“Yes, that would be best.” Lorenzo cast a hasty glance in the direction of the road, still empty. “Perhaps I should go back and wait for the coach. I don’t see it yet, but it could be along any minute.”
“Right-o,” Burleigh agreed. “We don’t want to miss it.”
“Unless you think you will need help climbing out.”
“No, no, I should be able to manage that easily enough,” Burleigh said. “I’m just going to walk along here a little way and find a good place. I think I see one a little way ahead. You go on and hold the coach.”
“Very well, if you insist.”
“I do insist,” Burleigh told him. “You run along now. I will join you in a moment.”
Lorenzo hurried off and returned to the roadside, where he spent an idle twenty minutes watching the highway for the horses and carriage and searching the countryside for the earl. As he feared, the coach, with its newly shod lead horse, appeared first. The driver slowed the carriage as the Italian gentleman hurried to meet it.
“Signor de Ponte,” called the driver as he brought the horses to a halt. “Where is our other passenger?”
“He will be coming along shortly,” answered the lawyer, and went on to explain about the earl wishing to explore the sunken Etruscan road. “Please wait here, and I will go and bring him now.”
“By all means,” said the driver. “But hurry, please, or we shall be late arriving in Florence.”
“Don’t worry. He is just over there. I will fetch him at once.”
Lorenzo began walking rapidly along the side of the trench, calling out for Burleigh as he went. When he failed to receive a reply one way, he turned around and walked a fair distance the other, calling for Burleigh every few yards or so. There was never any answer to his repeated cries.
“I fear something ill has befallen our friend,” de Ponte announced upon his return to the coach. “I called as loudly as I could, but there was no answer. He might have fallen and struck his head. I think we must go down and search for him.”
This is what they did. The driver and his assistant climbed down into the deep-cut road and proceeded to search for the lost passenger— one going north, the other south along the ancient pathway. They ended up searching the entire two-mile length of the sunken causeway, but failed to turn up so much as a muddy footprint.
So, after leaving word of the young man’s disappearance with local farmers, Lorenzo reluctantly agreed that there was little more to be done, and allowed the coach to continue on to Florence, where he immediately informed the authorities of his companion’s strange disappearance. To be sure, a formal investigation was begun at once. The next morning a search party was organised, the ancient Etruscan road scoured end to end, and flyers distributed throughout the area in case anyone should stumble upon a lost or injured foreigner. None of these efforts met with any success. And although the case remained officially open, without any new evidence there was nothing more to be done—save inform the British Embassy. This they duly did, allowing for the more relaxed attitude of the Mediterranean temperament. Then the polizia and carabinieri, and Lorenzo de Ponte, settled back to await further developments.
Sadly, no news was ever forthcoming. No one involved in the whole curious affair ever learned what had happened to the Earl of Sutherland.
CHAPTER 6
In Which a New Thing Comes to Pass
Kit followed the little band of hunters along the frozen river as it wound in great, curving arcs towards the south and west. There were eight in all, seven clansmen and Kit, led by Dardok, forging a path through the snow lining the riverbank. They walked by day beneath low, heavy-laden skies, sometimes with a little wind at their backs, which seemed to urge them on their way. Ice narrowed the river margins, and chunks of snow and slush floated downstream.
They walked in a constant fog produced by their own breath crystallising in the frigid air, pausing every now and then to scan the rock walls of the gorge for any sign of predators. All the while, the snow fell lightly but steadily—small, hard flakes that dropped like frozen grit and squeaked underfoot. The air was cold, stinging all exposed flesh, but the exertion of the trek warmed him well enough, and after days lounging around the fire, the exertion felt good. Kit was reminded yet again of the clansmen’s natural hardiness—their strength, stamina, and endurance far exceeded anything he had ever encountered in his own species, and as the day lengthened he hoped he would be able to keep up.
Eventually they came to a place where they were forced to scramble up a steep incline to a higher plateau. At the top Dardok paused, and Kit, puffing from the climb, joined the hunters as they stood gazing down into the gorge now far below. Kit thought they were looking at the river, but upon joining them, saw that Dardok had spotted a herd of the shaggy, long-horned bison that usually roamed the reaches of the higher forests. The beasts were moving slowly and laboriously along the river, forging through the snow. Kit experienced a visceral thrill at the sight and caught something of the band’s instinctive urge to go after good meat on the hoof.
They watched for a moment as the dozen or so brown, humpbacked creatures ambled along; then Dardok, turning his head this way and that and sniffing deeply, gave out a little grunt. Kit followed his example and caught the merest whiff of a sharp sour scent on the air; the others murmured softly, having also recognised the smell. Kit looked to the Big Hunter for an explanation, and Dardok extended his finger and pointed to a stony outcrop across the gorge a little above the riverbed. Squinting his eyes against the white, Kit made out the pale grey muscular form of an animal he recognised as canine—a beast easily two times the size of a normal wolf: a dire wolf.
The creature was watching the bison herd traversing the valley and, no doubt, licking its chops. Dardok pointed again, and Kit saw another, slightly smaller wolf watching from a stone ledge below them. Clearly, the predators were tracking the bison, stalking the herd and awaiting a chance to make a kill.
Silently as shadows, the hunters edged away from the overlook and moved on. The river valley, which had been bending ever farther westward, now began swinging away to the south. The ground continued to rise, and the woodland closed around them, becoming a tangle of brush and close-grown trees with no clear path through. Progress slowed to a laborious crawl. The party strung out single file, and Kit, falling farther and farther behind, had begun to fear he would lose sight of his companions when Dardok suddenly came to a halt. The hunters quickly gathered around him, and Kit hurried forward to see what had happened. He found them all squatting in the snow, transfixed by something they saw there.
Peering over the head of the nearest hunter, Kit saw the tracks of a large and heavy animal in the snow. “Bear?” he asked, then remembered to use their word for the animal. “Gan-gor?” He held the image of a large black bear in his mind.
Dardok gave a forceful snort, which Kit had learned to interpret as a negative. The Big Hunter spread his fingers and placed them in one of the imprints. Then he raised his hand and made a clawed paw. “Kar-ka,” he said aloud.
Kit had never heard the word before. “Karka,” he repeated.
Dardok uttered a grunt of satisfaction and pointed to the line of tracks—first one, then the next. Then, with the tip of his spear, the Big Hunter indicated a long slash between two of the tracks and made a flourish with the flat of his hand. The action was so expressive Kit could not fail to understand: a beast walking, its tail sweeping the snow now and then.
Again Dardok pointed to the tracks. “Kar-ka.”
Into Kit’s mind came the image of a great shaggy animal the size of a small cow, but with a huge head supported by a huge neck and muscular shoulders. It had a short mane that wreathed its jaws and ran down its sloping back in the form of a ridge of spiky dark fur. Kit knew instantly what it was; he had seen one before: in another time, in another place, at the end of a chain. It was a cave cat, older brother to the beast the Burley Men called “Baby.”
“Karka,” breathed Kit.
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With his broad hand Dardok swept the print away, then rose and resumed the trek. They soon came to a place where the river gorge made a wide, arcing curve, bending around to the north. The valley below widened and flattened out, and the cliff top on which they walked began to descend to meet it, falling to within thirty metres or so of the riverbank. A little farther on, Dardok found a trail and led the party down to the valley floor; he halted there to take a good sniff of the wind and, satisfied there were no predators lurking about, led them around the arc of the river to a massive wall of pale limestone. He stopped again and gazed around, scanning the rocks and cliffs above as well as the riverbanks, then moved cautiously towards the wall.
It was only as they neared this curtain of stone rising sheer from the valley floor that Kit saw the hole—an empty oval a few metres in radius and not more than three metres off the valley floor: the entrance to a cave. A tumble of rocks lined the base of the wall, and Dardok moved towards them, slowing as he came to stand below the hole in the wall. Kit felt a shiver of awareness, and the party instantly contracted into a tight knot. Scanning the area, he saw what had drawn the others’ attention. On the rocks below the hole were more tracks, identical to those they had seen on the bluffs above. Kit stared at the tracks in the snow and then smelled the sharp animal pong. An image came into his mind: a great slab-sided dark beast with massive forequarters, powerful haunches, and a shaggy, brindled coat: karka.
The wooden vessel containing the embers was pressed into Kit’s hands, and Dardok turned to the others. In his head Kit heard the brief flutter of thoughts as they passed among the hunters and, though he could not understand what he heard, he glanced up to where they were looking and saw the big cat standing in the entrance to the hole; it was watching them, its huge yellow eyes narrowed, its ears flattened to its enormous head.
Instinctively Kit stepped backwards.
Then everything seemed to happen all at once. The great cat sprang from the mouth of the cave, forelegs outstretched, scimitar claws extended. The hunters scattered, darting away in every direction.
Kit turned to flee, slipped in the snow, and went down, losing his grip on the ember-bearing vessel. The cave lion landed on the rocks below the cave mouth, its head whipping first one way and then the other as it determined which of the many victims provided the nearest, easiest kill. It saw Kit floundering in the snow and crouched, gathering itself to pounce. The huge head lowered as the immense body contracted, muscles bulging—a coil tightening before release—and Kit swam backwards through the snow, kicking his legs, his arms windmilling.
The cave lion leapt. A slight lift of its chest, and the creature was in the air. In the same moment Dardok darted to Kit’s side. With a grace born of endless practise, Big Hunter’s massive arm drew back. The spear point came up and, with only the merest pause, flashed forward. Dardok’s shoulders and torso followed as he delivered the full weight of his body behind the throw. The rude weapon sliced the air in a tight arc and struck home.
With the sound of an open-fisted slap, the shaft buried its razor-sharp flinthead between the ribs of the enormous cat just behind the front legs. Ears flat, baleful eyes glaring, its great mouth open in a snarl of pain and rage, karka spun to confront the attack. A second missile was already in the air—a blur of motion that ended as the spear sprouted from the beast’s thick neck.
The lion swiped at the missile and succeeded in dislodging the shaft. It gathered itself to pounce, but Dardok gave out a cry, and hunters advanced on the run, darting in behind their spears to stab and jab before darting away again—first one side and then the other, keeping the angry animal off balance and confused.
Dardok turned and swooped on Kit, picking him up and setting him on his feet in one swift motion. Pressing a big hand to Kit’s chest, he pushed him back, then with a mighty shout ran to join the fray. The lion, bleeding now from several wounds, roared to shake the stones from the earth. With great slashes of its claws, the cat tried to catch its tormenters as one at a time they darted nearer. Big Hunter dared the claws and, in an act of courage that took Kit’s breath away, snatched his spear from the beast’s side.
Growling, spitting, the great cat spun and raked the air with its claws. Dardok dodged just out of reach and then plunged the spear point into the creature’s side. The cat loosed a scream of pure hatred and rage and turned—not toward Dardok this time, but away—just as another of the band leapt in to retrieve his weapon. Karka’s huge paw met the oncoming clansman and ripped through his side, opening a four-fold wound across his belly.
The hapless hunter staggered from the blow and looked down, his fur clothing in shreds. And then the muscle cords severed, and a gout of blood and bowels gushed from the wound. The man crumpled as if made of paper.
Dardok gave a cry of rage and drove in again, stabbing down into the cave lion’s huge muscled neck. He buried the stone blade deep and leapt away again. The other hunters continued their feinting attack, careful to remain just out of reach of those killing claws. Every thrust, nick, and stab drew blood, staining the snow in a wide circle as the beast thrashed and gyrated, trying to capture another of its tormentors.
Meanwhile, Dardok ran to the injured hunter and seized him by the arm. Kit ran to help him, and together they dragged him out of the way. Blood welled from his injury; the man’s face was white and his lips were blue and trembling; his body shook. Kit bent over him, gripping his hand. The hunter, his eyes wide, gave out a sighing groan as a spasm seized him, then abruptly relaxed, leaving Kit holding the hand of a dead man.
Behind them the cave cat gave out a bone-rattling yowl. The creature reared up on its hind legs, towering over its attackers. It made another ineffectual swipe with a mighty paw, then turned to retreat.
The hunters were ready. As the big cat spun around to scramble back up the rocks and into the shelter of the cave behind it, the nearest hunter lunged, driving the stone point of his spear deep into the lion’s side just behind the forelegs. The cat screamed and turned, half rising up on its haunches. The clansman held firm to the shaft of the spear, forcing it deeper. The lion raked at the hateful weapon, and a second hunter dashed in from the other side. He was followed by a third, and the three held the writhing beast pinioned as a fourth hunter took careful aim and plunged his spear into the lion’s massive chest.
The last wound was fatal. The lion gave a final roar, and its legs collapsed beneath it. The great body rolled onto its side, and the creature subsided with a long, gurgling sigh. Even dead, the animal presented an aspect of tremendous power and fearsome grace. Dardok pulled his spear from the carcass and wiped the stone point on its bloody pelt. He then knelt and placed his hand on the big cat’s head. One by one, the other hunters followed his example. They remained in this attitude for a long moment, and then rose and, taking up their spears once more, walked away without a backward glance. Kit hesitated. What about their dead comrade, he wondered. They had shown a moment’s respect for the dead lion, why not their clansman?
“Wait!” Kit called after them. His shout was not understood, but it produced the desired effect of halting them. Stepping to the poor, mangled corpse of the hunter, Kit fought down a queasy sickness at the horrendous gaping wound; he knelt and began pulling together the bloody bits of fur, straightening the man’s limbs, and wiping the blood from his face.
As he worked, Kit became aware that the others had gathered close and were watching him. When he finished arranging the body, he rose and, searching along the base of the limestone wall, gathered stones and placed them around the body. Once the corpse was outlined, he proceeded to cover it. Dardok was first to catch hold of the idea. Imitating Kit’s example, he joined in building the burial mound. The others were quick to follow Big Hunter’s lead; soon all were busy adding stone to stone until the body of the hunter was completely subsumed beneath a neat oblong heap of stone.
Kit stood and, feeling that he should say or do something to mark the occasion, stretched his hand over
the grave, and after a moment’s contemplation said, “Creator of all that is and will be, we give you back one of your creations. His life in this world was taken from him, but we ask that you receive him into the life of the world that has no end.”
This impromptu prayer shocked Kit fully as much as it surprised his companions. What they made of it, he could not guess. The sentiment and words to express it had simply materialised on his tongue as he spoke. Still, now that they were said he felt there was a rightness about them; both words and sentiment seemed good and proper. He raised his head and gave a grunt of satisfaction the hunters could not mistake. Then, picking up the dead hunter’s spear, he stepped away from the mound. He had gone but a few steps when he felt Dardok’s hand on his shoulder; the gesture stopped him in his tracks and held him there for a few moments before releasing him again. No other communication took place, but Kit understood. A profound connection had been made, a link forged in the minds of all who had witnessed Kit’s improvised burial rite. A new thing had come to pass, and it was now acknowledged. Nothing else was needed.
CHAPTER 7
In Which Subversion Is Plotted
Lady Haven Fayth was accustomed to skating on thin ice where her relationship with the vile Lord Burleigh was concerned. But cracks of doubt were beginning to show beneath her blades, and she was having to skate faster and faster to stay ahead of his racing suspicions. She could sense that a parting of the ways loomed. She would like to have learned more from him about ley leaping—at least sounded the depths of his knowledge to find out how extensive it was. But time was against her now, and the best she could hope for was to make sure that the inevitable separation happened on her terms, not his.
The Black Earl’s present distraction might be, she reasoned, the perfect opportunity to make good her own escape. Her captor and erstwhile co-conspirator was at the present moment wholly consumed by the Kit Livingstone affair—and not without good reason. Secure in the knowledge that Kit—along with Cosimo, Sir Henry, and Giles— had met his ultimate end and been entombed in the sepulchre of High Priest Anen, Burleigh had come to Prague to collect the latest version of his ley-hunting device hot off the workbench of the emperor’s chief alchemist, Bazalgette. The cunning little instrument was made of brass and was about the size and shape of a cobblestone, but that was about all she knew of it; Haven had only glimpsed it fleetingly and furtively, because his lordship kept it, like much else, entirely to himself. Haven suppressed a laugh, recalling the look of disbelief on Burleigh’s face when he was informed that the presumed-to-bedeceased Kit Livingstone was . . . surprise! . . . alive and well and loose in the streets of Prague.