The rider on the black beast which had soared over Jennelle glanced back.
Jennelle’s eyes widened. A young female. Wyshea females never fought in battles.
The wyshea female rode toward the monsters attacking from the north. All of them met a hundred feet away and stopped abruptly to organize and face them in a single line.
Glancing sideways, Jennelle was relieved Malley sat unharmed. But he stared past her, his mouth open. She whirled and stiffened. Her father sat slumped, holding his throat with one hand.
“Father.” Sliding off Luck, she dropped her weapon and caught Gasten as he slid off his mount. Tuffs stood beside her, helping to lower him to the ground.
Cradling her father’s head, Jennelle covered his deep neck wound with her gloved hand over his, blood seeping past her fingers.
He murmured, “You’re in charge, Daughter.”
“No.” Tears ran over her cheeks. “No.”
“You’re the best rider in the citadel, the smartest, and I’ve taught you everything I know.”
“No, Father. We’ll take you back. You’ll be all right.”
He murmured, “Keep your riders alive, Daughter, and they’ll follow you anywhere.”
“I can’t do this. I’m too young, Father.”
“Use Malley’s caution.” His gaze shifted to Tuffs. “You’ll help her, old friend?”
Tears rolled down Tuffs’ face. “I will.”
“I love you, Daughter.”
“Father!”
Somewhere nearby, Jennelle heard Malley shouting.
Gasten sagged to the side. Tendrils of black and gray mists grew out of the ground, cocooning his body, bringing the putrid odor of rotting flesh.
“No!” exclaimed Jennelle. She covered her mouth and leaned back.
“What kind of evil is this?” Tuffs stepped away.
Jennelle reached into the mists. Cold. Her fingers were chilled, but the mists faded, taking her father’s body with it. She didn’t take her gaze off the bare earth until Tuffs dragged her to her feet.
“Jennelle!” he cried.
Fear tinged the older man’s eyes, and she swung around to view the rest of the riders. Mists covered other fallen Northerners, and too many men and women had panic in their eyes. Maqal reared and riders shouted. The line was in disarray. Worse, the black beasts were charging again. The battle was already hopeless.
Two men new to the citadel fled west into the woods, but one of the wyshea riders veered after them. Jennelle knew they were as good as dead.
“I’m not sure what to do, Tuffs.” She grabbed her blade from the ground, her hand shaking.
Tuffs clasped her shoulder. “If you’re not ready, we’re all going to die here.”
“You can do it, Jennelle.” Malley sat nearby on his mount, his eyes calm, steadying her nerves.
The rushing wyshea warriors had their thrips pointed at them like spears, mysteriously able to float them in the air, and the black creatures bared their fangs and snarled eerily. Bracing herself, Jennelle prayed her riders would respond.
“Northerners, steady on my command,” she said hoarsely. “Form a line.”
Tuffs yelled strongly, “Steady on Jennelle’s command. Form a line!”
Riders jerked their heads toward Jennelle, searching for Gasten, but they were listening, straightening the line.
“What’s next?” Tuffs waited, gripping his blade.
The roaring black beasts appeared so fearsome that Jennelle had to force herself to gauge the distance and the creatures’ speed. Trying to time it right, she shouted, “Dismount and kneel!”
Tuffs echoed her command, and all the riders slipped off their mounts at the same time the black beasts leapt.
Riding straight at Jennelle, the young wyshea female glared at her. When the beast jumped, Jennelle went to her knees with Tuffs and Malley.
Thrips arced at them again, but most Northerners were safely ducking out of range. Those who were hit had some protection with their norre sap-soaked clothing, which thrips couldn’t easily cut through. Still, a number of Northerners collapsed from thrown daggers.
Several riderless maqal jerked their horns up, nearly impaling the leaping black creatures of the wyshea. With rider direction, Jennelle thought they could have killed several of the black beasts.
“Mount and follow!” she yelled. “Help the injured.”
Tuffs blew his horn for a quick retreat.
Jumping on Luck, Jennelle galloped with Malley and Tuffs toward the meadow, glancing south several times to watch the disappearing wyshea riders. Gasten’s maqal ran alongside hers.
“Wyshea don’t like open areas,” Malley said loudly.
“Exactly.” It steadied Jennelle to have him riding beside her. In moments she rode into the grass. She kept her mare running hard.
In the middle of the meadow she wheeled Luck and yelled to the riders following her, “Two lines facing west. Front row darts, rear arrows. Menders and injured to the rear!” She pocketed her spectacles, unable to look away from the woods.
Malley grimaced beside her.
Riding hard, and using their legs and heels to guide the maqal, men and women sheathed their blades and drew atlatls and bows from sleeves on the side of their mounts, then darts and arrows from sleeves on their backs.
Jennelle held her breath when the young female wyshea raced out of the forest, chasing the last of the Northerners. It stunned her that the female was bold enough to ride alone in the open after them. Another riderless black beast ran beside the wyshea female. Jennelle bit her lip. The wyshea’s two beasts raced dreamlike in the open field, too fast for any maqal to outrun.
The wyshea female caught up to the last Northerner, hitting him in the head with her thrip and knocking him off his mount. Before the man hit the ground, the other monster snapped the man’s neck with crushing jaws. Mists immediately swirled out of the soil to take the body. The terrified riderless maqal kept running toward them.
Jennelle wanted to order a volley, but the lines weren’t ready; her riders were still arriving. Several approaching Northerners were slumped on their maqal, thrip cuts on their torsos or limbs.
Twenty paces behind the last Northerner rider, the female wyshea threw her dagger into his back, toppling the man off his screeching maqal.
Jennelle was dismayed that wyshea could throw their daggers straight for such long distances with accuracy and force. The knives had to be sahr-coated, giving the weapon a greater range, just as sahr did for their arrows and darts. Still, no human could throw a dagger as far as the wyshea.
Riding her black beast to within thirty yards of Jennelle, the wyshea female casually dismounted near the injured man.
Shouts erupted among the Northerners and they put arrows and darts to bows and atlatls. But Jennelle saw the rest of the wyshea racing into the meadow, their ebony monsters blurs of motion. Ordering a volley now would leave them at risk between volleys if the wyshea attacked, so she called, “Hold!”
After pulling her blade from the back of the crawling Northerner, the wyshea female grabbed his hair and cut his throat. More outraged cries surged from the Northerners.
“Damn her.” Malley raised his bow.
“Monsters.” Tuffs held his blade with a shaking hand.
“Hold!” Jennelle cried again.
Malley kept his bow drawn, but he didn’t fire.
When the putrid mists rose out of the soil around the dead Northerner, the young wyshea jumped back, frowning. Her two beasts backed up too, growling eerily beside her.
Jennelle couldn’t help but stare at the rarely seen beauty of a wyshea female. Her hair shone like a new leaf in the wood, her jade skin gleaming—helping her blend into the green meadow grass. Above her woven bodice, a thin scar ran across her upper chest and a gray stone dangled from a thin necklace. Half her hair hung in a braid over the front of one of her shoulders.
Moving effortlessly, smoothly, as if floating like her beasts, the wyshea female moun
ted her monstrous creature. Though shorter than any Northerner, wyshea were faster and stronger. Jennelle hoped they would retreat now. Instead, the rest of the wyshea riders, all males of various ages, lined up on either side of the female.
All of them wore woven knee breeches and waist belts, their long hair trailing over their shoulders, their emerald skin shining. On one side of the female sat a heavily muscled warrior. He was large for a wyshea.
Jennelle counted nineteen of the monstrous riding beasts. They didn’t move, and she knew the wyshea leader wouldn’t be satisfied until they were all dead.
“Ready,” she ordered.
Her forward line had loaded four-foot darts onto two-foot wooden atlatls, their arms cocked. Spaced between the front row, the rear line had arrows on strings.
The wyshea leader raised her dagger, longer and brighter than the usual wyshea stone knife. In perfect unison, her warriors cocked their throwing daggers.
“Front line fire,” shouted Jennelle.
More than a score of darts whistled through the air.
Jennelle immediately called, “Rear line fire,” sending as many arrows after the darts. “Reload!”
With blurring arms, the wyshea ducked or fended off the first volley of darts with ease, but arrows in the second round hit one wyshea rider in the shoulder, and another fatally in the chest, knocking both of them off their beasts.
Jennelle stared when arrows and darts bounced off the hides of the black monsters. “That’s impossible.”
“There must be some way to kill them,” said Malley.
Mists covered the dead wyshea’s body, quickly taking it away.
Jerking sideways, the wyshea leader gave some kind of hidden signal. Sliding off their beasts, several wyshea riders picked up the injured warrior and threw him over his creature. Then all of them wheeled and raced toward the forest.
The Northerners gave a cheer and raised a fist in salute.
Jennelle watched the wyshea fade away, soon lost in the trees. She was unable to stop staring into the woods as she thought about her father. Her throat thickened.
Tuffs leaned close to her. “You can’t return to where he died. You would be risking Northerners’ lives to say goodbye. Your father would tell you that himself if he was here.”
“You think the mists only took his body?” Jennelle shivered.
“He’ll make the journey, Jennelle.” Tuffs patted her arm. “We don’t need to burn your father’s body for him to reach the sweet land. Dosh and Deve will make sure he has food, peace, and joy in abundance in the forever life.”
“He’s right, Jennelle.” Malley pulled Chisel beside Luck, and reached over to rest his hand on her other arm. It steadied her.
“Thanks. Both of you.” She took off a glove and wiped her eyes. Gasten had told her that the married gods of Dosh and Deve helped all the dead reach the sweet land, but doubt gnawed at her. She had often prayed to Deve, their female god, to bring her father back safely from battles. So why had Deve allowed him to die now?
Tuffs whispered, “We have to move, Jennelle.”
Glancing around, she realized the rest of the riders were waiting on her. It wasn’t over. They still had to get back to Hope Citadel, and half the daylight was gone. Her father had planned to gallop hard most of the way back, but now they had injured riders, which would slow them down.
Turning her mare, Jennelle said loudly, “We can’t get caught out here at night or we’re finished.” Gasten taught her long ago that wyshea could see as well at night as they did in the daylight. “We’ll ride in meadows and open places as much as possible. We’ll form two columns, and each line will be responsible for their side. Hold darts and bows ready. Our blades won’t help us much if their beasts charge us. Help the injured stay on their mounts.”
“Death mounts and death riders.” Tuffs eyed the woods. “That’s what they are. The female wyshea acted like a butcher to me. I saw the love of killing in her eyes. And those filthy mists. Taking the dead. I’ve never seen anything like it in all my years in the Wild Lands. The wyshea must have brought them.”
Malley shook his head. “The death mists took the wyshea dead too, Tuffs. And wyshea always gather their dead after skirmishes.”
Jennelle faced her mount south. “Wyshea females don’t fight, so why would their warriors follow a female leader?” Especially one that’s young like me. Not convinced any of them would make it back alive, she gave a hurried hand signal for an easy canter south through the center of the meadow.
While they rode, the wyshea butcher came out of the trees and followed them along the edge of the meadow, her two onyx beasts loping, easily matching the pace of their maqal. The female’s gaze never wavered from Jennelle.
Jennelle winced. The wyshea butcher aimed to kill her today.
8
Escape
For five hours, Jennelle led the Northerners south from meadow to meadow, which were always bordered east and west by thick woods.
Sometimes they had to cross thin stands of trees, but they were able to avoid any thick forest. Thankful, Jennelle began to believe they had a chance to ride all the way back in safety.
The massive norre trees made it difficult to observe their pursuers, but the wyshea butcher remained visible at the edge of the west woods, as if trying to rattle them. It was working, thought Jennelle. If wyshea had atlatls or bows, her riders would all be dead by now.
Her father had taught her that wyshea always used the forest for protection, fighting with their accurate throwing daggers and deadly thrips. They never fought in the open. With their death mounts their tactics were likely to change.
Often the Northerners scared up flocks of fat ground birds from the grass in a flash of wings, and occasionally a long-eared meadow cat would bound away from them to the far side of their path, its gray and yellow stripes quickly lost in the grass. In one stretch the meadow widened, and they startled a few dozen sharpies. Larger than maqal, sharpies were often hunted by the Northerners for meat.
The sharpies fled west, toward the wyshea butcher. Oddly, Jennelle watched the grazers slow down and stop near the edge of the meadow, warily watching them, but not seeming afraid of the passing wyshea and her death mounts.
“How can that be, when her death mounts scare our maqal so much?” asked Tuffs.
“Gasten said wyshea don’t frighten wildlife,” murmured Jennelle. “Must be wonderful to not have wild animals afraid of you.” Mentioning her father’s name brought a lump to her throat, but she didn’t have an answer about the death mounts.
“Wyshea don’t hunt animals,” said Malley. “Maybe the death mounts don’t either. Although, I don’t see how that’s possible.”
Their luck ran out at the end of a long meadow, where they were boxed in by thick woods south, east, and west. The Southern Reaches were farther south, where many of the norre trees had been cut down. Jennelle hated that tortured land, but its openness would provide safety.
At a safe distance from the woods, she raised a hand to halt her riders. The wyshea butcher had vanished. Jennelle dreaded what that meant.
“Everyone rest a few minutes.” She nodded to Tuffs and Malley to follow her as she walked Luck a few yards from the rest of the Northerners. Stopping, she gave a fleeting look north.
Tuffs said, “We can’t go back.”
She cleared her throat. “Not all of us. But some of us can.”
Malley brushed hair off his brow. “That’s certain death, Jennelle.”
“Maybe.” She peered into the woods to the south, the dim light making it difficult to discern anything at a safe distance. “Tell me the lay of the land around here, Tuffs.”
“An hour run straight south and we’re in the Southern Reaches. East has thick woods as far as you can run your maqal. West is the same, with an occasional small meadow here and there.”
Jennelle sagged in her saddle. “What about caves, rivers, hills?”
Tuffs scratched his beard. “Halfway to the Reache
s there’s a gully curving in from the east. The bottom of it is mostly covered by rocks and bushes. It runs pretty far south.” He wagged his head. “The wyshea see and hear us from far away, so don’t expect to hide from them anywhere.”
“How deep is the gully?” she asked.
Tuffs shrugged. “Now how would I know something like that?”
“Excuse me, sirs.”
Jennelle swung around on her mount. Mender Sparks. The tall woman was dressed impeccably, as usual, wearing a clean blue blouse, gray trousers, and boots. Her flaming red hair lay on her shoulders and her freckled face looked calm. Like Gess, she wore a red arm band.
“What is it, mender?” Tuffs sounded annoyed. “Were you listening in?”
“Sorry, sirs.” Sparks straightened and looked at Jennelle. “Sir, the gully’s fifteen yards wide and thirty deep. It has a narrow bottom with steep banks on either side. Maqal could walk through the bottom, but riding is impossible, even for wyshea death mounts. There’s enough bushes and tree cover for protection from their throwing daggers.”
Jennelle was intrigued by the young woman’s accuracy. “How do you know all that, Sparks?”
Sparks smiled. “I came here once on a ride with your father. You were sick, I believe. I remember the gully because we rode along the top of it.”
“Could you take us to it on a dead run if you had to?” asked Jennelle.
“I believe so, sir.”
Jennelle considered that. “All right. I’m going back north in the meadow, along the east side. Tuffs, you wait here, and when I’m gone a half-hour, you escape south with the rest of the riders to the Southern Reaches. From there you should be able to reach Hope Citadel safely.”
Tuffs gaped. “You’ll never survive it alone, and the wyshea won’t follow just you north.”
“Exactly. I need a dozen volunteers to come with me. No injured.” Jennelle figured if she could save three-quarters of her riders, it was better than all of them dying. She pushed down the fear trying to paralyze her.
“Why can’t we all stay together?” Tuffs wiped his brow. “We’re stronger if we do.”
Wyshea Shadows Page 8
