The woman nodded slowly, a thoughtful expression on her face. “No, no it doesn’t. Anyway, the prince sent us to get you all out while he’s got the others distracted.”
“I see. And where exactly does the prince want us to go?”
“Toward the forest.”
She nodded at that, opening her mouth to say something more, then she became aware of a crowd gathered at her back. Turning, she saw that it was nearly half the villagers, maybe more, men, mostly, but more than a few women. They didn’t look just scared, not now, not like they had when they’d been sure they were going to be burned alive. Now, they looked angry.
“Mack?” she asked the man who stood at the front with his friend Will beside him. “What’s all this then?”
“Don’t seem right,” he growled.
“Oh?” she asked. “And what’s that?” Though, the truth was, she thought she knew exactly what it was, knew exactly how they were feeling, for she was feeling more than a little bit of it herself.
“Runnin’ away,” he said. “After the prince savin’ us and all.”
“Uh-huh,” Netty said, nodding thoughtfully. “There’s a lot about the last couple days don’t strike me as exactly right. Anyway, Maeve here says they’ve come to save us—says we’re to go into the forest, hide out for a while, maybe, until the mad prince is gone.”
“Which prince do you mean, Netty?” Will asked.
“Do you suppose it matters?”
The man grunted. “No, no, I don’t suppose it does.”
“Anyway,” she said, looking at the bigger of the two again. “You look troubled, Mack.” She glanced behind him at the crowd of men and women. “Matter of fact, you all do. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you look like some folks got violence on their mind.” Some of them fidgeted at that, and she grunted. “Oh, don’t look so ashamed. Truth is,” she said, glancing into the village in the direction Prince Bernard had run, “I do too.”
She turned back to Maeve. “Some of us would like to accept your offer now, Marvelous Maeve,” she said, grinning as the woman grunted in surprise.
The woman eyed her and the others. “And the rest?”
“Oh, we’ll be goin’ too,” the woman said. “Only, there’s somethin’ we need to take care of first.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
A man came to our village once
A Feyling in a cage
A coin a look he said to us
See its eyes, sparkle gold
Its fur sleek and black
But do not open up its cage
Or the Feyling will attack
—Rodarian Dalumis, Poet, excerpt taken from “The Ramblings of Life from a Rambling Life”
The net was closing.
Six men lay dead somewhere in the village by his hands, but there were more, many more. Their footsteps were all around him, the sounds of their thudding like the distant thunder of a coming storm as they combed through the streets. But just now, he was not in the street, was instead lying prone on what remained of the roof of what had once been a stable. He was not known for his subtlety, he knew, had a reputation—well-earned—for being a ruthless killer like some mad barbarian.
They did not expect him to hide, to sneak around when he could charge directly into battle. And that was exactly what he was counting on. He focused on controlling his breathing as the three men approached, creeping down the alleyway in front of the stables beneath him. They were careful, scanning the shadows around them, but in time they moved past his spot and then Cutter, his axe in one hand, leapt from the stables, bringing his weapon down in a two-handed grip.
The Fey-crafted weapon cleaved deep into the space between the neck and shoulder of the soldier at the rear in a gout of blood. Cutter tried to pull the weapon free as the dead man collapsed, but the haft, slick with blood from his previous encounters, slipped from his hands, and he was left weaponless as the corpse took his axe with it.
The two soldiers, alerted to his presence by the sound he’d made falling and, no doubt, by the blood of their comrade spattering their backs, spun. Cutter knew he did not have time to retrieve his axe, so he did not hesitate, rushing toward the nearest with a growl. The man raised his weapon, meaning to bring it down in a lethal arc, but Cutter caught his wrist and slammed his forehead into the man’s face, felt his nose crumple beneath the impact.
His opponent made a gurgling, choking sound and staggered away, but Cutter was already turning to the last soldier. He caught a glint of metal as the man’s blade flashed at his face, and he spun to the side, struggling to get out of the way but knowing, as he did, that he would not be fast enough, a knowledge confirmed as he felt the steel slice through the sleeve of his shirt and cut a bloody line across his upper arm.
Many people, then, having taken a wound, would have retreated, tried to put some space between them and their attacker, but though the wound pained him, Cutter had taken many such wounds before. So instead of retreating or leaping away, he pivoted on his right foot, throwing all his force back toward his opponent who, judging by the grunt of surprise he made, had clearly expected him to back away. Instead, Cutter brought his fist around, burying it in the man’s gut. The soldier collapsed over his fist, bending nearly double as the air exploded out of him in a whoosh.
Before he could recover, Cutter turned around him, grabbing the back of the man’s head and burying his face in the stone wall of the nearest building. With all his not inconsiderable strength driving it, the soldier’s face crushed into the stone wall, and as he collapsed on his back, dead, his face was a mess of blood and bone, his features unrecognizable.
His chest heaving with breath, Cutter
