Chapter Two

“Savages in Space”

1.

MUCH LIKE A famous fictional traveller created by the French writer, Jules Verne, Arnaud might have conceded that just like Professor Lidenbrock’s nephew, Axel, in Voyage au centre de la Terre, he was far too fond of geology. That he could be distracted by the presence of solid inorganic substances at a time like this bordered on obsession…or possibly shock, or a worrying combination of both.

Perhaps the civilised part of his mind chose to disbelieve he was being hunted, but his rational mind told him that to linger over yet another amazing find was foolhardy. Still, he needed to rest, did he not? While kneeling to catch his breath, he might as well examine the crystalline fragment he had, literally, stumbled upon.

Magnifique.

Arnaud indulged a small smile. At least he was able to temper his enthusiasm with ascetic qualities—a detail that would be most pleasing to some of his acquaintances. To give one’s life to scientific purposes was admirable, but beauteous things, places…and especially people; all these enriched one’s life—a detail that was all too clear when danger lurked close by. Whether Arnaud carried the blood of a mineralogist in his veins was questionable, but he would have called himself happy amid the specimens he was discovering at every turn, if his very life were not in jeopardy because of those chasing him.

He could hardly believe they had managed to track him to the tunnel entrance, much less followed him down into the centre of the asteroid. Did they know of this hollow inner world—a thing he’d heard no talk of during his time on Messor Base? If not, these men were either brave, foolish, or truly enraged. None of these options boded well. Surely, the miners would grow tired of pursuit, give him up for lost, or at least trapped in this…chamber as punishment enough. Where could he go?

That fact had not escaped him. Indeed, he would never have tried evasion had he not feared a lynching.

A few hours ago, he’d stood in Blayney’s office arguing his innocence, aware the declaration fell on the ears of men who did not want to listen, who hated him. Doing the honourable British thing and reporting the dead body had played right into Cadogan and Blayney’s hands. According to Cadogan, Arnaud was the last one seen talking to the murdered man.

In his defence, Arnaud had argued the last person he had seen Pettitt with was Cadogan, but when Cadogan grinned and asked him whether that was true, he had hesitated. Cadogan had turned the corner before Pettitt had caught up to him. Arnaud went on to say that he hadn’t known the man’s name then and had no reason to kill him, but if there were no witnesses placing Pettitt with Cadogan after that time—or none willing to testify—then it was one man’s word against another.

To worsen matters, Arnaud had been aware of a background of raised, outraged voices. He’d almost felt relieved when Blayney had ordered Cadogan to take him away, reasoning a locked cell would be some kind of protection until the truth came out.

Only when Cadogan had said, “Strange place, space. Dark, cold, dangerous. Accidents happen,” had Arnaud realised the true extent of his peril. The rest narrowed down to a scuffle, a little luck—Cadogan had expected the gullible Frenchman to have faith in justice and comply despite his goading—and Arnaud taking flight.

Instinct had led him to retrace Pettitt’s movements from where he’d found the body and doing so had led him…here. Now he surmised that his only possible means of survival was to disappear into the heart of the asteroid until such time as blood cooled, intellect was regained, and if the universe could be so kind, the real culprit revealed. Instead of arguing his innocence, he might have to wait for divine revelation—a thing that did not sit well with his atheistic heart. He could only hope once sense prevailed they would seek him out and not simply abandon him. Even if he managed to find his own way out, how would he know it was safe to do so if no one tried to contact him? Even then, could he trust his saviours? In time, he would have to if he did not wish to live out the span of his years…here. Supposing he managed to survive at all.

With some surprise, he noticed he was rubbing the quartz. It was a wonder he had managed to spot it. The…soil, for want of a better word, had a similar texture to sand, but was pure white with a slight blue cast to it, as did much of the landscape. Cold to the touch, and yet…not ice. Grittier than that. Hard grains in the hand. Arnaud puzzled over it, but the texture was just one small note of puzzlement among many. Lifting his gaze, Arnaud looked out at a frozen waste. Though to call it such did not do it justice. If he could have replaced the pastel colours—predominately white threaded through with pink, blue and lilac, even hints of green—for warmer tones, he would have described this place simply as a jungle.

His scientific mind wondered, wanted to explore, investigate, catalogue, but his foremost question was could a man survive out here? He didn’t feel cold…yet, but the temperature was decidedly cool. Where he knelt he could feel the slow penetration of creeping chill.

Pondering his choices, some minutes passed in which his thoughts meandered. When he came aware that he was wasting precious time, self-reproach and anger ensued, even as he accepted that his mind like his body needed rest. The repetitive action of moving his fingers over an object had calmed him. As his pulse eased, and the pounding in his head lessened, Arnaud became aware of his thirst.

How ironic? Here he was surrounded by what seemed a world of ice and he’d so far spotted no liquid he could consume. The act of running through the frosty air had also dried his throat. It hurt to swallow.

Ignoring the requirement, Arnaud pushed the concern aside to spend a few moments concentrating on his senses, letting them grow acute, expand outwards. He tuned in to his hearing…and yes, there—a shout far off told him he had to be on his feet and moving. Were any of the posse good trackers? In this terrain it was impossible to move swiftly and not leave some kind of print or evidence of damage to the surrounding foliage. Some of it bent, some snapped. The ground compressed in places to leave prints. He had to find a means to disguise his passage. He was one; they were many; they may have brought resources where he’d had to flee with none. He would soon grow exhausted. Eventually need to sleep, and that presented another problem. While he kept moving, he generated heat, but if he curled up to rest, would he succumb to hypothermia? As yet he wasn’t even shivering, but…

One problem at a time. Before then he needed to drink.

Arnaud stood. He resisted looking up, for although the roof of the cavern was distant, he was far too aware there was no sky. Sky would have given him hope for an end to the Arctic terrain, another avenue and, although he had much more to explore, he was as trapped within the asteroid as he would be in an expansive cage. Plenty of room to prowl, but no doorway to freedom.

Fils de salope.

Annoyed with himself, Arnaud shook his head refusing to give way to melancholy. Such was not his nature. He was better than this. He resolved first to get away from his pursuers, to locate water, shelter, and then food. He saw himself spending a few weeks if not several months down here, fashioning as comfortable an abode as he could manage for the duration of his stay.

“During which, my friend, we will get better acquainted.” He tossed the rock into the air, caught and pocketed it with several others. This would be the last. He could not afford to weigh himself down. If he had to spend any length of time here, he would have too many opportunities to hunt for minerals. He would survive and he would not waste his time. He was not a rodent. He was a man, intelligent. He was…a geologist.

No botanist though, but he needed no such skill or education to know that while some of the plants resembled those on Earth, others were immense and if to be found on his home planet it would be in the deepest areas of jungle or ancient forests visited more by beast than man. They would be green and lush, of course, not white, veined through with blue. Arnaud had examined a few of the plants but they confounded him. Some felt frozen and snapped. Others felt as natural as leaves as he had always known them, and if he closed his eyes he failed to detect a difference. They had flexibility and bent, tore between his fingers. Most, though, felt like succulents with a texture that was at once intriguing and unpleasant.

Succulents retained water, like cacti in the dessert, but he was not desperate enough to risk poisoning himself quite yet.

Blowing on his hands, Arnaud tucked them under his armpits—a deed that also hugged his jacket tighter around him. He caught himself mid-action in licking his lips and forced a stop. His lips would dry all the faster, for although he couldn’t say he was in immediate danger of freezing, the wetness dissipated, stretching the skin, desiccating his lips. The tightness around his mouth made his thirst all the more unpleasant.

Frost descended with a heavy mist as he broke into the next clearing. As uncomfortable as he felt, his situation inspired a modicum of hope. Surely the men would not continue long in this. If he could just find water, and… Arnaud looked at his empty hands, not knowing whether to laugh. He had no means to carry liquid except inside him. If he found water, he would have to drink his fill and keep running. The men behind him would likely have canteens to replenish, and that alone might sustain them, but if he went deeper into the coldest parts of this…jungle, it might deter them. The trouble with that idea was that any means he found to keep warm, they would likely discover, too.

Even as he resolved to try, and plunged ahead, it crossed Arnaud’s mind that if he found no water soon, he might have to turn around and throw himself on their mercy before that happened.

“Merde!” Arnaud shouted, drawing up short, at once trying to calm his wildly beating heart, even as he judged whether his cry had carried. He listened but heard nothing other than the squawk of the indignant bird that he had almost stepped on and that, even now, took its cry up and away into the far reaches of the wilderness.

This wasn’t the first fowl he had encountered since he began his dash into the frozen forest—they looked a little like parrots, but with elongated beaks he could not fathom the use of—but this was the first he had come across lying in his path. If his pursuers failed to hear him, no doubt they’d heard the bird. They might guess that he had disturbed it.

He strained his hearing to limits he didn’t know he possessed, but heard nothing…until…

Drip.

Jerking his head to the right, Arnaud stared in that direction, eyes wide, ears alert, breath held, rigid. Had he imagined…?

Drip.

At first heedless of any noise he might make, he ran, stopping short within a few paces. He did not know what dangers might lurk within the plants—had already seen evidence of strange substances strung between some of trees undoubtedly best avoided, though this area seemed to be clear. Also, it wouldn’t do to give his position away had the hunters fallen silent only because they had stopped to listen out for him, but the steady dripping he could now hear called him forwards. Trying for stealth but giving a little leeway to impatience, Arnaud moved beneath great fronds that had the appearance of giant cabbage leaves. They were far stiffer with sharp barbs on the tips as he learned with an “Ow!” and much sucking of his thumb, but they were saturated with droplets. Water fell from jagged fringes of ice above to pool onto the leaves. With care he could tip one down and direct the flow into his mouth.

The taste was clean and crisp. The water cool but not so cold as to make his teeth chatter. The burning in his throat eased right away. Unable to do otherwise, Arnaud closed his eyes. “Délicieux.” Better than cognac…well, almost. Arnaud grinned stupidly pleased, almost giddy. A dim thought made him wonder whether he was already suffering from an abnormally low body temperature.

He opened his eyes and blinked. The creature that stared over the lip of the leaf looked like a snake except that it had spindly legs and an inquisitive gaze and tilt of its head that Arnaud found rather disturbing. More disturbing than the mere thought that it might have bitten him while he savoured the water, eyes closed, oblivious. He’d not given it a passing thought, but naturally where there was one form of animal, there were bound to be many.

Stepping back, Arnaud released the leaf with care, partly owing to the prongs, partly because he didn’t want to upset the creature sitting on it. For a moment all he could see was the dark shape through the thinnest parts of the pale leaf and then it scrambled forward and peered over the edge at him.

Arnaud backed up, considering his options. Were there other creatures such as this upon the leaves? He couldn’t worry. His thirst outgrew his caution. He needed to be quick.

Moving through the leaves, Arnaud first took care not to impale himself with the spines, which for all he knew had already done him damage, and then to drink as fast as he could. He discovered a couple more of the snake-like beasts on the leaves, but they seemed placid. He came across a small winged insect that he first mistook for a butterfly until it hissed at him. It barely took a moment of thought to leave that leaf alone and to select another. Mostly he was left in peace to quench his thirst.

His feeling of relief evaporated when he shivered.

“Come on, Arnaud. Think!” His gaze traversed the topography but his mind remained blank. When an idea erupted he almost slapped himself in the face for not having thought of it sooner. One glance at the leaves he had drunk from told him they would not do. They were not the right consistency and the sharp tips made them unsuitable. Instead, he looked for one of the thicker, fleshier leaves that reminded him of succulents.

Fleshy was the right word, for when Arnaud selected one and ripped it free, he couldn’t keep from grimacing. All plants were alive but had he just ripped apart some kind of creature without knowing? He couldn’t think about that. His decisions from here out would have to be all about survival.

The leaf was awkward to hold onto but the moment he wrapped it around him, Arnaud sighed. The rubbery texture acted as he had hoped it would but more so. An immediate barrier to winter, within moments his body temperature began to rise. If he had to stay here he’d have to fashion a better way of wearing the leaves, but there were plenty of them and they would definitely keep him warm.

Feeling much better for having found an answer to a couple of problems, and much refreshed, Arnaud set out once again to find a way to avoid those who would kill him for a crime he hadn’t committed.

2.

ESMERALDA 2 WAS two days out from Mercury, and Annabelle had another four weeks’ travel to look forward to. The atmosphere aboard Esmeralda 2 was so thick she felt she could cut it with George’s sabre, which was, even now, in her quarters. If only it were that easy.

She had returned to the flyer sometime later than the men, having got a little caught up in her reminiscence with Iris, and found them on the control deck arguing. She had stood at the bottom of the ladder that led up to the deck, in the gangway, not wishing to get involved. From what she could ascertain, they were arguing about the need to go to Ceres. Nathanial was insisting they go, that they complete their orders to enlist Arnaud, but Folkard was adamant that they continue on to Venus, as the Heart wished.

“It is the Heart that guides this mission, Professor, not your insistence on the need for Doctor Fontaine. We can head to Ceres once we have found the minerals we need on Venus.”

“And how do you propose we find them? I am neither a geologist nor a mineralogist; I will be of little use in that regard.”

“Then just why are you here? Other than to hide from your life?” Folkard asked, his voice easily carrying the length of the flyer. Annabelle felt sure she heard something fall in the engine room—Mister Fenn startled by the volume of his captain’s voice no doubt.

If Nathanial was stung by the accusation he did not show it, neither did he respond in kind. Instead, his voice as hard as steel, he said; “Because my presence was requested by Lord Kelvin, and of course there is no one else who understands the mechanics involved in solving the problem with the boiler. In conjunction with Ar…with Doctor Fontaine I will find the materials we need to combat that problem.”

For a moment there was a deathly silence from the control deck, then Folkard spoke once more, his voice clipped and to the point. “Very well. I just hope Doctor Fontaine is worth this derailment of our mission.”

Nathanial did not speak again until he had mounted the ladder, at which point he muttered softly to himself, “He is.”

Once at the bottom of the ladder he almost bumped in Annabelle. Their eyes linked for a brief second. Annabelle was not entirely sure what she saw in Nathanial’s grey orbs, but it was something familiar, and for reasons she could not fathom it disturbed her.

Not wishing to intrude further, Annabelle turned away and began moving towards her quarters. She had to prepare herself for aether travel once again.

Two days had passed since then, and in all that time she had seen nothing more of Nathanial. He had repaired to his lab and closed himself away from all of them. As was becoming the norm for him. He had not even joined them for meals, such as they were! She wished she had taken advantage of the mess hall on Mercury—the preserved food they had for aether flight was not the most enjoyable she had ever tasted. It was barely one up from military rations, a fact Folkard and Fenn were rather pleased about, but one which she begrudgingly accepted as a necessity. Nonetheless, be that as it may, Nathanial still needed to eat.

So now she stood outside his lab, a sealed plate containing his food in one hand, and rapped her knuckles against the wooden door. As expected there was no answer. Enough was enough. She opened the door and waltzed in!

Well, she liked to think of it as waltzed, but any such graceful movement was encumbered by the magnetic slipper attached to her mechanical leg and the shoe she wore on her foot, which also contained magnets in the sole. Neither was very becoming for a lady, but it was either that or a clumsy attempt to float around the Esmeralda 2, her false leg weighing her down. For a moment she thought back to their initial flight to Venus, and how she and Nathanial had performed a weightless waltz in their cabin on the Aphrodite. It seemed so very long ago now, almost as if it had been two different people.

“Food is served!”

Nathanial was lying back on his cot, secreted in the far corner of the lab. Several books floated above him, while he considered the one in his hand. He looked over at Annabelle, but offered nothing as polite as a smile. Neither did he seem irritated by her bold entry. That, Annabelle considered, was something at least.

“More of that corned beef hash?”

“I like to call it stew,” Annabelle said.

“Hmm, I seem to recall stew being made with real beef, not that tinned stuff we have to suffer.”

Annabelle ignored him, and crossed the lab, careful not to knock the knick-knacks that floated freely around her. She assumed they were not dangerous, although at least one item looked like it could do some damage if it were to come to rest on her head abruptly. “Would it not be wiser to secure these items?”

Nathanial raised an eyebrow. “Not at all. We will be without gravity for four weeks, and it is more convenient to have such things within easy reach, rather than having to go to the trouble of securing them and then un-securing them ad nauseam.”

“Very well.” Annabelle placed the plate on the metal table next to the cot, the magnet underneath the plate securing it fast. She reached out and retrieved one of the floating books. “Blackwood’s Pocket Physician? You expect to amputate more limbs?” she asked, keeping her tone light.

Nathanial blinked, a look of guilt passing across his features.

“Oh, Nathanial, please stop blaming yourself. What’s done is done. If you had not amputated my leg I very well may have died. I owe you my life.”

Nathanial swallowed, but he did not comment further. Instead he released the book he was holding and manoeuvred himself into a sitting position, a once simple task made all the more complex by the unfastening of straps that ensured he did not join the books in floating above the cot.

She caught a glimpse of the book he had been reading. “Naval blueprints?”

“Yes, I am working out a way to create a more efficient aether propeller governor for our mission. We do not know where the Heart will take us, and if we happen to be sent to a moon with a gravity similar to Luna we will need the use of such a governor.”

Annabelle nodded. That made sense to her; the governors designed by Uncle Cyrus and Nathanial before had served both Sovereign and her uncle’s old ship well on Luna several times over. “And what of Blackwood’s? I do not see how that will help you with your design work.”

“I am trying to attain a level of efficiency in field medicine. It does seem our travels are rife with incident and danger, and this mission will almost certainly follow a similar pattern. This time I wish to be prepared.”

“Then you should talk to the captain; I’m sure he will know a thing or two about field medicine.” That suggestion received a scathing look. Annabelle turned away and looked about the lab.

It reminded her, in some ways, of Uncle Cyrus’ lab back in Arizona, only smaller. She had no real scientific aptitude and the devices meant very little to her. She looked back at Nathanial who was picking at his food. He had certainly lost weight since they had returned from Luna. She shook her head. That had been over two months ago! It seemed like time continued to get away from them.

“You really must stop blaming Jacob for Edwin’s death,” she said, putting as much gentleness into her voice as she could muster. In truth she wanted to both shout at him and strangle him. “He saved your life.”

Nathanial did not look up from his food, and for a moment she thought he was going to ignore her. But then he said, quietly; “At the cost of Edwin’s. My brother was more important.”

“I cannot speak to that point. But, for myself, I am glad that the captain saved you. I am not ready for you to be out of my life.”

At this Nathanial did look up. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He swallowed hard. “Annabelle, I…” He lowered his head again, but not before she noticed the tears forming in his eyes.

She moved forward and reached for his free hand. “Whatever it is, I am here with you. Like you have always been…”

His next words stopped her cold. “I knew what you were going through in London. I found out on Boxing Day.” He looked up at her, and the guilt hit Annabelle straight in her heart. “I knew and did nothing to help you.” He pulled his hand away from hers. “I am not the man you once knew, Annabelle… I am not the friend you believe me to be.”

3.

HE’D WALKED SO long his calves began to ache. Shortly after that his ankles, and he knew at once it was not entirely owing to the unaccustomed exercise. Arnaud stopped long enough to break off more leaves, to locate vines and tie them around his legs under his trousers, looping more vines around the fabric on the outside. Although distasteful next to his skin, his garments helped to hold the leaves in place and they acted like boots, adding insulation. His muscles still ached from the exertion, and he had to wonder how long he’d been walking. No sun marked the passage of time, although there was plenty of light. Did it ever grow dark in here? Arnaud feared snow-blindness, and took to taking the darkest mineral he had found out of his pocket just to look at it. Immeasurable respite came from looking at that deep, brown colour instead of something pale or clear.

This time he stared so long while concentrating on putting one foot before the other, his eyelids drooped.

I’m in danger of falling asleep.

The thought held no power, and quite possibly Arnaud walked a few paces while unconscious before he came awake at the sound of his stomach rumbling. A second later and he slipped, his left foot shooting out from under him, throwing him backwards so that he sat down heavily with an oof.

The white sandbank had given way to a solid sheet of…ice? Arnaud spent a few seconds righting himself, rubbing his hands over his face, and blinking. When he was sure he was awake and not dreaming, he knelt down by the edge of the frozen lake. At first he judged the top layer to be thin, for he could see down into clear depths, but even as he watched another strange creature came into view, one that reminded him of a cephalopod, but which had more legs than an octopus. It stopped to look at him, adhering to the undersurface. Both the animal’s action and the apparent thickness of the crust surprised him. If this was ice, it shared only some of the same characteristics as its counterpart on Earth for it looked like glass all the way down instead of growing densely white.

Was it thick enough to take his weight?

Arnaud stood up. Glancing back the way he’d come and then out across the lake, he weighed his options. He didn’t need to listen to know his pursuers had gained ground―he had been aware of that fact for some time. Walking across the lake—if he could manage it—might finally disguise his tracks. They would know what he had done, but if he was able to disappear into the undergrowth at some point before they spotted where, he’d have a chance.

If the ice didn’t crack and plunge him into the icy depths first. He couldn’t swim, although even a strong swimmer stood little chance trapped under ice. In all likelihood the water was cold enough to kill him swiftly, though he took little solace in that thought. He didn’t want to drown. He didn’t want to freeze.

“I do not want to die.” He spoke because so far this world had been too silent. “Non, I do not want to die.” This time he said it with less fear, more determination. His chances on the ice were questionable, but those hunting him were still angry enough to kill him for certain. He had to chance the ice, unless his first step knocked him on his posterior.

Too slippery. Arnaud realised that the moment he tried. For a few seconds he was almost grateful and then he thought of the rubbery texture of the leaves and set about at once gathering more and tying them around his feet. His first step was taken with a captured breath. He didn’t slide, so he took another. The idea seemed to work, but would the leaves stick to the ice and leave a trail? Only one way to find out. Arnaud took several paces, looked back.

Nothing. He was free and clear, and…

His first mistake was looking down. Never having suffered vertigo, it took Arnaud several seconds to identify the sensation. Just those few paces had taken him out over greater depths and the glass surface gave him the feeling of standing on thin air. On water. He experienced something that felt like a religious epiphany but a perverse one that made him want to spit.

His second mistake was in pausing in one spot too long. Where his weight would likely not have been an issue had he kept moving, the crust gave an audible cracckkkk, a zig-zag of fractures running out in all directions beneath his feet.

Thought froze as solid as the landscape. Fortunately, he moved by instinct. Arnaud staggered along, throwing himself forwards at the edge of the bank. A thundering sound of splintering reverberated—one that he felt more than heard as it rattled his teeth. A great whoosh and splash finished off the explosion of sound, and Arnaud didn’t need telling that the men chasing him would Home in on it. Was it his imagination or did he hear a shout of triumph? It hardly mattered. He was up and running, pausing only long enough to rip the leaves from beneath his shoes when they hindered him, and then off again, darting full-pelt, experiencing a horrible repetition of how this endless day had begun.

4.

HE PAUSED OUTSIDE Annabelle’s quarters. Still he did not understand why he had told her about his lack of concern for her in London. The hurt that had swept across her face had cut him to the core, but it was too late to take the words back now. His father always told him confession was good for the soul. Once again the Reverend had been proven wrong. Nathanial’s soul had not been cleansed by the words he spoke to Annabelle, instead it felt dirtier than ever, his sense of guilt doubling its weight on his heart.

He shook his head. The deed was done, and he could not go back now. In four weeks they would be on Ceres, and then he would be reunited with Arnaud. That would be good.

Nathanial frowned. Assuming Arnaud wanted to see him, of course. It had been a few months since he had received a heliograph message from Arnaud, and he could probably account for the lack of contact by Arnaud’s reassignment to Ceres, but what if there was a deeper reason?

He continued to the engine room. He was sure Jack could do with a break about now; perhaps take the rest of the day off. That would suit Nathanial well. He needed to get his hands dirty for a while, and discover what materials he could find in the engine room to use on his new governor design.

5.

WOULD THESE MEN never tire? They were surely fuelled by rage and to judge by their language and threats that they did not refrain from shouting out, growing angrier by the second. So much for hoping they would come to their senses. Even the cool air did nothing to tamp their resolve or abuse. If they caught up to him, a hanging might be the best demise he could hope for.

Arnaud had no time to stop for drink or breath. The hunters sensed their prey at hand and doubled their efforts. Whereas earlier Arnaud would have given anything to hear another human voice besides his own, now he longed for the return of silence. He didn’t know what terrified him more—the thought that he could die today, in a very short time even, or the fact that these were men: possibly some he had worked with, spoken to in previous days. Fair enough that they might think him guilty, but where was the trial? The judge? His defence? If he didn’t know any different he would have said the creatures on his heels had ceased to be men. Were a pack of starved and savage hounds.

He had flung off his leaf cloak some time ago. Running would keep him warm enough for now, and he needed nothing to slow him down. He spared a thought for the few rocks he’d picked up and that were in his pockets but as he heard, “There! I saw the sod by there now!” somewhere at his back and off to the right, he dismissed the thought of pausing for even a second to cast them aside.

He ran, aware he had lost his usual pragmatism some time ago and that these men had stolen his…humanity. Oui, that. He was nothing more than a frightened hare, the fox bounding behind him in pursuit. These…savages had reduced him to a mad run, gaze darting, every thought narrowed to flight, lungs labouring, burning, the cold air making his throat raw. The pounding had returned to his head, although he knew not when, only that it beat a steady rhythm so battering as to blur his vision, and…

He didn’t notice the plant until he smacked into it headfirst. It was of the brittle type and snapped, but not before he received a good whack to the head, that knocked him on his back.

Someone was moaning, and it took Arnaud a moment to realise it was him. He rolled, made it to his hands and knees, spent seconds deciding whether to be sick, and then as his stomach settled, let the knowledge creep into him along with the cold that he wasn’t going to escape.

Tears pricked the back of his eyes, not owing to thoughts merely of his impending death, but of people he would never see again. His father, his brother, his Aunty Maude…and Nathanial.

If only he had his satchel, then at least…

Anger flared. Making fists, he pushed himself up by his knuckles and stood facing the path. Foliage moved as men crashed through it, one focus in their minds—to kill him.

Casting his gaze about, Arnaud picked up the shard of the plant that had felled him. It was the only weapon to hand, but whether he could kill anyone with it… He couldn’t kill them all regardless. Maybe he could talk them out of doing this monstrous thing.

He had no time left to contemplate his chances, only to hold up the makeshift weapon and brace for impact.

The first man to break on the path had to be Cadogan, of course, but still Arnaud knew he had to try reason.

“I’m innocent. Listen to me, oui? I didn’t kill…”

The distance whittled down from twenty feet to ten, then half that distance again. Arnaud prepared to swing…and jerked back startled by the appearance of something large and lumbering coming at him from the side. He had time to take in the muscular shape of a man with dark brown leathery skin, dark eyes, black wet snout, tusks protruding over both upper and lower lips. Horns, long and curved projected from the sides of the head, and he could see markings on both horn and flesh. Then…the beast blew out a breath that flared the nostrils and gave Arnaud the impression of a bull charging. Time slowed so that he saw that breath frost out on the cooler air, and the ears twitched. Then the creature turned, the movement sure and swift, limber, graceful—the kind of move one would expect a dancer to make. Or a trained warrior.

Shock registered in Cadogan’s eyes, even before a large hand closed about his throat. Arnaud took a step, not knowing what he could do when the creature lifted Cadogan off his feet. Body dangling, the miner made a vain attempt to pry the fingers from his throat, even as his eyes began to roll back to show the whites, gurgling noises spilling from his mouth. One squeeze and snap. Arnaud winced, at once grateful still to be alive, sorry for the man, afraid of what might happen next.

Then something hit him in the back of the head and knocked him flat on his face. The strange sand puffed up around him, getting into his eyes, his nose, his mouth, clogging his airways, making him cough and blink. While he fought to gather his wits, he heard shouts, cries, much snorting. By the time he could see again the only thing to fill his vision was a cloven hoof. A moment later, and he got his wish—the white went away, and everything turned dark.

6.

WHAT WAS THAT noise? Arnaud shifted in his sleep. Much pounding in his head—far more severe than earlier—made him huddle down and for a short while the world went away again.

His peace was broken by the sound of a shout, something snapping, a scream… Some urgency stirred Arnaud to movement, but pain made him reject the idea. He recalled…peril, but for now the thought remained vague as did everything around him. He knew he lay upon a hard surface—possibly the ground—but he could not feel it as much as he ought. It was as if a smothering layer existed between him and…everything. The most he managed after a few minutes was to move one hand enough to touch the side of his head from where the pain seemed to originate. He flinched, or attempted to, when he felt the size of the bump. The pain of the surrounding bruise flared but he felt it at a distance. He heard…

“The Frenchie’s alive then.” The voice was male, quite light.

Another, deeper voice replied, “Good. At least he’ll face the same.”

The first spoke again. “But what if he’s…”

“What?”

“You know. Innocent?”

Arnaud waited for the answer—the topic was important; he just couldn’t recall why—but none came. He waited, or thought he did, but realised he had gone away again. The question was how long. This time, memory returned with awareness. The chase. The ice jungle. The lake. Beasts.

Arnaud bolted upright…or imagined so. Instead, when he finally managed to pry one eyelid open, it was to discover he lay in some type of cave. Enough light filtered in through holes in the ceiling and the opening to see by.

Had the men captured him, dragged him back to the tunnel? How long had he been out for? What of the beasts he had seen?

All good questions, and he had another one. What was that sound?

With one hand braced against the ground, he managed to lift his head enough to gaze around.

The first thing he saw was a row of spears against one wall. In front of them one of the bull-type creatures stood, arms folded. He recalled the appearance of the skin in the light—thick like hide. Muscles bulged and on a man, Arnaud might have been able to admire the effect. A narrow strip encircled the waist from which two flaps of—fabric? Skin?—hung providing modesty both front and back. More strips covered the forearms and calves. His first thought was minotaur, but the markings—what appeared to be tattoos and even purposely imposed scars—looked tribal.

That sound again, thick and…wet. Compelled to look but with some instinct telling him he wasn’t going to like what he saw, Arnaud slowly turned his head.

The sight refused to unveil itself. He saw but his mind refused to see the picture as complete. There was blood, and bone, and flesh, and hair, and entrails…but these things alone refused to coalesce to form men.

He had lain down again, but he couldn’t remember when. Bile burned the back of his throat but he had not the energy to be sick. He couldn’t move—too weak—and even if he made it to the cave entrance he had less chance escaping these creatures than he had the men.

He hoped, when they came for him, it would be quick. Unable to change the events happening around him and determined not to die with nothing but terror in mind, he tried to conjure up a pleasant image. He was only a little surprised when the face of Nathanial popped into mind. What would the beasts would think when they came for him and found him smiling?