“What?” In one swift move he is standing beside me, head almost touching the ceiling, hand on his sword. I lift my arm and point.
In the distance are dozens of glowing orange dots, like stars on the horizon, only these pinpricks of light are moving. Golmarr removes his hand from his sword and lifts the bow from his back. He strums the bowstring twice with his thumb, and then slides an arrow from his quiver. Putting the arrow to the string, he pulls it back and holds it up to his eye, then lets it fly. The moment the arrow is out of our small circle of light, it disappears. Three seconds later, two orange dots jolt and then disappear, and something shrieks. The other glowing orbs freeze for a moment, and then start rushing toward us.
Golmarr grabs the dragon scale necklace and shoves it down the front of my shirt, plunging us into darkness. “Don’t move,” he whispers, and I can hear his bow groan a split second before the twang of a fired arrow echoes through the cave. Another set of orange pinpricks goes dark, and now I understand what is up ahead. Eyes. Glowing orange eyes. Lots of them.
Golmarr starts shooting arrows almost as fast as my heart is pounding. The orange eyes are becoming fewer and fewer as his arrows find their targets, but they are not being extinguished fast enough. The remaining eyes are getting close. Too close. So close that I can hear the breathing of whatever they belong to. Without warning, Golmarr presses his bow into my hands and the swish of steel rings out. “When I say your name, light the way for me,” he says. The air stirs, and there is a quiet thud on the ground below the rock. I reach out for my new friend, but feel only air. An overpowering sense of isolation steals the breath from me.
“Sorrowlynn!” I pull the necklace from my shirt, holding it above my head and filling the cave with a gentle glow. Five creatures run toward us. They are the size of big dogs, but are covered with a skin of glossy, dark scales. Five little dragons.
“Mayanchi,” Golmarr growls and swings his sword into the closest creature. The thing hisses and lashes out at him with curved black claws, but Golmarr dances out of the way and lifts his sword in an arc over his head, slicing down into the dragon’s neck and killing it. Another beast leaps at him, growling, snapping its sharp teeth at Golmarr’s thigh. The horse lord staggers to the side and plunges his sword into the creature’s scaly hide; the scales screech against the metal. He tries to yank the weapon free, but it won’t come loose.
Another dragon runs at him. I scream a warning just as Golmarr throws a knife, hitting it in the eye. He puts his foot on the beast with his sword stuck in it and pulls, but before he can slide it free, the last two dragons reach him, one closing its mouth over his sword arm, the other jumping onto his back. Everything seems to slow down. Golmarr opens his mouth and screams, and the pain of it turns my stomach. He is going to die, and it is because he took pity on me.
Without a thought, I drop the bow, pull the hunting knife from my waistband, and leap to the ground beside Golmarr. Holding the knife in my right hand, I hack at the creature on Golmarr’s back. The weapon feels awkward, and my blows hardly damage the thick scales, but finally, after lots of hacking, the creature falls from Golmarr’s back and lands at my feet, hissing. I hold the knife over my head and swing with all of my strength, slamming the gleaming blade into flesh, and the dragon stops moving.
Golmarr reaches his free hand over his shoulder and pulls an arrow from his quiver, stabbing it into the eye of the beast locked onto his wrist. The animal jolts and jerks and splatters him with blood, and then stops moving. I grab the thing by its scaly snout and pry its jaws open, watching as one long yellow fang lifts out of Golmarr’s skin, leaving a round puncture that instantly turns into a fountain of blood.
Golmarr gasps and drops his sword. It clangs against the rocky ground. He wraps his hand around his wounded wrist, and blood pours out between his fingers. “Sorrowlynn, cut a piece of your skirt off and wrap it around my wrist. Quickly,” he says. I do as he asks, tearing my tattered skirt and pulling the scrap tight around his wrist. The dingy fabric turns red with blood in a matter of seconds. “Again,” he says. I tear off a longer strip and wrap it around his wrist three times, and then tie it into a tight knot. He groans, but holds still. When I am done tending his wound, he sits on the cave floor and leans his shoulders against the boulder. Holding his bleeding wrist to his chest, he closes his eyes. The breath moves rapidly in and out of him. A sheen of sweat shines on his skin, and his face is speckled with black blood. I tear another piece of fabric from my skirt. Without asking, I cradle the back of his head and wipe the blood from his skin.
He grimaces and pulls away. “Is my face cut?” he asks, blinking bleary eyes.