“No, Sorrel, no!” Merc screams hoarsely as I leave him behind.
Great buffers of wind push at me from the downstrokes of the bird’s wings, my hair whipping back from the galloping speed, shoving forward as my attacker swoops in above me with a great flap of its wings, whipping back again. At this point, the folly of my impulse becomes clear. In the next heartbeat, the air beast will be upon me, and I have nothing to defend myself with—
The downward attack occurs, and out of the corner of my eye, I see one ofthe black talons up close. The claw is nearly as thick as my wrist, and as pointed as an iron spike—
My hair is caught and yanked, my head ripped to the side, my torso forced to go with it. Though I need every hold I’ve got, my hand slips free of the mane and I feel myself getting lifted from the bolting horse—
The knife.
Re-angling my arm, I shove the blade into the tangle of hair that’s been caught, and brace myself for a ragged gnawing to cut through—
Merc has sharpened the knife to such a degree that it slices through the thick rope of locks with no effort from me at all. The instant the tie is cut, the release pitches me backward in the saddle so that my head bounces on the surging rump of the horse.
I also get an upshot view of the bird as it circles and zeroes in on me once more.
Even as I bounce and jostle from the gelding’s violent, panicked strides, I become frozen at the sight above me.
My stomach is what’s going to be ripped open. And as soon as I hit the ground, I’m going to be snatched and carried back to a nest or a feeding spot, my muscles and fat and very bones nutrition for—
Gritting my teeth, I clench all the muscles in my body and drag myself upright against the rush of air. We’re not going to outrun this. Sooner, not later, the horse will either stumble or it’ll slow such that a perfect alignment can be made between those talons and my shoulders—
Even through the roar in my ears, the shattering, careening call is right over me once again, those beating wings creating their own gale-force winds.
Up ahead, there’s a rock formation created by a tumble of boulders bigger than my valiant horse and the nightmare bird combined.
Angling the reins into the side of the chestnut’s neck, I force a reroute toward what once was an island. As our course is altered, I bring the knife across to my left. It’s nearly impossible to control any part of my body outside of maintaining my position in the saddle—nearly. With a similar focus to what saved me from being dragged to death, I bend my knee up and expose the stirrup strap.
As my little blade slices through the hardy leather quick as a gasp, I free what’s trapped my foot from its tether and resolve to never, ever allow the thing to become dull again.
Putting the reflective knife back up over my shoulder—
My arm is gored.
I cry out in agony, but I don’t lose my little weapon. I also don’t lose my attacker, and that’s the plan. The bird, showing no signs of fatigue, abruptly switches tactics, angling around and coming at us from the front. I haveanother full view of its outstretched black wings, their span such that the whole of the horizon is blocked out, and also of its slashing talons, and its straining black beak—
Waves. The ocean.
All at once, the vision that made no sense first in the moat, and then when I initially sat astride the gelding, returns to me. It’s so vivid, so clear, I can taste the salt spray in my mouth, feel the sorrel horse running free under me—
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.
