beast. He went on, and I could still see him, and he dragged me after him, bursting out of the mist and soaring out over nothingness.
Spinning like a spider at the end of a thread, I dangled beneath the flyer; all below me, thousands of feet down, spread out a vast rock-enclosed valley. Helplessly, I swung along under the flyer, who thrashed his wings in an ecstasy of flight after the prison of the mist.
The leather rein cut into my hand.
Gyrating like a bobbin, I saw the mountains circling me, spinning around and around. The stream spouted off the cliff and hissed down to hit at the side of the path where the tyryvol had dived into space. Mist pressed down above, shading everything into tones of gray and slate and purple. Across the valley the opposite cleft shot into view and out again as I spun. Up there lay the Pass of the Jaws of Laca.
My weight at the end of the rein dragged the animal’s head down. He kept trying to lift himself and wagged his head from side to side. I swung. Freed from the goading manthing who rode his back, the tyryvol wanted to free himself from the weight dragging his head down.
He began to claw and bite at the rein, twisting his head to seize the leather between his fangs, grasping it with his talons to steady it and wrench at it. The leather was good and strong and would last; but not for very long. Below me lay a drop into the Ice Floes of Sicce, for sure.
Hand over hand, I started to climb up the leading rein.
It was a race and the dratted flying beast knew it.
Sweat poured off my face. My muscles knotted. I hauled up disdaining to use my feet, for there was no time. It was a case of heave up, grab, heave up. The wind whistled about my ears. The tyryvol’s wings beat remorselessly, up and down, and his tail flicked about nastily.
The opposite side of the valley swam nearer.
His teeth were yellow and wicked. He tore at the rein. His head was dragged down with each upward lunge I managed. I jerked the leather, and then gasped; that might snap the stuff clean through. Up I went, and click click went his teeth. Oh, yes, a fine old to-do, sweaty and alarming and windy.
It was a damned long way down, by Krun!
He nearly had my hand off when I reached up for the last purchase. Snatching my hand away, I glared up at the beast. His eye glared back, malefic and wrought up. Clearly, he was saying, “If you can’t fly me properly then drop off!”
Gripping the leather with both hands I swung back. On the return swing, face uppermost, I forced the swing on. Like a phantom bursting from the pits of horror and disappearing, a flyer whipped past. The impression was all of flailing wings and rippling feathers, of a sharp beak and bright eye, and of a wildman skirling and screeching and prodding with his polearm.
The leather cut into my hand as I spun. The newcomer volplaned up, turning, revealing himself to be a small fluttlann, all white and pale blue. His rider shook his pole-mounted blade at me. His teeth showed. He was laughing at my predicament! He kicked in and the fluttlann pirouetted and dived on extended wings. Not fast, fluttlanns, not one of the more prized saddle birds of Havilfar; but they are pressed into service when nothing better can be had. It was perfectly clear this wildman saw himself gaining a powerful tyryvol. All he had to do was fly in and slash the leather leading rein away, the idiot who had fallen off his saddle would drop into the gulf, and the tyryvol would change ownership.
My tyryvol lifted his head. I swung about underneath. The fluttlann straightened, turned into a horizontal bar with a double blob at the center. The sharp steel blade of the ukra did not glitter in that mist-shrouded light, but it looked highly lethal and unpleasant.
No time now to go through the contortions of fighting a way past the tyryvol’s fangs up onto the saddle. By the time all that had been done the wildman would have finished it with a single blow.
Gripping onto the rein with my
Spinning like a spider at the end of a thread, I dangled beneath the flyer; all below me, thousands of feet down, spread out a vast rock-enclosed valley. Helplessly, I swung along under the flyer, who thrashed his wings in an ecstasy of flight after the prison of the mist.
The leather rein cut into my hand.
Gyrating like a bobbin, I saw the mountains circling me, spinning around and around. The stream spouted off the cliff and hissed down to hit at the side of the path where the tyryvol had dived into space. Mist pressed down above, shading everything into tones of gray and slate and purple. Across the valley the opposite cleft shot into view and out again as I spun. Up there lay the Pass of the Jaws of Laca.
My weight at the end of the rein dragged the animal’s head down. He kept trying to lift himself and wagged his head from side to side. I swung. Freed from the goading manthing who rode his back, the tyryvol wanted to free himself from the weight dragging his head down.
He began to claw and bite at the rein, twisting his head to seize the leather between his fangs, grasping it with his talons to steady it and wrench at it. The leather was good and strong and would last; but not for very long. Below me lay a drop into the Ice Floes of Sicce, for sure.
Hand over hand, I started to climb up the leading rein.
It was a race and the dratted flying beast knew it.
Sweat poured off my face. My muscles knotted. I hauled up disdaining to use my feet, for there was no time. It was a case of heave up, grab, heave up. The wind whistled about my ears. The tyryvol’s wings beat remorselessly, up and down, and his tail flicked about nastily.
The opposite side of the valley swam nearer.
His teeth were yellow and wicked. He tore at the rein. His head was dragged down with each upward lunge I managed. I jerked the leather, and then gasped; that might snap the stuff clean through. Up I went, and click click went his teeth. Oh, yes, a fine old to-do, sweaty and alarming and windy.
It was a damned long way down, by Krun!
He nearly had my hand off when I reached up for the last purchase. Snatching my hand away, I glared up at the beast. His eye glared back, malefic and wrought up. Clearly, he was saying, “If you can’t fly me properly then drop off!”
Gripping the leather with both hands I swung back. On the return swing, face uppermost, I forced the swing on. Like a phantom bursting from the pits of horror and disappearing, a flyer whipped past. The impression was all of flailing wings and rippling feathers, of a sharp beak and bright eye, and of a wildman skirling and screeching and prodding with his polearm.
The leather cut into my hand as I spun. The newcomer volplaned up, turning, revealing himself to be a small fluttlann, all white and pale blue. His rider shook his pole-mounted blade at me. His teeth showed. He was laughing at my predicament! He kicked in and the fluttlann pirouetted and dived on extended wings. Not fast, fluttlanns, not one of the more prized saddle birds of Havilfar; but they are pressed into service when nothing better can be had. It was perfectly clear this wildman saw himself gaining a powerful tyryvol. All he had to do was fly in and slash the leather leading rein away, the idiot who had fallen off his saddle would drop into the gulf, and the tyryvol would change ownership.
My tyryvol lifted his head. I swung about underneath. The fluttlann straightened, turned into a horizontal bar with a double blob at the center. The sharp steel blade of the ukra did not glitter in that mist-shrouded light, but it looked highly lethal and unpleasant.
No time now to go through the contortions of fighting a way past the tyryvol’s fangs up onto the saddle. By the time all that had been done the wildman would have finished it with a single blow.
Gripping onto the rein with my
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