It felt like probing a fresh wound, but I had to think this through. My only friend wanted me dead. My lord father hadalwayswanted me dead. No God-fearing citizen would shelter me, which wrote off all of humanity and the vast majority of elves. The dragons opposed the Church but, quite selfishly, they’d gone extinct.
Who then, in this entire world, could possibly grant me shelter? I knew who stood to benefit from my death, but from my continued survival, there was nobody, with the obvious exception of the . . .oh.
What a terribly interesting idea.
My paralysis broke, as my feet took me southeast—toward the sorcerer’s territory. I tried not to overthink, focusing on my footfalls even as my breath burned. Every flap of wings overhead, every snap of a twig, sparked fresh surges of adrenaline. I tried not to think of the spy animals that the Order seeded through these woods, or the troops that likely lay in wait, or the knights who could even now be positioning themselves for an ambush thanks to squawked and chittered intelligence.
A robin zipped past my face, its breast an alarming slash of scarlet. Was its flight path unnatural? Had it come too close?
And if the Order had eyes on me, what about the sorcerer? This deep in the border woods, he certainly had spies of his own.
“Hey,” I rasped. I slowed to catch my breath, only to startle back into motion at the whistle of a too-near grackle. “HEY!” I shouted at full bound, sweat-soaked hair matting my forehead. “HEY, MAD SORCERER! HEY, I’M HERE! HELLO!” Every yard brought me closer to his lands, with more chance of passing a construct. “SORCERER, YOU’RE GONNA WANNA HEAR FROM ME!”
If he did appear in a flash of foul smoke, my huffing and wheezing would immediately put the man off. A brief respite seemed more and more appealing, a chance to lie in the dirt and let my heartbeat return to a normal pace. Stripping me of the decision, another root caught my foot.
This time it hurt, my knee crunching hard into the dirt. A wail escaped, not of pain but of frustration. Okay, so I wasn’t particularly valiant, but had I ever done anythingthat bad? Ignoring the events of earlier (best wishes to Glenda andall that), had I ever done anything remarkable, of any sort, to merit a singling out?
Grasping a nearby trunk, I hauled myself up, testing my leg. Sharp needles ran down my shin, and my eyes prickled with tears. I could run on it, but not fast.
“SORCERER!” I hobbled at a decent clip, grabbing branches and trunks anytime my knee threatened to give. If only I’d given Glenda that second whack to grant myself more time. If only I hadn’t run off blindly like a prey animal. “SORCERER, I NEED A WORD WITH YOU!”
What was his name . . . it started with M, didn’t it? Margaret? Malady?
“MALODOROUS!” I shrieked. “MATTHIAS! MAXIMILLIAN!” Damn it, why did everyone call him ‘the mad sorcerer’? Nobody in recent memory had referred to that blasphemous man by anything but derogatory titles. “MADDOX!” And my knee throbbed so angrily. “MAURICIO!”
Shapes moved in the distance. A pair of armoured men, gleaming visions of death, emerged from the brush. They wore the balancing scale insignia and pristine white of the Knights of Order. Four more appeared, mercenaries or foot soldiers, indistinct at this distance.
They might not have seen me. I sank down, edging toward a trunk. Then a red-breasted robin landed on a knight’s shoulder, all eyes turned toward me, and the last of my hope departed. It was a feeling of increasing familiarity.
The knights didn’t shout as they advanced—they at least had the grace to pretend this wasn’t a hunt. Released from its magic, the robin exploded into the air, disappearing into thecanopy with a series of aggrieved cheeps. Having no similar powers of flight, I settled for sagging in place.
“Massimo,” I said weakly. “Malodorous.” No, I’d already tried that one.
As the men drew closer, I recognized a knight from my outpost: Sir Percival, a square-jawed carrot top with an infectious laugh. He looked deadly serious now, his strong features tense.
“Merulo,” I tried. No, not that either. Or—wait. “Merulo!”
The men broke into a trot, reaching for their weapons.
“MERULO!” My voice sounded high and girlish. I suddenly saw myself through the knights’ eyes, shirtless and flushed, with a buckled leg and too-wide eyes. I looked stupid and, despite my size, quite helpless.
Sir Percival brandished his sword, sprinting. They couldn’t kill me here, I knew that, but cutting me to ensure I couldn’t flee . . . ?
“MERULO, GREAT SORCERER, COME TO ME NOW, AND I WILL HELP YOU SLAY OUR GOD!” I roared at the sky, standing as tall as my bad leg would allow.
Sir Percival seemed to trip forward and fall backward simultaneously. I blinked, and his upper body separated from his lower, crashing face-first into the soil as his legs fell comically behind. The other men shouted, swinging at the air.
Constructs. The monstrosities rushed the men with no regard for their wooden flesh. A winged construct plunged with joyful frenzy onto a knight’s sword, writhing down its length to peck at the soft tissue of his eyes and nose. Before his features disappeared entirely, I recognized him as Sir Galahad. He’d been terrible at card games—a deficit I supposed no longer mattered.
“Merulo, Merulo, Merulo,” I moaned as a lupine construct with sharp wooden legs stabbed into a foot soldier, splattering his chainmail red. “Merulo, Merulo . . .”
A construct approached where I clutched, leaden, at a tree trunk. I stared up at the humanoid creature, its scythe dripping Sir Percival’s gore. He wouldn’t be laughing anymore.
“Merulo, Merulo . . .”
The construct hoisted its scythe and like a dam breaking, sense returned to me. My hands shot up in surrender. “I HAVE A MESSAGE FOR MERULO, IT IS OF GREAT IMPORTANCE!”
The scythe did not descend. The construct’s face, a mess of knotted burls and cavities, seemed a deliberate mockery of human features.
