Shiloh

by Helena Sorensen

  Hope rose in Simeon’s heart. “Ya have a horse?” he asked her.

  “Aye,” she said, and smiled.

  They looked at Orin, their eyes asking what he would do. For a moment, he stroked the stubble on his chin. Then he turned to Simeon. “Saddle Brand and Willa,” he said. “I’ll get the supplies. We leave within the hour.”

  While Simeon and Isolde crept to the stable, Orin gathered blankets, weapons, water skins, torches, and food. He tossed everything into a sack and tiptoed to the back of the cottage. He scanned the alley, looking left and right before stepping out.

  “Simeon, is that you?” Darby shuffled along the lane, her fingertips brushing against the walls of the cottage. Orin knew she’d heard him. He had to stop.

  “No, Darby, it’s Orin.” He reached out to take her hand, and she leaned in, whispering.

  “Tell him ta hurry, Orin. ‘Time slips away and the days are fleetin’.’ Tell him ta bring ’er back before it’s too late.”

  Orin saw the pained expression on her face. He squeezed her hand and rushed to the stable, where Simeon had Brand and Willa saddled and ready. They mounted and set off, with Isolde and Echo following behind.

  Except for the forgotten benches and baskets of food that littered the ground outside, the cottage looked much the same. The last remains of the bonfire crackled, sending fragments of light dancing over the stones of the cottage wall. While Orin and Isolde kept their seats, Simeon dismounted and stood in the lane. He had hoped to see a scar in the ground, a hole, a burn, anything to mark the place where Phebe had been taken. There was nothing.

  Inside the cottage, the blankets were still folded on her cot. The table was piled with gifts. The embers of the fire in the hearth still glowed. But the room was barren without her light, silent without her voice. All the life in that place had been sucked out. It was a dried husk, the leavings of the night weavers. He took the lantern down from the mantel, trying not to think how Phebe’s face had shone when she saw it. The only thing left on the mantel was the silver glass. He tucked it into his belt, took a long look at the cottage, and closed the door behind him.

  “Let’s go, then.” Simeon mounted Willa and turned her face to the east.

  As the horses broke into a run, their hooves pounding the soil of the grasslands, Orin thundered, “We go now inta the very heart o’ darkness. May the light shine upon us all!”

  Thirty

  East of the village, a vast stretch of grasslands rose to the looming bulk of the Black Mountains. They crouched on the horizon like wolves stalking their prey. Even in the thickest darkness of the night, people could feel the presence of those mountains. But not a man in Emmerich could tell how long it would take to reach them. Not a man of them had made that fearsome journey. Not even Amos.

  Further north, beyond the River Meander, the Whispering Wood stretched close to the base of the mountains, and Amos had traveled there often. But this was a piece of land he had never crossed. Any other man would have been terrified, walking through unknown territory into exile, with no food, no weapons, no light. But this was not Amos’s first exile.

  When he left Emmerich the first time, he had traveled as he pleased, where he pleased, by day or night. There was no one who could stand in his way. What he’d needed, he’d taken, though Amos remembered little of food or drink during those years. He remembered little of anything, for that matter, except the power that coursed through his veins and the ever-shifting presence at his side.

  Mordecai’s absence was more unsettling than his presence. The shifter was cunning. Amos had seen him take the form of an owl, a wolf, a black-horned Daegan, even a nightshade. Though there’d been no sign of him since the stone, Amos knew he could not be far.

  Any other man would have been terrified, but fear was not the thing Amos felt most keenly. In fact, he didn’t know what he felt. Only one thing was clear. He had to find Phebe. He had to undo what he had done. So, carrying a flame in the palm of his hand, he made his way east into the heart of the Shadow.

  Black night rushed past him, and wind whispered through a sea of dry grasses. Over the heavy breathing of the horses and the relentless pounding of their hooves, Simeon could hear the jostling of saddle packs and the hushed voice of Isolde, coaxing Echo onward. Beyond the radiance of the riders themselves, casting a soft glow over the horses and over the land before them, Simeon could see nothing. At times, during that first long night of hard riding, he wondered if he had stumbled into some fearful dream. Perhaps he wished it to be so. But he felt too keenly the growing ache in his legs as they gripped Willa’s saddle. And he felt too deeply the widening chasm in his heart. Phebe was gone; this was no dream.

  Without thought, Simeon quickened his pace, and Orin and Isolde followed suit. Hour after hour they pressed on, sensing the slow approach of the Black Mountains. What secrets, what terrors did they hold? He could not imagine. To think that Phebe already knew, that she’d gone into the darkness ahead of him. He rode on, pushing Willa to the limits of her strength and endurance, until at last the vague promise of dawn crept through the blanket of Shadow, and Orin called for a halt.

  “Have mercy on my mare, Sim,” Orin said, as he dismounted and gave Brand a drink from his water skin. “The dark’s easin’ up a bit. We’ll rest a few hours before movin’ on.”

  “Aye.” It took great effort for Simeon to climb down from Willa and give up his pursuit, even for a few hours’ rest. Running his horse to the point of collapse, though, would do nothing to save his Phebe. He took a cloth from beneath his saddle and wiped the sweat from Willa’s neck. “That’s a good girl,” he said, and he patted the side of her face and gave her a drink. Isolde did the same with Echo. The brown mare nuzzled her neck and nickered.

  “You’ve a good mount there,” Simeon said.

  “Aye,” Isolde replied. “I’ve known no friend but her these many years, no steadier companion. And most o’ this dark country we’ve crossed together. She’s fearless, this one.” At that, Echo tossed her head and snorted before stepping away to munch on the

  dry grass.

  Isolde unrolled a thick blanket and spread it on the ground. She ate a little cake of dried berries from her pack. Then, with the ease gained from many years’ lonely travel, she rolled onto her side, rested her head on her pack, and fell asleep.

  Orin slept as well. Simeon only dozed, drifting in and out of a shallow sleep and finally waking with every muscle tensed and sore. He groaned and sat up. By then, it was midday and time to be moving.

  They found him as night closed in. He sat on the ground with legs crossed and back hunched. His head hung down on his chest, and his hand rested on his knee. Little sparks of flame erupted from his open palm in fitful bursts, and he made no move to rise or speak when the horses approached and the riders jumped from their saddles.

  “Amos.” Simeon was first to step forward. He crouched down, and Amos lifted cold eyes to meet his.

  “You’ve come then,” he said, without affection, without pleasure.

  “Aye, we’ve come.”

  Amos raised his head to survey the others. “Have ya any water?” Orin grabbed the water skin from Brand’s side and carried it to Amos, who lifted it to his lips, drank, and fell into a fit of coughing and spitting.

  “Ugh! By the gods, what is that filth?” he choked.

  “Water,” Orin replied, “from a spring outside the village.”

  “You’ve nothin’ else?!” Amos was doubled over, grasping his gut.

  “No. And if ya mean ta live, ya must drink it. You’re weak already from thirst. Just take it slow.”

  Amos raised the skin to his lips and drank again until he cried out and tossed the skin to the ground. He pushed himself, slowly, to a stand, the last of the spring water dripping down his chin and onto his tunic.

  “Ya mean ta kill me, is that it, Sim?” A wicked smile broke out on his
face, and he looked pointedly at the blister on Simeon’s arm. “Challenge me now, even in this state, and I fear you’ll fare no better than before.”

  “Challenge ya?” Simeon asked. “We’ve come in search o’ ya! I saw yer face at the stone, Amos. Ya mean ta go after her. I know it. And you’ll need help.”

  “Help?” Amos said. “You came ta help me? You plan ta march inta the Black Mountains and take on the Shadow with yer bow and arrow, eh? If there’s anythin’ I recall about you, it’s that ya couldn’t hit the broadside of a wall from three paces.”

  Simeon had strung an arrow before Amos finished speaking. With surprising speed and grace, he drew it back along his jaw and let it fly. It whizzed by Amos’s face, touching his hair as it passed, and landed somewhere out of sight.

  “So you’ve improved.” Amos looked at Orin and Isolde, standing silent and holding the reins of their horses. Then he turned back to Simeon. “But ya don’t know what lurks in the darkness, what waits fer ya. Ya can’t survive it, and ya can’t help me.”

  Amos’s face darkened, and Simeon wondered how much he knew, what horrors he had seen and done. He wondered if Amos meant to die in this pursuit, wondered why he pursued at all. Then he was assaulted by the memory of Phebe in her coming-of-age gown. She was gone, and it was Amos who had taken her. A flood of savage rage overtook him, and Simeon lunged at Amos, grabbing him by the throat.

  “You! You took ’er from me! If it hadn’t been fer you, Phebe would still . . .” His voice failed him, even as he felt the growing heat beneath his palm and loosened his hold. Simeon took a step back, took a moment to breathe. “It doesn’t matter what waits fer me. I must go. I must find ’er.”

  “It’s yer life, Sim,” Amos said. “Whatever comes, it won’t be on my head.”

  “You’ve enough lives on yer head already! What’s one more, Amos?!” Simeon’s eyes were burning a path through the night. This was a challenge indeed, but Amos didn’t take it up.

  “There’s a river runs through the Black Mountains, the River Lost it’s called. If we follow it north, it should lead us ta the Hall o’ Shadows.”

  Amos read the question in Simeon’s eyes. “I know nothin’ more than that.”

  “You’d follow ’im, then?” Isolde asked, looking at Simeon.

  “Aye, Sim.” Orin said. “Who’s ta say this boy can be trusted? Who’s ta say it’s not a trap?”

  “It’s almost certainly a trap, old man,” Amos spat back. “If ya don’t trust me —”

  His words were interrupted by a long, wailing howl. It echoed in the darkness beyond their small circle of light. It was joined by another voice, and another. The horses stamped the ground, anxious to go. The Shadow Wolves were on the hunt.

  “We can’t stay here, regardless,” Isolde said. She turned to Amos. “You ride with me. My horse carries the lightest load.”

  They rode hard all through the night. The following day, the mountains filled their vision. Behind them was the spreading emptiness of the grasslands; above and beside them, there was only black. They plunged in.

  Thirty-One

  Isolde’s Red Map came to an end where the Black Mountains began, and there were no tales that told what made the mountains black. In some secluded corner of his mind, nearly every man had answered the question, had filled the empty space, with whatever reality seemed most fearful to him. Some imagined that the mountains were covered in dust and ash, or jagged rocks. Others saw the mountainsides black with the thick fur of the wolves or clothed in a net of impenetrable Shadow. The travelers discovered that the mountains were covered in dense, black forest. The branches of the trees were woven together so tightly that they appeared, from a distance, to be one solid mass of darkness. But they were not impenetrable.

  A few shafts of hazy light fought through the canopy above as the riders picked their way through the forest. Damp mosses covered the ground, deadening the sound of the horses’ hooves, and black rocks jutted between black trunks dusted with dim green lichen. There was no telling the height of the trees. Amos could see the dark pillars climb up to the height of five or six men, perhaps, but beyond there was only mist. The sight recalled a memory of the Hall of Echoes, with its stone pillars reaching into the endless dark of the sky. With the memory came a nameless pain, then a dull aching in his head and a twisting in his gut. He pushed the thought aside to focus on the woman who rode in front of him, her red hair hanging down her back.

  “Not so bad, is it?” she asked, over her shoulder.

  She was right. The Black Forest made for much easier traveling than the Whispering Wood, where the undergrowth grew impossibly thick, blocking a man’s path and sheltering his enemies.

  Amos only grunted in reply.

  At the end of the first day, they found the River Lost. While the main channel of the River Meander flowed west from the Black Mountains and gradually arced toward the south, this branch of the river broke off within the mountain range, emptying far down in the southern moors. The water flowed swiftly over dark stones, cutting a black path through black forest. The horses bent to drink, and Amos lapped at the water. The others drank from their skins, rested, ate. Then, for some hours yet, they traveled into the inky night, listening for the sound of rushing water at their side.

  When they finally made camp, none of them slept much. They kept Phebe’s lantern lit, but made no fire. And above them, from the invisible heights of the branches, came the lonely hooting of owls, the fluttering and brushing of wings. Once or twice, they heard the screech and hiss of a cat. When morning broke, and they set out, it was not only Amos who knew they were being followed.

  On the second day, the trees drifted from their tight ranks, and the riders moved more quickly. It was easy traveling, except when the path was blocked by dry creek beds that snaked off from the river. Some of these were deep, their steep sides choked with stones and the leaves and fallen branches of uncounted years. At times, they had to lead the horses far from the water to find safe places to cross. They would dismount and guide the animals down into the dry beds, searching for safe footing, then coax them up again onto the forest floor before returning to the river. That was when it happened, when the first assault came rushing in.

  Orin had crossed first, leading Brand down into the bottom of a dry creek bed, maneuvering around roots and piles of rocks. Brand had followed, gingerly resting his hooves on the ground to test its strength before stepping forward. He made it out of the gulley and stood stamping on the other side. But Willa was more stubborn. She tossed her head, eyes wide, nostrils flared, refusing to step down into the ditch. Simeon coaxed and tugged at her reins. He stroked her neck and spoke softly into her ear. It was no use. She would not move. Isolde stepped forward, curious about Willa’s behavior and eager to try her hand at leading the horse. Then three things happened at once. Isolde’s hand came to rest on the gray mare’s back, Amos jumped from the edge of the bank into the creek bed, and Simeon shouted.

  “Amos, wait!”

  Two wolves were moving down the length of the gulley. Their heads were low to the ground. Their eyes flickered with yellow-orange light. Their fangs were bared. The horses screamed and drew back, while Simeon grabbed his bow. He had an arrow strung and in the air before the first wolf reached Amos. But the arrow only passed through the beast and stuck fast in the ground.

  Amos’s fingers exploded with fire as the wolf bore down on him, knocking him from his feet. Its claws were just slicing into his shoulder, when Amos’s hands burned into the heart of the beast and it dissolved in wisps of smoke.

  The second wolf was close on its heels, but Orin and Isolde stood helpless on the banks. They had no fire, and it was only fire that conquered the wolves. Orin finally jumped down behind the animal, in hopes of cutting off its escape, and Simeon pulled another arrow from his quiver and sent it flying. Amos, lying on his back, saw what he must do. The moment the arrow passed
above him, the instant before the second wolf was upon him, he focused all his energy on it. The arrow burst into flame and hit the wolf between the eyes. The beast halted in mid-leap and drifted away into nothing. The Black Forest was silent again.

  Amos was bleeding. He leaned against the side of the ditch, pressing hot fingers to his shoulder, melting the torn pieces of flesh and bonding them back together. Simeon turned away, unable to watch the gruesome display. Instead, he stroked the soft dappled gray of Willa’s neck and patted her nose to quiet her. The others said nothing. When the animals had calmed, they led them across the dry bed and back to the river.

  They traveled late into the night. When they made camp, building up a large fire and lighting torches to guard them, they were quiet, each unwilling to voice the thoughts and fears that rose to his mind.

  Of the four who sat around the campfire that night, though, Isolde’s mind was the least burdened. For her, there was some comfort, some higher purpose in this quest. No matter how dark the road became, it still seemed to Isolde that it was the right road. If she died in the passage of the Black Mountains or in the uncharted lands beyond, still she would die as she must die, following in Valour’s footsteps. She laid aside her water skin and her bundle of food and began to sing a homely, happy little campfire song she had learned on her travels.

  “Come in out o’ darkness

  Rest ya here a while

  Watch the flames go dancin’

  And the embers smile

  “Hear the golden fingers

  Play their little song

  If ya know the melody

  Then sing along

  “Sing,

  ‘Hiss, hiss, crackle, crackle

  Lean in close