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)
Reality snaps back into focus and I release my hold of the reins.
With a punch down into the stirrup that remains, I leap free of the saddle, going airborne with a coordination I shouldn’t possess. And as I dive through the air toward the stony ground, I have the thought that this is even more stupid than me going to help Merc in the first place.
That bird wasn’t going to be able to pick up and carry me and a horse.
Just me? Well, that’s lunch, is it not.
Somehow, I roll myself in midair and land in a run, as if I’ve practiced this maneuver—which I most certainly have not. I keep going with as much speed as I can, the knife with the light show over my head, my legs churning strongly even though I’ve been in the saddle for two straight days. The stirrup I cut clanks on my ankle, the strap flaps against my lower leg, and I can feel my own blood from where I’m injured at the arm, but these are very minor details as the bird tracks me, not the horse.
I’m easier to catch, but more than that, I have the lure.
I’ve never run so fast. Especially not with one arm over my head—
My feet lose traction all at once and slip out from under me. Just as I go down, I flip around. The bird is making what surely will be its final pass, coming at me like something that is avenging a wrong I once committed.
Reaching down deep into my marrow, I gather the very last of my strength and throw the knife as hard as I can at the boulders that are but three lengths away.
And are the same gray as everything else.
End over end the knife travels, each alternating cycle of handle and blade a mini-variation of what Merc had been doing, the rhythmic flaring what I hope, what I pray, will be enough. It isn’t. Once again, the black wingspan eclipses all my vision, and the black-feathered scourge comes upon me. There’s no time to roll in a ball and protect my inner organs. I’m laid out, about to be flayed out—
At the last possible moment, the bird veers away.
And follows the brilliant rippling light.
I roll on my side, just in time to see the knife skittle into a fissure between two boulders. The bird doesn’t lead with its talons this time. The head extends forward and its neck thins out as the wings duck in against the body and its speed redoubles.
So it’s nearly at the velocity of a free fall—
As the winged predator slams into the rocks.
The cracking impact is as loud as its call, the snapping of its spine so violent, the bird’s death knocks the formation out of alignment, and rocks bounce down and travel. Landing in a heap, the beast’s half-hearted flap of one wing is followed by a series of twitches.
And then … the kind of stillness that only a life lost brings.
Panting, dizzy, and in pain everywhere, I think of the balas meat, and know that we’ll have a meal, if we choose—yet I’m saddened at the death, even though it was him or me.
Her or me?
“Sorrel!”
The sound of Merc’s baritone voice is so sweet, I shudder with relief. And I intend on getting up—or at the very least, sitting up—to greet him. I don’t have the energy. I flop over onto my back once more and continue to pant as I look toward him.
He’s running faster than I did, nearly as fast as the gelding, the broadsword sheathed on his back, his arms pumping like he’s punching the air. With his black hair streaming out in his wake, and his leather-clad body propelling him forward, Merc is the very study of a powerful man in his prime—and not unlike the predator who nearly killed us both. And it’s good that weapon of his is put away, I think numbly, in case there are more of those birds around. We need to keep all flashes of light to an absolute minimum.
I try once again to sit up, and fail. So I lie where I am, in this field of gray rocks, that could well have been my grave. Overhead, the sun is so intense it hurts my eyes, yet I can still see that odd and worrisome star—
Merc skids to a halt beside me, gray pebbles kicking up and skipping across my dead-weight legs. As he falls to his knees and takes my hand, I start to smile.
“You didn’t leave me,” I say hoarsely while I search his body for injuries.
“And you should have left me.” Leaning over, he brushes the hair out of my face. “Are you all right, woman?”
As my lungs get tight with emotion, I open my mouth to answer him. Except then, caught up in the moment, I do the one thing I must never, ever do.