The Princess Games: A young adult dystopian romance (The Princess Trials Book 2)

by Cordelia K Castel

  Annoyance prickles across my skin. These people seem to care more about keeping their wall nice and clean than for the approaching Foundlings. “I wasn’t saying anyone should go out there and risk their lives, but can’t you fire a few shots to scare away the wild men?”

  We’ve seen this scenario a hundred times.” The colonel stifles a yawn. “Wild men might be human-looking animals, but they’re not stupid. They’re herding people to the Great Wall, hoping that one of their number can sneak inside.”

  “There might even be a few of them hiding in that car,” Travis dusts off an imaginary speck of dirt from her lapel.

  My lips form a tight line. If wild men are sophisticated enough to drive, maybe they deserve a place in Phangloria. I can’t say that in front of the camera in case someone twists my words.

  Colonel Victorine looms so close that the heat of his body radiates against my skin, and my nostrils fill with his cheesy body odor. “Are you going to save those Foundlings?” he snarls. “Or will you stay quiet while we go to the bastion and launch those missiles?”

  Rage burns through my chest. I step backward and clench my jaw. These people trekked through the desert, and now they’re minutes away from safety. I can’t let their journey end in death. If it wasn’t for someone letting in Mom’s parents, I might never have even been born.

  Swallowing back a bellyful of bitterness, I tamp down my animosity and meet the colonel’s hard gaze. “I’ll do it but with the help of a driver.”

  “Us.” Sabre hooks a thumb at the other two Amstraadi girls. “If you can lend us a vehicle with weapons, Katana and Tizona can operate the guns.”

  Colonel Victorine flicks his head at Sergeant Travis.

  “This way, ladies.” Travis walks to the door.

  The trio of Amstraadi girls perform an about-turn and march behind the sergeant. I walk behind them, not daring to ask Sabre why she volunteered.

  “You’re leaving us out.” Behind us, Constance shoots out of her seat.

  Dread fills my insides like a pile of boulders. The Nobles are more likely to sabotage this mission than help it. I pause at the door, with the others standing in the small hallway between the watchtower control room and the elevator, waiting to see if the colonel will allow them to join us.

  Colonel Victorine inclines his head and gives the Nobles an oily smile. “You and Mistress Strab can join me at the bastion, where you can fire on the wild men when they approach.”

  My nostrils flare. This was exactly what I was suggesting for the people on camelback, but I didn’t know how to describe it. Now that I’ve agreed to rescue the riders from the approaching wild men, it’s too late to back out. I join Sergeant Travis and the three Amstraadi girls in the elevator. Cassiope steps in after me, and the other assistant stays behind with the Nobles.

  When we reach the bottom, the doors open and let out a blast of light and heat and grainy wind. It’s overwhelming, even with four other women standing in front of me. I raise a hand and squint as I step out into the desert. The production assistants stand around a white sun shelter positioned twenty feet away from the Great Wall, where Byron Blake holds a finger to his ear and narrates the challenge I accepted.

  As I pass, he waves his hands and shouts for me to come for an interview, but I pretend not to hear him and stare straight ahead at a large, white marquee.

  Tizona glances at me over her shoulder and grins. “This is going to be more fun than that Detroit Depression challenge.”

  I raise a shoulder. “At least I have a vehicle this time.”

  She snickers. “I saw the footage with you and the goats. What a pity Berta Ridgeback drowned. She was such a fun underdog.”

  My muscles tighten at the mention of her name, and I turn my gaze to the left and catch glimpses of the desert through the gaps in the fence posts.

  “What are you talking about?” Katana nudges the dark-skinned Amstraadi. “She was an ugly duckling.”

  Tizona shakes her head. “I would agree if this was the Extreme Surgical Show, but no amount of corsets and contouring could ever transform that dog into a swan.”

  “Quiet,” Sabre snaps from the front. “Have some respect for Popcorn’s best friend.”

  My shoulders relax. Right now, I don’t care if they want to call me popcorn as long as they change the subject. I’m about to exhale a relieved breath when Sabre turns around and winks. I clench my teeth. How could she possibly know I killed Berta?

  Sergeant Travis opens the marquee door and steps inside. Cold air blasts us from all directions as we follow her, and my eyes adjust from the dimmer light. The space is about thirty feet wide, with a ceiling high enough to accommodate the tallest of trucks.

  On the far left, a pair of guards in black armor stand to attention at both sides of a ten-foot-wide gate, and on the right are six solar quad bikes lined up in pairs. The vehicles parked behind them become increasingly larger, from an open jeep with two periscope guns at the top, to vans, and a massive truck with monstrously large wheels at the end.

  I chew on the inside of my lip, hoping the girls don’t change their minds and choose the bikes.

  “That one.” Sabre points at an armored van in the middle. It’s sand-colored with three-foot-tall wheels and an extra-large truck with two rows of seats and a pair of huge machine guns on its roof.

  Sergeant Travis steps back and tilts her head to the side. “The Desert Destroyer requires advanced driving skills. May I suggest—”

  “Colonel Victorine told you to offer us any vehicle,” says Sabre from between clenched teeth. “We also need four sets of handguns.”

  I gulp and glance at the less intimidating jeep at the front. Shouldn’t she listen to the sergeant’s suggestion? I doubt that the Amstraad Republic has many sandy deserts so far up north.

  Tizona claps me on the shoulder. “Hey, Popcorn. Worry about how you’re going to rescue those Foundlings from the flesh-eating wild men.”

  I gaze into her smiling face. She’s the friendliest of the Amstraadi girls and always says what she means.

  The sergeant walks across the marquee, opens the door to the driver’s seat and taps a few commands in the steering-wheel screen. The vehicle’s dashboard lights up, and she steps aside. “In situations like this, it’s customary to give a team ten minutes to retrieve the foundlings before the gunfire starts.”

  Before we step in, a pair of camerawomen rush forward and attach recording equipment to the vehicle’s interior and exterior. Trying not to roll my eyes, I remind myself that they’re only doing their job.

  I clasp my hands. “We need to get going before the wild men catch up with the camels.”

  Sabre takes the driver’s seat, and I slip into the front. The other two sit in the back and press their faces to eyepieces that I guess operate the guns.

  Sergeant Travis taps on the passenger window, which slides down. “Here are the guns.”

  “Thanks.” I keep one for myself and hand the others to the Amstraadi girls, hoping we won’t have to use them.

  Sabre presses a button in the middle of the steering wheel, and the vehicle’s engine roars to life. “This is your mission. You’ll be out in the sand, helping those people board.”

  “Sure,” I say.

  Blinding light floods the marquee’s interior. Up ahead on the left, the gate rises, and Sabre pulls out and drives the van out into the desert. My heart thunders like lightning is about to strike, and I stare out into the endless sand. This is the first time I’ve left Phangloria. I turn to the rearview mirror and watch the gates fall into place. What if they never let us return?

  Nobody speaks, and the truck’s noisy engine fills the silence. Katana and Tizona swing their periscopes and fire a few practice shots. I lean forward in my seat and look out for the approaching vehicle. About three miles ahead stands a massive formation of orange rocks. I swallow several times in quick succession, wishing that I had asked Colonel Victorine for an approximate time of arrival.

  Moments la
ter, a cloud of dust forms between the rocks. At first, it’s difficult to see its cause, but the air settles and the approaching vehicle emerges from the haze. I hold my breath, waiting for the camels to appear, but the vehicle travels toward us alone.

  “Tizona.” I turn to the two gunwomen sitting behind us. “Can you see the others through your periscope?”

  “Don’t worry,” she mutters. “Your camels are safe.”

  “But those wild men are fast,” adds Katana.

  When I turn around, I still can’t see any sign of camels or riders, but the vehicle is a few hundred feet away. It’s dark brown, about the size of our truck, and with an exoskeleton that seems to be made of pipes.

  Dread rumbles through my stomach, and I clutch the armrest. Sabre accelerates and whoops as a spray of sand hits the side windows

  Up close, it’s not much of a vehicle and looks on the verge of falling apart—half-tractor at the back, half-pick-up at the front, and all rust. It slows and flashes its lights. I press the button at the window and squint against the onslaught of light and hot air.

  The driver is a man with skin even darker than Tizona’s and a huge, salt-and-pepper beard. Crammed in the seat next to him are about four women and behind him, rows of countless children sitting on each other's laps.

  “Is this the Oasis that we heard about on the TV?” he asks in a drawling accent.

  My brows furrow. “Television?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “We drove all the way from Red Rock. Is this the place?”

  Sabre leans across the passenger seat and shouts, “They’ll let you in at the gate. Hurry.”

  “Thanks,” he says. “Could you radio in and tell them to keep the doors open a bit longer? There’s eleven more of us on camels being chased by psychos.”

  As soon as he continues toward the Great Wall, I twist around in my seat and glower at Sabre. “Why did you lie?”

  “Don’t blame us,” Katana replies from behind. “We’re not the ones using false advertising to lure people into my country,”

  I swallow back a retort and close the window. She’s absolutely right. There’s no telling how long that vehicle will last, and it’s too late for them to turn around if I tell them the truth.

  “It’s not exactly a lie.” Tizona muses. “If they’re lucky enough to birth genetically perfect offspring, those children might get a chance to become Harvesters or be taken away at birth and trained to become servants or spare parts for the Noble elites.”

  A huff of air leaves my throat. “What?”

  “Focus,” Sabre hisses. “I’ve just spotted the camels.”

  Nobody gets eye tests in the Harvester District, so it’s hard to tell if those shapes moving up and down the camels are people or baggage. I gulp several lungfuls of air. A quick glance at the rearview mirror tells me that the Foundlings’ vehicle is now following our tire tracks toward the hatch.

  I exhale a long breath, clear out thoughts of the Nobles broadcasting lies to attract people to the Oasis, and focus on the mission ahead.

  As we approach the camels, I turn to Sabre. “Stop in front of them, and I’ll get their riders to board the back.”

  “Make it fast,” she says. “I want to put as much distance between us and those wild men as possible.”

  The dust clears, giving me a better look at the galloping camels. Each beast carries at least two men, and the rider at the back hits the camel with some kind of whip. My chest aches for the beast that was forced to run such long distances.

  Riderless camels run behind the ones in front, each piled with bags. I hope they didn’t lose their riders.

  Sabre stops the vehicle and twists around in her seat. “Katana and Tizona will provide cover. You’ve got three minutes before the watchtower opens fire.”

  I open the door, grit my teeth at the blast of hot air, and jump out of the van. The heat of the sand seeps through my boots, and the scent of dust and dried earth fills my nostrils. Katana, who sits behind the drivers’ seat, opens her door, and I sprint toward the approaching riders.

  “Hey,” I shout.

  They exchange glances and continue toward me.

  I cup both hands around my mouth and shout, “I’m here to escort you into Phangloria. Board our vehicle, and we’ll take you through the gates.”

  “Is this the Oasis?” a man shouts from the distance.

  My throat dries. Whatever these people watched on their televisions was promising enough to make them leave their shelters and travel across the desert. They will never see the Oasis in their lifetimes and most likely won’t even pass the minor wall and become Harvesters.

  A howl echoes from the distance. I turn to the rock and find a hoard of naked people racing toward us. Red and black pigment cover their skin, with white accents to resemble bones.

  Terror seizes my windpipe and all notions of the wild men being actors evaporate in the desert heat. In less than a minute, they’ll arrive, and I won’t be around to suffer their attack.

  “Hurry.” I wave my arms at the men. “The wild men are coming.”

  “We’re not leaving our animals,” shouts the one in front.

  I shake my head. “Phangloria won’t let you in with those camels.”

  The man rears back. “Why not?”

  “Look behind you.” I clench my teeth and step back toward the vehicle. The wild men are picking up their pace and gaining on the riders. “You’ll be stuck at the gates, and those wild men are already catching up with us.”

  One of the men at the back jumps down from the camel and lands in a crouch. He rushes to the camel behind and yanks off the saddlebags. As he gathers his possessions, a few others dismount and follow his lead.

  What was at first a distant howl now sounds like dozens of voices, some male, some female. The riders run past me and dive into the van, leaving only two camels still carrying riders.

  Sabre sounds the horn, but the noise only mingles with the yowling. They’re less than a quarter of a mile away and closing the distance. Clicks and clatters accompany their howls, and the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

  My feet shuffle toward the truck, and I turn pleading eyes to the first man, who hasn’t dismounted. “If you won’t come alone, we’ll have to leave you to get eaten.”

  Two more men jump down, snatch their bags from the camels behind, and race past me. Their spokesman now sits alone.

  “Ten seconds, and we’re closing the door” yells a voice from the van’s interior.

  The man shakes his head. “We’ve been breeding these camels for generations. They’re all we have left.”

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  He frowns. “Thomas.”

  “Thomas, you traveled for miles through the desert for somewhere safe. The women and children are waiting for you behind the wall. Please don’t die for a herd of camels.”

  A door slams. Then gunshots from behind tell me that the ten seconds are up.

  Panic lances through my chest. I could tell him that the Oasis has all the camels he could ever need along with rivers of water and feasts beyond imagination, but I can’t bring myself to lie.

  “If you’re not coming, you’d better run.” I turn toward the van’s open door.

  “What?” he shouts.

  I scramble up to the passenger seat and wrap my fingers around the handle. “Don’t come to the gates because they won’t open. You’ll be surrounded by wild men, and they’ll drag you—.”

  My breath catches from a surge of emotion. “They’ll drag you off the camel and eat you. If you can lose them, come back to the gates later, but you can’t come in with your herd.”

  “They’re here,” Sabre snarls. “Close that wretched door!”

  I yank on the handle, slam the door shut, and glance out of the windscreen to find the wild men less than a thousand feet away. A pair of tethered camels dash to the left, but a group of wild men break away and chase the animals.

  Sabre turns the vehicle around, and
I peer at the wild men through the rearview mirror. They’re naked, wear bones as ornaments, and seem to leap through the air. Long, flowing locks fly like strands of silk as they move. A shudder runs down my spine. How could a few centuries change the course of human development?

  According to Prunella’s commentary, their nervous systems are different from ours. They can process pain, but while a regular human flinches from it, the wild men will endure lethal amounts of torture to catch their prey.

  My gaze tracks the escaping camels. One of the wild men takes an inhumanly long leap, wraps his arm around the front camel, and wrestles it to the ground.

  “Ha,” says Sabre. “That guy has changed his mind.”

  “What?”

  “The camel lover is running toward us.”

  I lean across the dashboard and gaze into the monitor. Thomas didn’t follow my advice, and I can guess why. Berta once told me that wild men had more stamina than even the fastest animals. They can run for hours or sometimes days, not stopping until their prey collapses with exhaustion. He’s probably seen what happened to those camels and decided he won’t make it without our help.

  A spasm of pity squeezes my heart. I know what it’s like to cherish what little I have, but I also know with no kernel of a doubt that Thomas won’t outrun the wild men.

  “Uh-oh,” says Tizona.

  “What?” I say.

  “He thinks he can sneak in through the gates at the same time as us.”

  “That won’t happen,” Katana mutters. “They’ll just leave us outside until the wild men will tire of the armored vehicle and leave.”

  “Stop the van,” I say.

  “Why?” Sabre taps the screen on the dashboard, giving us a close-up of Thomas and his camel. “So that idiot can stuff his animal into the back?”

  Foam flies from its mouth, and Thomas beats the creature with the desperation of a man about to die. The camel looks on the verge of collapse and sprints behind us with erratic, jerky movements.

  My throat thickens. “We can’t leave him out there.”

  Sabre ignores me and continues driving.