“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 muchbesides 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.Failagain. 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.