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Editorial Reviews. About the Author. Patricia Eze is the youngest of eight children born to The Blood the Fire and the Sword - Kindle edition by Patricia Eze.
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This morning, yesterday, before all this madness, I would have been glad to give myself over to save just Kilorn and my brother. But now. Now I have others to protect. Now I cannot be lost.

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A bitter truth. Cal is not so harsh. He nods, agreeing with me. It will be little more than a massacre. Her words drip disdain. He looks like the rest of the rebels, willing to do anything for the cause, but my friend is still afraid. Still a boy, no more than eighteen, with too much to live for, and too little reason to die.

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Behind me, my brother mirrors her determination. Maven has taught us all the price of trust misplaced. Her boots sound like hammer falls on the metal flooring, each one smacking of stubborn resolve. I sense the train slow before I feel it. The electricity wanes, weakening, as we glide into the underground station. What we might find in the skies above, white fog or orange-winged airjets, I do not know. In their silence, the armed and masked Guard looks like true soldiers, but I know better.

It reminds me of days long past, of dancing in moonlight. The electricity in my veins might be the only thing I trust in this world. And Cal is out of the question altogether. He is a prisoner, a Silver, the enemy who would betray us if he could—if he had anywhere else to run. But still, somehow, I feel a pull to him. I remember the burdened boy who gave me a silver coin when I was nothing.

With that one gesture he changed my future, and destroyed his own. And we share an alliance—an uneasy one forged in blood and betrayal.

We are connected, we are united—against Maven, against all who deceived us, against the world about to tear itself apart. Silence waits for us. Gray, damp mist hangs over the ruins of Naercey, bringing the sky down so close I might touch it. Nothing haunts the sky yet, no jets to rain destruction down upon an already destroyed city. Farley sets a brisk pace, leading up from the tracks to the wide, abandoned avenue. The wreckage yawns like a canyon, more gray and broken than I remember. We march east down the street, toward the shrouded waterfront.

The high, half-collapsed structures lean over us, their windows like eyes watching us pass. Silvers could be waiting in the broken hollows and shadowed arches, ready to kill the Scarlet Guard. Maven could make me watch as he struck rebels down one by one. He would not give me the luxury of a clean, quick death.

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Or worse , I think. He would not let me die at all. As much as Maven lied to me, I still know a small piece of his heart. I remember him grabbing me through the bars of a cell, holding on with shaking fingers. And I remember the name he carries, the name that reminds me a heart still beats inside him. His name was Thomas and I watched him die.

He could not save that boy.

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  • But he can save me, in his own twisted way. I wish that person were real. I wish he existed somewhere other than my memories. The Naercey ruins echo strangely, more quiet than they should be. With a start, I realize why. The refugees are gone. The woman sweeping mountains of ash, the children hiding in drains, the shadows of my Red brothers and sisters—they have all fled. She thought you or Maven would talk under torture. She was wrong.

    There was no need to torture Maven.

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    He gave his information and his mind freely. He opened his head to his mother, letting her paw through everything she saw there. The Undertrain, the secret city, the list. It is all hers now, just like he always was. The line of Scarlet Guard soldiers stretches out behind us, a disorganized rabble of armed men and women. Kilorn marches directly behind me, his eyes darting, while Farley leads.

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    • Two burly soldiers keep Cal on her heels, gripping his arms tensely. With their red scarves, they look like the stuff of nightmares. But there are so few of us now, maybe thirty, all walking wounded. So few survived. The low-hanging mist muffles my voice, but he still hears me. Before I can press him, the soldier in front of us halts. He is not the only one. At the head of the line, Farley holds up a fist, glaring at the slate-gray sky. The rest mirror her, searching for what we cannot see. Only Cal keeps his eyes on the ground. He already knows what our doom looks like. A distant, inhuman scream reaches down through the mist.

      This sound is mechanical and constant, circling overhead. And it is not alone. Twelve arrow-shaped shadows race through the sky, their orange wings cutting in and out of the clouds. Ajnad Media is the Islamic State's media wing that produces Arabic-language nasheeds and recitations of sections of the Qur'an.

      The outlet released a new nasheed yesterday.