And then pain ripped through him like nothing he had ever experienced. His wing threatened to crumple as a he felt warm blood gushing from a sudden slice, the curved weapon rotating as it sought to return from whence it had come, only to fall as Grimult faltered in the air.
This could not continue.
He was out of time.
His grip was slackening, but in the moment before the rider could move away entirely, Grimult plunged the knife into the man’s neck.
Grimult’s blade was sharp and sure as it slipped clearly through the delicate skin of his opponent’s neck. Whether or not they were of like kinds, their vulnerabilities were similar enough.
Grimult held on as tightly as he could, his wing barely functional as pain lanced through him, hot and leaving him nearly breathless as he fought to remain airborne.
A disturbing shiver cut through the haze of pain and panic, accompanied by the sudden shift of weight. There was no more struggle as the life left the rider, slumping wholly into Grimult’s grasp.
He had killed a man.
Grimult swallowed, waiting to feel the shift of horror, the taste of something akin to regret as he felt warm blood clinging to his fingers, to a sleeve he doubtlessly would never get fully clean.
The beast stilled as Grimult released its master, the body crumpling in a heap of splayed arm and legs, the creature coming to it with a push of its long snout, a strange sound emitting from its mouth.
Grimult’s body remained tensed, ready to jump on the beast’s back and finish it in the same manner as its master.
A shift upon the ground, a twig snapping as pressure was applied.
The beast’s ears pinned downward and Grimult spared a quick glance to see Penryn attempted to sit upright.
Wasting no time, Grimult stumbled into a landing, placing his body between the creature and his Lightkeep, managing to splay only one of his wings as he attempted to garner as much of the beast’s attention as possible. The other remained limply at his side, protesting even the slightest movement.
His hand was slick with blood, more pouring down from his wing onto his shoulder, but his knife remained sharp and ready. It was a weapon for close range, and he considered risking another throw, this time to the throat instead of the flank. But to miss meant angering the beast rather than inflicting any true damage, and it meant one less weapon readily at hand.
There was time to strike. There was an opening while it was distracted, and he gripped his knife and steeled his resolve.
“Leave him be, Grim,” Penryn entreated, sitting up from the place where she had fallen. She gripped her left arm close to her chest, but he could not spare the attention long enough to ascertain the extent of her injury.
It was an entreaty he was not prepared to listen to, not when battle and blood pounded in his ears, urging him to finish all that had been started.
He took a step forward, his teeth holding in a grimace at even such a movement.
A growl followed, the beast’s ears low and eyes darting between Penryn and Grimult with uncertain intensity.
Another step, his hand poised with the knife, wishing he could afford the added burst of speed that would come with a powerful thrust of his wings.
His vision blackened momentarily as he made the attempt, pain cutting through him as he asked more than his body was prepared to give.
Hands met fur, knife ready to plunge, and the beast made a sound, loud and sharp, before it moved, too quickly for Grimult’s sluggish movements to follow.
It was with desperate fingers that Grimult countered, trying to maintain the beast’s focus before he could dash toward Penryn instead.
But the animal was gone.
He did not trust it, his eyes searching the area for sign of its return, a silent ambush like the one they had endured already.
Minutes passed, and the attack did not come. His heart had yet to calm, his every muscle tensed and suspicious of the slightest sound surrounding them, but he was more than aware that Penryn also required his attention.
His wing ached fiercely and he wondered if his own blood was staining his feathers. If Penryn was squeamish at the sight of uncooked meat, he doubted she would take well to fresh, gaping wounds, but there was little that could be done about it.
And it hardly mattered while Penryn was clearly hurt.
He went to her, keenly aware of how her eyes followed his every movement, before kneeling down beside her. His instincts insisted they get up, carry on, that they leave this place with its wingless men and beastly mounts.
“Are you badly hurt?” Grimult asked, his eyes drifting over the parts of her he could see. Her arm was clearly broken, the delicate bone of her forearm twisted in a terrible angle. He swallowed, knowing he would cause her all the more pain to set it, but it had to be done.
“Did it bite you?” he clarified, not seeing any indications but not trusting his assessment.
Not when he had already been surprised by a foe.
Penryn shook her head, tears pooling in her eyes although she seemed too shocked to allow them to fall.
“It hurts to breathe,” she admitted, and there was something that suggested she did not want to allow even that.
He realised then that he had never actually seen her surprised in the whole of their travels. Not truly. Not when he saw the way she stared at the pool of blood, as she glanced down at her arm as if not truly seeing it at all. Or perhaps not quite believing it
