On Fire's Wings - Christie Golden [89]
Akana, fourth son of the khashim of the Hawk Clan, crouched low over his laboring horse. He gasped for air as the beast did, his heartbeat thudding in his ears, his mind almost numbed with horror at what he had witnessed.
They had come with unbelievable swiftness in the night, pouring down the mountains in staggering numbers. They would not have been seen at all if it were not for a full, revealing moon that exposed them. Still, even with that much of a warning, the outcome was inevitable.
That they were even men was uncertain. The warriors wore metal covering their bodies, metal that clung to them and moved like the flow of a river. They had long, sharp swords that seemed almost too big for a man to wield. Some wore head coverings of metal that completely encased their heads; others let their strange, milky faces and pale hair be seen, causing still more fear. The beasts they rode had no proper tusks, but came in a staggering variety of hues. They, too, wore the flowing metal, and they were completely unafraid of battle.
Arrows did little damage, and the army moved so quickly that soon the Hawk Clan was frantically engaged in hand-to-hand combat. The weapons of scimitar and spear, wielded by men who had not even time to mount their own horses, were of little avail.
The khashim had found his youngest son in the furor and had practically thrown the boy onto a horse.
“Ride!” he had screamed to his son. “Ride and get help, or at least warn the nearest clan!”
“No, Father! I want to fight!”
His father then did something he had never done before; he struck his beloved youngest child across the face. Akana fell at the force of the blow.
“You are the only chance we have!” he bellowed. “Ride, kulis take you!”
And, sobbing, Akana obeyed what he knew was his father’s last wish. There was no time to saddle the beast, only time to leap onto the horse’s back and cling to its increasingly sweat-soaked hide and ride into the desert, ride as if the earth had cracked open and all the kulis in the world were clamoring at his heels.
Akana had no sense of time, no idea how long the horse had been running at a full gallop, but it was slowing now. He screamed at it, he who had never raised his voice above a murmur when talking to animals, and kicked its ribs until he was certain he had left bruises.
He felt a wet warmth on his cheek as the horse blew, and wiped the foam away. The horse’s sides heaved between his legs, and part of him ached for what he was demanding of the creature.
But he saw his brother fall again in his mind’s eye, slashed nearly in two by the impossibly enormous swords. He saw the flood of enemies descending, heard the cries of the women. He didn’t know how he knew, but he was certain that no member of the Hawk Clan would be spared.
Only he would survive. If he survived.
He suddenly, sickly realized that he didn’t even know where the horse was going. He hoped that the mute creature was wiser than he, heading for another settlement instead of out into the open, and deadly, desert.
The horse stumbled. Swearing, Akana kicked it again, but it did not lurch forward. Instead, it let out a low groan and collapsed. Akana was barely able to leap clear as it fell heavily on its side. For a moment, he kicked the horse repeatedly, shrieking incoherently. It cringed from the blows, but did not rise.
Shaking, Akana passed a hand over his face. What was he doing? The beast was exhausted, if not dying. It could go no farther. Gently, he placed a hand on its wet neck, whispered, “I am sorry,” and began to run.
He was slim and strong, and the terror of what he had witnessed gave him extra speed. He settled into a rhythm, arms and legs pumping, sandaled feet flying over the hard, bare rock. Sweat poured forth, cooling him, but his mouth was parched.
He ran until he could run no farther, and then he walked, swaying like a drunken man. Just when he was about to give up and surrender