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Heart pounding a frantic rhythm in my ears, I can barely hear our footsteps echo hollowly down the long, empty hallway. Fearing it’s the sound of our death march, I slow, sliding my feet to silence their noise. But another sound causes my feet to halt. I turn to June. Brows raised and eyes wide, she looks away from me and clips her head toward a conversation in the distance. At least three distinct voices ring out. Undoubtedly human, they’re animated. Male and females voices rise and fall, their tone excited, but not angry. And they’re growing louder by the second. Advancing.
“This way,” I mouth to June as I point with a trembling finger to a staircase to the right. The sound of humans should soothe me. I don’t know why I’m running from them. After all, they’re not Urthmen. But for reasons that elude me at the moment, the humans here terrify me more than the Urthmen. Their presence on this property perplexes me almost as much as it unsettles me.
Voices grow louder and closer, I hear the word “execution” again as I dart to the right with June just a few steps behind me. The word explodes in my lifeblood like jagged shards. I halt for a split-second, my feet at war with my brain. With what I know I must do. But what I want to do has briefly taken hold of my legs. I want to turn and rush down the hall toward the voices. I want to find the sources of them and punish them for discussing the execution of my children and husband. For laughing as they speak of it. I want to unleash the avalanche of anger, fear and hurt that is barely held at bay within me. But I can’t. Doing so will not serve William, John and Sully.
“Avery?” June whispers my name, her tone imploring me to move.
Biting the inside of my cheek so hard my mouth fills with blood, I turn away from the approaching humans and run. I have no idea where I’m going or what exactly I expect to find upstairs. The hope is to find my sons and husband. But that would be too easy. That would be a dream come true. I’m certainly not counting on it, still I move with urgency, taking the steps two at a time until I reach the second floor with June in tow. Ahead of us is another long hallway, longer than the one below, and lined with doors on either side. I trade glances with June. She nods and we steal down the passageway, scanning our surroundings every step of the way.
When we are midway down, the sound of a handle turning and a door creaking open startles me. Recoiling, I reach a hand out instinctively and grab June’s arm, stopping her and yanking her back. She shoots me a look of consternation as we flatten our backs to the wall. Heart drilling my ribcage, I wait with bated breath when over the threshold steps a human, a girl by the curve of her silhouette, which cannot be hidden by the draping robe. Distracted, she turns to pull the door closed. This close, I can tell that the marking on her forehead is a “C” with a circle around it. The skin is raised and pink and suggests that the mark was carved into her flesh. She lifts her gaze from the handle, her eyes flitting from it to us then back to it before the fact that she saw June and I truly registers. Her eyes return to us, rounding in shock. She opens her mouth to scream. Panicking and with a fraction of a second to act, I close the distance between us, descending on her. I clap my hand over her mouth and push her backward.
Turning the handle, I force her back into the room from which she exited. June closes the door behind us quietly, looking left then right down the hallway in either direction first.
Beneath the firm grip of my hand, the girl tries to yell, her breath hot against my palm.
Seeing the girl struggle, June spins and draws an arrow in her bow in the space of a breath. Pulled taut and aimed at the girl, she says in a low voice that shivers with the promise of violence, “If you make a sound, I’ll put an arrow through your heart. Nod once if you understand me.” Muscles in her shoulders and arms flexed and posture ramrod straight, my sister is as deadly as she is beautiful.
The girl’s attempts to cry out cease. She stills as an animal in the wild does when caught in the crosshairs of a predator. Her eyes, round like saucers, are filled with tears. And fear. She nods.
Slowly, I remove my hand. I stare at her with a gaze as hard and unyielding as stone. “Who are you people?” I demand, referencing the shaved head and white robe she and the others like her wear. “And why are you here, roaming freely on Urthmen property?”
“W-What do you mean?” she asks with a look of bewilderment that sets the fine hairs of my body on end.
“I mean you’re human, and here,” I say as I try to connect the two details in my brain. “Walking around unguarded with Urthmen. The very Urthmen who just slaughtered our kind.” My eyes search hers for answers. For clarification. What I saw didn’t make sense.
The look of terror and bewilderment fades and is replaced by an air of self-importance. The transformation is disturbing. The way her expression shifts from fright to composure that borders arrogance sets me on edge. It’s as if her emotions have been reset. As if she’s programmed to shut down, recalibrate and react accordingly. “They didn’t slaughter my kind,” she replies. Haughty derision sparkles in the depths of her glacial gaze. As pale and cold as ice over water, her blue eyes are frosty as they skim me from head to toe.
Bristling at her demeanor as well as her words, I reply sharply, “What does that mean? You’re human, just as we are.”
“Hardly,” she says with that contempt-filled tone again. Her chin notches and she draws her shoulders back as if she is a regal queen seated on a throne and not a young woman with an arrow armed at her heart. “The humans killed were savages. Savage humans that were the enemy of our leader, King Cadogan.” Gone is the girl who looked as though she’d faint from fear seconds ago. She smirks, her expression so smug and self-satisfied I want nothing more than to slap it from her face.
“Savage humans?” I unsheathe my blade. Seething, a burning pit of anger blazes to life in my gut, blistering up and down my limbs and ending as a conflagration in my brain.
“Do we look like savages?” June demands angrily.
The girl rakes her eyes over June, first taking in the bow and arrow then studying the filthy clothes she wears. She does the same to me, ending with my blade. Her act manages to make me feel exposed. Bare and ashamed as if I’m naked and on display. I’ve never felt ashamed of who I am or how I am in the past. Yet the way she examines me causes my cheeks to burn with humiliation.
“Yes, you do,” the girl answers. Only this time she does so without arrogance. She says it plainly. I realize that her simple answer only adds to the feeling of embarrassment.
Shame scalds from my collar to my crown. Yes, at the moment, June and I appear savage I suppose. We are dirty. Our clothes are tattered. Our hair is messy. Trekking through the Great Forest was not an easy feat. And our weapons are drawn on her as an act of self-preservation. They’re a compulsory component of our lives. Of our survival. Without them, we’re vulnerable. We become prey. I should’ve remembered that. Should have remembered what my father always told me. He told me to always have at least one weapon on hand. Had I heeded his warning and insisted that my people did the same, they’d be alive now, I’m sure. Their deaths have an unreal feel to them. A nightmarish feel. I only wish I could wake from it and find them alive. But I can’t. What’s happened is all too real. The girl’s cavalier attitude toward them and their deaths causes hot tendrils of anger to snap through my veins.
Abandoning any embarrassment, I no longer care what she thinks. As it turns out, I haven’t been savage enough thus far. That changes here and now.
“Maybe I am a savage.” I shrug and look her dead in the eyes. “And you and your people are slaves serving a murderer,” I hiss.
Shaking her head adamantly, the girl says, “We are not slaves and King Cadogan is not a murderer. He is a great man.”
“A great man?” June asks incredulously. “That great man ordered the deaths of thousands of innocent people. That’s a great man to you?”
The girl doesn’t hesitate or miss a beat. Seemingly oblivious of or flagrantly disregarding June and I, she says, “The people killed posed a threat to his reign. The King couldn’t allow that. They were dangerous people and needed to be dealt with.”
“Dealt with?” June fairly shouts. Then to me, she says through gritted teeth, “I’m putting an arrow through her left eye now.” She raises her loaded bow a fraction of an inch, training it on the girl’s eye.
The girl flinches, covering her face with both hands as if that would save her from June’s deadly aim. Her overconfidence has fled. The stink of urine fills the room and a puddle forms at the girl’s feet.
“Don’t bother trying to cover your face,” I advise. “It’s no use. If June wants you dead, you’ll be dead,” I say with the calm of a coiled snake. “The only thing standing between you and that arrow lodged in your left eye is me.” I point to the loaded arrow.
The girl swallows hard then nods.
“June, please don’t shoot her in the eye,” I smile and say to my sister. June’s stony gaze vacillates between the girl and me. Reluctantly, June lowers her loaded bow. “Thank you, June,” I say. Then to the girl, I ask, “What is it you do here?”
Trembling so hard her entire body shakes visibly, she replies, “W-we serve our leader and his army.”
“Do you receive anything for your service?” I continue.
She looks at me, lower lip quivering, as if wondering whether I’ve asked her a trick question. “N-no,” she answers with hesitance.
“Then you are a slave,” I say slowly, enunciating each word.
“B-but, we are not,” the girl whines. “We aren’t humans who are born in the wild. We’re bred humans.”
“Bred humans?” My voice is as flat as the expression on my face feels.
The girl looks from June to me. “Yes. B-bred Humans,” she repeats. “Our parents were hand-picked by King Cadogan, s-selected to breed children to serve him.” She tips her chin, tears streaming down her cheek. “It is an honor.”
I am nauseated at her words and the pride expressed in her last sentence. It is an honor. How absurd! An honor to be slave to an Urthman!
I lick the front of my teeth then swallow before I say. “Is branding you like an animal an honor?” I point to the mark on her forehead. Stories handed down from generation to generation tell of a time long ago, in a time before war, when humans weren’t an endangered species and Urthmen didn’t exist. Then, animals were owned by people for various purposes. They were branded to show that ownership, much like this King Cadogan has branded his human collection.
“It is an honor,” she repeats. Though her voice is strained by emotion, it still resonates with pride.
I look over my shoulder at June. “How has this been going on for decades—before the peace—and we never knew about it? How did it happen right under our noses?” I wonder aloud. “How was Prince Garan unaware of it?”
June shakes her head and blows a forceful stream of air from between pursed lips. “He must’ve known,” she says.
“King Garan and his son were never allowed in Elian,” the girl chimes in.
June and I whip our heads in her direction. “How could the Urthmen King not be allowed in Elian? He reigned over all Urthmen cities,” June says.
The girl shakes her head. “He was never the rightful King. King Cadogan always was. He’s always been the true King.”
“I can’t decide whether you’re delusional or just plain stupid,” June replies.
“Do you realize that your King is going to execute small children today? Human children?” I ask, hoping that somewhere within her brainwashed mind she possesses emotions. Sympathy. Empathy. Compassion. Some of the basic tenets that link all of humanity.
“They are savages and traitors,” she answers.
Pouncing on her, the levee that held my avalanche of rage at bay breaks. I sheathe my blade and clasp both hands around the slender column of her neck. I squeeze hard, feeling the violence of my tightening grip as it increases in pressure.
“They are not savages, and they are not pathetic slaves like you,” I snarl through teeth clenched so hard the enamel of my molars grinds. “Slaves who aren't even smart enough to know they are slaves.”
“It’s an honor to serve my King,” she rasps. It’s as if the answer is preprogramed inside of her.
Her words only incense me. Enraging me further.
I squeeze harder.
The girl’s face reddens, quickly deepening in color to an unhealthy magenta. A small vein in her forehead bulges, protruding in a zigzag shape and resembling a lightning bold. Eyes bulging, she flails her arms feebly.
“So you would watch the murder of children today—my children—and it won't bother you? That is how you serve your King?” I snarl the words, my voice foreign to my own ears. The girl is shrouded in crimson. My vision is awash in scarlet. All I see is red. Anger has claimed me. She doesn’t care that my babies will be murdered in cold blood. Innocent children who never harmed a single living creature.
“Avery!” June calls out. “What’re you doing?”
Teetering on the brink of a great precipice, June’s voice draws me back, pulling me away from plunging into a swirling abyss of madness.
“Don’t do it,” she says. “Don’t do it.” She comes close so that I can see her face. “We need information. She knows when and where the execution will take place,” June reminds me.
My entire body trembles. This fear and pain I carry has gotten the better of me. Pushed me past my bounds. The slaughter of my people and the guilt I feel over it. Riley, Lark, Oliver and Prince Garan gone. Likely dead. Sully, William and John missing and now about to be executed. It’s more than I can handle. Looking down at the girl’s face, which has transformed from magenta to an oxygen-deprived violet hue, I realize that my sister is right. The girl is useless to me dead. Useless to Sully and my boys. Slowly, I ease off, lessening my grip.
Gasping and grateful, the girl takes several labored breaths when my hands fall away from her neck. Each one is a wheezing rasp. “We have to watch the execution.” She can barely manage to get the words out. “We are serving our King this morning.”
I stare at her.
“Food and drink,” she says, her voice hoarse. The whites of her eyes are red and deep bruises have formed crescents beneath her eyes.
“When?” I demand.
“A few hours from now. Nine,” she replies. “Nine o’clock.” She points to a dial in the window. With markings for each hour of daylight, as the sun moves across the sky, another part of the sundial casts a shadow on the markings. The position of the shadow shows what time it is. It is six o’clock in the morning.
I unsheathe my sword once again and, after a quick glance at June, I use the butt of it to knock the girl over the head. She falls to the ground, likely knocked unconscious by a combination of the force of the blow and the lack of oxygen from being choked.
June scans the room. “The robe,” she says. “Remove it and we’ll cut it into strips so we can tie her up.”
“But we’ll need it,” I say.
June and I look around the space, studying the layout. Pulse hammering against my temples, a door along the wall jumps out at me. Racing to it, I yank the door open wide and find three additional robes. We cut one up and bind the girl’s hands and feet before gagging her. Once she’s been secured, I lift her arms and June lifts her feet. Together, we place her inside the closet, remove the two remaining robes and close the door. A wooden chair near her straw bed is leaned so that the back of it is wedged beneath the handle.
With the girl barricaded inside the closet, I sheathe my sword and remove the dagger from the holder at my ankle. In the far corner of the room is a fixed basin with a water supply spigot and drain. A rectangular reflective piece of glass sits above it, anchored to the wall. Using my dagger, I begin cutting my hair.
Gripping clumps of my long, thick, golden-hued curls, I hack, sawing the sharp blade from side to side until a tangle of tendrils falls to the ground. I repeat this process, slicing until the length of my hair has been shorn, leaving only short, twisted sprigs on my scalp.
Watching me at first, June understands what I intend to do. By the time I spot the straight, razor-sharp blade on the side of the basin below the reflective glass and begin shaving my head, June has already cut more than half of her hair. When my head is smooth, she begins shaving hers as well.
Pulling two of June’s arrows from the quiver at her back, I start a small fire, using our hair as kindling to ignite the sparks that result from the friction of the wooden arrows rubbing together. Once the hair catches fire, I snap an arrow in half and add it to the growing flame. The back end catches fire before long. I extinguish it, blowing it our quickly so that the tip glows a brilliant amber color. With it glowing red-hot, I mark my forehead with a ringed “c”. The pain is excruciating. My flesh bubbles under the intense heat, blistering and turning an angry pink. June is next. I repeat the process, marking her forehead as I have marked my own. She does not wince or cry. She is left with the same crude mark I bear.
Looking in the mirror, she says, “If anyone looks closely they’ll be able to tell. They’ll figure it out.” She frowns, a line forming and creasing between her brows. And while she is unrecognizable without her hair, her gorgeous face takes center stage. Her expression is intense and determined as she steps away from the looking glass and strips out of her clothes. She slips into a robe, but not before arming herself with her bow and arrows beneath her draping garment. The long, bell-shaped sleeves conceal both easily.
“If anyone is close enough to examine our marks, we’ll have bigger problems than them noticing that ours look different,” I reply.
“True,” June replies. The welted brand on her forehead is considerable. “If we keep our heads low, we may have a chance.” Her fingertips graze the raised mark and she flinches. The movement is so slight and fleeting I’d have missed it if I blinked. But I didn’t. I saw it. Seeing June wince in pain, no matter how quickly, pains me. I’ve caused her—and everyone else—enough pain already. I’ve caused death. The brand she now wears etched in her skin may not be the final injury she incurs because of me. She could lose her life. My hand flies to my chest at the thought of losing her. It hovers over the twisting ache. I’d gladly surrender my life for my children, Sully or June. I don’t want to live in a world without them in it. They are my world. No matter where we go or what we do, as long as we have each other, we have reason to go on. Reason to fight.
In a moment of pure emotion, I grab my sister about her shoulders. Pulling her close, I embrace her tightly. “I love you, Junebug.” I call her a nickname I haven’t used in many years. I don’t care that she’s grown now and I don’t care that we’re standing on the second floor of a building teeming with bred humans who’ve been brainwashed to dislike us as much as the Urthmen do. She needs to know. We have now. Right now. We are not promised tomorrow, or even five minutes from now.
“I love you, too,” she says.
I hug her tightly for a moment.
“What’s all this about?” She holds me at arm’s length and searches my eyes for answers.
Tears blur my vision unexpectedly. They spill over my lower lashes and I swipe them away. “I just wanted you to know,” is all I can manage to say.
“I do know. You show me. Every day.”
“Good.” I nod. Knowing that I show her is the closest I’ve come to feeling relief of any kind since the Anniversary of Peace Celebration. The massacre. I’m about to say as much when a commotion is heard beyond our door. A rumble of footfalls and a cacophony of Urthmen and human voices echoes from the hallway. The second I hear it, the realization that it’s time to go to my children’s highly anticipated execution settles over me in an icy tide of paralyzing panic. The right half of my face tingles. The sensation ripples, spreading from my cheek to my hairline in lacy, numbing waves until it extends down my right arm. When June opens the door and I see a wave of billowing, gauzy robes pass, flanked by Urthmen clad in khaki uniform clothing, my heart beats so hard and so fast I can barely catch my breath. But collapsing is not an option. Especially not when John, William and Sully’s lives are at stake. With legs that feel like lead, I join the ranks leading toward the staircase. June and I fall in step with everyone, careful to keep our heads low. We join them unnoticed and make our way down the steps to the lower level.
Urthmen lead the way, shepherding us toward the Town Center. Eyes cast to the ground, I only allow my gaze to lift once we exit the building from the rear and traverse a grassy area. Once past the grassy square, we follow a paved path of smooth, gray stone. On either side of us, Urthmen have gathered, lining the way. Chanting and shouting, they pump their fists and curse. The excitement among them is palpable. They scream and cry out and cheer, the sound growing louder as we approach. They demand violence. They demand blood. The blood of my family.
We continue along the path until we reach an enormous structure of pale stone. Bone-hued and directly ahead of us, it more closely resembles a shell of a building rather that a building itself, for it is a single wall essentially. Unique in shape and unlike any I have seen thus far, the wall curves, stretching backward so that we have a clear view of the entire interior section. Perhaps the building had been circular at one time, but now what remains is a half circle, open to us. Along the arc of the wall, bench-like seats have been built. They’re tiered, the lowest level closest to the ground. With each ascending level, the seats are farther back so that each one has a clear view as they rise to a fourth level. Urthmen have begun filing in and fill the seats. They mill about and chatter. The swell of their voices is like a rolling ocean tide, tossing and pitching my emotions in a nauseatingly steep rise and fall.
Below the seating is a stretch of ground covered with pale sand. Upon it, three tables have been set up. Long and rectangular, a small boart with an apple in its mouth has been placed at its center. Around it is an abundance of food. Rich greens and brightly-colored fruits and vegetables circle it. Platters laden with branches loaded with small green globes cascade over the table’s edge. Midway down the length of the middle table is a chair. Gold in color and of some kind of reflective metal, the seat glows brightly in the sunlight. Ardorned with ornate jewel-like decorations, I assume the seat is a throne of sorts for the self-proclaimed King of the Urthmen, King Cadogan. Smaller round tables surround the ones heaped with food. They’re covered in a silky fabric I’ve never seen before. The fabric catches the morning light, glinting like liquid and resembling blood with its deep garnet color as it pools around the table legs.
We are guided to the food tables. No directions are issued. The humans with us know what to do and respond as if they’ve done it hundreds of times. To the right of the tables, another is set. It is a simple wooden table with a covering and holds plates, tankards and pitchers, as well as serving platters. They retrieve shiny metal steins. Pitchers that match the steins are filled with wine, the fruity, acrid smell pungent at this time of the day. The tankards are filled and returned to the trays before they’re picked up and held, on standby for the first Urthman who appears thirsty. Four robed humans stand stock-still holding them when the area suddenly falls silent. I slide June a glance as all eyes shift to the far left corner of the space. There, a portly Urthman draped in a bright-red cloak appears. Clad in the same material as the table coverings, he moves, waddling gracelessly as he makes his way to the ornate chair at the middle of the center rectangular table on which the food is set. Rolls of fat strain against his clothing. His legs are as wide as tree trunks and his feet look too small to carry his weight. He looks silly with a white bundle of curls perched precariously atop his head to compliment his garish outfit and corpulent build, but at the sight of him entering, a hush befalls the entire crowd. He stops midway to his table, likely to catch his breath, and allows his beady eyes to scan the crowd. The seats are as still as a tomb, responding with unquestioning silence. He resumes his trek and stops before his seat. He claps his hands together, interlacing his pudgy fingers and causing the hair he wears to slide to one side and his blubbery belly to jiggle. At any other time, the sight of this ridiculous creature would amuse me. But today it doesn’t. Today he is death incarnate.
As soon as Urthman King sits, about a dozen others scuttle like insects from the direction in which he came. They seat themselves at the round tables and immediately the wine is served. They drink and eat, not bothering to use their hands in most cases but opting instead to submerge their faces in plates they load with food from the tables. They snort and belch and pass gas as they gorge. I’m sickened by the sight, sound and smell of it. I follow the other humans, careful to maintain the illusion that I am one of them when I catch sight of a small figure near the edge of the structure on the left. Heart rocketing to my throat and hammering there, I see William. Tears have carved channels in the dirt that cakes his cheeks. Behind him is John. He looks much the same. I take a trembling breath that snags. Every instinct within me demands that I run to them. That I run to them and hold them and shield them with my body as we flee this awful place. My muscles twitch to life. The impulse to dash across the sand to them beats in time with my heart. I want to cry. To scream. To lash out at the multitude of blood-thirsty creatures around me. I am terrified and relieved at once. Over-joyed and depressed simultaneously. I am overcome. Overwhelmed. It takes every ounce of restraint within me to remain in place. The tray I hold quakes, the metal steins clacking against it. But I stay put. I must. For now at least.
John and William are shoved out of concealment. Small and frail beside the towering Urthman handling them, their hands are bound behind them. Vomit creeps up the back of my throat and tears sting my eyes. My babies. My babies are shackled and being lead to their deaths.
Once their feet touch the pale sand and the first Urthman glimpses them, a buzz begins. As they walk, what started as a weak hum transforms. It surges around the walls of the structure. Growling and rolling like a hungry beast, it echoes and grows louder the longer they walk. By the time they’re halfway to the center of the sand, the sound is a deafening roar. Even the walls vibrate. I’ve never heard such a commotion. Thunderous cheers, clapping, and stomping, all merge to create a rumble that shakes the earth beneath my feet. The sound is earsplitting. The tiers of seats that begin at ground level and rise high into the sky, Urthmen filling the benches, seem to sway. Most are on their feet shouting, stomping, pumping their fists, and flailing animatedly. There must be thousands of them. And their attention is focused on my children. On Sully. The roar, the screaming and chanting, all of it is for them. The crowd is calling for their blood to be spilled. They are calling for their deaths.
Urthmen to the right rush out to the center of the sand carrying wooden blocks. Three blocks in all, they bear rust-colored stains and have leather straps affixed to either side. They leave them then scurry back out of sight.
The Urthman forcing John and William out to the center of the sand stops them at the block. “Get down!” he shouts.
John hesitates, tears streaming down his face. William lifts his chin, looking the Urthman directly in the eyes. He falls to his knees, never breaking eye contact. John follows suit, doing as his brother just did.
“Heads on the blocks now!” the Urthman barks. He kicks John in the back.
I whimper. In my periphery, June flinches, her hands flying to the large sleeves of her robe. She could kill the Urthman who just struck my son in an instant. I know she could. I know she wants to. I want him dead. I will live to see him die. I will have my vengeance on all who’ve laid a hand upon my children’s heads if it is the last thing I do.
Trembling veins of fury snake through my body. My children are made to kneel before the block, resting their heads to one side while they’re strapped in place.
They will be beheaded.
Beheaded.
Their smiling faces flicker through my memory.
Their laughter echoes in my head.
No! No! No! This can’t be happening. Nothing is worse than this. I need to act. Now.
Sully is brought out next. He looks my way and recognition flashes in his chestnut gaze. They widen. He looks shocked at first but then he winks at me with a smile that isn’t his trademark lopsided smile, but one that is sad yet hopeful. Hopeful that I will save them.
My heart quivers and the racing of my thoughts halts. This cannot happen. This will not happen.
I set the tray I’m holding upon the wooden table behind me. I retrieve a pitcher. I walk to June and in her ear, I say, “Get to them. I’m going to get him,” and clip my head toward the king.
I make my way toward King Cadogan. Urthmen intercept me, stopping me to fill their glasses with wine. I oblige, doing so numbly. My focus is limited to the King.
As I approach him, King Cadogan stands unexpectedly. The crowd stills and he begins to speak. “Fellow Urthmen,” he starts, his voice high-pitched. “We are gathered today for a monumental event.”
I inch toward him closer, sliding my feet forward and reaching up under my robe to where my dagger is sheathed at my wrist. Formerly at my ankle, I relocated it for easier access.
Ripping it free, I grip it in one hand and descend on the King. In one swift motion, I grab him around his throat, yanking him toward me so that his back wrenches painfully, and place my blade at his throat.
Several screams echo from the crowd before it returns to silent. All around me, the Urthmen guards draw their swords. I can feel the King’s labored breaths against me. Feel the sweat seeping through the silky clothes he wears.
“Drop the blades,” I warn them. “Or I slit his throat.”
The King trembles, setting his rolls of fat quivering like a leaf in a windstorm. “You heard her!” His high-pitched voice cracks with fear. “Drop them!” The sweat from his back has saturated his shirt and dampens my robe.
I nod to June and she leaves the pack of robed humans—the slaves—and dashes to William, John and Sully. Urthmen advance, stepping toward her to accost her.
“Back off or I kill him!” I shout.
The King bobs his head. The white curls slide off his skull. “Just do what she says! I don’t want to die!” he screams frantically.
June continues to the boys and Sully. She cuts them free and takes John by the hand. Standing, Sully bends to grab a blade off the ground, one that an Urthmen guard surrendered. The four of them make their way toward me.
My chest rises and falls quickly, heaving fear-filled breath after breath. The closer they draw, the fear remains but it’s joined by another emotion: joy. My family is near. They’re within my grasp. Too fearful to ever dream this moment would be real, it remained a hope I harbored in the back of my mind. I just wanted to hold them. To see them. And here they are.
“Mom,” John says quietly as he gets close enough to recognize me. Tears fill his eyes.
His voice is a benediction. The ache in my chest is profound. I do not trust my voice to speak and I fight back tears. I smile at my boys. At Sully. But then must harden as I glare at the Urthmen.
Slowly, we back away, retracing the steps that led here toward the grassy square we crossed. “If anyone follows, I will kill him, do you understand?” I threaten.
The Urthmen around us freeze in place. I thrust King Cadogan forward, the blade of my dagger pressed against his fleshy neck, and we walk out of the structure, down a narrow lane and across the courtyard. Past the courtyard and on the pale, paved path, I see a vehicle with a uniform-clad Urthman beside it. The engine is running and he’s about to climb inside.
“Hold it right there!” I scream. “Step away from the vehicle!” I order.
The Urthman turns and sees me. He curses, the fact that I have his King in a choke hold and a knife pressed to his throat doesn’t register. But when it does, his small eyes, as black and hard as volcanic glass, widen. He backs away with his hands raised to chest height and his palms facing me. The children and June climb into the back seat and Sully slides into the driver’s seat. I’m about to wedge the King and myself into the front seat when the King rears, using the whole of his considerable weight and jerking his head back simultaneously. His skull connects with my nose before I’m knocked off my feet. The crunch of bone is heard the split second before a supernova of pain explodes in my face. My eyes tear and warmth gushes from my nostrils. I fall backward, landing against the ground on my back hard with the King on top of me. The back of my skull knocks against the pavement with a pop. The wind is knocked from my lungs and I feel as if every organ in my body has been crushed under his weight. The dagger falls from my hand.
Shocked and covered in my own blood and with pain smarting through every cell in my body, I shove my hands forward, propelling King Cadogan off me reflexively. He rolls to his side and scrambles to his feet. As soon as he’s standing, he shambles forward.
The shamble turns to a labored jog and he begins shouting. “Kill them!” he screams over and over again. “Don’t let them out of Elian alive!”
Struggling to remain conscious, darkness teases the edges of my vision. The image that flickers to life then dims is one of a barrage of Urthmen headed our way.