The stallion follows me off the bridge, the whites of his eyes rolling as arrows fall like rain. The second his hooves are clear, he trots smartly out of the archers’ range, heading for the nearby shelter of a rocky outcropping. I make to follow him, but a pained roar stills my movements.
Turning, I see Scythe has caught an arrow in his shoulder. The tip protrudes just above his heart—not a lethal blow, but nearly. His mouth twists in agony as he lurches forward, catching himself on the final slats of the bridge.
He does not get back up.
For a moment, he does not move at all.
I still, frozen with indecision, torn between the urge to abandon my captor and the strange guilt that accompanies it.
Run, Rhya.
You owe him nothing.
There’s little time to weigh my options. Crossing the center of the bridge—not far from the spot I nearly met my end—a small contingent of men is advancing, torches illuminating their features in the darkness. They are moving rapidly now, so close I can make out the red of their tunics. In a matter of moments, they will be upon us.
Scythe’s groan draws my attention back to him. In clear pain, he drags himself upright, leaning heavily on the rope railing. His left arm hangs limply at his side. Dark blood drips from his fingertips, a steady torrent. When his eyes lift to mine, he flinches as though surprised to see me standing there. As though he expected me to abandon him.
Why haven’t I abandoned him?
“You should’ve run, you idiot,” he growls, stumbling forward, his gait unsteady. He grips the rope with his good hand, grunting in pain as he hauls himself along. In truth, he’s right—I am an idiot—because I do not run as he’s bid me, but dart forward, back onto the bridge, directly toward the approaching danger. Before he can say anything, I loop his uninjured arm over my shoulder.
“What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?” I snap as we hobble sideways across the final slats. Gods, he’s heavy.
As soon as we step onto solid ground, he shrugs off my help. His face is a mask of pain and anger as he shoves me into the shelter of one of the pillars. He leans his own frame against its twin, panting heavily. I suck in a steadying breath as my back hits the stone, grateful for a reprieve—however fleeting.
Arrows sail all around us. I listen to them clatter as they strike the other side of the pillars, then ricochet into the gulch. IfI make a dash for the tree line now, Scythe won’t be the only one with a hole pierced through his body.
“You should’ve run when you had the chance,” he seethes, each word laced with pain. His mouth is pressed into a stern line. He looks paler than usual; he’s lost a lot of blood.
“Forgive me for trying to save your life, you ungrateful lug!”
“I did not require saving.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” I jerk my chin at his shoulder wound. “How far do you think you’ll get with that arrow inside you? There’s no way you can outrun those archers.”
“I’m not planning to outrun them.”
My brows lift. I open my mouth to ask what he means by that but never get the chance—he’s already stepped out from behind the shelter of his pillar.
Is he mad?
He must be. There’s no way he can fight all of them. Certainly not injured.
I soon realize that is not his intention. With his good arm, Scythe reaches up, unsheathes the sword strapped across his back, and swings. He severs the left side of the bridge in one clean strike, cutting through the thick suspension ropes with a low grunt.
The soldiers scream as the bridge pitches, scrambling to hold on to the side that remains intact. Their torches and bows fall into the ravine, devoured quickly by the dark. They are close enough for me to see their white-knuckled grips, their pinwheeling legs. Close enough to hear the terror in their calls for aid. Close enough to read the fear on their faces as they look frantically in our direction.
I know that fear. I felt it myself, as my own legs dangled over shadows that threatened to swallow me whole. But these soldiers are stronger than me—battle-hardened men. They will lastlonger than I did. When we are long gone from here, they can climb their way back to safety.
Scythe’s sword arm rises again.
“Wait!” I yell, starting forward.
But he does not. His sword slashes downward, severing the right side. In horror, I watch the bridge fall, twisting like a ribbon in the wind. The soldiers’ screams carry back to us long after they disappear from view.
In the jarring silence that follows, I look across the chasm to where the tatters of the bridge hang against the opposite cliff. Above it, the remaining soldiers stand at the edge. I cannot make out their features in detail, but I know they are there from the flames that dance atop their torches.