SHADOW WEAVER

by Claire Merle

  We ride away from Lindy with the sun on our backs, the valley narrowing, the hills growing steeper. The river deepens and its swampy banks push us up into the sloping forest.

  The forest air is close and hot, sweet with the perfume of exotic flowers. Leaves the size of plates and fans, shaped like stars, eyes, and hands, block the sun. Brightly colored birds caw and trill.

  The flora is so thick we are forced into a single line, snaking our way through a barely cut path. Tug rides behind me. Jakut is somewhere ahead with the Duke and Commander Fror.

  The tangled vegetation and myriad variety of trees is so different to the pine and birch forests of the north. I can almost feel the wet soil breathing beneath me. Thousands of animals scatter and scamper at our noisy approach.

  I am taking off my cloak, warm with the riding and the mid-morning heat when my attention prickles, snagging on the creatures flying overhead. I watch them in the mind-world. Their numbers are growing and their random flights back and forth seem less and less random. Almost as though they crisscross a wide circle overhead. Almost as though they are hunting in a pack.

  They move too fast for me to prod their minds without falling from my horse. And I cannot see them through the thick green dome. But the shapes and textures of their minds seem too large for raptors. Some feel almost human.

  I bend over my mare to retrieve the bone knife in my boot. Behind me, Tug notes the gesture and immediately unhooks his bow from the sling on his back. He squeezes his stallion alongside, pulling out an arrow.

  “You've been busy,” he says, gaze roaming the dense flora, searching for what he has missed.

  “If someone had returned my knives, I could have saved myself the effort.”

  I roll my eyes to the treetops, showing him where I sense the danger. A memory tingles at the edge of my thoughts. I smell the stale, spicy arena of the Pit, and hear the piercing shriek of the captured velaraptor. I remember the flashes of rage when it tried to escape, thrusting itself over and over at the roof of its prison. And beneath the madness, a smoky white world of cold beauty. A winter's dream of emptiness and space.

  Several of the minds circling the treetops echo that bleak arctic serenity like an answering melody.

  “Do velaraptors hunt in packs?” I ask. My question dints his infamous poise.

  “Velaraptors don't come this far south,” he says. He raises the cloth hanging beneath his saddle, revealing my bow and quiver looped onto the flank of his horse. He has kept them close! Happiness sparks in me at the familiar sight. He unhooks them and hands them over.

  “What are you doing?” Brin demands, pushing up behind us. As Tug opens his mouth to answer, the sky fills with screaming. Not human screams, but the wild, harsh, spine chilling call of the velaraptor.

  Commander Fror shouts an order. It is drowned by the deafening squalls. Chaos erupts. Panicked voices rebound up the line. Horses rear and whinny. Soldiers grasp swords and try to keep their stallions from breaking formation.

  Then a crashing sound quakes the treetops, causing a second eruption of screeching forest beasts and birds. A rainbow of color shoots into the sky, a hundred birds, accompanied by the flapping of two hundred wings deafens us.

  “They're coming down the trees!” I shout.

  My mare snorts, ears and legs twitching. Brin's stallion whinnies and tries to break away.

  “What's coming?” Tug shouts.

  “Whatever are riding the velaraptors!”

  Surprise flares in his eyes. All I know about the velaraptor is the desperate creature I saw in the Pit and the stories Pa told me. Magnificent, powerful, so fast they're nearly impossible to catch. These velaraptor haven't only been caught, they've been trained and ridden. What kind of men could tame them?

  A dark, human form appears overhead. He leaps swiftly from branch to lower branch.

  I release my grip on the reins to take aim with my bow. Noise shakes the air. There is the sound of a loud crack. My mare jerks us sideways. My arrow shafts through the trees and misses the figure. Tug's arrow hits. The man falls hard to the forest floor, branches snapping on its way down. In the split second I have to take in our assailant, I see his face and shudder. Silvery-gray scales have been sewn into the skin.

  A dozen more men are descending.

  “Come on,” Tug shouts, kicking his horse ahead, navigating the twisted flora. My mare needs no urging to follow. I glance behind and see Brin and two soldiers joining our retreat.

  A guttural holler splits the air. Half of the men in the trees change direction, flying forward to head us off.

  We weave in and out of trees but we cannot get up the speed to outdistance them. I have never shot a bow while riding a horse and it is useless to even try. The soldiers behind Brin abandon us, rounding back towards the unit. Our six pursuers don't hesitate. Ignoring the soldiers, they close in on Tug, Brin, and me with relentless determination.

  From far off in the forest comes shouting. Then an assailant is behind my horse, running faster than my mare can leap the gnarled roots, swinging a lasso. Tug swivels in his saddle and releases an arrow. It misses.

  A noose of twine comes down towards my head. I duck over the side of my mare and it catches around my boot. The loop tightens and a hard yank jerks me the other way in the saddle. I cling to my mare with one hand, use the bone knife to rip the bulky skirt of my dress so I can reach the twine. I cut through the tough braided sinew, but my awkward position and the man tugging on the lasso, trying to reel me in, and drag me from the horse renders the task impossible.

  He is alongside me!

  I give up with the knife and kick hard at his face. His grip releases on the twine for an instant. I throw my bone knife. It spins once, balance skewed, nicking the side of his ear. Blood dribbles down the translucent gray scales.

  The man's stride doesn't falter. His hands reach for the cloth of my dress. I am tugged sideways and then an arrow slams into his throat. Blood spatters my arms and skirt. He goes down with a crack, falls into the arrow so it pierces straight through to the other side.

  My throat fills with scorching bile. Shocked, I look up and see Tug. He has stopped and turned his horse around so he faces me. He is already racking up another shot.

  Another five men, legs covered in shimmering velaraptor skin trousers, torsos speckled with brown paint, bound through the undergrowth. The giant roots and bush that slowed my horse have no impact on the speed of their advancement. One of them leaps for Brin while the others keep coming. Brin elbows his assailant in the face, but he is pulled from his horse.

  Tug's eyes meet mine for a split second.

  “Go!” he shouts. Another arrow twists through the air, clipping the man who is almost upon us. The man yanks the point from his shoulder, barely flinching, not even slowing.

  I nock up an arrow. Tug can't handle four of them. They're all as huge as he is, and oblivious to pain. Perhaps they are anaesthetised with some herb, and this is why their minds feel odd.

  My heart sticks in my throat as I take aim. The face is close enough to see that though it is human, it has been altered. Not only with the tiny scales on the forehead, cheeks and neck, but this one has also had its nose and jaw broken and crushed together to resemble a velaraptor beak.

  I close my eyes, shutting out the horror, and focus on his mind. It sways with the rhythm of his body. I get the feel of his swing as he leaps in running strides.

  Steady. Steady. Closer. Fire!

  Lightning flashes in the mind-world. I sense him falling only a few feet from my horse. I open my eyes. Another of Tug's arrows skims the air further off. Another man falls.

  Aside from the man in hand-to-hand combat with Brin, that leaves two more.

  Tug zones in on the one on our left, I on the other. Neither of us make our targets. As I rack up again, the man-creature headed for Tug leaps at a tree branch, swings himself high and pivots through the air.

  I watch, stunned. It's like he's flying, like his legs are made of springs
. The man lands astride Tug's stallion. The horse rears up, sending them both backwards.

  Suddenly, I'm falling. My mare's legs collapse beneath her and I topple off, scrambling out the way so I am not crushed.

  Hooves thump the forest floor. A soldier returning to help? On my knees, I hunt for my bow. A massive weight drops down on my back, punching the air from my chest. I can't breathe. My cheek grinds into spiky seeds and my mouth sinks into mud.

  The man locks down my arms with his thighs, his bulk crushing my rib bones into my lungs. The blood stops flowing through my legs, and they tingle. With each fighting effort to get control of my body, my mouth sinks further into wet soil.

  I breathe through my nostrils, my chest unable to expand to let in the air. I'm fairly sure this is the end. As though to tear away any doubt, hands tighten around my neck, cutting off the minuscule airway of oxygen still serving my brain.

  Searing pain shoots through me. I wrestle against the weight of the man, floundering in a sea of agony.

  The agony owns me, becomes me, stretching milliseconds into minutes, until all I can hope for, is it to be over.

  The next thing I'm aware of is the clash of metal. The realization I'm not dead. The weight on my back has lifted and while pain sears through my chest, neck and head, it no longer holds the entirety of my existence.

  Through blurry eyes I see a figure swing his sword at my attacker. My attacker parries with a blade half the sword’s length. The men move fast, striking, leaning, ducking, grunting. My rescuer is lean and agile. I cannot make out his face, but the way he moves is as familiar as the jewels on the hilt of his sword.

  What are you doing, Jakut? It's me they want!

  Where are the Duke's soldiers to protect the Prince of Caruca?

  I try to move. Pain flares in my ribs. A cracked or broken bone. I groan, try again. My inner-eye scans the mind-world. Relief darts through me. Tug is close and he is still alive. Mind as strong and impenetrable as ever. Brin is further away, suffering, drained.

  From deep in the forest, blasting over the cacophony of velaraptor cries, men's voices, and carnage, comes the gut-wrenching wail of a battle horn.

  I watch the Prince's blade catch the man’s arm, drawing blood. The man dives forward and head butts Jakut. Jakut staggers, twisting off-balance.

  Another bellowing horn blast fills the forest. The scaly face looks up as though he's heard his name called. And then he is rushing towards me. I twist onto my knees, dragging myself through the overgrowth, vines lacerating my hands, tearing at my dress. In the mind-world I sense Jakut coming after us. Then I hear the clash of his sword against the creature's blade.

  Two more men sprint through the forest, avoiding Tug, heading for me and the Prince.

  I crawl forward, palms pricking on something. An arrow! I snap it in half, guard the point in my fist.

  An explosion lights up the mind-world.

  “Jakut!” I cry out. The Prince's mind rages with fire. I grope and scrabble back to him. He is immobile, unconscious. Not dead. Not yet. His attacker sits on top of his prostrate body, knife rising to slit his throat. I hurl myself at the man. Pain blazes in my chest as I thrust the broken arrow tip into the man's back. At the same moment a lasso comes down. It hooks around the man's throat, snaps tight, pulling him backwards.

  My head whips up. Another man, broader and bigger than all the others, face and torso covered in translucent ebony scales, stands in full view. He pulls hard on the twine, choking his brother-in-combat.

  Already injured, flesh bleeding with sword wounds and the arrowhead, the felled man splutters and claws at the sinew. A dozen hooves rumble through the overgrowth. Commander Fror's voice roars in the distance.

  A memory ripples around the ebony-scaled man, as he chokes one of his own.

  He stands before a gathering of men, with scales on their cheeks, some with scales sewn all down their torsos. Snow-capped mountains surround them. Wind tears at their furs. He speaks in a tongue of growls and foreign vowel sounds. But two words sound familiar: Preince and Streik.

  The Prince and Lord Strik.

  Commander Fror charges through the trees, sword raised, four soldiers in his wake. He shouts to his men to check on the Prince.

  A movement catches my eye. My head whips towards the ebony-scaled man, but he has disappeared. A high-pitched screech fills the forest. And then silence comes down around us. Our attackers have vanished like mist in the sun.

  Thirty-Four

  I lie on the gnarled forest floor, gazing at tiny ribbons of blue sky visible between high branches. My body shakes uncontrollably. I want to rise, check on the Prince. Check on Tug and Brin. But shock immobilizes me.

  All three of my captors are alive. This knowledge is a peculiar comfort to my shredded nerves.

  My mind replays images of the attack. Scaly faces bear down with cat-like speed and dexterity. Strange guttural words echo in my head. In my mind, I hear the bellow of the war-horn, and the screaming chorus of velaraptors.

  Men flock around the Prince. Others peer over me, asking questions, repeating my name. But it's as though I'm caught between the past and the present, unable to respond.

  Fror barks an order. Bush and vines crunch and rustle as men scramble to comply. In the mind-world I sense the velaraptor move beyond my range of perception and I'm suddenly released from the overwhelming inertia.

  I refuse the offered water. The Duke hears and rushes to my side, asking if I am able to sit up. I allow him to help me upright. The pain in my chest intensifies with movement. A rib must be cracked, but I bite down a yelp. If the Duke discovers my injury he will not allow me to ride, nor allow me to continue on to the Red City. The Prince could not reasonably argue with his uncle against the wisdom of leaving me behind. Especially, as the Duke will suspect I was the objective of the velaraptor men.

  Duke Roarhil has found my tattered cloak and wraps it around my shoulders. He says something about it all being over, about the miracle of Prince Jakut and I surviving. He supports me as I stagger to the Prince, battering aside the thick vegetation with his sword.

  Tug lumbers towards us from the opposite direction. Blood flows down the side of his face. He brushes off the men who hurry after him with offerings to staunch the wound.

  I see the moment he spots me through the trees. The relief in his body is palpable. I could pretend it is because my safety means the Duchess’s safety, but as our eyes take each other in, I understand it is more than that. I believe he regrets taking Kel and me from Blackfoot Forest, after all.

  I watch him swat away soldiers, his beast-face a bruised and gory mess, and a pressure in me lightens.

  The Prince groans, semiconscious. I kneel down beside him. His belt has been loosened and the top buttons of his shirt undone. A soldier dribbles water from a wet cloth into his mouth. Without a word, I make it clear I wish to tend to the Prince. I take the cloth and dab his puffed up jaw. His eyelashes flutter.

  Nearby, I can hear the Duke and Commander Fror discussing the situation, options, reasons for the bird-men, as they call the men who attacked us, so far south. I glance up and see Tug headed to where Brin lies.

  “How badly injured is my landsman, Brin?” I ask the nearest soldier.

  “It is grave, My Lady. Duke Roarhil has already sent two scouts to fetch a healer from the nearest town.” The trembling in my hands grows worse. I lower the cloth and touch Jakut's hot cheek.

  In my mind, Brin's voice rings through the snow and the wind and the northern pines. "Let's tie her to a tree and leave her to the forest." And later: "She's going to get us killed."

  If Brin dies, it will be my fault.

  “And what of the other men?” I ask.

  “Taylor's neck was broken when a lasso yanked him from his horse as he tried to protect the Prince who broke the line to help you. No one else was hurt.”

  As though hearing his name, Jakut groans again. I knew the soldier Taylor only by sight. It makes no difference to the way his l
oss twists my insides. A life there and then gone. It is hard to fathom. Hard to make sense of. For the first time I understand Pa's reluctance to fight back.

  I sit on my haunches, shoulders shaking, which doesn't help the pain in my ribs.

  “Mirra.” Jakut's eyes are open. Seeing the Prince has regained his faculties, Duke Roarhil comes to us, crouches down level with his nephew.

  “You were lucky, Your Royal Highness. This time,” he adds, looking at me. “Lucky and brave. Two qualities befitting a future King.”

  “How many men did we lose?” Jakut asks. He flinches as his fingers prod an egg-sized bruise on his forehead.

  “One for sure. The future of Mirra's landsman is as yet uncertain.”

  “Tug?” Jakut asks. The alarm in his voice surprises me. And yet it doesn't. Our journey this far, the mistrust and necessity to trust, the disagreements and tentative deals, have bound us all in some inexplicable way.

  “It is Brin,” I say.

  “We have sent for healers,” the Duke continues. “You should rest until we are sure nothing is broken.”

  “Make sure no expense on the healers is spared,” Jakut answers. “But I have no need for one. I am fine to ride.” He hauls himself up to prove the point. “It will be safer if the unit moves on.” He glances at me. I lower my head in silent reply. The velaraptors have gone, their riders with them. Except for those who fell in battle and the one killed by his own chief for raising a knife to slit Jakut's throat.

  “If the bird-men are regathering for a second assault,” the Duke says, “whether we move now, or rest for an hour, won't change anything. They could cover the distance to the Red City and back ten times before we arrive at the palace.”

  “Your arm is bleeding,” I tell the Prince.

  He glances down at the slit in his tunic. He hadn't noticed the wound before.

  “I will ask the cook to make a salve,” the Duke says.

  “We need boiled cloth,” I add, “and boiled water to clean it first.” The Duke nods and strides back to Commander Fror who is inspecting one of the dead bird-men. Fror sends out an order, and a soldier trots away towards where the rest of the unit is now gathered.