Death mists quickly arrived, their stench strong, muffling the sounds of fighting. Famere caught glimpses of arms, thrips, maqal’s horns, and shadows jumping. Fighting was dangerous now, and luck had more to do with the outcome than skill. They had to get out.
She looked at Bosho, relieved when he clicked a signal and then gave a piercing whistle. A quick succession of whistles came from the north; Huro and Laflel would immediately retreat with the guard.
Famere veered east with Bosho, south of the battle line, streaking through empty campsites where mists waited, slowly covering dying slayers. In one camp an unarmed young slayer sat beside a fire, wrapping cloth around his injured arm.
Famere fixed her gaze on him, and when he looked up she struck him with her thrip, satisfied to see terror in his eyes before he died. Bosho showed no reaction.
They flew past the slayer army boundaries and soon stopped. Famere took deep breaths. Her side and leg ached but she ignored the pain.
She patted Shir’s neck, her shadows silent as they waited. No matter what fighting the shadows did, their fur always remained free of blood. It gave them an innocence in the killing that Famere didn’t understand, as if they lived free of all violence, for they never hunted brethren and ate only leaves and buds or licked norre sap.
Soon the shadow guard gathered around them, some without riders. Bosho moved among them on Basir, talking softly. Famere waited, her shoulders tense.
In minutes, Basir trotted up to Shir. Bosho leaned close, his eyes shining, his long hair framing his face, and the muscles in his arms and back bunched. “It went better than expected. We lost seventy riders and fifty shadows.”
“Good.” Unable to feel elated, Famere peered west, again thinking of Goflin. The last large battle he had fought in was the night Darkas died. She berated herself for not finding a way to keep him out of this one. But others might have resented both of them if she had.
An owl hooted somewhere and bark beetles chewed a nearby tree trunk. The noise of distant battle had ended. Slayer shouts and screams drifted to them from the west, but no signals came from her people. It frayed her nerves to consider that the rest of her army had been destroyed.
But not long after, Huro’s and Laflel’s forces ran out of the night. Famere held her breath, waiting for their reports.
Stopping in front of her, breathing hard, Huro and Laflel were spattered with blood, like their thrips and daggers. Huro’s she-wolf, Hirr, stood beside him, healthy but panting, her mouth hanging open. Other wolves trotted among the fighters, their fur sprinkled with red.
Goflin wasn’t beside them. Famere dreaded what it meant. Her stomach tightened and she peeked beyond their shoulders, hoping to glimpse him. Dismounting with Bosho, she stepped closer. Shoving aside her impatience to question Huro, she waited for him to catch his breath.
“Exactly as you planned.” Laflel grinned, his wiry body glistening. “We led the maqal riders toward the staves, and in the darkness the slayers charged their allies. We barely escaped staven quills. Some staves chased us when we left, but we outran them. The Coyote stayed out of the fight.”
Famere turned to Huro, bracing herself and expecting the worst.
“Laflel’s right.” Fatigue lined Huro’s gaunt features. “We caught the slayers by surprise to the north and overran their camps. We lost about a hundred fighters and dozens of wolves. Near the end, the slayers were organized and we give blessings the guard arrived.”
“And the mists.” Laflel’s eyes gleamed. “They helped our escape.”
Famere waited for more, but the two warriors sagged in front of her, finished. She forced herself to say it. “I don’t see Goflin.”
Huro lifted a tired hand. “I should have said something. He took scouts to spy on the Coyote, in case she organizes an attack tonight.”
Famere sighed inwardly, giving silent thanks to Beloved. “Did you see fangors?”
“We killed scores of them,” said Laflel. “Their howls confused the slayers because we struck from two different directions.”
Famere stroked Shir. Nothing would ever stop them again. Their army and shadows were invincible and tonight they had proven it. “Bosho and I will take half the guard and surprise the staves from the north. The rest of the army should retire to our camp.”
Laflel’s face shone.
Huro shook his head. “We already have a great victory with small losses.”
Famere rested a hand on his shoulder. “It’s a change in plans, but staves have hunted us for a hundred years. Tonight we have a chance to hunt them.”
Huro lifted a tired arm. “I hope the gains are worth the risks.”
“The other half of the guard should attack the slayers from the south,” said Bosho.
Surprised, Famere frowned. “It’s too dangerous.”
Bosho spoke with assurance. “The slayers won’t expect it. Their fighters will hear that their northern camps were destroyed and the shadows left. They’ll wait until morning to advance and won’t expect another attack tonight. We’ve never struck an army twice in the same night. It will work.”
Famere couldn’t find anything wrong with the plan, but she looked at the others, hoping someone had objections.
Huro rubbed his wrist, deliberating. “The slayer’s army is huge. After tonight we may not get another chance like this.”
Laflel sounded eager. “Let’s destroy all of them tonight.”
Laflel’s words usually sparked Famere’s fire, but the idea of losing Bosho subdued her. Seldom had they been apart in battle and his presence always gave her security. “All right. I pass command to Bosho. Did the staves post sentries?”
“Yes,” said Laflel.
“We’ll meet you later on the hill.” She lifted her chin to Bosho, who nodded in return.
Without waiting, she mounted Shir and headed north with half the guard.
14
The Staven Sun
Thick, black clouds shrouded the forest in darkness.
Once, mril pulsed above Famere in a line of twinkles, bobbing in exact rhythm with Shir’s strides until a norre tree’s sap lured them away. The scent of blood on Famere’s skin blended with the scent of the wet soil, the forest, and Shir’s fur. All of it made her grip grayblade tighter.
Her thoughts turned repeatedly to Bosho. She wished she had said no to his plan. The shadow guard couldn’t afford to lose his leadership, and she couldn’t afford to lose his friendship.
She groaned when pain suddenly began in her left arm, quickly spreading into her chest and searing her nerves, while images of staves, slayers, and wyshea—all walking together in sunlit woods—filled her mind. Sitting stiffly, she strained to see the forest around her, but norre trees, bats, grass, and shadow riders were like shifting mirages.
When they passed a herd of sharpies grazing on the lowest leaves of small trees, Famere wasn’t sure if the large horned beasts staring at her existed only in her mind or in the forest they rode through.
It took all her will to steady herself. Still, she couldn’t retreat now. What would she tell her riders? Besides, she wanted the staves to pay.
After traveling a good distance north, Famere signaled the guard to turn west. In time, they swung south and spread out in a line, halting when she lifted her hand.
She slid off Shir. Without commands, Shir and Lor loped ahead into the woods. Long ago, Famere learned that the shadows often understood what to do. It was their riders who needed the signals.
Standing on the moist soil, she clutched her middle with one arm, the pain growing more intense. Leaves rustled and small forest brethren scurried about in the dark. A weasel rambled past her feet.
Slayer and staven figures filled her mind. Several times she jerked her head, startling her nearby fighters. The fire spread to her whole frame and she trembled, fighting its hold on her senses. Unbearable moments passed until her shadows drifted out of the dark. She mounted Shir and they loped forward, everyone drawing daggers and loosing thrips.<
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A short distance later they saw gray and black tendrils flowing around a figure on the ground. Famere assumed the staves hated the mists as much as the wyshea, and it made her wonder what they believed about death and the afterlife. Breaks in the moving death mists revealed a silvery eye, a bloody gash on a dark neck, part of a thin torso, a narrow finger, and a slender foot. Thin fingers without nails gripped a long, double-edged green dagger.
The stave lay near a tree. Famere hoped he hadn’t sent a message. By the time she passed by, the body had evaporated with the mists.
When the shadows slowed to a walk, Famere’s visions fragmented her senses, her sight broken into blurred bits and pieces. She leaned forward and peered ahead. Eighty feet distant, six-foot staves rested on the ground like young fallen trees, partially covered by their cloaks, their skin again reminding Famere of layered bark on a tree.
For a few moments an eerie sense of brotherhood with them overcame her wishes to fight. The staves blended into the forest just as wyshea blended into meadows, and staven heartbeats were much softer than the slayers’ loud pumping organs. If the staven race honored the sacred sahr, it didn’t make sense to her that they were allied with slayers who valued it only as spoils in a war. There had to be a logical reason she was missing, one important to know.
Still, as the shadows drew closer she discarded any goodwill for an enemy that had brutally hunted her people for a hundred years.
When they were twenty paces away, three score staves jumped to their feet as if they had been waiting for them, drawing daggers from hip sleeves. The sentry must have alerted them. Famere saw no fear in their faces and a faint glow of silver flickered in their irises as they glared at them.
The shadows growled and leapt forward.
Staves raised stiffened quill arms, their fists lowered.
Famere immediately laid flat on Shir, yelling, “Quills!”
Her stomach sank when scores of wyshea riders were hit by the first salvo of numbing slivers and slumped on their shadows. Others swayed and feebly tried to hang on, while staves threw daggers into them. Shadows hit by a quill in their bellies or flanks weren’t affected, but those hit many times dropped to the ground.
Staven speed almost matched that of the wyshea, and their sahr-imbued leafy cloaks had the strength of slayer shields. Her mouth dry, Famere watched staves lifting their stiffened cloaks to block snapping thrips or batter wyshea riders off shadows.
Her riders were taking heavy losses and it panicked her. Sitting up, she kicked one stave backward as Shir flew past. Lor ran over another. Famere swung her thrip at a third stave rushing her from the side, surprised when the stave easily ducked her strike. Her visions must have confused her aim and a sense of vulnerability filled her.
When Shir passed the stave, Famere laid flat. A quill whistled over her from behind. Shir spun around and bolted back.
Lor had already knocked the stave down and crouched over him, the terrified enemy holding off the shadow’s teeth with his hands gripping her neck.
Famere was surprised. No slayer was strong enough to hold off a shadow. Leaning over, she killed the stave with her thrip.
When she straightened, a stave flew through the air and kicked her in the ribs, knocking her off Shir. They tumbled together, and the enemy’s long fingers gripped Famere’s neck, choking her. Desperate for help, she glimpsed Shir and Lor fighting other staves.
Landing hard on her back, Famere gasped for air, her eyes blurry. The narrow face of the stave was above her, the long thin growths from his head touching her shoulders. Letting go of her thrip, Famere grappled with his arms.
They rolled sideways together, and pain seared her left side. She lost all her strength, her arms falling to the ground as she lay on her back.
The stave struggled to his knees, lifting his bloodied dagger above her with both hands.
Famere could only stare up at him.
Lor roared and clamped her fangs into the stave’s neck, dragging him off Famere before he could strike.
Rolling to all fours, Famere waited until Shir came to her. Clutching the shadow’s fur, she clawed her way up his side until she stood on wobbly legs. She stared at her wound. Bright red ran thickly from a deep, jagged gash beneath her woven bodice, spilling down her leg. She touched the blood in shock. It was more than she had ever shed before. Death mists grew out of the ground near the dead stave, and some swirled toward her, as if appraising her. She hastily stumbled back.
Trying to clear her panic, she assessed the fighting all around her, seeing the last of the enemy fall to her warriors. They had lost many fighters and shadows, but she refused to leave without a major victory, and didn’t want the staves to feel they were afraid.
She clicked for the guard to dismount. Some riders gave her startled glances, but obeyed. Several staves had touched trees, and Famere knew what the signals would bring. Even with her pain it made her eager.
Hiding among the trees, the guard formed a giant V. Gathering her thrip, Famere took her position at the V’s tip, leaning against a tree trunk. Blood ran past her pressed fingers and she sagged. Yet revenge consumed her. It occurred to her then that there would never be enough bodies.
She glanced at Shir and Lor, who stood behind her, for a moment wondering if this was her last battle. Their eyes locked on hers and she wanted some word of comfort from them, but it never came.
Green daggers in hand, the staves came in a rush from the south, their large eyes shining in the dark, their thin faces taut and their brown hair-like growths flying behind them.
Stepping into view to draw them forward, Famere estimated the staves numbered four hundred. Although stupid to fly forward blindly, the fearlessness in their expressions explained their boldness.
Drawing grayblade, Famere clicked a signal. Hundreds of silvery thrips arced through the darkness, and scores of enemy dropped lifeless to the ground. A hundred more dropped to their knees injured. But many staves jerked their cloaks up protectively to block the whip strikes.
Famere waited for the staven force to come to her, but instead the staves immediately stopped as a unit and knelt in an opening among the trees. Their cloaks interlocked with sharp snaps to form a continuous shield around them on all sides, from ground to head in a circle. Cloaks inside the circle interlocked across the top so the whole structure resembled a large, level pile of leaves. Most of their wounded were also protected inside the structure.
Famere gaped. No wyshea had ever reported this tactic and she hesitated.
A hundred staves shot straight up from within the shields, their bodies thinning and elongating, their wrinkled skin flaps stretching smooth. In a flash they reached eight feet, their torsos less than a foot in width, half that in thickness, their thinned, sticklike arms throwing knives at surprised wyshea.
Many wyshea fighters knocked the staven blades aside with their hands or twisted out of the way, but Famere saw three score wyshea drop dead beside their shadows. Some of her fighters glanced at her in alarm, and she rubbed her eyes, as if it could clear them of her inner visions.
Shrinking down before any wyshea could respond with thrips or daggers, the staves disappeared beneath the cloak of shields, but almost immediately another hundred staves rose upward in a different pattern, again throwing daggers. Another two dozen wyshea fell before the staves again retreated beneath their shields.
Recovering from her astonishment, Famere gave a signal. Wyshea fighters and their shadows leapt at the shields, but the staven cloaks were like a stone wall and the shadows couldn’t penetrate it. From between the cloak seams quick dagger thrusts killed scores of wyshea fighters, along with shadows who clawed for a way in.
Panicked that they would all die here, Famere clicked another signal.
Dozens of snarling shadows jumped higher, over the wall of cloaks. Some were killed in midair by staves rising up and stabbing their bellies, but many more landed atop the staven cloaks. Fangs and claws tore at the massive cloak of leaves. Wysh
ea fighters jumped atop the cloaks’ circle too, jabbing at it with their knives.
Famere wanted to rush the wall of staven shields to help her fighters, but her side wound continued to weaken her.
Some staves stabbed upward at the shadows and the wyshea, leaving only their arms visible. Others stretched high above the shields, sometimes surprising wyshea, sometimes met with daggers and teeth.
A few shadows and wyshea forced their way down into the cloaks and it began to break apart.
Famere readied herself.
Rasping cries came from the staven ranks and the circle dissolved. Using their cloaks like battering rams, staves rushed forward and knocked wyshea warriors to the ground, stabbing them where they fell. Thrips arced out, snapping staven heads sideways or cutting limbs, and then the fighting became a tangle of ferocious snarls, shouts, daggers, and quills. The scent of blood filled the air.
Famere stepped farther from the tree, her leg wound causing her to limp. Three of the enemy ran at her, and she strained to focus on the one in the center.
Two of the staves rushed in from the sides, and Shir and Lor ran at them. Kneeling, the staves snapped their cloaks forward for protection, but the shadows vaulted over them, and then pivoted and lunged for their necks. But the staves rolled forward, rising with their cloaks still rigid and facing the stalking shadows with daggers in their hands.
Famere flicked her thrip at the third attacker. The stave ducked beneath it and ran toward her, his dagger raised. Dropping her thrip, Famere drew grayblade and swung it.
The stave sidestepped her blow.
Famere cringed as the fire burned her limbs and illusions clouded her mind. Twice she slashed wildly with her blade, yet the stave easily avoided the strikes.
With a blur of strokes, Famere rushed the stave, growing weak as he dodged her strikes. She halted, exhausted. The stave rolled to the ground and from his back kicked her in the stomach. Flying backward, Famere thumped into a tree trunk. Dizzy, her wound burning, she had to fight to keep her eyes open.
Wyshea Shadows Page 14
