Page 42 of The Last One
Shit.
I leap over dead villagers and injured soldiers, booting a soldier charging at me with his sword lifted. I weave past horses rearing back and kicking high. I stumble in the bloody mud, and the key ring flies out of my hand but I catch it with my other. As I regain my balance, my borrowed dress snags on the tip of a dead man’s sword. The taffeta rips as I yank it free. I wince—shit—and then lunge toward the jail as though it is a safe harbor.
Where’s the entrance?
On the other side.
Fuck.
Breathing hard, I push my back against the wall, trying to stay hidden from soldiers and villagers while wearing a shredded bright-blue dress.
“Hey!” Two soldiers spot me at the same time and sprint toward me from different directions. Both men raise their weapons. I duck right as they swing and slice each other’s ear and chin.
Careful now to stay out of sight, I make my way around the corners of the clink.
There’s the door! I hurry forward, hands shaking, and I try one key after the next on the cumbersome key ring. Why did Narder have half a dozen keys? I push and wiggle and twist, one key after another, but none fit. I wipe my sweaty fingers on the front of the dress. Only two keys left. I growl, suck in a deep breath, and try the second to last key on the ring. It takes several tries to slip that key into the lock, but finally, aclickand aclackand I push the door open and peer into the jail.
The prisoners—one, two…four of them—blink up through the darkness.
“I’m getting you out of here.” I step over the waste and trash piled everywhere, charging deeper into the single cell. I help the weakest to their feet and lead them out of the stagnant death trap. They’re all filthy and ragged, and in this dim light of night, I can’t tell which prisoner is Jamart’s daughter. Unsteady on their weak legs, the group stays close, one gripping the other as one clutches me. I feel their collective panic as they glimpse the frightful battle surrounding us.
Under the cover of darkness, to the dissonant harmony of bloodcurdling screams and the frantic clash of weapons, I lead the prisoners to Jamart’s shop, which blessedly still stands amid the wreckage. In fact, it looks stronger than it did this afternoon.
Jamart is hiding just inside the door. Once he spies me, he tumbles out of his house and greets his daughter with tears and hugs. To me he says, “You’ve blessed me again.”
There’s no time for blessings. I point at the candlemaker, Lively, and the other prisoners. “Go. Find hiding places. Stay out of sight of the soldiers.”
And pray a good prayer to Jamart’s Lady of the Verdant Realm.
Keep them safeis my own prayer as I return to retrieve my hoe from beside Narder’s body. I scoff at the jailer’s empty eyes—his death gives more good to the world than he ever gave to it alive. Unspeakable things led him here, to this eventuality, and ending him felt good. Even better than taking care of these soldiers, especially since the soldiers haven’t made this fight personal.
I scan the violence around me and find Jadon battling two soldiers at once. I race over, ducking horses and swords again, sliding and weaving my way over to him. I swing at the back of one of the soldiers hitting him, striking the warrior in the neck.
Jadon swings at the other soldier, bashing that warrior in the face.
Both men collapse in front of us. But more soldiers take their places, popping up like mushrooms after a storm.
“Where have you been?” Jadon shouts over the fray, the gray-bladed sword back in his hands. “You get scared?”
“Of course not.” I knock one soldier back and stomp his head. “I just had to take out the trash.”
To my left, a soldier leaves a house carrying a wooden chest. Is it not bad enough they have to kill these people? They’re stealing from them, too? “Hey,” I shout, running over to the thief. “Is that yours?”
He scowls and growls, “Fuck you, you mudscraping—”
“That’s a no.” I kick the side of his thigh, and the chest falls out of his arms.
He’s now free, though, to pull the sword from his scabbard.
I give him no time to swing or insult me again. He’s already dead from a hoe to his head.
Across the village square, the site of yesterday’s market day, I spy another soldier looting a cart of pitiful carrots and potatoes. “Stop that!” I shout, marching toward him.
He pulls out his sword even as fear flashes across his face.
“Yeah, youshouldbe scared.” I swing the hoe’s splintered pole.
The soldier ducks my charge and jabs his sword at my hip.
