The Shattered Mountain Read Online Free PDF Page B

purpose, something to focus her thoughts on. But after? She doesn’t know what
     comes after.
    One little boy tugs on her shirt and asks, “Are we leaving today, Mara?” She can only
     nod wordlessly. She is an overfilled water skin, her sides stretched too thin from
     the pressure, and if she opens her mouth everything will come bursting out—grief,
     rage, despair.
    They made their food stretch longer than they anticipated. Adán bagged two jerboas
     the previous day with his sling, and Mara made a stew of the tiny rodents. She made
     sure no one was looking when she slipped the hearts, livers, and even the wobbly stomachs
     into her pot. She made the children wash down their stew with a brisk juniper tea,
     and everyone went to sleep with full bellies.
    Now she worries about water. The trickle running down the Shattermount’s giant fault
     will be dry in a day or so. They need another storm. But a storm on the Shattermount
     almost invariably means a flood.
    “Which way?” Reynaldo asks as they gather on the ledge before setting off. “Do we
     stick to the ridge or climb down through the ravine?”
    The mountain is not lush like its brothers farther east. It is a lone monolith, too
     near the desert. “We would be exposed on the ridge,” Mara says. “Visible to any Inviernos
     still in the area.” And the Inviernos are practiced archers—far more skilled than
     she is. They come from a place where wood is plentiful, and their beautiful bows are
     sturdy and tall, meant for long-range. “They wouldn’t even have to get close to take
     us apart.”
    “If it rains . . .”
    “We’ll climb out at the first sign.”
    Reynaldo nods agreement.
    They give Adán a head start. Like his older brother, he has spent days in the wilderness,
     and of all of them is most suited to scouting ahead in stealth. After Mara warns the
     rest of the group to silence, they set off after him.
    They will travel down the fault line, then circle the base of the mountain until they
     reach the desert side. From there, Reynaldo will guide them through the warren of
     buttes and fissures that make up the scrub desert to the secret rebel camp. It’s a
     good plan, the best one they have. But Mara plods along by rote, putting one foot
     in front of the other in numb silence.
    She and Reynaldo carry the tiny girl in shifts, and they’re about to do a handoff
     so Mara can navigate a boulder in their path when she hears something.
    The cracking of a branch. The rustle of leaves. Coming from behind.
    Mara shoves the tiny girl at Reynaldo, swings her bow around her shoulder, reaches
     back, and draws an arrow from her quiver.
    The scuff of a boot. Definitely not a deer or a fox.
    Mara notches her arrow. “Get behind me,” she whispers, fast and low. “Now!” The children
     scurry to obey.
    She glares at the path they just traveled, trying to parse a face or figure among
     the dead windfalls and scattered boulders. A manzanita bush waves violently. Mara
     draws her bow until the fletching rests against her cheek.
    A face materializes. Streaked with sweat and blood. Wild-eyed.
    “Julio!” She may have screamed it. Mara drops her bow and sprints forward, reaching
     him just as he topples forward into her arms.
    His sudden weight almost drives her to her knees, but she holds firm. His back is
     sticky and wet, his skin fevered. She drags him to level ground, then gently lays
     him down, instinctively stretching him out on his stomach.
    Sure enough, the broken shaft of an arrow protrudes from his lower back. He gasps,
     his cheek grinding into the dirt, as she peels back his shirt to expose the wound.
    The skin around it is swollen and oozing. The arrowhead is not deep, but it might
     be lodged in a rib. At least it missed his vital organs. They could have treated it
     easily two days ago. But infection has set in, and now streaks of sickly black zigzag
     across his skin.
    “Oh, Julio.”
    “Mara,” he whispers. “You shouldn’t have