Page 46 of The Last One
“What’s wrong?” I ask, but I already hear the familiar hisses of angry thoughts.
“She brought this upon us.”
“We should’ve killed her when we could.”
“We need to do it now.”
Shit.
My heart crumbles. So much for my newfound love from the townsfolk. I slip the jar of honey into my pocket. At least this is mine.
“You have something to say?” Jadon shouts at the angry crowd.
“I do,” Johny says. The energy of his fury crackles like storm clouds. “Now that we’ve killed Wake’s men, we’re gonna be evenbiggertargets. More soldiers will return, and who knows what they’ll do to us. And that mudscraping whore—” He glares over at me.
“Oh?” I rise and step over the offerings to join Jadon. Indignation buzzes like a hornet’s nest in my ears, and I take a calming breath.
“Be careful, Kai,” Olivia whispers.
“Always.”
I reach the mob and level my gaze on the angry villagers. “Anything you wanna say about me, say it to my face.”
“Leave her alone,” Olivia shouts behind me. “She saved us. Show some gratitude!”
I lift my hand to her and turn back to Johny. “If you were all dead beside this heap of bodies,” I ask with reason and patience, “would that have been your preferred outcome?”
No patience left, Jadon glares at the guard and then at the group. “You’re all talk. Playing knight with your dull blades and slow swings. But when it’s time to actually fight, what did you do?” He throws the borrowed sword he used to the ground and mutters, “You let the two of us fight your battles. Now that it’s over, you wanna nitpick how we did it? Ungrateful pricks.” He turns on his heel and marches back toward his forge without another word.
“What about Narder,prick?” Johny shouts. “This bitch killed him.”
“She needs to atone for his death,” another man shouts.
Unrepentant, I fold my arms. “Anything else?”
“Narder was our last connection to the wanderweavers.” Freyney spits.
“They’ll never come here now!” another man adds.
“We’ll all starve.”
There’s no arguing that point. They may have been cowards when the soldiers invaded Maford, but that will change. Under the cover of night, weak men always find the courage to do their worst. All the honey, candles, and loaves of bread in the realm won’t keep them from driving my head and Jadon’s down on pikes.
These surviving Mafordians are making it difficult for me to be their protector right now, and if they continue this course, I may choose to never fight for them again. Yes, this mudscraping whore killed Narder, and she feels absolutely unapologetic about driving a blade through his neck. Because she also killed half of the men wearing copper armor.
The emperorwillsend more men. He has to. And when they come, Johny and his band of malcontents won’t be among the Mafordians I’ll protect.
This ain’t over.Far from. And next time, they’ll find themselves fighting alone. Unprotected.
A new day in Maford, and I wake in the loft to the golden light of a bright morning. Peering out the little loft window, I see how that light shines upon the copper mail of the last soldiers needing to be buried. That same golden light reveals the true destruction from the battle the night before. Shattered windows. Trampled and dying flower beds. Broken and twisted colures. The reek of new blood and the waste of dead men. Most of the village has fallen over like a barrel of wine, and its people are now soaked and drowning in the flood.
But some of this golden glow doesn’t originate from the daystar. Another kind of amber light had pulsed throughout Maford before soldiers stormed past its gates. Death was always coming for this village—some just met their ends quicker, with steel instead of disease.
An old man wearing a stocking cap pushes a wheelbarrow carrying a bag of limestone. Milo, his tail tucked, minces his way across the village square, a temporary grave for the fallen.
I slept as well as I could, even though Jadon’s forge has been firing white-hot since the early hours. Every dead soldier’s sword has been cast into the fire, and they now glow as they melt into useless pools of iron. Jadon’s worked without stop, crafting new weapons from these old ones. Preparing for the inevitable next attack.
Olivia climbs up to the loft, bringing me wet towels, a clean white tunic, and brown suede breeches. She sighs at the spoiled peacock-blue dress and whispers, “Oh well.”
