Wyshea Shadows

by Geoffrey Saign

  Rising to one knee, the stave raised an arm with a bent fist.

  Famere jerked sideways.

  A quill thudded softly into the trunk next to her neck. Standing, the stave warily stepped toward her.

  Famere hunched against the tree, scanning the woods. The rest of the guard fought furiously as the mists crawled upward. Superior numbers and the shadows ensured their victory. It bolstered her determination enough to ignore the fire in her limbs and images in her mind, along with the bleeding wound which nearly doubled her over.

  When the stave rushed in, Famere leapt to the side, avoiding the green dagger which slammed into the trunk.

  Unable to quickly jerk the blade free, the stave whirled around with empty hands, his cloak flashing forward from the side. He charged Famere.

  Sidestepping, and off balance, Famere feinted and the stave jerked away. She understood then. The stave hadn’t seen grayblade, but had read her body movements, anticipating what was coming. After feinting twice more, Famere stabbed the blade straight. Grayblade cut through the stave’s cloak and into his stomach.

  Famere drew close to pull out her weapon, and gagged. The stave was a female. Her visions had hidden this from her. It horrified her that staves allowed their suns to fight, something she had never witnessed in past skirmishes. Moaning, she slumped.

  The stave’s thin, tall frame swayed against her, her brown eyes dimming. Famere caught her, gently lowering her to the ground, the stave’s dark skin soft and pliable beneath her fingers.

  The light in the stave’s orbs faded, while the green bodice and cloak leaves turned brown and separated. Leaves fluttered to the ground, revealing a ring of bark around the stave’s neck, joined to strips trailing over the back to form a simple lattice for the leaves.

  Famere wanted the stave’s eyes to open, but death mists covered the body. She didn’t let go, fearing the female’s death more than the cold mists touching her skin. The corpse faded away with the mists and Famere stared at her empty hands.

  Standing, she sheathed grayblade. Shir and Lor joined her. Weary, her wounds burning, she gasped in pain as she bent over to pick up her thrip. Close to fainting, she straightened and took a few deep breaths.

  Covering her wound with her hand, she quickly gauged the battle. The fight was almost over, but staves had placed hands on trees, calling for help, and this time it would be thousands.

  Mists curled around many dying wyshea fighters, and more were wounded. Famere signaled her riders to help the injured mount their shadows.

  Searching through the waist-high mists, the stench strong, she spied a small group of staves fighting some of her riders. If she signaled those warriors to leave, they would die with green daggers in their backs. Groaning, she staggered toward them.

  Five staves had their backs to an enormous norre, the tree’s glow outlining them. Using their cloaks like a wall to shield themselves from thrips, the bloodied staves fought in unison, holding off a score of wyshea and shadows. Three wyshea warriors and two shadows lay dead at their feet.

  As Famere approached, mists claimed the dead wyshea. But as always, a film of silver enveloped the shadows, taking their bodies away in a manner as mysterious as the death mists.

  “Stay back.” Famere waved off her fighters, not wanting more of them to die. She stepped past them, unsteady on her feet and not caring what happened to her.

  In silence, the thick bark of the norre trunk split apart, forming an eight-foot vertical black oval.

  Famere squinted, but her sight couldn’t penetrate the darkness in the tree.

  Out of the trunk stepped two tall figures, male and female, each wearing dark, shiny bark like a pliable smooth skin over their torsos and legs. Slender, they were seven feet tall with bright eyes and golden brown skin with finer wrinkles than staves. Golden strands covered their scalps, each strand as thin as a meadow grass root and hanging down to their waists. They wore no cloaks.

  Wyshea fighters had described sahr lords to Famere in the past, but it was the first time she had seen them. The male sahr lord had shaggy locks and bore a cautious expression, but the female showed no hesitation as she strode forward, her strands pulled back with care. Each lord had a sharp nose and chin, like staves, yet longer feet that were also bare, their heartbeats silent and their skin free of sweat.

  Their confidence made Famere pause. Mereeth had told her that sahr lords could travel through trees. It seemed impossible, but it didn’t matter. With Shir and Lor strangely quiet beside her, Famere limped forward, her thrip floating.

  The lords stretched up, as the staves had, their golden skin turning smooth as their skin flaps accommodated their height. Their bodies and limbs thinned into shiny towers ten feet tall. Famere again halted, staring in amazement.

  The two sahr lords drew green twigs from bark sleeves on their hips and tossed them over the shielded staves.

  When the small sticks struck the dirt, a thick, green bramble grew from the ground in front of the staves.

  Wary and shocked, Famere stumbled back. Quickly growing six feet in height, the writhing vines and vegetation walled her off from the staves, who backed into the tree, immediately hidden in its darkness.

  Shrinking to their previous height, the lords unhurriedly followed the staves into the norre tree, which closed around them as if it had never opened. Their escape brought unexpected relief to Famere.

  Faint sounds made her turn south, where mists still rose from the ground around the dying and wounded. Panicked, she signaled retreat.

  Everyone leapt on their shadows in blurs as a shower of green quills and daggers thudded into trees all around them. Famere barely climbed onto Shir, her side on fire. Some warriors fell to the ground with knives or quills in their backs, but Famere signaled harshly and the rest of her riders bolted.

  The night and forest provided cover as they raced north. Famere heard the staven pursuit for some time, but no stave ran fast enough to catch a shadow. They rode for mrilwood without stopping.

  Famere’s side and leg burned, the ride seeming endless. The blood didn’t stop flowing as she pressed a limp hand against her wound. Her other hand clutched Shir’s neck mane, while she lay on her shadow’s back, too weak to sit up. The visions and fire finally faded, gone before she was aware of it.

  It sickened her to think of the riders she had left behind for the staves to kill or torture. Her thirst for revenge had made her careless, costing her warriors their lives.

  Even more terrible was the image of the staven sun she had killed. She imagined a stave stabbing Mereeth or Yameen, and for the first time in nine months of battle she realized she might be capable of evil.

  She clung to Shir weakly as blood dripped from her wound, rolling off the shadow’s fur to the ground, leaving the shadow innocent of this battle too.

  When she reached the top of the hill, she fell off Shir to her knees onto the moist earth, its scent mixed with that of her blood. Her hand dropped from her side as she sat on her heels, staring woodenly at the meadow below.

  Barely conscious, her breaths shallow, Ison’s image flashed before her. But her thoughts turned to Goflin, his smile and steady voice. She wished he was here to comfort her before she died. Collapsing to her back, Famere decided the black sky looked distant and cold. Yearning for the sun’s light, she wanted it to wipe away her terrible actions of the night.

  Closing her eyes, she was ready to die. After bringing shame to her fighters and people, she doubted Beloved would help her reach the sahr meadows. She wasn’t worthy.

  Darkas would be ashamed of her.

  15

  The Blind Fangor

  You’re going to die for not joining the fight last night, you stinking Northerners.”

  Jennelle’s fists bunched on Luck’s reins. The stocky, mustached sergeant following her, Malley, and Sparks had taunted them all the way from their camp to Finance Minister Basture’s army encampment.

  She rested her hand on her blade hilt. “Tell me, sergean
t, why has Basture kept you at such a low rank?”

  His face darkening, the sergeant pointed past them. “If they don’t kill you in the tent, we’ll have the pleasure on your ride home, you bloody fangor.”

  Red walked next to Jennelle’s maqal, and growled at the sergeant. Worry crept into the man’s eyes.

  “Don’t worry, he’s trained only to attack the enemy,” said Jennelle.

  Malley scrutinized the forty soldiers riding behind the sergeant. “You’ll need more men to kill us, because if you’re part of this army, I’m convinced you’re incompetent.”

  “I can’t wait to spit on your lifeless carcasses.” The sergeant stopped his maqal when Jennelle reached the edge of a tiny meadow.

  Sixty yards away, a large white tent glistened with dew in the dim morning light. A small column of smoke streamed from the tent’s peak. Several maqal were tethered nearby. Basture’s massive one-horn maqal wasn’t tied to anything. Beautiful, it had a midnight blue coat.

  Walking her mare forward, Jennelle studied the maqal in fascination, distrusting the story that Basture had bought it from a merchant in the Dead Lands. One-horns were extremely rare, and she had only seen two in her whole life; Camette’s and Basture’s.

  The maqal avoided her gaze. She decided not to communicate with it, and had the strange sensation the beast didn’t want any contact with her. Camette’s big yellow had given her the same feeling. Maybe one-horns didn’t like sending.

  Sparks leaned closer, her red tresses falling off her shoulders. “Why do they want us dead, sirs?”

  “We don’t support the war.” Malley ran a hand through his black hair. “If they get rid of us, they figure someone else leading the Northerners will support Basture.”

  “Basture wants money, power, and control.” Without making it obvious, Jennelle peeked at Malley’s lean face. She knew every line and curve of it.

  She sensed Malley and she were running out of time. Death could come in any battle for either of them. It saddened her. Camette’s advice still haunted her, but she couldn’t bring herself to utter those three words: I love you. With Gasten gone, she depended on Malley’s advice and his presence in the field. His friendship had helped her remain strong over the last nine months.

  All of it had made her even fonder of him. But she realized Gasten had been like a father to Malley, so perhaps he viewed her as a sister. Also, as his commander, to state her feelings for him would put him in an awkward position. Especially if he didn’t share them. That frustrated her too.

  She grimaced. “This makes me sick. It’s hard to believe the wyshea butcher did all this in one night.”

  “They’re a mess.” Malley hooked a thumb in his belt, his voice softening. “Soldiers are still dying.”

  Death mists floated above the ground near the wounded, exuding a foul scent. Moans and occasional screams lanced the morning, and menders with red arm sashes ran through the woods in errands to help the injured. Weary maqal wandered aimlessly among the trees.

  Jennelle thought the color of the mists echoed the overcast sky. She also noted no birds sang or flew in the trees. The whole forest seemed wounded. That bothered her as much as the dying soldiers. “That damn fool, Basture, got my message about the possibility of an attack from the east and did nothing. He kept the fangors in the west. The soldiers had no warning.”

  Malley’s brows arched over his gray eyes. “Are you going to talk like that to Minister Basture?”

  Jennelle tapped her thigh with rigid fingers. “I’d like to see Basture fight the wyshea butcher and her death mounts, instead of his soldiers. But you can relax, I’ll be civil.”

  “Then we might have a chance to go home again.”

  “You’re always practical, Malley.” Too practical, sometimes.

  He smiled. “And you’re always the dreamer, Jennelle.”

  “Perhaps I am.” She stopped Luck near the tethered maqal.

  Nearby, a half-dozen black fangors struggled against staked leashes. Snarling, the fangors fought over a large piece of meat held between several of their slavering jaws.

  Jennelle found it satisfying that Red was larger than any of Basture’s fangors. As she dismounted, a scream came from the tent. “What’s that?”

  “Basture’s entertaining himself.” Malley pursed his lips.

  Wide-eyed, Sparks opened her mouth silently as if she couldn’t get the words out.

  Jennelle sent to her mare, “We’ll be back soon, Luck.” Striding toward the tent, it startled her when the chained mongrels dropped the meat and snarled at her. “It’s all right, friends.”

  Wagging their heads, the brutes backed away from her with bared canines. Red growled at them, hunching his powerful shoulders.

  “Easy, Red.” Jennelle kept walking.

  Malley cocked his head. “Not the friendly type?”

  “They’ve been conditioned to obey one master. Ruined, like this army. Sendars who use their mind ability to control others, man or beast, don’t deserve it.” Near the tent door, she said, “Sparks, be ready for anything.”

  “Always, sir.”

  Jennelle lifted back the tarp flap and walked in, stopping just inside the entrance. Malley and Sparks moved to one side of her, Red to the other.

  A hot, smoky space greeted them, partially lit by a small wood fire. Three sahr bulbs hung in the corners in webbing, spreading light through the shadows.

  Finance Minister Basture and his two henchmen stared at the far corner, where a wyshea warrior hung between two posts, tied by his wrists. Several blade wounds scored his body and burns marred his torso. His long green hair lay plastered to his bloodied, powerful shoulders.

  Malley winced. Sparks covered her mouth with the back of her hand.

  Jennelle clenched her jaw as she studied the shiny green skin, tapered ears, and emerald eyes of the enemy. She found him beautiful. Sadness and anger flashed through her. A thrip rested in the dirt, thin and delicate, but she knew how deadly they were. A stone throwing dagger lay beside the whip.

  The prisoner tilted his head to her. Jennelle was glad her plain citadel clothing didn’t match the uniforms of Basture and his officers. She didn’t want to be associated with these men.

  “Finance Minister Basture.” She gestured curtly to the prisoner. “Have you called us here for this?”

  Basture and his men turned and glared at her.

  Dressed in a red tunic and black leather pants, the minister slouched in a chair to the left, behind a table covered with papers, a meat tray, and a small wooden statue of Dosh and Deve. Both gods had stern faces. A rectangular, black metal chest provided a footrest for the minister’s black boots.

  Basture toyed with a dagger that had red jewels in its hilt, his expression nonchalant. His short black hair and blue eyes made him look regal. “Commander Jennelle. How good of you to come. Finally.”

  About thirty, Basture seemed older in some way Jennelle couldn’t explain. “We came as soon as your messenger sent for us this morning, minister.”

  “Where were you last night?” Basture’s military coordinator, Lask, pounded the table he sat on with a gloved fist, his blond bangs shaking. “We called for you twice and you didn’t come!”

  In his forties, Lask was short but powerfully built. His black trousers and boots were impeccable, like the gold short-coat covering his white tunic. Given the battle his army had just endured, Jennelle wondered how he managed that. Lask was a famed bladesman in Prosperus, but she questioned his skill. Gasten had been a match for anyone, and he had been rigorous in her training. She didn’t fear Lask.

  She kept her tone even. “First you wanted us to follow you into a trap we warned you about, then you asked us to run through your whole army to attack an enemy fleeing in the night.”

  “I don’t believe your brand’s hot enough, Cresh.” Basture indicated the fire with his dagger.

  At the back of the tent, General Cresh held a metal rod. Jennelle found the man grotesque.

  Ov
er seven feet tall, a white scar marked Cresh’s left cheek. He had a jutting chin, big bony hands, and a heavy brow. In his thirties, he wore a gold short-coat too, but his white tunic, black trousers, and boots had bloodstains.

  Cresh smiled thinly. “Certainly, minister.” He shoved the iron into a pile of red coals surrounded by a ring of rocks.

  The minister pointed his dagger at Jennelle. “I see why Hope Citadel rarely has casualties, commander. Northerners are clever in avoiding the enemy. Your father, Gasten, was more obedient, but I suppose your youth and inexperience explain your lack of loyalty.”

  “What would you like us to do, minister?” she asked coldly.

  “Come when I call you.” He spoke as if he was scolding a fangor.

  Another scream cut off Jennelle’s response.

  Cresh removed the rod from the prisoner’s shoulder. The wyshea’s skin shriveled, leaving an odor of burnt flesh. The prisoner managed to scowl at Cresh, who shrugged and shoved the brand back into the fire.

  Sparks gestured to Cresh. “Excuse me, sir, but your military coordinator’s Book of Laws says torturing prisoners is illegal.”

  Impressed with Sparks’ courage, Jennelle waited for Basture’s response.

  Cresh smiled darkly.

  “We make the laws,” snarled Lask. “And you’ll keep your mouth shut, Northerner, unless spoken to.”

  Sparks paled, but Jennelle was glad to see defiance in her eyes.

  “A justified observation.” Basture regarded Sparks with a raised brow. “But sometimes torture yields information which can save our soldiers on the battlefield.” He waved his dagger casually at Jennelle. “Since the wyshea butcher and her death mounts have wiped out half my army, we’ll be forced to retreat to Prosperus. But I want the Northerners to carry on with the staves.”

  “Excuse me, minister,” said Malley. “The staves suffered serious losses last night and retreated to Greenbliss. They were,” he paused, as if searching for words, “upset with your army’s tactics.”