David Dalglish - The Prison of Angels

Grim but efficient, Jessilynn thought, a way of simultaneously reinforcing discipline while keeping the army fed. She figured Dieredon would be safe due to the distraction, and she used the rope to give her signal. Immediately Dieredon continued moving. She watched him for a moment, stunned that he could maintain his grip without relying on the rope. His body was slender, but it was clear that all of it was muscle. No wonder he was so frightening in combat, not that she’d seen him fight. She only had reputation to rely upon, but that hard-won reputation was impressive, indeed.

When Dieredon was a third of the way from the bottom he paused without need of signal from Jessilynn. At first she felt an impulse of panic, thinking she’d missed something that he himself had spotted. Then she saw the size of the jutted rock he used as footholds, the deepness of the shadows there, and felt soft pressure applied on the rope. He was either resting, or settling in to listen. Whichever it was, she told herself to calm down. Dieredon was hundreds of years old, and had most likely dealt with far more dangerous situations than this. She had to trust him.

The minutes passed, each one feeling like an eternity. Another hunting party arrived, this one full of bird-men. She gave a single tug so he’d know, and she actually felt a tug back in return. For whatever reason, it made her smile, a reminder that he was aware and in control.

As the night wore on, the sounds below grew louder, more boisterous. The stress picked away at her mind, made her feel exhausted despite her training. She knew she could go at least a full day and night without sleep. They’d been forced to do so several times in the Citadel, but being out in the midst of real danger, with the fear of being eaten or seeing a friend mutilated because of her own mistakes chipping away at her, was a different beast altogether.

So great was the noise below that she almost didn’t hear the sound of beating wings. A sudden surge of fear assured her something was wrong. The beating increased, loud enough for her to pick it out among the chaos. Looking up, her mouth dropped open as she realized the implication of what she saw.

Sonowin was in flight.

“Come up, come up, come up,” Jessilynn said, tugging on the rope. She felt Ashhur scream warning in her ear after the second tug, and close behind her she heard a low growl. Despite her terror, she did not turn, did not try to flee, instead forcing herself to pull the third time, giving Dieredon the order to retreat.

Clawed hands grabbed her, lifting her into the air without the slightest bit of effort.

“What is this?” asked a gray-haired wolf-man. He held her before him like a curiosity, like a strange plaything. Behind him were twenty more wolf-men, sauntering up the hillside. The entire scene was so unreal, Jessilynn felt paralyzed. She smelled the foul breath of her captor, felt the sharp sting of his claws as they tightened around her arms. His eyes were bloodshot, and they glinted yellow from the starlight. That she understood him made it all the more surreal. She’d been taught the creatures knew the human tongue, but knowing and experiencing were two entirely different things. She knew, right then and there, that she was going to die.

“A tasty treat?” asked another of the wolf-men as he climbed up to join the gray-haired one.

“A scraggly female,” said gray-hair. “But with at least some fat on her.”

The wolf-man looked down, saw the rope. Letting out a snarl, he shifted Jessilynn so that he carried her with one arm. His muscles were like a vice, and though she struggled against him she might as well have been trying to pry open a rock with her bare hands. Gray-hair sniffed the air, then opened his mouth wide and let out a yip.

“A tricksy elf,” the beast said, reaching down for the rope. Jessilynn thought he’d cut it, but instead he took hold of the rope and yanked upward as hard as he could. Dangling over the edge in the wolf-man’s arm, Jessilynn had all too fine a view of what happened next. Dieredon was frantically climbing, and though he might have been able to support himself had rope gone slack, instead it pulled against him, dislodging him from the cliff face and sending him dangling above the ravine. The gray-hair tugged again, pulling the rope free of the spikes, and then let it drop. Already having slid down the rope, the elf fell the rest of the short way down, rolling to absorb the impact.

Jessilynn screamed as the wolf-man let out an ear-splitting howl. The attention of the camp turned their way, and suddenly alert, it took only moments before Dieredon was spotted. A legion of howls took up the hunt as the elf sprinted toward the exit. The rest of the twenty wolf-men gathered around the cliff edge to watch the excitement. Jessilynn felt completely ignored, and for some reason that made her all the more afraid. They didn’t care about her, found her vaguely amusing at best. She was but food to them. What interest would they show, other than when it was time to rip apart her flesh?

Staring down, Jessilynn prayed for Dieredon’s safety, even as she saw how hopeless a situation it was. He’d stashed his bow with Sonowin for the duration of the climb, which left him with only two long-bladed daggers. His speed was incredible as he ran, but the wolf-men could still overcome him. The elf was a blur of motion, and anytime a wolf-man neared, the creature fell back, clutching part of its body or falling dead on the spot. Jessilynn stared, wide-eyed, continuing to pray. Maybe he could live. Maybe he wouldn’t suffer for her failure. She should have heard them. She should have realized they were sneaking up on her. All her fault. His death, the death of a legend, would be her fault.

“A feisty one, he is,” said one of the wolf-men.

“All elves are,” gray-hair snarled. “Perhaps the pups are liars if they cannot kill one elf.”

“They’ll kill him,” said another. “Where else will he go? Sad we won’t get a taste.”

“I’ve had elf flesh before. It is sweet, like honey. You would not like it.”

Dieredon scrambled toward one of the cliff edges as three wolf-men cut him off. They leapt in unison, and beneath them Dieredon tumbled. Fire glinted off his daggers, and only two wolf-men got up to chase after. The third lay motionless.

“Now he is trapped,” gray-fur said, pointing a clawed finger. “They’ve cut him off.”

Over a dozen wolf-men had ignored chasing after Dieredon, instead racing past so they might curl around, forming a wall of fur to prevent him from reaching the ravine’s exit. Dieredon raced toward them anyway, as if he might challenge them, but at the last moment he slid to a halt, turned, and vaulted to the side. He struck the opposite cliff face, scrambling upward with amazing dexterity. A few wolf-men picked up speed and leapt, slamming gracelessly into the rock and clawing wildly. They shredded the edges of the elf’s cloak, but did little else. Still, Jessilynn could see hundreds of the beasts racing out of the ravine and curling back around, scaling the slope to wait for Dieredon should he reach the top. Below him were hundreds more, howling and yipping at him, eager to feast the moment he fell.

Jessilynn saw him slip, and from a single hand he hung above the maw of snapping teeth. She let out a cry, and it earned her the attention of her captor.

“You care for him?” the wolf-man asked. “You amuse me, human. Watch him die. Cry for him. I love seeing humans weak.”

Dieredon had regained his balance, climbing halfway up the cliff. Jessilynn felt a lump in her throat, knowing there was nowhere for him to go. He was just delaying the inevitable. He slipped again, and she saw his movements lacking grace when compared to his initial descent. He had to be wounded, she knew, though she could only guess how badly from such a great distance.