Page 6

Another arrow sings through the air, whizzing close enough to stir the hair around my face. The prospect of plummeting to my death in the ravine is suddenly not so scary; not with the alternative so blazingly apparent. Death glows in the eyes of the red-clad soldiers who pour from the tree line not fifty paces away, some holding torches, others bearing swords and shields. They are close enough that I can see the interlocked torcs emblazoned on their tunics.

“For the love of gods, go !” Scythe barks, shoving me forward with impatient hands. “Run!”

There is no time for uncertainty, for hesitation. I bolt across the slats, my socked feet pounding the groaning wood, hands grasping for purchase on the rope railings. The bridge rocks beneath us. It’s a bit like standing up in a rowboat—one faulty shift of weight will spell disaster. I do my best not to look down at the precipice below, nor behind at the soldiers who are rapidly closing in on us. Their voices carry on the night air—a captain calling out orders, his men answering. All too soon, they will reach the bridge.

I do not allow myself to wonder if it will hold beneath the weight of an entire company of men.

The stallion’s hooves are a steady clip at my heels. Most horses would balk at such a crossing, but he is a surefooted beast—even under the constant siege of arrows that rain down around us from archers on the cliff side, finding marks far too close for comfort.

“Any slower, we’ll be skewered!” Scythe calls gruffly from the rear.

“Any faster, we’ll flip over!” I yell back.

“Better a sharp fall than a shaft through the heart!”

Pulse pounding twice its normal rate, I increase my speed. We are not yet to the middle of the bridge, where it pitches downward—still a long way to go before we reach solid ground. If I squint in the dark, I can just make out the twin stone pillars on the opposing bank.

Running headlong, my eyes fixed on the other side, I am so focused—on the arrows whizzing ever closer, on leaping over the occasional missing step—I do not see the broken slat until it is too late. My foot goes through it like a fist through paper and, as it crumbles to dust and falls into the gulch, I feel myself falling after it.

I scream as my legs pedal the air, scrambling uselessly for something solid to hold on to. My momentum works against me, propelling my whole body through the hole. I sink like a stone, powerless to stop my fate. My mind blanks, only one thought prevailing over the white noise of panic.

I am going to die.

My legs are already through the gap when my palms slam against a slat. I clutch at it desperately, fingernails clawing into the surface. The wood is splintered and rough and far too flimsy. As its edges gouge my palms, I think it, too, will give way, but I hold fast. My heart thuds so hard within my chest, it is a struggle to breathe.

The horse pulls up short with a whinny of distress, narrowly avoiding a collision. I hear Scythe shout something over the clatter of hooves, but my mind is too full of fear to process his words, plagued by images of plummeting to my death, of swallowing shadow, of painful splatter. For though I’ve halted my descent, that is only half the battle. Pulling myself up will prove far more difficult.

Fear pulses potent as an elixir in my veins. My muscles strain more with each passing moment as I dangle, lethal calculations whirring within my skull.

How much longer can I hold on?

How much longer until the slat gives way?

Scythe’s voice brings me back to reality. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” I call. The word cracks in my throat. “But the step—it shattered. I slipped through.”

There is a marked pause before he responds. “I can’t reach you from here. Can you pull yourself up?”

“Y-yes,” I gasp. “I think so.”

“Then you’d better do it fast.” I hear a low curse. “We’re out of arrow range for the moment, but they won’t wait on the other side forever. They will risk the crossing eventually—and they will come with swords.” Another pause. “Even if I could fight them off one by one, I doubt—”

My eyes press closed. He does not need to finish his sentence; I already know what he’ll say. The bridge will not hold long enough for him to battle them. We will all be dead at the bottom of the chasm long before the first soldier reaches us at the center, a tangle of splintered bone and snapped rope.

Aware we are rapidly running out of time, I try twice to pull myself up—to no avail. Perhaps six months ago, six weeks ago, even six days ago I might’ve been strong enough. But I am weak, my muscles atrophied from too few meals and too many sleepless nights. My damaged wrists are not yet healed enough to do much besides hang here, awaiting the moment my well of fortitude runs dry.

Gravity presses down, growing heavier and heavier, urging me toward descent. The skirts around my legs tangle as my feet kick uselessly at empty air, seeking purchase where there is none to be found.

Come on, Rhya , I urge, ignoring the agony that ripples up my straining arms. You did not come this far, and survive so much, only to die here at the hands of a faulty step.

A cry catches in my throat as I try again. Fail again. The sound is barely audible over the growing roar of wind through the ravine. For as I struggle, whether by misfortune or something else entirely, the wind swells from a whisper to a shriek—a change so abrupt, it seems to defy the laws of nature. Quite suddenly, currents of air are swirling around us in an unpredictable vortex, tossing the bridge from left to right with such force, I think we truly might turn over. The ropes groan, the wood creaks, tested to the limit as we swing and twist.

Any attempts to heave myself up cease instantly. It is all I can do to cling for dear life as we whip back and forth. My mind is awhirl with blind terror, a crushing force that echoes inside my skull. Spasms overtake my body as it is pushed beyond its capabilities.

Hold on, hold on, hold on.

The force of the gusts is so strong, tears stream from my eyes and my hair whips violently around my face. My skirts are a deadly sail. I try to take a breath and find I cannot. My lungs feel frozen solid. The birthmark on my breastbone is so cold it burns.

Behind me, the horse brays loudly, the sound full of equine fear. Scythe is shouting again, but I cannot make out his words over the squall’s howl. I cannot do anything at all, for in the face of the sudden storm, my strength has finally reached a breaking point.

I am failing.

Falling.

My grip gives out, hands slipping against the splintered wood as I slide backward through the gap. My stomach flies upward into my throat. All around, the wind wails like a wild thing. Or is that me wailing?

The rest of the world dims to blunt sensations. Darkness, wind, defeat. My eyes press closed, not wanting to witness my own moment of surrender.

I will see you soon, Eli.

Is it that final plea that saves me? Is some guardian spirit looking down on me from the skies to extend a hand of aid? I suppose I will never know for sure. But whether godly miracle or a lucky trick of fate, at the exact moment I begin to plummet, the bridge pitches forward in a great gust. Instead of empty air, I feel my body collide with something solid.

When I find the strength to peel my eyes open, I am lying on the bridge with only my feet hanging through the gap. I gasp for breath, mind reeling, arms aching, heart pounding with relief and fright in equal measure.

“What in the skies…” Scythe’s words drift to me. His voice is bleak in the sudden quiet—for the roaring has ceased completely.

The wind is gone.

It flees as suddenly as it arrived, disappearing in the space between one heartbeat and the next. The wood slats beneath me are nearly still, swaying gently in a light breeze.

Did I imagine it?

“Are—are you all right?” Scythe asks, sounding as rattled as I feel.

All right? No.

Alive? Yes.

“I’m fine.”

I can scarcely wrap my thoughts around how—but this is not the time for questions. Not with the enemy so close. I push to my feet, knees shaking as I rise, hands gripping the rope railings. My lungs ache. In fact, my entire chest aches, a frigid flame that intensifies with each inhale.

When I look back, the horse’s liquid eyes are locked on me. They shine with an awareness that seems almost human as his velvety muzzle butts toward my hand. Around his hulking girth, I can see the metal flash of Scythe’s helmet and, beyond, torches flaming in the darkness by the edge of the cliff.

They are moving closer.

The ropes groan under fresh weight as the soldiers pile onto the bridge.

Scythe curses again. “Time’s up. They’re coming. We need to move. Now.” He sucks in a sharp breath. “Be more careful going forward, will you?”

Biting back a retort, I grab the stallion’s bridle and lead him over the missing slat as quickly as I can. I move gingerly, keeping my steps light before placing my full weight upon them. I’ll gladly sacrifice a bit of speed if it means surviving this swinging death trap.

With each passing moment, tension mounts in the air until the very sky seems to crackle with it. The bridge bounces beneath heavy boots as the men follow us across, slowly but steadily gaining ground. How many they’ve sent, I’m not certain. I can only hope the bridge holds long enough for us to make it to the other side.

Forty steps.

Just forty steps to solid ground.

Twice the width of Eli’s cottage.

A distance you’ve walked ten thousand times.

My heart is in my throat with each perilous stride, but I keep moving—even when arrows once again begin to sail through the sky around us.

They are catching up.

Twenty steps.

Half the span of the meadow where you and Tomas spent so many stolen evenings.

You can do this, Rhya.

Footfalls echo in the air. Voices stir the wind, jeering taunts that promise pain. The sizzle of their torches is alive in my ears.

They are close.

Ten steps.

“Hurry,” Scythe urges needlessly.

My eyes are locked on the twin stone pillars, where the ropes meet their end. I focus on the dull green moss clinging to them as I jog the final distance. When an arrow whizzes by and lodges in the grass, missing me by mere inches, I barely flinch; I am so relieved to feel the earth beneath my feet, there is no space left over for fear. I could kiss the ground, I’m so happy to be standing upon it.

The stallion follows me off the bridge, the whites of his eyes rolling as arrows fall like rain. The second his hooves are clear, he trots smartly out of the archers’ range, heading for the nearby shelter of a rocky outcropping. I make to follow him, but a pained roar stills my movements.

Turning, I see Scythe has caught an arrow in his shoulder. The tip protrudes just above his heart—not a lethal blow, but nearly. His mouth twists in agony as he lurches forward, catching himself on the final slats of the bridge.

He does not get back up.

For a moment, he does not move at all.

I still, frozen with indecision, torn between the urge to abandon my captor and the strange guilt that accompanies it.

Run, Rhya.

You owe him nothing.

There’s little time to weigh my options. Crossing the center of the bridge—not far from the spot I nearly met my end—a small contingent of men is advancing, torches illuminating their features in the darkness. They are moving rapidly now, so close I can make out the red of their tunics. In a matter of moments, they will be upon us.

Scythe’s groan draws my attention back to him. In clear pain, he drags himself upright, leaning heavily on the rope railing. His left arm hangs limply at his side. Dark blood drips from his fingertips, a steady torrent. When his eyes lift to mine, he flinches as though surprised to see me standing there. As though he expected me to abandon him.

Why haven’t I abandoned him?

“You should’ve run, you idiot,” he growls, stumbling forward, his gait unsteady. He grips the rope with his good hand, grunting in pain as he hauls himself along. In truth, he’s right—I am an idiot—because I do not run as he’s bid me, but dart forward, back onto the bridge, directly toward the approaching danger. Before he can say anything, I loop his uninjured arm over my shoulder.

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” I snap as we hobble sideways across the final slats. Gods, he’s heavy.

As soon as we step onto solid ground, he shrugs off my help. His face is a mask of pain and anger as he shoves me into the shelter of one of the pillars. He leans his own frame against its twin, panting heavily. I suck in a steadying breath as my back hits the stone, grateful for a reprieve—however fleeting.

Arrows sail all around us. I listen to them clatter as they strike the other side of the pillars, then ricochet into the gulch. If I make a dash for the tree line now, Scythe won’t be the only one with a hole pierced through his body.

“You should’ve run when you had the chance,” he seethes, each word laced with pain. His mouth is pressed into a stern line. He looks paler than usual; he’s lost a lot of blood.

“Forgive me for trying to save your life, you ungrateful lug!”

“I did not require saving.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” I jerk my chin at his shoulder wound. “How far do you think you’ll get with that arrow inside you? There’s no way you can outrun those archers.”

“I’m not planning to outrun them.”

My brows lift. I open my mouth to ask what he means by that but never get the chance—he’s already stepped out from behind the shelter of his pillar.

Is he mad?

He must be. There’s no way he can fight all of them. Certainly not injured.

I soon realize that is not his intention. With his good arm, Scythe reaches up, unsheathes the sword strapped across his back, and swings. He severs the left side of the bridge in one clean strike, cutting through the thick suspension ropes with a low grunt.

The soldiers scream as the bridge pitches, scrambling to hold on to the side that remains intact. Their torches and bows fall into the ravine, devoured quickly by the dark. They are close enough for me to see their white-knuckled grips, their pinwheeling legs. Close enough to hear the terror in their calls for aid. Close enough to read the fear on their faces as they look frantically in our direction.

I know that fear. I felt it myself, as my own legs dangled over shadows that threatened to swallow me whole. But these soldiers are stronger than me—battle-hardened men. They will last longer than I did. When we are long gone from here, they can climb their way back to safety.

Scythe’s sword arm rises again.

“Wait!” I yell, starting forward.

But he does not. His sword slashes downward, severing the right side. In horror, I watch the bridge fall, twisting like a ribbon in the wind. The soldiers’ screams carry back to us long after they disappear from view.

In the jarring silence that follows, I look across the chasm to where the tatters of the bridge hang against the opposite cliff. Above it, the remaining soldiers stand at the edge. I cannot make out their features in detail, but I know they are there from the flames that dance atop their torches.

I wonder if they are staring back at me across that void with vengeance in their hearts. If they, like me, will carry the sound of those plummeting screams from this day until their souls meet the skies.