Moira Young - Rebel Heart

Praise for BLOOD RED ROAD

WINNER

COSTA CHILDRENS BOOK AWARD 2011

COVENTRY INSPIRATION BOOK AWARD 2012

BC BOOK PRIZE FOR CHILDRENS LITERATURE 2012

RIB VALLEY BOOK AWARD 2012

SPELLBINDING BOOK AWARD 2012

SHORTLISTED

AMELIA ELIZABETH WALDEN BOOK AWARD 2012

FALKIRK RED BOOK AWARD 2012

INDEPENDENT BOOKSELLERS WEEK BOOK AWARD 2012

A shot of pure adrenalin... Exuberant, exciting and charged with emotion, its powerful, pared-down prose draws us into a world of adventure... Novel of the year

Amanda Craig, THE TIMES

This vision of the future is hellish and frightening but if you wanted anyone in your corner in that place, then Sabas your girl

TELEGRAPH

Saba can be a tough heroine to root for, sullen and ungrateful to those who try to help her, but fans of the Hunger Games Katniss will find in her similar reserves of hidden good nature and ferocious fighting abilities...

Young has leveraged an intriguing action-romance story into a Mad Max- style world thatll leave readers both satisfied and eager for more

BOOKLIST

This book raises the bar when it comes to the genre... Not only will it satisfy the cravings of Hunger Games fans, but it is dare I say better than The Hunger Games ... This book will blow you away... a truly remarkable reading experience

MTV

This is a must-read, where girls rescue boys, and where the future looms up full of hope and loss, struggles and archetypes that give the story a timeless, classic edge

GLOBE AND MAIL

Blood Red Road has a cinematic quality that makes it white-hot for film production The fervour is more than warranted

LA TIMES

A post-apocalyptic story with the flavour of a western Powerfully narrated in a spare vernacular A sure-fire transporting holiday read

SUNDAY TIMES

MOIRA YOUNG was an actress and a singer before becoming a writer. She came to the UK from her native Canada to perform on the London stage and now lives in Bath.

BLOOD RED ROAD was her first book, published in 2011 to international acclaim. REBEL HEART is the eagerly-awaited sequel.

www.twitter.com/Moira_Young

for my sisters

CONTENTS

Its late afternoon. Since morning, the trails been following a line of light towers. That is, the iron remains of what used to be light towers, way back in Wrecker days, time out of mind. It winds through faded, folded hills, burnt grass and prickle bush.

The flat heat of high summer beats on his head. His hats damp with sweat. The dust of long days coats his skin, his clothes, his boots. He tastes it when he licks his dry lips. Its been a parched, mean road all the way. He crests a ridge, the trail dips down into a little valley and its suddenly, freshly green. The air is soft. Sharply sweet with the scent of the scrub pine that scatters the slopes.

Jack pulls up his horse. He breathes in. A long, deep, grateful breath. He drinks in the view. On the cleared valley floor, a small lake glints in the sun. Beside it stands a junkshack with a bark and sod roof, the rest of it cobbled together from Wrecker trash, stones, dried mud and the odd tree trunk. A man, a woman and a girl are working in the well-tended patches of cultivated land.

People. At last. Apart from the white mustang, Atlas, he hasnt spoken to a soul for days. His aloneness was starting to weigh him down.

An there was I, he says aloud, thinkin I was thonly person on the planet.

He whistles a tune as he rides on. He calls a hello as they leave their work and come to meet him. They arent particularly friendly. Theyve got weary faces. Wary eyes. Theyre little used to company, take little interest in the wider world and have little to say. Never mind. Just seeing them and having this awkward, mainly one-sided conversation cheers him no end.

The mans worn out. The womans sick. Dying, if hes any judge of such things. With yellowish skin, her mouth set tight against pain. The girls sturdy enough, fourteen or so. She stares at her boots. Silent, even when he speaks to her direct. But her plain, flat face lights with love when her brother comes running from the shack, calling her name, Nessa! Nessa!

Hes a cheerful berry of a child. A barefoot, round-eyed four-year-old called Robbie. His family gazes at him with such fond wonderment that its clear they cant quite believe their good fortune. He leans against his sisters legs, sucks his thumb energetically and sizes up Jack.

The battered, wide-brimmed hat. The silver eyes. The lean, tanned face that hasnt seen a razor for weeks. The long, dusty coat and worn boots. The crossbow on his back, his well-stocked weapons belt bolt shooters, longknife, bolas, slingshot.

Boo, says Jack. Robbies mouth drops open. His thumb falls out.

Jack growls. The boy shrieks with delight and tears off towards the lake. Nessa gives chase. The valley sings with their shouts and laughter.

They arent sociable people but they arent mean. They see to it that he and his horse are watered, washed and fed. They offer him a roof for the night, but hes anxious to keep moving. Dusk is falling as he sets off again. Theyre hard workers, early risers. Theyll be in bed as soon as hes gone.

By his reckoning, the storm belt should be no more than three days travel from here. And thats where hes headed. The storm belt, a tavern called the Lost Cause and an old friend named Molly. Hes the bearer of bad news. The worst. The sooner he delivers it, the sooner he can turn around, retrace his steps and keep on heading west.

West. To the Big Water. Because thats where she is. Its where he promised to meet her.

He pulls out the stone that he wears around his neck, threaded on a leather string. Its smooth and cool to the touch. Pale rosy pink. Shaped like a birds egg, a thumbs length in size.

Its a heartstone. Itll lead you to your hearts desire, so they say.

She gave it to him. Hell head west and hell find her.

Saba.

Hes only just left the valley when Atlas falters. Tosses his head and whickers. Theres something up ahead. Jack doesnt stop to think. In a moment, hes off the trail, into the scrub pine and out of sight. From the cover of the trees, his hand over the mustangs muzzle, he watches them pass.

Its the Tonton. Nine black-robed men and horses. Theyre escorting a couple in a buffalo-cart. The commander leads the way. Four men behind him, then the cart, followed by three men on horseback. The last man, the ninth, is driving a wagon with an empty prison cage.

He studies them carefully. He knows the Tonton well. Theyre rough and dirty and casually violent. A loose collection of amoral thugs who swill around the power. Only loyal to each other, only answering to a master if and when it suits them. To a man, theyre ruled by self-interest. But these ones seem different. Everything about them is clean and shiny and polished and ordered. Theyre well armed. They look disciplined. Purposeful.

And that makes him uneasy. It means that the enemy have changed their game.

He checks out the couple in the cart. Theyre young, strong, healthy looking. A boy and a girl, no more than sixteen or seventeen. They sit close together on the bench seat. The boys driving. He holds the reins in one hand. His other arm circles the girls waist. But theres a gap between their bodies. They sit stiffly upright. They arent comfortable, thats for sure. Its as if they hardly know each other.