Mysteries.
Despite the annoyance of riding with the delegation, despite the element of danger, Karigan felt a certain thrill at the possibility of being one of the few to enter the Elt Wood. One of the few in what must be centuries, if not ages.
She patted Condor’s neck. “Well, boy, as long as I’m up, I ought to find Sergeant Blaydon and see where he wants me tonight.”
Condor jerked his head up, ears alert and flickering, but it wasn’t her he was listening to. Crane’s head came up next, and he whinnied. Like a chain reaction down the length of the picket, the other horses and mules came awake, shifting and whickering.
“What is it?” Karigan peered anxiously into the dark, her hand trailing along Condor’s shoulder, and she wondered what the horses sensed that she could not. She saw nothing, and perhaps nothing out there had roused Condor, but . . . Now he scraped his hoof on the ground and yanked at his tether as if to break free.
Had they caught a whiff of some wild predator prowling in the woods? Even if it was just a catamount or wolf, Karigan thought it best she inform the watch that something was bothering the horses. Trying to quell her own apprehension, she left Condor and searched for the soldier who was posted near the picket, but couldn’t find him. It occurred to her that she hadn’t seen him come by while she was with Condor.
Where was he? If he was off taking a nap or dicing with companions, she would make sure Sergeant Blaydon heard of it immediately.
When she made one last sweep down the length of the picket line, she found some mules at the very end churning up the earth with their hooves, their eyes rolling, and sweat foaming on their necks and flanks.
She peered into the darkness beyond the encampment made more immense by the thick canopy of the woods that blocked the glow of the moon. In the distance, something pale on the ground caught her eye. A sunbleached piece of deadwood? A rock or mushroom?
She wavered for a moment on the fringe of the encampment, then, drawn forward by her own relentless curiosity—and a desire not to rouse the sergeant unnecessarily—she left behind the flickering lights of the encampment and plunged into the forest shadows ahead.
A branch promptly snapped beneath her heel and its splintering cracked through the woods. She stifled a yelp and put her hand over her racing heart.
Calm down, she told herself. If Bard heard of this idiocy, he’d be sure to make a ditty about the Green Rider who frightened herself to death.
She proceeded forward again, stepping more carefully this time. When she came upon the object, she gasped and stumbled backward.
It was not bleached deadwood or a rock, nor was it a mushroom. A hand, pale fingers open . . .
The rest of the soldier lay obscured behind a bush, face up, an arrow jutting from his chest. A tendril of moonlight gleamed in the whites of his eyes. The scent of his blood in the air must have disturbed the horses.
Catamounts, Karigan thought uneasily, did not use arrows. The arrow was crudely made, the type that groundmites used when they could not steal something better.
She glanced frantically into the dark and thought she discerned a glinting—a flash of yellow eyes?—then nothing. She backed a step with shaking legs—she could not seem to make them obey her need to run. She put her hand against a tree trunk to steady herself, her breathing harsh in her ears. She perceived movement and then—
Thwack!
Bark shattered into her face. Through stinging eyes she saw the arrow quiver in the tree trunk just above her hand.
Karigan backed away, and then swung around, racing toward the encampment.
She crashed through a cluster of saplings, batting away pine branches that wanted to cling to her clothes and limbs and hold her back. When she was clear, another arrow sang past her and impaled a tree just ahead of her. She zigzagged her course between the trees to elude any other arrows that might be aimed at her back.
She chanced a glance over her shoulder, but saw nothing beyond the wall of dark.
She stumbled over roots into the encampment’s perimeter, and put on a new burst of speed.
“Groundmites!” she cried as she tore past the horse pickets.
She ran through the ashes of a dead campfire. Without shortening her stride she leaped a sleeping soldier who came underfoot.
“Groundmites!” she shouted at the top of her lungs.
Faces of those on duty turned toward her.
When she reached the heart of the encampment very near the clearing, she skidded to a halt, panting raggedly. Soldiers stared incredulously at her. Some peered at her with groggy eyes from their bedrolls.
What were they waiting for? She grabbed the nearest soldier by his tunic and started shaking him. “Groundmites!” Her scream, by now, was half hysterical.
The soldiers sprang to life, grabbing weapons and heading toward their posts. Others who had been asleep emerged from bedrolls as they were jostled to wakefulness by their comrades. Swiftly word passed among the ranks and Sergeant Blaydon appeared, barking orders.
The sergeant strode toward Karigan, arms swinging, a no-nonsense expression on his face. Undoubtedly he wanted a word with her to ensure this was no fancy on her part, that she was not overreacting to some little noise in the night. She feared that by having revealed her feelings about the clearing earlier in the day, she had probably done little to instill the confidence of others in her.
Just five steps from her, an arrow ripped into the sergeant’s stomach.
When the sergeant fell, panic seized the soldiers who, without someone to shout orders at them, didn’t seem to know in which direction to go. They scrambled, pushing into one another, shouting ineffectively into the night.
Inhuman howls filled the surrounding forest. They were banshee wails that crested over the encampment, railing in an intolerable crescendo of low tones to a high, piercing pitch that Karigan felt crawl along her flesh. More than one soldier near her blanched and covered his ears.
There were groundmites out there all right, and a very large band of them by the sound of it.
Abruptly the wails ended and arrows rained into a knot of soldiers. Many fell. Their anguished cries mobilized the others.
Buffeted and jostled by soldiers, and without orders, Karigan took off for her little sleeping place hoping against hope that Ereal and Ty had heard the warning in time. They were protected the least on the edge of the encampment.
She touched her brooch as she went, calling on its power, her very own special Rider ability, to help her vanish, to allow her to fade into her surroundings. As she faded, a haze of gray settled into her vision. She would have a whopping headache later, but the discomfort of using her ability was worth it if it meant being invisible to the enemy and its arrows.
Behind her she heard orders shouted out as someone thought to take charge of the panicked soldiers. She even heard Lady Penburn snapping out commands, but she ran on, thinking only of Ereal and Ty.
She shouldered by a soldier who paused to puzzle over what it was that brushed by him. Arrows hissed past Karigan, striking the soldier.
She cried out, but kept running. Hold steady, she told herself, hold steady.
More groundmite cries permeated the air. These were shorter cries, like the yips and barks of a pack of coyotes. Unlike coyotes, however, these were rhythmic and held a certain intelligence behind them.
The woods shattered with movement as dozens of the hulking creatures loped into the encampment’s midst, howling and slashing with weapons, and trampling anything or anyone that came underfoot.
A couple veered toward the horses and mules, and Karigan knew the creatures would slaughter them just for the kill.
Condor! She slowed, suddenly torn between locating Ereal and Ty, and trying to rescue her horse.
In her distraction, she almost slammed broadside into a huge groundmite. It towered over her, half its bulk lost to the shadows of the night. Its limbs were covered by patchy fur. Agile catlike ears, tufted at the tips, flickered back and for
th catching the screams and shouts, the clatter of steel as battle ensued, and the terrified whinnies of horses.
It wore a thick leather jerkin and carried a farmer’s scythe for a weapon. Tied to its broad belt was a brightly painted child’s spinning top, like some sort of good-luck charm or war prize. A sandy blond scalp also hung from its belt.
Karigan backed off in revulsion, but the groundmite followed her, grinning with sharp canines, its eyes flashing yellow as they caught some shred of light.
It then dawned on her that not only was her own vision clear of the haze that ordinarily obscured it when she used her ability, but the ’mite could see her very well, too.
It pointed a massive claw at her hair. “Want.” It was a guttural sound it shaped into a word.
Karigan tried to fade again, but the brooch would not obey her command. Why did her ability fail, and why now?
She had no weapon—her saber, and even her knife, were with her other gear by her bedroll. No ability, no weapon. There was only one option.
She feinted to the left and dodged to the right, and ran around the groundmite. For all their size and power, groundmites just weren’t very nimble, but this one decided to pursue anyway.
Someone appeared out of the darkness ahead, running toward Karigan. It was Ereal.
“Karigan!” Ereal cried. She carried not only her own sword, but Karigan’s, too.
It was like some vast space opened between the two Riders that was impossible to cross, that they’d never meet, that their legs just could not carry them swiftly enough no matter how hard they ran. The groundmite gasped wet breaths behind Karigan.
Two arrows whined out of the dark on an inescapable course and Karigan could only watch in horror as they smacked into Ereal in rapid succession. The force of the double impact bowled her over hard onto the ground where she lay crumpled like a discarded rag doll.
“No!” Karigan cried.
She could do nothing but continue to run toward Ereal with the groundmite pounding hard after her, for her sword lay beside the fallen Rider.
Did Ereal’s hand twitch? Did she still live? Incredibly, Karigan’s saber levitated off the ground and floated erratically through the air toward her. Ereal’s special ability was moving objects with her mind.
Renewed hope surged through Karigan, even as she perceived the groundmite catching up with her.
The saber floated swiftly toward her. She stretched her hand out to receive it. Just inches from her fingertips it faltered and plummeted to the ground. She dove after it and felt the shoosh of the scythe against the back of her neck as she barely missed losing her head.
She exclaimed in triumph as she grasped the hilt of her sword and shed its sheath. In the next breath she rolled as the scythe descended and cleaved into a tree root with a solid ka-chunk right where she had just lain.
The blade of the scythe caught on the root for a moment, but undismayed, the groundmite tugged it free and grinned showing yellowed, pointed teeth. Thinking its quarry well in hand, it swept the scythe at her once again.
Karigan, caught at a profound disadvantage—overpowered and on her knees—knew in a fleeting instant she would be unable to halt the momentum and strength behind the scythe that whistled toward her.
ATTACKING FROM THE SHADOWS
Karigan dropped flat on the ground as the scythe swept over her. She scrambled on knees and elbows beneath a dense stand of young trees with low hanging branches. The scythe crashed down after her, splintering branches and showering her with pine needles.
She squirmed deeper into the stand, blinded by the darkness, thrusting branches out of her face. Her hands sank into damp loam and she banged her knee on a rock, but she did not notice the pain.
Behind her the groundmite barreled through the trees, unstoppable. Karigan tightened her fingers about the hilt of her saber and turned in a crouch to face it.
It perceived her as cowering and emitted an alarming, growly laugh. It raised the scythe, but—just as she hoped—it got fouled in the stand’s branches and it couldn’t jiggle the scythe free. The groundmite’s laughter ceased.
Karigan shot up in a flurry of branches and drove her sword into its belly. It looked down in surprise, still holding the scythe aloft. She yanked her sword from it and it crashed to the ground like a mighty tree felled, the scythe belatedly breaking loose from entangled limbs and tumbling on top of it.
Karigan stood over it for some moments, chest heaving, the air thick with the scents of blood and balsam.
It took several moments for it all to catch up with her racing mind. When it did, she wanted to give in to panic and weep, to get sick, to curl up in a hiding place. But she could not. The din of battle raged on, and her sword was needed elsewhere.
She stepped over the dead groundmite, pushing her way through the stand and into the encampment proper. From what she could discern, except for a few smaller bouts here and there, the thrust of the groundmite attack centered on the clearing. In the nearby woods, there were only the dead.
Karigan set off across bloodied ground littered with weapons, utensils, and other articles. She paused by Ereal who lay curled in a pool of her own blood and, as she expected, she found no life there.
Just a few hours ago, four Riders had sat laughing around a campfire. How had everything turned upside down so quickly?
She swallowed back a sob and trotted on. She encountered an injured soldier overmatched by a groundmite. The soldier could barely stand, much less defend himself from the ax the groundmite wielded. As the ax rose for a blow that would surely slay the soldier, Karigan darted up from behind, and screaming something incoherent, hacked her saber into the groundmite’s side.
After the groundmite fell, the injured soldier wobbled and collapsed. Karigan knelt beside him and determined he still lived despite his wounds, but there was nothing she could do for him at the moment.
She left him and found herself moving from one small clash to another, streaking out of the shadows to aid defenders, taking groundmites by surprise. Though her ability to fade out continued to elude her, she was still able to take advantage of stealth and darkness.
She became remote from herself and strangely calm, as though she watched from afar. It was, she knew, the only way she could do what she needed to do. Karigan G’ladheon was not a killer, but she must kill to survive, and she must keep moving forward.
She found herself near the pickets where drovers did their best to defend horses and mules. But they were horsemen, not swordsmen, and even as Karigan came upon them, a groundmite struck one down. As it raised its sword to kill another, Karigan drove her own into the space between its armpit and breastplate. The groundmite keeled over, howling, nearly wrenching the saber out of her hand. She jerked her blade free, feeling it scrape ribs.
Another drover fell, leaving one youth so frightened his face stood out pale in the night. The groundmite who threatened him noted Karigan and pummeled the boy aside as though he were of no consequence.
This groundmite wielded a hefty sword. Its first blow was crushing. Nerves jangled from Karigan’s fingers to her elbow and she nearly lost her sword. She and the groundmite warily circled one another. Their blades flashed in a quick exchange of blows, and then they backed off, assessing. Karigan had fought opponents far more powerful than herself before, but never had she crossed swords with something so strong.
Without warning the groundmite bore into her again, slamming its blade against hers. It used its sword like a club, and the force of the stroke made Karigan’s saber dip to the ground. Another caused her to stumble backward.
She thrusted and ducked, sidestepped and blocked. She used trees as shields and practically danced around the groundmite seeking advantage or safety. The fight lacked rhythm, for whatever fine techniques she knew were next to useless against her opponent’s hack and slash methods.
Sweat streamed into Karigan’s eyes and the muscles from her wrist to her shoulder burned. Her focus was such that the sounds of batt
le, even the cries of the dying, fell into the background of her awareness. The clang and ding of her sword against the groundmite’s, and her own panting, were sharp counterpoint.
The groundmite grunted, heaving the blade down on her. Karigan darted to the side to evade the blow and stumbled over a root, nearly falling into the hooves of thrashing horses and mules maddened by the stench of blood.
It gave her an idea.
Before the groundmite could bring down its blade another time, she darted between a pair of mules.
If the groundmite didn’t get her, she reflected, the mules probably would. Stepping between two maddened animals with iron-shod hooves and a ton of weight between them was a foolhardy move. If they didn’t get her with their hooves, they could crush her between them. Yet, it was this very power she was relying on.
In the mere moments it took her to slip between the mules, she was jostled, her foot stomped, her shin grazed, but she came to their heads in one piece, relatively unhurt.
The groundmite, intent on its quarry, dove in heedlessly after her, and this she had anticipated. Though she hated to do it to the poor animals, she slapped them across their sensitive noses.
The mules plunged and squealed anew. One of them kicked the groundmite and its howl of pain only intensified their rage. The mules came together, smashing it between them. It writhed, eyes rolling, and lost its sword somewhere beneath the deadly hooves.
Karigan left the groundmite to the mules. She ran from the pickets and through the woods, once again on the fringe of the encampment. She thought she heard Condor’s whinny somewhere behind her, and she closed her eyes. There was no time to check on him. . . .
First Rider's Call Page 5