Total pages in book: 204
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
“Mr. Lewis, I don’t understand any of this—”
“Every firstborn son in my line has been called to the deathbed of his father and given these.” He places his palms on the satchel and the box. “We are told of the promised one who lives under this roof, the one we must shelter beneath the stairs … the daughter of the Savior, creator of the Fulcrum, subduer of the Dark King.”
As I gasp, he pushes the objects toward me. “These are yours. One is a compass that will guide you on your quest, the other is the point of it all. You must leave tonight with the knight of swords, and seek out the warrior queen who sees no one to give her her due. Only then will she unite the Kingdoms of the North, South, East, and West, and defend Anathos such that the Dark King shall never rise again.”
His words are spoken from what feels like a vast distance away, and they make no sense. I am but a barmaid, who dabbles in herbs and is frightened of her own shadow—
“I have no mother,” I hear myself say. “I was orphaned on the birthing bed, and left in the village square—”
“You were entrusted to the care of my bloodline by your mother, the Savior. After she consolidated the last quantum of magic that remained, before she lured the Dark King into the fissure and created the Fulcrum, she gave you over to us.” He does not look at me, and seems to be reciting a practiced speech. “This is your duty unto Anathos. You must finish what your mother began.”
“No.” I shove the bag and the box back at him and jump to my feet. “I am not anyone. I was orphaned on the birthing bed and left in the village square where…”
“Go on,” he says in a tired tone as my voice drifts. “What then. Tell me.”
“I was orphaned,” I parrot weakly as I sit down once again. “… on the birthing bed. And left in the village square…”
When I can go no further, he motions impatiently with his hand. “What next.”
Except there’s nothing after that combination of lines that I’ve repeated to those few who have asked about my origins. My mind is … utterly blank.
“I was but an infant. How would I know what’s next?”
“The question is why you know anything at all.” He puts a hand to his chest. “I certainly never told you your story. Who did you hear it from then?”
I open my mouth to reply. And find there’s nothing to say.
“The Savior lived … hundreds of years ago,” I protest. “I can’t be her daughter—”
“Fourteen generations to be precise.” Mr. Lewis laughs in a harsh rush. “Do you know that I was relieved when my wife couldn’t give me children? I didn’t want any sons to carry on this burden—and here you are, ending it anyway.”
“I am not hundreds of years old—”
“I don’t care what you do from here on out.” Mr. Lewis talks over me as he shoves the satchel and the box in my direction. “But my family’s due to you is done this night. I’ve upheld our responsibility all my life, and I’ve finished this finally. Now you’re going to take those things and leave before my livelihood is what that mob burns down.”
Mr. Lewis whistles toward the front door, and as the mercenary steps back in, he gets to his feet with a grunt. “Follow me. I’ll take you both to the tunnel.”
“Tunnel?” I say as I get to my feet.
As Mr. Lewis walks over to his private quarters and the mercenary follows, I pick up the satchel. It’s heavier than it looks—and so too is the box.
Glancing to the pub’s door, I want to run, but what’s out there is deadly—and the mercenary is right. Those villagers who’ve used me and then ignored me in public won’t sacrifice their own children. Self-interest will keep their eyes closed to their own transgressions and complicity while they seek to sacrifice me—which will do nothing to stop the Fulcrum from degrading, and the demons from coming, and the Dark King from …
My mother is the Savior?
Surely Mr. Lewis is mistaken. Hundreds of years have passed—
Hide.
In the chaos of my mind, that old, familiar voice gets me going even though every logical instinct tells me to stay where I am and wait for reality to make more sense. I scramble after the men, tripping on something—a chair?—and having to catch my balance on one of the overturned trestle tables.
As I join my employer and the mercenary inside the owner’s quarters, I’m not surprised that a framed drawing of Mr. Lewis’s wife has pride of place over his messy bed’s headboard. After he shuts us all in, he goes across to a drape-covered arch and groans as he bends down and pulls an ancient trunk out of his closet. A cloud of dust wafts up as he lifts the lid, and the pack inside has cobwebs all over it.