Borderlands by Skye Melki-Wegner

no one better to send on patrols.’
    â€˜The hunters are an elite force,’ I point out, oddly annoyed by this comment. ‘These soldiers aren’t like that. Those could be eighteen-year-old scruffers – newly conscripted, for all you know. They might’ve never seen a forest before this week.’
    â€˜Well, you see why my people ain’t afraid of soldiers.’
    I raise an eyebrow. ‘Those soldiers still have guns and proclivities. A lack of wilderness skills won’t stop them slaughtering your people if they want to.’
    â€˜Nope,’ Silver says. ‘What stops ’em is their fear.’
    â€˜You really think smugglers are so frightening?’
    She meets my eyes with a hard look. ‘No, my friend – we ain’t frightening. Bears are frightening. Snakes are frightening. That’s a word for beasts: monsters and creatures in the wild.’ She pauses. ‘My people are efficient . There’s a difference.’
    â€˜Like what?’
    â€˜A smuggler don’t kill for beastly pleasure. A smuggler kills in the interest of his purse. And if a smuggler wants to kill you, you ain’t likely to know it till your throat’s slit.’ She smirks. ‘Sense, my friend, not sentiment. That’s how we outlast kingdoms.’
    We pull back and fade into the dark of the trees. I feel the tension building within me. There’s still no sign of my friends, and no sign of the hunters. Silver darts up trees to survey the canopy, but always returns with a shrug.
    â€˜Nothin’,’ she says. ‘Yet.’
    And so we walk on. I keep a close eye on my companion, trying to suss her out. She is old, but she moves like a leopard in the trees. And about fifteen minutes after spotting the soldiers, she stops walking.
    She throws out a hand to halt me, and raises a wrinkled finger to her lips. ‘Shhh.’
    â€˜What’s wrong?’ I mouth.
    â€˜Listen.’
    I hear it a moment later: the slide of movement upon leaves. This isn’t the clumsy march of the soldiers. These people know their way around a forest. They know how to track, how to move silently. How to slip through the undergrowth like it’s carpet underfoot.
    Hunters.
    We clamber into a nearby tree to spot our quarry. Thankfully I’m better at silent climbing than silent walking. Bark prickles against my skin, but at least I’m hidden by the sway of leaves, and secure enough to focus on the hunters below.
    Five of them, including Sharr. The same figures who followed us across the wastelands, who chased us through the Knife. They have stopped walking – paused for a quick rest, perhaps – while the Reptile man paces quiet circles around the group. Keeping watch, I realise.
    For the first time, I realise the other male hunter’s proclivity is Air. He holds his hands out and leaves swirl before him, as if caught in a lasso of breeze.
    And in that lasso, three bodies are floating.
    My breath catches in my throat. For a terrible moment I imagine they are dead – that Sharr is hauling their bodies back to King Morrigan as proof of our crew’s destruction. Our packs are strapped to the hunters’ shoulders: an extra load of supplies for their journey south. But then I see Teddy’s chest rise, and Clementine’s fingers strain against the air. She reminds me of a fish wriggling against the current. All she achieves is a grunt of exhaustion, then a quiet little sob.
    The only one who is still is Maisy. I stare at her, my throat suddenly tight, and will her chest to move. Breathe , I urge her silently. For heaven’s sake, breathe .
    And she does. But it’s shallow, almost invisible. Her coat is stained a terrible crimson, as dark and sticky as the splatters I’d been following.
    Maisy is dying. The thought strikes me so hard, so suddenly, that I almost fall out of my tree. I grab the trunk to steady myself and take a shaky breath.