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)
“Go!”
Merc smacks the chestnut’s rump with the flat plane of his broadsword, but our steed doesn’t need the encouragement. As if it’s heard what Merc’s said and taken the order to heart, the chestnut bolts off at a dead run—
I’m nearly thrown out of the saddle from the sudden burst of speed, and my attempt to stay aboard overcorrects the problem and makes things worse. As I lurch to the far side, my left slipper shoe, which has no heel or firm sole, shoves out the front of the stirrup such that my ankle becomes trapped. This sends me even further off-balance until I nearly pitch off the racing steed—
Beneath the blur of hooves, loose gray stones flash by, and I can already feel my skull raking over them until I black out from blood loss—
Through the galloping rear legs, I look back and catch sight of Merc standing braced with his broadsword angled toward the sky, as if he’s declared war on a thunderbolt send to smite him. In his black leather clothes, and with his black hair blown back from his harsh face by the hot, dry wind, it seems as if he’s the only possible match for what is coming: Directly above him, the massive bird of prey is crying out in its meteoric descent, and Merc is yelling back, man and winged beast squaring off and prepared to battle to the death.
With their collision course locked in, and the distance collapsing to nothing at all, the avian predator abruptly changes its position. Throwing out its massive wings, it treats the air as a solid—
And brings its full set of deadly sharp talons forward.
As if Merc is a fish about to be plucked from a pond.
Thirty-Five
The Air Assault.
In spite of the galloping speed and my utter lack of purchase, I’ve got to regain my seat if I’m going to help Merc. Throwing my hand out, I manage to lock a grip on the pommel, and then I don’t know how, but I drag myself back up and into balance on the saddle. There’s no time to catch my breath, no time to capture the other stirrup.
As if it’s second nature, I haul the horse around and stay fused with my seat. The chestnut bucks and rears as it gets an idea of what I’m going to ask it to do, still I wind a grip into its mane, squeeze my thighs, and dig my heels into its flanks.
The great black bird attacking Merc is a horrible sight, as if all of the shadows in the dry lakebed have coalesced into one menace, but he’s an equal force as he wields the broadsword in a great heave at just the right time. Sparks flash and scatter as talons meet forged steel, and the bird angles off—only to promptly return. Merc is ready for it. He twirls around, black leather surcoat flaring out, his raven hair like the great vulture’s feathers.
Another strike, another parry. More sparks.
And I’m still so far away.
The horse fights me, and keeping us on track to intersect the fight is a battle of my own—especially as there’s another round of metal lightning, those viciously sharp talons streaking along the broadsword’s blade. Heart in my throat, I pray for Merc’s strength as his arms bulge from the effort to hold off the attack. I have no thought of my own safety as I thunder to him, and also no plan—
The bird swoops down once again, and Merc manages to nick its belly just before he must duck and roll to avoid having his head severed from his spine by a slash of those knifed feet. A great cry of frustration rings out from the bird, and there’s no pause for Merc to get back up and reset his position.
I can see what’s going to happen. As he rolls over to defend himself, the bird’s going to go for his belly.
And rip him open like what happened to those cows.
I yank back on the reins, and as the horse lets out a whinny of terror, I don’t understand why the black-winged attacker doesn’t seem to notice us.
It only has eyes for Merc—
And that’s when I see the air beast’s feral stare in my peripheral vision. Though I cannot—and will not—get a full picture of its eyes, they seem to be just planes of white in slits of black.
That are locked on the flashing of the broadsword.
The bird is all but blind, and every time the sunlight catches Merc’s blade, it knows where he is. That’s what brought the scourge to us, the frustrated show of toss-and-catch with the honed steel weapon.
I form no conscious thought, and yet I move with purpose: I shove my hand into the pocket of the navy outer coat and take out my little knife.