Green Rider

by Kristen Britain

Nine Green Riders flew from the north end of the valley. Unmistakable red hair streamed behind the first and foremost Rider. Behind her, another Rider blared the horn. Somehow they had known to come!

  “A handful of Greenies,” Shawdell said, “should not change my plans overmuch.”

  Karigan grabbed Alton’s sword and with an angry growl, lunged at Shawdell. He dropped his bow and met her with his own sword. When the two blades pinged together, Karigan felt shock waves tingle through her arms. How stupid, she thought, to use a saber against a long sword. He easily countered every move she made, his pale blue eyes steady, and his lips curved up in a parody of a smile. He was enjoying this!

  He toyed with her, let her exert herself. He parried her blows, neither defending himself, exactly, or attacking. Just playing. He had the reach of her, and in quick succession, sliced the brass buttons off her greatcoat. Karigan tried harder, tried to remember everything she had learned, but the harder she tried, the more Shawdell looked like laughing. He could have killed her long ago.

  Then the saber snapped. She looked stupidly at the jagged shards.

  “Those sabers are no match for a sword wrought Ages ago by the smiths of Mornhavon the Black,” Shawdell said, slipping his into its sheath. “And your fledgling skills are nothing to me. I’ve been at the sword four hundred years and twice that, and I’ve access to power none of you can reach. I broke the D’Yer Wall.”

  A black orb like the one Karigan had seen in her room at the Fallen Tree Inn in North formed just above Shawdell’s upturned palm. It pulsated and rotated, and repelled the light. He hurled it at her.

  Karigan dodged to the side, but the ball struck her shoulder. The sensation was like the shattering of a glass window, fragments flying through the air, flying through her. Pain crackled through every nerve ending in her body and she crashed to the ground in agony. Black, ropy fire wrapped around her and she tried to scream, but her voice was stuck in her throat.

  “This should hold you for a time,” Shawdell told her, “while I attend to other matters.” He took up the bow and faced the valley, gazing intently at the scene below.

  Laren Mapstone and her Riders had blown past Tomas Mirwell and his aide and guard. Mirwell may have master-minded this ambush on King Zachary, but he did not pose a serious threat in the immediate battle. She would deal with him later, and gladly. The groundmites, on the other hand, pushed hard on King Zachary and his guards. Only the skill of the remarkable Weapons had set back the crude slashing of the snarling groundmites.

  A great mist had settled on the ridge to the east. It shifted in some unnatural way. Then, in response to a blast from Patrici’s horn, a distant sequence of notes, the battle call of the Green Riders, sounded from the mist. A figure loomed out of the mist, like a rider on a rearing horse, her hair flowing behind her, and she held her horn high as if in salute.

  Fly, Riders, fly, a chorus of far-off voices chanted.

  What was it Laren had said about the First Rider?

  She didn’t know how much time had elapsed since then, for they had engaged the groundmites. The mud-colored, hulking creatures cowered beneath the flying hooves of enraged messenger horses. Several fell to Rider sabers. Then the king’s banner fell, was trampled underfoot, and the groundmites rallied and fought back. They growled through sharp teeth and beat their swords on black shields in defiance. Before the Long War, Mornhavon the Black had bred these creatures to be unthinking killers.

  Laren was aware of some of her people being hauled from their saddles and falling beneath the blades of groundmites. Horses were hacked down, their Riders never reemerging. Grimly she fought on, pounding through the thick skull of one groundmite, and slashing the throat of another. Her sword notched on the black breastplate of one, and when his sharp claw rent through her trousers and into the flesh of her calf, she drove the sword through his eye.

  It seemed to rain blood, and Laren lost count of how many of the enemy she killed. One grabbed for Bluebird’s bridle, she hacked his claw off. The din of metal against metal was punctuated by grunts and shouts. Foremost in Laren’s mind was to stand by the king’s side and defend him, and she mindlessly hacked at groundmites to reach her goal.

  She wondered in some distant corner of her mind if all her training, all her years in the messenger service, had come down to this base savagery, of indiscriminate thrusts and hacks. There was no fine technique here as was taught by the arms masters, and no sense of time. Just forward momentum and another groundmite to kill.

  When there were quite suddenly no more before her, she stopped, blinking in surprise. The few remaining groundmites fled, throwing down their weapons as they ran, in the end no match for the mounted Riders. One of the surviving Green Riders began to chase after them, but Laren yelled, “Halt. Enough. We need your help here.” She set him to helping the wounded.

  Just two of her people remained mounted. All around her lay the dead and wounded, and it wasn’t easy to know which was which. She shook her head in disbelief. Her people . . . She was responsible for them, for this. She swallowed, forcing back emotions that must wait for another, private time. She was still a captain of the messenger service, and there was work yet to be done.

  She glanced at the king, who was leaning wearily against his horse. Of his original hunting party, only one haggard Weapon stood beside him. She saw the lines of grief and pain on Zachary’s face, and when his eyes met hers, he said, “Mirwell.”

  Laren nodded in understanding and wheeled Bluebird around. She galloped her exhausted horse across the valley, fearing Mirwell would escape.

  She found him sitting calmly upon his horse watching her approach with interest. She pulled Bluebird up before him.

  “Well, well, Captain,” he said.

  Laren pointed her bloody saber at him. “I know your part in this, Lord-Governor.”

  The guard D’rang sat nervously playing with his reins, but Beryl sat there unmoving, her eyes glassy and empty. Her winged horse brooch was missing. The captain tried to read her, but found nothing but a barrier, a very dark barrier.

  “I have anticipated the moment when we could meet this way,” Mirwell said, “when I didn’t have to hide my thoughts from you.”

  “Oh, I’ve known well enough how you’ve felt about me,” Laren said with a tight smile. “I just had to read the expression on your face, but you kept your other secrets well enough. It’s all over.”

  “I daresay it is not.” Mirwell glanced up at the ridge and Laren followed his gaze.

  Through the gloom of ghosts, two figures could be seen battling one another. Gold hair flashed on one of the combatants—the Eletian of course. The other was not so easy to make out at first, but then the clash of ghosts shifted, and through a thinning of the supernatural fog, she could see her.

  “Karigan,” she whispered.

  “Yes, the very same Greenie who made off with the message,” Mirwell said. “I’ll be very glad when the Gray One finishes her off, for all the trouble she has caused me. Her family will suffer when I take L’Petrie Province, you can believe that. Merchant clan, humph.”

  Laren wasn’t paying attention. She considered riding up the ridge to help Karigan, but somehow, she felt that it was beyond her, that in the end, she would be of no help. It was Karigan’s battle. Hers and the Eletian’s. Instead, she looked to Mirwell again.

  “Dismount,” she told him. Only D’rang complied, and the governor glared at him.

  “Spence,” Mirwell said. “The captain has annoyed me for the last time. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, my lord.” Beryl drew her long sword.

  Laren looked incredulously from Beryl to Mirwell. “What have you done to her?”

  Mirwell smiled at Beryl like an indulgent parent. “Nothing,” he said. “Or at least, less than I would have liked. But the Gray One wished to ensure her loyalty to the great province of Mirwell and its lord.”

  Beryl held her sword at the ready, her expression deadpan.

  “Beryl,�
� Laren said. “It’s me, Captain Mapstone.”

  Beryl did not even blink before she swung the blade. The captain barely deflected the blow. Bluebird backed off to help weaken its force. Laren licked her lips. Beryl had been on the verge of initiating swordmaster training when the brooch had called her. Her skill with the sword was well known.

  “Kill her, Spence,” Mirwell said.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Beryl jammed her heels into her horse, and she sprang broadside into Bluebird. Laren felt the strain of bones in her leg, reawakening the pain of the bloody wound inflicted on her by the groundmite. Bluebird fought to maintain his footing.

  The long sword came again, swinging like a scythe. Laren backed and backed under the assault. The exhausting run and the melee with the groundmites had tired her beyond reason, slowing her reflexes. Oh, how her body hurt.

  A hard blow jangled the nerves all the way to Laren’s teeth, and she knew that soon, Beryl would take her. The tip of the long sword swished perilously close to her chest and when she brought her saber in closer to guard herself, she realized her mistake, for the move was not completed. It was an advanced technique swordmasters called the “curve.” It took great strength and control, after sweeping the sword across the opponent’s chest, to reverse the momentum of the slash and bring it back across the opponent’s neck.

  Laren ducked, but not enough, and she felt a burning across her scalp, and then she was blinded by her own blood running into her eyes. She rubbed them, but Beryl rammed her horse into Bluebird again. The poor exhausted horse toppled over, and Laren rolled clear. She felt around for her saber, but a boot stepped on her hand.

  Laren blinked her eyes clear. Beryl stood above her with the sword raised. Mirwell’s laughter could be heard over her own hard breaths.

  Karigan’s head buzzed and she fought against fainting, wrapped in the searing pain. The energy of the Eletian’s magic burned her inside and out like hot, writhing coals. She saw images of her charred flesh exploding open and molten fire pouring out.

  She saw other images of the Berry sisters, weaving between the pale faces of ghosts, looking at her kindly, clucking and shaking their heads. The child looks out of sorts, Miss Bunch said. Do not be too harsh on her, Miss Bay said. She may have failed, but she did try. Arms Master Rendle shared a cup of tea with the ladies. You forgot to watch your back, he told her.

  Her friend Estral sat in her dorm room plucking a lute. I will write a song in your memory, she assured her. Abram Rust sat next to her and blew smoke rings. The tree fell long ago, he said.

  Torne and Garroty crowded her vision, pushing away even the ghosts. You deserve this. Die, Greenie.

  And the ghosts whispered, Break the arrows.

  Die, Greenie, Torne said. Die.

  Break the arrows.

  Karigan stopped struggling. She just wanted to sleep and not wake up. Why did everyone keep nagging her?

  Break the arrows. She felt the pressure of all those ghosts crowding her.

  Shawdell nocked an arrow to the bow string. His lips moved as if he spoke a prayer over it.

  Karigan saw an image of King Zachary sitting on his throne patting a ghost dog on his lap. The ghosts massed behind him and oozed around the edges of his chair. He looked up toward the ceiling where an artist lay on scaffolding, painting his portrait. He opened his mouth to speak, but it was not his voice she heard.

  “This is for your king,” the Eletian said.

  The Eletian blurred in her tearing eyes. He stood erect and drew the bow string taut.

  “One arrow to kill him,” he gloated.

  Karigan fought the agony of his magic on her. She staggered to her feet.

  “And the other to enslave him.”

  Karigan tackled Shawdell as he loosed the arrow. It flew wild. She attempted to get a hold on him, and they struggled on the ground for a moment, limbs and bow entangled. Shawdell threw her off.

  She tumbled through ghosts, feeling their cold presences pass through her. An old man with an arrow in his throat leered over her. He held a hoe over his head as if to strike her. F’ryan Coblebay pushed the spirit and it dissipated.

  Break the arrows.

  The Eletian faced Karigan, his features drawn with anger. He drew his sword once again.

  This time, Karigan did not have a saber with which to defend herself, and it did not look like Shawdell was in the mood to play anymore. It was hard to think amidst the burning coils of his spell. She could toss a bunchberry petal to the wind, but by the time help arrived, Shawdell would have her sliced into a hundred pieces. The sprig of bayberry might make her feel better, but it was no defense against Shawdell. The winged horse brooch she wore pinned to her shirt had certainly been no advantage against him before.

  There was only one more thing. She dipped her hand into her pocket and felt the smooth cool sphere she always kept there.

  Immediately the spell shattered to pieces. Tendrils of black burning filaments fell to the ground, scorching and burrowing into the soil. No more burning hot coals. No more boiling flesh. When she looked at her skin, it was smooth and untouched.

  But Shawdell still held the sword.

  Use what is available to you, the king had told her following their game of Intrigue. She drew the moonstone out. It was all she had.

  At first the stone did nothing, and all Karigan could do was back away from Shawdell’s intent advance. Then the stone flared to life in a single, silver blade of light. Shawdell stopped his advance in surprise.

  It was like a sword in her hand. She shifted it this way and that and it swept through the air as a well-made blade should. Now she advanced, and Shawdell met her.

  Their swords did not clang when they touched as two metal blades would, rather they hummed as if resonating against one another, light and dark. Silver sparks cascaded about them and a thread of smoke curled up from Shawdell’s sword.

  The light of the moonstone grew within and without her, drawing on her strength and memory; gathering together everything she had ever learned about survival and putting that knowledge in her immediate grasp. It was as if all her experiences during her long journey had finally come full circle in a combination that guided her hands and feet with a confidence and a competence she had not known before.

  When their swords crossed and they pushed on one another, Shawdell hissed, “Eletia has truly failed if it relies on a weak mortal to fight its battles.”

  Karigan pushed him away with a grunt and battered him with another volley of blows.

  “Eletian moonlight is nothing over the power of Mornhavon the Black!” Shawdell shouted.

  In a calm, quiet voice, Karigan answered, “Eletia has nothing to do with it.”

  The ghosts stood as supernatural witnesses in a fluctuating, gray ring about the two combatants.

  Shawdell cut low at Karigan’s knees, she whipped the moonbeam blade in a luminous arc and blocked it. She thrust at his chest, but he sidled away and swung back with a slash to her stomach. It went back and forth like this, this oddly silent sword fight.

  Karigan used many techniques she learned from Arms Master Rendle and F’ryan Coblebay. The ghost had shown her more than anyone when he had claimed her body during her fight with Torne. She had felt how to move her body in a precise way when wielding a sword. She had learned how to anticipate and meet the enemy. Rendle and F’ryan had taught her well, and she owed her survival in this duel, thus far, to them. One element was missing, however, that would help her overcome Shawdell. It was what the cargo master, Sevano, had taught her: unpredictability.

  As they traded blows, Karigan awaited the appropriate moment. It came in the form of an especially hard blow delivered by Shawdell.

  Karigan stumbled back and fell to her knees as if stunned. She looked up at Shawdell with beseeching eyes, holding her breath, the sword tip to the ground in the position of surrender.

  Shawdell laughed in triumph and brought his own sword down like an ax intended to split her in half.
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  Karigan loosed a bloodcurdling scream of suppressed rage, closed in on him, and wrapped her arms about his waist. The sword swung far too wide to touch her. She knocked him over and rolled away.

  Quick as a cat, Shawdell was on his feet again. The ploy had failed, and now he would expect anything from her.

  Where Karigan’s instincts of survival and her experiences once helped her, they now faded away, leaving her drained and feeling hopeless. She could not go on much longer. She saw in Shawdell’s sparkling eyes that he knew.

  The light of Laurelyn had been made Ages ago to face the dark, to repel and defeat it. A thousand years ago, Eletian warriors of the League had carried blades of light to turn the tide of the dark. The light would not tolerate the dark then, nor would it now.

  The blade of light intensified rather than diminished at Karigan’s despair. Hope flared within her as if she were part of the light. The whole ridge ignited in brilliance, more brilliant than sunlight, and the ghosts, shadows of the afterlife, blanched. Shawdell’s triumphant look turned to one of uncertainty, and Karigan sprang forward.

  With all her power and might, she chopped down on Shawdell’s blade. There was an explosion of light that went beyond the brilliance of a silver moonbeam—it was a crystallized, pure whiteness that blinded the eye.

  Then she thrust at him and cut deep. Shawdell floundered back. He held a shattered sword in one hand and held his stomach to keep his guts from spilling out with the other. He opened his mouth to speak, but only blood poured out.

  Karigan panted. “You underestimate the will of mortals to survive. You’ve underestimated all along.”

  But even as she watched, the folds of flesh around his gashed belly began to knit together beneath his hand. Though blood still spilled from his lips, he said, “And you underestimate the dark powers, girl. Your moonbeam is nothing.”

  As if in angry response, the moonbeam sword coalesced upon itself into a bright shining sphere. The light grew and flared with multiple rays of light, seeking, searching. Shawdell dropped his useless sword hilt to shield his eyes and staggered backward. As on the silver moon night when she had seen him walking after the ball, he seemed protected by a black shield. But this time, the shield fluctuated, thinning here, and thickening there. The more his shield faltered, the more the moonbeams grew and probed for a weakness. And stabbed.