Maeve had been right about this much, at least—if one of the soldiers happened on the mage while he was using his magic, the man would clearly be unable to defend himself. Likely, judging by his unfocused gaze, he would not even notice that they had come upon him until he felt the bite of their sword and nothing after.
“Chall?”
“Not now, lad,” the mage said, hissing the words through gritted teeth.
“They’ll need help, Maeve and Priest, I mean, but Maeve said—”
The mage let out a weary growl, turning to stare at Matt. Suddenly the illusion flickered. Only for a moment, but for a brief instant, the mist, and those figures lurking within it, vanished, revealing Priest and Maeve running toward the soldiers at the inn. “What is it, boy?”
“Chall,” Matt said as several of the soldiers began to take note of the two figures rushing toward them, “something’s happened.”
Chall frowned, looking back toward the inn. “Shit,” he hissed. He waved his clawed hands desperately, as if trying to snatch something only he could see out of the air, and then, in another moment, the mist was back, the figures lurking inside it as well.
“Chall,” Matt tried again, “will you be okay if I—”
“Go, Matt,” the mage growled, “now.”
Matt recoiled at the rebuke, hurriedly climbing down the wall of the burned-out house once more. He was standing there, angry at being forgotten, at being left behind, his face heating with a mixture of annoyance and shame, when he thought of something. Yes, the mage’s words might be seen as a rebuke. But then, they might also be seen as permission. After all, Chall had told him to go, hadn’t he?
Matt glanced once more up at the mage. The shadows would cover him, keeping him from the soldiers’ view—and anyway they were far too busy worried about the phantom figures lurking in the mist, shouting panicked cries to each other, to go searching for him. What’s more, Maeve and Priest would need Matt’s help. The woman had told him to stay, yes, but she had told him because she thought of him as a child. But he was not a child, was not helpless. So, he looked at the mist—and the giants moving within it—took a deep breath, and ran forward, leaving the mage and the cover the building provided behind him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
There is no beast more dangerous, than one cornered.
No man more dangerous than one with nowhere left to run.
—Unknown author
He could hear the sounds of their pursuit as they approached, the padded shuffle of their footsteps, the harsh rasps of their breath in the cool air as they sprinted to catch up with what they believed to be their fleeing prey. And Cutter had fled, at least for a time, but he had not fled as a deer might when it caught the hunter’s scent, wildly and without thought, for whatever else he was, for whatever else he had been, he was not prey, not then and not now.
But the men chased him as if he was, as if he were the fox and they the hounds, barreling after him without caution, without fear. That was their mistake. He stood with his back propped against the wall of a house, the surface still slick with soot, and he listened to them come. Two in this group, judging by the sound. There would be others, of course, spreading out through the village while some moved to surround the village and cut off his exit, making sure that no avenue of escape was left to him. But then, he had never been planning to escape.
So, instead of running for the village edge, an edge which would soon be guarded by soldiers if it wasn’t already, Cutter stood at the wall with his massive axe in his hand. And he waited. It had always been the worst part of it for him, the waiting. The doing of the thing was rarely so bad as the fantasies a man created for himself while he waited for it to begin. He knew that, for he had learned it during a hundred other situations like this one, and so he did not concern himself with Matt and the others, did not wonder at whether or not they were safe, at whether or not they would be able to save the villagers. What he could do for them he had done already.
There was only the here, only the now. Only the feel of the axe haft in his hands, its weight a solid, comforting, terrifying presence. When he judged the front man of the two to be rounding the corner, he stepped out, grunting as he swung the axe with all his might. The blow connected solidly, slightly above the man’s chin. He did not have time to scream or even slow as most of his head was lopped from his shoulders in a bloody rush. The second man did have time to scream, but no more than that before Cutter pivoted, doing a half-spin and bringing the axe back to bury the blade in the man’s forehead.
With a grunt, he ripped the axe free, and the man collapsed to the ground on his back. Cutter started to turn but paused as he caught sight of the man’s face. Or, at least, what was left of it. Perhaps by some trick of the light, or his own mood, or perhaps because it was simply the truth, the soldier looked young. In his early twenties, if that. Only a few years older than Matt.
Cutter knew that time was of the essence, knew that every single second he wasted would be paid for in blood, yet he found himself
