Shouts rose along the gully.
It was slow going up the opposite bank, and at the top Jennelle took a quick survey south. Some of Basture’s soldiers hadn’t gone into the gully, and yelled when they saw them, quickly giving chase.
Jennelle galloped west through the forest, the giant black norre giving them cover from arrows and darts. Malley and Sparks were quickly beside her. Red raced in front of them, his tongue hanging out over his curved canines.
Basture’s men soon pounded forty yards behind them. Looking over her shoulder, Jennelle was surprised she didn’t see any darts on atlatls or arrows on bows. The reason for that was clear after they had ridden another few minutes.
To the west, a line of soldiers wearing Prosperan brown tunics slowly rode toward them. Jennelle guessed the soldiers were also the reason the men chasing them had given them a ten-second lead.
The soldiers in front of them spread out in a line to form a wide semicircle, while the men following did the same.
With no avenue of escape, Jennelle reined in Luck thirty paces from the forward line of soldiers. Malley and Sparks halted their mounts too, while the two lines of riders joined to form a wide ring around them. All of Basture’s soldiers held blades.
Red growled, baring his teeth.
Malley drew another blade from beneath his saddle blanket and Jennelle drew her dagger. Sparks turned her maqal to face the rear line.
The mustached sergeant walked his mount casually from the rear around the inner circle, stopping when he faced Jennelle. “Any last words, you Northerner coward?”
Jennelle sat back. “What do you think Northerners will do to you if we’re killed by blades?”
Smiling, the sergeant drew a wyshea stone dagger from his belt. “Wyshea killed you. And we’re going to enjoy it.”
Jennelle leaned forward. “Dismount if you want to live, sergeant.”
“You hear that?” He twirled a finger near his ear. “The idiot’s surrounded and she’s still giving me orders.”
Some of the soldiers chuckled.
The sergeant raised his dagger. “Kill the—” An arrow pierced his shoulder, knocking him backward. His hand slid off his reins, and his maqal reared and sidestepped as he fell off and thudded into the ground.
Scores of Northerners with bows and atlatls stepped out from the cover of trees, aiming at Basture’s soldiers. The soldiers lowered their weapons, their expressions shifting from confidence to fear.
Not far away, Northerners appeared riding maqal toward them from all directions.
“If you try to run, we’ll kill you.” Jennelle twisted on Luck, viewing all of Basture’s men. “But if you dismount, you can walk back to Basture and tell him you failed, and take your lumps. I hear he has a temper, so I’d suggest walking south to Prosperus and finding a new job. It’ll be safer.”
“Dismount,” said one of the soldiers.
All the soldiers slid off their maqal, staring with drawn faces at the archers and atlatl throwers.
“Go on.” Jennelle shooed them south with her hand. “Start walking, and take your sergeant. You can keep your weapons. Just don’t come back for your maqal. We’re taking those.”
“That’s stealing, sir,” Sparks said softly.
Malley grinned. “Maqal are expensive, and we should earn something for almost getting killed. Besides, Basture won’t claim the theft, because then he would have to admit to ordering these idiots to kill us.”
“And we don’t want them riding back to Basture.” Jennelle put her dagger away.
The soldiers hurried south through the forest, carrying their groaning sergeant.
Malley walked Chisel closer to a few Northerners and talked quietly. When he returned, he said, “I told them to head back to camp and we’ll join them in about an hour.”
Jennelle raised a fist to the Northerners, who gave the same salute back, and then sheathed her blade.
She spurred her maqal northwest with Malley and Sparks, feeling a sense of urgency to find the fleeing wyshea.
17
Mereeth
What are we going to do?” Huro sounded weary.
He sat in the knee-high grass on the hill, his black dagger stuck in the soil. His she-wolf, Hirr, slept at his feet.
Beside him, Laflel raised his fists. “We destroyed the slayer army and it’s leaving. It’s a great victory.”
“We suffered heavy casualties.” Huro lifted a limp hand. “Worse, Famere’s dying and Bosho’s missing. What kind of victory is that?”
“Mereeth, what do you think?” Laflel eyed grayblade. “Will Famere live?”
Wanting to yell at him, Mereeth refused to answer. Laflel wanted grayblade, and if Famere died, he believed their people would choose him as the next wyshea guide. He often boasted he was the most loyal fighter, and the worthiest.
More troubling to Mereeth was her sight, which had told her long ago that Famere would leave their people. She’ll die this morning echoed in her mind. Tenderly, she stroked her daughter’s emerald arm. Healing leaves covered the deep staven wound on Famere’s side and the less serious leg wound.
“She’ll live,” Goflin whispered fiercely. He knelt on the other side of Famere, his head bowed and his long hair falling to her stomach.
Mereeth had been aware of Goflin’s love for Famere for some time, and wondered if it would be too late for her daughter to discover it. Goflin’s dedication to her daughter reminded her of Darkas’ love for her. Strong. Patient. Gentle. She reached across Famere and rested her hand on his. “She’s weaker. The staven poison is strong and she’s lost a lot of blood.”
“Please, Mereeth.” His lips quivered. “Do something.”
With anyone else she would risk it, but she couldn’t bear to be the one that made a mistake with her daughter. “She isn’t strong enough, Gof. It could kill her. And if she lives, her mind might not be whole.”
“She’ll die if you don’t. Please.”
She felt his desperation, and wondered if the goddess sometimes spoke through the hearts of warriors too. “Help us, Beloved.”
She opened the medicine bag on her belt and removed three smaller bags from it, setting them on the ground. From one she transferred a pinch of dried red powder to her palm, and from another she took a pinch of white powder. The third pouch, lined inside by fresh leaves, held norre sap. She dipped a finger inside.
On her palm she mixed the sticky sap and dried powders, and then added a few drops from a nearby water bowl. Using her finger, little by little she put the mixture into Famere’s mouth. Finished, she sat back on her heels. “I’ve given her red healing mushrooms, white tree bark, and norre sap. It’s the strongest medicine we have.”
She prepared herself for another loss. On the day Darkas died, her love for Famere had kept her from dying in battle. But later, when she learned her daughter sought revenge in killing, she had slipped further into despair. Her spirit had withered a little each day as she waited for Famere to die in the war.
Toash and Song had helped with kind words, but in the end mrilwood had healed her. Often she walked or sat in the forest, allowing Beloved’s soothing melody to touch her. Over time she regained her peace and strength. If Famere died, Goflin would need that strength.
Nearby, a long-eared meadow cat sat and watched them, and orange songbirds flitted across the grass. Mereeth couldn’t take any pleasure in it.
She looked up when the shadows padded to either side of Famere. Shir’s leg pushed against Mereeth, and Lor’s pushed against Goflin, forcing both of them to move out of the way.
The two massive shadows bent over to grip Famere’s forearms in their teeth. Jerking their jaws sideways, they ripped small jagged gashes along Famere’s skin so blood trickled over her arms, scenting the air. Releasing her limbs, the shadows sat beside her.
Famere moaned and stirred.
Mereeth stared wide-eyed with everyone else, uncertain what to make of it. “They’ve tried to wake her.” She placed herbs on Fame
re’s forearms to stop the bleeding.
Goflin’s brow furrowed. “How can it help her to lose more blood?”
Mereeth stroked Famere’s face. When her daughter’s lips moved, she leaned in front of Shir, placing her ear next to Famere’s mouth.
“Meadow,” murmured Famere.
“Help her sit up,” said Mereeth.
Laflel pointed to his skull. “Famere’s mad. The staven poison destroyed her mind or the mushrooms are confusing her.”
Goflin glared at him and he turned away.
Huro hurried to Mereeth’s side. Carefully, the three of them bolstered Famere upright. Huro supported her head, and Goflin her back.
Famere’s eyes blinked open, and Mereeth whispered, “Fam.” She dipped her fingers into the water bowl and gently washed her daughter’s eyes. Finished, she held Famere’s arm. “Do you hear me, Fam?”
But Famere showed no sign of recognizing them, and instead stared vacantly at the meadow below.
Goflin stroked the side of her face with the back of his finger. “We’re here, Fam. You’re going to be all right.” When she didn’t reply, he shed a tear.
“This is stupid,” scoffed Laflel.
“The shadows don’t think so,” said Huro.
Mereeth viewed the landscape below. The sky, unusually dark for morning, made the distant yellow meadow shine. Something crawled over her hand and she looked down. Famere’s blood trickled over her fingers.
18
Intercession
Sitting inside the trees bordering the meadow’s western edge, Jennelle scanned the tall grass, suddenly desperate to find the wyshea fighter.
She leaned forward when she spied movement to the southeast. A huge black shape ran from the woods, plunging into the high, yellow grass. An emerald figure followed. The heavily muscled wyshea ran dreamlike through the meadow, pacing himself so he remained beside his shadow.
“His death mount’s limping, running slow.” Sparks’ brow wrinkled. “Should I get the death rider, sir?”
Malley looked at her skeptically. “What makes you think you can get a wyshea death rider?”
“I’m one of the best in the citadel with a blade, sir, excepting for you two, of course.”
“You did all right with Lask.” Malley eyed her. “But how many wyshea have you killed, Sparks?”
“None, sir.”
“Then what makes you confident you can defeat a wyshea warrior who fought Basture’s army all night, and is still strong enough to run through the woods with his death mount?”
“He’s running on soft soil, sir, and won’t have good footing like my maqal.”
Jennelle interrupted her observation of the wyshea to look at Sparks. “Do you study everything, Sparks?”
“I try to, sir.”
Malley grunted. “And that’s why you’ve concluded you can defeat this fighter? Because he’s running on soft soil?”
“He’s probably exhausted, sir.”
“I’d have to see it to believe it.” Malley gave a sideways nod to the meadow. “He’s strong and doesn’t appear tired to me. He would easily fend off a dart from you, and he’d knock you off your mount with his dagger before you got close, or take you with his thrip if you managed to avoid his dagger.”
“Sparks,” said Jennelle. “Do you mean to tell me you would kill a warrior who’s escorting his injured riding beast back to his people?”
Sparks blinked. “He is the enemy, sir.”
“And why is he running slowly with his death mount?”
“He wants to save it.”
“And how dangerous is it for him to do this?”
Sparks peered at the enemy, now a third of the way across the meadow. “He’s risking his life, sir.”
“Exactly. So would you feel honor in killing an enemy who’s making himself vulnerable to save his riding beast?”
“If you put it that way, I guess not, sir.”
“Then we’re in agreement, Sparks.”
“He’s got trouble anyway,” said Malley.
Jennelle frowned. “Cresh.”
Cresh rode a massive black maqal into the meadow from the southeast, moving in a canter toward the fleeing enemy.
Malley pushed back his hair and swore. “Apparently they want more entertainment.”
Jennelle pocketed her spectacles and drew her blade. “Cresh isn’t getting this one.”
Malley reached for his weapon.
“I’m going alone,” said Jennelle. “Otherwise Cresh will claim we attacked him.”
“Is it worth it?” Malley frowned, slowly releasing his hilt.
“I don’t want them torturing another prisoner. Stay, Red.”
The fangor sat, whining.
“Run, Luck!” Jennelle’s maqal leapt into the meadow, quickly reaching a gallop aimed at intercepting the wyshea’s path. The tall grass brushed Jennelle’s thighs and muffled Luck’s hoofbeats.
The wyshea glanced back at her as he fled through the thick grass, his jade body moving rhythmically next to his lurching death mount. His back muscles were bunched, like his shoulders.
Cresh spurred his maqal.
“Faster, girl.” Luck lengthened her stride in response to Jennelle’s sending, soon reducing Cresh’s lead. The three of them formed a triangle with converging corners. Jennelle found Cresh’s size unnerving.
The death mount stumbled.
Sprinting forward, the wyshea rider put his shoulder against the beast to keep it upright. An ebony shield was slung over the wyshea’s side.
The infamous shield told Jennelle that she was chasing one of the wyshea leaders, which made her even more determined.
“He’s mine!” Ten yards from the wyshea, Cresh drew his blade. “Back off, Northerner.”
Jennelle pretended not to hear his words or sending. Instead, she whirled her blade overhead and yelled at the top of her lungs, “Yeeaaahhhhhhh!”
“I said he’s mine!” Cresh lifted his blade.
Continuing to shout while twirling her blade, Jennelle inspected the wyshea. His hands were empty. He must have lost his weapons. From the corner of her eye she watched Cresh’s maqal run to within a few strides of the wyshea and Luck.
Jennelle sent, “Hit him, girl.”
Luck strayed a few steps to the right.
Cresh swung his blade.
Jennelle lifted her weapon to block the strike. Their blades clanged as Luck’s shoulder collided into the flank of Cresh’s mount.
Amidst a loud screech and shout, the general and his maqal toppled hard to the ground.
Jennelle patted her mare’s neck. “Good girl. Catch him.” When Luck drew closer to the wyshea, maintaining an easy run, the warrior positioned himself between the maqal and his death mount.
Wary of being attacked, Jennelle confirmed that the wyshea’s dagger sheath was empty and no thrip was coiled on his belt. His lined features showed fatigue.
Small details, like the fighter’s woven waist belt, intrigued her. So did his long shining hair, his black nails, as well as the beast the fighter ran beside. The warrior glanced at her once, almost looking serene, as if he was out for a stroll.
The injured death mount’s left eye met hers, reminding her of the wyshea butcher’s death mount that she encountered nine months ago, when she had sent, ‘I want peace, not war.’
Resolve showed in the wyshea warrior’s face. Jennelle abruptly remembered him too. He was the large warrior who had coaxed the wyshea butcher to allow them to escape on the day Gasten had been killed. Even to save his own life, the warrior refused to desert his death mount.
Respecting his loyalty and courage, Jennelle figured Cresh would be after him in moments. She lifted her blade and tensed her shoulder for the strike, but the rhythmic movement of the fighter’s strides distracted her.
Lowering her weapon, she said quietly, “Run, man, run!”
Disbelief swept the fighter’s face. After a few more paces he entered the thick woods with his death mount and quickly
vanished among the trees.
Stopping, Jennelle wheeled Luck and charged back to where the general was hunting for his blade. His cheeks red, Cresh thrashed at the grass with his long arms while he stomped through it.
Remaining at a prudent distance, Jennelle rode around him. “What’s the meaning of this, Cresh?” She slapped her blade against her leg. “You blindsided me and allowed the enemy to escape.”
He straightened and shook a big fist at her, his cheek scar purple. “I yelled several times! You’ll pay, Northerner.” He bent over again, searching with frantic movements.
“Now the enemy is in the woods with a hundred of his warriors. I’d advise you to leave this meadow while you can. You’re an easy target.” Jennelle charged off, flinging at him, “And you haven’t heard the last of this.”
Cresh picked up his blade and jabbed it into the air. “It’s your stupid fault!”
As Jennelle crossed the meadow, thunder startled her. A single ray of sunlight lanced a narrow crack in the dark layers of clouds. A longing to see more of the light overcame her. She wanted to shout, Open up! She forgot she was riding, forgot the meadow, and forgot Cresh.
Waiting for the clouds to part farther, she longed for it to happen as much as anything she had ever desired in her entire life. But the clouds closed again with a clap of thunder. The rarity of the light struck her as out of balance, like her emotions, but seemed fitting for her deed.
After she rejoined Malley and Sparks, she sheathed her weapon, satisfied to see Cresh leaving the meadow to the southeast. “I figured he’d be too nervous to go after the wyshea in the forest.”
“That was close.” Malley wiped his brow.
She smiled coyly. “You were worried about me.”
His cheeks reddened and he gave her a thin smile. “I’d have to take over your workload.”
Chuckling, she wiped sweat off her nose with her glove, and then pulled her spectacles from her pocket and put them on. “Well, Luck considered it easy.” She patted her mount.
“I’ve never seen the sky open up.” Sparks pointed up excitedly. “It took my breath away.”
“Old accounts in some of my father’s books talk about a blue sky a century ago,” Jennelle said softly. “When the sun’s light shone all day long.”
Wyshea Shadows Page 17