Total pages in book: 204
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
That is no longer my concern, though. And besides, I’m not going anywhere, so what do I need a horse for—
“No.”
The word comes out of my mouth, but I check over my shoulder because it certainly seems like it was spoken by someone else.
When I turn back around, the clouds part and a beam of sunlight pierces through the congestion. As it zeroes in on me, shining like Mare’s royal coins, I am swamped by a feeling that I do not belong here. And not just the lodging house, but this whole town. Even as the most reasonable side of me points out that this has been my destination, and maybe with people like Ronl and Lena, I could find work and a place to stay … something in my soul tells me otherwise.
This is not where I am to end up. I’m meant … to keep going.
“Not the plan,” I say aloud as I look to the horizon.
But the protest doesn’t matter now, and it’s not going to mean anything later. As much as I want to fight it, I know that this is a way station to somewhere else. Something else.
My true destiny is calling.
It’s as this conviction sinks in that the commotion starts.
The first of the shouting ripples through the still morning, and not long thereafter, a man comes running down the muddy lane toward the lodging house. Going by his brown felt dress, he’s clearly a resident, and with that staff in his hand, I’m guessing he’s a farmer or herder of some kind—and I’m not surprised when he leaps up onto the pub’s porch and then I hear one of the doors slap shut.
A moment later, there are all kinds of feet pounding on the porch. A group of men emerge and take off in the direction the herder came from.
Dread chills the nape of my neck. Have they found the cook’s body?
Exactly what kind of “after work” did Merc do—and where?
The doors to the pub open again, and this time there are voices right below me. My ear lends itself to the fast-paced talk—
“—demons! What else could do that—”
“Fates, they are here, too—”
“—parts of the sheeplings, everywhere.”
Not long after, the group of men return. There’s blood on them, on their hands, and on their clothes. Whoever all is speaking under the overhang go silent.
I cover my mouth with my hands and fall back.
Demons. Here—
There’s a thud across my room and my head whips around. It’s my pack. I’d put it on the table, and for some reason, even though the thing was set well enough back from the edge, it’s fallen onto the floor.
Abruptly, I see what’s in there, as if the sack and its strapping have disappeared. Then I feel the compass and the crown in my hands, sure as if I’m holding them. With another burst of strange clarity, I remember being in the woods, and the old instrument pointing me to the south in what surely was a flare of magic.
Lastly, I recall the unbelievable story Mr. Lewis told me and the charge he laid at my feet.
The compass to guide me. The crown … which is the point of it all.
I must go to the warrior queen who sees no one, and return the power to her.
My eyes return to the open window. It faces south, almost as if I was destined to get this room—and a strange calmness comes over me, especially as I touch my bandaged forearm. Lena and Ronl. If the demons are here, who will protect them and their baby?
And the sweet young maid. Even if we interceded in time, and even if Thale does what he’s promised, who will protect her?
Against evil.
Thale, with all his might, can’t summon an army to fight the Dark King. And what if word carries, and what was done at the settlement is done here? Fates, what if my own village is burned down because the demons have found it, and a mob from some other town comes to purify the population out of fear?
Anathos will not survive a second siege of the Dark King. I know this in my core. The stories that have been carried forward through history, and are recorded in the Book of Time—which are whispered of at the ends of the nights in the pub back home—tell of suffering unimaginable, of people subjugated by an iron fist of evil.
I still do not know if Mr. Lewis is right about me. What I cannot deny is what is in my pack … and what is stalking now this Outpost in the Badlands.
And what the Fulcrum looked like, with all those black bands.
Lifting a trembling hand to my mouth, I remember the taste of the sand, the black sand, and filigrees of my nightmare tease the edges of my consciousness.