Prisoner (The Scarred Mage of Roseward #2) - Sylvia Mercedes Page 0,41
no good if the flesh were torn from his bones and his carcass lay in bloody ruins beneath a mass of ravenous harpens.
If he could reach the lighthouse . . . If he could get through the door, slam it behind him . . .
A shadow fell over him like a cloud. He’d never make it in time.
With a despairing cry, he veered off the path. Along the cliffs there was nowhere to hide. He was a helpless target. But if he could reach the denser growth of trees, the harpens would have to disperse in their pursuit of him. Perhaps they’d even give up the hunt, swerve off to find easier prey. Like Nelle.
Spitting out every curse he knew, Soran plunged on. He could almost feel those hundreds of talons tearing into the back of his neck, those raptor beaks ripping into his clothes, his flesh. Deafening shrieks drowned out everything, even the pounding pulse of his heart.
At the last possible second, Soran reached the tree line—a grove of pines, their thick branches densely bunched together. He hurled himself into that shelter, ignoring the scrapes and cuts of those low branches across his skin. The pine boughs closed in behind him, and the harpen flock screamed in frustration. Soran staggered and fell to his knees.
There was no chance to catch his breath. Searing pain drove into his skull. He cried out, collapsing to the ground and rolling. His vision filled with feathers, bizarrely humanoid faces, snapping beaks, flashing talons. Several of the monsters had managed to squeeze through after him. He flung up his hands, covering his eyes. Talons tore uselessly at the nilarium coating, and he felt a stab of strange gratitude for Lodírhal’s curse.
He struck out and managed to hit one harpen, sending it reeling against the nearest tree trunk. He caught a second one by the leg, hauled it toward him. The wings beat at his face, and the beak pecked savagely at anything it could reach. Catching it by the neck, Soran gave a quick twist. Bone snapped. The harpen fell in a dead pile of feathers.
No chance to rejoice in this one small victory. Two more harpens lunged at his head, going for his eyes again. Overhead, beyond the shielding canopy of pine boughs, the rest of the flock had re-gathered, swarming to and fro as they searched for openings. Several of them worked their way through the upper branches and sped down to join the fray.
He had to get up. He couldn’t stay here. He must find a weapon of some kind, find some way back to the lighthouse. His mind spun with half ideas, but the harpens’ shrieks drowned out thought. He caught another harpen and pounded it into the dirt, breaking its spine, but another slashed at his ear. Blood poured down the side of his face and neck.
The smell drove the flock mad.
Was this it then? Was this how he would meet his end? After all these years of fighting the Thorn Maiden, was he to fall prey to a massacre of harpens? What a stupid, stupid way to go! And all because he couldn’t resist a pretty girl’s pleading.
Nelle. What would happen to her? Would she find shelter before the harpens caught her? Even if she did, it would make no difference. When night fell, the Thorn Maiden would return. With no one to stop her, she would rend the girl to pieces.
“No!” Soran cried and surged to his feet. He swung his arms, beating at the five harpens now harrying him. His blows were wild, but two of them struck home, and the harpens crashed at his feet. More came at once to take their place as the flock pushed its way through the trees.
Could he run for it? He was closer to the lighthouse than he had been. Maybe he could make it. While the harpens struggled to escape from the dense forest growth, maybe he could race across the open space to the lighthouse door. Maybe . . .
What other choice did he have?
Pulling his hood up over his head, Soran forced himself to take stock through the whirl of wings. He would have one shot at this. When he broke from the trees, he must be sure he was aimed in the right direction. There would be no chance to regroup, no chance to alter course. Even a few steps off would spell disaster.
He drew a deep breath. Let it out in a gusting prayer.