Page 25 of Bite Sized Bride
They are clever. They try to drive us toward open ground, where their archers can pick me off from a distance. I am a massive target. I counter by keeping to the densest parts of the forest, the ancient, gnarled woods where the canopy is so thick it turns day into a perpetual twilight. Here, my size is an advantage. I am a living battering ram, crashing through thickets and deadfall that would slow them to a crawl.
We run for a day, then another. We sleep in short, fitful bursts, always in a place with a clear line of retreat. I do not truly sleep. I rest, my senses stretched thin, listening for the snap of a twig, the whisper of a voice. Mikana sleeps huddled against my back, her warmth a small, steady comfort against the cold dread that is my constant companion.
On the third day, they catch us.
We are crossing a narrow, rope-and-plank bridge over a deep, rocky chasm. The bridge is old, swaying violently with every step I take. Mikana has already crossed, her light weight barely making it tremble. I am halfway across when they appear on the far side, blocking her path.
Five of them this time. And a sorcerer.
I recognize Vexia instantly. Her platinum hair is a beacon in the gloom, her violet eyes cold and clinical. She stands behind the warriors, her hands held out before her, already weaving a spell. The air crackles with the scent of ozone and dark magic.
Mikana freezes, her back to the chasm, trapped between the sorcerer and the swaying bridge.
A rage, pure and absolute, eclipses everything else. They are not just hunting me. They are corneringher.
I do not hesitate. I break into a run, my massive weight making the bridge scream in protest. Wood splinters, ropes groan. The warriors on the far side raise their swords, their faces set in grim determination.
Vexia chants, her voice a low, sibilant hiss. A shimmering wall of force, a pane of solid, invisible energy, slams into existence at the end of the bridge, cutting Mikana off.
I roar, a sound of pure, thwarted fury. I am still twenty feet away. Too far.
Two of the warriors move toward Mikana. She shrinks back against the shimmering wall, her face pale, her eyes darting from the elves to the chasm below. She pulls the small letter opener from her belt, its tiny blade a pathetic defiance against their curved swords.
The sight of her, so small, so fierce, so utterly doomed, breaks something inside me. The orc warrior, the ghost of Kael, rises up, and with it comes a memory of tactics, of battle-cunning.
I cannot reach them. But I can bring them to me.
I stop running. I turn, planting my feet firmly on the groaning planks. I grab the thick support ropes on either side of me, my claws digging into the thick, braided fibers. I pull.
My muscles scream, the wounds on my body tearing open, but I ignore the pain. The bridge is old, its anchor points in the rock face weakened by years of rain and ice. I put all of my strength, all of my rage, all of my desperate need to protect her into a single, titanic heave.
There is a sound like a giant’s sigh as the anchor bolts on my side of the chasm rip free from the stone. The bridge lurches violently, dropping a dozen feet before the ropes on the far side catch, snapping taut.
The warriors and the sorcerer are thrown from their feet. One of them, caught off balance, tumbles over the edge with a surprised scream that is quickly swallowed by the depths. Vexia falls, her spell shattering, the wall of force dissolving into nothing.
The bridge now hangs at a steep, treacherous angle, a makeshift ladder to the other side.
“Mikana! Climb!” I roar, the words a raw, desperate command.
She doesn’t hesitate. She scrambles toward the dangling end of the bridge, her hands finding purchase on the ropes. The remaining warriors are getting to their feet, their swords drawn.
I have to buy her time.
I begin to climb, my massive form swinging wildly. I am a pendulum of death. A warrior sees me coming and thrusts his sword at me. I let go with one hand, catch the blade in my fist, and rip it from his grasp. I use the momentum to swing forward, my other hand closing around his throat. I snap his neck and let the body drop into the chasm below.
I reach the cliff face. I haul myself up, my claws finding purchase in the cracks of the rock. I am a wounded, bleeding mountain, but I am a mountain that moves.
I crest the edge just as Mikana reaches safety. Vexia is back on her feet, her face twisted into a mask of cold fury. She begins another chant, her hands weaving a complex pattern of light.
I do not give her the chance to finish. I charge. The two remaining warriors place themselves between us, a foolish, final act of loyalty. I swat them aside like flies.
I am upon her. My hand, the one that caught the sword, is bleeding freely, but I do not care. I reach for her, for the architect of my torment.
She is fast. She blinks out of existence, a shimmer of displaced air, and reappears a dozen feet away. A space-time spell. Clever. But it costs her. I can see the strain on her face.
She will not escape.
I am about to charge again when a wave of dizziness washes over me. The world tilts, the edges of my vision blurring. The wounds, the blood loss, the sheer exertion—it is all catching up to me. I stumble, dropping to one knee.
