That afternoon, the temperature rose to a sweltering level. Spring had at last arrived with its warm sun and lengthening days, and huge clouds were building in the sky overhead. Roman watched them brew, knowing they would soon break with a storm.
Sweat dripped down his back, tickling the nape of his neck. His jumpsuit was drenched, sticking to his skin. Shade was scarce in the trenches at this time of day, and he tried to mentally prepare himself to soon be wet and muddy, wading through ankle-deep puddles. His bag, at least, was made of oiled leather, so everything within it should be protected. Because that was all that really mattered to him. The things in his bag and Iris, sitting across from him. Very soon, they would return to Avalon Bluff, and he could finally draw a full breath. He could finally have a moment to relax.
She caught him staring at her.
He was suddenly grateful that speaking was forbidden in this part of the trenches. Or else Iris might have made a comment about the frequency of his gazes.
The wind began to blow.
It whistled over the trenches, but a few threads of air spun downward, and Roman was thankful for the coolness.
That was what he was absently thinking about—his gratitude for the wind, Iris, his future articles, Iris, how much longer until sundown, Iris—when the blasts came, rupturing the quiet, blue-skyed afternoon. The shells screeched in rapid fire, earsplitting, shaking the earth. Roman’s heart shot into his throat as Iris fell off her stool, reflexively cowering on the ground.
This was it.
This was his absolute worst nightmare coming to life.
He lunged across the distance, covering her with his body.
The mortars continued to howl and explode. One after the next after the next. The blasts seemed everlasting, and Roman clenched his eyes shut as clods of soil and splinters of wood began to rain down on him. Iris didn’t move beneath him, and he was worried that he was crushing her when she whimpered.
“It’s all right,” he said, unsure if she could hear him over the din. “Stay down, breathe.”
At last, there came a lull, but the air steamed and the earth seemed to weep.
Roman shifted his weight, easing Iris upright.
She was trembling.
Her eyes were wide and wild as she stared at him. He could lose himself in those hazel eyes, in wanting to calm the fear that blazed within her. But he had never felt so terrified or powerless himself, and he wasn’t sure if he was going to be able to get them both out safely.
Soldiers began to flow around them like a current, preparing rifles and screaming orders. Yet there was such stillness between him and Iris. As if time was stopping.
“Get your bag, Iris,” he said. Calmly, as if they had experienced this together before.
She grabbed the strap of her leather bag. It took her a moment to slip it over her back, her hands were quivering so violently.
Roman thought about her notes. All of the soldiers’ stories she had gathered over the past few days. The horror and the pride and the pain and the sacrifice and the victories.
She had to carry those words back home. She had to live through this so she could type it out. So her words could be carried by train six hundred kilometers to the Inkridden Tribune in the glib city of Oath.
She has to survive this, Roman thought. He didn’t want to live in a world without her and her words.
He exhaled—his breath shook, like the bones in his body—and he looked up to the sky. A wall of smoke was rising, blowing on the western wind. It would soon cover them, and Roman could taste the salt and the metal and the soil in his mouth.
Fire, cover, and move.
“Are they coming?” Iris asked.
She was answered by another heavy round of artillery. She jumped again as the screaming shells exploded closer now, pounding deep into the ground. Before she could cower, Roman was pressing her upright against the wall of the trench, covering her with his body. If anything hurt her, it would have to come through him first. But his mind was racing.
Behind them was the dead man’s zone, which suddenly felt more perilous than he had ever imagined. Roman realized Dacre’s soldiers could be creeping closer to their trenches, using the cover of smoke. They could be creeping like shadows across the scorched grass, rifles in their hands, mere meters away from them.
He envisioned a battle coming to a head; he envisioned fighting. Would Iris run if he ordered her to? Should he let her out of his sight? He envisioned hiding her in a bunker, fleeing through the trenches with her, fueled by white hot fear.
He waited for the bombardment to cease, his hand cupping the back of her neck, keeping her close. His fingers were lost in her hair.
Lieutenant Lark was suddenly shaking sense into him, grabbing Roman’s shoulder.
The artillery continued to scream, cascade, and explode, and he had to shout so they could hear him.
“You both need to retreat to the town! That’s a direct order.”
Roman nodded, relieved to be given a command, and he pulled Iris away from the wall. His fingers wove with hers as he began to lead her through the chaos of the trenches. Over riven wood and mounds of earth and kneeling soldiers. It took Roman a moment to realize some of them were wounded, bowed over in pain. Blood was splattered along the floor planks. Odd pieces of metal flared in the sun.
She began to pull back. “Kitt. Kitt!”
Roman whirled to look at her. His panic was rushing through him like hot oil. “We have to run, Iris.”
“We can’t just leave them like this!” She was screaming, but he could hardly hear her. His ears felt full of wax. His throat felt raw.
“We were given an order,” Roman replied. “You and I … we’re not soldiers, Winnow.”
But he knew the exact emotion she was experiencing. It felt wrong to run. To flee when others were hunkering down, preparing to fight. When men and women were on the ground, moaning in pain. Torn apart by mortar shells, waiting to die with the splintered shine of their bones and the bright red sheen of their blood.
Roman hesitated.
That was when he saw the small round object arcing through the air. At first he thought it was a mere clot of dirt until it landed right behind Iris in the trench with a plink. It spun on the wood for a moment, and Roman stared at it, realizing … realizing it was a …
“Shit!”
He grasped the collar of Iris’s jumpsuit, picking her up as if she were weightless. He spun them around until he had come between her and the hand grenade. The terror tasted sour in his mouth and he realized he was about to heave the peaches and toast he had eaten for breakfast that morning.
How many seconds did they have before that grenade exploded?
Roman propelled Iris forward, one hand on the small of her back, urging her faster, faster around the next bend. They had almost reached it, the place where the trench took a sharp, protective turn. She tripped over one of the planks jutting up from the ground. He took hold of her waist, drawing her up before him, into the smoke and the fading light and the perpetual snap of guns.
There was a click … click … ping behind them as she turned the corner first.
“Iris,” Roman whispered, desperate.
His grip on her tightened just before the explosion blew them apart.
