Aveline (19 page)

“Evening,” Arthur said and halted his horse.
He leaned forward onto its withers and looked over the three guards
accompanying the man who tried to assassinate him in his own tent a
week and a half before.

“Evening,” Marshall replied. “Where is your
lapdog protector?”

“Sleeping, I imagine,” Arthur replied. “If
the Hanover heir can ride in these forests without his guard,
surely the Cruise heir can do the same, unless your family crest
does not represent a lion’s courage but the fact it sleeps all
day.”

Marshall stiffened at the quiet, nonchalant
dare. “I do not wear the lion crest for myself but to remind others
of the Cruise legacy and the glory no other family in Lost Vegas
can claim.”

Arthur refrained from rolling his eyes.
Marshall’s family boasted often of the meaning behind their lion
crest. The courageous founder of Lost Vegas, Charles Cruise, had
braved impossible-to-imagine odds to establish the first settlement
after the Old World perished. The Cruise line ruled Lost Vegas for
a mere fifty years, throughout the Age of Darkness, before Arthur’s
forefathers managed to wrench power away from the wealthy family
and hold it for four and a half centuries.

“Go and rest,” Marshall told his guards. “I
will return by dawn.”

The men obeyed without question.

Close in age to Arthur, Marshall possessed
the striking features that ran in his family and the same sense of
entitlement fueling his sister’s mistreatment of Tiana. While
competitive, Marshall had the disadvantage of a kind father,
whereas Arthur was raised with the firsthand knowledge that
ruthlessness was the true legacy of the Hanover’s.

“Shall we?” Arthur motioned to the
forest.

“After you.”

Stifling a smile, Arthur nudged his horse
forward and started into the forest. Marshall followed. Arthur led
them away from the encampment, to the north. They passed their
scouts and continued onward into the cold, quiet night, riding
parallel to the prairie.

Judging by the smell of scat, upturned earth
and fur, the buffalo herd was large. Arthur did not see any of its
members on the rolling plains, but the scents were strong and the
grass flattened where the herds had traveled. He ventured out of
the forest, towards the wide swath of beaten down grass and
darkened snow.

They rode for half an hour, following the
wake the herds had left.

“To what do I owe the honor of accompanying
you in place of your lapdog?” Marshall asked at last.

“We were educated by the same tutor. I am
confident you can figure it out,” Arthur replied.

Marshall said nothing.

The hair on the back of Arthur’s neck stood
on end suddenly.

He pulled his horse to a halt, uncertain
what his senses were warning him of. He loosened the ties of his
hat in order to hear without the fur and leather blocking his ears.
The night was still and quiet, with the exception of snow crunching
beneath the hooves of Marshall’s horse.

“Very well. If this is where we are to duel,
then let us be on with it,” Marshall stated in a hard tone. He
dismounted and yanked two weapons free from the horse, a
double-headed axe and long knife.

Arthur glanced at him and then towards the
forest. Grass rustled in the stiff, breathtaking wind, and the
light gray clouds glowed overhead, illuminating his surroundings
without the need for moon or stars. They stood at the bottom of a
low, rolling hill, amidst other hills, in grasslands edged on one
side by the forest and the other three sides by the sky.

What manner of threat was invisible? Not
Ghouls or unfriendly natives, the only known dangers in the
prairielands. Arthur dismounted and grabbed a lance and
double-headed axe, unable to explain or shake off the cold
slithering down his spine. It felt as if someone stood behind him,
preparing to strike. When he turned, no one was present. He began
to suspect this was an extension of his strange magic, yet it was
neither a vision nor his ability to track game, the two unnatural
skills he was aware of possessing.

He turned a full revolution, listening to
his humming instincts as he did. The magic warning him was similar
to the tracking magic he used to find game. It whispered faintly of
where the threat was without defining what it was.

Someone, or something, was at the edge of
the forest, waiting and watching.

Yet Arthur saw nothing.

Marshall sighed impatiently. “You invite me
here for one purpose and stall our inevitable encounter?”

“I am glad your father has three more sons.
He will not miss you, and neither will I,” Arthur replied.

“It is not my death we should be
discussing.”

“What provoked your attack, Cruise?” he
asked roughly. “The timing and place were beneath a man as
intelligent as I thought you to be.”

Marshall was quiet, lifting and lowering the
axe in nervous agitation.

“Only one of us will live to speak of this
night. I wish to know the truth,” Arthur insisted. He focused on
his opponent, but his instincts tugged his attention back towards
the forest. “Speak, Marshall.”

“Murdering you was not my intent in joining
the hunt this year.”

Arthur’s eyebrows shot up. He chuckled.
“Your family has resented mine for four centuries, and you did not
intend to murder me by placing venomous snakes in my tent?”

“Of course I meant to
try
to murder you, but
that was not my original intent behind joining the
hunt.”

“You speak in riddles.”

“Not every heir within our circles wishes
you dead and to take your place. Not every member of the outer city
plots the demise of the Hanover’s. I came this year so we might
have a moment to speak. The snakes were to gain your attention and
to test you.”

“I have never heard anything more
ridiculous!” Arthur exclaimed, genuinely surprised.

“There is talk you are not like your father.
It is said you could lead the city in a way he would never
consider.” Marshall’s explanation was spoken slowly, carefully.

“And this drove you to try to murder me?
Because I am a different man, and whoever backs you disapproves of
this fact?”

Marshall fell quiet. His weapons were
lowered to the ground, his head tilted towards the sky.

The sense of being watched or … stalked
distracted Arthur once more. He made a show of swinging his axe, as
if warming up, and faced the forest. The danger was still one
moment, moving the next. It began to shift along the tree line he
and Marshall had followed northward.

“It was not a real attempt on your life,”
Marshall spoke finally. “I was certain to be seen leaving your tent
by your lapdog. The location of the attempt, less than a day’s ride
from the city, was planned in case you reacted as your father would
and slayed my men. But you didn’t react as your father would, which
is why I have been hoping to speak to you in private. You are not
like him.”

“I am more patient than my father,” Arthur
said. He was unusually grateful for the discussion. A battle would
find him too distracted by the strange danger to be effective.

“Some would say more honorable as well. He
has alienated many with his corrupt system of justice and
unilateral decisions to burn …”

Arthur tuned out. Marshall was agitated to
the point he was starting to yell.

The hidden danger passed them, headed south,
towards the encampment. Whatever or whomever it was, it remained
hidden in the forest. The farther away it went, the more the threat
faded from Arthur’s awareness, only to be replaced by inexplicable
urgency lighting his blood on fire, as if his instincts understood
the intentions of a threat he could not see. Arthur tilted his
head, unable to make sense of what he felt.

He thought of Warner at the encampment and
planted the butt of his lance in the ground, leaning against it
with a frown. This danger could not possibly pose a threat to the
contingent of well-armed, experienced Shield soldiers. Ghouls knew
to avoid them, and an attack by unfriendly natives was not likely
in this location or before the great hunt went underway.
Historically, skirmishes with the natives came after the hunt, or
in the heat of it, when the chaos was great enough to hide ambushes
and attacks. The Shield members killed during the Winter Hunt
almost always died during or after the initial attack on the herds.
If not for the city’s desperate need for food, Arthur would not be
in the wilderness risking his life.

Further confusing him was the knowledge he
had never experienced such a feeling when it came to the natives on
any of the five hunts he had participated in.

The danger tripping his instincts was picked
up by his unusual ability and therefore, could not be fully of this
world. The only other time he experienced such a confounding jumble
of emotions was …

…
the dream.

Arthur pulled his lance loose and strode
back to his horse.

Marshall trailed off from his tirade before
asking, “What are you doing?”

“Something is amiss. I must return to camp,”
Arthur replied. He secured his weapons, alarm shooting through
him.

“At this very moment?”

Hearing Marshall’s derisive tone, Arthur
paused as he reached up to rest his hands on the saddle. “Stay if
you like and await me. I will happily kill you upon my return.”

“Did you listen to anything I said?”

Arthur had not paid attention to most of
what Marshall said, though he heard enough.

“What you speak of is treason.” Arthur swung
up into the saddle. “You wished me dead then decided, because I did
not kill you in return, I was somehow interested in hearing what
you consider to be my father’s offenses. If he has offended so many
people, they can take the matter to his council of advisors.”

“Your father burns anyone who speaks out
against him!”

“Then I suggest you hold your tongue. Your
opinion of my father carries no weight with me.” Arthur turned his
horse to the south and squeezed his calves. The gelding burst into
a canter.

Adrenaline spiked within him, and his ears
filled with the sound of his beating heart. Urgency turned to
desperation, the same he experienced in the dream where he ran from
the skinwalker. Arthur leaned forward and urged his horse to run.
The danger was gone, too far ahead of him for him to sense. He
raced along the tree line, waiting until he was parallel to the
encampment before entering the forest, where he was forced to
slow.

The pounding of hooves behind him as his
would-be murderer chased him was no match for the blood slamming
through his veins and the tiny voice inside screaming at him to
hurry.

The first sign something was very wrong came
when he reached the position of the scout stationed the farthest
from camp. The gelding shied and stopped so suddenly, Arthur was
flung forward in the saddle.

He murmured to the uneasy horse and patted
its neck, searching the darkness for what had spooked him. Not
caring who he tipped off, he pulled a portable torch created by one
of his father’s scientists and lit it quickly. The brilliant light
blinded him. When his eyes adjusted, he was able to see what had
startled his horse.

The scout positioned here had been impaled
on a low tree branch. His blank eyes were open, and an expression
of terror was frozen on his features. What appeared to be massive
claw marks had pierced his winter clothing all the way to his
bones, and his insides were exposed. The kill was fresh enough for
blood to drip into a pool beneath him.

For a long moment, Arthur was stuck between
reality and the vision in his dreams, between trying to understand
if he had interpreted the dream incorrectly and whether this was
the same creature – Black Leg – or something different. He had
clearly seen Tiana’s frame and the moon, as well as felt the
warm-cool breeze of spring in his dream. This was not the right
place or time for the skinwalker to appear, but his instincts, his
sense of knowing, were the same as when he saw the creature in his
dream.

“Burn me!” Marshall’s exclamation snapped
Arthur out of his confusion. “How big was the bear that did
this?”

“It was not a bear,” Arthur replied. He dug
his heels into the horse’s belly to keep it from shying and rode
past the gruesome sight.

“What do you mean not a bear?” Marshall
demanded. “A mountain lion the size of a gorilla?”

Arthur did not care to explain what it was,
or how he knew, to anyone, least of all Marshall, who trailed him
like a lost puppy. The path through the forest was winding, narrow
and overhung with branches. On the way towards the plains, he had
the time to maneuver around obstacles. With urgency fueling his
actions, Arthur only grew frustrated when smacked by a snow-laden
branch or forced to move around a small pond he had barely noticed
two hours before.

His doubt a skinwalker – as scary as it was
– was any match for a small army began to fizzle when he ran across
the next line of scouts. This layer of defense contained five men –
all brutally mauled and discarded without any of them appearing to
have drawn a single weapon.

Arthur did not stop. Before he reached the
final layer of defense, he glimpsed the campfires through the
trees. He glanced at the bodies making up the third layer of
security around the camp but hurried onward, his eyes trained to
his destination. No sounds of fighting came, and no alarms were
raised.

His heart skipped a beat then began to race
even faster as he thought about Warner.

When Arthur broke through the forest into
the meadow where the majority of his men were camped, he halted the
horse and stared.

No one stirred. Mauled bodies littered the
entire area while campfires continued to burn brightly. The horses
were safe in the makeshift corrals at one end of the clearing, and
the tents still stood where they had been erected.