“Blessings.” Bosho turned Basir to face his riders. His voice remained steady, but his pulse raced. “Famere trusts the Coyote, who appears baethe to the wyshea. I owe the Coyote a life-debt, and believe when she saved my life, the sun’s light shone for her goodness. The Blind Fangor and staves are trying to kill her. If they succeed, I believe we may never have peace, never have a day without war, and never have a chance to see the blue sky hidden by the hundred-year clouds.”
He paused to quiet his racing thoughts, for all he kept imagining was Yameen under enemy blades. “So today each of you must decide to do what we’ve never done. We ride to help a slayer, to help our guide, to help the wyshea.”
He studied his impassive riders, who trusted him with their lives. They were as stony as he, all battle tested, all ready to die for mrilwood, all ready to follow him anywhere. It made his palms sweat. “If any of you wish to go home to mrilwood, there’s no shame in it.” He waited.
None moved.
Basir threw back her head and howled savagely, eerily, at the moving blackened clouds. Five hundred shadows followed her example. It was deafening. Frightening, even to a shadow rider. Bosho had never witnessed anything like it in the nine months the shadows had come forth.
When they stopped, it took him one breath to recover.
Without another word, he wheeled Basir, and his shadow flew south like the wind, five hundred close behind.
30
Duels
While walking Luck through the last of the trees, Jennelle examined Lask’s shield cavalry blocking their path on the other side of the meadow. Six hundred, as Yameen had predicted. The wyshea’s accuracy from so far away gave Jennelle even more respect for wyshea hearing.
Lask’s soldiers held black and red shields, their blades drawn. Several dozen fangors strained on leashes. Military Coordinator Lask sat in the center of his troops, smiling confidently.
Halting her maqal at the edge of the meadow, Jennelle saw few options. Still, she tried to remain hopeful. The two mageen walked their maqal up beside her, but she knew they would never involve themselves.
Malley sat stiffly on her other side, looking dejected.
She waited until Tuffs rode through the ranks. Spitting, he shifted some meat in his mouth to a cheek. “It’s like you expected, Cresh is riding up behind us.”
Jennelle gazed across the meadow. “Malley?”
“We had it wrong. They don’t just want Famere dead. They still want us dead too.”
“We could call Sparks.”
Malley regarded her. “It’ll be over before they get here. I say we run west, fight them as we need to, and signal Sparks on the run. We’ll have a chance to hold them off long enough.”
“We’d lose a lot of riders.” Jennelle felt cheated, so close to a chance for peace. She remembered the three wyshea, the graceful quality of their movements and the clarity of their voices. She pocketed her spectacles. “I don’t want Northerners to die like this.”
“It’s their choice. They don’t want any part of the minister’s war any more than we do.”
“They’re our responsibility, Malley. We need a diversion for our riders to have a better chance.” She paused. “Lask wants me.”
“Us.”
“Us.”
Malley slumped in his saddle. “All right.”
“Tuffs, go back to Cresh with the message that Malley and I will surrender to him and Lask in this meadow, if our riders are spared.”
Tuffs’ jaw dropped. “Jennelle, I’m not going to sit here and—”
“Tuffs, we’re not going to give up without a fight.” She smiled thinly at him. “If we don’t make it, have atlatl throwers and archers ready to take Cresh and Lask. Then you’re in charge. Malley’s idea of running west and calling Sparks is your best move. Start moving riders before it’s over. And blow set-to now.”
Tuffs’ face softened. “Good luck, Jennelle. You too, Malley.” Pulling his horn, he blew three quick notes, then wheeled his maqal and galloped north through the Northerners.
Jennelle snatched a thin leather string from a blouse pocket. Brushing back her golden brown hair, she tied it with the string so it streamed over her back. “Who do you want?”
“I match up better with Cresh’s strength.” Malley pulled off his gloves. “You’ve a better touch with the sword.”
“Done.” She heard a bird singing somewhere in the distance, and it reminded her of the wyshea.
Whippet brushed hair off her brow, disdain in her eyes.
However, Raif’s forehead creased and he said gently, “Peace to you, Jennelle.”
“Thank you.” She slowly walked her maqal forward, Malley beside her.
A breeze warmed her cheeks. Recalling when the sky had opened, allowing sunlight to shine through, she glanced up, hoping it would happen again. But the wall of dark shifting clouds remained solid. She gripped her reins, needing to brush aside a sense of gloom.
“Don’t fight fair,” said Malley. “They won’t.”
“I know.”
“This isn’t about honor. If you want peace, you better care about winning at all costs.”
“Since when did you care so much about peace, Malley?” She forced a smile, glad when he smiled back.
Sadness filled her when she looked at his lean face, gray eyes, and black hair. She regretted waiting to tell him that she loved him. She couldn’t distract him with it now. A small twitch of his mouth and eyes hinted at possible feelings for her too. She wished they had time to talk, time to hold each other, time to whisper words to each other. Shaking her head, she let the thoughts go, but the sadness remained.
When they reached the center of the meadow, they waited.
Lask casually walked his maqal toward them, ten soldiers on either side of him. Halfway to them, he held up a hand. His soldiers halted, and the military coordinator spurred his mount closer. His blue eyes glinted beneath his blond bangs, his powerful body appearing relaxed. As usual, Lask’s black pants and boots were impeccable and his gold short-coat covered a clean white tunic.
His maqal stopped a dozen yards from them. “Jennelle and Malley. It took a while for you to get here. Surrendering?”
Jennelle kept her tone civil. “We have a proposal.”
“If it doesn’t involve fangors ripping you to pieces, I’m not interested.” Lask grinned. “Minister Basture was right, it was easy to set a trap for you. Send a little note from him, have Cresh wander around, and you couldn’t wait to come out of your safe citadel. Not very clever today, are we?” He leaned forward. “Northerners won’t be able to avoid this battle, will they?”
Jennelle had to admit her mistake would cost her everything. She silently berated herself for not seeing the trap and putting her command at risk.
“You’re going to get your uniform dirty today, Lask,” said Malley. “Probably bloodied too.”
Lask’s smile disappeared and he asked harshly, “What’s your proposal?”
“We’re waiting on Cresh,” said Jennelle.
“Perfect.” Lask’s eyes glittered.
In a few minutes, Cresh entered the meadow from the northeast in a hard gallop. Jennelle waited for him to swing his maqal up beside Lask’s mount.
The huge man’s uniform showed streaks of sweat, like his mount. “Where’s the wyshea?” snarled Cresh.
“Gone.” Jennelle noted the panic in Cresh’s eyes. “They heard your troops and left. Does it matter?” She patted Luck’s neck. “Here’s our proposal. I fight Lask, Malley fights Cresh. Winners take all.” She shrugged. “Unless you two are afraid we’ll win.”
“Otherwise we’ll signal the citadel, and Northerners will destroy your command.” Malley smiled. “You two aren’t cowards, are you?”
Cresh fingered his scar and smiled at Jennelle. “We’re going to hang your head from Prosperus’ walls, Jennelle.”
“Yours is too ugly to hang. I’m thinking burial.”
Cringe’s scar darkened and he glance
d at Lask. “Sir?”
“This will be enjoyable.” Lask made a grandiose, sweeping gesture. “After you.”
Jennelle dismounted with Malley. They walked Luck and Chisel back some paces, Lask and Cresh doing the same with their mounts. Jennelle drew her blade and dagger.
Malley drew his blade, then slid his spare from the blanket on Chisel. Holding the tips lowered, he walked through the grass toward Cresh.
The big man gripped two blades too, and immediately ran at Malley, swinging one of his blades at Malley’s head. Malley blocked it, thrusting his other blade, which Cresh slapped away with his second.
Jennelle forced herself to pay attention to Lask. The military coordinator took off his gold coat and threw it on the back of his maqal. Without hesitating, he slid his blade from his belt. Making several quick slashes in the air, he strode toward her.
Jennelle waited, her blades raised. She was a few inches taller than Lask, but he had the advantage of strength. She wasn’t concerned. Gasten had always told her speed and dexterity decided fights.
“One thing I forgot to mention.” Lask made two quick flourishes with his weapon. “The staves are invited, and Minister Basture wants all Northerners dead before the day is out.” He smiled. “Sorry.”
Jennelle had no time to yell anything to Tuffs. With a quick movement, Lask feinted and then lunged with surprising speed. She pivoted to the side, but his blade scored her upper right arm, just cutting through her sahr-imbued blouse and leaving a thin red trickle and burning pain. She stepped back, avoiding a sideways slash.
Grinning, Lask rushed with a flurry of slashes. She blocked them, stepping back farther, then to the side, bending her knees and swinging her arm low. The move caught Lask off guard and she cut his thigh. A trickle of blood ran over his trousers.
Lask grimaced. He stepped in more carefully, swinging in diagonal slashes at her. Backing away from the strikes, she glimpsed Malley taking a heavy blow from Cresh, his knees buckling.
That one flick of her eyes allowed Lask to score her side. The pain nearly doubled her over, but instead she jabbed her blade. He side-stepped and blocked it, and she swung the knife, slashing his side. Red stained his white tunic.
He faltered one step, his hand going to his tunic and coming away red. His eyes narrowed.
He came at her hard then with multiple strokes. Retreating, her boot heel caught in a wedge of grass. Stumbling, her blade-arm swung wide. Lask’s blade followed her and she blocked it to the side with the dagger, lost her balance, and fell to the ground. Rolling, she rose to one knee.
Lask moved in fast and scored her shoulder. She slashed with the knife, but he jumped back and smirked. He walked around her, while she pivoted on her knee. It gave her another chance to view Malley, which she desperately wanted. She already knew the outcome of her match, but she wanted Malley to survive.
Cresh had red on one of his arms, and Malley rained a series of strikes against him. But the big man shrugged them off, then swung his blades in unison, forcing Malley back. They were thirty yards farther from her than when they had started. Maybe Cresh wanted that too. We’re both overmatched.
Tuffs hadn’t moved their riders. They sat stiffly, watching and waiting. Northerners wouldn’t leave anyone behind. Her dreams would end here in ruin.
Squinting, Jennelle noticed movement in the grass to the west. Brown figures. Staves and a sahr lord. She only guessed that the weirdly thin, tall figure among the staves was a lord. She had never seen the secretive leaders, but she had read that lords were powerful—how strong, she wasn’t sure.
Across the meadow, half of Lask’s soldiers slowly walked their maqal west, toward the staves, probably waiting for a signal to attack. Possibly her death.
Lask came at her again, pulling a small knife from his boot. She rose as fast as she could.
Unsteady, she jerked away when he tossed the blade underhand in a deft motion. Unable to move fast enough, it struck her side and she bent over. The pain went deep, numbing her torso.
Lask raised his blade to strike her, but jumped back when she slashed wildly at him.
Pulling the knife free, she pressed her forearm against her ribs and slumped to her knees. She heard Malley shouting her name.
The military coordinator raised both arms in victory as his soldiers cheered.
Jennelle hunched over, hearing Lask’s rush from the side. Twisting, she flicked her dagger sideways at his chest. He used his blade to slap it to the side, but his eyes widened. She was already lunging forward under his weapon with her blade. Crying out as she stretched her injured side, she plunged sahr metal into his midsection.
Lask faltered backward one step, struggling to lift his blade overhead with both hands. His eyes bulged with the exertion.
Too weak to do anything, Jennelle collapsed to her back in the grass and watched his weapon rise, soon to take her life.
As Lask struck downward, two white points pushed out of his stomach, halting his descending weapon. Lask’s mouth opened wide and his arms dropped to his sides, his blade falling from his hands.
Luck stood behind the military coordinator, and with her horns the maqal tossed him to the side, where his body rolled through the grass. A stench filled the air as death mists seeped out of the ground and covered the corpse.
“Thank you, girl.” Luck astonished Jennelle. Her mount took a step closer and nuzzled her neck.
Tuffs blew his horn, calling Sparks and the citadel’s forces. From the west, staves ran toward the Northerners, and from the south Lask’s troops poured into the meadow. Near the center of the meadow, Malley and Cresh traded blows, each moving slower, their clothing bloodied. Jennelle wanted to go to Malley, but she still couldn’t move.
Tuffs gave another signal and led the four hundred cavalry into the grass, maqal pounding the ground as their riders sent darts and arrows arcing across the grass. Responding in kind, the minister’s soldiers released darts, arrows, and fangors. Riders and shrieking maqal fell on both sides and mists swirled from the ground.
Wary of a dart or arrow finding her back, Jennelle used Luck to pull herself to her knees, and then her feet, groaning with the effort. The two mageen sat alone at the edge of the meadow. It looked as if their idea of harmony included remaining neutral during a massacre without doing anything about it. It disgusted her.
Tuffs led the Northerners’ charge around Malley and her, crashing into the minister’s cavalry beyond the center of the meadow with a clash of metal and flesh. Shouts and maqal shrieks filled the air. Mists appeared as men, women, and maqal died on the battlefield.
Hanging onto Luck’s side, Jennelle didn’t have the strength to mount her mare. Movement was too painful.
To the west, running staves fired quills into her Northerners, who slumped on their maqal. Thrown staven daggers followed, knocking more of her riders off their mounts. Jennelle gaped as the sahr lord caused writhing vines to grow out of the soil, tripping maqal and sending her riders toppling. The staves were going to slaughter her command.
Cresh’s contingent entered the meadow from the north, riding toward the rear of the Northerners. Several of Cresh’s riders rode at Raif and Whippet. Jennelle guessed the soldiers didn’t know who they were attacking.
Whippet casually lifted one palm, sending two silver streams of light toward the soldiers’ maqal, causing the mounts to rear and shriek. The streams of sahr stopped before touching the maqal, as if running out of energy, but the riders paled and wheeled their mounts away.
Whippet’s display of power stunned Jennelle. She guessed those streams of sahr could have easily killed the soldiers if Whippet had wanted them to. But then Harken would punish the mageen. Still, with little effort Whippet and Raif could stop this battle.
Raif turned to Jennelle, his brow furrowed. Guilt, she guessed. Whippet looked cold, without empathy. It seemed monstrous to Jennelle that they could watch others die when they could prevent it.
She assessed the battlefield. Superior number
s would easily crush her riders. Sparks wouldn’t be in time. It deepened her sorrow.
“To Malley.” Luck walked with Jennelle hanging on with one arm, stumbling alongside the mare. Her other hand dragged her blade through the grass.
Cresh ran at Malley, knocking him backward to the ground. The big man battered Malley with both swords, which Malley blocked with crossed blades. From his back, Malley kicked Cresh’s knee, and the big man limped back a step.
Malley sat up, but Cresh lunged forward, forcing Malley to defend himself from the ground again.
“Faster, girl.” Jennelle wanted to reach Malley before he died. Movement made her turn.
Not far from her, a dozen of Lask’s soldiers galloped toward her. “Stop, girl.” Bracing her back against Luck, she lifted her blade, while holding her side with her other hand. It was the best she could do. In front of the riders, five fangors ran at her. Her eyes blurred and her mouth was dry.
She didn’t want to die like this, her dreams unfinished and without having loved. It sounded like Malley shouting to her in the distance. She wasn’t sure.
“Malley,” she whispered. “I love you.”
31
Desperation
The shadows raced ahead of Sparks and the Northerners, with the big red fangor running between Shir and Lor. Famere didn’t understand how any fangor could keep up with shadows. She assumed the beast would soon tire and fall behind. But he didn’t.
Fear that they would be too late for Jennelle, too late for peace, nearly overwhelmed Famere. They would never reach the commander in time.
When a distant battle horn blew, she cried out, “Beloved, help us!”
Startled, Goflin and Yameen glanced at her.
Famere panicked. They were too far from the battlefield, the first faint sounds of it reaching her ears as they flew north. She recalled her past vision of the meadow covered in blood.
Ison was defeated, but so were they if Jennelle died. Famere had read Malley’s eyes; he wasn’t interested in defying Basture for peace with the wyshea. Jennelle had more strength. The commander was their only hope.
Wyshea Shadows Page 26
