Only the Worthy. Morgan RiceЧитать онлайн книгу.
shook his head grimly.
“Your knight, the baby’s father, was murdered,” he explained. “Many moons ago. Those men you hear are not his own. They are his rivals. They want his baby dead. They want you dead.”
He stared back with a panicked urgency and she knew, with dread, that he spoke the truth.
“You must both flee this place!” he urged. “Now!”
He had hardly finished uttering the words when there came the crash of an iron pole against the door. This time it was no mere farmer’s sickle – it was a professional knight’s battering ram. As it hit, the door buckled.
Fioth turned to her, eyes wide in panic.
“GO!” he shouted.
Rea looked back at him, terror-stricken, wondering, in her condition, if she could even stand.
He grabbed her, though, and yanked her to her feet. She shrieked in pain, the motion pure agony.
“Please!” she cried. “It hurts too much! Let me die!”
“Look in your arms!” he cried back. “Do you want him to die?”
Rea looked down at the boy wailing in her arms, and as another smash came against the door, she knew he was right. She could not let him die here.
“What about you?” she moaned, realizing. “They will kill you, too.”
He nodded with resignation.
“I have lived for many sun cycles,” he replied. “If I can delay them from finding you, to give you a chance for safety, I will gladly give up what remains of my life. Now go! Head for the river! Find a boat and flee from here! Quickly!”
He yanked her before she had a chance to think, and before she knew it he was leading her to the rear entrance of his fort. He pulled back a tapestry to reveal a hidden door carved into the stone. He leaned against it with all his might and it opened with a scraping sound, releasing ancient air. A burst of cold air rushed into the fort.
Barely had it opened than he pushed her and her baby out the back.
Rea found herself immersed in the snowstorm, stumbling down a steep, snowy riverbank, clutching her baby. She slipped and slid, feeling as if the world were collapsing beneath her, barely able to move. As she ran, lightning struck an immense tree close to her, lighting up the night, and sent it crashing down too close to her. The baby screamed. She was horrified: never would she have believed that lightning could strike in a snowstorm. This was indeed a night of omens.
Rea slipped again as the terrain grew steep, and this time she landed on her butt. She went flying, and she cried out as the slope took her all the way down toward the riverbank.
She breathed with relief to reach it and realized if she hadn’t slid all this way, she probably could not have made the run. She glanced back uphill, shocked at how far she had come, and watched in horror as the knights invaded Fioth’s fort and set it ablaze. The fire burned strongly, even in the snow, and she felt an awful wave of guilt, knowing the old man had died for her.
A moment later knights burst out the back door, while more horses galloped around it. She could see they’d spotted her, and without pausing raced for her.
Rea turned and tried to run, but there was nowhere left to go. She was in no condition to run, anyway. All she could do was drop to her knees before the riverbank. She knew she would die here. She had reached the end of her rope.
Yet hope remained for her baby. She looked out and saw a tangle of sticks, perhaps a beaver’s nest, so thick it resembled a basket. Driven by a mother’s love, she thought quickly. She reached over and grabbed it and quickly placed her baby inside it. She tested it, and to her relief, it floated.
Rea reached out and prepared to shove the basket into the calm river’s waters. If the current caught it, it would float away from here. Somewhere down river. How far, and for how long, she did not know. But some chance of life was better than none.
Rea, weeping, leaned down and kissed her baby’s forehead. She leaned back and shrieked with grief. Hands shaking, she removed the necklace from around her neck and placed it around her baby’s.
She clasped her hands over both of his.
“I love you,” she said, between sobs. “Never forget me.”
The baby shrieked as if he understood, a piercing cry, rising even above the new clap of thunder and lightning, even above the sound of approaching horses.
Rea knew she could wait no longer. She gave the basket a push, and soon, the current caught it. She watched, sobbing, as it disappeared into the blackness.
She had no sooner lost sight of it than the clanging of armor appeared behind her – and she wheeled to find several knights dismounting, but feet away.
“Where’s the child?” one demanded, his visor lowered, his voice cutting through the storm. It was nothing like the visor of the man who had had her. This man wore red armor, of a different shape, and there was no kindness in his voice.
“I…” she began.
Then she felt a fury within her – the fury of a woman who knew she was about to die. Who had nothing left to lose.
“He’s gone,” she spat, defiant. She smiled. “And you shall never have him. Never.”
The man groaned in anger as he stepped forward, drew a sword, and stabbed her.
Rea felt the awful agony of steel in her chest, and she gasped, breathless. She felt her world becoming lighter, felt herself immersed in white light, and she knew that this was death.
Yet, she felt no fear. Indeed, she felt satisfaction. Her baby was safe.
And as she landed face-first in the river, the waters turning red, she knew it was over. Her short, hard life had ended.
But her boy would live forever.
The peasant woman, Mithka, knelt by the river’s edge, her husband beside her, the two frantically reciting their prayers, feeling no other recourse during this uncanny storm. It felt as if the end of the world were upon them. The blood red moon was a dire omen in and of itself – but appearing together with a storm like this, well, it was more than uncanny. It was unheard of. Something momentous, she knew, was afoot.
They knelt there together, gales of wind and snow whipping their faces, and she prayed for protection for their family. For mercy. For forgiveness for anything she may have done wrong.
A pious woman, Mithka had lived many sun cycles, had several children, had a good life. A poor life, but a good one. She was a decent woman. She had minded her business, had looked after others, and had never done harm to anyone. She prayed that God would protect her children, her household, whatever meager belongings they had. She leaned over and placed her palms in the snow, closed her eyes, and then bent low, touching her head to the ground. She prayed to God to show her a sign.
Slowly, she lifted her head. As she did, her eyes widened and her heart slammed at the sight before her.
“Murka!” she hissed.
Her husband turned and looked at it, too, and both knelt there, frozen, staring in astonishment.
It couldn’t be possible. She blinked several times, and yet there it was. Before them, carried in the water’s current, was a floating basket.
And in that basket was a baby.
A boy.
His screams pierced the night, rose even above the storm, above the impossible claps of thunder and lightning, and each scream pierced her heart.
She jumped into the river, wading in deep, ignoring the icy waters, like knives on her skin, and grabbed the basket, fighting her way against the current and back toward shore. She looked down and saw the baby was meticulously wrapped in a blanket, and that he was, miraculously, dry.
She examined him more closely and was astonished to see a gold pendant around his neck, two snakes circling a moon, a dagger between them. She gasped; it was one