Written By Heather Arnold
Illustrated By Marian Crane
45 pages, comb bound, cardstock covers
She topped the last rise, and stumbled at the sight that awaited her.
Invaders.
That isn't possible!
She plummetted down, head over heels, getting a mouthful of grit.
Rian was on her feet a moment after she stopped rolling. There was fire everywhere, people shouting, crying, screaming. The smoke choked her, made her eyes water, and turned the menacing figures on horseback into ghost shapes out of a nightmare. Out of the demonic cloud came Kail, sword in hand.
"Rian! RUN! They've--"
And that was as far as he got.
She saw the raider appear behind him a split second before he swung his sword at her brother. It was too late to warn Kail, too late to cry out to him to save himself. That beautiful, living light was extinguished from her brother's crystal blue eyes as she watched. He was dead before he hit the ground.
And she felt him die. She felt the pain of Kail's death, thought she would die of it herself. She doubled over, somehow staying on her feet. Then, the man came for her.
His sword was red with Kail's blood.
Or was it the blood of some other member of her family? Oh, please, Wind Lords, not Kail, not my brother!
She could see his body behind the raider, so much smaller than she remembered. It can't be Kail. He loves life too much to die.
But it was Kail whose scarlet-stained body lay there, slowly disappearing in the smoke, and it was his murderer that advanced on her now with something more than hatred and greed on his nightmare face. She couldn't move. He knocked her down and pinned her cloak to the ground with his sword, and then she started to struggle, trying to get past the pain that reverberated inside her. She couldn't free herself. He pinned her arms down, and she was helpless.
Lamb to the slaughter.
NO!
She struggled, strained to think of something she could use as a weapon, anything, but her sling was useless, and the dagger that Kail had taught her to use was in her room. It might as well have been miles away. There had to be something. She tried to scream, but the only sound that came out was a thin whimper of fear. Then, she saw his horrible, leering face and pushed as hard as she could.
And the man exploded back from her, bursting into flames. Fire swept through the grass in a path away from her. The man screamed, the most horrible sound she had ever heard, and she felt his pain as if it was her own.
She grasped the hilt of his sword, uncertain, in the agony, what to do with it, but the red-hot metal seared her hands. She pulled away, tears streaming down her face, and ripped her cloak free instead. Then, she was on her feet, running away into the shelter of the forest.
