Chapter 8 - The Bridge of Teeth
The dawn sun rose not with gold, but with a murky, ash-red light filtering through low-hanging storm clouds. At the edge of the Whispering Weald lay the Black Gorge—a terrifying geological fissure that dropped hundreds of fathoms into a steaming abyss of sulfuric vapors. Spanning the void was the Bridge of Teeth, an ancient stone walkway barely wide enough for two horses abreast, flanked by jagged natural spires of volcanic rock.
At the near end of the bridge, five royal soldiers stood behind heavy wooden barricades, their armor bearing the iron-fist crest of King Ronald. A mounted ballista sat aimed directly at the tree line.
“We cannot fight our way through,” Lyra whispered, crouched beside Bran behind a boulder of volcanic glass. “They’ll see us before we cross ten yards.”
“We do not need to fight them,” Bran murmured, unhooking a ceramic flask from his belt. “We only need to distract the beast they brought with them.”
Tethered near the barricade was an armored battle-drake, twice the size of a warhorse, its heavy tail tipped with an iron mace. It snorted, restless, scenting the air.
Bran unstopped the flask, pouring a dark, pungent oil over the tip of a broadhead arrow. “Cover the whelp’s eyes, child.”
Bran drew the string to his ear and let fly. The arrow whistled across the clearing, striking not a man, but the wooden post holding the battle-drake’s chain. The ceramic flask shattered upon impact, releasing an acrid, blinding cloud of yellow vapor.
The battle-drake went wild. It shrieked, snapping at its handlers, its massive tail sweeping through the barricade and smashing two sentries into the abyss below.
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“Now!” Bran roared, gripping Lyra’s hand and sprinting onto the open stone span.
They were halfway across the narrow abyss when the sky tore open. A massive shadow plummeted from the clouds, and a barbed tail struck Bran square in the chest, hurling him across the stones.
