Chapter 30

After Stevyn had secured the remaining weapons to his pack, they took off at a trot. Slow enough to take a closer look at the edges of the road as they passed.

* * * *

Marcelo

Low, indistinct voices filtered through Marcelo’s pain-fogged and weary brain, and he instinctively stiffened in fear. His eyelids snapped open. Gagel.

They’d come after him. And there was more than one of them. With his good arm, Marcelo pushed himself to sit, then crouch.

What should he do? Run? They’d catch him easily, bumbling through the cornfield. Stay and fight? He might have half a chance against one, but—he tried to focus on the voices, but instead grimaced as a jolt of pain speared his shoulder.

He put his good hand on the handle of Efren’s sword, then closed his eyes. No. He didn’t have a chance with a sword. He had no idea how to handle it. He moved his hand to the knife. He had more of a chance with that, unless they saw it first.