sword downward. The shadowkin fell away with garbled scream. Another took the place of the first. Yellowed claws swiped at the gray’s belly, setting it to bucking wildly. Rathe swung, and the clutching hand became a bloody stump. The second shadowkin stumbled, fell into a bouncing roll, and was gone.
Rathe dug in his heels, and the gray focused on escape. Up ahead, cloak fluttering like the wing of a bat, Loro leaned over his red’s neck, swatting the horse’s rump with the flat of his blade. The big steed surged forward, steel-shod hooves throwing sparks over cobbles. They raced under another footbridge. A moment later, they flashed beneath another.
With the gray now striving to catch the red, Rathe risked another look behind. The shadowkin had fallen back, but showed no indication of tiring. Facing forward, he saw Deepreach stretching into moonlit fog. There was no telling how far they must go before escaping the city.
Rathe’s gray veered to avoid another leaning pillar. Far up ahead, a line of darkness, half the height of a man, blocked the roadway. After a few more strides, the darkness resolved into fallen pillar.
Loro began to pull back on the reins, but Rathe called, “Jump it!”
“Not at this pace!”
“We have no choice!”
The nearer they came, the more daunting the pillar seemed. Rathe kicked the gray to greater speed. The blowing horses leaped together. Soaring through a tattered streamer of mist, the gray’s rear hooves struck the pillar’s curved surface. The big red made the jump clean. They hit the roadway on the far side, hooves clattering loudly. Without breaking stride, the horses galloped on, necks stretching, manes flying.
It was not enough. The relentless shadowkin were gaining. Rathe had to end the chase.
He drew rein. The gray dropped its hindquarters and slid to a halt. While Loro rushed off into the milky gloom, Rathe spun his mount.
Leaping shapes plunged closer. Hungry calls pebbled his flesh, and he almost abandoned his plan. But he had to try, or run until the shadowkin ran them down.
“Come on, boy,” he urged, patting the gray’s neck. The horse tossed his head and whinnied. He was no fierce destrier, such as those Rathe had ridden when he commanded the Ghosts of Ahnok, but he gamely went where Rathe directed him.
Rathe reined in at a pillar rising crookedly to the base of the footbridge overhead. With its neighbor toppled into a heap of rubble, this pillar served as the bridge’s last support on this side of the river.
He forced the gray’s shoulder against the column’s cracked base. The horse shied at a deep grinding noise. “No time to be skittish,” Rathe said gently, guiding the gray back against the pillar. Ahead, Loro’s voice drifted back through the fastness of Deepreach. Behind, the shadowkin closed swiftly.
“Last chance,” Rathe chided the horse. With a shout, he put boots to the horse’s flanks. The gray strained against the pillar. Rathe felt the grinding of stone in his teeth, as the immeasurable weight of the bridge pressed down on the weakened support.
The gray tried to shy again, but Rathe kept him under tight rein. “Heave, you bloody nag!” The gray snorted, seemingly in affront, and Rathe laughed out loud. “Push, you tired tub of guts!”
The gray’s neck arched, its hindquarters rippled, and its hooves began slipping over the ground. Hairline cracks widened … widened. The pillar gave way all at once. Stonework began to fall. Rathe kicked the horse into a gallop.
An instant later, thunder rolled from the collapsing bridge. Dust billowed and, by the screams, shattered stonework had fallen on at least a few of the shadowkin. There were plenty to take their place. He gave the gray its head, and they galloped deep into the misty night.
After he passed through Deepreach’s second barbican gate, which had survived the ages no better than its counterpart at the far end of the city, he found Loro waiting next to a briar
Rathe dug in his heels, and the gray focused on escape. Up ahead, cloak fluttering like the wing of a bat, Loro leaned over his red’s neck, swatting the horse’s rump with the flat of his blade. The big steed surged forward, steel-shod hooves throwing sparks over cobbles. They raced under another footbridge. A moment later, they flashed beneath another.
With the gray now striving to catch the red, Rathe risked another look behind. The shadowkin had fallen back, but showed no indication of tiring. Facing forward, he saw Deepreach stretching into moonlit fog. There was no telling how far they must go before escaping the city.
Rathe’s gray veered to avoid another leaning pillar. Far up ahead, a line of darkness, half the height of a man, blocked the roadway. After a few more strides, the darkness resolved into fallen pillar.
Loro began to pull back on the reins, but Rathe called, “Jump it!”
“Not at this pace!”
“We have no choice!”
The nearer they came, the more daunting the pillar seemed. Rathe kicked the gray to greater speed. The blowing horses leaped together. Soaring through a tattered streamer of mist, the gray’s rear hooves struck the pillar’s curved surface. The big red made the jump clean. They hit the roadway on the far side, hooves clattering loudly. Without breaking stride, the horses galloped on, necks stretching, manes flying.
It was not enough. The relentless shadowkin were gaining. Rathe had to end the chase.
He drew rein. The gray dropped its hindquarters and slid to a halt. While Loro rushed off into the milky gloom, Rathe spun his mount.
Leaping shapes plunged closer. Hungry calls pebbled his flesh, and he almost abandoned his plan. But he had to try, or run until the shadowkin ran them down.
“Come on, boy,” he urged, patting the gray’s neck. The horse tossed his head and whinnied. He was no fierce destrier, such as those Rathe had ridden when he commanded the Ghosts of Ahnok, but he gamely went where Rathe directed him.
Rathe reined in at a pillar rising crookedly to the base of the footbridge overhead. With its neighbor toppled into a heap of rubble, this pillar served as the bridge’s last support on this side of the river.
He forced the gray’s shoulder against the column’s cracked base. The horse shied at a deep grinding noise. “No time to be skittish,” Rathe said gently, guiding the gray back against the pillar. Ahead, Loro’s voice drifted back through the fastness of Deepreach. Behind, the shadowkin closed swiftly.
“Last chance,” Rathe chided the horse. With a shout, he put boots to the horse’s flanks. The gray strained against the pillar. Rathe felt the grinding of stone in his teeth, as the immeasurable weight of the bridge pressed down on the weakened support.
The gray tried to shy again, but Rathe kept him under tight rein. “Heave, you bloody nag!” The gray snorted, seemingly in affront, and Rathe laughed out loud. “Push, you tired tub of guts!”
The gray’s neck arched, its hindquarters rippled, and its hooves began slipping over the ground. Hairline cracks widened … widened. The pillar gave way all at once. Stonework began to fall. Rathe kicked the horse into a gallop.
An instant later, thunder rolled from the collapsing bridge. Dust billowed and, by the screams, shattered stonework had fallen on at least a few of the shadowkin. There were plenty to take their place. He gave the gray its head, and they galloped deep into the misty night.
After he passed through Deepreach’s second barbican gate, which had survived the ages no better than its counterpart at the far end of the city, he found Loro waiting next to a briar
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