Page 38 of The Cruel Dawn (Vallendor #2)

“Beaminster never had a golden age,” Jadon says as we approach a town just outside of the larger city of Brithellum.

He still wears the borrowed armor of a man beneath his station—the prince remains a prisoner.

“Not one person born in Beaminster changed the realm through music, art, or letters. Nothing was ever invented or discovered here.” Instead of walking behind us, he and Elyn walk beside us, several paces apart.

Every tree and shrub in this province is a shade of red or brown, stooped, shaven, barren, prickly. Danar Rrivae’s oven of malice has baked out all softness of life.

“But even in its best times,” Jadon is saying, “Beaminster has always been an open-air jail.” He explains that Beaminster was founded to house the worst of Brithellum, but they were all just mundane criminals without hope or aspiration.

“The town suffers,” he says, “because no one in Beaminster gives a single shit about making the best of what they have.”

The gates around the city look like rotting teeth.

Trash from years gone by—broken pots, splintered chairs, torn garments, dead rats—is piled high around those gates.

There are no cottages with curtained windows, or churches or temples with gleaming walls.

If there are honeycakes to be had, they would surely be filled with maggots.

Elyn’s cardinals swoop around us, though the air here is also foul.

“Hostages are typically kept here,” Jadon shares.

“And you know this because…?” Philia asks.

“Because he kept hostages here,” Elyn says, eyebrow cocked.

“Well, I’m here to free Olivia,” Philia says, chin high, “by any means necessary.”

“Retrieving the ring is the most important task, Philia,” Jadon says.

“If we don’t get that, no one will be free.

We may have to search private homes to find her or Gileon or the ring.

The town has a few hidden bunkers here, too.

We’ll likely have to fight. There’s also sickness here.

Not… me ,” he adds, when Elyn shoots him a look.

“But some disease that congeals your spit, pits your skin, and fills your ears with tar. So don’t get spat or sneezed on. ”

“Have fun,” I say, smirking.

Philia’s eyes widen. “Does that mean Olivia may have this mystery sickness? Could she die? Could she already be dead?”

No one speaks, because we have nothing reassuring to say.

Separi bows her head and touches my elbow. “Is there anything I can do for you besides aid in the coming fight, Lady?” She blushes and looks down at her shoes. “I know I’ve failed you—”

“Don’t.” I lift the Renrian’s chin. “My mouth and body may have changed, but you provide me with more than food and company. You aren’t failing me, Separi. Isn’t it impossible for a Renrian to fail?”

She chuckles as she fixes my buckles and my hair. “No, we don’t fail.”

I grin and lower my voice. “The threads in my hair saved my life. I did something foolish last night, but your braid-work kept me more whole than I deserve to be.”

“Last night?” Her eyebrows scrunch. “Did I sleep through a fight?”

I wink at her. “A personal battle.” I slip off my pack heavy with the Librum Esoterica .

“I’ll hold it,” Philia says, stepping forward.

“No,” both Elyn and I say. We are so close to Olivia now that Philia could flee with the book to make a deal with Gileon herself.

“Thanks for the offer,” Elyn says, “but I’ll hold the Lady’s satchel.”

I roll my eyes at Elyn and hand her the bag. “Everyone wait here,” I say.

“Why?” Jadon asks, his shoulders stiffening.

“Danar Rrivae knows that I’m in Beaminster,” I say, “because the book is in Beaminster and the ring that unlocks the artifact is in Beaminster. He’ll try to keep us from that ring. How, this time, I’m not sure. By staying back, you’ll see just how many people you’ll need to kill.”

“You sound confident,” Elyn says, surveying her own handiwork.

Elyn had brought fruit and vegetable tarts from the abbey along with cheese and bread. And I ate it all, until I could no longer stand. Though she couldn’t stop my skin from peeling, she eased the sting with aloe.

I walk toward the raggedy gates and its raggedy guards. I smile as I close the distance between us. I’m not happy to meet these strangers, but I’m ready to enjoy the fight.

The four men wear Syrus Wake’s twin leopard sigils on their tunics, which look like cast-off potato sacks. Their swords are rusty, their blades chipped. Were they ever real soldiers? Have they no pride? Have they even named their weapons? They gape at me with marvel and confusion.

The dark amber glow of these men alarms me.

It’s a miracle they’re even standing. As I approach them, I notice the cloud of unpleasant smells emanating from them.

The sour and rotting sweet of decayed teeth.

Sickness and flatulence and wet and solid waste, the smell of people and animals shitting in the street.

“Greetings and salutations,” I say, stopping a few steps away from them. “I’m looking for Prince Gileon Wake. I’m told he lives here on occasion. Also, I’m looking for a woman who should be with him. Big blue eyes, quick hands? Have you seen her around?”

“You better move along, you fuzzy-headed queynte,” the straw-haired guard wheezes.

“Oh dear.” I raise my eyebrows in surprise and amusement. “We’re starting off like this? Let’s begin again, shall we?” I take a breath and say, “Greetings and salutations—”

Straw-Hair draws his rusty sword.

“I’m looking for Prince Gileon Wake,” I repeat.

Straw-Hair comes closer. And then a guard stomps past him.

I shake my head. “You probably should stop right there. If you take one more step, I’m skewering your round ass.”

Ground Round pauses—but not long enough. Though the man called me a “queynte,” I’m not furious yet. No, I’m feelin’… righteous .

Straw-Hair and Ground Round rush me with their swords held high.

In one smooth motion, I pull Justice from her sheath.

Ground Round’s eyes widen at my sword’s beauty—she’s the last beautiful thing he sees before she cuts off his head. A feast for the beasts, a gift from the Lady of the Verdant Realm. I can already hear the grunts and cries of the hungry animals hiding in the desiccated fields surrounding the city.

Straw-Hair skids to a stop.

Still smiling, I look over to him and the other two guards. “Do you understand the language I’m speaking? Maybe you speak Shokata? Du avui indastend na nuw? Or maybe you speak… Paraq ? Da I’ay yumlika pi mav?”

All three lift their swords, but their numbers will not save them.

I cock my head. “Is it something I said?”

Straw-Hair rushes to slay me with a sword too dull to slice cheese.

I step back, letting him enjoy swinging his toy at me. Not even a good wind comes from the sweep of his blade.

“Queynte,” he spits, lifting his butter knife to strike at me a second time.

“That word again?” I swing Justice twice: the first time to take his sword and the second time to remove his left arm at the elbow.

He bleeds out even before he hits the soil.

I cock an eyebrow at the next two, their shamefully dull blades still in their hands.

The one with wheezy lungs looks at the bodies around us and says, “Fuck it.” He turns and runs from me, but I close the distance between us and strike him down before he can sound any alarm.

The last guard—whose pudgy baby face fills with terror and determination—hops over dead Wheezy to rush at me.

I step back.

He swings wide, slicing himself in the shin. I put him out of his misery.

I step over his body and through the gates that these four dead men guarded.

No mosaic tiles. No lanterns on posts. No stalls of fresh produce. But in Beaminster, there’s plenty to drink—fumes of rum and ale waft off the drunken men who rush toward me.

I smirk at the men’s tunics and Wake’s leopard sigil. So much for peace, piety, and progress.

Several drunken soldiers—not one of them sober enough to fight—pull their swords and call me names: harridan, whore, every slur they can think of.

I spot a sword with an intricate iron handle and hilt—this blade looks well-cared for. Unfortunately, the man who stole this sword from its original owner stumbles and impales himself.

Two more guards race toward me with less impressive swords but more assured movements. They fight without commitment or expertise.

Then someone’s blade nicks my left cheek. I scowl at them.

The woman has a helmet of thick black hair. She smiles, pleased to see a pebble of my blood on the tip of her bright silver blade.

“Good job,” I say. Then I drive Justice through one cheek and out the other.

The men try their best; a few succeed in breaking their swords against my armor. The remaining soldiers stumble away from me, sober enough now to understand that though I bleed, I will not fail. I’m unlike any opponent they’ve ever—

Something heavy slams into my back, sending me sprawling face-first into the ground. All the air leaves my lungs, and my back feels like shattered glass. My ears ring, and I see two of everything, and then six, and then my vision blurs with tears. I hear cheering, but they sound worlds away.

Maybe I fucked up coming here alone.

I turn my head, coughing as I move. High atop a decrepit inn, I see two guards load a catapult. That’s what struck me.

Now that I’m prone, the guards on the ground raise their swords again, intent on killing me.

Yeah, I definitely fucked up.

I glance at the catapult again and squeeze my eyes shut. Get up, Kai! Get the fuck up!

They have a catapult and a legion of guards, however poorly trained. I’m just one person on her belly, seeing stars and hearing the roar of blood in my—

One man kicks dirt in my face.

I thrust out my hand and scream because my arm feels hot and broken. I manage to throw him skyward in a burst of wind.

Two more men rush toward me. My power blasts them away, too.

Lightheaded, I cry out as I get to my knees, thrusting wind at clusters of belligerent men on either side of me. They’re thrown against rotting wood carts and the crumbling walls of houses that should’ve come down seasons ago.

On the rooftop, the men load the catapult’s basket with a boulder.

Anger roils through me like volcanic steam, and now I see clearly again. My body vibrates with pain and anger. I want to be up there on that rooftop—

Pop!

I find myself on the rooftop, looking out at the roof of the tavern and the crumbling houses around it. Moths flit around my aching ankles, leaving behind glittery dust to mark my sudden ascent.

Spryte, bitches.

The soldiers who’d been loading the catapult stumble backward, startled to see me standing beside them. The catapult can’t help them now.

“No backup plan?” I ask.

I thrust my hands at these two men, sending gouts of flame at them and then at the fighters down below. I ignore the pain in my back and arms and fling balls of fire everywhere, until all is lost in smoke and silenced by the thunder of burning lumber.

No one moves because everyone is dead… except for her . Another woman wearing armor. On the ground, the lone survivor holds a bow, an arrow nocked and ready against her cheek.

I hop down from the inn, my back and hips screaming. I point to the only buildings that have escaped my flames.

“Prince Wake,” I say to the woman. “Is he in one of these buildings?”

She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t release her arrow, either.

“Answer me,” I shout.

I can sense her fear as she says, “No, he’s on the perimeter. In the camp.”

“Are you lying to me?” I ask. “If you are, I will kill you, and then I’ll find your kin and kill them, too. I will burn your hometown to the ground. So I ask again: are you lying to me?”

“I’m telling the truth, Lady.” She nods so hard and fast that I won’t have to break her neck—she may do that herself.

I beckon her to me, and even that simple gesture is painful.

She obeys. She’s about Philia’s age, and the protection she wears is not made for a woman—the armor barely accommodates her breasts and digs into her hips. She glows a dark amber, and her thrumming heart inches closer to death.

“Your name is Grace Hallum, yes?” I ask, swiping at the blood trickling down my tender cheek.

“Yes, Lady,” she says, her head dipping.

I scowl at my blood on my fingers, shimmering ruby red with life against the crusting brown blood of the mortals I’ve slain today. I hold out my stained hand. “Nice to meet you, Grace.”

She kisses my hand. Immediately, her amber glow transforms into a vibrant blue. Her chestnut hair shines like the picture of health.

“You were about to make the worst decision of your life,” I say. “It would’ve also been the last decision you would’ve ever made. But you learned, Grace Hallum, and you chose wisely. Remember, though: some gifts can be rescinded.”

I squeeze her hand and release her. I nod toward the broken gates where hungry beasts have already begun scavenging the pile of corpses. “Tell my friends out there that they can come in now.”

“Yes, Lady.”

I limp toward that perimeter camp with my bruised back to her.

Grace Hallum’s feet pound the dirt as she runs toward freedom.