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But I’m not ready for visitors. In no mood to accommodate them. Because beneath the pain, there is a part of me that is astonished. Zakariya might feel crushing. But the impact of the shadhavar behind it should have been an instant ending. Tonnes of muscle crushing me like a popped grape. And it is only as I push the darkness back, habituate myself to the new crescendos of pain, embrace and accept them, that my mind plays back what happened.
A noise I didn’t register at first – pain blind, dumb, and deaf. A crack that echoed off the trees themselves. That even now carries back to me off distant boughs. The shadhavar’s horn has snapped clean off.
I blink my vision back, force it to see once more, to take in the clearing. Above me, Zakariya is still weeping and screaming, unaware of how fortunate we are that I am still alive. He would have survived being crushed by the shadhavar. I would not have, taking away his only source of rescue. Casting my gaze around, I spot the shadhavar. And see how ridiculously lucky we got.
The creature has crashed to the ground less than a foot’s length from my left side. A jagged half-spur of bone, the length of a throwing knife, still protrudes from its forehead. It lies on its side, its chest heaving, steam pouring from its muzzle.
What it isn’t, is dead.
It should be. That explosion was a deadly impact for most creatures. It should have shredded its underbelly even more effectively than the horn strike did to Zakariya. Loops of pink-red intestines should be strewn back the length of the clearing.
The shadhavar should be dead. But it is not.
It is stunned, that much is clear. The two impacts – first the explosion, then the ground have taken the wind from its sails. Not to mention, however horrendous the snapping horn must have felt.
But it is not dead. And it is not disarmed. Not fully. That knife-blade forehead still looks devastatingly effective. Plus one quick stomp of a hoof through my forehead will be enough to bring my story to the swiftest of closings.
And it is starting to come around.
It shakes its head, pink foam blossoming out, falling to cling like dew on the grass. Then it bends its forelegs and rolls, panting, starting to seek regaining its feet.
We don’t have much time.
Zakariya is just above me. He twisted on impact, the horn having torn into a new and undoubtedly agonisingly interesting position. Although it’s still not enough encouragement to make him tear himself free. What it does mean is he, too, can see the shadhavar through his blubbering tears. And that he can twist his head enough to see me. To make eye contact.
‘Please, lalla,’ he whimpers. ‘P…please… pl…ease save me…’
Him. Just him. I am now, most definitely, furious.
‘I have!’ The words are hissed out, venomous as a coil sprung snake. ‘I’ve done everything! Pull yourself free! Finish the shadhavar while you can! Show your worth, you useless cretin!’
He shakes his head, showering me in spit and blood and his pathetic tears as he does so. Unwilling or unable. It makes no difference either way.
A useless cretin he remains.
So I keep my eyes on him. Transfix him like a snake about to strike. Let him read the inexpressible fury therein. I ignore the huffing snorts of the creature less than a body’s length away, seeking to regain its feet and finish us off. I keep him in my view, make him watch as I do what he cannot, will not.
I tear myself free.
What a peculiar sensation that is. There is some sympathy in us, as thinking creatures. Some understanding we can get from an action even if it is not done to us. So when we slice through meat, when we joint a beast ready for cooking, when the blade bites into the flesh and we feel the fibrous substance slice and part? There is something inside us that can understand it. That can contemplate it and think, a butcher’s knife passing through my own tenderised meat might feel like that. It’s the same part of us that understands what a substance we would never put in our mouth would taste like. That knows the feel of a textured artwork without needing to touch.
The most peculiar thing of slicing through my own arm on a razor sharp horn is that it feels precisely like I imagined it would the split moment before I did it. And yet it still hurts more than I could ever imagine.
I dig the fingers of my left hand into the cold, damp earth, wondering as I do if it is wet with the night’s tears or with all we’ve shed from our bodies across it in the last few minutes. Then I start to heave. To drag myself out from under Zakariya’s good-as-dead weight. He doesn’t help me. But I never stop staring either. Never release him from witnessing it. I force myself free and roll back onto my left side, dismissing him as I go. Then I look to what really matters here and now. Pushing myself back up onto my left knee, my right arm dangling, blood pouring out like libations onto the ground, I look to the shadhavar.
The creature has righted itself. Forelegs bent under, it is pushing itself back up to standing, though there’s a glassiness to its eyes. I’m glad I’ve managed to stun it. Even if it’s taken everything I have.
The very last of my talent is being forced into my right knee. Not enough to heal it properly. Enough it might let me put some weight on it. Hopefully. There’s a dribble, a dying spring’s gasp, left over to slow some of the bleeding from my right arm. That’s a mess. Chances of me healing it properly without at least twelve hours of sleep is zero. But not bleeding to death is a priority still.
The shadhavar raises its head, and again our gazes lock. It continues to cautiously regain its feet, rising slowly. Reaching my left hand out, I push up, swing my left foot flat, and mirror it, standing again. My sword is nearby, the blade-glints catching the corner of my eye as I move. Once I’ve enough balance so as not to topple straight over, I reach out and wrap my left hand around it, grip it tight.
As one, in synchronised rhythm, a bloodied horse with a coat like liquid moonlight and its ragged little shadow, the shadhavar and I rise.
Chapter Eight
Mount Lebanon, 3 May 1211
We stand here for a moment. If you can call what I am doing standing. The toes of my right foot touch the ground, but all my weight is on the left. My sword is up – a half-salute. It does not waver. I will not let it. And not once have we dropped our eyes from each other. But I know without any doubt, I am dead. The explosion I wrought hardly hurt it. Almost did little but wind it. Oh, sure, I’ve snapped the horn off its face. But the jagged remnants will still gouge just as effectively. Besides, it has no real need. Those enormous cloven hooves will finish me off with little difficulty.
