Page 117 of Famine

Heart pounding, I dash to the cart, pushing away the certainty that someone is going to see me.

When I get to the wagon and peer into it, I have to choke back a cry. There’s an arrow through the horseman’s head, and he’s covered in blood. And like the first time I met him, he’s missing appendages—though they’re not far. I see his lower arm and two hands resting in the cart alongside him. I can’t tell what other wounds he has, but what I can see of him is bloody and misshapen.

“Hey! What are you doing?” The voice comes from the direction of the stables.

I glance over my shoulder. A man I hadn’t seen before is now striding towards me, purpose written into the lines of his body.

Shit. I turn back to Famine, starting to panic.

I was hoping to flee with the Reaper before anyone noticed, but the time for that has passed.

I can hear the guard’s footfalls, quickly closing the last few meters between us.

My fear and panic dissolve away; all that’s left is grim resolve.

I spin to face the man—

“You,” the guard says, recognizing me. He reaches out to grab me.

Before, I was all hesitation. Now, I’m all action.

I lunge at him, knife gripped in my hand. It’s all too easy to sink my blade into his throat.

I can see the whites of the guard’s eyes as he reaches for his neck.

Holy … holy shit.

I withdraw the blade. When I do so, a river of blood gushes from the wound.

Oh God. I take a step back as the man staggers forward, then falls to a knee.

I stare at the knife for a moment, then at the man’s neck. The wound is messy, blood dripping everywhere.

I suck in a breath, and the momentary shock passes, replaced by sheer survival. Knife still gripped in my hand, I rush to the front of the cart, lifting myself into the driver’s seat. Grabbing the reins, I give them an agitated flick.

The horses jerk into action. The sound of the wagon rolling over the gravel drive is noisy and our progress is painfully slow. I slap the reins again and again until the horses’ pace picks up.

We leave the driveway and head towards the estate’s ruined front entrance.

I glance over my shoulder. In the huge house I think I see men moving about, but no one tries to stop me. They’re distracted at the moment, but even so, I doubt I have more than a few minutes of lead time. Then the men will soon notice that the cart is gone, and they’ll head after us.

My mouth dries at the thought.

Facing forward again, I drive the horse onwards. We head down the long drive, dead crops to either side of us. The corpses and man-crushing plants that littered this road earlier have now been cleared away, making the ride relatively smoother.

My heartbeat is so loud it’s almost all I can hear. It feels like it takes an eternity, but eventually we pass under the ruined archway, and I steer the horses back onto the main road.

My panic is building again. There’s no way we can outrun Heitor’s men, not while Famine is this badly injured.

What we need is time. Time for the Reaper to heal. All at once I jerk on the reins, pulling the horses up short.

Hopping out of my seat, I slip my knife into my boot, and once I’m sure it’s not going to slice my ankle up, I head to the rear of the cart. Opening the back of the wagon, I grab Famine under his arms and begin to heave, gritting my teeth against the way his weight tugs at my bad shoulder. I force myself not to focus on the wet feel of his blood or his many grotesque injuries as I drag his body out of the cart and set him gently down on the ground.

Walking over to the front of the cart, where the driver’s seat is, I grab the reins and flick them. Immediately the horses begin to move, and I release the leather strap from my grip as the cart jolts forward, the horses pulling it onwards.

Hurrying back over to the horseman, I grab him under the arms and heft him up the best I can.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. Sorry for what was done to him and sorry for the pain I’m about to inflict, hauling him away.

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