Page 115 of The Simurgh

The horse might not kill them, but with hooves the size of dinner plates, a stomp would break a bone most definitely. And that was healing time they did not have.

The vehement cursing ceased. And Pitch did the very opposite to what Silas had asked. He jumped to his feet. The horse stood quietly, flicking its thick tail in gentle swipes around its haunches.

‘Careful, Pitch.’

Silas got to his feet, dusting himself off.

‘He does not seem dangerous,’ Pitch said. ‘Rather beautiful, don’t you think?’

The horse snorted softly and stretched his head towards the prince. Silas tensed, hurrying to move closer. But the worry was for nought. The stallion nuzzled at Pitch’s belly, bunching up Silas’s shirt with the rub of his giant nose. The heavy swipe had Pitch rocking back on his feet, and Silas stepped up behind him. The daemon leaned into him, laughing, of all things, at the attention. But Silas viewed Pitch’s bare feet, so close to those enormous hooves, with great concern.

‘That’s too close.’

‘Nothing to be jealous of, Sickle.’

‘I’m not jealous.’ Silas scowled. ‘You have bare feet and this creature could break every bone in them with the wrong step.’

‘Call me mad, but I think this creature is more interested in scratches than squashing.’

The prince rubbed the horse between the eyes, hardy strokes with a curled hand, his knuckles doing all the work. The stallion’s eyes closed, the horse exhaled, and damn if he didn’t lean into the daemon’s attentions. The press of Pitch’s body against Silas’s own grew more pronounced as horseflesh weighed against him.

It was a strange scenario, all the more for how serene it was. This mighty warhorse as needy as a colt, and though he could have galloped away at any moment, he still stood with eyes closed and breathing heavy through wide nostrils.

‘You are free now,’ Pitch whispered. ‘Free to run from all this.’

And it made Silas ache to hear the daemon’s melancholy.

‘We need not go to the palace,’ he said against Pitch’s ear, reaching over him to stroke the horse’s cheek. Even that part of the animal was grand, the size of a grandfather clock’s face.

‘And you need not find your souls,’ Pitch replied. ‘But could you walk from this place knowing they had been left behind?’

Silas swallowed against the bittersweetness of that thought. ‘No. I could not.’

‘Nor can I let the simurgh go.’ Pitch sighed. ‘What a pair of imbeciles we are.’

He let his hand fall from the stallion’s nose and twisted around so he faced Silas. When the prince gazed up at him, Silas ached anew. Adoring this man was eating him alive, yet giving him life in equal measure.

‘We are whittling down our enemies at least.’ Silas tried for lightness.

His reward was one of the prince’s smiles, the one that held a Mona Lisa–like evasiveness and earnestness.

‘Plenty more where those came from, I’m sure.’ Pitch suddenly cried out, his hands leaving Silas’s chest and flying to his own stomach. ‘Oh fuck.’

‘Pitch, what is it?’ Silas’s gaze shot to their surrounds, fearful an attack had been launched. The desert was empty, the dunes looming. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘This injury is old. Gods almighty.’ He grabbed at Silas’s forearm, his grip like pincers. ‘The wildness…the simurgh…whatever the fuck…there’s something wrong.’

He leaned over and moaned at the ground.

Silas wrapped his free arm around the prince’s shoulders. ‘Try to breathe deeply. Here, follow me.’ He inhaled, exhaled, feeling a git for it and being rightly reprimanded.

‘I’m not giving birth, Silas. At least I fucking hope not.’ He winced, righting just a little. ‘Fetid gods, my insides are being rearranged.’

‘How do I help you?’

‘Chipped ice and a midwife.’ Pitch’s face was screwed up with pain, and the garbled sound he made was either laughter, or choking.

‘Pitch, damn it, that is not helpful.’ Silas’s arm was being utterly tortured by the prince’s tight hold, but he was not about to free himself. ‘We must get you out of here.’