Read Romulus Buckle & the Engines of War for Free Online
Authors: Richard Ellis Preston Jr.
Tags: Science-Fiction
the murk, flying past on each side with high-pitched swishes.
“Easy, boy!” Buckle shouted. “Easy, lad!” But he knew his words could not crack the horse’s terror. He could do no more than stay in the saddle and hold on to Max and the fluttering torch, and hope beyond all hope that the sabertooths did not bring Cronos down.
The loaded musket still lay across the front of the saddle, but Buckle could not reach it, not while holding on to the torch and Max at the same time. One musket shot was not going to save them, anyway. The trees they passed were denser now, whizzing by on either side at breakneck speed, but Cronos somehow avoided them.
Cronos was charging as fast as he could when he ran off the edge of the cliff.
In an instant they were in midair.
Buckle found himself in free fall, out of the saddle, plummeting through swirling whiteness, his arms locked around Max, with the kicking horse descending alongside.
A cliff? That simply wasn’t fair.
THE CAVE
B UCKLE , M AX , AND C RONOS FELL into the white void, the yellow orb of the torch waffling weirdly as it dropped through the torrent alongside them. They glanced off a near-vertical wall of snow, and the impact spun their bodies. Buckle kept his arms secure around Max, his face buried in the thick bearskin on her back as they tumbled.
Then they were rolling, bouncing and rolling, down the steeply angled incline, each impact made soft by the snow, bringing down a small avalanche with them. What little Buckle could see of the world spun in rough, white bounces, and dark tufts of grass or splotches of stones.
They rolled to a stop, Buckle on his back, Max’s limp form on top of him. Buckle gasped through the crust of snow coating his face and blinked. Even with the gale thundering in his ears, he heard Cronos stagger upright nearby, and then his frightened whinny trailing away along with the jangle of his tack as he set off running again.
No more musket. No more horse, for that matter.
Buckle carefully slid Max off his chest and leveraged himself to his knees. He should be running, but where? He could see nothing, but he guessed that the horse had dropped them in the ravine. His right forearm burned where the damnedsteampiper had cut him, and there were pains in his body, bruises and perhaps lacerations, but they were not injurious enough to slow him down. He leaned over Max, shielding her face from the storm, and yanked his hand from his glove to wipe a carapace of blood-streaked snow from her face and goggles.
Her nose and mouth emerged, striped pale white and black, but whether she breathed or not he had no way to tell. He jammed his hand back into his glove and gathered her body in his arms, cradling her against his chest as he stood. If they were in the ravine there were caves there, caves everywhere. He had to find shelter soon and tend to Max’s wounds, or Max would most surely die.
If she is not dead already. A fear crept over Buckle that had nothing to do with the sabertooths.
Facing the incline they had just rolled down, Buckle turned right. He had no inkling why right was better than left. Given the choice, he preferred to turn right. The snow was deep and forced him to pump his legs high as he staggered forward, Max in his arms, advancing into the teeth of the raging blizzard.
Perhaps it would have been better to turn left.
The icy wind bit at Buckle’s exposed neck—whatever skin his helmet, goggles, and beard did not protect. The goggles were damned near frozen over again, thickening up with even more ice from his frantic exertions. It did not matter much—he could not see anything, anyway. Buckle moved forward, ever forward, his legs slinging snow as they drove like pistons through the snowdrifts cast up against the cliff. He struggled through close-packed trees, his shoulders and Max’s swinging boots shattering the ice encasing their branches.
The muscles in Buckle’s thighs burned. He was stuck in slow motion, a fly stuck in
“Easy, boy!” Buckle shouted. “Easy, lad!” But he knew his words could not crack the horse’s terror. He could do no more than stay in the saddle and hold on to Max and the fluttering torch, and hope beyond all hope that the sabertooths did not bring Cronos down.
The loaded musket still lay across the front of the saddle, but Buckle could not reach it, not while holding on to the torch and Max at the same time. One musket shot was not going to save them, anyway. The trees they passed were denser now, whizzing by on either side at breakneck speed, but Cronos somehow avoided them.
Cronos was charging as fast as he could when he ran off the edge of the cliff.
In an instant they were in midair.
Buckle found himself in free fall, out of the saddle, plummeting through swirling whiteness, his arms locked around Max, with the kicking horse descending alongside.
A cliff? That simply wasn’t fair.
THE CAVE
B UCKLE , M AX , AND C RONOS FELL into the white void, the yellow orb of the torch waffling weirdly as it dropped through the torrent alongside them. They glanced off a near-vertical wall of snow, and the impact spun their bodies. Buckle kept his arms secure around Max, his face buried in the thick bearskin on her back as they tumbled.
Then they were rolling, bouncing and rolling, down the steeply angled incline, each impact made soft by the snow, bringing down a small avalanche with them. What little Buckle could see of the world spun in rough, white bounces, and dark tufts of grass or splotches of stones.
They rolled to a stop, Buckle on his back, Max’s limp form on top of him. Buckle gasped through the crust of snow coating his face and blinked. Even with the gale thundering in his ears, he heard Cronos stagger upright nearby, and then his frightened whinny trailing away along with the jangle of his tack as he set off running again.
No more musket. No more horse, for that matter.
Buckle carefully slid Max off his chest and leveraged himself to his knees. He should be running, but where? He could see nothing, but he guessed that the horse had dropped them in the ravine. His right forearm burned where the damnedsteampiper had cut him, and there were pains in his body, bruises and perhaps lacerations, but they were not injurious enough to slow him down. He leaned over Max, shielding her face from the storm, and yanked his hand from his glove to wipe a carapace of blood-streaked snow from her face and goggles.
Her nose and mouth emerged, striped pale white and black, but whether she breathed or not he had no way to tell. He jammed his hand back into his glove and gathered her body in his arms, cradling her against his chest as he stood. If they were in the ravine there were caves there, caves everywhere. He had to find shelter soon and tend to Max’s wounds, or Max would most surely die.
If she is not dead already. A fear crept over Buckle that had nothing to do with the sabertooths.
Facing the incline they had just rolled down, Buckle turned right. He had no inkling why right was better than left. Given the choice, he preferred to turn right. The snow was deep and forced him to pump his legs high as he staggered forward, Max in his arms, advancing into the teeth of the raging blizzard.
Perhaps it would have been better to turn left.
The icy wind bit at Buckle’s exposed neck—whatever skin his helmet, goggles, and beard did not protect. The goggles were damned near frozen over again, thickening up with even more ice from his frantic exertions. It did not matter much—he could not see anything, anyway. Buckle moved forward, ever forward, his legs slinging snow as they drove like pistons through the snowdrifts cast up against the cliff. He struggled through close-packed trees, his shoulders and Max’s swinging boots shattering the ice encasing their branches.
The muscles in Buckle’s thighs burned. He was stuck in slow motion, a fly stuck in