The Fifth City by Liz Delton

two.
    “You owe me another sword,” Ven said, grinning at him.  Rolfe chuckled and rolled his eyes, checking his own sword for damage.  He was already supplying the Defenders the wooden training swords for the war effort.
    Ven told Rolfe to join another sparring group, so he could make his rounds through the rest of the trainees.  He walked through the field and offered suggestions to some of the other fighting pairs.  Overall, Ven had seen drastic improvement since they had begun training, but knowing how to wield a sword was only one step in getting the Defenders ready for war.
    Toward the back of the field, the Gatekeepers and Riders were aiming their bows at a line of straw targets.  The seasoned fighters were already skilled in swordplay and had moved on to archery.
    As he wandered over to the shooting line, Ven spotted Flint lining up his shot, feet planted wide and the bow drawn taught.  Ven watched as the arrow sliced through the air and sunk into the target, just above the center mark.
    Ven let out a low whistle as he came near.  Flint was already nocking another arrow.
    “Good one,” Ven remarked, making sure to stay back from the shooting line that was marked in the muddy grass.
    Flint flicked his head back to acknowledge Ven before returning his attention to the target.  He pulled the string back to his cheek, fingernails pressing into the flesh, and aimed.  He narrowed his eyes at the straw circle, and the black paint that had been dabbed in the center.  His fingers released.  The arrow nestled itself directly under the first one.
    The other archers down the line methodically emptied their quivers, sinking their arrows into the straw, with the occasional shaft burying itself in the field after missing its target.  Once they were done, Flint gave a loud whistle through his teeth and the archers went to collect their arrows.
    Ven grabbed Flint’s arm before he could make it down field.
    “We need to talk,” Ven muttered.
    Flint called to the archer at the next target, “Charwood!  You mind?” he pointed at his target.
    After wrenching one of his own arrows out of the grass, Charwood waved and went on collecting for both targets.
    “What happened?” Flint demanded.
    Ven sighed. “Nothing—much—but, Vince was up on the parapet last night, and around dawn, he saw a big group of Scouts heading north.”
    Flint bit his lip, and Ven continued in a low voice.
    “I don’t know if they’re heading to Lightcity, but Greyling’s got something going—”
    “What do you want to do?” Flint asked seriously.
    This was why Ven had come to the Riftcity native first.
    “I think we should take some Defenders and go to Lightcity.  Sylvia’s there and—”
    “But Gero gave her a month, it’s only been two weeks,” he reasoned.
    Ven closed his eyes briefly.  “I know, but what if Greyling’s making a move?” he pressed.
    The other archers were returning to the line, quivers full.
    “Give it ‘til Winter’s End,” Flint said.  “And we’ll go.”
    Ven nodded as the archers began shooting again at Flint’s whistled command.
    It was sound advice, he knew.
    But he went back to the sparring rings and picked up a sturdy new sword, looking for a fight.

 

    Fifteen
     
    Neve whipped her head around at a sudden movement, her heart suddenly pounding in her throat; but it was just a treemouse darting back up a tree, carrying a prize acorn in its mouth.
    She closed her eyes for a second and took a few deep breaths before walking on, her nerves having reached their limit already.
    It had been hours since the men from Seascape had dropped her from the boat onto shore, leaving her alone to face the wilds.
    She had flat out run across the stone beach where she and Sylvia had been so strangely tortured, not caring if the men from the boat were watching.  She never wanted to experience that kind of pain again.
    Sylvia had told her to go to Meadowcity, so she had considered the position of the sun