When I find the strength to peel my eyes open, I am lying on the bridge with only my feet hanging through the gap. I gasp for breath, mind reeling, arms aching, heart pounding with relief and fright in equal measure.
“What in the skies…” Scythe’s words drift to me. His voice is bleak in the sudden quiet—for the roaring has ceased completely.
The wind is gone.
It flees as suddenly as it arrived, disappearing in the space between one heartbeat and the next. The wood slats beneath me are nearly still, swaying gently in a light breeze.
Did I imagine it?
“Are—are you all right?” Scythe asks, sounding as rattled as I feel.
All right? No.
Alive? Yes.
“I’m fine.”
I can scarcely wrap my thoughts around how—but this is not the time for questions. Not with the enemy so close. I push to my feet, knees shaking as I rise, hands gripping the rope railings. My lungs ache. In fact, my entire chest aches, a frigid flame that intensifies with each inhale.
When I look back, the horse’s liquid eyes are locked on me. They shine with an awareness that seems almost human as his velvety muzzle butts toward my hand. Around his hulking girth, I can see the metal flash of Scythe’s helmet and, beyond, torches flaming in the darkness by the edge of the cliff.
They are moving closer.
The ropes groan under fresh weight as the soldiers pile onto the bridge.
Scythe curses again. “Time’s up. They’re coming. We need to move. Now.” He sucks in a sharp breath. “Be more careful going forward, will you?”
Biting back a retort, I grab the stallion’s bridle and lead him over the missing slat as quickly as I can. I move gingerly, keeping my steps light before placing my full weight upon them. I’ll gladly sacrifice a bit of speed if it means surviving this swinging death trap.
With each passing moment, tension mounts in the air until the very sky seems to crackle with it. The bridge bounces beneath heavy boots as the men follow us across, slowly but steadily gaining ground. How many they’ve sent, I’m not certain. I can only hope the bridge holds long enough for us to make it to the other side.
Forty steps.
Just forty steps to solid ground.
Twice the width of Eli’s cottage.
A distance you’ve walked ten thousand times.
My heart is in my throat with each perilous stride, but I keep moving—even when arrows once again begin to sail through the sky around us.
They are catching up.
Twenty steps.
Half the span of the meadow where you and Tomas spent so many stolen evenings.
You can do this, Rhya.
Footfalls echo in the air. Voices stir the wind, jeering taunts that promise pain. The sizzle of their torches is alive in my ears.
They are close.
Ten steps.
“Hurry,” Scythe urges needlessly.
My eyes are locked on the twin stone pillars, where the ropes meet their end. I focus on the dull green moss clinging to them as I jog the final distance. When an arrow whizzes by and lodges in the grass, missing me by mere inches, I barely flinch; I am so relieved to feel the earth beneath my feet, there is no space left over for fear. I could kiss the ground, I’m so happy to be standing upon it.