Page 12 of A Thief to Die For

‘No,’ Levi says as if that’s crazy. ‘I gifted my prize to a Captain, who then put in a good word.’ He shrugs.

Sam and I just stare.

‘I mean, come on,’ he continues. ‘Kingsland is stuck in the middle of nowhere behind a mountain range, surrounded by trees, an army and an electric fence. No one in and barely anyone out, except our own traders. How else am I supposed to see what’s out here? Isn’t that why you guys came?’

‘No,’ I say, unfreezing. ‘We’re here because we’re elite guards who vowed to protect Kingsland, and if we don’t find another source of coal, this is our future.’ I gesture to the desolate land around us.

Kingsland’s always known our luck would run out sooner or later. There are only so many parts you can recover or repair from the old world. But no one anticipated that our backup plan for our failing hydro dam – our coal mine – would be wiped out by a landslide. It’s going to take years to dig it out. ‘We need coal or we’ll lose our electricity. Which means no electric fence – our main source of protection. We can also kiss any amenities goodbye, like working lights, running water and heat.’

‘Yeah. I’m here for that too,’ Levi says, like that should have been obvious.

Glad we’ve established that.

But I guess I can’t fault him for having a side mission. Mine is to find a certain killer.

‘Well …’ Sam says, tilting his head towards the horses. ‘You’re still not an elite guard. So pay your dues.’

The moon is full tonight, which means I can slightly make out the outline of a bush. Or hopefully an enemy if they sneak up on us. I rub my face, tired. We’ve pushed hard to make it through the most dangerous areas quickly, which feels like it’s been the whole way. You never know when you’ll encounter people. It makes me wonder what it means for the future of the Republic. How long can we keep operating this way? And is there really no functioning part of the old world coming to find us – save us – from ourselves?

My eyelids dip, and I rest my eyes for a second. Then I slip into the scene of a murder.

The air is hazy, as if I’m seeing it through a fog. I’m a kid again, standing in a field just beyond Kingsland’s fence and away from my parents. The blue-eyed vagrant with the missing hand stabs my father and my mother lets out a blood-curdling scream –

A hand covers my mouth. ‘Wake up.’

My eyes snap open, hand darting to the knife on my leg.

‘Whoa, whoa, whoa,’ Levi whispers urgently. ‘Relax. There’s a raid happening. A wagon that passed us is getting hit.’

I exhale and lower my blade, shaking off the nightmare, slowly putting his words together. How long was I out?

‘Sam, get up,’ I say, while slinging my bow and quiver over the weapons vest I never took off. When his snores don’t stop, I kick his foot, startling him awake.

I turn to Levi. ‘That’s how you wake somebody without losing a limb.’ Especially since Sam has nightmares of his own to deal with.

‘Noted,’ Levi says.

We leave our horses tied up and run along the bank of the creek, keeping our cover until we see it. Beside a blazing fire, two bandits wrestle with the owner of the wagon.

‘They’re going to kill him,’ Levi whispers.

‘Not our problem,’ Sam mutters.

Of course it’s our problem. ‘Stop,’ I command, revealing myself. With an arrow nocked, I pull my bow tight and approach slowly.

The two raiders still, then resume punching the old man, only faster. They don’t think I can hit them from this distance. They’re wrong. I squint, find my target, and let loose an arrow. With a noisy clang, it slams into the cooking pot hanging over the fire, flipping it. The robbers duck and yelp as they’re splashed by the hot contents.

‘Nice shot,’ Levi mutters.

I ready another arrow, but Sam grunts and stands, probably eager to end this so he can go back to sleep. Terror enters the men’s eyes when they take in the murderous-looking stranger. They scramble off the old man and bolt for their horses.

‘Well, that was easy,’ Levi says, rising to his feet.

‘Ah, many thanks.’ The old wagon owner gasps for breath before pushing unsteadily to his sandalled feet. He’s missing some teeth and there’s a bleeding cut on his cheek. With an airy chuckle, he dusts himself off – he has only one hand.

Just like my father’s murderer – the violent thief who was never found.

The memories that source my nightmares are from when I was four years old, so there’s not a lot to go on. Could it be …? My focus narrows as I catalogue his features. The guy looks ancient, but life is rough out here and appearances can be deceiving. Still, I don’t think my father’s killer would be that old now.