“You know, sister,” Anaïs said, “your knowledge of monsters is rarely as helpful as you think it is.”
The cheval snorted. Its hot breath steamed the cold air.
One hoof stamped at the earth.
“All right,” Mallory whispered to her steed, tugging the reins to the left, keeping the other horse in sight while they turned back. “We’ll find another route. Nothing to worry about…”
The cheval reared back on its hind legs and let out a bellowing whinny.
Mallory’s and Anaïs’s horses squealed in terror and launched themselves forward, scattering in two directions.
Mallory hunkered over her steed’s back as her horse drove forward, sprinting straight toward the cliff ’s edge. She clutched the reins. Never had she ridden a horse at this speed. Her heart was in her throat. The horse’s mane whipped across her face.
She dared to look back—the cheval mallet was chasing her. She held tighter, leather cutting into her palms. She yanked the reins to the side, but the horse was done listening to her.
Her mount let out a terrible scream and reared up on its hind legs. Mallory cried out as she was tossed from the saddle. She hit the ground so hard she worried her teeth had been jarred loose. Rocks scraped her elbow and knees.
Her horse fled at full gallop across the field, heading back to Comorre.
Somewhere, her sister screamed her name.
Mallory flipped onto her back, body aching, flesh torn. The cheval mallet was bearing down on her. Demonic eyes and frothing mouth.
It would trample her.
She pushed herself back, heels scraping into the dirt as she scrambled for purchase. She hauled herself to her feet and ran—but she hadn’t gone thirty feet when she skidded to a stop. She’dreached the edge of the cliff. The world before her was a landscape painting—a moon-streaked river winding its way through silver fields, a cluster of farmhouses on the horizon, windows blazing orange.
The cliff face was a sheer drop. The sight made her insides feel scooped out. Her vision spun.
She turned to face the cheval, forcing back her nausea. Every instinct roared at her. The cliff was not an option. She would not jump. She would not fall. She would not let herself be thrown from this height.
She fumbled for her boot and pulled out the dagger—that small, useless blade—gripping it in both hands as she faced the beast.
It did not slow, its hooves tearing up the dirt as it drove toward her. It was gargantuan, at least ten hands larger than any natural horse.
Anaïs screamed her name, over and over again, but Mallory dared not take her focus from the beast.
She gritted her teeth. Planted her feet.
She heard a roar and thought it was the cheval. Then a shape emerged from the mist—as silver-white and enormous as the cheval itself—and charged. It was a blur of speed and fur and teeth. An angry roar. The beast landed on the cheval with horrifying ferocity. Razor claws dug into the horse’s flesh. Fangs flashed as they clamped down on its neck.
It appeared to be a bear, but this was not like any bear she’d seen before.
The cheval managed to kick its hind legs into the beast’s stomach, sending it flying onto its back. The horse spun, crashing downupon the bear with its massive hooves. The bear slashed, leaving a bloodied gash on the horse’s foreleg. The horse pawed at the ground, preparing for its next attack while the bear rolled onto its side, tried to get back up—
Something whistled through the air. The cheval screamed and reared. Mallory glimpsed an arrow jutting from its side. A flash blinded her. She squinted against the burning light.
The cheval mallet was gone.
In the distance, a figure was tromping through the tall grass. Mallory had to search her memory for his name, though she recognized him instantly. Not Fitcher…Constantino, with the quiver on his back and a bow on one arm, overdressed for this wild landscape in colorful silks and layers of garish stripes and harlequin diamonds.
She saw no sign of Fitcher himself. No sign of Anaïs.
A snarl drew Mallory’s attention back to the bear as it climbed to its feet and stood at full height, towering over her. Its snout and paws were as black as its fur was white. Able to catch her breath, she realized it was an ice bear—native to the frigid tundras and glaciers of Isbren, thousands of miles to the north. Far larger and far more dangerous than the mild black bears that wandered their mountains.
Mallory shrank back, hoping that Constantino had another one of those arrows. She listened for the telltale pluck of the bowstring as the bear dropped back onto all fours, shaking the earth.
It gave a snort, steaming the air. Its muscles undulated as it crept closer.
