Quon moaned, and the side of his head turned red. He looked at the crowd and spoke quickly, as if trying to beat a ticking timer.

“Cross the chasm, meet the Woodsman, that you may walk the red road all the way to the City of Light.”

For a moment Quon’s face looked different. It reminded me of someone … the Woodsman.

Another man threw his rock and then another and another.

I tried to stand, but my knees wobbled and I fell. I heard old Shad praying for Quon.

Prayer—of course! “Save Quon, mighty King,” I asked. “Deliver him.”

I felt a sudden, overwhelming peace. I knew the King would answer my prayer. Quon would be spared, and come nightfall I’d gratefully be eating his stew.

Fistface picked up another stone, huge, probably four pounds. He raised his big arm and hurled it at Quon, only eight feet away.

The stone hit Quon in the head with a horrid dull thud. He fell to the ground limp, like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

I shoved my way through to him while the angry crowd pummeled me. I put my hand on his wrist and felt his weak pulse. Shad crawled up beside me. I stared at Quon’s disfigured head, blotched with blood.

Searching the crowd for Fistface, I found him and charged the ten feet between us like a wild bull. I planted my head in his stomach and knocked him to the ground. He punched my ribs, and I felt them crack. I hit him twice with my fists and watched the blood spurt over his tight, hard face. I put my hands around his neck, squeezing with all my strength. I shouted, I didn’t know what, as his eyes rolled back inside his skull. Seeing this, I released my hands. The flow of air revived him, and he swung his left arm up against me.

As I held his flailing limb with both of mine, he reached for his belt with his right hand and pulled something out. I saw it glimmer just before I felt it pierce my shoulder.

“Ahhh!” I screamed as he twisted the knife in me. My right fist fell on his face like a trip hammer, and I heard the crunch of breaking bone. I pulled the knife out of my shoulder, screaming again—the second pain worse than the first. As he still struggled beneath me, I lifted the knife in the air and started to bring my arm down.

Then someone grabbed my fist, I don’t know who—I didn’t see him. Three men were on me, trying to get the knife from me. I refused to unclench my fist or get off Fistface.

“Nick—stop!”

When I recognized David’s voice, I hesitated, then rolled off Fistface. David pulled me up, and as I stood, knife still in my hand, the crowd backed away in an ever-widening circle.