They’re tiring, Talasha thought. They must be. They’re starved.
She kept going, thighs screaming as she reached a slope, climbing up to a higher elevation. There were a thousand small hills in these wilds, many with open clearings at the top. Legend said that those clearings were made by the dragons, in days gone by. That they would stop here on their way from the Wings to the Nest, to rest and think, deciding whether they wished to answer the call of the Bondstone, be paired with a Fireborn rider. Some would turn back, returning to the islands, others would continue going. While they waited, they would curl up on these hilltops, clearing them of trees and shrubs. Some had come to call them the Dragonroost Hills for that, others the Heights of Choice, for the final ruling the dragons came to, a choice from which they could not turn back.
There were no dragons here anymore, though, save just the one. Neyruu, Talasha thought again. Neyruu, if you can hear me…
The slope steepened. Her lungs and legs were fire, and yet she kept on going, driving hard up the hillside, kicking through snarls of bracken, thorns tearing at her hands.
She could hear Tarran and the tall man panting behind her, hear shouting further off as the others tried to find them. The dark was deep here, though further up Talasha could see the moonlight through the trees, glowing on the hilltop. She had to get there first. Get there and cross back into the woods before they saw which way she’d gone. Her legs were turning to reeds, yet she drove on all the same, harder and faster. She sensed herself stretching a lead on them, sensed their energy waning. Tarran wasn’t even calling to her anymore. He cannot spare the breath, she knew.
The hillside shallowed again as she neared the top, the trees thinning, opening out, the high clearing coming into view. She burst into the open, looked around, saw that the plateau was wider than she’d expected. To her left it fell away sharply, a descent into a rugged mire of broken rocks that would be too slow and too dangerous to climb. To her right it looked even worse, a high cliff plummeting to darkness. Her only option was straight across.
She set into a sprint and ran.
Halfway across, she glanced back, saw her two pursuers breaching the wood and rushing onto the hilltop. They saw her at once, and gave chase, the tall man striding onward with purpose, bits of armour clanking, cloak flapping, long legs gaining ground. The woods on the other side were nearing, but she knew she wouldn’t make it. He was too fast, too fast and closing.
I have to slow him.
She stopped, suddenly, and spun, hefted her spear and threw. It pierced the night air, whistling, striking the tall man in the upper thigh. Prongs bit through leather, into flesh. He stumbled to a knee, cursing. Then ripped the spear out and kept on coming.
No…
She whirled about, running for the woods, but the move had won her no time. She heard his stamp rushing up behind her, the heavy rattle of armour, felt his breath at the back of her neck. The tang of iron in the air, the stink of soiled breeches and unwashed clothes. The moon peered through the clouds, casting his shadow. He was right behind her, reaching out. Fingers snatched at her trailing leather cloak. She felt him grip, tore free, but got only a few more paces before he swung at her with her own spear, knocking her left leg into her right, tripping her.
She stumbled forward, careening into the hard rocky earth, chin smashing stone. Blood welled at once from a gash torn in her jaw. The tall man crashed down atop her, knocking the air from her a second time. She tried to struggle, to stand, but he was too heavy. “Whore for a northern knight,” he spat at her. “Be a whore for me…”
She twisted, trying to scratch at him, raking fingers down one cheek. She felt his skin rip, parting. The tall man roared, eyes blazing, and swung hard, striking her in the face. A sting flashed across her cheek, eyes blurring, head fuzzing. She blinked, spots dancing in her vision, reaching feebly up, but he swatted her away.
“Whore…”
“Enough! Off her.” She heard Tarran come running up to them. He put two hands on the tall man’s shoulders, and threw him aside, releasing her of his weight. “You don’t touch her, Jantor. We need her intact.”
“Bitch speared me!” The tall man Jantor burst back onto his feet, wiping at his cheek, seeing the blood. “She tore my bloody face open!”
“Pin pricks. Scratches. Stop moaning and bind her hands.”
“I’ll have what I’m owed,” Jantor growled. “Blood for blood.” He turned on her and drew a dagger.
Tarran drew a sword. “I’ll give you blood if you push me. She is a princess, our princess, and not to be touched.” He stared a hard stare. “We need her. Bind her hands, I said. You’ve got the rope.”
Jantor snorted, looked at the blade in Tarran’s fist, considered, then relented. Distantly, Talasha could hear the sound of the other two men rushing across the hill, Humghor and the shorter man. They were shouting something, though she couldn’t make it out. Jantor looked over, shoving his rusted dagger back into a stained leather sheath. “You hear that?”
Tarran turned to the incoming men, and then arched his neck, peering at the skies. Talasha saw him step backward, heard him draw a sharp breath, saw the shape move across the moon. There was a heavy thwump of wings, music in her ears. Her eyes flickered, sight fading.
Neyruu, she thought.
The rest of it was fire, and fangs, and screams.
14
The prince’s flagship was a monster, a three-decked, four-masted beast of a galleon called Hammer, with a bulky battering ram on the prow and an array of mounted harpoons and crossbows fixed to the thick wooden bulwarks.
Sails in brown and green fluttered proudly against the dark skies, straining against the wind, men rushing about the decks, shouting and calling. Prince Robbert Lukar stood at the quarterdeck, hair and cloak blowing, cheeks stung by salt spray, a black patch strapped across his blinded left eye. The sea about them was all white caps and rising waves, growing larger by the hour, restless, daunting.
“I don’t like this,” said Sir Lothar Tunney. His Emerald Guard cloak flapped wildly at his back. He reached to the port side gunwale to steady himself as Hammer lurched over a wave, sliding down the other side, rearing up again. Water splashed across the decks, rushing past ankles and out through the scuppers. A loud hiss filled the air as another wave crashed into their starboard side, sea spray spitting into their faces. Lank turned his head away, cringing. “This storm is going to sink us, Robb. And those skies…” He looked forward, wiping his eyes, peering past the tall masts and bustling seamen, the straining sails and prow. “They’re only getting darker. It’s a raging tempest out there.”
He wasn’t far wrong, Robbert Lukar would readily admit. Above them it was grey and gloomy, but in the direction they were heading, the skies were almost black. He could see thick cloudbursts out there, black bridges from sea to sky, see flashes in the dark, hear the distant growl of rolling thunder. It would be enough to set the heart of any man on edge, but Robbert Lukar would not let himself be unmanned by it. Lank had jested before that he looked like a pirate with his new eye patch. Then this world should hold no fear for me, the prince thought.
“We should tell the captain to turn around, Robb,” Lothar was going on, as panicky as Robbert had ever seen him. “This is no place to die, on the deck of some ship. A knight should fall with steel in his fist and hard earth beneath his feet.”
“Then draw your blade,” Robbert told him, “if it’ll make you feel any better. If we turn around we’ll get broadsided. We have no choice but to continue on.”
Lanky Lothar shook his head, staring out to sea. “It’s not just the storm,” he quivered. “There’s something else out there, I can feel it. Something dark, under the waves. We should never have come this way.”
There are a hundred dark terrors beneath those waves, Robb thought. “We had no choice,” he said.
“We did,” Lothar protested. “The plains. We could have marched across the plains, like you wanted. Crossed to Agarath from the south and gone up through the Bloodmarshes.”
“Past Skyloft,” Robbert said. “And Blademelt. Two of the greatest Agarathi forts and strongholds. Beset by dragons along the way. No, Lank. None of us would have made it.”
“It was what you wanted.”
“Once,” Robbert admitted. “Before our army was decimated, and I woke up. Maybe you should do the same, Lothar. Sailing home was the sensible choice.”
“Sensible? You call this sensible?” Lothar looked to the storm again, all but bawling like a babe. “We’re going to die, every one of us. Every man in this fleet is doomed.”
Robbert had heard enough of his bleating. “Go below decks if you’re scared, Lank. Or better yet, take a dive to port, and spare me all your mewling.” He threw an arm out to sea, the Aramatian coastline a faint shadow in the distance, veiled in mist. “Go ahead, swim for shore if you want. Either that, or shut up. We’re here now, so deal with it.”
