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)
Now he seems bored. “You forget I saw money changing hands between you and a man old enough to be your father the first night I met you. Are you suggesting all he was paying for was holding your virginal hand? And I’d also like to point out that it was a well-plowed field I slid into last night, smooth as silk.”
I open my mouth. Close it.
Rubbing my temple, I remind myself that this is neither the time nor place for this confrontation. In fact, we are two people who should never have such an intimate conversation. At all.
We’re more than incompatible. We’re strangers in a foreign land, set upon different, if for the time being parallel-once-again, courses.
Abruptly, Merc blows out a tired breath, and looks to the way forward. “I urge you to stop wasting energy on what you think about me, and get down to the job of traveling to our destination. And if you insist on pressing the issues of your good friend and lantern tender, Thale, I assure you, I am utterly incapable of jealousy.”
“And why is that.”
There is but an instant’s pause: “Because I am utterly incapable of love.”
A cold spear goes through my heart. Yet I shake my head. “That’s a lie.”
His head cranks in my direction, and his eyes are so bleak, they are like pits. “Don’t confuse our proximity with who I am at my core.”
“I saw you cry when you looked over that field at the settlement.” When he goes absolutely still in the saddle, I question why I’m saying any of this. And then press on with, “And you left your journal open in the window seat. What’s on those pages showed a soul-deep yearning. The picture you drew of that gate was—”
“Shut up.”
His voice is no longer angry. It is dead.
And that is when we hear the grunting from above.
Sixty-Eight
Into a Battle.
We both look up at the same time—and see the shadow that’s affixed to the vertical slant of the spire on the right. Except … it’s not a dark spot thrown by a cleave of the stone or a discoloration in the vein of rock. It’s a creature that’s the size of a horse, with skin that has the texture of bark on a tree. With its splayed hands and feet, it sits in place as if it’s on the ground, and as it shifts its position to stare down at us, a strange fluctuation in coloring makes it blend in perfectly with the bands of black and brown.
This is what I sensed, but did not see.
The predator has been with us all along, and as its black tongue comes out and licks around jagged black fangs, lunchtime appears to be nigh.
“Ogre,” Merc says softly. “I’ve heard about them. That skin is nearly impenetrable—but they’re slow.”
The beast’s flanks are puffing in and out, and though it’s hard to track the precise position because of the chromatic phenomenon, I think the back end of the thing is quivering. Like its muscles are engaging.
Because it’s going to jump on us.
“We need to go,” Merc warns. “Now—”
Just as he gives the order at a shout, the ogre goes airborne. I have a brief impression of skin flaps puffing out, the way a flying squirrelle’s might—and then everything becomes a blur. Lavante is not going to stand still as that thing tries to eat us. The stallion bolts and Merc’s horse follows suit, right behind us. As the wind streaks back my hair and I hear only a roar in my ears, I have to look over my shoulder.
I can’t see much of anything behind Merc, just the pale sandy dirt and the black-and-brown cliffs. Fates, if the ogre can camouflage itself, it’s nearly impossible to tell whether it’s on the ground chasing us or still on the vertical.
At thunderous speed, we jog left into a turn, flash to the right, then dodge straight through a smaller clearing. After that, it’s a blur of more curves and sharp corners. I lean into Lavante’s neck and do my best to follow his tilts, especially as the trail gets narrower and narrower—
A strange call, like nothing I’ve ever heard before, echoes around.
It’s like the howl of a wolf crossed with the cry of a bird of prey. As the sound ripples out—
“They’re closing in!” Merc yells over the din.
“‘They’re’?” So that wasn’t just an echo. There’s more than one chasing us. “Go, Lavante! Go!”
I give my heel, not that it matters. The stallion is flying as fast as he can in the increasingly cramped chute, given the number of directional changes and rerouting. But at last we finally hit a straightaway with a decent amount of width—
Lavante turns his head to the side and whinnies in fear, his great long legs suddenly surging. Taking his cue, I look up at the cliff wall.