The Orphan by Peter Lerangis Page B

a broad figure stepped into the open doorway. We nearly fell in our attempt to stop.
    Chtush stood staring at us, idling picking his teeth with the point of a dagger. “Roast boar,” he said in Akkadian. “Very tasty.”
    As we staggered back, he wiped his dagger on his tunic. Then looking from Nico to me, he grinned. “What you did, songbird . . .” he said, his belly shaking with a deep chuckle. “Oh, what you did!”
    Chtush put his dagger away safely. Could it be? Was Chtush on our side? A rebel?
    I looked at Nico. He shrugged, tentatively joining in laughter, too. “Th-thank you,” I said, inching toward the guard.
    â€œOne problem,” Chtush said. “I was looking forward to the executions. To some good bloody fun.”
    He reached toward a kitchen table and lifted a bloodied cleaver. “So I will make my own fun. With you, right here. But first, little bird, sing your final song.”
    I opened my mouth. No sound came out.
    â€œSing!” Chtush bellowed. A string of saliva dropped from one side of his mouth as he stepped toward me.
    â€œYou’re drooling,” Nico said. “Hungry? Want some boar?”
    As Chtush turned toward him, Nico threw the roast pig leg at his face. It splatted between his eyes and bounced away.
    â€œRun, Daria!” Nico shouted.
    I stood frozen to the spot as Chtush, with a cry of anger, raised the cleaver and lunged toward Nico.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
    T HE CLEAVER FLASHED in the light. I thrust myself into its path. If Chtush was going to kill someone, let it be me. I heard a thud and felt myself falling.
    I hit the ground, feeling crushed by an enormous weight. Chtush had fallen on top of me. He rolled away, screaming. I could smell something burning.
    I saw Frada standing in the door, a broken oil lamp in her hands. “I—I just meant to knock him out, not to—”
    Chtush leaped to his feet. His head was engulfed in flames. He slapped the fire with open palms, but it ignited the collar of his tunic, then quickly spread downward along his back. Chtush ran out into the night air, roaring with agony. We followed him. From the direction of the party, I could hear shouts and confusion. The king was screaming.
    â€œHelp me!” Chtush shouted, staggering toward the noise.
    Two guards appeared, immediately tackling him. As they wrestled him to the ground, rolling him in the sandy soil, I grabbed Nico’s and Frada’s hands. “Come on!”
    We ran to the palace wall. Nico, his body still racked from the beating, moved slower than usual. I boosted him and then Frada over the top.
    As I hoisted myself over, my mind was reeling with what had just happened. Chtush would be fine—but he had seen us. As had all the prisoners’ guards.
    If they ever found any of us again, we were dead.
    I landed next to Nico, who was grimacing with pain. “Can you run?” I asked him.
    â€œFaster than both of you girls,” he said.
    Frada smiled. “Prove it.”
    We ran through the darkened streets, wanting to laugh at our newfound freedom but scared to draw attention. Some windows still shone with dull amber light, and I could hear the plaintive sounds of a flute here, a santur there. People making music with their families.
    Real families.
    I had always hoped to have one of my own. Now I knew that dream would never happen. I would have to settle for the rebels. And Nico and Frada.
    All in all, I supposed things could be worse.
    Â 
    We paused at the edge of the king’s hunting grounds. Here, the land changed dramatically. Babylon’s arid, rocky soil gave way to a forest of tall trees. Nabu-na’id had spared no expense and sacrificed no fewer than nine wardum , who died in the backbreaking construction of this area. His plan was to stock it with animals for his hunting pleasure. But Zinn’s rebels had adopted it as their home, hiding from sight and shooting the king’s men