NO TIME FOR ENJOYING HER VICTORY OVER ORION.
Blackjack’s muzzle was foaming. His legs spasmed. Blood trickled from the arrow wound in his flank.
Reyna ripped through the supply bag that Phoebe had given her. She swabbed the wound with healing potion. She poured unicorn draught over the blade of her silver pocketknife.
‘Please, please,’ she murmured to herself.
In truth, she had no idea what she was doing, but she cleaned the wound as best she could and gripped the shaft of the arrow. If it had a barbed tip, pulling it out might cause more damage. But, if it was poisoned, she couldn’t leave it in. Nor could she push it through, since it was embedded in the middle of his body. She would have to choose the lesser evil.
‘This will hurt, my friend,’ she told Blackjack.
He huffed, as if to say, Tell me something I don’t know.
With her knife, she cut a slit on either side of the wound. She pulled out the arrow. Blackjack shrieked, but the arrow came out cleanly. The point wasn’t barbed. It could have been poisoned, but there was no way to be sure. One problem at a time.
Reyna poured more healing potion over the wound and bandaged it. She applied pressure, counting under her breath. The oozing seemed to lessen.
She trickled unicorn draught into Blackjack’s mouth.
She lost track of time. The horse’s pulse became stronger and steadier. His eyes cleared of pain. His breathing eased.
By the time Reyna stood up, she was shaking with fear and exhaustion, but Blackjack was still alive.
‘You’re going to be fine,’ she promised. ‘I’ll get you help from Camp Half-Blood.’
Blackjack made a grumbling sound. Reyna could’ve sworn he tried to say doughnuts. She must have been going delirious.
Belatedly, she realized how much the sky had lightened. The Athena Parthenos gleamed in the sun. Guido and the other winged horses pawed the deck impatiently.
‘The battle …’ Reyna turned towards the shore but saw no signs of combat. A Greek trireme bobbed lazily in the morning tide. The hills looked green and peaceful.
For a moment, she wondered if the Romans had decided not to attack.
Perhaps Octavian had come to his senses. Perhaps Nico and the others had managed to win over the legion.
Then an orange glow illuminated the hilltops. Multiple streaks of fire climbed skyward like burning fingers.
The onagers had shot their first volley.
