The Knight and the Moth (The Stonewater Kingdom, #1)(62)

The sound was like a storm. Sharp, volatile.

“They’re herding it away,” I murmured.

The sprite did not like the sound of the whips. It grew louder in its shrieks, holding its ground. I saw its wide, desperate eyes flash, and then the creature was lowering itself onto its great haunches.

And lunging.

Four knights fell from their horses, knocked asunder as the sprite broke their line. Whips cracked, but the creature kept lunging, kept roaring, snapping its wide, muddy mouth.

“It’s trying to eat them,” I said, hand to my throat.

“And look,” the gargoyle said pleasantly. “It’s coming our way.”

It was. The sprite was not as quick as the knights, who rode in expert circles, avoiding its attempts to snap at them. But the gargoyle and I were still, and the sprite had caught us in its orange gaze. It came closer, making the entire world tremble.

I reached for my hammer. Felt a hollowness in my palms and the soles of my bare feet. “Perhaps we should—”

The sprite’s monstrous cry stole my words, so loud my ears screamed. The cart horse spooked, jolting forward, and the gargoyle and I were upended, tumbling from the cart onto the road.

We fell in a tangle, my foot in his ear, his left wing lodging under my ribs.

“How undignified.” The gargoyle let out a whimper. “Did anyone see me fall?”

“Bigger problems,” I managed. The mountain sprite was closer now, its great eyes trained on our cart, creaking behind our cantering horse. It began to run after it, dropping its great snout onto the road, as if rooting. With five great strides, it caught up to the horse and cart. Opened its gaping mouth.

And ate the horse, and the cart, in one snapping bite.

I heard the groan of wood, the crunch of bones—the horse’s final scream.

The gargoyle and I shared a horrified glance.

The earth shook again—this time from the knights. They’d re-formed the line, and were riding once more toward the sprite, whips cracking. I took the gargoyle by the arm, yanking him onto his feet. We darted off the road, diving behind the cover of a craggy granite boulder.

The knights cantered past us. I saw Maude in the center, leading the charge.

The sprite turned, its great eyes widening as it faced the charge. When it opened its mouth, shrieking loud enough to split the sky, I could feel its fury, its fear.

The horses whickered, reared, but the knights kept their seats. Save one, who slipped from his saddle, unnoticed by the rest, who cantered ahead. He landed among rocks, his gold armor, gold hair, shining among gray granite.

Benji.

The gargoyle and I ran forward. When we reached the king where he’d fallen, the knights were a ways away. They’d come upon the mountain sprite, whips and swords drawn, and more horrible shrieks sounded.

“Are you all right, Benji?” I looked him over, pulse in my ears. “Your leg—are you—”

“Fallen and caught between rocks like a pathetic turtle?” The king gave me a queasy grin. “Sadly, yes.”

The gargoyle tutted. “How embarrassing. I would never fall in such an ungainly way.”

“Help me get him out,” I snapped, taking the king beneath his arm. The gargoyle took his other arm, and we tugged until Benji let out a cry.

He shook his head. “It’s my greaves. The left one is stuck.”

It was. The armor around Benji’s leg was bent from his fall, catching in deep crags in the rocks he’d fallen upon, lodging him there. “We’ll have to take it off,” I said.

Benji nodded at the horizon. “They should be done soon.”

When I looked up, the mountain sprite was fleeing, the great beast limping and bleeding—crying out as it stumbled over hills and bluffs to get away from the knights.

“Mountain sprites are cumbersome and ravenous but easy to drive off,” Benji said. He looked to his whip, which had fallen twenty paces away. “Sadly I am as talented with one of those as I am on a warhorse—”

The earth rolled with such fervor I felt it in my bones. The landscape was shifting again, another hill, another sprite, rising from the earth twenty paces in front of us. It came onto its four legs, stomping upon the earth, its great orange eyes wheeling over Benji.

The mountain sprite let out a dissonant rumble, crushed Benji’s whip beneath its hooves, and began to stalk forward.

“Fuck.” I dove for the king once more. Pulled his arm with all my might.

But his armor remained trapped.

“Do something, Bartholomew!” The gargoyle was wringing his hands, dancing nervously on his toes. “Bite off his leg if you must!”

“Oh, gods.” My sweaty fingers slipped over steel. “How do I get your armor off, Benji?”

The king’s face had lost all its color. He was staring up at the mountain sprite with unblinking eyes. “There’s a clasp—I can’t reach it.”

I ripped a fingernail, blood joining sweat as I wrenched at the clasps around Benji’s leg. But they, too, had been damaged from his fall. I could not get him free. Meanwhile the sprite, with its long snout and terrifying eyes and wide, muddy mouth, was getting closer.

The knights had rallied once more—their attention and urgency directed our way. They rode full force toward their king. Oh, how they rode.

But they would not get to the sprite before it got to Benji.