And just like that, it was over.
Cutter blinked at the two corpses. It had been some time since he had seen just how skilled the two of them were, fifteen years in fact, but it seemed that the intervening time had done nothing to dampen their talents. Maeve stepped forward to the guardsman who’d fallen on his face, unceremoniously rolling him over and retrieving her knife. She would feel that death later, of course—assuming there was a later—for Cutter knew she always did, had heard her crying herself to sleep many times over the years. But he knew, also, that she would not allow herself to feel it now, not when there was work to do.
Maeve rose, glancing back at Cutter then at Chall who, by the expression of shock on his face, was just as surprised by the speed of what had just occurred as Cutter was himself. “What?” she asked.
Cutter shared a look with the mage and shrugged. “Nothing.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re not the only one knows how to stop a man’s heart, Prince. And as for you,” she went on, turning to glance at the mage, “you just remember this the next time you want to run your mouth.”
Then they were moving again, jogging at a fast clip, for all of them were well aware that if they did not arrive soon there would be no point in arriving at all. Feledias was nothing if not thorough. As they drew closer to the inn they had left less than an hour ago, the screams grew louder, the firelight—not from one house now, or two, but several throughout the village as his brother set about the task of destroying the village—brighter.
They fell back into a familiar routine as they made their way through the streets. Priest moved up ahead of them, scouting, ensuring that their way was clear of anymore surprises. Cutter was next, followed by Chall in the middle with Matt, and Maeve last, the woman keeping an eye on their back lest someone try to surprise them from behind.
Soon, they drew near the inn once more. The screams—and the owners of those screams—were close now, very close, just on the other side of a building. Cutter and the others waited while Priest crept forward, making use of his almost supernatural ability to move in complete silence, but it was not just that, for the moment the man stepped away from them, Cutter seemed to lose sight of him, as if he wrapped the darkness of the night around him like a cloak, concealing himself from view.
Several tense minutes passed then as they waited for the scout to return, waited and listened to the sounds of shouting from nearby. He was just beginning to worry that the man had been caught when, suddenly, Priest appeared out of the night only feet away from Cutter and nearly elicited a shout of surprise that would have given them away. “How’s it look?” Cutter asked, but as he peered at the scout, taking in his grim expression, he realized he probably hadn’t needed to ask.
“It’s bad,” the man said, confirming his suspicion. “They’re burning the village—what little of it isn’t already burned, anyway. They’re bringing all the villagers to the inn.”
“Gods,” Chall muttered.
“What?” Matt asked quietly, glancing between their grim expressions. “I don’t understand. Why would he bring the villagers to the inn?”
They all looked at Cutter, leaving it to him, and he sighed. “Makes it easier,” he said, meeting the boy’s eyes.
Matt frowned. “What? It makes what easier?”
“This way,” Cutter went on, “there’s only one really important fire. He throws the villagers inside, bars the door, and lets the flames wipe out any trace of what happened here, any possible evidence that might point back to him or his troops.”
Matt’s eyes went wide at that. “Y-you can’t be serious. H-he wouldn’t…I mean, a person wouldn’t…all those people—”
“He would, lad,” Cutter said simply. “It’s been done before.” He did not bother telling the boy that this was almost certainly what had been done in Brighton, his home.
“W-we have to help them,” Matt said, meeting Cutter’s eyes. “W-we can’t let him…we can’t.”
Cutter doubted very much there was any help they could offer the citizens of Ferrimore, thought it likely that the only effect such an attempt would have would be them dying along with them, but he knew that the boy had meant what he said, knew that he would use the blade he still carried if Cutter tried to drag him away from here. But even that wasn’t the only reason he stayed. He found that, now that he was here, he was glad. True, they were almost certainly about to begin a battle that would lead, inevitably and irrevocably, to their deaths, but it wasn’t as if he hadn’t been in such a place before.
He had tried to keep the boy safe, tucked away, hidden away, but Maeve was right—no one who was alive was safe, not in this world. And if the boy was to die, if they all were, then Cutter could think of far worse ways than giving their lives to try to keep the villagers from suffering the worst of his brother’s rage.
Cutter put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “We won’t, lad.” He noted the look of gratitude that passed over the boy’s face at that, but he turned away, looking to Priest. “Show us.”
The scout nodded and soon they were moving again, making slower progress now as they focused on stealth. Cutter felt a tightness across his shoulders as they moved. He had never been one given to sneaking or lurking in the shadows, and he felt a growing respect for Priest and his talents. There was an anxiousness, a tenseness that Cutter never felt in the grip of a battle,
