her attention, and Finn appeared, pushing his way between the guards. He scurried over to Killian, pulling frantically at his arm and whispering something that Lydia couldn’t make out.
“We need to go,” Killian ordered.
“I’m not finished—”
“Now.”
For once Malahi didn’t argue. Jerking her skirts up to her knees, exposing worn riding boots, the Princess ran across the warehouse, her guard forming up around her. Outside, the crowd was silent no longer, a swell of angry voices growing like a storm. There was a small half circle of space between the carriage and the crowd, which had nothing to do with the aging guardsman and everything to do with Killian’s menacing war-horse. The animal stood where his rider had left him, but he pawed the ground restlessly, snapping his teeth at anyone who approached.
Killian had his sword in hand, keeping between Malahi and the crowd as he half-lifted her into the carriage. The other guardswomen had their blades out, too, and Lydia fumbled to get hers free, palms slick with sweat. They were all grabbing on to various handholds on the sides of the carriage, so she did the same, wishing her grip didn’t feel so weak, her knees so wobbly.
“Go,” Killian ordered the driver, and the woman snapped the whip. The carriage horses squealed and leapt forward, only to grind to a halt as the crowd refused to part.
“Make way for the Princess,” Killian shouted, heeling his horse toward the crowd. For him, they scrambled back, moving out of reach of both his blade and his horse’s teeth. The carriage surged again, and Lydia clung to her handhold, her eyes on the crowd that pressed in the moment Killian was out of reach. Their eyes were desperate. Hungry. And in an instant, Lydia realized what they wanted.
“They’re after the horses,” she shouted.
It was too late.
A stocky woman with a knife lunged, her blade slicing through a carriage horse’s throat. It reared, slamming against the horse next to it, then dragged the whole team forward several paces before collapsing.
The crowd was upon it before the poor creature hit the ground, those with knives or axes moving with speed to slaughter the remaining three horses. It was madness, women and children climbing over one another to cut loose handfuls of meat like wild animals, people fighting and being trampled.
“Gods,” Gwen said. “Gods help us.”
Because the crowd was surging against the carriage now, hands reaching up to claw at the gilt. Not gilt, Lydia realized. Gold.
Killian drove his war-horse through the masses, shouting at people to move; then he reached down and jerked the carriage door open. In a flash of skirts, Malahi was in the saddle in front of him.
“Retreat to the palace,” he shouted at them. “Stay close.”
Lydia flung herself after him, pushing and fighting through the crowd. Someone elbowed her in the face, and she tasted blood, panic roaring through her veins as she struggled in the black horse’s wake. No one cared about her, only about the meat and the gold, but it was like trying to run upstream in a river. The other girls were punching and shoving their way through, some using their weapons out of desperation as they fought to protect their charge.
Then the mood of the crowd shifted once again, more and more eyes shifting to Malahi.
“She’s wearing gold and jewels!” a woman shouted. She screamed the words over and over, trying to rally those around her.
“The Seventh take you,” Gwen swore at the woman, then shouted at Lydia, “Watch my back!” before striding toward the woman and slugging her in the face. But the damage was already done. The incensed crowd pressed closer, and Lydia saw a blade flash. Lunging, she tried to get her sword in between, but it was knocked from her grip, another blow sending her stumbling. A second later, she heard a scream of pain.
Barely managing to keep her feet, Lydia searched for Gwen’s red and gold coat, but all she saw was a blur of angry faces. Lydia threw herself into the crowd, shoving her way to where Gwen had fallen, the desperate and starving people buffeting her from side to side.
“Move!” she screamed, but her voice was one of hundreds, and no one listened. People were pushing back against the flow, splattered with blood and carrying chunks of horsemeat or pieces of the carriage with them. A nightmare.
Then she caught sight of a red-clad figure on the ground, people stepping on and over the individual with as little regard