Page 33 of Burned Alive to Be His
I react without thinking. I grab Judith by the waist, my good arm a band of iron around her, and I throw us both to the ground, my body covering hers, my back taking the brunt of the scalding spray. The heat is intense, a searing pain against my scales, but they hold, protecting me from the worst of it. I feel her small, sharp cry of alarm against my chest, her hands fisting in my tunic.
The geyser sputters and dies as quickly as it came, leaving only a hissing cloud of steam and the stench of boiled minerals. I push my body up, my muscles protesting.
“Are you harmed?” I demand.
She shakes her head, her eyes wide with a mixture of shock and something else. “You shielded me.”
“You are my responsibility,” I snarl, getting to my feet and pulling her up with me. “Your death would be an inconvenience. Nothing more.”
The lie is a familiar, comfortable armor. But as I look at her, the intense way she is staring at my back, where the steam has left a dark, wet patch on my tunic, I know she does not believe it.
We continue on, the climb growing steeper, more treacherous. We leave the lava fields behind and begin to ascend the main cone of the volcano. The air grows thinner, colder, the wind a constant, whining presence that tears at our clothes and saps our strength.
And then, they come.
It starts with a single, high-pitched shriek from the sky above. I look up, my hand instinctively going to the hilt of my blade. A dark shape wheels against the grey, overcast sky. Then another. And another.
Razor birds.
They are not large, no bigger than a hawk, but they are death on wings. Their feathers are the color of slate, their bodies lean and aerodynamic. But it is their wings that give them their name. The leading edge of each wing is a single, unbroken blade of sharpened bone, honed to a razor’s edge by the volcanic winds. They hunt in flocks, diving on their prey, their wings slicing through flesh and bone with a sickening, wetsnikt.
“Get down!” I roar, shoving Judith into a shallow crevice in the rock face. I draw my blade, its obsidian edge glinting in the dim light, and I turn to face the sky.
There are dozens of them. They circle above us, their shrill cries a chorus of impending death. They have seen us. They have claimed this territory. And we are the intruders.
The first one dives. It is a blur of grey feathers and sharpened bone, its shriek a piercing drill in my ears. I meet it, my blade a black arc in the air. The bird is impossibly fast, but my instincts are faster. I pivot, and my blade connects with its wing. There is a sharp crack, and the bird tumbles from the sky, its flight broken.
But there are more. They dive, one after another, a relentless, shrieking storm of living blades. My broken arm is a liability, a searing agony with every movement. I am forced to fight one-handed, my movements slower, less balanced than they should be. I cut down another, then another, their black blood spattering the rocks around me. But for every one I kill, two more seem to take its place.
I am a dragon. I am a warrior. But I am not invincible. A sharp, searing pain rips through my shoulder as one of the birds gets past my guard, its wing blade slicing deep into the muscle. I roar in pain and fury, swatting the creature from the air with my backhand.
But the attack has created an opening. Another bird, seeing its chance, dives not for me, but for the crevice where Judith is huddled.
“Judith!” I roar, a piercing sound of pure, primal terror.
I am too far away. My broken arm, my own wound, has made me too slow. I will not reach her in time.
The razor bird shrieks in triumph as it plummets toward her, its bone-white wing blades poised to tear her apart.
And then, a flash of movement from the crevice.
Judith lunges up, not away from the danger, but toward it. In her hand is the small, sharp knife I gave her. Her face is one of terror, but her eyes are a blaze of pure, unadulterated defiance.
She does not try to meet the bird’s charge. She is not a warrior. She is a survivor. As the bird dives, she drops to one knee, letting its momentum carry it over her head, and she thrusts the knife upward, a single, desperate, well-aimed strike.
“Aim for the eyes,” I had told her.
The blade finds its mark. The bird’s triumphant shriek turns into a high, thin scream of pure agony as the knife sinks deep into its eye socket. It thrashes wildly, its razor wings slicingthrough the air, and then it is gone, a broken, screaming thing tumbling down the mountainside.
The rest of the flock, their leader fallen, their attack broken, wheel in the sky for a moment, their shrill cries a chorus of confusion. Then, as one, they turn and fly away, disappearing into the grey, oppressive clouds.
Silence descends, broken only by the whine of the wind and the sound of harsh, ragged breathing.
I stare at Judith. She is on her knees, her body trembling, the bloody knife still clutched in her hand. She looks at me, dark eyes wide with the aftershock of what she has just done.
I go to her, my own injuries forgotten. I crouch before her, my good hand reaching out, hesitating for a moment before it comes to rest on her shoulder.
“You are not harmed,” I say in a rough, unsteady rasp. It is not a question. It is a prayer.
