around her. She disappeared completely inside the small nook, and no one could see her. Her only company down here was the passing rats.
She sat there, and waited. Twilight was already coming, and soon, night would fall. Eventually, all of these disgusting McClouds would disperse back to their homes. Eventually, she would be alone here. And then she would make her move.
*
Luanda opened her eyes with a jolt and looked around, wondering where she was. She had fallen asleep, had wakened in the midst of fast, troubled dreams, and she chided herself, breathing hard. She had resolved to stay vigilant, to stay awake, but her wariness must have gotten the best of her. She looked out at the dark, at the absolute stillness of the town square, and wondered what time it was. At least the sun had not broken yet. And now the square, as she’d hoped, was completely empty.
Save for one person—the one who mattered most: her husband. He still stood up the scaffold, bound to the cross, hanging limply. She did not know if he was dead or alive. But at least he was alone.
Now was her chance.
Slowly, Luanda crawled her way out of the crevice, her legs and arms stiff from being curled up so long. She stood, stretching them, and surveyed her surroundings. Bronson was so high on the cross, she needed a way to get him down—and once she got him down, she needed a way to get them out of there.
But she saw no horse anywhere, no means of escape, and there was no time to search for one. It was now or never, she knew. She would just have to get him down, then figure out what to do with him then.
Luanda made her way stealthily across the square, ducking low; she reached the scaffold and climbing her way up the back steps. As she approached, she heard Bronson moaning, and was glad to hear sounds coming from him. He was alive.
Luanda came up behind him, climbing all the way to the top of the scaffold, a good ten feet off the ground, and stood beside him.
“Bronson,” she whispered in his ear, as he stood there, delirious. “It’s me, Luanda. I’m here.”
Bronson raised his chin and looked over at her with one eye open; she could see a small smile at the corner of his lips. But his lips were chapped, and he was too delirious to open his mouth to speak.
“I’m going to get you out of here, do you understand me?” she said.
Slowly, he nodded back.
Luanda removed the dagger from her belt, reached behind him, and cut the thick twine binding his arms to the cross. As she did, he suddenly slumped and fell over, collapsing onto her. The weight of him was unexpected, and sent her crashing down onto the podium with a loud noise, the hollow wood reverberating in the town square.
“Halt! Who goes there!” called out a stern voice.
Suddenly there was a torch in the blackness, and a horse came charging towards them. Luanda looked up, terrified, to see one of McCloud’s men, a royal guard, racing right for them.
She had to think quick.
Luanda jumped to her feet, pulled the dagger from her waist, and as the man charged for her, she reached back and threw it.
She prayed to God that her aim was true. It was a reflex, throwing knives, something she had done since she was a child. It was the one skill she had. And now, she prayed those years had paid off.
There was a noise of blade entering flesh as the guard screamed; she watched as the blade pierced his throat and sent him flying backwards, over and off his horse. The horse kept charging, though, right for her, and Luanda reached over and grabbed its reins, before it could take off again. She then grabbed Bronson, dragged him to his feet with all her might, and draped his body across the horse. She jumped on the horse, kicked it, and the two of them took off.
She heard a chorus of voices in the distance, behind her, but she did not stop or turn to see who was chasing her. She took off down the winding streets of this town, hoping and praying she could get out of here soon.
Her prayers came true. After several more turns, she found herself out under open sky, in the open fields, charging, heading West, into the setting of the second sun and the rising of the