“Matt!” she shouted as she ran. “Where are you?”
But the boy did not answer, not this time, and she felt her panic threaten to overwhelm her. Did he not hear her? Was he too busy? Or was there some other, darker reason why he remained silent? “Matt!” she yelled again as she narrowed her eyes, struggling and failing to see past the thick fog.
Again, there was no answer. She moved farther into the mist and heard the unmistakable sounds of fighting. She narrowed her eyes, trying to see through the fog, and could just make out the silhouettes of what appeared to be two figures stumbling around with their hands on each other as if in some awkward dance. Maeve hurried forward and saw that, indeed, one of them was Matt. And at a quick glance, she saw, too, why the youth had not answered her—it was not so easy to respond when a man who looked like he outweighed you by a good fifty pounds had his hands wrapped around your throat doing his level best to choke you to death.
The soldier was so intent on killing Matt that he did not notice Maeve’s approach as she rushed behind him, burying her knife in his back. The soldier let out a wheeze, and stumbled away, falling. Maeve watched him for a moment, making sure that he was done, then she turned to Matt. “Are you okay?”
The youth was rubbing at his throat, his eyes wide and scared. “H-he was going to kill me.”
“It’s the thing about murderers,” Maeve agreed, “they aren’t all that original. Now,” she said, “are you okay?”
He cleared his throat, wincing as he rubbed at his neck. “I…I think so.”
Maeve nodded. “So what happened? Did they find Chall? Where is he?”
“Chall’s fine, Maeve,” he said quickly, “he’s still at the house.”
Maeve frowned. “I don’t understand. If no one found you both then why are you here?”
“I thought…” The youth hesitated, as if embarrassed. “I wanted to help.”
Maeve blinked, glancing between the boy and the dead man on the ground, the one who had been well along the process of killing him when she’d arrived. “You wanted to help,” she said slowly.
“Y-yes.”
“Gods, you have no idea what you’ve done, what you’ve risked.”
“It’s alright, Maeve,” he said, “I’m fine, really. My throat’s just—”
“I don’t mean you, you damned fool,” she snapped. “I mean, Chall.”
The youth winced, clearly hurt, but a moment later a defensive, angry look came on his face. “I’m not a kid to be hidden away. I want to help and—”
“You were helping, damnit,” Maeve hissed, “by keeping Chall alive. Don’t you get it? If something happens to Chall, it won’t just be a friend I’ll lose, it’ll be all of our lives, for if he dies, the illusion—“ And then, as if her worries, her fears, had called it into existence, there was suddenly no need to explain anymore, for the mist, and the imagined creatures lurking therein, suddenly vanished as if they had never been.
Which was bad. What was worse was that, as the mist cleared, Maeve and Matt were left staring at four soldiers with bared blades, no more than two dozen feet between them.
“B-but what happened?” Matt asked. “To the illusion?”
“Don’t you see? If something has happened to the illusion, that means that something has happened to Chall, who you were meant to watch.”
“I-I’m sorry, Maeve,” he said, “I thought—”
“It doesn’t matter what you thought,” she snapped, watching the soldiers. “It’s done now. The world isn’t some fairy tale, boy, where the good guys always win no matter how stupid they are. In the real world, good guys die all the time, if there are even any left. Now, grab that sword,” she said, motioning to the blade that had fallen from the dead man’s hands.
“But Maeve,” he said, “I’ve never…I mean I don’t know how to use it.”
“Then you’d better learn, boy,” she said. “Learn to fight or learn to die—your choice.”
Unsurprisingly, the youth bent and retrieved the sword. Maeve paid him no more mind, however. Instead, her attention was focused on the four soldiers who had overcome the terror that the imaginary Skaalden had caused and were now moving toward them, their blades bared. Relieved, no doubt, to be faced with human opponents instead of the monstrous ones which had lurked in the mist.
Maeve withdrew a second knife, holding one in each hand as she waited for the approaching soldiers. She would do her best, but she knew that she and the boy stood little chance. She had once been known for her deadly skills, but that had been long ago and, anyway, her reputation had not been for standing and fighting as Cutter’s had been. Instead, her skills had lain in different areas. Seduction. Assassination. Not an axe to be wielded on some battlefield against countless foes, but instead a knife in the dark, one that might slip in like a thief and do its bloody work without anyone knowing it was coming.
But these four men were ready, and there was no chance for subtlety, no opportunity for surprise. The soldiers gathered speed, coming toward them confidently, aware that they had the upper hand. When they were less than
