That’s when it happens.
Just on the outskirts, when Argo dips below the clouds. If he weren’t so overtaxed, if I’d been more focused, maybe we could’ve dodged it.
But the bolt came from nowhere, just a whistle I hear a split second before it pierces through his wing.
He lets out the most ear-piercing screech I’ve ever heard. His blood blows out in the wind, splattering me with blots of red. Argo pitches sideways, still shrieking, still trying to flap, to fly, but his stubbornness and skill is no match for the iron bolt stuck through the muscles and bones of his wing.
We fall.
I hold onto the straps of the saddle, leaning forward, draping myself over him and giving him all motion to move the way he needs to. There’s no steering his direction, no trying to urge him on. All I can do is brace myself against his back as he plummets. Even through his pain and our violent descent, he still tries to slow our fall, still tries to search out the best possible place to crash-land.
I can say with absolute certainty that the sand dunes look far softer than they really are.
Argo takes the brunt of the fall, tucking in his legs and his one good wing at the last moment, and lurches to the side just as we hit.
Powdery sand explodes around us, and Argo lets out another shrill cry that rolls in my skull, clashing into me just as much as the impact.
I unbuckle myself as fast as I can and slide off his good side, boots sinking into the sand as I hurry around him to get to his injured wing. The bolt is big and heavy—probably set off as soon as we were spotted crossing outside of the city. We’ve fallen far enough away that there’s probably a good mile between us and the city wall, but that’s worse, because all I want to do right now is rot the fucker who did this.
I take in the damage to Argo’s wing, grim realization settling over me as I take it in from all angles without touching. The iron arrow is stuck in the center of his right wing, matting his brindled feathers with blood. The end is far too thick for me to pull out without causing more damage and pain.
The one silver lining is that metal corrodes.
Argo cries, this time a noise more like a whimper, and it fucking guts me to hear him sound like that. The beast is one resilient and tough creature, and to see him broken down into this…
“I got you,” I murmur to him, and his huge brown eye pins to me, as if there’s a blink of understanding at what I’m about to do.
Touching it with as little contact as I can, I slowly spread rot down the metal. It looks like the iron does nothing at first, but then, it slowly begins to weaken. The color turns grimy with rust, pitting appearing along its length. When it begins to flake off in corroded strips and the metal appears ancient, I reach up and snap off the end.
Argo jerks, biting his teeth at me, but I move quickly and yank the rod out, tossing it behind me. He instantly curls his wing toward him and starts licking at the blood, which I take as a good sign that he can move it at all.
He’s panting hard, froth gathered at his maw, and when I move around him to check his legs, he gives me a warning snap again.
“Easy, beast,” I say, though if I’d just been shot with a bolt and took the brunt of a violent crash to the ground, I’d be lashing out at everyone too.
When I press up on his chest and lean down to check the condition of his legs, my stomach drops. His left one is held at an odd angle where it’s tucked beneath his tilted form, and I can tell without even touching it that it’s broken.
“Shit.”
Broken leg and a wounded wing that I don’t know the full extent of. He’s completely debilitated; there’s no possible way that he can move, let alone fly.
I get back to my feet, looking around the barren land, but there’s no shelter from the sun, nowhere for me to keep him hidden or protect him from the elements.
We’re both sitting ducks in a boiling pond.
When Argo lays his puffing face down against the scorching ground, sand blows from around his nostrils and blooms in front of his mouth. He makes a dejected, beaten noise again, and it twists the blade of guilt lodged in my throat.
I tear off the waterskin hanging from my waist and start to drip the liquid against his maw. He instantly opens his mouth, and I pour water in until it’s nearly empty. He licks his lips, looking at me with a steady blink before he slops his abrasive tongue against my hand as if in thanks and then closes his eyes.
Sucking down the last of the water, I sit against Argo’s good side, knees up, eyes pointing toward the direction of Wallmont.
The miles that still stretch between us from here to the capital seemed small just minutes ago. Now, they seem insurmountable.