LITMIR.BIZ

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The sounds seemed to be coming over a dark ridge in the distance.

      Tears welled up in her eyes and her hands shook as she clutched Morte’s mane, turning him around, racing away. As he ran, the sun disappeared over the Yurkei Mountains and all was black. The Twisted Wood became nothing more than shadows, an inky shade of trees and branches. Dinah could barely see Morte’s head in front of her as he dived through the trees, straining to outpace the growing sounds of horses and men. The cacophony was coming from all sides now, so foreign and abrasive to her ears after so much silence. Morte’s arrival desecrated the quiet wood, violating the peace of the trees, the hum of the insects. She couldn’t see where her pursuers were, but they were getting closer—and there was nowhere to run where they wouldn’t hear Morte crashing through the brush.

      Dinah drew her sword and the ring of metal echoed through the trees. She wouldn’t be able to fight through many of them—any of them, maybe—but she would not be taken to the Black Towers. She would force them to kill her, and she would try her best to kill her father. That was her only purpose on this night; if this was going to be the way it ended, so be it. She would avenge her brother, his keepers, and lastly her mother, slowly killed by her father’s neglect and cruelty. Dinah sat still and held her breath for a moment. Then her father’s voice carried through the darkness, commanding his troops, the sound sending a dagger of fear straight through her.

      “She’s here! Bring her to me, dead or alive. A lifetime’s worth of wages and a position in the court will be given to the Card who finds her. Do your duty and avenge your innocent prince! His blood will not be in vain!”

      The voice stopped Dinah cold—Morte as well. They stood perfectly still as the roar of soldiers echoed all around them in the darkness. They were surrounded. A leaf crackled directly behind Dinah, and she heard deep breathing.

      “Hide,” whispered a voice in the darkness. “If you want to live, don’t fight. Hide.”

      Dinah didn’t need to be told twice—or have time to consider the source of her advice. She quietly dismounted Morte and bid him to follow her into a densely leafed area of the trees, stumbling many times over things she could not see. Something slithered over her boot and she forced herself not to scream. It was a consuming darkness. The stars must be on the other side of the sky tonight, she thought, hiding from this terrible noise. The sounds of the Cards were all around her—the violent breaking of tree branches, the clanking of cups against thighs, horses pawing the ground, and a singular sound that chilled her blood—the thundering sound of another Hornhoov.

      She stood still, considering how best to hide—and to hide Morte. She looked over at him through the night but could see almost nothing—the black of his coat blended effortlessly with the trees and night. I have to disappear, she thought. Disappear into the night. The dress. Moving as quickly as she dared, Dinah untied the flaps on her bag and rummaged through it, her hands feeling for the thick, heavy fabric. When it seemed she had touched everything in her bag except for what she needed, Dinah’s hand felt it. She pulled out the dress, unfurling it against the starless night. Dinah could barely see her hand in front of her face, let alone the pitch-black fabric of the dress. Dropping her sword to the ground, she pulled the dress over her head. It slipped over her easily, the ends of the dress brushing the ground. Reaching back, she felt that the dress collar was lined with a hood. Dinah pulled the black wool over her dark hair and face. It was long enough to cover everything, and the fabric reached her chin. She pulled her hands into the sleeves so that they would not show and inched up next to a particularly wide tree, leaning into the trunk.

      The voices were almost on top of her now—they would be on her in seconds with their swords and horses and torches. She looked over at Morte, who stood as still as she was, white steam hissing out of his nostrils. It was taking every inch of his control not to leap into the fight. Dinah reached out and felt for his nostrils. She gently and carefully laid her hand over his muzzle. Her voice shaking, she murmured, “Still … still …” The steam stopped and Morte knelt on the ground, becoming one with the thick foliage around him. Perhaps the animal knew he could not win this fight, not tonight, not while he was still recovering from the bear attack. Either way, Dinah could no longer see him. She pressed her face and body up against the tree and waited for them to come. Quivers of fear crawled up from her legs and infested her chest. Her knees felt weak. She clutched at her heart.

      “Don’t move,” whispered the same voice from before. Was it above her? “Don’t move, don’t breathe, and the Cards shouldn’t see you.” Dinah froze, a black statue in the wood. She closed her eyes as the Cards swarmed around them. Several Cards trampled right past her—it sounded like one almost tripped over Morte before he suddenly changed direction and veered to the right. He should be thankful to be alive, she thought, as that would have ended in his very gruesome death. Two brushed past the tree she was leaning against, and Dinah clenched her hands inside the sleeves to keep from fainting. Unable to raise her head for fear of being seen, Dinah kept her eyes glued to the ground. She could see nothing except the occasional flash of a torch as it was waved in the darkness, the wood swallowing the light in their vast space.

      The voices of the Cards flowed past the trees. “She was here!” “I heard her, Your Majesty!” “She’s over there!” The echo of the Cards bounced through the wood, making it very hard to tell where each man was—and she could see that the Cards were disoriented and scattered. They were unaccustomed to the trees, to the starless night. To Dinah’s horror, she felt the earth shake beneath her feet and heard the singular plodding with which she had grown so familiar. She dared to raise her face a few inches. The white Hornhoov carrying her father had entered the trees, with Cheshire’s sleek stallion following behind him. Her father sat proud and furious atop a female half the height of Morte but still gigantic. He carried a torch, so clearly visible in the darkness that surrounded the rest of the Cards. He wore his red armor, a black heart slashed boldly across the chest. The gold of his crown glinted in the firelight, his eyes lit up like flames. He held the reins on the Hornhoov in one hand and his Heartsword in the other, ready to kill. He seemed to stare right at Dinah, right through her. Beside him, Cheshire sat with his dagger clutched loosely as he scanned the wood, his black, catlike eyes searching each tree, his purple cloak draped over the flank of his steed.

      The Hornhoov turned her head in their direction, and the king began thundering toward them. Dinah clutched the tree, pressing her face against it, fearing that her heart would actually explode.

      “Stay still,” ordered the voice. Dinah froze as her father’s Hornhoov walked closer to them, his torch only lighting the few feet in front of him. Carefully, she raised her head and saw her father in the darkness, his face a mask of righteous fury. The king looked confused, as though he were unsure of what he was seeing. He was close enough that she could make out the sweat on his brow and smell the stink of drink clinging to his skin. She was sure he could hear her heart, which thudded with enough power to shake the tree.

      Her father climbed off the Hornhoov and began making his way toward the clump of trees where Dinah was standing. Hatred flooded over her fear, and she felt an intoxicating rush of fury circle up from inside her gut. He killed Charles, she thought. And I will kill him now, a shadow in the darkness. Yes, my king, come ever closer. Moving as slowly as she could, Dinah reached for her sword, her eyes trained on his neck, the only open spot in his armor. Suddenly there was a loud crash from the wood behind her.

      “There!” yelled a soldier from a distance away, “I heard something over there! I think it’s her!” The king’s face distorted with pleasure, and he vaulted back onto the Hornhoov, turning her in the direction of the sound. Cheshire followed, giving a backward glance at the seemingly empty valley before raising his dagger menacingly and following the king. The king’s Hornhoov kept trying to turn back—it could obviously smell Morte—but Dinah’s father simply yanked the reins and dug his spiked heels in.

      “Go, you blasted creature! Find her!” Together they galloped off into the brush, the light from his torch dimming to a dull candle in the darkness.

      “Go …,” snapped the voice, and then Dinah heard the sound of a body dropping down from the tree

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