Morgawr by Terry Brooks

A Shrike swept past him from above, screaming. Its talons snatched at his back, and the flying leathers jerked and tore. A wash of pain rushed through him as the bird’s claws ripped into his skin. He wrenched himself sideways and nearly fell, his legs losing their grip so that he was hanging from the yard-arm by his fingers. The sail billowed into him like a balloon, and he lay across it, gathering his strength. While he was buried in the sail, another Shrike swept past but couldn’t get close enough. It banked away in frustration.

Don’t stop, he told himself through a haze of weariness and pain. Don’t quit.

He crawled back up on the yardarm, then dragged himself to its end, swung out from the spar, and slid down the length of the midships draw to where it had tangled in the aft, his boots clearing the lines as he descended. Battered and worn, but still clinging desperately to both stays, he hollered out to his crew for help. Two of them leapt from the port fighting pits and were beside him in moments, taking hold of the draws and hauling them back toward the parse tubes from which they had broken loose, ignoring the diving Shrikes and the hail of arrows from the pursuing ships.

Redden Alt Mer collapsed on the deck, his back burning with pain and wet with blood.

“That’s more than enough heroics from you, Captain,” Britt Rill growled, appearing out of nowhere to take hold of one arm and haul him to his feet. “Down below for you.”

Alt Mer started to object, but his throat was so dry he couldn’t get the words out. Worse, his strength had failed him completely. It was all he could do to stand with Rill’s help. He glanced at the other and nodded. He had done what he could. The rest was up to the ship, and he would bet on her in any race.

Belowdecks, Britt Rill helped him off with his flying leathers and began to wash and clean his wounds. “How bad is it?” Redden Alt Mer asked, head bent forward, arms resting on his knees, hands clasped, and the whole of him knotted with pain. “Did it sever the muscles?”

“Nothing so bad, Captain,” the other answered quietly. “Just a few deep cuts that will give you stories to tell your grandchildren, should you ever have any.”

“Not likely.”

“Be a blessing for the world, I expect.”

Rill applied salve to the wounds, bound him up with strips of cloth, gave him a long pull from the aleskin strapped to his waist, and left him to decide for himself what he would do next. “The others will be needing me,” Rill called back as he went out the cabin door.

And me, Alt Mer thought. But he didn’t move right away. Instead, he sat there on his bed for several minutes more, listening to the sound of the wind outside the shuttered windows, feeling the movement of the ship beneath him. He could tell from its sway and glide that it was doing what it should, that power was back in sufficient amounts to keep it aloft and moving. But the battle wasn’t over yet.

Pursuers with magic enough to summon Shrikes and command the walking dead would not give up easily.

He went topside moments later, his shredded flying leathers pulled back in place. Stepping out into the wind, he cast about momentarily to gauge their position, then moved over to the pilot box to stand next to Spanner Frew. Content to let the shipwright guide them, he didn’t ask for the helm. Instead, he spent a few long moments looking back at the clutch of dark shapes that were still in pursuit but beginning to fade into the haze. Even the Shrikes seemed to have given up the chase.

Spanner Frew glanced over at him, took note of his condition, and said nothing. The Rover Captain’s look did not encourage conversation.

Alt Mer glanced at the surrounding sky. It was all grayness and mist, with a darker wash north that meant rain approached. Mountains loomed ahead and on both sides as they advanced inland toward the ice fields they must traverse in order to reach Rue and the others.