Diplomats and Fugitives (The Emperor's Edge Book 9) by Lindsay Buroker Page A

nearly falling when the vehicle jerked and shuddered. One of the wheels had caught the edge of the road.
    Basilard pulled himself to the roof. Even though he was holding his breath, whatever Mahliki had thrown stung his eyes, and his nostrils itched madly.
    Ashara had dropped to her hands and knees, her shirt pulled over her mouth and nose. Tears streamed from her eyes, but she reached for another arrow.
    Basilard gripped her arm and pointed downward. She hesitated, glancing toward their attackers. She must be thinking that they would be easier to shoot from up here.
    More emphatically, Basilard tapped his nose and pointed downward. Ashara wiped her eyes with her sleeve. He thought she might object, but this time, she gave a jerky nod and waved that she would follow. Basilard slithered back over the edge first, landing in the cab. He turned back to offer her a hand, only to see a white shape fill the sky as Ashara’s legs swung down. Instinctively, he tried to scream a warning, but as always, his vocal cords failed to comply with the wishes of his heart. The grimbal wrapped its massive paws around her waist before she could drop into the cab.
    She cried out in surprise and pain as claws sank through her clothing.
    Basilard leaned out as she was lifted away. He fired twice at the exposed belly of the grimbal, careful not to hit Ashara. It lifted her above its head, as if it meant to hurl her to the ground—or carry her away.
    She twisted in its grip, so that she faced its head. Arrows fell out of her quiver, her bow useless to her now, but she managed to yank out a dagger.
    Basilard dropped his rifle and tore out one of his own daggers. He leaped from the cab, catching the grimbal’s arm and hanging on with one hand as he stabbed the blade into its flesh with his other. It was like trying to stab a log. The dagger barely bit in. With tears streaming from his eyes, he struggled to see. He’d had to take a breath, and the noxious air burned all the way down his throat and to his lungs. Snot filled his nostrils. He hung on tenaciously, stabbing again, trying to work his way higher up the arm. If he could reach the neck, maybe he could saw through its tough tendons and find an artery.
    Above him, Ashara hadn’t stopped fighting. Her own dagger slashed for the grimbal’s eyes. She struck one, and blood spattered the animal’s face. Ichor dripped from the damaged eye.
    The creature howled and lifted its arm, trying to fling Basilard aside. He nearly lost his grip. He did lose all sense of up and down and where the vehicle was. And he had no idea how many other creatures surrounded them. They had to finish this grimbal and escape back into the cab—and hope the lorry could find its way out of the mud.
    Though the creature’s arm continued to flail, Basilard clawed his way up to its shoulder. He thrust his dagger at its throat with all of his strength. It wasn’t a killing blow, but the grimbal squealed and dropped Ashara.
    Even with the roar of the animals and the stomping of feet, Basilard heard her land in the mud. He wanted to cry out for her to run, to leap into the cab, but he couldn’t. All he could do was stab the neck again, hoping to buy time if he couldn’t kill it. It wheeled back, flailing at him. Fortunately, with Basilard clamped around one of its arms, it had trouble finding the right angle to claw him. If he hadn’t seen more grimbals moving about at the edge of his tear-filled vision, he might have tried to finish it off. But the squealing of tires several meters away told him the vehicle had left him behind—or the grimbal had pulled him away from it. He stabbed it one final time, cutting into the flesh of its nose and hoping that snout was sensitive, then dropped to the ground.
    He spun, intending to run after Ashara, but he found her waiting for him. Somehow, she had retained her bow, and she had it back in hand, an arrow nocked. She let it fly, nodded at Basilard, and they ran together for the