Sure enough, it isn’t long before the trumpets sound again.
I growl in frustration because we are not that far ahead.
I twist in my saddle and see riders forming up and giving chase. They’re not gaining. But they’re not falling behind, either.
“Ride, Isla!” Sebastian shouts, kicking his heels into the flanks of his steed. “Ride as fast as you can!”
I press myself flatter against my horse’s neck. It responds, finding another gear. Its hooves churn through the mud, eating up the ground. Sebastian rides hard beside me, his body low.
The deadlands swallow us; the army behind us is relentless, too. I doubt that we will outrun them.
41
Sebastian
The horses are tiring beneath us.
My steed’s strides are shortening, the rhythm faltering where it was once driving. Sweat froths along its neck and flanks despite the cold.
Isla’s horse is faring no better.
We have been riding hard since her mother gave the order to release us. The deadlands stretch endlessly ahead. Behind us, the army has not relented.
“Sebastian!” Her voice is thin and strained. “We can’t keep going like this.”
She’s right. These horses were bred for war, not endurance.
I glance over my shoulder. The torches of the pursuing army bob and weave in the darkness, closer than they were a few moments ago. They are slowly gaining.
We are running out of time.
My head snaps up as a black shape, flecked with streaks of gold, drops through the darkness. It is enormous. Its wingspanblots out the gray as it descends. The downdraft from its wings sends a wall of air rushing over us.
Isla screams.
She hauls on the reins, pulling her horse to a stop. The animal locks its front legs and skids through the mud. Then it rears, its great body lifting skyward, forelegs slashing at the air. Thank the goddess, Isla does the right thing by leaning forward, her hands closing on the saddle horn. Her body presses flat against the horse’s neck.
When it comes down, her face is white with terror.
I wheel my own horse around, dragging the reins hard to the left. It tosses its head and tries to bolt sideways, every instinct screaming at it to flee from the winged predator dropping from the sky. I hold firm, forcing it to turn, forcing it to face the direction we came from so I can see both Isla and the beast that just appeared.
The dragon lands ahead of us.
It touches down. Its head is broad and angular; the jaws of the beast are enormous. Its golden eyes burn with intelligence.
This is a true dragon. A creature bonded to the beastfae rider on its back, seated between two great ridges of spine.
The rider swings one leg over and stands in the saddle, looking down at us, pushing his hood from his head. Even in the semi-dark, I can make out the broad shoulders. The thick, dark, cropped hair. The unmistakable build of a fighter.
I’m sure I know who it is. Relief hits me hard for a moment.
“It’s Orion,” I call to Isla. “The Beastfae King. I think he’s here to save us.”
“You think?” she yells. “Or you know?” She holds onto her horse, the beast wanting to bolt just as much as mine does.
“He’s here to help.” I hope to the goddess I am right.
She nods, her horse dancing beneath her, tossing its head and snorting, its eyes rolled white.
