And the mammoth bolted. Davon ran after them, letting loose with a deep bellow anytime they slackened. The leaves and branches of the trees along the lane trembled at their passing. Then the trees gave way to open plains, and at last, like a pent up flood, the herd burst into the enemy encampment.
The meaty legs of the careening mammoth pulverized everything—tents, fires, and wagons—as if they were no more than brittle playthings. The herd’s terrified trumpeting added to the din of their passing, and Davon’s roars mixed with the scream of fleeing and dying men to create a cacophony he was sure would unman even the bravest of Creetis’s soldiers.
To keep up the pressure, Davon crossed back and forth across the herd as they fanned out, roaring to drive them into a final frenzy. The Creetisian army had turned away from Bellshire, hastily forming their lines to face the bestial onslaught. The first line of guns fired, the bullets mostly serving to enrage the mammoth more. The second round fired, along with one of the cannons they had managed to reposition. One mammoth fell.
And then the sea of hairy brown hide collided with the sea of white uniforms, the Creetisians scattering in every direction only to be pounded, crushed, and broken. Calls for order were useless. Only pockets of men could form, but their attempts to blast the creatures only sent them careening in new directions to stomp on their allies.
It had worked.
Davon sprinted away again, turning any retreating mammoth back toward the Creetisians. Some of the enemy soldiers bolted for the city, taking their chances against the outmanned Bittermarchian soldiers, but the bulk of these were blasted down by the men on the walls.
Davon’s heart leapt within him, but almost at once his happiness was cut down by something else, a feeling of dread that blunted his joy at his success. The screaming and yelling of frightened and dying men remained the same, but to his keen vision it seemed as if there was some shadow, taller even than the mammoth, that loomed large for a moment and then disappeared, only to reappear somewhere else.
He wondered at the odd trick and the abysmal feeling that accompanied it, but was denied the luxury of analysis. Whatever the figure was, the mammoth must have sensed the terrifying feeling that had penetrated his heart, and they turned and ran north, straight for him. While the herd’s return journey did the Creetisians no favors, he had now become the victim of his own scheme.
He roared to turn them. Still they came. He roared louder. They flinched, eyes wild, but still they came. The shadow rose and fell all over the field, the mighty shape of a giant man, scaring the lathering herd senseless. Just the presence of the shadowy form turned Davon’s heart cold, and somehow he knew he had seen this shadow before; or perhaps not seen, but sensed it.
The terrorized herd thundered right for him. He turned and ran, shooting back up the road just ahead of the stomping feet behind him. The dark feeling eased the farther he retreated from the city, the mammoth relaxing their pace. Paw after paw he ran until they were far behind, and then he angled off the road and into the shadow of the woods where the mammoth would likely not follow. Exhausted, he slowed to a jog and then to a walk.
The fresh scent of oak and pine was a welcome relief from the smells of mammoth that had been a poor visitor for his sensitive nose for days. He turned toward a trickling stream where he stopped and drank his fill. What was the shadow that had turned the mammoth against him? But even more pressing, had the herd done enough damage to make the Creetisians abandon their designs or at least delay their advance enough for the armies sent south to return and finish them off?
As he swallowed another helping of water, a flapping bird landed on a rotted log that slanted into the water. It was a snow finch, the one he had recently carved for Ki. It flitted onto his head, chirped in his ear, and then flew to the east, perching on a branch as if waiting for him to follow.
Despite the summer heat, Arianne pulled her cloak about herself while she leaned against the outer wall of one Cinder Pipe tavern. It was crucial that no one, friend or foe, recognize her. The Creetisians might be fooled by the concealment of her face, but any Bittermarchian might guess that a mysterious woman traveling with Elaine Brighton, Ki, Captain Gage, and ten palace guards would likely be the Queen fleeing the city.
She imagined the disappointment her people would feel on learning of her abandonment would mirror her own. Leaving felt wrong and cowardly, but she had to agree with her advisors. The Creetisians would want to make an example of her, and her death would strike a demoralizing blow to the nation. As long as she was alive, she could rally her nation and take back what the Creetisians had won. Still, she wished they had the luxury of waiting until dark to keep the chance of discovery to a minimum.
Fortunately, Mr. Goodwin seemed to know a good deal about the back ways of the city that kept them from the more crowded areas until they came to northeastern edge of Bellshire, a section of the town that was largely abandoned due to its proximity to the fight. The area was little better than the Crooks, but Mr. Goodwin knew exactly where he was going.
Arianne peeked around the corner of the alley where they waited to see if he had made any progress. As it turned out, Mr. Goodwin also had a knack for opening locked doors. Now that his youthful transformation was complete, he was a handsome, dark-haired man, but no amount of youthful vitality could quite hide eyes or a tongue that seemed able to strip the skin off a man if he got cross.
“You’re in my light,” he growled at one of the palace guards that watched over him, pushing him a step back to let the sun’s rays fall on the lock into which he had inserted two small rods. “Curse that old Ben,” he muttered as he worked the tools. “He’s changed the lock again. I swear the man’s as paranoid as I am.”
Arianne pulled a frightened Elaine to her side and wrapped her arm around her shoulders. The poor girl from a comfortable life wasn’t quite ready for the upheavals of the past few days, and her eyes always seemed on the brink of tears. Arianne couldn’t blame her, but if her sister started crying, Arianne thought she might just join in.
“Why are we trying to get into a tavern?” Elaine asked.
“Mr. Goodwin says it will help us escape,” Arianne said, beginning to wonder the same thing. Davon had told her Mr. Goodwin had a fondness for strong drink, and while she hadn’t seen him drink much, she hoped he wasn’t wasting their time to stock up on spirits for the journey.
The lock popped and Mr. Goodwin stepped back and kicked the door open. “Tavern’s open after all,” he quipped and stepped back to let everyone enter, nodding his head and extending his arm in an exaggerated flourish that brought a grin to Elaine’s face. Arianne surmised he must have been a charmer in his younger days, which seemed to have blessedly returned to him.
She stepped inside and wrinkled her nose, Elaine’s grunt of disgust and Ki’s revolted expression a bit more demonstrative. The place stank of cheap beer, dirty sweat, and the backside of several animals put together. It was as low a place as she had ever seen. The tables were roughhewn and coarse, and stains of every size and hue covered the floor. Whoever had left the tavern before it closed had done so in a hurry, half-filled mugs still sitting atop the tables. Mr. Goodwin chuckled and closed the door behind them.
“It’s not much,” Mr. Goodwin said. “But it has what we need.”
“And what is that, exactly?” Arianne asked.
“A bolt hole,” he said. “Now, come to this side room. Captain Gage, leave half your men in the main room just in case we are discovered. They may follow us in a moment.”
“What’s a bolt hole?” Elaine asked.
“Well, Miss,” Mr. Goodwin said, “it is a secret exit for people who need to leave a place in a hurry without being detected. The late Lord High Sheriff knew where most of them were, but I don’t think he knew about this one.”
The side room Mr. Goodwin mentioned—which was really just a glorified booth—was separated from the common room by a dingy red curtain that Mr. Goodwin thrust aside. Straight-backed chairs covered i
n tooled leather surrounded a single round table that sported fewer dents and dings than the others in the establishment. Arianne wondered what the purpose of the booth was, besides a quick escape.
“Captain Gage,” Mr. Goodwin said, “if you would help me tip the table backwards.”
To Arianne’s surprise, the table, which was supported by a single column of wood in the middle, swung over silently on a hinge, bringing up a square piece of the floor with it. A breath of earthy air filled the room, and Mr. Goodwin called for Captain Gage and his soldiers to find and light all the lanterns they could.
Arianne peeked over the upturned table to find a hole descending into darkness, a rope ladder secured to one of the floorboards dropping down.
“It’s not as deep as it looks,” Mr. Goodwin said.
“You’ve been through this bolt hole?” Elaine asked.
Mr. Goodwin coughed. “Yes,” he said, looking away.
“What for?” Elaine pressed.
Ki smirked. “Yes. I should like to hear the tale.”
“We’ll leave that for later,” Arianne said, Mr. Goodwin looking relieved. “Where does the hole come out?”
“In a barn on the outskirts of town,” he answered, taking a lantern from a recently returned Captain Gage. “It’s at the foot of a hill and not far from the road that leads to Harrickshire. It’s far enough out that it should get us past their patrols.”
Ki stepped forward and glanced down the hole. “And the Elder Forest there will be our trail. I think I have just enough mint to scent everyone from the predators, and even if the Creetisians find us, they won’t wish to follow us inside.”
Arianne nodded, noting the nervous glances of the soldiers. They weren’t very excited about the prospect of traversing the dangerous Elder Wood in the dark, either. How had Davon lost his fear of the shadowy trees and predatory dangers? The Elder Wood at Harrickshire had thrilled her during the daytime, but passing through it at night would be another thing altogether.
In the end, the soldiers scrounged up four lanterns, and it was decided that Captain Gage and five soldiers would descend first, followed by Arianne and her party, ending with the remaining five soldiers who would close the bolt hole behind them.
It took a lot longer than Arianne expected. The coarse rope ladder bit into her palms, and no matter how secure her hands or her feet, should couldn’t shake the feeling that she would fall off at any moment. Ki and Mr. Goodwin descended as if they had practiced doing it their whole lives, but it took some coaxing to get Elaine down.
The tunnel itself was barely tall enough to stand in and only wide enough for one person to pass through at a time. Once the remaining soldiers were down and the bolt hole closed, they marched forward single file along the damp pathway in the light of several low lanterns.
Arianne could feel Elaine close behind her, and wondered if her sister felt the same discomfort in the confining dark. After they had walked for only a few minutes, Arianne felt like screaming and digging her way out. The cool air, musty smell, and cramped quarters had the feel of an old grave.
“How long does this go on, Mr. Goodwin?” Elaine asked.
“Not much longer, Miss,” he said, “though it is a good deal longer than most tunnels I’ve had the, um, opportunity to traverse.”
Not much longer seemed like an eternity, and by the time the lantern light fell on a narrow set of wooden steps, Arianne wanted to walk over everyone to get out first. At least it was steps instead of a rope ladder, she noted happily, though a couple of planks had gone missing and others were badly cracked.
Captain Gage and his five soldiers went up the squealing, popping stairs first, throwing open a trapdoor and cautiously sticking their heads up. But the barn where the tunnel ended was free of danger, and in scant minutes they were all standing in the modest edifice and squinting into the light.
Dust lay thick about the tools and the floor, the barn appearing to have had little use. Light streamed through cracks in the planks that formed the walls, while rays of sunshine slanted through holes in the crumbling roof. But there was something else—the sounds of battle, but with odd sounds mixed in with the regular rounds of rifle and cannon shot they had heard all day. It sounded like the trumpeting of mammoth.
“Milady,” Captain Gage said, “I will take a handful of men and scout about.”
“I will go too,” Ki said.
Captain Gage furrowed his thick, dark brows in consternation. “I would prefer—”
And then a roar broke through the air, a roar Arianne had heard before when she watched a massive sabercat burst onto the Drowning Bridge and knock the soldiers to the ground.
“Davon!” she exclaimed.
“Khodo Khim,” Ki said with a grin, and then she bolted out through the rickety door, leaving Captain Gage and his men behind. They left on her heels, and Arianne wrung her hands and paced the barn. Davon was here! How would he find her? Was he in danger?
As if reading her thoughts, Mr. Goodwin spoke up. “Baron Carver’s a sharp one, Your Grace. He’ll make it through, though you might not want to tell him about that little clause in the Queen’s will where he becomes king if he marries you.”
They waited for nearly a quarter of an hour, the sounds of the battle rising to a frenzied pitch and then softening. The screaming of the terrified mammoth faded, and the gunfire subsided to sporadic pops. In their place came the wailing, moaning, and yelling of injured, frightened men. Even if distant, it chilled her heart. Elaine interrupted her pacing by grabbing onto her hand and leaning against her.
The soldiers snapped alert at the sound of running feet, Arianne’s heart leaping into her throat, but it was Ki and Captain Gage and his men returning, eyes wide with wonder.
“It is strange,” Ki said, “but wonderful. I believe the Khodo Khim arranged a meeting between the Creetisians and an angry herd of mammoth. A trick he learned from Ta and me. The bird he carved for me has flown off toward the battle.”
Arianne smiled. Davon had come through after all. Maybe she might forgive him just a little bit for deserting her again, though she really did owe him a reprimand or two.
“Captain,” she said, “are the Creetisians done for? Can we go back?”
Captain Gage opened his mouth when the wooden snow finch dove in through the door and alighted on Ki’s shoulder. A few moments later, Davon walked through the door, scruffy looking and laboring.
Arianne ran and embraced him.
“You can’t go back, my love,” he said in answer to her question. “Not yet.”
She held him for many moments, and when she pulled away, her cheeks were wet. She wiped them with her sleeve.
“Why not?” she asked.
“They have been dealt a blow, but there is something dark at work here,” he explained. “I’ll tell you more along the way, but we need to get moving. Thank you, Ki, for getting her this far.”
Ki nodded. “Let’s get scented, and then I will scout ahead, Brown Man.”
Chapter 52
Melchor left the Creetisian Field Commanders’ hastily re-erected tent just as the orange-tinted sun dipped below the hazy horizon. It had taken him nearly ten minutes to convince the sentries that he was a member of the Fist, and another hour to keep the Creetisian Military Committee from packing up and retreating.
Of course, he didn’t teach them that the Primal Forces were real—not yet. The mammoth herd he had explained away as a Bittermarchian trick. His own shadow antics to get rid of the beasts he had to feign ignorance of having even seen.
Most importantly, however, he had argued that while they had lost the day, the war was not over. They still had a sufficient force of soldiers to accomplish their purpose, even if the task was now more difficult. During the night they would secrete a large force in the forest northwest of the city. The remaining Creetisian forces would line up as if for battle, but retreat quickly and bait the Bittermarchians out of Bellshire. Once the Bittermarchians swarmed after them, the hidden army
would flank them and commandeer their own fortifications. If successful, the Creetisians would likely have several days inside the city to prepare and resupply before the southern armies returned.
But there was work to be done before the sun rose. After resupplying with weapons and ammunition, Melchor passed the sentries around the command tent and stepped around another crushed body on his way to inspect what was left of the Creetisian encampment. It looked like a mammoth had stepped square on the dead soldier’s chest, snapping in two the rifle he had held. Melchor had long grown indifferent to corpses and gore, but it seemed odd that the devastation around him would arouse no feeling whatsoever, not anger, not disgust, not even surprise. Such was the power of the Shadow that housed within him.
It had taken a sheer force of will to restore order to the bewildered, demoralized army. The air still hung thick with dust, smoke, and piteous moaning, and the stench of death assaulted his every intake of breath. But even the mounds of bloodied, broken bodies couldn’t penetrate the utter deadness of his heart.
He didn’t even feel the proper rage for the perpetrator of the devastation: Davon Carver. The Shadow had revealed the identity of the massive sabercat. Oddly, he missed the feeling of anger he should have felt. He missed the drive and focus the feeling gave him. Instead, there was just a list of what he had to do. Kill Davon Carver to secure the safety of the army, and kill Arianne Hightower to demoralize the Bittermarchians.
The lovely Arianne Hightower.
The thought of her struck an odd chord of emotion within him, the first since the Shadow had taken him for its own. When the Primal Water had suffused him and the Shadow was nothing more than a voice, it had promised to help him kill the Queen in exchange for his aid in extinguishing the Primal Fire. As this aligned with his goals and those of his nation, he had agreed.
But when he had knelt face to the fire, peering into the depths of the mystical Eternal Flame, the apathy that had been trained into him by his Fist commanders in Creetis had wavered. He had assassinated and tortured countless people with hardly a second thought. He had no close relations—the first assignment of any within the Fist was to assassinate any to whom they had strong ties. And he had done it, coldly and dispassionately.
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