Page 40 of The Last One
“I hear the last town the emperor took? No one survived. The soldiers killed everybody.”
The sounds of battle and death crash all around this barn.
Olivia stands at a wall, unmoving, unblinking, staring out between the slats to follow the action. Her specter-energy spooks the chickens clucking at her heels.
“He’ll be fine, Olivia,” I whisper, hand on the small of her back. “Take a breath. You’re gonna pass out.”
Even in the darkness, I see her large eyes peep at me, unbelieving and yet still hopeful. Then she looks back through the slats, but at least she’s now breathing.
My amulet pulses against my chest, surprising me with its intense vibrations. There are pinpricks of light in the dark stone of the moth’s thorax. As though it’s guiding me, I move over to the barn’s low door used by goats and sheep to get a good view of the fighting. Through the torchlight, I watch villagers doing their best with homemade or dulled weapons and mismatched armor. Jadon’s wearing mail and plate, shinier and stronger-looking than his ragtag fighters, easily wielding a gray-bladed broadsword with much more skill and ease than the others. My hands itch to join him.
“Jadon Ealdrehrt was born a god,” another woman coos, peering through the slats. “You see how he moves? How he charges forward? No one else fights like that. A god living among men. If anyone can defeat Emperor Wake’s troops, it’s him.”
“Better be careful talking that way,” an older woman says. “Father Knete’s gonna hear all your lusting and worshipping, and he’ll have you tossed in jail with Jamart’s girl.”
“And gods don’t live in towns like Maford, girl,” another old woman adds. “Gods are born in beautiful castles. Jadon Ealdrehrt only makes weapons; that’s why he knows how to use them. He’s a peasant just like us.”
Olivia scowls at them, mutters, “He’snothinglike you,” and returns to watching the fighting beyond the slats.
I understand the Jadon worship, especially watching him fight. He’s something special.
If only the other Maford men could fight as well. Even if their weapons weren’t rudimentary, they’d still be no match for the highly trained, better-fed soldiers. Soon, the cries of villagers are cut short by the slash and gash of heavy metal.
I tiptoe closer to the low barn door, still watching Jadon through the slats.
He swings his weapon like it weighs less than a thought, and the blade slides into a soldier’s gut like a minnow slips through water.
I may not know who I am or where I’m from, but Idoknow this: Ilovea good fight.
Another soldier pushes Jadon from behind, knocking that gray-bladed sword out of his hands and into the bloody dirt. But that doesn’t stop him.
Jadon grabs the man who pushed him from behind and pulls him into a clench, bringing him close. Hands gripping the man’s head, Jadon bends the soldier over, andbam! Strikes the man’s face with his knee.
Beautiful!Even over the screams and shouts, over the clash of metal against man, I hear the soldier’s nose break, and I smell the new blood now spurting from his shattered face.
Where did Jadon learn to fight like this? Certainly not in the dying burg of Maford.
Two soldiers rush toward Jadon, their swords ready.
Jadon, still without a weapon, slips as he tries to retrieve his sword.
Shit.
He’s in trouble.
I can’t just watch this happen. But I’m also without a sword. I scan the barn and find…that! I grab the garden hoe from its place in a dusty corner. The vibration from my pendant quickens, as though it’s affirming my choice of weapon. “Hold this.” I untie my pouch from the peacock-blue dress’s sash and hand it to Olivia.
“Where are you going?” Olivia whispers, clutching Jamart’s gift to her chest.
“Out there,” I whisper. “Jadon’s in trouble. He needs my help.”
I creep out the door and over to a bale of hay closest to the action, gripping my hoe like I’ve named it.
Jadon dodges one of the soldiers, spinning to avoid another blow when he sees me rush toward them, hoe high.“What the hell is she doing?”
And for a moment, the soldiers, and even Jadon, gape at me. The two soldiers laugh at my pitiful choice of weapon, but their humor is cut short once I swing that hoe and slam it into the taller man’s neck.
“Laugh again,” I say to the dead man.
