Of Dreams and Rust (23 page)

I lift my head, dread squeezing in my chest. “That does not sound very hopeful.”

He leans back, bracing himself with his palm on the rock next to my hip. His fingers skim a lock of loose hair from my cheek. “I don't need to understand everything to be certain of some things. Of one thing in particular.”

I look into his face, at the freckles across his nose and cheeks, the rough golden red stubble on his jaw, the shadow of fatigue beneath his eyes, and I know he is right. I don't need to understand everything about Melik, where he comes from and how he thinks, to know that he is worthy and fine and good. But I might need to understand more than I do now to make him happy. “What if it is not enough?”

His jaw tightens. “I am not sure it is worth wondering about ‘what if.' ” He brushes grit off his hands and looks out at the canyon again. “It seems your decision to return to the east is already made, despite what you said to me in the wedding tent.”

I swallow back the hurt that is clamped like fingers on my throat. “I promised in exchange for Bo's help.”

He is quiet for a few moments. “Did you do it for us, then? Or because you wanted to?”

That is a complicated question. My cheeks burn as I consider it.

“Bo did not look good,” Melik says suddenly. “This journey has been very hard on him.” He leaves the rest hanging in the air between us:
But he did it for you.

“I don't think he would want me to talk to you about it.” I wish I could tell him all my worries. But Bo sounded so angry and embarrassed just now, and I can only imagine what he would think if he knew I was talking with Melik about the frailty of Bo's body.

“Fair enough,” Melik murmurs. “At least he has you.”

I touch his arm. “You are very gracious for understanding and accepting that.”

His eyes flare as he looks down at my hand. “I accept it because I must.” Every word is a slice. “Do not mistake my silence for peace.”

I pull my hand away. “What should I mistake it for?”

Like he often does when he is angry with me, Melik takes my face in his hands and weaves his fingers into my hair so that I cannot escape the heat of his gaze. “
Yorh zhasev
, Wen,” he whispers harshly.

“What does that mean?” I ask in a choked voice.

His expression softens, lines of pain crinkling around his eyes. “Telling you now would hurt too much.”

“I'm not trying to hurt you.” I don't know how to bridge this canyon that has formed between us. I don't even know how to start.

“I know.” He kisses my forehead. “You have only ever looked after my well-being. Sometimes I think it would be easier if you hadn't.”

He sounds so regretful that I want to cry. “But you have done the same for me,” I say, my voice cracking.

He touches my forehead with his. “That will not change, no matter the decision you have made.” His eyes bore into mine. “And no matter how much it tears at my heart.”

I blink at him. Though he is speaking Itanyai, he might as well be speaking Noor for how well I understand it. What words can I choose to throw a rope from ledge to ledge? Which ones will help me crawl over the chasm and reach the other side? I cannot promise him I won't leave. I cannot ask him if he is my husband—that seems like something I should know, and I am afraid of revealing my ignorance. I put my palm over the center of his chest and say the only other thing that comes to me. “Your heart is very important to me. I don't want it to tear.”

He lets out a huff of laughter. “Do you have medicine for that?” I kiss his cheek, and he sighs as my lips touch his skin. The corner of his mouth curls with mischievous amusement that almost covers the sadness. “That is a good start.”

“You need a higher dose?” I kiss his lips and taste the salt from the hike, the tea he drank in front of the fire, the taste of Melik, one I want to savor. I cannot help my smile as I ask, “How about that?”

“I'm afraid the ailment is very severe.” His nose nudges mine as he leans to kiss me again. Beneath my palms the ridge vibrates, and a few small stones roll over my fingers. Melik raises his head, his smile gone. “Did you feel that?”

We sit in silence for only a fraction of a second before it happens again, a deep tremor in the ground. We stare at each other, and when we feel it a third time, I know. “They're here.”

Chapter

“STAY NEAR THE canyon wall and get behind the boulders,” Melik says to me just before he lets me go and sprints up the trail. I follow him, unable to keep up with his long strides. The thumps are numerous now, the footfalls of enormous machines. Ahead of me the ridge is a swarm of activity. Men and women cluster behind any cover they can find, lying on their bellies and aiming rifles at the eastern opening of the bowl. Given the armor on those machines, I can only imagine they are planning to aim for the top gunners, the least protected members of the crew.

Somehow Melik has also acquired a few heavy weapons, tripod-mounted machine guns positioned at the eastern end of the ridge. Next to them crews gather on an outcropping with the crates of dirt and the pry bars meant to overturn them. I veer away from the gathering fighters to find Bo. He'll need me to help him get his frames on, and possibly to talk him out of going below. In all the bustle of making camp, there was no further discussion of sending anyone to go with him. I scramble up the rocks and slide in the dirt as I round the boulder. My blanket still bears the dark, wet mark from where his sweaty body lay, but Bo and all his metal body parts are gone.

The thunderous footsteps of the war machines are close enough to hear now, even over the constant shouts from the Noor fighters. I can hear the fear and strain, but also the determination. I emerge from behind the boulder to see Melik, a rifle slung over his shoulder, running from the heavy guns to the dirt crew. He slaps each of them on the back. His voice, as always, is authoritative and full of confidence, even though I can see the worry in his eyes. Suddenly adoration for him bursts the bounds of my heart and spills into all my empty spaces. He knows this might be the last few minutes of his life, of all their lives, and he is using his time to give others hope, to make them believe victory is possible. He will never stop fighting and will never bow down.

And I am in love with him. Simple and certain, complete and devastating. I don't understand everything, but this . . . this is something I know in my bones.

“I love you, Melik,” I whisper, needing to hear it out loud, knowing I may never get to say it to him. But like him, I will hope. And like him, I will fight for that moment.

I edge myself into the shelter of a cluster of boulders just above the trail, clutching my medical pack. I plan my paths, the different ways I can safely get to the injured, the places I can try to drag them to get them out of danger. My palms flatten on the rock as I hear a growing cry, over and over again, spreading in a ripple from person to person down the ridge:
“Muraonlan! Muraonlan!”

They are pointing at the eastern opening of the bowl. I squint at the place where the canyon walls narrow and catch a dark shadow flicker on the rock walls. My breath catches as I see what's casting it. The forelegs come into view first, deep gray with soot and dust, stomping steadily. Nearly three stories high, they arch above the fat body of the machine, where the crew nestles inside. The thing hisses as it moves along, spewing steam from the rear of its abdomen. Atop its back sits the top gunner, surrounded by a low wall of metal armor. He wears a helmet that resembles Bo's.

The Noor heavy machine guns swing toward the first spider, but Melik shouts for them to stop, to hold fire, probably until it is closer. But that means they have to let it get closer, and that is a nightmare of a thought. And so is knowing that Bo is probably on the ground, watching them approach. I dart from my shelter and peer over the ledge. Something beige moves behind an outcropping of rock down there, and that must be him. I want to scream at him to climb up, to get out of the way.

Explosions deafen me as a wave of heat rolls across the back of my neck. I flatten myself to the ground as Melik's blasting powder shatters the rocks at the eastern opening of the bowl, causing a small avalanche of stone. Rocks pour down the steep slope, followed by the clanging and crashing of earth on metal. Faltering engine noises make the Noor cheer, but then the war machines begin to climb over the debris, the one in front reaching the summit of rubble in a few steps. Its gears grind over rock and dust, but this is not enough to stop it.

Gunfire drowns out the noise as the first war machine steps into the bowl section of the canyon. It moves to the right, away from our ridge, to make room for the one behind it, which is already climbing over the rock spill. Melik was correct—there appear to be four machines, all twice as large as I imagined, with thick jointed legs and wide-barreled guns. The Noor on the ridge fire on the metal creatures as all of them enter the bowl, and at first the machines are slow to respond. Bullets pock the legs and backs of the spiders but do not penetrate. But then the machine closest to our position speeds up suddenly, and as it passes, its top gunner swings his weapon up and fires.

Rock explodes along the ridge, followed by wretched screams. I throw myself behind my boulder shelter as the machine walks by, showering the canyon wall with bullets as big as my hands. I peer out to see the dirt crates overturn on top of the spider even as its gunner sends another volley at the ledge. The air fills with a smoky, dusty haze, but the shrieks of wounded Noor penetrate it easily. I slide to the eastern side of my shelter and hover behind the rocks as I try to see through the fog to the owners of the voices.

As I wonder if one of them is Melik.

The Noor heavy guns boom and echo, one of them focused on the machine right below the ridge, the one I can hear grinding and chugging. The dirt trap appears to have given it some trouble, slowing it down, and now the Noor rain bullets on it. A deep pop followed by billowing white smoke tells me the engine is likely gone, and the cheers that follow probably mean one of the machines is down for good. But as soon as the jubilation starts, it is over. Bullets slam into the ridge all around me, creating stone shrapnel that pelts my back and head. Another machine is attacking. I pull my pack up to pad the back of my head and press myself against the rock as the Noor heavy guns go silent.

When I focus on the spot, I see bodies, bleeding and twitching.

I do not hesitate. Even as rifles fire and shrapnel flies, I race down the trail, sliding my pack down my arm as I do. I keep jogging, ducking behind boulders whenever I can, pulling strips of bandage from the satchel. Pausing at a spot less than twenty feet from the wounded gunners, I take a deep breath. If I die, I hope it will be quick.

I lunge into the open, blinking as bullets hit the rock next to me and send a cloud of stone dust down on me. My stumbling steps carry me nearly all the way, and then I dive to my hands and knees and crawl. The first fighter I reach has taken a bullet to the leg.
“Yorh zhaosteyardie,”
I huff, wrenching my bandage around his thigh and tying it tight. I grab a pinch of my coagulating blend and push it into his mouth, then press my canteen to his lips, wishing I knew how to tell him to drink. His brown eyes, streaming tears, meet mine. “You'll be fine,” I coo to him, stroking his hair.

Dimly I am aware of the world exploding around me, but I pay it little mind. My fear fades and so does the noise. My ears roar with my own heartbeat as I squat behind him and hook my shoulders beneath his arms. I drag him backward as he pushes with his other leg, understanding that I am trying to get him out of danger. Together we manage to get him behind a row of large rocks. I press his hands to his wound and hold them there when he tries to pull back, wearing a grimace of agony. “Pressure,” I say, and even though I'm sure he doesn't understand the word, he nods.

I kneel by the rock and locate my next patient, a woman with her long brown hair in a dozen braids spread across her shoulders. It's the woman whose steps set my pace on the hike to this war zone. She is bleeding from wounds in her left arm and her throat but is still trying to crawl toward me. I dart into the open and coil my arm around her. We half run, half crawl back to the rocks, where I bandage her arm and pack her neck wound with cloth. My first patient holds her hand as she lets out wet screams. I leave them to hold each other, but when I peer from behind the rocks, I gasp. The Noor heavy guns are firing again—because Melik is pulling the trigger.