludge. I knock them against one another as I walk, trying to scrape some of it away, but it only makes it worse. The foul mud doesn’t seem to bother Ryka. He waves at a group of girls that pass us; they wear long, flowing skirts like the women I saw back in the tents, with colourful shirts and scarves swirling around them as they move. They must have small bells sewn into the material, because they tinkle musically as they pass, giving me hard stares from their beautiful, kohled eyes.

I duck my head and keep close to Ryka, unsure of how I’m supposed to react to such open curiosity. We walk for a long time before Ryka takes yet another sharp turn and we find ourselves in an open marketplace. The noise is furious, like the rushing of the river when it was at its maddest, the undulating pitch and fall of countless voices all talking at once.

There have to be at least a hundred stalls, all organised in a grid pattern, with a snaking walkway that winds through them. Leather bags and belts, clothes, silver bangles and bracelets with tiny bells attached to them, small wooden instruments that people press up to their lips and play as we walk by, food merchants and drinks stalls. For every stall of one kind, however, there are at least two knife stalls. Every single kind of knife under the sun. I could spend hours here running my fingers across sharp blades, lost in the glimmer of bright metal.

I almost lose Ryka three times before we’re half way across the market place. The confusion of bodies, all pushing and pulling and pressing together, is overwhelming. He glances over his shoulder, no doubt expecting me to be getting trampled, and frowns. “Here.” He holds out his hand.

I take it, scowling. If I don’t, I’m getting lost and that’s for certain. His hand is so much bigger than mine, and strong. He could probably crush my finger bones right now if he really wanted to. Hopefully he won’t. I get pulled through the crowds, casting my eyes to floor so I don’t have to catch the irritated expressions on people’s faces as I stumble into them and trip over their feet. There is nowhere like this in the Sanctuary. I’ve never borne witness to so many people all gathered in one place, laughing and talking and
feeling
so openly. Not even in the Colosseum. There, the crowds are huge, sure, but it is mainly made up of Therin. They only discuss the bets they’ve placed on behalf of their Trues, or talk reservedly amongst themselves, discussing tactics and fighting favourites. They’re not frantic or harried like everyone here. The chaos of it makes my legs wobble.

“We have to hurry,” Ryka tells me. He sounds a little annoyed that I’m not moving as fast as he would like, but something in his tone makes me think he’s at least trying to be nicer.

“Why?”

“Because,” he says, “the man we’re going to see holds court until after dinner and then he goes home. And he really doesn’t like to bothered by people at home.”

“Oh.”

Ryka pauses abruptly and I walk into his back, my nose pressing up against his shirt. He smells like sweat and Jada and something fresh and green. A crowd of people have halted right in front of him to peruse some of the stalls selling fried food. He growls low in his throat and pushes roughly through them. I manage to struggle through after him in the gap he makes before it closes, and I see the end of the market up ahead.

“Maybe I should go see him in the morning?” I suggest.

“Not an option.”

“Why?”

“Because then I’ll have to figure out what to do with you until morning, and I seriously don’t have the energy for that.”

Of course. I was right: he can’t wait to be rid of me. “Fine,” I say, “I don’t want to be stuck with you longer than necessary, either.”

Ryka turns and throws a casual smile over his shoulder, his face lit up by the final stalls that sell multi-coloured candles and storm lanterns. “Oh, come on. I’m charming and pleasant to be around. You, on the other hand
―
”

I dig my thumb into his back, hard, without thinking. “You’re lucky I need you right now.”

“Or what?”

“Or you’d find yourself on the floor, trying to worm your way out of another chokehold is what.”

The crowd breaks and Ryka picks up the pace, pulling me forward beyond the marketplace. We’re in a small square, thick with mud, which is bordered on three sides by huge white canvas tents. Their guy ropes are staked out as close to their structures as possible, presumably to stop people from tripping over them. Ryka whips around and pulls me to him. The muscles in his body are no less tense, but his scowl seems to have disappeared. Maybe it isn’t a permanent feature, after all. “Look, can you
―
can you just not tell anyone about that. I’ve never fought a girl before. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

I fold my arms across my chest and stare at him. “As I recall, I was the one doing the hurting.”

“I
know
,” he says. He scrubs his hand over his face, blowing out an exhausted sigh through his fingers. “Look, any time you want a rematch I’m all for it. Just please
―
don’t go round telling people you cut me. It won’t end well.”

I consider his request, taking into account that he didn’t shout it, or flat out order it of me.
 
“All right. So, it’s not considered manly to be beaten by a girl in Freetown. I won’t breathe a word.”

Ryka nods slowly, not taking his eyes off me. I can tell he’s searching my face, seeing if I am someone who means what they say. I used to see Trues do this to one another all the time. He turns and walks off without taking my hand this time, quickly skirting the back of the tent to our right. When he reaches the corner of the square where the tent finishes, he steps over the tangle of ropes and disappears through gap between them.

I follow, distributing my weight carefully so I don’t fall onto the tensed lines. Ryka waits on the other side, leaning against a steel support that forms part of the entrance to the tent we just walked beside. “Remember what I said,” he tells me. Then he pulls back the mud splattered canvas doorway and vanishes inside.