Wyshea Shadows

by Geoffrey Saign

  Famere followed their flight, their targets hidden by the maqal surrounding her parents.

  Wyshea fighters threw knives into the atlatl throwers, but Famere ignored it. She ran forward, swinging her thrip into the flank of the first maqal blocking her. Screeching, the beast wheeled away. Shir and Lor jumped onto the backs of two other screaming mounts, the slayer riders giving terrified cries as the shadows tore at them.

  Famere still couldn’t see her parents, but grayblade flashed above a maqal’s back, moving with a speed only Darkas could manage. A gap opened, and Famere darted between two maqal, immediately expecting to see her father. Instead, Toash wielded grayblade, tears streaking his cheeks.

  Famere stood speechless, willing it to be a dream. Darkas and his wolf lay on the ground, each with a dart in their back. Kneeling beside them, Mereeth cradled her father’s head on her lap. Darkas’ body seemed wilted, smaller than Famere remembered.

  Mereeth glanced at Famere, her lips trembling.

  Famere was unaware of the shadows pressing against her shoulders, blind to Toash and Goflin swinging wild thrips, and deaf to the violent screeches and howls all around her. She only saw her father dead and her mother’s empty eyes. She swallowed.

  Mereeth gently slid Darkas’ head off her legs. Clutching her bloodied thrips on the ground, she slowly stood, looking at Famere. “I told him after every battle he would always return to mrilwood.” Arching her back, her arms at her sides, she screamed. Without hesitation, she ran toward several maqal.

  “Mother!” Famere threw her dagger into one of the maqal riders, who slumped forward on his mount.

  Mereeth knocked another rider off his maqal with her thrip, and kept running, in moments lost in the melee.

  Famere stared where her mother had disappeared, words of warning stuck in her throat. Whirling, she gripped Shir’s fur and leapt atop the shadow, her legs squeezing the powerful shadow’s bulging muscles.

  Glancing around, she saw maqal rearing and impaling, wolves snarling, fangors howling, and wyshea snapping thrips. All of it drove her to panic. She clicked a signal, and the shadow growled eerily and charged forward in the direction Mereeth had taken.

  Famere raced through the meadow on Shir, with Lor beside them. Both shadows tore at anyone in their way. Maqal screeched and ran from them, their shouting riders struggling to remain seated, and howling fangors scattered from the roaring shadows. Swinging her thrip, Famere didn’t care if she killed, wounded or just frightened slayers. Only one thing mattered to her.

  “Mother!” She kept shouting until her throat hurt, but she never caught even a glimpse of Mereeth.

  Darkness arrived, forcing the slayers with their weaker vision to retreat. Their entire force wheeled south in broken fragments, pursued by wyshea.

  One small group of slayers fled south along the west edge of the meadow. Led by the monstrous slayer with the gold short-coat, they raced toward a solitary wyshea standing in their path.

  Famere looked closer. Ison. Alive. Excitement and fear flooded her. His dagger remained sheathed and his thrip wound. He was in shock or injured. His she-wolf stood beside him, bristling and growling.

  “Ison!” screamed Famere.

  The shadows raced from the center of the meadow, flying through frightened slayers and wyshea who all fled their advance. As fast as Shir ran, Famere knew she would still be too late.

  Ison’s wolf-bond ran forward, leaping at the nearest attacker. Two slayer blades struck the wolf in midair. Pitched to the ground in a heap of bloodied fur, the she-wolf yelped when maqal spurs trampled her.

  “No!” Famere sat high, horrified she could do nothing but watch Ison die.

  Streaks of silvery light burst from Ison’s raised palms, striking the two slayers that killed his wolf. Silver outlined the enemy, and when the glow evaporated, the two slayers toppled in disintegrating ash from their rearing mounts.

  Ison dropped his hands, and the remaining riders shouted and spurred their screeching beasts out of the meadow and into the woods.

  Famere’s thoughts reeled. Perhaps Ison would have killed Goflin if Mereeth hadn’t arrived at the mril cluster earlier. She dismissed that idea, but it reminded her of the whispers of air on her neck, and how Ison had arrived suddenly near her twice today. Instinctively she guessed this was the surprise he wanted to show her, and why he had acted confident about defeating the slayers.

  She embraced all of it then, the two of them pledged as life-mates, fighting with her shadows and his power. They would be invincible.

  She stopped near him as he knelt beside his fallen she-wolf.

  “Ison,” she said softly. “My love.” Swinging a leg over Shir’s back, she jumped to the ground, but paused when light flashed again.

  A tall slayer appeared in the grass beside Ison. Wearing glowing gray robes, the slayer had cropped white hair and a trimmed beard, his skin thinned as if from great age. His stern face had translucent, cold gray eyes.

  Ison ignored the slayer and spoke to Famere, his lips trembling. “Our enemies are taking everything from us, Fam.”

  “You’ll always have me, Ison. I promise.” She focused on the slayer, astonished she couldn’t detect his heartbeat.

  Bristling, the shadows growled, but the slayer ignored them and spoke to Ison.

  “I’m Power Mageen Harken. You used the sahr weave, Ison, so I’m claiming you for the Order of Mageen.”

  “Leave or I’ll kill you, mageen,” spat Ison.

  Harken lifted one finger and sent a stream of light at Ison, outlining his body in silver.

  “No!” Famere turned rigid, waiting for Ison to blacken to ashes. But he didn’t cry out and seemed unharmed. However, the film of light kept him kneeling and unable to move or speak.

  Famere glared at Harken. The mageen must have hid the slayer army from her people. She flicked her thrip as hard as she could, but it snapped harmlessly against the sheen surrounding the slayer’s body.

  Raising her whip to strike again, she paused when Harken lifted a hand, his neutral eyes on hers. “Ison must learn to use his abilities with wisdom and peace. Mageen are forbidden to use sahr to harm others.”

  Light flashed once more, and Ison vanished with Harken.

  “No!” Holding back tears, Famere stood there alone with the dead wolf, staring at the grass where Ison had knelt. The meadow grew quiet, except for the groans of the injured and the cries of those mourning the dead. Slowly, Famere realized the battle was over.

  She mounted Shir and clicked a signal. The shadow wheeled with Lor and carried her back through the bloodied grass, past fallen maqal, fangors, slayers, wolves, and wyshea until she reached her father.

  Sliding off her shadow’s back, Famere knelt, tenderly cradling Darkas’ head in her lap, his soft hair on her thighs. Oblivious to those gathering around her, and to the warm rain beginning to pelt her skin, she closed her father’s eyes.

  “May the goddess bring you to the sahr meadows, Dar, and may they bring you peace.” Opening her life-pouch, with one finger Famere caught a droplet of her father’s blood and let it fall inside the leather bag. Guilt filled her. She should have tried to protect him. The vision of the battle had come to her, and she had done nothing with it except panic during the fighting.

  Strong fingers dug into her shoulder. Toash stood beside her. For the first time she could remember, her grandfather’s heart beat loudly.

  “Many of the slayers escaped.” His voice lowered. “I expect our sentries and their wolf-bonds are dead. I don’t understand how the enemy kept their army hidden from us.”

  “Power Mageen Harken.” Famere’s stomach knotted. “Mother?” She feared they had already found her among the bodies on the ground.

  “Gone. Hopefully she’ll survive her mourning.” Toash choked on his words.

  Numb, Famere stared at him.

  Song pushed through the others, crying out when she saw Darkas. Toash walked over and held her.

  Famere pushed to her feet, the tw
o shadows towering at her sides. Blood scented the air, spattering the skin of the warriors surrounding her. Their guide was dead and the guide-in-training kidnapped. Her people were close to defeat. It was evident in their slumped bodies and weary faces. Famere held back a sob as images of her parents came to her. Her body ached all over and her chest wound burned. Empty as those around her, she had nothing to say.

  The silence continued. Her parents’ words drifted back to her; You’re our hope...Beloved’s blessing. Suddenly she understood, and it frightened her. She almost fled the meadow, but loyalty to her parents kept her feet rooted. She couldn’t betray them. She stiffened as words poured from her mouth. “My father named me She of Two Shadows.”

  Her throat constricted and for a moment she couldn’t continue. “And my mother had a vision that I would end the war.” Slowly she turned in a circle, feeling strangely calm. “Ison knew how to do it. With the shadows we’ll bring the fight to the slayers. Attack first. Until they’re all destroyed. If you agree, I’ll be your guide. Otherwise, I’ll take the shadows and do it alone.”

  Stunned faces surrounded Famere. Suns had never fought in wyshea battles, and no sun had ever been the wyshea guide. Bosho stood nearby, slightly bowing in acceptance. But he hadn’t fought as a warrior yet and had no say in this.

  She wished Goflin was here. He would speak up anyway. His absence brought more pain to her. He was either dead or wounded. Doubt filled her as she waited. No warriors responded.

  Toash separated from Song, speaking loudly, “Even though it’s not our tradition, the shadows have chosen Famere as our next guide. Today she fought a raacor, staves, and now slayers in this battle, proving her skill as a warrior. Does anyone disagree with the shadows’ choice?” He waited, but no one broke the silence. Walking to Famere, he extended the hilt of grayblade to her, his eyes on hers.

  Her throat choked. Darkas was truly gone. Grasping the silver dagger, she let her hand drop to her side.

  Toash turned to the others. “We’ll say goodbye to our loved ones and bury their bodies beneath the grasses. And we’ll ask Beloved to help them cross over to the sahr meadows.” He included all of them with his gaze. “Tomorrow we’ll choose advisors for our young guide.” His voice hardened. “And then, baethe, we’ll end this war with the shadows.”

  Famere raised grayblade, giving the warrior battle cry with deadened eyes, “For mrilwood, our suns, and the melody of sahr!”

  The wyshea warriors raised their blades, echoing her. “For mrilwood, our suns, and the melody of sahr!”

  Thunder rumbled and black clouds clawed across the sky, as if mirroring the darkness in Famere’s heart and mind.

  Goflin pushed through the ring of warriors, his wolf-bond at his side. His weapons slipped from his hands as he strode to Famere. Dirt and blood streaked his body and tears ran down his cheeks. “Fam.”

  His presence brought a soft cry to Famere’s lips. She hadn’t lost everyone. Dropping her arm, she stepped up to him and held him tightly, her tears falling with the rain to his shoulder.

  “I tried to find Mereeth,” he whispered.

  “Oh, Gof.”

  7

  Jennelle

  An intuitive warning pounded in Jennelle’s gut, but she didn’t observe anything in the woods to cause alarm. Birds sang in the distance, and she had caught sight of a few small animals like weasels, rabbits, and a coyote that had fled their advance. But nothing unusual appeared to explain her uneasiness.

  She patted Luck, her white two-horn maqal mare. “The wyshea will leave us alone, if we leave them alone, Father.”

  “It’s never that simple, Daughter.” Commander Gasten smiled as he rode beside her, their maqal walking east at a relaxed pace. “Of course, at seventeen you probably think everything’s simple.”

  Jennelle brushed her hair off her brow and adjusted the spectacles balanced on her nose. Either she was naïve or her father stubborn. How to live peacefully with the wyshea was an old argument between them, and never finished, it seemed.

  Her father, a legend among Northerners, had led the first move from the south decades ago, joined by men and women who weren’t farmers or merchants, and wanted to escape the crowded life of Prosperus and its greedy, controlling priests. She was proud of him.

  “I’m not saying you’re wrong, Daughter. You know I love you.”

  Jennelle listened to the gentle words in her mind, and sent back, “Thank you, Father, and I love you too.” They were the only two sendars in the Northerner outpost, Hope Citadel, and she always treasured their private words. Most sendars remained south of Prosperus, in the farming communities.

  “Your father’s not stupid.” Tuffs chewed dried meat, riding his maqal behind her. He plucked a green handkerchief from a pocket to wipe his sweaty brow. “He’s kept us Northerners alive for twenty years in Hope Citadel, so he must be doing something right.”

  “Thank you, Tuffs, I think.” Gasten continued smiling. “Tuffs isn’t stupid, either.”

  Tuffs chuckled.

  Gasten held up a hand, reining his maqal to a stop in the woods, three score yards from the edge of a meadow. The sixty men and women riders following him stopped too. They were all dressed in assorted short tunics, blouses, trousers, and boots. Some, like Jennelle, wore riding gloves.

  Jennelle squinted at the clouded sky, as if trying to find some crack in the solid mass. They had been riding since early morning and it was now midday, and hot. In the dim light, the massive, black norre trees seemed to shine even brighter.

  “Why are we riding this far north into the Wild Lands?” Abreast of Tuffs, Malley stroked the neck of his black maqal, Chisel. His gray tunic and trousers were frayed around the lower edges.

  “It’s a fair question.” Gasten turned to him. “If wyshea see us, they probably won’t come south. We’re just making it clear we’re still here. Wyshea are as mysterious as staves, but they don’t fight unless attacked, and I don’t intend to provoke anyone. Besides, we’re far south of their home territory.” He winked at Jennelle. “We’ll be back in time for supper.”

  Malley shrugged, brushing strands of his long, black hair from his face. He rolled his eyes at Jennelle, the trace of a smile on his lips.

  She smiled back. The same age as her, tall and lean with gray eyes, he was her closest friend, and always cautious. She valued his careful nature. And Camette was right—she loved him. Camette’s words were always in her mind, and numerous times she had wanted to blurt out, I love you. But he never gave any sign that he cared for her romantically, and she wondered if it was all in her head. Still, she often daydreamed of having his arms around her, whispering into his ear, his lips on hers.

  His brows arched as she continued to ogle him. Her cheeks warmed and she turned away.

  Clearing her throat, she regarded her father. “We’ve broken every land agreement we’ve made with the wyshea in the past, Father, so we’ve already provoked them.”

  Gasten gave a hand signal to ride, his mount plodding forward, the other riders following. “I can’t argue with that, Jennelle, but the southern merchants of Prosperus want more norre wood and norre sap. They use it for weapons, sahr bulbs, clothing, furniture, and many other things. Which means we need more trees and more land. It’s the one thing we have to trade with those merchants.

  “We’ve grown dependent on Prosperus’ grain and other supplies. I don’t like it, but it’s complicated. I’m not proud of some of the past battles we’ve had with the wyshea, after breaking our treaties, but we’re allies with Finance Minister Basture and Prosperus, like it or not.”

  “I don’t like Basture, Father.”

  “Most Northerners don’t.” He smiled at her. “You’re strong-willed, like your mother. She would be proud of you, Jennelle.”

  Her mother had died when she was five, and she had few memories of her. Since then, Gasten, Tuffs, and Malley had been her family. Because of it, she was a Northerner rider first and foremost, something her father never discour
aged. It meant she hadn’t had a childhood like children in Prosperus, but she didn’t care. She loved riding and the mysterious Wild Lands, and wouldn’t trade living in the citadel for anything.

  “I’m proud of you, Daughter.”

  “Thank you, Father.”

  She detected the concern from her nervous mare as soon as her father noticed it from his. They both stopped at the same time.

  “Father!” She reined her mount north, where six wyshea warriors hurtled silently through the woods toward them, riding monstrous black creatures that wove in and out around the trees. Tall as maqal, but bulkier and grotesque, the emerald warriors’ beasts ran much faster than any maqal could gallop. The sight of the strange beasts stunned her.

  Gasten drew his blade. “Line north! Blades!”

  All the riders formed a single line facing the wyshea charge, their panicked mounts neighing and stomping. Northerners pulled long blades and daggers, their weapons strengthened with a coating of dried norre sap.

  The wyshea held thrips and daggers, while hanging onto their death mounts with their legs. Jennelle found that impressive and worrisome. She gripped her blade, her fingers sweaty on the hilt.

  “Steady,” called Gasten.

  “I’ve never seen anything like those monsters.” Tuffs’ voice shook.

  Jennelle’s maqal pinned back her ears, and Jennelle sent, “What is it, girl?” The blurred image in Jennelle’s mind from her mare indicated something behind her. Twisting around, she shrieked and ducked a leaping beast whose slashing teeth slid through strands of her hair. Luck screeched, and Jennelle clenched the maqal’s reins.

  Thrips arced out from a dozen wyshea atop black beasts jumping over the Northerner line from the rear. It shocked Jennelle that the large creatures could leap so high.

  Five Northerners fell from their mounts. Shouts and cries came from the line, but the wyshea were quiet as they swept over them, landing beyond them in the woods where they kept running.