To his side, the woman slowed. Her face craned to the cloud-scudded sky and the blaze of the sun. She finally stopped, lifting her palms to the same.
He stepped back to her and scolded her, “No time for gaping about.”
She ignored him, standing still, seemingly returned to a statue. He was ready to abandon her, but she had broken him out of the mine. He also noticed that the shade of her bronze face had lightened under the sun, same with her palms, as if the sunlight were polishing her brighter. Or maybe it was the Father blessing her, imbuing her with His vital essence.
Then in the distance he heard a familiar howl.
He stiffened and ducked.
Thylassaurs.
He searched back toward the village, squinting at the main pit mouth. He saw a pair of overseers each lead out a trio of leashed thylassaurs. Anyone near fled backward, opening the sight farther. The overseers unshackled two of their oil-furred charges, keeping hold of the third.
The released pair shot out into the village. Each was a quarter the height of a horse and twice as long. Their sinuous, striped bodies snaked through the tents and structures. Their long tails swept the path behind them, casting a musk that wiped away all other scents except one.
Blood.
One—then another—arched onto their hindlimbs. Nostrils were shoved high, flaring with a pink star of fleshy, sensitive feelers. They waggled the air, testing scents. A howl followed. Then another. And another.
Rhaif knew what that meant.
The beasts had caught a whiff of their prey.
He reached over and grabbed a fistful of the bronze woman’s cloak. He tugged hard. “Enough! We must go!”
Her face turned from the skies. Her gaze found him, and she gave the barest nod. Together, the two set off across the sand and rock. Rhaif led the way around a hillock of waste ore, pounded and sifted of anything of value ages ago.
The howls of the thylassaurs pursued them, sounding to his ear as if they were drawing ever closer. He searched ahead as they rounded the mountain of broken rock. His ears strained, listening for any warning.
Please, don’t have left already.
As he continued, a faint singing wafted over to him from ahead, easily carried across the desert plains that stretched to all the horizons. Then he heard a heavy grind of iron wheels.
No, no, no, no …
He increased his pace, though it was likely already futile. He finally rounded the hill and a wide sandy stretch opened. Ahead, some quarter reach away, stretched a chained caravan. A dozen iron-strapped wooden wagons—each filled to the top with brimstan, chalk, and other metalliferous rock—sat atop huge iron wheels fixed to steel rails. The tracks started in the salt mines far to the south and stretched a hundred leagues north, all the way to Anvil. With the day ended, the caravan would make the long sojourn to the trading port, returning the next morning to be filled again.
Rhaif watched the caravan roll along the outskirts of Chalk.
At the front, a pair of giant sandcrabs flanked the tracks, tethered by chains to the lead of the caravan. The black armored beasts were twice the size of the wagons they pulled. The creatures’ eight jointed legs ended in spikes that dug into sand and rock. The front pair normally bore scythe-like claws, but those pincers had been clipped long ago when the crabs had been captured in the broken wastes of the deep desert. The two beasts dragged the dozen wains of the caravan behind them. When truly moving, they could outrun the fastest horse across the desert. But for now, the pair started slow, fighting the stubborn wagons from their standstill. It would not take long before that changed.
Seated on the front wagon, the pair’s driver—who had been bonded to them long ago—sang them into motion, encouraging them, coaxing them. Unlike the imprisoned miners, they required no whips or cudgels to get them moving. Instead, the lilting strands of the driver’s song penetrated their armor and played across their brains. Rhaif did not understand, and he wagered few did. Such a talent was rare and growing even rarer. Such drivers could command a steep price for their service.
Despite the futility, Rhaif chased after the moving caravan. Maybe it might stop, maybe a load needed to be shifted and balanced better. But more than anything he ran as more howls rose along the trail behind him.
He dared not even look over his shoulder as he cleared the hillock and raced across the open sand.
Instead of slowing, the line of the caravan was gaining speed.
Still, he ran—then movement drew his eyes to the right. A lone thylassaur rounded the far side of the rock mound and raced to ambush him. Its sinuous form ran low, arrowing straight at him. From its frothing muzzle, a glint of fangs showed. It would not kill him—that would be too kind an end. Instead, the thylassaurs had been trained to bring down an escaped prisoner, often ripping the back tendons of their legs.
From there, it was straight to the spikes for such a crime, where death would come much more slowly. Many died not from the impalement, but from the flocks of carrion birds and blister-ants scavenging on them, picking them apart with razor-sharp beaks and fiery jaws, while the sufferer screamed and writhed in agony.
Despite the threat, Rhaif found his legs slowing, too exhausted and weak after so much time in the mines. Even terror-stoked fires eventually sputtered and died out.
Then a hard blow struck him across his back and knocked him forward.
Thylassaur …
He sprawled headfirst toward the sand, expecting to feel teeth rip into flesh. Instead, an arm hooked around his waist and kept him upright. It hadn’t been the thylassaur attacking him. He turned to the bronze woman. She hiked him up, until only his toes still touched, dragging across the sand.
“What’re you—”
Then she sped faster, her legs pounding, her toes digging deep. She fled across the sand like a storm-blown dustwhip across the desert. He found his legs trying to match her pace, his feet scrabbling uselessly as the ground flew underfoot.
She sped past the lone thylassaur, who tried to give chase but was swiftly left in the breath of her dust. It howled its frustration after them, echoed by the others.
Ahead, the last wagon of the caravan grew before them.
She chased after it, but even her considerable pace was not enough. With the last wagon only a few dozen steps away, the caravan gained more speed. The wain began to pull away.
So close …
Then Rhaif’s stomach lurched as she leaped high, bounding like a desert hare from the poisonous strike of an adder. She sailed across the last of the distance and hit the wagon’s rear with a jolting impact. He would’ve been knocked loose, if not for her kidney-bruising grip. Her other hand latched on to the wagon’s top frame.
She did her best to push him upward, almost dropping him, but he caught hold and scurried into the wagon. Once on top of the ore pile, he sprawled on his back, spent and exhausted, oblivious to the shards poking and cutting. He didn’t care. Right now, it was the most comfortable bed in the world.
She climbed up and settled next to him on her knees. She cast her gaze back toward Chalk.
“It’s all right, lass,” he gasped. “They can’t catch us now.”
He didn’t even bother looking for any sign of pursuit. He felt the trundling wheels of the caravan roll ever faster. Few creatures were faster than a sandcrab. They could even outrace a skrycrow. At such speeds, the caravan would reach Anvil long before any message could be sent. And once there, he could quickly lose himself in the tumult and chaos of the port. Maybe even take a ship abroad if need be.