When they halved the distance to the citadel, horns blew outside and inside the fortress. Blades were drawn and atlatls and bows aimed in their direction. Several score of the minister’s men rode from the west and south, bunching together near the northeast corner of the citadel.
Famere tensed, but she thought it gave them one chance.
Growling, Shir and Lor raced directly at Basture’s slayers. Seventy yards from them, Famere clicked a signal. The shadows veered sharply west, paralleling the screeching maqal.
The minister’s riders sent a volley of darts and arrows at them. In a burst of speed, Shir and Lor ran faster.
Famere swung herself to the far side of Shir, hanging onto his fur and keeping her legs protected.
Most of the shafts sailed harmlessly behind them, but a few arrows hit the shadows with glancing blows. Lor yelped when one penetrated her flank.
After a few seconds, Famere clicked another signal. Turning sharply again, the shadows swung southwest.
When they rounded the line of maqal, Famere sat up, relieved Goflin and Yameen were unharmed. Yameen yanked the arrow from Lor’s flesh and tossed it to the ground. Famere couldn’t see how serious the wound was, but the shadow maintained pace with Shir.
The minister’s slayers shouted and gave chase. Famere saw no escape. They would be trapped against the citadel’s north wall with no protection.
Shir and Lor raced for the main gate of the citadel. The Northerners atop the wall pulled back bowstrings and readied atlatl darts, and Basture’s men rode at them from east and west.
When the Northerners fired their bows and atlatls, Famere flinched and pressed herself against Shir. But the shower of arrows and darts sailed over them, striking the ground a dozen paces behind the shadows, and in front of the charging riders coming from all directions.
Basture’s men reined to a stop in a spray of dirt, shouting angrily.
It convinced Famere that Jennelle’s people would help them. A dozen yards from the front gate, Shir and Lor stopped abruptly, and she looked up.
A hundred feet above, hundreds of Northerners aimed atlatls and bows at them. A young female slayer with bright yellow eyes and hair appeared. The fury in her gaze startled Famere.
Beside her, a tall, red-haired young female slayer leaned over the wall. “I’m Sparks, in command of Hope Citadel. What do you want?”
Light flashed to the side and a blow knocked Famere from Shir’s back. Tumbling sideways, she hit the ground hard, immediately rolling and rising to her feet in a low stance. At first she thought an atlatl dart had struck her.
Instead, Ison glared at her from a score of paces away, with one raised palm facing her. Gaping, Famere unwound her thrip.
Shir and Lor moved to her side, growling, their fangs bared. Goflin and Yameen slid off Lor and crouched nearby, holding leveled thrips and daggers.
Halfway between Ison and Famere, but to the side, another flash of light brought a tall figure who aimed an open palm at Ison. Famere recognized Power Mageen Harken, who had kidnapped Ison nine months ago. He looked the same; bearded, wearing glowing robes, his face stern and his translucent eyes cold.
Famere flicked her gaze from Harken to Ison. Both had said that mageen were prohibited from using sahr to harm others, so she hoped the power mageen would attack Ison.
Harken spoke without emotion. “Ison, you’ve disobeyed the Order’s rule of noninvolvement with the races.”
“No.” Ison lowered his arm and bowed. “It’s a personal quarrel with her.”
Harken’s voice was matter-of-fact. “I’ve allowed you to live with your people, but you won’t be allowed to use sahr for violence or personal gain.”
Ison remained bowed. “I won’t fight as a mageen, but I claim my right to fight as a wyshea.” He bent to one knee and looked up. “Master, I could have killed or hurt her, but didn’t. I’m pledged to you and am loyal. I ask forgiveness.”
Harken slowly lowered his arm. “You may fight as a wyshea. I’ll remain until it’s over.”
Staring at Harken, Famere’s hand tightened into a fist. “Who hid the slayer army from us on the day of my father’s death?”
Harken remained calm as he turned to her. “That wasn’t me.”
Famere took a step forward. “What about the mists?”
“I’ll find who is responsible.” Harken’s eyes showed honesty.
Famere realized again that she didn’t know her true enemy. “Why are you torturing the Prophetess?”
The power mageen’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t respond.
Ison’s hand disappeared into his robe and he withdrew a thrip, shaking it out. “You’ve failed as the wyshea guide, Famere. It’s time for another.” His gaze shifted to Shir and Lor. “Call off your shadows or I’ll destroy them. I don’t think Harken will care.”
The power mageen was silent, his expression neutral.
It bothered Famere that Harken considered the shadows unworthy of his concern, but Shir and Lor settled to the ground, gazing intently at Ison.
Famere gave a slight shake of her head to Goflin and Yameen, and they stepped back, lowering their weapons. Neither of them looked happy about it.
Walking away from the shadows, Famere kept her thrip lowered. “I don’t want to fight you, Ison. Help us work for peace. For our people.”
Ison slowly circled her, his sculpted features taut. “Nine months ago, when the staves tried to kill you, I saved your life. And what did I earn for it? You were given stone tester and grayblade, the shadows bonded with you, and I lost everything that should have been mine. I’m here to take back what you’ve stolen from me.”
Famere searched for some way to sway him. “Let’s start over, baethe. Don’t you want peace for our people?”
Ison shook his head. “The wyshea butcher will never bring peace to our people, Fam. Prosperus will never accept your offer. Your bloodlust ruined any possibility for that. With me, our people have a chance. Do you really want more of our children to lose their fathers and mothers?”
She stared at him, trying to assess the motivation behind his words. “What do you want?”
“Renounce your position as the wyshea guide and we don’t have to fight.”
“What are you hiding, Ison?”
His voice lowered. “You have no idea what danger our people are in.”
She hesitated, sensing honesty in his words. “Tell me.”
“It wouldn’t matter. There’s nothing you can do for them.” He flicked his thrip, cutting her whip arm.
Wincing, she switched hands and flicked her thrip into his arm, also drawing blood. His eyes widened; she had learned long ago how to fight with either hand.
They traded several strikes at each other, circling out of reach, waiting for a chance.
Jennelle’s fate ate at Famere. She had to end this quickly. Rolling to the ground toward Ison, she ended up on her knees, her thrip arcing at his legs.
Ison jumped over it to the side, snapping his thrip.
Famere gasped when he scored her back. She rolled sideways, but he followed, striking her leg while she was still on the ground. Twice more he struck her torso until she scrambled to her feet, limping away from him.
“Don’t be foolish,” said Ison. “Renounce as guide and I’ll end this, Fam.”
“Never.” Yet her limbs already felt like heavy stones. Ison had always been better with a thrip, and hard training on her part hadn’t changed anything. Her wyshea reflexes had prevented his strikes from crippling her, but her wounds were draining her strength.
Ison’s thrip flicked out three times, forcing her to roll, duck, and twist out of the way. She waited for her chance, while thoughts of Jennelle distracted her. Maybe Ison wanted to delay her to destroy their chances for peace. But that made no sense either.
She tried to divert his attention. “You sent scavengers and slayers to kill me.”
“The slayers hate you. They don’t need me to give them reasons to kill you.” His thrip arced at her.
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br /> Rolling forward under the strike, she ended up in a crouch and swung her whip. The tip ripped through Ison’s robes and scored his thigh. He didn’t flinch, and instead rushed forward and kicked her in the head.
Stumbling backward several steps, she landed hard on her back, blood in her mouth.
Ison stopped and looked down at her. “Last chance, Fam. Renounce and I’ll let you go free. You have no chance to win.”
She panicked. If she failed, Jennelle would die, along with any chance for peace. Anger erupted in her that Ison would sacrifice peace for his own gains. From her back she flicked her thrip in quick succession, hitting his hand, thigh, and ankle.
Yelping, he jumped back, but the ankle blow was serious and he collapsed to one knee.
She sat up, her arm cocked, her thrip floating. In that instant she could strike his neck, but she remembered Mereeth’s request to always treat Ison as baethe. More, she owed him a life-debt from when he had rescued her from the staves nine months ago.
She allowed her thrip to settle to the ground. Tiredly, she rolled to her knees and then sat on her heels, too weary to rise. She was aware of Ison pushing to his feet. It surprised her that he could even stand. Maybe his sahr helped him recover faster from wounds.
“You’re weak,” he scoffed. “You don’t deserve to be guide.”
She tried to flick her thrip, but he planted a foot on its end, his whip swinging toward her neck. Raising an arm to block it, she knew she was finished. If not with this blow, then with the next.
Before the tip of Ison’s whip struck her, another thrip coiled around it, pulling it taut. A second thrip struck Ison’s shoulder, scoring it.
“Ah!” Ison jerked his thrip free.
Goflin and Yameen stepped past Famere, their thrips arcing repeatedly at Ison, scoring his flesh and driving him back. Blood soon ran from several cuts in the mageen’s limbs.
Famere wanted to tell them to stop. She didn’t want Goflin or Yameen hurt, and didn’t believe they were a match for Ison, even if he was injured.
Ison looked at Harken imploringly, but the power mageen remained impassive. Hobbling backward, Ison floated his thrip. “This isn’t your fight.”
“You’ve always had bad hearing, Ison,” said Goflin. “We already have a guide. Leave, baethe, and we don’t have to hurt you.” He strode to one side of the mageen, Yameen to the other.
Groaning, Famere pushed to her feet.
Ison cursed and rushed Yameen, his thrip flashing.
Famere cringed.
But Yameen deftly rolled out of reach, while Goflin darted in from behind, scoring Ison’s back with a deep cut.
Red soaked Ison’s robe. He whirled to Goflin, who didn’t move.
“Gof!” cried Famere.
Yameen swiftly whipped her thrip around Ison’s ankle, yanking it hard, and he fell to all fours.
With one flick of his thrip, Goflin could cut Ison’s throat, but he still didn’t move.
Ison glared at Famere, and then left in a flash of light.
Harken left just as suddenly.
It was over so fast, Famere whirled around to see if both mageen were really gone.
Looking up, she saw the yellow-haired woman and Sparks staring down at them. She called to Sparks, “I’m Famere, guide of the wyshea and She of Two Shadows. Commander Jennelle is trapped between two of your minister’s armies, which intend to kill her. I’ve come to ask for peace, and Jennelle wants this too, but Basture wants us dead.”
Shir and Lor rose and howled, their eerie cries making Famere impatient. Every moment was precious.
The blond slayer frowned and said to Sparks, “She speaks the truth. We have to help Jennelle.”
Sparks paled, her knuckles tight on the wall. Then she disappeared. A horn sounded inside the citadel, followed by shouts and snorting maqal.
Goflin hurried to Famere and held her gently. “All you all right?”
“Ison challenged me,” she murmured, leaning against him.
He pulled back. “I’m not going to stand by while someone kills you. Who would I go on adventures with? And what chance of peace is there if you’re dead?”
“Truly.” Yameen walked closer, attaching her thrip to her belt. “It’s the wyshea way to help each other, and I couldn’t stand by idly and watch a baethe die. Besides, you gave him a chance to be honorable and he refused.”
Famere blinked. “Blessings. I owe you both a life-debt.”
“Two.” Yameen grinned and patted her shoulder. “And now you know wyshea suns can fight as good as your shadow riders.”
“I do.”
Goflin smiled and lightly punched Yameen’s shoulder. “Quite amazing.”
Yameen rolled her eyes and flicked his shoulder with the back of her hand. “Of course suns are amazing.”
Concern for Jennelle prevented Famere from smiling. Coiling her thrip, she said, “Blessings for not killing him, Gof.”
“There’s no honor in killing someone who is injured.” He shrugged. “And he’s your baethe, Fam. If you won’t do it, I never could.”
She wanted to hug him. “You’re amazing too.”
He grinned at her.
In moments, the massive gates creaked open and the first of six hundred maqal stomped through.
Famere was impressed they had organized themselves so quickly.
Sparks’ maqal cantered toward her, a big red fangor running beside it. Next to Sparks pranced a massive yellow one-horn.
Famere had never seen a one-horn. It was beautiful. The woman with blond hair rode it, appearing strong and assured for her age. Something seemed familiar about her. Several water bags hung over the one-horn’s back.
Stopping nearby, the blond rider glared at Famere. “I’m Camette. Jennelle’s risked a lot for you, wyshea. I hope you’re worth it.”
“My name is Famere.” She stared back steadily. “And I’ve risked all that I have.”
Sparks gestured north. “Our scouts reported the troop movements, so we were preparing to move. Do you know where they are?”
Famere mounted Shir, her wounds aching. “Yes.”
“We’ll follow you.” Sparks nodded to Goflin and Yameen. “Thank you for risking so much.”
“It’s been an adventure.” Goflin mounted Lor, while staring at Sparks’ long red hair.
“Well, you’re welcome.” Yameen leapt onto Lor behind Goflin.
Farther out from the main gates, the thin line of minister’s soldiers scattered east.
Famere clicked a signal, and the shadows bolted north, one fangor and six hundred maqal following.
29
Life-Mates
Bosho sat on his shadow, Basir, while images of Yameen clogged his mind.
During the war her presence had steadied his nerves, allowing him to be at peace with whatever came. But after Yameen had left mrilwood, he had remained on edge.
At first he sent three shadow riders to track and follow her. They reported the skirmish with the scavengers. He had immediately ordered three more riders to track them.
If he lost his two best friends and his pledged love, life would have little meaning. Without Yameen’s smile and her lightness, he would have only the gloom of battle, death, and the forever dark sky—which had disquieted him more and more after the Coyote had spared him in the meadow. He would never leave his position as guide of the shadow guard, especially with Ison corrupting their people, but his spirit would never recover if Yameen died.
When shadow riders reported the deaths of Yameen’s and Goflin’s wolves, and the movement of fresh troops from the Blind Fangor in the south, Bosho still didn’t move. But when Ison vanished for half a day, thoughts of treachery consumed him. He took five hundred of the shadow guard, leaving the rest under the guidance of Toash, Famere’s grandfather.
Toash wasn’t a shadow rider, but he was a veteran fighter that the guard respected. Besides, Basir had sent Toash’s name into Bosho’s mind when he deliberated on the choice, and he never
questioned his shadow. Huro had taken charge of the other fighters.
They had flown south, Basir leading them. Bosho wasn’t sure where they were going, but he trusted his shadow to take them where they needed to be. Riding farther south than he had ever ventured before, Bosho noted with dismay the large dead areas of parched land with rotting stumps. Someone had razed the forest, leaving only small stands of trees and open meadows, with few brethren.
Basir had finally stopped at the edge of a small area of lifeless dirt.
Bosho sent scouts ahead and waited. The sky darkened in an ugly way, and he hunched his shoulders in response. The painful loss of Beloved’s melody disturbed him and his restless riders. None of them wanted to be here, but none complained. They were the shadow guard, and understood they were all that stood between all enemies and the wyshea.
In an hour, scouts raced toward Bosho from the horizon, their shadows flying over the open land. He sat utterly still until they stopped in front of him, all three riders sagging. His thoughts churned, but he controlled his emotions. “What have you found?”
The middle rider, Sadew, the youngest and smallest, sat taller. “Two of the Blind Fangor’s forces ride to destroy the Coyote. Famere rode with Yameen and Goflin toward the Coyote’s camp, farther south.”
Bosho’s arms relaxed after learning Yameen and his friends were alive. But the three riders’ brows were furrowed and he knew it was worse. “What else?”
Sadew waved tiredly. “Staves are coming from the west, toward the Coyote. A sahr lord leads them and I barely escaped staven scouts.”
Bosho braced himself. “How many?”
“Five hundred.”
He took a deep breath. Famere had been right. If the Coyote was an enemy to the Blind Fangor and staves, then she was a friend to the wyshea. And if Famere had placed her trust in the Coyote—and she was defeated—Famere, Goflin, and his beloved Yameen would be at risk.
He patted Basir’s great shoulder. When the shadow turned to him, her silvered eyes on his, he almost panicked. “You three stay here and rest.”
“We’ll ride with you and watch your back,” said Sadew.
The other two nodded.
Wyshea Shadows Page 25
