'Lay the queen on the ground I say!'
'You risk your life if you take another step!' he shouted above the noise. He looked over and saw three young novices crouched in the cart, terror on their faces as they looked from him to the woman. The creature came toward him with the sword in her hands.
'Step back or you die,' he hissed.
'You cannot hold the queen and kill me at the same time, boy,' she jeered, pressing the sword to his throat. 'Lay her on the ground.'
'She stays with me.'
He wanted to hurt this creature. The feeling was so intense that it took everything inside of him to fight against it. He stepped forward with Isaboe in his arms and felt the witch's sword press into the flesh of his throat. But still their eyes stayed locked.
The word was accompanied by screams from the novices. Perri stood at the rear of the cart. His sword was already stained with blood, and Finnikin could see the battle rage in his eyes as he stared at the strange creature between them. Two of the young girls in the cart scuttled to its corners, while the third stared at Finnikin and Perri.
'Step away from the cart!' the white-haired woman said. The vehemence in her voice was directed at Perri, but Finnikin saw the sword in her hand tremble.
Perri took a step back, and Finnikin read more in the guard's face than he had ever seen before. 'Give Tesadora the queen, Finnikin,' he said.
Tesadora of the Forest Dwellers directed her gaze back to Finnikin, slowly lowering her sword. 'The boy from the rock with the pledge in his heart. I expected someone mightier in build.'
'Your father needs you by his side, Finn,' Perri said.
Finnikin refused to move, looking down at Isaboe. She felt cold in his arms, and he shook his head fervently.
'Finnikin, if you lay her in the cart, they will do all they can to help. Tesadora may be the only one who can save her.'
There was something in Perri's voice that made him surrender the queen; he knew Perri trusted no one but the Guard and Trevanion. Perri moved toward Finnikin to help him lay her on the cart, but Tesadora hissed and the young novices cried out in fear.
'Not a step closer,' Tesadora threatened. 'Put her on the ground and move away.'
'We will not touch your girls, Tesadora,' Perri said impatiently. 'Let us place her on the cart.'
The novices stared at Finnikin as he settled Isaboe on the cart beside them. Stared as if he was some sort of fiend. Had he turned into one? Could they see the darkness in his eyes? Slowly he bent and placed his lips against Isaboe's cold skin, and then the cart jolted away.
'Do not let the darkness consume you, Finnikin of the Rock.' With the reins firmly in her hands, Tesadora disappeared beyond the dark clouds of smoke with Isaboe safely nestled in the arms of the novices.
As Finnikin followed Perri into battle, the lust for killing consumed him. Each time he stared into the eyes of his enemy, he saw a madman responsible for the pain of every one of their people who had burned at the stake, died by the sword, swung from a rope, shuddered with the fever, ached with hunger. Worse, he felt the grief of their loved ones who had stood and watched helplessly. This was the agony that had made the novice Evanjalin stumble after she walked the sleep, her face pinched, her heart black with despair. He could save her from an enemy with a sword, but how could he shield her from her people's suffering?
One thousand arrows had found their target within the first minute. As the enemy began to fall, Trevanion's men and the Monts unleashed a wrath borne of ten years of exile. Axes broke bones. Blades sliced flesh. Men who once were farmers cut down the enemy like crops of wheat.
By early evening they had breached the palace gate and entered the grounds where half the impostor king's men had retreated. Finnikin watched as the area that had been his playground as a child became a slaughterhouse. But there were reports that a mightier battle was raging farther in the kingdom. According to one of the Guard, Saro and the Monts were fighting an enemy group that included the impostor king, at the foot of the mountains. Leaving Perri in charge, Trevanion and Finnikin leaped onto their mounts. As they rode through the kingdom, Finnikin took in the inferno around them. Every Flatland village was on fire. He prayed that the villagers had escaped their burning homes. He could not endure the thought of having to search these cottages for the charred remains of their people in the days to come.
When they reached the foot of the mountains, they were confronted by the sight of a hundred men in fierce combat. The Monts were savage in their attack, and Finnikin knew that no Mont would allow the impostor's men to reach the summit of their mountain. He caught glimpses of Lucian and saw what set him apart from the other lads. Not just sheer bulk, but a perfect symmetry in the swing of his ax, an ability to achieve in seconds what took others minutes. Lucian did not hesitate as he fought alongside his father. It was as if he had waited a lifetime to avenge his cousins, and this was the day of reckoning. But Finnikin wondered when his own need for revenge would be satisfied, whether thrusting his sword into enemy flesh and watching the blank open stare of death could make up for what had been lost these ten years. He had never seen anything as brutal as the battle to reclaim Lumatere. He fought close to his father, at times almost sobbing with fatigue, wanting to beg for a sword to be plunged into his body to end it all. But each time he sensed Trevanion by his side. 'Stay with me, Finn. Don't let me bury a son this day.'
They had always known they would lose some of their own, and as night descended, Finnikin saw Saro of the Monts fall, a sword through his throat. Where he fought, Lucian stopped for the first time in hours, his face registering the anguish.
The Mont stumbled away from his opponent, and Finnikin watched with horror as the impostor's soldier raised his weapon. Finnikin threw his dagger and caught the man between the eyes. 'Lucian! Lucian! Protect yourself!'
Then Finnikin was running toward Lucian with his bow. Aiming, shooting, running. Aiming, shooting, running. But the Mont could only think of getting to Saro. He fell at his father's side and gathered him into his arms, his hoarse cry mingling with the clash of steel against steel. Until Finnikin could hear no more sound from Lucian but saw the pure sorrow. And on a day he believed he could feel nothing more, his heart seemed to shatter as he flew onto the Mont's body to shield him.
When he looked up, Finnikin saw the angel of death above him, an ax raised over his head. He knew he would die. The jagged blade would split his head like a watermelon. And in those seconds before death, he kept his eyes on his father fighting less than ten feet away. He wanted his last thoughts to be of this man. And of her.
But the ax, and the hand attached to it, went flying through the air, and the enemy crashed to the ground in front of him. Finnikin stumbled to his feet and stared into the face of the exile from Lastaria. The man held out a hand to him and pulled him to his feet, and then he was gone.
Without hesitation, Finnikin turned back to Lucian and stood guard, lobbing arrows toward anyone who dared to enter the Mont's circle of grief.
Later, those who had lived the horror inside the kingdom for ten long years spoke of vindictive retribution. As if the bastard king, as they called him, had sensed that Lumatere was about to be reclaimed and set their world alight. Those of the Flatlands and the River hid with those of the Rock and watched as their kingdom was razed to the ground, watched from up high as their lost ones entered the gate and fought the bastard king and his men on the path leading up to the palace.
Some said it was the end of days and planned to climb to the highest point of the rock of three wonders, where they would plunge to their deaths.
But a sliver of hope stopped them. Hope created by a promise scratched into the arm of a child.
The promise that Finnikin of the Rock would return with their queen.
Chapter 26
