The Falconer's Daughter (Complete)

Chapter 19 (Kiara)

We have skimmed the desert for two days. The undead steeds neither tire nor sleep. They charge through dry underbrush and over stony hills, jolting my tailbone sharply. Artus sits on the bench beside me. He gave up following after only a few hours. He stirs restlessly, opening and closing his wings. 

At first, the sensation of such speed turned my stomach and made my head spin. I must have worn my pain on my face, for when I caught Ohad’s eye, he offered advice: 

“It is like a swift ship. Focus on a point far away. Close your eyes, if you must.” 

I take his advice and manage to not empty my stomach along the trail. 

I cannot see what I think I see. The ground churns like the ocean, but only in one spot. No, not a spot – a line. A line on a path to intercept us. 

“Ohad, what is that?”  I point to the rapidly approaching streak of dirt. 

Ohad’s face pales as he draws his bow. “That is death if we don’t outrun it.” 

I grab a corpse–guard by the shoulders. Its leathery face stares past me sightlessly. “Bhodi, if you can hear me, make the horses fly…” There is no change. Is it my imagination, or does it shake its head? The joint of skull and neck is too loose to be certain. 

The wave of dirt draws near, looming over our backtrail. When it is a bowshot away, the mound explodes like a broken still. I cover my eyes against a rain of earth and rock. My jaw drops and I fight to keep my footing 

If a roach and a serpent had children, who then mated with a crab, the result would resemble the monster churning the earth behind us. The abomination is twice the length of our carriage, including the horses. It stands as tall as a village hut. Stony scales cover its five pairs of legs. The front set ends in wicked three–pronged pincers which could snap a horse in half. 

“Aim for the eyes!” Ohad shouts. 

Survival instincts take over. Time slows. My pulse drums. A lurch throws me to the carriage floor. I fetch my bow. I rise, turn, pick one of the creature’s six ink–black eyes, and fire. My arrow glances harmlessly off its shield–like carapace. 

“What good are you?!?” I shout at the guards, who have not stirred except to jostle and fall over one another. I glance at Xavi. His face is scrunched in fierce concentration. 

“How are you not angry enough to burn?” I shout as I lose my second arrow, more futile than the first. 

“It’s not that easy!” He trembles behind a bench. 

I don’t have time to rile him up. I shoot a third arrow, then a fourth. The last strikes true – not in an eye, but the exposed flesh around its sideways jaws. The creature’s screech topples me. I drop an arrow as I cover my ears against the piercing sound. 

For a moment, tingling warmth dances through my veins – the thing is shrinking, we have driven it off! My heart sinks. It is coiling, about to strike. The monster launches forward. I shudder. It will overtake us. The shadow of its front third covers the carriage. It will crush us. If I survive, my reward will be a painful death, sundered by its jaws. 

Sorry Abba. I’ve failed. 

“Stay back!” 

Xavi screams unintelligibly as he launches thick ropes of flame at the creature’s exposed belly. More screeches, and pressure pops in my ear. Warm liquid oozes down my cheek, and the world wavers. I launch an arrow at the largest shadow I see. I hope it is the creature.

At last, the dead guards stir. 

I will never know if they were waiting for an opening, or if it takes time for their black gems to listen to the mother–stone, but I don’t care. I have no space for thought, only lyrical joy. I feel like my heart will burst, and hot tears blur my vision. 

The guards vault from the carriage and charge the writhing, burning beast, spears in hand. They surround and harry it, thrusting at the joints of its impenetrable shell. 

They cannot win. 

They cannot die. 

They give us what we need: time. The battle stirs a cloud of dirt, obscuring the dead spearmen. The monster emerges from the din and dives beneath the sand like a breaching pike. Our unflagging steeds rumble on, leaving the beast to devour our honor–guard. I look to Ohad. He stands with his fist across his chest, saluting his twice–dead countrymen.