Free The Great Darkening (Epic of Haven Trilogy) by R.G. Triplett Page A

he unlatched the wooden gate he couldn’t help but feel pity and shame when he looked at her.
    “It was … I mean, it is a pretty face you have there, girl. Oh I’m sorry you got dragged into this mess,” Cal told her.
    The angry red lines marking the mare’s face had stopped bleeding the day before, but Dreamer carried with her a woundedness that seemed to go much deeper than the scabbed talon marks.
    Cal carefully stroked her nose and ears, staying clear of the gashes cascading down her flaxen face. As she relaxed under his gentle hands, he moved in closer and embraced her neck. With his left hand he rubbed her shoulder, and as he placed his right hand just below her throatlatch he spoke with a language that made no sound.
    Her warm breath against his back began to slow as he felt the pumping of her strong heart underneath the palm of his rough hand. He could feel his own heart working in rhythm, pulsing in harmony with the heart of the large mare. Cal exhaled very slowly, and then it was as if something clicked in place between them and a connection was made, bringing with it a queer sort of understanding.
    The apprehension Cal and Dreamer both felt, not just about the trek they would be making, but also about the bridle that would have to be fitted on her tender face, seemed to melt away. A hush calmed their fears as Cal backed away to look her in the eyes; what he saw when he looked into them was nothing less than trust.
    Dreamer lowered her head and Cal began the careful process of fitting her for their journey.
    “That’s a good girl right there,” he whispered. “You and me … yeah, we’ll be just fine.”
    After Dreamer had been bridled and saddled, her bags were fitted and supplies secured. Cal climbed atop her strong back, and they set out together on the long road north.
    There was not sadness in their faces as they rode out past the stable yard and made their way onto the main road that led out of Westriver; rather, there was a determination. It was as if they both somehow accepted the fact that they were commencing a journey towards a metamorphosis that was sure to leave them wholly unrecognizable.
    Leaving the city of the dying tree was not something practical people did these days. Since the darkening began, creatures both vile and venomous had begun to grow brash in their disregard for the boundaries of the civilized. Though for centuries they had been held at bay by the power of the amber and silver lights, they were no longer confined to the wildernesses and shadow lands beyond.
    The northern guard constantly had its hands full, especially in the last twenty years or so as more branches began to fall. Highwaymen and petty thieves alike had made a living wreaking havoc on the small communities that pocked the northern territory outside the protected borough of Piney Creek.
    Even the outliers, the nomadic tribes, and the forest dwellers had moved south, seeking refuge in the plains to the west. The hospitality of the North had long since faded away, and what replaced it was more ominous than welcoming. Rumors had begun to spread of an evil much darker than thieves and raiders. Inside the walls of the northernmost part of Haven, guards and grandmothers alike told their dark tales. Reports of wolves and shadow cats making off with livestock and small children sent a chill of fear that kept all but the desperate or dedicated from venturing too far past the high walls of the city.
    The woodcutters moved among the abandoned villages nearest to the dying forests. Cutter camps, as they were called, were the only small pockets of relative safety in this darkening wild. Safety, mainly because of the day in and day out noise, the myriad of burning braziers, and the sharp bite of hundreds of gleaming axe blades that had claimed many a hide and many a head.
    Cal had barely made it out of Westriver before it became obvious that the light was significantly dimmer than what he had grown used to over the last few