Chapter 17 #3
But Diira does not slow. She bursts between them, leaving behind the staked-out field and streaking out into the wilds of Cruor, away from the onlookers, away from the encampment, away from the looming Tower of Tarhn.
Diira! I scream into her head, more angry with her than I ever would have believed possible. Diira, turn back!
I will not let you fall, she sings back in a voice of volcanic frenzy.
No! This is not what Taar needs! We have to finish what we started!
But my licorneir is beyond reason. She gallops on, not slowing but rather putting on speed. She is without equal among her kind, fast as a bolt of lightning. And she knows too well the death that awaits me if she allows herself to be caught.
I turn to look back under my arm. Sylcatha is in hot pursuit, her now-flaming licorneir barreling after us across the empty plain.
Diira is much faster than that great beast, however, and swiftly putting distance between us.
I feel that yawning distance and, worse still, the tautness of the velra cord as we leave Taar far behind.
This is going to hurt him. I’ve seen what happens when the velra is strained too tight.
I will not let him be made vulnerable out here where the danger is so great.
Diira, I sing, turn around now.
She tosses her head, snarling a wordless refusal. Protect, protect. The meaning pulses in her heart. I must protect, I will protect . . .
I close my eyes and for a moment see Ashika in my mind.
The dead warrior, lying broken and alone beneath the merciless sky of Cruor.
Diira cannot forget what it felt like to be Nyathri, to lose her heartbound rider.
She cannot forget what it was to be hearttorn.
She cannot bear to endure that pain again.
But this is not the way. I have a fate to meet this day, like it or not. And no one, not even Diira, can stop me.
I let go. Relax my muscles, release my grip—and drop.
There’s a split second of pure helplessness that comes over a body at the brink of a fall. A sense of inevitability, of weightless certainty, there and gone again so fast, the mortal mind scarcely has a chance to grasp it.
Then weight rushes back in, and the ground leaps up to meet you, and you either break or, by some merciful grace, you live.
In this instance, possibly due to this hateful Licornyn armor, I do the latter.
I strike the ground hard on one pauldron-clad shoulder, which absorbs most of the impact, tumble through the long grass, and come to a stop.
Still alive. Still breathing. And apparently still in possession of all my limbs.
The pound of licorneir hooves vibrates the ground beneath me.
I consider the possibility of attempting a little trickery, as I did with Taar on that day in the practice field what feels like a lifetime ago.
It won’t work on Sylcatha though. For one thing, she won’t be distracted with concern over my wellbeing.
She might even drive her licorneir simply to trample me for good measure, and I’ll end up with my skull crushed under a great hoof.
Diira’s song bursts tumultuously in my brain. She’s turning back, a fiery ball of vengeance, streaking to my aid. Despite her great speed, however, she won’t get to me first.
I clamber to my feet. Somehow I’m still gripping my sword.
That’s something to be grateful for, isn't it?
I brace my legs, trying to remember the defensive stance Tassa drilled into me with such ruthless efficiency.
Sylcatha approaches, leans far out in her saddle, her sword at the ready.
I have just presence of mind enough to get my blade up and meet hers in a resounding crash of steel.
The force drives me to my knees. But I’m still alive, and Sylcatha thunders by on her flaming mount. She wheels the big licorneir’s head about, preparing for another charge.
Only Diira is upon them now, an explosion of flame and screaming and slashing horn.
The two licorneir meet, crash together like colliding stars.
Sylcatha loses her seat and goes tumbling from the saddle to the ground.
Diira rips at her opponent with teeth and horn and hooves, and it dances away, trying to put a little distance between them so that it can take a more offensive angle.
The clash of their violent songs rips at my ears.
But the fallen Tarhyn woman lies still.
I stare down at her great body. Is it a trap? Is she lying in wait for me, waiting for me to approach, only to spring up and gut me? But that makes so little sense. A warrior of her prowess wouldn’t resort to pathetic trickery like that.
I draw nearer, my footsteps hesitant. Her arm is twisted behind her at a bad angle, and her sword lies some feet away.
Her head is turned toward me, and I can see that her eyes are closed.
Is she dead? Did she break her neck in that fall?
No . . . no, her ribcage expands and contracts in heavy breaths. She’s alive.
Should I . . . finish her off?
I stand there, gaping stupidly, sword in hand.
My head rings with the screams of the battling licorneir and throbs with the pulse of my own blood.
I’ve got the advantage. I can put an end to this contest here and now.
Is this not a sign from the gods themselves that they have laid my foe so conveniently at my feet?
Surely even Lathaira could not argue against such evidence.
But I can’t do it. I can’t drive my sword into her prone body. It’s not mercy or altruism or any innate sense of honor. I simply can’t. Won’t.
“Oh, gods,” I whisper, like a prayer but not quite. “Oh gods, what am I supposed to do now?”
As though in answer, black lightning streaks overhead, cracking the sky into vicious shards.