He had seen it that morning, but hadn’t wanted to touch it. Now, taking a deep breath, he once again followed the trail of stinking green ooze to the edge of the chasm. He came to a halt and stared down at the huge taloned claw, twice as big as his own hand, which sat in the middle of a pool of drying gore beneath the desert sun.
The claw was green and scaly, almost armour-plated, and the hooked talons on the ends of its stubby appendages (fingers?) were as black as the magnet that William carried in his tunic. It was a fearsome thing. Savage and somehow evil. Though inert, it seemed to give off an aura of hostility and potential violence, as if, like a desert scorpion, it might suddenly rise up on its talons and scuttle forward to attack.
William looked down at the claw for a long, long moment. Behind him he heard the horses snort and stamp, eager to be off. He had been through so much peril in his life that at times he had felt almost armour-plated himself; had considered himself no longer capable of fear. But this thing frightened him. It was unknown and unknowable. He wouldn’t let it defeat him, though. He wouldn’t let anything defeat him.
Clenching his teeth, eyes narrowing, he bent down and picked up the claw.
It was heavier than he had expected. It had a dull, meaty weight. Green goo drooled from its severed end and spattered on the dusty ground, splashing his boots.
He turned with it to see Pero staring at him. His friend looked momentarily troubled, then nodded at the claw with disdain.
“I’m not eating that. We have plenty of horsemeat to keep us going.”
Ordinarily William would have smiled, but right now he wasn’t in the mood. Still gingerly holding the claw, he walked past Pero and approached the horses.
“What are you doing?” Pero asked.
William’s horse shied and whinnied, its eyes wide with fear, as he carefully worked the huge taloned claw into his saddle bag.
Pero rolled his eyes, but said nothing. With the claw out of sight, William wiped his hand on his trousers, then glanced across at the bodies of their fallen comrades.
“You want to say something for the dead?” he asked.
Pero muttered in Spanish, “Better them than me.”
William nodded, then squinted up at the cloudless sky. Vultures wheeled overhead.
“Let’s saddle up and move on.”
The men were exhausted.
The horses were exhausted.
But still they rode on.
The camp was five hours behind them. Five hours in which they had seen nothing but sand and rock and sky. Five hours in which the only other life had been the vultures wheeling constantly overhead and the occasional darting movement of a nearby lizard.
They were hungry and thirsty, their clothes reeking and stained, their skin and hair ingrained with sweat and sand and dust. They were currently straining up a steep slope, their horses sweating and panting beneath them. If they didn’t find water soon, William knew their steeds would simply collapse beneath them—and then where would they be? They’d be stranded in the Painted Mountains. Caught in a breathtakingly beautiful, multi-colored death trap.
Maybe there’ll be something over the next rise, he thought. An oasis. A village.
He glanced back over his shoulder to see how far they’d come—and his heart sank.
Down below them on the trail, perhaps a mile back, was a cloud of dust. And within the dust…
“Pero,” he said.
Pero pulled up and turned to William. His bearded face was drawn, his dark eyes hooded with fatigue. William nodded down at the trail behind them. Pero twisted on his horse to follow his friend’s gaze. His expression didn’t change, but he spat on the ground.
A group of riders, packed in a tight bunch, were urging their horses along the trail in pursuit of the two men. They were desert tribesmen, and they looked like black beetles against the vividly striped mountains, their dark robes flying behind them.
William turned his attention away from their pursuers and scanned the route ahead in search of some tactical advantage. A place that was easily defendable. Even some loose rocks that they could set rolling down the mountainside.
But there was nothing. Nothing but the steep, even slope stretching before them.
Looking back at the riders, squinting to make them out more clearly, he said, “Looks like five to me.”
Pero patted the neck of his panting steed. Its skin was foamy with sweat. “The horses are shot. We can’t outrun them.”
“Then we’ll have to kill them,” William said.
He reached behind him and started to unstrap his longbow from its sheath, which was attached to the back of his saddle. Although he was an excellent swordsman, the bow was his real weapon of choice, the one with which he was most adept.
“William,” Pero warned.
William looked up to see that their problem had doubled. From a different crevice in the canyon below, another five-strong group of black-clad riders had appeared and were now thundering up the slope towards them.
“How many arrows do you have left?” Pero asked calmly.
William glanced again at the ten riders pursuing them. “Nine.”
Pero sighed. “You think these are the bastards from before?”
“Does it matter?”
Pero shrugged.
William tightened the reins in his hand, readying himself and his horse for one last effort. “We’ll take the rise,” he said. “Make a stand there.”
Pero looked at the slope stretching ahead of them. Who knew whether the ridge they could see outlined against the sky was the crest of the mountain, or whether there would be still further to go once they reached it?
“What a long stinking way to go to die,” he said wearily.
Then he and William looked at each other and simultaneously dug their spurs hard into their horses’ flanks.
“Away!” William yelled.
“Yah!” shouted Pero.
Their horses shot forward.
The race was on!
Dust and stone chips flew as William and Pero urged their steeds on to one last desperate effort. From the way it shuddered and gasped, its eyes rolling in its sockets, William could tell that his horse was almost spent, that its legs could give way at any moment. He looked behind him and saw that the tribesmen were gaining, their strong and compact ponies flying up the steep slope like mountain goats. The desert people had wild, nomadic faces, eyes like black flints that were fixed on their prey. Opening their mouths, they let loose a series of crazed, ululating war cries. In their hands they carried mallets and spears, which they waved above their heads.
William faced front again, urging his horse ever onward. They were a hundred yards from the summit now…
Seventy-five…
Fifty…
But the tribesmen were gaining. With each exhausted, lunging step that his horse took, William could hear the thundering hoof beats of their pursuers getting closer and closer.
Twenty yards… and suddenly William’s horse stumbled. He felt himself sliding forward, had to dig his heels and knees into his mount’s hot flesh to prevent himself flying over its head and on to the rocky slope. He hauled on the reins, and through sheer force of will, encouraged his horse to regain its footing, to keep going.
But their pursuers were closer than ever. Their battle cries reverberated in his ears. William kept expecting a spear to thud into his back, a mallet to crash down on his skull.
Ten yards to the summit now… but it was hopeless. There was nowhere they could run to, nowhere to hide.
Eight yards… five…
Leaning low over his steed, William gritted his teeth and urged it to clamber up and over the top.
He had no idea what was awaiting him beyond the peak of the striped mountain. It could have been a further slope, or a plateau, or even a sheer drop to certain death.