“It’s good our enemies fear us.” Bewildered, Famere motioned south. “I’ve heard slayers shout death mounts, but butcher?”
Ison stared at the meadow below the hill. “They believe you enjoy killing.” He whirled to her. “Do you, Fam?”
His question jolted her. Instead of celebrating their reunion, he was acting aloof and harsh. Maybe he needed more time to adjust. More time with her and his people.
She imagined fighting beside him and destroying their enemies. None of their opponents could defeat the combined force of shadows and mageen power. She wondered if Harken would try to stop them. “I’m protecting our people.”
He stepped closer, his voice softer. “You have a lot of scars, Fam. You’ve taken risks.”
She lowered her eyes. “I had to.” Lifting her gaze to his, she said, “Our people have suffered enough. Will you help us?”
“The Order considers war senseless. We’re not allowed to interfere with the races. Besides, if I fight, Harken will punish me.”
“You could save our people.”
His face showed a flash of guilt. “I’m sorry I didn’t protect Darkas, Fam. I’m sorry you lost your father.”
Her eyes misted. “It wasn’t your fault. Come home to your people.”
I have no people. I’m a servant of the robes.”
She grappled with his words. She understood little of the Order or its mageen. Maybe they all rejected their races. A small edge of panic crept up her throat. “Come home to me then, Ison.” She searched his eyes, but saw only pain.
Huro’s brow furrowed. “Why are you here?”
“I have permission to visit Famere.” Ison glared at Huro. “It’s none of your concern.”
Huro clamped his mouth shut and stepped back, his hand clenching his dagger hilt.
Bosho stepped in front of Ison and extended his arm. “It’s good to see you, Ison.”
Ison kept his hands behind his back. “Bosho, you’re as famous as Famere because of your black melder shield.” He walked away, and Bosho lowered his hand and stared after him.
“What causes the death mists?” Famere wanted to keep Ison talking, afraid of what might happen when he stopped. When they had first shown up, the mists had frightened her. Nine months later they still unnerved her and her warriors. Curiously, they only took the races, and not dead maqal, wolves, fangors, or other animals.
“No one has learned where they come from,” said Ison. “But I suppose the mists upset the scavengers. They wander through the Wild Lands and Southern Reaches, don’t they?”
“Slayer scavengers travel in small groups on foot to rob lone travelers.” Goflin shrugged. “They don’t have maqal and wouldn’t dare enter mrilwood.”
Ison’s eyes glittered. “So at least the mists cheat the scavengers.”
Not understanding his lack of concern, Famere said, “Because of the mists, we can’t wish our dead a safe journey with Beloved when they cross over to the sahr meadows.”
“Mageen don’t believe in your afterlife and don’t consider Beloved their goddess,” said Ison. “They think we all join the sahr weave in death, rejoining the energy we came from.”
Famere struggled with that idea. Mageen might understand more than wyshea about the afterlife. But when she considered Mereeth’s visions and her mother’s connections to the sahr, it gave her confidence in wyshea beliefs. “I trust Beloved watches over us while we live. What do you believe?”
Ison stiffened. “Beloved abandoned the wyshea on the night of Darkas’ death. I don’t need her anymore.” He added, “It doesn’t matter what anyone believes. We all die. Then we’ll find out.”
Famere’s hopes for Ison’s return sank further. “What about the clouded sky?”
“Harken has investigated it for many years and learned nothing.” He reached into his robe with one hand. “I’m sorry my visit is disturbing you, Fam.” Pulling out his hand, he tossed a small object on the ground. “Harken won’t allow me to come again, so I’ll leave this with you.”
Ison’s shriveled life-pouch lay at Famere’s feet. She touched her own pouch, stunned to see him throw away his gathered life memories.
“It’s nothing, Fam.” He gathered his robes. “I don’t have any memories to put into it.”
“You’re saying goodbye,” she murmured, desperate to find a reason for him to stay. “We’ll create new memories together, Ison. Don’t leave.” She stepped closer, gripping his wrist. “Please. I love you.” She hesitated. “I promised I would pledge to you.” His comment about her scars bothered her. Did he find her unattractive? “Is there someone else?”
He barely shook his head. “No, Fam. There could never be anyone but you.”
“Then pledge to me.”
For a moment his eyes softened with vulnerability and he seemed to waver. “I want to, but Harken will never allow it.”
“Fight him.”
“You have no idea what you’re asking, Fam.”
She spoke quickly. “Stay with us and we’ll fight him with you.”
“He would destroy all of us. He’s able to call upon the power of all the mageen in the Order. He could destroy an army without much effort.”
“We’ll talk to him. Convince him.”
“I’ve already tried, many times. He won’t listen.” He sounded bitter. “He almost didn’t allow this visit.”
She moved closer, her face inches from his, her voice pleading. “Please, let’s both try. Don’t you want to?”
“I don’t want you hurt.” Pulling out of her grip, he breathed deeply and stepped back, giving a short bow to her. “It’s too late for us, Fam.” He strode through the trees, his gray robes melting into the air in a flash of light.
Numb, she stared after him, wanting to call him back.
“Ison’s a traitor.” Laflel gripped his dagger hilt. “He’s betrayed us.”
Huro stepped forward. “I don’t trust him.”
“He’s one of us,” said Bosho.
“He’s baethe,” murmured Famere. She bent over to pick up Ison’s life-pouch.
“Then remember him as baethe, Fam,” said Goflin.
A single streak of lightning fired white across the indigo sky, ending in echoing thunder.
“It’s time,” said Bosho.
Famere tucked Ison’s life-pouch into her belt, her mouth dry. “Let’s begin the attack.”
13
Shadow Guard
Famere clutched Shir’s thick, soft fur as the shadow ran down the hill with Lor toward the darkened meadow below.
Emptiness. That’s all she felt.
Everything she had dreamed about with Ison had vanished. He had changed in some way she couldn’t understand. Distant and harsh, he didn’t care about her anymore. It was another loss, added to the loss of her father.
Anger tinged her thoughts. If the slayers had not killed Darkas, Ison and she would have bonded. They would have spent time with each other, family, and friends. Now, without her hope of a life with Ison, she had nothing left to live for anymore, except unending fighting and killing. The slayers had caused this and she wanted them to pay.
The shadows stopped at the edge of the large meadow. Gazing west, Famere massaged Shir’s thick neck, her legs squeezing his strong back. Tall grasses rasped faintly in a light breeze and flapping bats chased chirping insects, all accompanied by the faint melody of sahr.
Deeper shadows rose and fell in the night with the movements of the dark clouds overhead. Predators stalked their victims, and several times the death squeaks of mice broke the quiet. Once Famere heard, then watched, the rush of an owl as it swooped down on a mole, leaving the scent of blood in the air.
But the scents and noises of the slayer army farther south overpowered all other noises of the night, tensing her limbs. While she waited, Ison’s visit tormented her and she replayed his words and expressions over and over. The empty feeling inside her wouldn’t leave.
Bosho arrived with the shadow guard, a silvere
d throng of one thousand shadows. After Famere's bonding, shadows had arrived nightly at the bonding meadow to bond with males of any age over fifteen. And for every shadow that died, another arrived in mrilwood to bond, so the shadow guard never weakened. Famere thought it better for her people that shadows hadn’t bonded with any other suns. She feared it would have been too much for the wyshea to accept.
The taut faces of the other shadow riders echoed her tension. She waved to an impassive Bosho. He lifted his black shield from where he sat on Basir, and they raced south.
Not disturbing a single leaf in their run, the shadows left no mark in the dirt. Shir’s swift pace remained so smooth and constant that Famere could have been sitting on the ground. Birds and animals lifted their eyes to them after they glided by, barely aware of their passing.
After a while, Bosho rode beside her, speaking quietly, “The melders agreed to remain north tonight.”
“Blessings to the goddess.” Famere breathed easier. They had no wish to fight melders, and melders had no wish to fight wyshea. Bosho had safeguarded this by meeting with their leader, Advisor Kishe. It wasn’t the first time.
Long ago, when the slayers had started the war, melders had traded the stone throwing daggers with the wyshea for sap collected from norre trees. However, melders needed to pretend to join the fight, otherwise the slayers might accuse them of breaking their treaty. So they had marched a large army south from their city, Jewel. Now they would report to the slayers that the shadow guard had stopped their advance.
As the shadows ran farther south, Famere glimpsed trees with withered limbs and decayed trunks. The number of dead trees appeared greater than the natural process of decay. She found it disturbing and wondered what caused it, but her questions evaporated as she peered at the distant slayer camps.
They passed wide of the eastern camps, not wanting to send any alarms. Easily the largest slayer army Famere had ever witnessed, thousands of campfires dotted the woods. Ison’s visit slipped into her mind again, and she suddenly resented his refusal to help his people or her. Leaning over Shir’s back, she forced herself to focus. If they lost this battle, Mereeth and all wyshea suns and young would be doomed. She couldn’t fail them.
After passing half the slayer army, Bosho clicked twice. The shadow guard swung west, into the light breeze that would hide their scent from fangors and maqal. Daggers noiselessly slid from sheaths and thrips floated like delicate lances over the shadows’ heads.
When they were several hundred yards away, Famere heard the slayers’ clanking metal, stomping boots, and muffled words. The odor of roasting brethren flesh filled the air. Her people used the skin of dead brethren found in the forest for their life-pouches, out of respect and honor to carry their life’s memories, but the slayers killed brethren without care. Anger replaced her emptiness.
The enemy sat in small groups in the trees far into the west and south, talking in their loud, coarse voices. Famere scanned the woods for a gold short-coat among the brown tunics of the Blind Fangor’s slayers, disappointed when she didn’t see any.
Slayer sentries stood in the woods in front of their charge, killed quietly on the run as the shadows swept by in the darkness.
Bosho gave a last soft signal, and the guard spread out in a single line of attack, Famere at its center. Her pulse quickened as it did before every battle, energy flowing into her limbs.
When the shadow guard hurtled closer, some slayers turned toward them. But shouts didn’t come from the enemy until they bolted into the first campsites.
Flying into a small clearing, Shir leapt over a fire ringed by a dozen slayers. Famere flicked her thrip in blurs into a hand holding a cup, a leg propped up on a log, and across a slayer’s neck, while Lor tore at the legs of two slayers with quick slashes of her jaws. All five slayers dropped to their knees with cries. The slayers’ slow, awkward movements gave them no chance to respond to the shadows flying past them.
Blood spattered Famere’s arms and glistened on her skin. She leaned over Shir as her shadow raced out of the firelight, toward the next campsite, the chaos of battle filling her ears.
Maqal screeched throughout the forest, yanking against their tethers with wild eyes, while cries of Death mounts! erupted from campsites, all of it mixed with the eerie snarls of shadows.
Famere felt reassured to see the majority of the shadow guard advance with her on both sides. Turning around, she glimpsed death mists rising from the soil, bringing the sickly stench of rotting flesh with them. Billowing clouds snaked up from the ground, encircling the dead in arms of gray and black which quickly faded, taking the corpses with them. Facing forward, she swallowed.
When Shir burst into the next camp, a score of slayers waited. Swinging her thrip, Famere struck one slayer on the shoulder. The slayer’s clothing gave some protection, but she drew blood. A man swung at Famere from the left, but Lor barreled into that slayer, knocking him over. Ahead, four slayers crouched.
Swinging to the right side of Shir, near Lor, Famere flicked her thrip across Shir’s back into the closest slayer’s head. Lor ran over another enemy swinging at her, and Shir veered away from a third. Famere sat up on her shadow’s back again, snapping her thrip at the last slayer’s neck. Ducking beneath her strike, the slayer scored her thigh with his blade. She groaned. Blood trickled over her leg, but she ignored the pain as Shir carried her out of the campsite.
They were deep into the enemy encampment now, and campfires stretched far into the forest, surrounding them. Sitting up high, Famere tensed when she didn’t see Bosho. But somewhere to the east her friend gave another signal and the shadows veered north in a long arc.
When Bosho appeared riding through the trees a short distance away, Famere lifted her dagger to him in relief. At the next line of campsites, the guard flowed past them to the sides, their riders laying low and not giving the prepared slayers a target or any chance to fight them.
Slayer archers and atlatl throwers released arrows and darts at the wyshea as they rode through the forest. Dozens of riders fell, and Famere winced when a shadow crashed to the dirt not far from her, three atlatl darts in its flank.
As they flew north, she listened for Huro’s and Laflel’s fighters, hoping to hear them. Silence would mean something had gone wrong.
Goflin. The image of his face snapped into her mind. He would be fighting on foot against slayers and possibly staves. He could easily die tonight. That idea froze her thoughts for a few moments, but she swallowed thickly and pushed it aside.
Behind them, the rising death mists hid their flight and created confusion. It was the only thing about the death mists Famere appreciated. By the time the enemy organized, the shadow guard would be gone.
Shir raced past the next campsite, and Famere leaned forward. Bosho clicked, and Shir swerved and bolted into the camp, catching the slayers still squinting to the sides.
Famere swung at a slayer’s back, but another slayer jabbed a thick stick into her ribs, knocking her off Shir. She landed hard, winded, her side burning. Rising unsteadily, she gasped for air as slayers rounded the campfire toward her.
Shir and Lor stopped and pivoted, jumping on the backs of two of the slayers, knocking them to the ground. Other slayers rushed the shadows, forcing them away.
Famere arced her thrip across the torsos of the slayers in front of her, cutting their clothing but not drawing blood. Stepping back, she winced over using her injured leg. Ducking a blade, she stepped closer and swung her dagger across the slayer’s ribs. He staggered back, a hand pressed against his side.
Dropping to one knee, Famere snapped her thrip in an arc, hitting two slayers across their thighs, cutting through their clothing. The slayers slumped to the ground, writhing. Another slayer approached her, his blade aimed at her, and two more closed in from opposite sides. Her wounds made her want to flee and she glanced around wildly for her shadows.
Shir and Lor gave eerie snarls. Slayers had them trapped against a norre tree. Not seeing
any way to help them, Famere backed up, desperately clicking a signal for help.
Bosho and Basir exploded out of the woods near Shir, and the slayers circling Famere paused. Bosho struck one of the slayers near Shir with his thrip, and knocked down another with his shield. Basir bounded through the alarmed attackers, and Shir and Lor followed.
The slayers near Famere turned to face the charging shadows. Famere sheathed grayblade, and when Shir ran past her, she gripped her shadow’s neck mane and swung up onto his back. Darts and arrows whistled over her as she lay flat on her shadow, and shafts thudded into trees.
Once out of the campsite, they raced north to catch up to the rest of the guard.
After a short distance, Famere called breathlessly, “Blessings.”
Pressed flat on his shadow’s back, Bosho lifted his shield a few inches in response.
Campfires still glittered in all directions, and Famere feared the guard had penetrated too deeply into the slayer army. But when they passed campsites, most were empty except for mists and the wounded.
Far to the west, slayer fangors howled. Famere found it unsettling they hadn’t encountered fangors here in the east. Fangors were no match for shadows, but slayers used them to fight wyshea wolves and to give early warning of an attack. Their absence didn’t make sense, but she gave thanks for slayer stupidity.
Ahead of her, she watched the shadow guard race like fleeting blurs through the trees as a ferocious wail came from the north. She tensed. Huro and Laflel were fighting the slayer forces. Her thoughts turned to Goflin again. She couldn’t stomach another loss and it made her want to hurt the slayers more.
After another hundred yards she saw a thick line of slayers on foot and sitting on maqal, facing north, oblivious of the quiet shadow guard charging at them from behind. Always in front, Famere had never witnessed the guard rushing into the enemy. Her legs tightened on Shir as the guard blew into the slayers like a silvered gust, pushing over many of the standing enemy.
For several breaths the battlefield remained clear and the shadow guard had the advantage. Thrips flashed, blades rang, maqal screeched, and shadows leapt about with their riders in a savage frenzy amidst snarls, screeches, and screams.
Wyshea Shadows Page 13
