The Ambush

"Witch!" a booming voice roared from the village square, cutting through the thunder. "Step out into the light of the Lord, or we shall burn you out!"

Rowan’s face hardened into a mask of pure, lethal resolve. He pushed Maeve behind him, positioning his broad shoulders to completely shield her from the doorway. He tightened his two-handed grip on his sword, the leather of his gauntlets creaking.

"Stay behind me," Rowan commanded, his voice dropping to a low, steady growl. "When the fighting starts, break through the rear window. Do not look back, Maeve. Promise me."

Before she could answer, the wooden door of the apothecary was kicked off its iron hinges. It splintered inward, sending shards of wood flying across the room.

Three massive knights in full plate armor surged into the cramped space. Rowan roared, stepping forward and bringing his sword down in a brutal, sweeping arc. He caught the first man under the arm, sending him crashing into the table of herbs, but the sheer weight of their numbers was insurmountable in the small space.

Rough hands grabbed Rowan, hauling him backward into the torrential rain. Other hands seized Maeve’s arms, dragging her ruthlessly out of the hut.

They were thrown into the muddy center of the village square. The rain lashed against them, icy and unforgiving. Surrounding them was a solid ring of fifty Inquisition knights, their swords drawn, the steel gleaming wetly in the light of the sputtering, pitch-soaked torches.

At the head of the vanguard sat the Grand Inquisitor atop a massive black warhorse. He looked down at them with a sneer of absolute disgust, the rain running off his ornate, gold-trimmed helmet.

Rowan scrambled to his feet in the deep mud. He didn't try to run. He didn't beg for mercy for his desertion. He simply stepped in front of Maeve again, raising his sword to face the wall of armored executioners. He was one man against fifty, bleeding and exhausted, but his stance was unbroken. He would die on his feet, defending the woman he loved.

"Rowan of the Third Vanguard," the Grand Inquisitor spat over the storm. "You have forsaken your sacred vows for the bed of a demon-whore. You are a traitor to the crown and a heretic to the faith."

"If loving her is heresy," Rowan yelled back, his voice thick with raw, defiant passion, "then let me be damned! But you will not touch her while I still draw breath!"

The Inquisitor laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "A pathetic end for a good knight. Kill the traitor. And bind the witch for the pyre."

The vanguard stepped forward, a tightening noose of jagged steel. Rowan braced his back foot in the mud, his muscles coiled, ready to meet the first blade and embrace the end.

But a soft, warm hand suddenly rested on his shoulder.