—Exiled Historian to the Crown Petran Quinn
Cutter did not want to fight his brother, for what was broken between them had been broken by him and him alone. But that was not the main reason he did not draw the axe at his back, did not rush to meet him as he once would have done without hesitation. No, the biggest reason that he chose to turn and sprint into the darkness instead was Matt, him and the others who were even now creeping behind the inn or perhaps there already. They were counting on him, them and all those villagers of Ferrimore who had not perished in the Fey attack. Cutter had chosen the path of violence, of death often in his life—always, in truth. Now, he chose life.
He chose to run.
He turned and sprinted into the shadows. He did not wonder if Feledias would follow him—he knew he would, for the creature his brother had become, the creature he had made him, could do nothing else. He knew this just as he knew that they would catch him. Soon.
As he ran, he could hear Feledias shouting furiously at his soldiers, ordering them to spread out and give chase. With so many men after him, it was not a question of if they would catch him, only how much time it would take them. And, more importantly, how much time he could buy the others before the death which had been stalking his steps all his life finally found him.
***
“That son of a bitch,” Maeve whispered.
“What?” Matt asked from where he and the others, Chall and Priest, crouched behind the burned-out remnants of a house behind the inn. “Did he abandon us? I knew it! He only cares for himself and—”
“Shut your fucking mouth, boy,” Maeve hissed. “What he does now he does not do for himself.”
Matt recoiled, obviously hurt. “What…what do you mean?”
“Do you not see, boy?” Chall said sadly, his voice soft. “Our prince sacrifices himself for us.” He paused, turning to look at Matt. “For you.”
The boy was clearly confused, not understanding. But then, he did. “You mean…he’s going to get killed?”
Maeve grunted. “Eventually. Feledias has been hunting his revenge for fifteen years, lad. He will not squander his moment.”
“And neither, then, should we,” Priest said, and they all turned to him. “Our prince buys us time,” he continued, “we must use it.”
Maeve blinked. “You can’t be serious,” she said. “You mean to leave him alone? To let him die?”
“He is our prince,” Priest said calmly, not reacting to her anger. “I mean to obey.”
Maeve stared at the man, hesitating as her emotions raged inside her.
“What do we do, Maeve?”
She turned to look at the mage, watching her, waiting for her to make the decision. Then she cursed. “Priest’s right. The villagers need us. Come on.”
She nodded to Valden. “Best go see what we’re up against.”
The man returned the gesture and then grabbed hold of the stone wall of the ruined house. Maeve watched as the man scaled the wall as easily as someone else might have a ladder, climbing to the top where he crouched low, taking advantage of the relative height the building afforded him to get a better view.
A moment later, he climbed back down. “There are ten guards at the back, fifteen stationed at the front. And Maeve?” he went on, his expression grim as he met her eyes. “They’re stacking wood around the inn.”
“Wood?” Matt asked. “Why would they—” He cut off, his eyes going wide in the darkness. “They mean to burn them.”
“Shit,” Maeve said. She had been hoping that the appearance of Cutter, the object of his hatred, would have goaded Feledias into doing something foolish, had even gone so far as to entertain the hope that the man might order every armed man with him to chase his brother down in his rage. But even twisted by hatred, it seemed that the man had retained his cleverness. Damn him.
She wracked her brain looking for some sort of answer, but she could find none. There were simply too many, that was all. Even if they somehow managed to take care of the soldiers stationed at the back—another vain hope waiting to be dashed—then it would make no difference, for they would not be able to do so silently, and their efforts would only alert those stationed at the front. Ten against four—one of which knew nothing of fighting and had only just risen from the ranks of childhood into adulthood—were long odds, at best. Twenty-five against four were impossible ones.
“How many can you take?” she asked Priest.
“Done quiet?” he said. He gave a shake of his head. “Two—maybe three. No more than that.”
Maeve winced. Perhaps one or two herself, assuming her knees or her back didn’t give out on her in the doing of the thing. That left five at best, five for a young boy and an overweight mage who, just then, was looking like he was getting ready to piss himself. Not good odds. Not odds at all, really.
She shook her head. “I don’t—”
“I’ll need help.”
She turned to look at Chall, the mage’s face pale but his expression resolute nonetheless. “Help?” she asked.
He winced, clearly embarrassed, as he motioned to the wall the priest had climbed down a moment before. “Getting up. I’ll need to be able to see—it helps.”
Maeve frowned at that, and it wasn’t just at the thought of trying to lever the mage’s significant bulk up the wall somehow. Up at the top of the house, he would be significantly easier to spot than Priest had been, not just because of his size but also because he was not exactly known for his stealth. In fact, the only person she knew who lacked subtlety more than the mage was Cutter himself. Despite all her complaints, all the times he made her want to strangle him, she liked Challadius, the man who managed to find a way to make her laugh when
