Page 1 of A Thief to Die For

The books left over from the old world warned of the apocalypse: meteors, plagues, a sky choked with ash. An endless number of ways to make humanity clutch its failing heart. But where are the stories anticipating what came after?

Was it supposed to look like this?

As I ride my horse along the edge of the shallow cliff, I glance at the mix of trees and unassuming open plains below. The raised, bowl-like shape of our territory makes our lookout posts and catapults stand out like pointed jewels mounted on a crown – a warning to any would-be raiders – vagabonds – that they’d be stupid to try climbing the rocky elevation.

If only it would stop them.

‘Marian! You’re finally here,’ Lucky says as my horse trots up to him. He’s seated on a tree stump, nowhere near the post he’s supposed to be manning. His sword isn’t even on his waist. ‘Please tell me you brought water.’

‘Did you not bring something to drink for your shift?’ I flick open my leather satchel filled with morning field reports in hopes that maybe, just this once, he’ll hand me his report quickly. We both know we shouldn’t loiter together.

His lanky body nearly falls off his stump as he reaches for something on the ground. ‘I did, but it’s rotten.’ He thrusts his goat-leather water skin in the air. ‘Go on. Taste it.’

My lip curls at the sour odour. ‘No, thanks. And – sorry, I didn’t bring water with me.’ Not when I can hit all six active lookout posts along the perimeter and return to the compound in under an hour. I take in the view of the valley in the middle of our territory, filled with the Dresden camp. Our mine workers. I suppose the trees are thick enough here that if I have to linger, this isn’t the worst place.

Lucky huffs. ‘It doesn’t help that I might be dying.’

My gaze jerks back to him. Lucky rubs his forehead, pushing back his receding red hair, and I notice his pale skin does look paler than normal. ‘Dying from what? Thirst?’ He’s still reasonably young – not even a decade older than my eighteen years.

‘No, it’s more than that. There’s this spot. And … well, I guess, if you insist, I can show you. I’ll just need to take off –’ He pushes to his feet.

‘Stop!’ I command, then bite back a curse. ‘You know full well the only thing I’ve been trained in is how to mortally wound you. I’m no help for that kind of stuff.’

Not to mention, the Commander would shoot us with our own arrows if he saw his guardsmen talking like this.

Actually, he’d probably only shoot Lucky. The leader of the Notting Militia would have other more humiliating punishments for his daughter.

‘Just … see the medic about that,’ I say.

‘Ah, Grendle won’t do anything,’ he grumbles. ‘Says I see her too often. But I could say’ – his eyes turn hopeful – ‘that you sent me.’

I grimace. Our medic is a disorienting cross between a toad whisperer and a spiteful old bat – this will likely come back to haunt me. ‘Sure. If you think it’ll help.’

He nods, and I return my attention to the Dresden homes below us. The glorified tents and makeshift treehouses huddle together like a ring of mushrooms. But with most adults working at the mine, only children are walking around the communal firepits in the middle. ‘Report?’

‘Ah, sorry, Mare … I haven’t filled it out yet.’

I inhale. Of course. ‘Just give it to me verbally, Lucky.’

‘Okay. Two lone vagabonds got a little close to the northeast border at dawn. I sent a few warning arrows and a bucket of rocks from the catapult, and they tore off. But then a caravan of traders went by at noon. No contact. An hour later, I saw a pillar of smoke to the east.’ He goes quiet. ‘Looks like the traders got bit.’

Bit, as in attacked or murdered for their possessions – a grim consequence of the Republic being ruled by raiding vagabonds, which is an ever-present threat.

Unless, of course, you prove your worth as a worker to a protected settlement, like us in Notting, and are granted shelter. But even those havens are a dying breed.

I keep my face carefully blank, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel the tragedy of it. In fact, I tuck it away, holding it close as a reminder of why the Dresden need to stay here under the militia’s protection. No matter what the cost.

‘Okay,’ I say to Lucky, ‘I’ve got to move on.’

‘See you la–’

I throw him a sharp look, cutting him off. He knows better than to say that out loud.

My horse follows the dirt perimeter trail. On the left, the land drops off into a small cliff, and another quick scan of the plain below reveals no travellers. But that can change quickly, since we skirt the bomb-destroyed badlands and summer is settling in. This time of year, vagabonds are always on the move. It means everyone else has to hunt and scavenge while constantly being ready to flee.

Very quickly, a black shadow catches my eye. A raven. It swoops to a balding branch ahead, and I veer further into the trees for a better look. It’s Benedict and there’s something in his beak.

After tying my horse to the hitching post, I hide between the horse barns, remove some dried berries from my pocket, and toss them to the ground. A few guardsmen wander around doing chores and patrols, but they’re not paying attention to me. Benedict hops closer.