He does not answer me. But I have learned to read him during our time together. The stiffness of his mouth confirms what I have suspected for days. Whoever he is—whoever he has been pretending to be—he is no middling soldier from the woods, no average fighter from the plains. No paper king calls him subject.
He is of the Northlands.
Of that I am now certain.
I open my mouth to question him again, but he is donetalking. He tugs me along until we reach the start of the bridge, where two mammoth stone pillars stand like sentinels, tethering the ropes—each thicker than the span of my waist—in place. We come to a stop between them.
My stomach plummets to my feet as I look across the swaying path before me. It is wide enough for only one to cross at a time. Up close, it appears even more unsound, sagging deeply at the centermost point, stretching on seemingly forever before it reaches the other side. The entire apparatus moans like a dying man each time a gust of wind whips through the ravine.
“Go on, then.”
I glare up at Scythe. What I can see of his expression beneath the helmet is uncompromising. “I think I’d rather take my chances in the Avian Strait.”
“It isn’t up to you.” He jerks his chin. “Go.”
“I…” I swallow harshly. “I am not a fan of heights.”
“Of course you aren’t. Gods, I should’ve left you to those men in the woods, for all the trouble you’ve caused me.”
“Why didn’t you, then?” I snap back. “I don’t recall asking you to save me.”
His grip tightens painfully on my arm. I must make some subdued sound of distress, because he releases me instantly with a grunt of exasperation. His chest expands as he pulls in a steadying breath. “Surely, such a headstrong child cannot be…”
My brows rise as he trails off. I open my mouth to ask what he means, but Scythe takes a stride, using his not-inconsiderable frame to herd me forward. When I fail to step onto the bridge willingly, he shoves at the small of my back. I whimper as my sock hits the first slat. The splintered wood lets out a fresh creak under my weight, and I freeze as fear commandeers my heart.
“Go,” Scythe hisses from behind me.
But I cannot move. I am paralyzed, staring down through thegap between the first two slats into the pitch-black abyss below. There seems no end to the darkness.
It will be a bleak fall.
He pushes me again, and I grab the rope railings to keep from tripping.
“You will be the death of me,” he mutters.
My retort is overshadowed by a metallic clang. My head whips around in time to see an arrow bounce off the stone pillar scant inches to our left, then clatter to the ground. Its feathered fletching is black and red.
Scythe’s eyes meet mine for a frozen moment. His nostrils flare. His words, when they come, are razor-sharp, cutting into me with their intensity.
“They’re here.”
Chapter
Six
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.