Mists of Dawn (66 page)

The
eastern
sky
began
to
glow
softly
with
the
approach
of
the
sun,
and
the
gray
light
of
dawn
filtered across
the
cold
ice
sheet.
Mark
strained
his
eyes,
but could
not
yet
see
anything.
He
heard
restless
coughs from
the
invisible
monsters,
and
twice
an
ear-splitting
trumpeting,
startlingly
near,
cut
through
the
chill air.
Mark
swallowed
hard
as
the
familiar
dryness
of excitement
choked
up
his
throat,
and
he
felt
his
heart thumping
so
loudly
in
his
chest
that
he
was
almost afraid
the
sound
would
carry
to
the
quaro
herd
and alarm
them.

The
light
increased,
and
Mark
could
make
out
several
of
the
nearer
warriors,
crouching
in
their
positions
on
the
ice.
He
looked
out
ahead,
across
the
flatly gleaming
ice.
He
was
sure
that
he
saw
something out
there
now—great
blotches
of
blackness,
enormous shadows
that
moved
and
swayed
as
he
watched.

The
sun
crept
higher;
its
rim
inching
almost
over the
horizon.
Mark
felt
his
hands
sweating
and
he wiped
them
on
his
furs.

“Now,
Mark,”
old
Roqan
whispered
sternly,
“light the
fire
quickly,
and
see
that
you
do
it
right.”

Mark
dropped
to
one
knee,
the
matches
ready
in his
hand.
Tlaxcan
stood
by
with
his
fire
drill,
just in
case
the
magic
failed
to
work,
as
magic
sometimes did
at
crucial
moments.
Mark
struck
the
match,
cupped it
carefully,
and
fired
the
wood
shavings.
A
tiny
trickle of
flame
crawled
along
the
shavings
with
agonizing slowness,
branched
out,
fired
other
shavings.
Mark held
his
breath—and
the
fire
caught
with
a
puffing whoosh
that
exploded
like
a
cannon
shot
in
the
silence.

Mark
heard
an
excited
trumpeting
ahead
of
him, but
he
did
not
look
up.
He
watched
the
fire,
making certain
that
the
torches
were
caught
properly
before he
moved.
Then
he
and
Tlaxcan
grabbed
up
the
flaming
torches
and
dashed
at
full
speed
down
the
line, Tlaxcan
going
one
way
and
Mark
the
other,
handing out
the
torches
to
the
waiting
Danequa
warriors.
It was
the
work
of
but
a
moment,
and
they
ran
back
to join
Roqan
in
the
center
of
the
line.

“Took
you
long
enough,”
hissed
Roqan.
“In
my
day I
could
have
done
it
in
half
the
time.
I
don’t
know what’s
happening
to
this
younger
generation.”

The
sun
touched
the
horizon—it
climbed
higher, Mark
gasped
and
gripped
his
lance
tightly.
He
could see
the
quaro
now,
and
the
blood
turned
to
ice
in
his veins.

“Charge!”
shouted
old
Roqan,
before
Mark
had time
to
think.

Through
the
dawn,
with
the
mists
beginning
to
rise from
the
ice
sheets,
the
Danequa
moved
to
the
attack. Mark
charged
with
the
rest,
his
torch
gripped
in
one hand
and
his
spear
in
the
other,
shouting
and
screaming
at
the
top
of
his
lungs,
the
barking
Fang
at
his side.