Flesh and Bone (The Mage's Gift Book 2) by Robin Lythgoe

Author:Robin Lythgoe [Lythgoe, Robin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dauntless Realms
Published: 2018-09-02T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter 38

Seven bodies littered the space around the rakeshi. Cats of some sort, but with dusky brown scales. Tufts of hair marked their ears, snouts, and the ends of their tails. As if to make up for the ridiculousness of their appearance, they sported a fearsome set of canines. Talons as long as his fingers were as sharp as any knife he’d ever used. Half his size, they were creatures of the Wilds, and he’d seen worse. Fought worse. Killed worse.

It was part of his training.

While the terrain changed a little during his travels, the smell and the heavy sky always stayed the same. Dusty hills stretched away to either side, cloaked with shadows that breathed out despair. Stunted shrubs hunched against a harsh, fitful wind full of grit and the stench of smoke and barren hope. Texture had flavor. Sound had scent. Sight had sentiment. The concept bore the weight of familiarity to the rakeshi; Sherakai struggled to understand it.

Breathing hard from the fight, he stalked from body to body, looking for any sign of life. As he walked, he shook his head and rubbed one ear to ease its ringing. His inspection didn’t prevent him from checking his surroundings, pausing to listen—for what it was worth—and sniffing the wind.

Precaution paid off.

Another pair of the things shot out from behind a low bush, shrieking fit to raise the dead. The piercing quality of their voices was enough to drop a man in his tracks, clutching his head to cover his ears—if he wanted to die. When the first leaped at his face, the rakeshi buried a hatchet in its shoulder. Its scream twisted higher then ceased abruptly as it fell.

The other creature aimed lower, plowing into the rakeshi’s hip and knocking him sideways. Talons tangled in his armor and bore him down. His grip on the hatchet lost, he punched with his free hand, then brought his sword around in a whistling arc.

The cat-thing yelped and tumbled away.

In an instant, he’d regained his feet. It did the same, sinuous in spite of the gash in its side.

A flicker of appreciation.

A glimmer of steel.

It screamed as it died, amber eyes filled with malice, talons clutching the parched earth.

Crouched and wary, the rakeshi made a slow circle to inspect the surrounding terrain. Once, then again. Nothing revealed itself to his hyper-vision; his ears continued to jangle. A low growl sifted through his chest, daring another attack, but all was quiet.

After a time, he cleaned the sword and sheathed it, then retrieved his hatchet. That creature alone lived still, and he knelt to put a hand on its flank. It snarled, but it couldn’t reach him. Fresh blood pulsed from the terrible wound behind its shoulder. Fresh fear emanated from its heart.

The rakeshi twisted its head curiously.

The cat creature’s scales were smooth and malleable when he stroked one way, edged and prickly when he stroked the other. When it thrashed its tail, he caught it to explore the tuft of hair at the end and provoked a reverberating whine.

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