Wyshea Shadows

by Geoffrey Saign

  “They’ll pick us off one by one in the woods,” said Malley. “Or charge our lines. Our atlatls and bows will be less effective among the trees and they’ll have the advantage.”

  Tuffs turned from Malley to Jennelle. “So? They’ll kill all of us if we split up.”

  “The wyshea have sixteen death riders left.” Jennelle patted Luck. “Less, if one took the injured warrior back to their homeland. That leaves them with possibly fifteen. If the wyshea butcher has to make a choice, she’ll choose the easy target of the enemy commander with fewer riders, especially after they suffered casualties.”

  Tuffs spit on the ground, his brow furrowed. “And how are you going to return?”

  Jennelle worked to keep her voice steady. “We’ll ride north a half-hour, then back here, where we’ll head to the gully. I’m hoping by then the wyshea will be following us, instead of lying in wait. If we reach the gully, we’ll have some safety.”

  Tuffs’ brow wrinkled, his voice somber. “I can’t lose your father and you on the same day.”

  Jennelle had to push aside that Gasten had been Tuffs’ best friend and companion in Hope Citadel. “We have no choice, Tuffs. One of us has to survive, and we’ll have better odds if we separate.” What she didn’t tell him was that he was like an uncle to her, and she couldn’t bear to lose him too.

  “I should be the one going north,” argued Tuffs.

  “I have to do this, Tuffs. The wyshea butcher wants me.” She leaned forward. “How do you suggest I ask for volunteers?”

  He hesitated, and then grunted. “I’ll do it.”

  “Take chief mender Gess with you.”

  “All right.” He walked his mount to the other riders.

  Jennelle looked at Sparks. “You’ll have to come with me. It’ll be good to have a mender with us anyway.”

  “I want to come, sir.”

  The young woman’s courage gave Jennelle strength. She didn’t have to ask Malley to join her, but she wanted his opinion. “Well?”

  He sighed. “I don’t like it, but I can’t think of anything better, and it gives all of us a chance.”

  “Good.” If there was any way to save riders by using more caution, Malley would have thought of it.

  “There’s one thing.” He waited until she drew her mount closer, and then whispered, “The wyshea have killed only men so far, no women.”

  Gasten had appreciated that fact long ago, and unlike Prosperus, had allowed women to become riders because of it. He figured it was part of wyshea culture to not have females in battle, nor to kill them, even if they were enemies. For some reason, the wyshea had made an exception in allowing the female wyshea to fight and lead them. The wyshea butcher was also making an exception in trying to kill her.

  Jennelle said softly, “At least some of us will survive.”

  Malley held out his water bag. She took it gratefully and drank, the water soothing her throat. When she handed it back to him, he studied her carefully. “Are you okay?”

  She had to avoid his eyes to keep her poise. “As well as can be expected.”

  “Good. You’ve done everything your...” He stopped. “You’ve done all anyone could.”

  She fought back tears. Gasten’s blood on her glove brought back that last memory of holding his neck. She looked up. “I’m glad you’re here, Malley.”

  He gazed at her steadily, his gray eyes calm. “I always will be. You know that.”

  Jennelle wanted to say she loved him, but somehow it didn’t seem right. She wondered if it ever would.

  Tuffs walked his mount close to hers. “Six men and six women, Jennelle. They have the fastest maqal.”

  She leaned forward. “Did anyone refuse?”

  “Not one. I’ll meet you in the Southern Reaches, Jennelle.”

  “Luck to you, Tuffs. And don’t wait for us there. Ride hard for Hope Citadel. Take Gasten’s and any extra mounts with you.”

  Tuffs stared at her. “Make it back, Jennelle. Promise me.”

  Unable to say the words, she nodded once and swung Luck away, walking her mare along the lines of her riders. Raising her fist, she tried to sound confident. “I’ll see all of you at Hope Citadel.” The riders raised fists to her, but their grave faces mirrored her apprehension.

  Signaling, she rode hard north through the center of the meadow, with Malley and Sparks on either side of her, the rest of the volunteers following them. After ten minutes she slowed them to a walk in the grass. They were exposed in the meadow. With so few of them, her volunteers must have considered it a suicide mission. That realization made her appreciate their bravery even more, and it made her determined to bring them back safely.

  “How old are you, Sparks?” Embarrassed she knew so few of the riders with her, she decided if she made it back she would learn all their names.

  Sparks twisted on her mount. “Almost seventeen. Orphaned in Prosperus, like many Northerners. I decided I would rather be north and free than under Basture’s rule.”

  “So you’re understudy to Gess as mender?”

  Sparks smiled. “I enjoy learning anything and volunteered when he asked for one.”

  “Any good with your blade?” asked Malley.

  Sparks sat up. “I haven’t been beaten in the last year.”

  Malley snorted. “You haven’t been in any real fighting either.”

  Jennelle smiled. “As a mender you can tend to your enemies after you fight them.”

  “I would, sir,” Sparks said sincerely. “I think all injured deserve help.”

  “I agree, Sparks,” said Jennelle.

  They cantered a hundred yards farther before the wyshea butcher slipped from the woods on the west edge of the meadow, following them from atop her death mount. A second riderless death mount loped beside hers.

  Satisfied, Jennelle steered her group closer to the eastern woods. The wyshea butcher rode farther into the meadow. Jennelle couldn’t see any of the other wyshea riders, and worried that some of them had already gone after Tuffs.

  Daylight faded, making her tense. After another half-hour, she doubled her riders back in an easy canter south.

  Waiting only minutes, the wyshea butcher followed. This time the butcher became bolder, riding farther into the meadow until she was only seventy yards behind them. Finally, the butcher’s remaining death riders—Jennelle counted fourteen—loped out of the woods to ride beside their leader. The death mount of the fallen rider had left too, since all the beasts had a rider—except for the wyshea butcher’s extra mount.

  It gave Jennelle satisfaction that her other riders would survive. With Tuffs, Hope Citadel would still have a good person in charge.

  “We can’t outrun them.” Malley peeked back. “We’ll need a lead.”

  When they neared the southern woods again, Jennelle slowed everyone to a stop with a raised hand. She whispered to her bunched riders, “We’ll form one line facing the wyshea. Every other rider fires arrows, the rest atlatls. On my command, arrows fire first, atlatls second. We’ll do two to three fast rounds, and if they back off we’ll run for the gully. Sparks, you’ll take the lead.”

  The mender nodded gravely. “Yes, sir.”

  Jennelle paused, gazing at each of them. “Whatever happens, I’m proud to be a Northerner. You’ve guaranteed the others made it home alive. We have a chance too.”

  Her words eased their drawn faces and some drew themselves straighter on their mounts. Malley nodded to her, giving her confidence. At the edge of the woods they turned and formed a line, needing to hold their stomping, nervous maqal steady.

  Stopping a hundred feet from them to the north, the wyshea butcher leveled her thrip, her death mount growling eerily.

  It unnerved Jennelle. She waited briefly for half of her riders to back up a step, then whispered, “Fire.” Five arrows flew through the air, and she repeated, “Fire.” Darts followed.

  The wyshea butcher gave a hidden signal, and her ducking riders wheeled to move farther north. Twice mor
e Jennelle ordered volleys, and each time the wyshea backed up farther.

  Though wyshea were adept at knocking aside arrows and darts with their flashing arms, Jennelle noted the young wyshea leader didn’t want to risk her fighters. The butcher was careful. And she learned quickly. Sahr-coated atlatl darts could kill a person at a hundred fifty yards, so Jennelle called, “Fire,” twice more, satisfied when the wyshea backed away again, just out of their range. It was all they would get.

  Jennelle whispered, “Sparks.”

  Sparks wheeled and bolted into the trees. Everyone followed her.

  When Jennelle looked back, the death riders were chasing them, the wyshea butcher in front, their death mounts growling.

  “Stay close together!” she cried. Blade in hand, she leaned over her mount. “Hah, Luck!”

  All Northerners were good riders and they guided their mounts through the woods, hooves pounding the soft ground.

  After seventy yards, Luck neighed. Jennelle twisted around.

  Death riders had already entered the woods, gaining fast and forming a semicircle.

  It panicked Jennelle. They couldn’t outrun the wyshea to the gully. They would all die. She thought of her father. Gasten would never allow his riders to be slaughtered from behind while running from the enemy.

  “Darts and arrows ready,” she yelled. “Wheel and fire on my command.”

  Her riders loaded darts and arrows on the run, their eyes wild. Jennelle guessed they could see her fear too. Malley’s face was drawn as he rode next to her. He would never abandon her. It gave her some comfort, and for one mad moment she wanted to yell to him, I love you!

  Instead, she cried, “Wheel and fire at will!”

  The maqal skidded to a stop, dirt and stones flying from their hooves, and spun around.

  From twenty feet away, the wyshea death mounts leapt at the Northerners.

  Northerners fired atlatls and arrows, and some slid off their mounts. Screeching maqal reared, their riders drawing blades.

  Malley fired an arrow and drew his dagger.

  Jennelle was glad to see two death riders fall from their beasts, pierced by shafts. She was aware of Malley ducking, holding his dagger ready to throw, but she couldn’t watch. The wyshea butcher’s two beasts jumped at her.

  The butcher’s determined expression spurred her to lay flat on Luck’s back. She sent, “Up, Luck!” and her mare reared back. Jennelle jabbed her blade straight up, striking the belly of the death mount sailing over her, and then she slid off Luck.

  She saw Malley throw his dagger into the side of a passing death mount, and then a thrip snapped against her sap-soaked blouse.

  “Ah!” She stumbled forward, her back on fire.

  “Jennelle!” cried Malley.

  Taking a sharp breath, Jennelle recovered and quickly remounted Luck. She lifted her chin to a grimacing Malley. Glancing at her Northerners, she bit her lip. Three of her riders had been knocked off their mounts. All men. Mists were circling two of the bodies, and the fallen wyshea riders. She found the mists disgusting, and frightening. She turned Luck.

  The wyshea were a hundred paces away, already wheeling their death mounts. The beasts were spinning as if floating over the ground. It didn’t seem possible.

  Jennelle stiffened. Partially hidden behind a nearby tree, a death mount lay on the ground on its side. It had to be the one she had struck. They’re vulnerable.

  She spurred Luck, racing to the death mount and reaching it as the wyshea butcher shouted and charged.

  Jumping off her maqal, Jennelle hesitated when the injured creature lifted its head and growled eerily. The creature seemed even more ferocious and grotesque close up.

  The beast eyed her, and then sagged back to the ground. Carefully holding her blade near the snarling monster’s neck, Jennelle raised her other palm to the wyshea butcher.

  Ten paces from Jennelle, the female wyshea brought her death mount to an abrupt halt. The butcher’s mount wagged its head and howled eerily, while the other wyshea riders stopped in a line, knives cocked to throw. Some signal was given, and they lowered their daggers. The heavily muscled wyshea again sat beside the wyshea butcher.

  Jennelle swallowed, glad that Malley and Sparks sat on their maqal next to her. Malley had his bow cocked. The remaining Northerners quickly joined her, darts and arrows ready.

  “Hold,” she said to her riders.

  The snarling stopped, and Jennelle scrutinized the injured death mount again, drawn into its silvery eyes, which showed a spark of intelligence. “Do you hear me?” She waited, but nothing came back. She wasn’t sure the beast would survive the wound in its belly.

  The wyshea butcher sat stiffly.

  The heavily muscled wyshea warrior touched the butcher’s arm and lifted his square chin to Jennelle. He sat calmly, looking serene.

  It gave Jennelle hope. “A truce,” she said. “You let us go free and I’ll spare your creature.”

  The wyshea female’s brow wrinkled.

  Hatred. Jennelle saw it. But she also saw fear. The wyshea female didn’t want to lose her beast. The butcher loved her monster as much as Jennelle loved Luck.

  Without moving, Jennelle said, “Everyone gather the maqal without riders. Sparks, help the injured get mounted.”

  A few of her riders peeled off with Sparks. Maqal were too expensive to lose, and they had already lost enough today. With luck, stragglers usually found their way back to the citadel. Wyshea didn’t usually kill maqal either.

  Jennelle pointed her free arm north. “Ride into the meadow. We’ll leave, and you can have your beast alive. You have my word.”

  “Slayers always break their word.”

  The crystal clear voice of the female wyshea mesmerized Jennelle. She recovered from that, and the butcher’s use of the hate-filled word, slayer, and replied, “Some slayers do, but I’m not one of them. Do you keep your word, wyshea?”

  Patting the wyshea butcher’s arm again, the large warrior motioned to Jennelle.

  The leader gave some kind of signal—Jennelle thought she heard a faint click, but she couldn’t be sure—and the death riders walked toward them.

  The death mount Malley had struck with his dagger limped past them. Jennelle noted that the flanks and bellies of death mounts, where their fur was thinner, were vulnerable.

  Passing only five feet away, the wyshea butcher glared at Jennelle. The female wyshea didn’t trust Jennelle to be true to her word, and Jennelle wasn’t convinced the wyshea butcher would honor her word.

  “Yes.”

  The word came to Jennelle’s mind as she mounted Luck. No maqal ever communicated in anything except images. Glancing at the injured death mount again, she sent, “I want peace, not war.” She waited, but nothing more came to her.

  When the wyshea sat in a line in the meadow, facing them, Jennelle moved her riders off in a gallop. The death riders quickly entered the woods, and were soon beside the fallen creature. Sliding off her death mount, the wyshea female glanced at Jennelle, and then knelt beside her beast.

  Less than an hour later, Jennelle rode with the others out of the forest. It was nearly dark. She had never been happier to see the Southern Reaches. Even more gratifying, Tuffs and the others were waiting for them on their maqal, weapons in hand.

  A loud cheer rose from the Northerners when they saw her and the survivors, and they all raised a fist. Jennelle raised a fist in front of them, the effort painful. She lowered her arm and stopped in front of Tuffs.

  “Welcome back, Commander Jennelle.” Tuffs said it loud enough for all to hear, and then added softly, “I prayed to Dosh and Deve to bring you back alive, sir.”

  “Thanks, Tuffs.” She paused. “Not all of us made it. And you were supposed to ride for Hope Citadel.”

  “Not without you. I couldn’t have forced them to ride south if I wanted to. Northerners don’t leave their own.” He drew closer, whispering. “You’re injured?”

  She winced. “A scratch.”


  He settled back on his maqal. “Better have it washed and bandaged by a mender as soon as we get back.”

  “I’ll do it, sir,” said Sparks.

  “The wyshea aren’t waiting to be attacked anymore,” said Malley. “Something changed their minds.”

  “Death mounts changed their minds.” Jennelle inspected the woods. “And the wyshea butcher. She’s the only one with two shadows. It must mean something. But I think we’re safe for today.”

  “I wonder where their death mounts came from?” asked Sparks. “And how did they tame those monsters?”

  Tuffs leaned in once more toward Jennelle. “After what you did today, Northerners will follow you anywhere, Jennelle.”

  She slumped with that responsibility.

  Malley walked his maqal beside hers, his arms spread wide. She leaned across and hugged him, glad for his limbs around her. His face pressed into her shoulder, his hair against her cheek.

  “I’m so sorry, Jennelle,” he whispered. “Gasten was like a father to me too.”

  “I know, Malley.” Then came the tears she had kept at bay all afternoon.

  9

  Revenge

  When the Northerners entered the citadel, Camette watched them from the kitchen window. She was kneading bread. Red sat beside her, hoping for a snack. Gasten had left the fangor behind today.

  She knew immediately it had gone badly. Some maqal didn’t have riders, shoulders were slumped, and no one smiled. Worse, Gasten was absent. Her stomach boiled.

  Wiping her hands on a towel, she hurried through the adjacent mess hall with Red, out the door, and into the throng of Northerners exiting buildings and quarters. A thousand men and women lived here, with a score of children, and they all cared about each other. She liked that about them. Everyone mattered. It made her feel protective of them, something she hadn’t felt in centuries, and that brought to mind her brothers and sisters, all of whom F’ahbay had enslaved.

  From the careful way Jennelle dismounted, Camette could see that she was wounded. Pushing and sidling through the crowd, she ran up to Jennelle and gently grasped her arms, seeing sadness in her blue eyes. She didn’t need to see the dried blood on Jennelle’s glove to know why.