Page 45 of The Last One
“But you usingthat?” He points to the fallen blade of the hoe, his mouth widening. “That was fucking wild—”
My smile dies as my eyes shift from Jadon to the scene behind him.
Jadon, seeing my expression change, turns around.
Some of the surviving men in the village have fallen to their knees. Some women are draped over the bodies of their dead. Parts of soldiers not consumed by the Otaan are scattered across the dirt road. Women clutch their injured sons to their breasts or drape their husbands’ arms around their necks, and together, they stumble through the streets and back to their homes. The first wail pierces the night. And then another wail. And then prayers and curses.
I squeeze the handle of the Otaan’s great sword as sadness squeezes out my triumph.
They destroy us.
You let them.
Some protector.
12
“Drink.” A woman, her eyes swollen from smoke and tears, drapes a quilt over my shoulders and thrusts one of two pitchers of water into my hands. “You must be thirsty.” She offers Jadon the second pitcher. “Bless you,” she says to me. “And you as well, Ealdrehrt.”
As I drink, I take it all in. Broken carts. Overturned bins… The villagers who haven’t left with their wounded loved ones pick over the destruction. “Where do you even begin to set this upright again?” I wonder.
Jadon drinks from the pitcher, then pours water over the back of his neck. “There will probably be a meeting with the surviving town leaders. Figure out priorities. Where to get supplies needed for repair. Where to bury all the bodies.”
Near the jail, Johny crouches over Narder’s body. The guard shakes his head, then squeezes the bridge of his nose. His shoulders shudder. He’s weeping. As he cries, a man wearing a brown vest and matching breeches comes around the corner of the jail and stands behind the guard. He didn’t fight. There’s no blood on his clothes, in his hair, on his face. He looks worried but refreshed, as though he just awoke from a nap and had the most horrific dream.
I nudge Jadon and whisper, “Who is that? The fancy one standing behind Johny.”
Jadon finds the two men. “Mayor Raffolk.” He cocks an eyebrow. No additional comment is needed.
Does Johny know that the emperor’s men didn’t kill Narder? Does he know that I did?
The guard lifts his head and scans the wreckage until he finds me. He points at me, and the mayor turns to see who he’s pointing to.
Yeah. He knows.
My attention is pulled away by more villagers. My chest swells to hear their voices, to see their tear-stained faces, and to feel the warmth of their gratitude cutting through the chill of death enveloping me. An older man totters over and offers me a basket of bread and cheese. “It’s not much,” he says, “but most of my pantry was ransacked.”
“Thank you, sir.” I bow my head. “I appreciate your generosity.”
Raffolk and Johny might hate me, but there are plenty in Maford who don’t.
Jadon plucks a roll from the basket and says, “I’m gonna look around. Find Olivia.”
Ah. I forgot about Olivia.
I watch Jadon wander off, gnawing bread, squeezing the shoulders of the grateful villagers he passes. Piles of goods continue to grow around me: wine and veg, a basket of fabrics, a few candles, and a small pot of honey.
A warm wave of pride washes across my bones. I am their champion. Protect and battle? That’s what I do. And my work here more than covers my fine of twelve geld.
My spine feels straighter, my mind clearer, my limbs stronger. It’s as if I’ve grown three heads taller and three bodies wider. I’m not even breathing heavily, but damn am I hungry. For food. For drink. For Jadon. I scan the square and find him talking with a group of villagers who have stopped him again. He points this way and that, and the villagers nod in agreement. I imagine him with me instead, nestled high in the loft. With my gifted jars of honey. That warmth in my bones now flares to heat.
“You’re alive!” Olivia barrels toward me and skids to a stop before trampling over the pile of offerings. “What’s all this?”
“Meet the new Queen of Maford,” I tell her, palming the jar of honey. “Your townsfolk love me and have chosen to show just how much they appreciate me with gifts of bread, honey, cheese, fabric, and other bric-a-brac.”
Olivia’s eyebrows lift. “I think you should slow down your celebration.”
Still surrounded by villagers, Jadon frowns, and concern clouds his expression. Raffolk and Freyney have joined his group, anger plain on their faces.
