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)
“Hurry,” I demand to Merc.
As if that direction is necessary. He’s making even quicker work than I could have, the sharp edges of his dagger and his broadsword flying around as the web falls farther and farther down his horse’s legs. Just as Merc arches up and peels his steed’s neck with one slice, Lavante breaks out with a violent, all-body explosion.
I barely have time to grab the reins.
The stallion gives me only a heartbeat of no-motion, his wild eyes swinging around to my own, as if to tell me that should I not get on his back this very instant, he’s leaving without me.
There’s no hesitation. I stuff my slipper shoe into the stirrup and throw myself up into the saddle—
He doesn’t give me a chance to get settled. And good thing. Lavante bolts down the pavers at a raucous dead run, his hooves hitting the stone with such force, the echoes among the broken statuary and cockeyed columns are like the roll of a drum. Without any direction from me, he dodges around fallen boulders and marble tiles, and I know better than to try to interfere. He’s a far better judge of what his footing can handle than I am.
I look back.
Merc is out of the saddle, but still working at getting the web free of his horse’s head—and the line of darkness is closing in. If he doesn’t get moving now, it will be too late. That dooming eclipse is traveling across the crumbled rooftops and the lanes now, moving so fast that it will reach that temple within moments.
“Hurry!” I holler over my shoulder.
When Lavante reaches the great entrance, he leaps as if there’s a jump before us. As he lands on the sandy dirt, I rein him to the right, just as the darkness wheels over us. He’s as fast as ever as he takes us toward the other slope, with its cap of dense fog.
“Merc!” I yell into the wind.
Twisting around, I can’t see him. Fates, he’s run out of time. The spiders must be coming back into awareness by now, and there’s no way they’re going to forget the two riders and horses they’d been ready to feed from.
I want to go back. I need to go back—
Merc and his horse burst free of the entry, and in spite of his horse’s name, they’re going like the wind. I have a moment of relief, but then I see the why of its speed.
Spiders.
A thousand of them spill out of the entry between the statuary, and when there’s a jam, they split up and flow over the disintegrated wall, forming a river of black legs and red, hungry eyes.
A sudden shift underneath me makes me refocus. Lavante has brought us to the slope and hit the incline hard. The stallion is grabbing at the ascending ground with his front hooves as if he’s climbing a ladder, great pulls keeping us going even as our speed slows. I want to look back at Merc, but if I fall off, I’m not going to be able to outrun the horde.
I get down low on Lavante’s neck, and hang on to his white mane, giving him all the head there is. The higher we go, the slower the pace becomes, and I hear his heaving breaths. But he doesn’t give up. He keeps going, fighting for every length. Yet the top seems only to be getting farther away.
Higher. Higher.
When Lavante starts to slip and then tumbles down to his knees, I have to guide him to the left so his angle is not as extreme and he can get more purchase. Sure enough, he takes to the better footing and goes faster.
And then we’re at the top.
The fog swallows us whole, and it’s so thick that I have no idea what’s farther ahead than Lavante’s ears. He immediately slows to a walk, his sides pumping in and out as he recovers from his exertions—
Something slaps at my face and I scream.
Which causes Lavante to shy away.
I’m hit by another branch, and pushed at by a third. At least I think they’re parts of trees. I can’t see anything until it’s right in front of my face. And the fog—or perhaps this is a cloud?—is so thick, it also swallows sound.
So I’m not going to hear the anguished screams of Merc’s horse as they’re overtaken down below.
Seventy-Three
Into the Mist.
Moisture drips off my nose and clings to my hair, and I taste the sea in the back of my throat. As Lavante keeps snorting, I suspect he’s experiencing the latter as well, the sound eaten by the fog. The trees are the same leafy variety as were by the river, and I have to hold my uninjured arm out in front of me to ward them off. My saddle creaking is the only thing I hear.