“You’re the best.” The horse whinnies as Twill presumably spurs him to action. Hooves pound on the hard rock. “I’ll see you in a bit . . .” A fading shout.

The remaining Loyalist grumbles to himself as his shadow descends on the wagon. I sling my arm across my eyes a heartbeat before the blanket is ripped away.

There’s a creak near my feet—a board on the wagon being lowered so that unloading the bed will be easier. The deceased man to my right shifts. There’s a meaty slap as the corpse falls from the wagon and hits the ground. I listen to the struggle and the grunts as the Loyalist tugs the body toward the fire. The scent of smoke isn’t as thick now, but the crackling wood is hungry.

I risk a quick glance over the edge of the wagon. The pyre is several paces away, flames licking toward the sky. Bedrock’s mesa, dam, and waterfall have all seemingly disappeared. We didn’t travel far, though, so we must be in a valley of some sort, the settlement hidden from view. I can’t see the Barrel either. I’ll have to use the wagon tracks to puzzle out which way to travel once I’m running. But first . . .

I return my focus to the Loyalist, who’s rolling the corpse into the fire. The man is taller than I am, but scrawny, and I’ll have the element of surprise. There’s a long rifle strapped to his back, but I doubt I can get my hands on it quickly enough. On his hips, though, I spot the familiar shape of a knife hilt.

You’ve always been good with a knife.

That I have.

The Loyalist straightens at the fire, and I lie back down, return my arm over my eyes.

I hear him move nearer, feel his shadow fall over me. “Huh,” he says, and I know he’s looking at me now, wondering why my skull hasn’t been opened like the others. He grabs me at the ankles, and I remain limp as he tugs. When I’m halfway from the bed, my legs hanging from the wagon but my torso still being dragged over the corpses, I lurch upright.

“What the—” The Loyalist is so startled, he staggers back. But I’ve anticipated this, and I scoot off the wagon bed, racing at him. He reaches over his shoulder for his weapon, but I’m already diving low, my sights on his hip. I grab the blade there and tug it free, ducking into a forward roll that carries me past him. Then my feet are beneath me. I spin around, my arm arched to throw.

He raises his weapon.

But I’ve already let go of the knife.