Bonesmith (House of the Dead, #1)(66)

As if a land overrun by the undead wasn’t bad enough, these undead were unlike anything Wren had ever seen.

Now that they were nearer, it became evident that the bridge was damaged—bent and rusted in places, while in others, the iron had given way entirely. The structure had been built in a rush, meant for a hasty crossing, and did not represent the ironsmith’s best or most enduring work.

Beyond it, beneath it, was the wide chasm of the Breach itself. It glowed brightly now, coloring the landscape and revealing swirling tendrils of mist. Could those be ghosts, floating so high in the air? It shouldn’t be possible, but Wren wouldn’t take anything for granted.

Her mouth went dry. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.

Julian sidled nearer to the bridge, which was about twenty feet away, his movement drawing the attention of the revenants standing on the road. They turned to face them in a single, unnatural movement but did not pursue. Yet.

“Do you trust me?” Julian asked.

Wren turned to him. “Seriously?” she asked, waiting for him to elaborate.

“I’m all you’ve got,” he said, parroting the same words she’d given him inside the watchtower.

She blew out a breath. “I guess so.”

He shrugged. “Good enough.”

He looped an arm around her back, pulling her to his chest. Wren staggered against him, suddenly awash in the scent of worn leather and cold iron.

“Hang on,” he said, drawing his sword and flicking it downward, transforming it back into a whip with a snap. He cocked his arm and tossed it out, across the abyss and toward the struts that rose over the bridge’s deck.

It was an impossible throw—by anyone other than an ironsmith. In his hands, it landed exactly where he intended, wrapping easily around a joint, the segments of blade interlocking securely.

Wren’s heart stuttered when she realized what he was about to do. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidd—” she began, but she never finished, her breath leaving her lungs in a rush as Julian leapt from the edge and they went plummeting to their deaths.

Or, at least, that’s what Wren expected to happen. Instead, they dropped several stomach-tightening feet before the whip took their weight. There was a lurch—Wren clung to Julian with every ounce of strength she had—and an abrupt change in trajectory. Then they were no longer dropping but swinging across the open space, soaring toward the bridge.

They collided against the outer railing, clinging to one of the vertical beams as the metal shook with their impact. They remained motionless, ensuring their perch was steady, before Wren dared to open her eyes.

Unfortunately, she was looking down when she did and could see nothing but swirling green mist in the seemingly bottomless chasm below. How deep was it? And were there countless undead staring back at her?

“Eyes up here,” Julian said sharply. Wren’s attention snapped to him. “Do not look down.”

“Got it,” she croaked.

But looking up meant looking back at the bridge, and while they had landed safely, they were not actually safe.

The railing they clung to rattled loosely, and the undead hadn’t missed their little trick. They turned together, starting their slow, staggering plod toward the bridge. At least they insisted on bringing their bodies with them. If they left their corpses behind, their ghosts could cover the distance between them in seconds.

“Up and over,” Julian said, as the two of them climbed the railing and landed with a clatter on the wide deck of the bridge.

Wren took a moment to rest her hands on her knees and revel in the somewhat stable ground beneath her feet before gathering herself once more and facing their approaching enemy. They were starting to cross, causing the entire bridge to shake, but with her and Julian’s head start, she was confident they could win a footrace.

Until she looked the other way.

While the western side of the bridge appeared relatively stable, the eastern side was barely standing upright. Whole beams of metal were gone, or rusted through, or dangling from missing bolts and damaged struts.

They couldn’t run across this bridge. They’d be lucky if they could crawl… slowly.

“Shit,” Wren said, reaching for a pouch of bonedust. Crouching along the walkway, she poured a thick stream from one side of the bridge to the other.

“Genius,” Julian said, and Wren refused to be flattered by that.

“It should buy us time, I hope,” she said, returning to the problem that lay before them. “Can you swing us across?”

Julian glanced down at his whip, which he had tugged free from the strut. “I can try.”

He whipped it through the air again, securing it to an upper beam and tugging to make sure it was secure. Wren stepped against him, and he wrapped an arm around her once more.

“One… two…”

“Three,” Wren said, and they jumped, swinging smoothly along the bridge. At this rate, they’d cross it in no time.

They were just extending their feet to land when the beam above them snapped, shrieking loudly and dropping them in midair.

They landed hard, skittering across the pocked and unsteady deck, the broken metal swinging dangerously above. The iron plank beneath them groaned ominously, and Julian hurried them both off of it and onto one of the crossbeams.

“Well, this bridge was clearly not built to code,” he said, somewhat indignantly.