The horses sensed it too. Sindérian’s mare tugged at the reins so hard, the leather cut through her hands as she struggled to keep hold of them. Then there was a loud hiss, followed by a sound from higher up the hill, one that was somewhere between a yowl and a screech. Whirling around to discover the source of the noise, she scarcely noticed when the mare finally tugged the reins out of her hands and broke free.
A monstrous catlike creature was bounding down the slope.
Manticore, said Faolein inside her head, but Sindérian had already recognized it.
It moved so swiftly, there could be no thought of escape. Sindérian blinked and Prince Ruan’s sword was in his hand. The other men were almost as swift to draw. But the manticore, after covering most of the distance between them with tremendous leaps, went belly-down in a crouch, shifting its leonine head from side to side. One batlike wing shifted, began to unfold, then snapped shut again; the great bulbous tail with a scorpion’s stinger at the end swept a row of saplings aside as it lashed the air.
It is in no way daunted by the sight of four armed men, said Faolein. It merely calculates when and where to strike first. It has an intelligence far beyond that of any ordinary beast.
Choosing Aell for its first victim, the manticore launched itself into the air—barely missing him as he leaped aside and swung his sword. He was only able to graze the flank, as the creature turned with uncanny agility and swiped at him with an enormous taloned foot. Just in time he dodged behind a tree, where claws as long as a man’s hand scored deep trails in the bark of the trunk.
Meanwhile, the other men had moved around to come at the beast from two sides. Again it crouched, swinging its head from left to right. Then it threw back its head and roared, showing three rows of dagger-sharp teeth. The stench of its breath was nearly overwhelming: a hot, meaty, murderous smell.
Despite so much lethal energy, Sindérian could see that the manticore was old and ilclass="underline" its wings were cracked and dry as old leather; one eye half scabbed over, the other bright with fever; foam dripped from its jaws. And gazing into those mad eyes, she tried to cast a sleep spell—but was repelled by a will and sentience of such malicious force it left her mind feeling bruised.
Continue to try to distract it, said Faolein just before he rose into the air. Diving at the snarling face, he swerved at the last possible moment when the creature’s tail swung round and almost struck him.
By this time the men had closed in. Prince Ruan and Skerry had each landed a blow: one to a leg, the other at the base of the tail. Blood seethed and bubbled in the wounds, yet neither was very deep. The skin beneath the tawny fur seemed to be almost as tough as dragon scales. The manticore dodged, swiped, and caught Aell with a blow that would surely have ripped off an arm had it not been for his mail shirt. As it was, Sindérian could hear the bone snap in his arm. He fell to his knees, then was on his feet again almost instantly, whipping out his dagger.
When the manticore beat its wings, it was like a wind off the desert. Skerry’s sword, flashing in a beam of sunlight, sliced through one leathery pinion—a blow that cost him dearly, for the creature rounded on him at once, caught him up in the crushing grip of its enormous jaws, and lifted him into the air. The other men all waded in, hacking with swords and daggers, while Faolein took another dive at the eyes. Under their combined attack, the manticore dropped Skerry and leaped into the air, passing over Ruan’s head and landing almost directly behind him.
It twisted with the same uncanny agility it had shown before, rounding on Kivik, bending its back in a manner that should have been impossible for any creature with a backbone, and striking at him with its tail, scorpionlike. An overhead swing by Ruan connected with the tail, but not before the sting struck Kivik in his sword hand. As the Skyrran prince toppled to the ground, instantly paralyzed, the manticore took another swipe at Aell and sent him flying through the air. He slammed into the earth with such force that he was knocked unconscious.
Alone but for the owl beating its wings overhead, Ruan faced the manticore. Sindérian felt her heart drop.
She did not see how he could possibly prevail. Yet, without the others to impede him, he was able to move more quickly, swing his sword more freely. Dancing aside from what could have been a killing blow from one clawed foot, he lunged, slashed, connected twice.
Once, the sword stuck fast until he ripped it free. Already his dagger was lodged between the ribs.
Sindérian knew that the creature was growing weaker, but it still had three weapons—teeth, claws, and tail—to the Prince’s one. A clever thrust cut through the bristling mane and left a deep wound in the neck, so that more blood gushed out.
Again Ruan danced aside, again the manticore spun around to meet him. Rearing up on its hind legs, it flung its entire body at him, jaws agape and claws slashing. He threw himself to the right, attacking at the same time with an overhand cut that met the manticore’s skull with a jarring crack. As his blade clove straight through to the brain, the monster dropped.
Though Sindérian was stunned by this unexpected turn of events, it took only moments to collect enough of her wits to think of the other men. Knowing that Kivik—if he were not dead already—was the one in most immediate peril of his life, she ran to the place where he was sprawled on the ground, and threw herself down on her knees.
Feeling for a pulse in his neck, she detected the faintest possible beat of life. The color in his face told her that he still breathed, but the rise and fall of his chest was too slight to be seen. His hand was black with poison, spreading like a bruise under his skin, halfway up his forearm already.
“You will want this,” said Prince Ruan over her shoulder, and looking up, she saw that he was offering her a narrow length of cloth he had apparently ripped from his own cloak.
“Yes,” she said, taking the strip of velvet and knotting it into a tourniquet just below Kivik’s elbow. With the cincture in place, she unlatched the clasp of Kivik’s cloak. “Help me, if you will, to remove his mail, and then see what needs to be done for the others.”
By the time the shirt of linked metal rings had been removed, his pulse was almost too faint to detect; his face had turned a dull, leaden hue. Fortunately, the padding under his armor was no such impediment as steel had been. Putting both hands on his chest, she used all her power of mind and will to keep pushing air into his lungs, to force his heart to keep on beating. So much poison had already entered his blood before she had tied off the limb that she could feel his muscles growing increasingly rigid.
“No,” she ground out between her teeth. “No, you will not die.” Too many had perished under her hands over the years because she could not save them; she was not going to allow it to happen again. Not while there is blood and breath left in my own body.
Yet Sindérian had almost given up hope when the muscles in his arms, legs, and chest began to soften. A shudder passed over his body, and he began to drag in breath without her assistance. His heart started beating of its own accord. She sat back on her heels, weak and dizzy, realizing for the first time that her face was wet with tears. She had been crying without knowing it.
Aell is awake and in some pain, but not in immediate peril, said Faolein, landing on a bush nearby. Prince Ruan has been making a largely inadequate attempt to stop Lord Skerry’s bleeding. You will need to go to him next.
She wiped her face with her sleeve and took a deep breath. Gathering what strength remained to her, she rose to her feet. Watch here, and tell me if he stops breathing again.
Many hours later, when she felt it would do them no great harm, she allowed Prince Ruan to carry first Kivik and then Skerry out of the woods and onto safer ground. Meanwhile, she lent her own support to Aell, who leaned heavily on her arm as she helped him to reach the starlit meadow. Drained by her efforts to save Kivik, she had had little to offer the others but rough battlefield healing. For now that would have to be enough.