The man spat blood on Neil’s face. “Go… to hell.”
Neil’s expression did not shift. He set the point of his sword and pushed. The blade went in clean under the ribs, straight to the heart.
The man’s eyes glazed over, and his body slid down the wall to the ground, his head against the stone, his mouth open to nothing.
The silence pressed down on the crowd like the evening wind. The only sounds were the spit of the torches and the whimpers of the one-armed man. The villagers stared with round eyes, somein awe, some in plain fear. A boy cried once, then buried his face in his mother’s skirts.
Neil pulled his sword free, let the blood run off the steel, and turned around. He did not look at the bodies. He did not look at the men he had cut down or the arm on the ground.
He looked forher.
He found her a pace behind where he had stood, her wrist cradled against her chest, her skin pale in the firelight, her breathing quick and shallow.
He stepped toward her.
Kristen did not move. The square had narrowed to a blur of firelight and shadow. Blood speckled her sleeves and skirt, and dotted the back of her hand like red rain.
Her ears rang, and her eyes flicked over the severed arm that lay too near. She told herself not to look, but her gaze drifted toward it anyway.
“Kristen.”
His voice cut through the fog in her head.
Neil stepped into her line of sight and blocked the bodies from view. His cloak filled her world instead of the ground, while his chest rose and fell too fast. Heat radiated from him in steady waves as she stared at the laces at his collar and tried to breathe.
He unhooked the clasp of his cloak with quick fingers and draped the heavy wool over her shoulders. His hands smoothed the cloak down her arms, then drew the edges together so the outside world disappeared. The smell of smoke and horse and clean leather wrapped around her.
“Ye’re safe now.” His voice was low, softer than she had ever heard it. “I swear it.”
The words cracked something that fear had locked shut. Air came in a thin rush. She swallowed.
“Thank ye,” she whispered.
The words did not seem quite like hers. They sounded hollow and far away. Like they had come from someone else.
His hand found her elbow, warm and steady, and turned her away from the blood on the ground. The crowd parted at once, heads bowed. Someone made the sign of the cross, and another said a prayer in a torn murmur. A girl peered around her mother’s skirt with wide eyes, but the woman turned her head away.
Kristen moved because his hand asked her to. The hem of his cloak brushed her ankles, and the square felt vast and distant. The smell of honey sugar had gone sour, and the music had faded as if it had never been.
“Mind yer feet,” Neil said quietly.
His body stayed between her and the worst of the mess. At the edge of the square, he lifted her into his arms before she could protest. She made a small sound and then clamped her mouth shut.
He lowered her onto the saddle as if she weighed nothing, and the big horse shifted and snorted, its ears flicking at the noise behind them.
She reached for the pommel and held tight. Her fingers were sticky. She did not want to look to see whether it was blood or the honey.
Please let it be the honey.
Neil mounted behind her in one swift motion, and his arms came around her waist, firm and gentle. She leaned back until her spine met the wall of his chest, grounding herself.
He kicked his heels into the horse’s flanks, and they moved into the lane at a slow walk, hooves soft on the dirt, the village falling behind them one house at a time.
The night had deepened at this point, and the sky was nothing but a dark bowl with a few stars. A breeze drifted across the hills, carrying the smell of wet grass.
Kristen’s breathing would not slow. She could not stop feeling the grip on her wrist. She could not stop hearing the scream that split the air. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the inside of her lids was a wash of red.
The horse stumbled over a stone and righted itself. Her whole body flinched.
