Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
He glances at me scanning the camp. “There’s a horse there for him.”
I follow behind, lagging as I keep looking over my shoulder.
Two skittish guards at the bridge see Florentius and our baskets and let us through. They must be familiar with him. They must want him to hurry with a cure.
Barely a half-dozen hoof-steps onto the bridge, shouts slam into us from behind. “Stop them!”
Two dozen Wyrds are running in formation towards the bridge. Another six come on horseback. Fast. “Commander’s prisoner is gone.”
The guards whirl around, drawing swords.
We’ve come so far—we’re so close. Half a bridge, then the cliffs where Florentius can use magic to help us scale the pass.
These soldiers are too fast. Florentius and Akilah are too heavy to outrace them. They’ll be caught by the end of the bridge. Unless . . .
I yell to Florentius, who’s hesitating between fight and flight. “Tell Commander Kjartan I sent you. Go!”
He hears something in my voice that makes him listen. With a last clash of his gaze on mine, he digs his heels in and urges his horse into a sprint. My pulse thrums as I watch them disappear over the bow of the bridge, and with a frightened gulp, I pull my horse around, facing the oncoming force.
Riders and neat walls of soldiers advance, glinting with blades, shields, and armour. Their footsteps pound in unison and shake the bridge. Will I be able to hold them back, even for a moment?
I rear my horse, slowing them slightly. No one touches my friends.
The saddled Wyrds grunt and swing their weapons. More are rushing towards the bridge behind those already swarming onto it. In their eyes, I’m merely one defenceless woman on horseback.
I yank off my gloves and slice my hand as they charge.
I throw blood out in a large arc between us.
“I have poxies!”
The riders come to a skidding halt.
I slice and throw more blood towards them.
“A single drop and you’ll be infected.”
I lift my boil-covered hand high.
Hisses. Curses. Someone orders for archers to be brought.
Fear riddles through me, and I pray Florentius and Akilah have made it to the other side. That they’ll make it to safety.
A Wyrd spears a short sword towards me and I dodge it, deeply grateful for all my drakopagon experience.
“Archers!” comes a booming call, and the riders part. The footsoldiers kneel, holding shields above their heads until all I see is a metallic path leading to nocked arrows.
My hands shake around my reins. Do I try to outrun them, or plunge in hoping they’ll scurry back afraid of my blood?
An icy shiver slinks through my middle.
Too late.
Glinting arrows hurtle in a large arc into the sky.
For a moment, everything becomes still: the Wyrds’ shouts disappear; the breezes cease; even the sunlight dulls. And then—
A savage gust slams into me, so sharp it stings in my lungs and the hairs on my nape prickle. The arrows flying overhead are thrown far behind me.
On the same gust is a magnificent sight. The world fills with life again: men gasping; winds impossibly strong; sunlight beaming brightly with a dark shape leaping before it, soaring high, soaring fast. Quin, on his horse, flying over the Wyrd army.
The wind fades with the clop of hooves hitting the bridge.
I’ve forgotten how to breathe. An entire Wyrd army stretches threateningly before us, and my eyes are caught on Quin as he roars. “Mine!”
The bridge is made smaller. There is hope in my heart. For a few seconds, the Wyrd stare, mouths gaping in disbelief. They shuffle uneasily.
But they hold strong.
A volley of arrows flies into the air, and a blinding light flares as Quin’s shield erupts. The arrows clang against the shimmery dome around us and fall, but their force ripples through Quin’s body.
My pulse jumps.
A horn blows.
The Wyrd army parts for the commander, his armour glinting under the sun. He lifts an arm and lets it fall.
Wyrds charge towards our dome and Quin buckles at each assault. His stance is unsteady, and the Wyrd are relentless. He grits his teeth.
War cries swell. The scent of iron and sweat seeps into the shield, mixing with the damp river smell underfoot. The Wyrds thunder over our dome, their shadows shifting over us, a heavy weight as they make it to the other side of the bridge and towards the pass.
I shift my horse closer to Quin’s, grabbing his reins as Quin buckles again. “It’s too much. Can you get us to the clifftops?”
Quin presses his lips together and shakes his head.
“I expended too much collapsing the cliffs, and now . . .”
Leaping to my rescue. He’s short on spiritual energy. “How long can you hold on?”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t want to frighten me.
“Florentius and Akilah will reach the camp soon,” I say. “They’ll tell Captain Kjartan. We just need to hold out.”