“Very interesting,” Guy continued. He uncorked the last vial.
“Guy, don’t!” the old man yelled.
He poured a single drop on the tip of the sword.
Pop!
The sound was like a wine bottle cork coming free and the flash was as brilliant as lightning.
The sentinel stood up, staring at the end of his sword, and began to laugh. It was a strange and eerie sound, like the song of a madman. “At last. At long last, I have found the Heir of Novron. The quest of my ancestors will be achieved through me.”
“Miranda,” Arcadius whispered, “you can do nothing more by yourself.” The old man’s eyes glanced toward the refugee camp.
As the morning light rose, Miranda could see several columns of smoke. Possible help was tantalizingly close. Only a few hundred yards at most.
“I’ve devoted my life to correcting my mistake. But now it is up to you to do what must be done,” Arcadius said.
Luis Guy took the girl and hoisted her onto his horse. “We’ll take her to the Patriarch.”
“What about these two, sir?” one of the hooded men asked.
“Take the old man. Kill the woman.”
Miranda’s heart skipped as the soldier reached for his sword.
“Wait!” Arcadius said. “What about the horn?” The old professor was backing away, clutching his satchel. “The Patriarch will want the horn too, won’t he?”
Guy’s eyes flashed at the bag Arcadius held.
“You have it?” the sentinel asked.
Arcadius shot a desperate look toward Miranda, then turned and fled back down the road.
“Watch the child,” Guy ordered one of his men. Turning to the other, he waved, and together they chased after Arcadius, who ran faster than Miranda would have ever imagined possible.
She watched him—her closest friend—racing back the way they had come, his cloak flying behind him. She might have thought the sight comical except she knew what Arcadius actually had in his satchel. She knew why he was running away, what that meant, and what he wanted her to do.
Miranda reached for the dagger under her cloak. She had never killed anyone before, but what choice did she have? The man standing between her and Mercy was a soldier, and likely a Seret Knight. He turned his back on her to get a better grip on Guy’s horse, focusing his attention on Mercy and the hissing raccoon that snapped at him.
Miranda had only seconds before Guy and the other man caught up to Arcadius. Knowing what would happen made her want to cry. They had come so far together, sacrificed so much, and just when it seemed like they were finally close to their goal… to be stopped like this… to be murdered on a roadside… Tragic was too weak a word to frame the injustice. There would be time for tears later. The professor was counting on her and she would not let him down. That one look had told her everything. This was the final gamble. If they could get Mercy to Modina, everything might be made right again.
She drew the dagger and rushed forward. With all her strength, Miranda stabbed the soldier in the back. He was not wearing mail or leather and the sharp blade bit deep, passing through clothes, skin, and muscle.
He spun and swatted her away. The back of his fist connected with her cheek and left her reeling from the blow. She fell to the snow, still holding the dagger, the handle slick with blood.
On the horse, Mercy held tight to the saddle and screamed. The raccoon chattered, its fur up.
Miranda got back to her feet as the soldier drew his sword. He was badly hurt. Blood soaked his pant leg and he staggered toward her. She tried to get away, reaching for Mercy and the horse, but the seret was faster. His sword pierced her side somewhere near her waist. She felt it go in. The pain burned, but then she suddenly felt cold. Her knees buckled. She managed to hold fast to the saddle as the horse, frightened by the violence and Mercy’s screaming, moved away, dragging her with it.
Behind them, the soldier fell to his knees, blood bubbling from his lips.
Miranda tried to pull herself up, but her legs were useless. They hung limp and she felt the strength draining from her arms. “Take the reins, Mercy, and hang on tight.”
Down the road, Guy and the other man had caught up to Arcadius. Guy, who had stopped at the sound of the girl’s screams, lagged behind, but the other soldier tackled the old professor to the snow.
“Mercy,” Miranda said, “you need to ride. Ride over there—ride to the campfires. Beg for help. Go.”
With her last bit of strength, she struck the horse’s flank. The animal bolted forward. The saddle ripped from Miranda’s hands and she fell once more into the snow. Lying on her back, she listened to the sound of the horse as it raced away.