Warchild: Pawn (The Warchild Series) Read Free

reach Elder Lemon’s shanty and run around it, back into
the small alley. It’s clear. There are a number of homes on this side, but not
many. It’s too close to the woods and there’s too little protection from a
stray Republicon or a hungry bear.
    I run. Rain peppers my face and gets
into my eyes, blurring my vision—or maybe it’s the tears. It could be either.
    “Hawkins,” I shout again. If he’s
down by his goats like Farmer Wells said, he’ll be coming this way because it’s
the shortest path back up the hill. I see a streak of lightning, and it’s so
close, the thunder is almost simultaneous. The sharp, piercing crack hurts my
ears, and I duck, on instinct, even though I’m in no immediate danger.
    Not from the weather, anyway.
    I spot Hawkins trudging up the
hillside, panting, lumbering, heaving his body back toward The Center. He must
have heard the commotion because I’ve never seen him move so fast. In a place
and time where everything is shared, Hawkins is the only one that’s overweight
and plump. We all know he eats and hoards whatever he can get his hands on, but
nobody questions it. The GC gets to do what he wants.
    At night, when we’re trying to fall
asleep, Grandfather tells me things he’s not supposed to, bits of history that
could get him expelled from camp. Hawkins, he says, is just like the upper
class from the Olden Days. The rich got richer, and the poor got poorer. Grandfather
says that everything changes, but there’s always a constant. Society, no matter
how big or small, favors those with means, whether it’s earned or taken.
    I run up to Hawkins, and when I try
to stop, I slip in the wet earth and careen into him, bouncing off his great
belly, and we both struggle to stay upright. He grabs my shoulders for
balance—this giant, round man using a skinny, fourteen year old girl for
support—and somehow, we regain our footing.
    “What in the name of—” he says.
    I interrupt him, my words coming out
unsteady, but certain. “Drums. I heard the war rhythm.”
    “No. Where?”
    “They’ve crossed the Ridge.”
    “Are you sure?”
    I nod, but there’s enough hesitation
in my reaction that he asks me again, more forceful this time, repeating the
words hard, punctuating each one with a shake of my shoulders.
    “Are. You. Sure?”
    “Maybe. They’re close.”
    “How many?”
    “I—I don’t know.”
    Anger flashes across his face. “You
didn’t look?”
    “No.”
    “No?”
    “I—no—I ran. I came back, so I could
warn everyone.”
    “You’re a scout , Caroline. That’s
your job. Foolish girl!”
    “I’m—”
    “Go back. Take Brandon with you.”
    “But—”
    “Do your job like you’re supposed to. Find Brandon, and you go! You find out how many there are, and then you report
back.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “I need to know how many. If it’s
just a few of them, a small group, maybe we can hold out. But if it’s bigger,
if they’re sending a whole regiment, then we have to retreat. It won’t matter
how well we can fight. Do you understand?”
    “How will I know the difference?”
    “You’ll know. Go.”
    I don’t wait for any more orders. I
don’t wait to give him a chance to scold me again. I turn and sidestep between
two hovels that were built too close together by the Smiths and the Lowells,
families that have been fighting over the same plot of land for a decade. The twelve-inch
wide strip of land that divides their property has been the source of so many
bloody noses and split lips that the others no longer pay attention.
    Elder Lowell is out in front of his
shack, covering his windows, and Elder Smith is across from him doing the same,
both men trading verbal jabs about who should be doing what and to mind his own
business. They pay no attention to me as I dash between them.
    I run back toward The Center and see
the men of the encampment doing what they can to protect what little they own. They
nail extra scraps of metal against the sides of