“You killed my brother!” she sobbed, tears running down her face as she brought the blade of the sword down again and again against the rough trunk. “You killed him! That was my crown! It was mine!” In wide arcs, she slammed her blade against the tree, the metal cutting into the wood deeper and deeper with each swipe. This wasn’t swordplay, this was hacking, this was something else, something she had never known before. It felt glorious and dangerous at the same time, intoxicating.
Dinah continued until her arms shook with exhaustion. She angrily flung the sword away to wipe the tears off her face. Taking deep breaths, she leaned her head against the tree, her salty tears soaking into the now-exposed virgin white wood. From its towering height, the top of the tree let out a deep groan, and Dinah watched as the bark rippled up the tree like water. Several trunks twisted accusingly in her direction.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, forgive me.” She rested her now-bleeding hand against the raw wood, feeling the deep scars and notches she had left. “I’m sorry. They killed him. They took everything.” Sniffling, Dinah found herself looking again at the head of her father, the way his crown was dug into the ground, the way his neck bore the blunt cut of a sword. There was an aggressiveness to this statue that the others did not share. While the other heads were resting, his position was a punishment.
An unwelcome whisper was beginning to creep up her spine, a familiar, surreal feeling. It was the same feeling that she had awakened to that night in the palace, when a stranger in black was standing over her bed. She was being watched. Was it the heads? Dinah stared at the statues, her eyes jumping from face to face, but she saw no movement. They were not living things, only stone and metal. Dinah slowly picked up her sword from the base of the tree and held it in front of her, both sore hands clutched firmly around the hilt.
“Come out!” she screamed. “I see you!” There was only silence in return as the heads stared back at her, unmoving as the long grass waved in concentric circles around their necks. Dinah was backing up slowly, past one head, then another. There was something here, she could feel it. Had her father found her? Dinah spun around and her eye caught a glimpse of white moving swiftly through the high green grass. She took a deep breath as she drew her sword. She would never make it to Morte in time. It was time to fight, time to die. She would not end up in the Black Towers. Her eyes darted from head to head.
She didn’t see the bear at first, not until he was charging at her, letting out a roar that echoed off the metal heads and out into the wood. Dinah stood paralyzed with fear as the bear raced toward her. She felt like she was watching herself in a dream, unmoving, watching death race toward her. It was like she was underwater. I need to move, she told herself. Move! Finally, her feet obeyed and Dinah sprinted toward the nearest head—an upright Yurkei chief, whose fabric crown circled lazily around his head and then looped down low onto the ground. Without thinking, Dinah sheathed her sword and started her ascent, placing one foot onto his lips and pushing off the ground, grabbing hold of the chief’s long nose. The eyes didn’t provide anywhere to grasp, so Dinah moved sideways and pulled herself onto the man’s ear by holding the tip of the large feathers that rested against his temples. A spasm of pain ripped through her hands as she pulled herself up and over the heavy swath of fabric and beads that circled his head. She leapt off the tip of his fabric crown and tumbled onto the man’s head.
A roar came from below, so loud and terrifying that Dinah feared her head would rip apart. The bear had reached the head now. Dinah peeked cautiously over the edge. The bear was gigantic. He began pacing around the head, irately sniffing the ground where she had stood and pawing jagged trenches in the earth, feet deep. Rising up on his hind legs, the bear’s head was level to the chief’s eyes, just below Dinah’s face. He opened his wide jaws, lined with protruding fangs, and let out a bloodcurdling roar. Dinah felt a rush of hot, rancid air blow over her face and she gagged as she smelled his potent breath—a mix of decaying meat and death. It reminded her of the Black Towers.
The bear raked his huge paws down the statue’s face and the terrible screech of bone meeting metal filled the air. He was a daunting creature, tall enough that his head would brush the ceiling in her bathroom. His coat was two distinct shades of white—most of his fur was the shade of dirty cream, but the stripes that ran up from his stomach area to his visible spine were a bright, unspoiled white, a pure white, whiter than any garment or paint she had ever seen. His jaws snapped shut loudly as his milky eyes took in her face. Besides his massive mouth full of teeth, he also had two large fangs that rose up from the underside of his jaw. The head gave a tremor as the bear began rocking his weight against the statue. He means to knock it over, she thought with terror. The statue gave another tremble as the bear slammed his paws against the base and began digging in the mud around the chief’s neck.
Dinah had read about the white bears of the Twisted Wood. They were sometimes passed off as myth, and many theorized that they had gone extinct decades ago. They were hard to kill, which was a shame since their pelts were worth a small fortune. Her entire body trembled as she stared down at him. The bear slammed his huge body up against the head again, and it gave a violent lurch. The bear huffed, frustrated, and continued digging around the base before rocking the head again and again, alternating one activity for the other. She was trapped. Sprays of dirt flew into the air. Dinah frantically looked around for some form of escape. The trees weren’t within reach; besides, she was certain the bear could climb anything that wasn’t stone. She could jump and run for it, but she was entirely sure the bear was faster. She would be dead in a matter of seconds. Perhaps if she could entice the bear higher, she could stab its face with the end of her sword, or perhaps blind it. That would give her the best chance.
Dinah could feel her chest compressing with fear as the bear’s roars shook the statue. She leaned over the edge of the statue, her face low, the sword raised above her head. “I’m here!” she screamed. “Come and get me!” The bear gave her a confused look, its milky eyes focusing on her. Its jaws opened and it let out a loud roar before charging the bottom of the statue. It hadn’t taken the bait, and Dinah braced herself for another impact. The statue gave another violent lurch when the bear’s bulky body rammed against it. There was a moment when she thought the statue would stay upright, when it teetered on the edge of falling and staying, but then Dinah was flying through the air and the sword dropped from her hand. She landed hard on her side and rolled into the deep grasses. She barely had time to look up before the bear was charging again. There was nothing she could do. She closed her eyes and waited for the attack.
It didn’t come.
Dinah opened her eyes. The bear was only about ten feet away from her, but it was crouched and still, the fur on its back raised up into a straight line. A thud echoed behind her, and Dinah turned her head. There stood Morte, his huge spiked hooves pawing the ground lustily. The bear began to pace back and forth as he eyed Morte’s ten thousand pounds of delicious horse meat, but he was also eyeing the bony spikes that protruded from his hooves. Even a white bear had to think twice before attacking Morte. Dinah began slowly crawling backward, until Morte stood between her and the bear, which did not seem to notice her anymore.
The air stopped moving and for a second the valley of heads lay perfectly still, its grasses bent lazily over their stems. The forest held its breath. Dinah saw the sunlight glinting off her sword handle. It lay next to the bear, who was swiping the ground in front of it with a fluid sideways motion, creating a small cloud of dirt. Morte let a long hiss of steam radiate out from his nostrils.
With a roar, the bear charged, and Morte as well. They met in the middle with a terrible clash of claws and bone. They swiped and danced, both bleeding quickly—the bear from its face, and Morte from his side. Together they were tangled, chest to chest. The bear reared up on its hind legs and brought its claws down on Morte’s side. The Hornhoov let out a high-pitched scream as the bear sunk his
teeth into the horse’s exposed chest, tearing off a large chunk of skin. Morte kicked the bear square in the chest before giving a great shake. Both the horse and the bear separated and charged again, tumbling to the ground in a flurry of thunder and blood. Morte landed on top this time and quickly reared himself up onto his back legs before bringing his massive hooves down onto the bear’s torso. Dinah heard a sickening crunch as the weight of the hooves and the bone spikes crushed the bear’s ribs and chest. Morte was stomping him to death.
The bear’s massive paw swiped at Morte, tearing jagged stripes across his muzzle. Morte stepped backward, shaking his head. The bear rolled over with a roar and righted himself. His walk was unsteady, and blood flowed freely from his gut. Morte was circling the bear now, letting out angry snorts as flecks of blood flew from his mouth. The bear lumbered sideways and then raced toward his opponent again. The Hornhoov spun around, but the bear latched onto Morte’s hindquarters. As the bear’s teeth sank deep into Morte’s flank and his claws tore red gashes down Morte’s thighs, the massive steed let out a scream.
Unable to shake the bear by turning, Morte pushed up on his front legs. The bear lost his hold. With a strong kick of his back legs, Morte caught the bear square in the neck and sent the blood-covered beast sprawling backward.
In the sunlight, Morte’s muscles pulsed and rippled with pleasure—it was obvious to Dinah that though he was injured, he was enjoying the fight. He whinnied happily as he paced the ground, even when his flank and chest were now exposed and bleeding. His crazed lust for fighting filled the air, a palpable stench. He turned to reposition himself. In that moment, Dinah saw instantly why the white bear would lose—the bear was acting out of instinct, out of hunger. His need was natural. Morte saw this as a battle—his brain was strategizing as they fought, and even though the bear outweighed him, Morte was adapting.
The bear charged again, but this time Morte was ready. Just as the bear reached him, Morte reared up and brought the bone spikes that surrounded his hooves straight up into the bear’s neck and face. The bear let out a terrible whine as Morte forced him down to the ground and delicately detached his hooves. Morte tilted his head and looked at the bear before he reared up once more and brought his hooves crashing down on the beast’s chest.
Dinah looked away. The creature was now utterly unrecognizable as a tangled heap of white and red. Morte stepped back and let out a bellow. It was a deep, terrible sound, a war cry, and it chilled Dinah to the bone. Morte began galloping wildly around his kill. The bear’s body shifted, and Dinah watched its exposed ribs give a final shudder before the bear gave up his life.
Dinah stood quietly in the grass, her eyes trained on Morte, more afraid of him than she ever had been. Morte didn’t even seem to notice her as he buried his head deep into the bear’s belly and began eating. Dinah felt a wave of revulsion wash over her. She had forgotten that Hornhooves sometimes ate their kills. They were as satisfied with flesh and bone as they were with grass and grain. With her hand pressed over her mouth, she turned away and walked back toward the overturned head of the Yurkei chief. Giant slashes lingered where the bear had ripped its claws across the stone. Dinah let out a long breath, suddenly aware of how close she had come to being maimed and eaten herself. This was the second time that Morte had saved her life.
After a while, Morte had eaten his fill of the bear and lay down in the grasses, nuzzling his wounded flank. Now hesitant to leave his side, Dinah raced to fetch her bag and returned quickly to the Valley of Heads. Inside, she found her old bloody nightgown. The birds in the trees began singing their shrill cries once again as she ripped it into several long pieces. Head bowed, she gingerly approached the Hornhoov. He gave a soft nicker as she grew near, and Dinah took this as a good sign. Using her waterskin, she poured her remaining water over the deep cuts in Morte’s flank and chest. His giant head jerked in pain, but he did not move as she cleaned the wounds using the water and her hands. As gently as she could, Dinah laid the pieces of cloth over the bloody scrapes and used her hands to press them down until the blood dried against the cloth, until they would stay.
She stood and walked toward the dead bear, its chest and head nothing more than ground meat. This would take a strong stomach, she told herself, but it must be done. It was imperative to her survival that Morte trust her, understanding that she knew what he was. He wasn’t a pet. He wasn’t hers. Brandishing the dagger she had pulled from her bag, Dinah leaned over the bear, took a deep breath, and began cutting the bear’s pelt away from its body. It was grueling work—by the time Dinah was done, the sun was setting low in the east and she could see that the night would be lit by a single visible star.
Blood was smeared to her elbows, her hair matted and sweaty, both of her hands trembling with pain. Her two broken fingers throbbed, and the cut in her hand seemed to have opened again, its blood mingling with the bear’s. But finally she had it, she had the pelt. It was thick and soft, the size of a small blanket, shaped into a jagged square. In a nearby creek, Dinah rinsed out the blood.
Cradling the wet pelt in her arms, Dinah brought it before Morte. The Hornhoov sniffed at the pelt and raised his onyx head to look at Dinah. She held her breath as she laid it across his wide back, the trophy from his kill. Hand trembling, she reached forward and placed it just for a minute on his side. She let it linger there until Morte nipped at her arm. Her body weary in a way that Dinah hadn’t previously known existed, she cleaned off the dagger, forced herself to swallow a piece of bird meat, packed up her bag, and took a long look back at the Valley of Heads. The setting sun lay heavy over the misty grasses, and the whole area simmered in a warm glow. The insect that resembled toast strutted proudly past Dinah, no doubt on its way back to the milky tree that gave it life. Dinah bit her lip and began walking east as the forest descended into darkness. She took only a few paces before she heard Morte’s thudding hooves behind her, cracking branches as he walked. Soon, he was barely an arm’s length away. The stench of death was all around him, but to Dinah, he was still a welcome smell.
Chapter Two
The days stretched into a week, or so Dinah guessed by watching the rising and setting of the Wonderland sun, west to east, west to east. She would rise in the morning and take stock of her supplies in the bag—mentally repeating them to herself in an effort to maintain her sanity. Five loaves of bread, ten pieces of bird meat. Three loaves of bread, seven pieces of bird meat. One loaf of bread, three pieces of bird meat. Then it was time to find water, which, thank the Wonderland gods, had not been difficult. The Twisted Wood was full of tiny creeks crookedly spreading their fingers into little pools of water, perfect for filling her waterskin or providing Morte with a well-deserved drink. He often almost drained the pools, leaving behind a black puddle full of weeds and muck. Taking their time, they both rested and ate, slowly making their way deeper into the wood.
Since they had fled the stables, Morte was actually gaining weight on Wonderland’s bountiful grasses and plant life. His inky coat glistened in the sun, his muscles hard and ready. He looked healthy and strong, even with his healing wounds. Dinah was not faring as well. As she ripped into her bird meat and bread every morning, she was painfully aware that she was starving, and that each meal meant that her provisions were dwindling. What would she do when the food ran out? She had been diligent about plucking any available fruit from the trees—a Julla Tree, with its sharp and fuzzy black melons, a pink peach tree, a handful of berries. Dinah would shovel them into her mouth, her lips dark with their ripe juices. Stepping over plants and overturned logs, she walked through countless trees stretching on forever. At night, when she settled into a thick nest of leaves or particularly soft dirt, she would set out to eat only a half loaf of her bread, and always ended up eating the entire thing.
This raw hunger was something she had never experienced—a constant jab of emptiness, an endless imagining of all the plates of food that had been available to her in the palace. She thought again and again of all
the tarts she had thrown out, all the food left on her plate when she was done eating, of the banquets and balls where trays of food had been piled high above her head. Lavish displays of exotic bird breasts, creatively carved pies, bubbling wine glasses, and rich fruits. All that food, wasted; all the food she had taken for granted. This was what she thought about when she walked, when the hunger pains became so intense that she gasped out loud and Morte jerked his head up, alarmed. She thought about food, and what she would do when the food ran out. All the time, she walked. Her brown boots, once a deep, regal red but now covered to the tip with brown mud, crunched over dead tree branches, thick foliage, and exotic orchids.
Since the bear attack, Dinah had been more aware of how much noise she made. Hammering the tree with her sword in a moment of frenzy had no doubt attracted him. Her breathing was silent, and she tried to step softly, even when her legs felt as if they were made of iron. She tried to heighten her senses—what did she hear, what could she smell? She should have seen the bear—he was bright white, for gods’ sake—and yet, her eyes had betrayed her. She had come within an inch of her life because she hadn’t been paying attention. It wouldn’t happen again.
Still, it was hard not to be distracted by the beauty around her. The deeper they descended into the Twisted Wood, the more breathtaking the forest became. The soft colors of the plains gave way to deep mossy greens, their fuzzy fingers reaching ever upward on towering majesties of trunks and branches. In the early mornings, the calm and quiet lull would be broken when white light radiated through the trees and heavenly streams of dawn covered the forest floor. One day, as she absently watched a red-striped otter flit in and out of a stream, she came very close to walking off a cliff. Behind her, Morte gave a loud snort and Dinah stopped, the tip of her boots sending a scatter of pebbles off the cliff and down into a clear river far below. Even that fascinated her; she had never seen such translucent water, or the minerals that graced the river floor. Silver layers of rock converged upon each other, giving the entire river a rippling effect, though the water’s flow was quite mild.