She wasn’t aware of it beginning, but suddenly the grass became solid green as they passed through it, the black norre trees blurring as the shadows flowed around them. It was all she could do to hang on as Shir and Lor ran faster than ever before. They left Sparks and her riders behind in the forest, but the Northerners had the right direction.
Only Camette and her one-horn kept pace with them, the big yellow taking strides too big for any maqal. Famere wondered what else one-horns could do.
Goflin and Yameen lay flat against Lor, probably fearing, as she did, that if they sat up the wind might blow them off their shadow’s back. When Famere looked carefully, a path of sahr stretched along the ground in front of them, as if it had melted off the surrounding trees. Either the shadows had called it to them or Beloved had caused it. Either way, the winding path filled her with hope.
Another stunning sight was the red fangor running between the shadows as if it was floating, its skin pulled tight over its skull as the force of their charge beat against it. Shir and Lor were carrying the fangor in their wild flight. They must have done so since leaving Hope Citadel. Famere realized then how little she understood about her shadows.
One moment the forest slipped by in hundred-yard shadow strides, and in the next a raging battle was in front of them as they left the edge of the woods. For the first time ever, Famere saw slayers fighting each other. Blades clashed, soldiers shouted, and a layer of death mists blanketed the meadow.
When they reached the back of the minister’s cavalry, the shadows leapt together, bringing the fangor with them. Partway into the jump, everything slowed.
Famere sat up, her thrip ready. Along with Goflin and Yameen, she knocked Lask’s soldiers off their maqal as she and her friends soared, first over Lask’s soldiers, and then over wide-eyed Northerners, heading toward a clear space in the center of the meadow. It was an impossible leap, but Famere didn’t dwell on it.
As they soared, she surveyed the battlefield. It was devastating. Staves attacked from the west with a sahr lord, and Cresh’s cavalry charged the rear of Jennelle’s riders.
Cresh stood over Malley, swinging his blades at the Northerner, who lay on his back defending himself, while Jennelle leaned against her maqal, bloodied and sagging. A dozen soldiers rode toward the commander, with five snarling fangors running in front of them. A smaller group of soldiers and fangors ran at Malley.
Famere recognized defeat.
But as the shadows landed softly in the grass, a mirage entered the meadow. Beyond the death mists and Cresh’s cavalry, a gust of howling, snarling black entered the grass from the north. Staring, dumbfounded, Famere watched five hundred shadows split in two, one-half a black stream of fury racing toward the staves, the other tearing into the rear of Cresh’s shouting soldiers.
Many of Jennelle’s Northerners jerked around in fear, but some raised triumphant fists when they saw howling death mounts fighting staves and enemy maqal.
Loud shouts made Famere look back.
Camette galloped wildly into Lask’s ranks, her one-horn knocking aside maqal with its powerful shoulders and flailing legs, while the young girl shoved and yanked riders off their mounts with unusual strength and speed, avoiding swung blades with quick movements, all the while shouting loudly, “For Hope Citadel!”
Northerners rallied around her, shouting with renewed energy.
Streaking across the meadow, Shir and Lor gave eerie howls that reverberated in Famere’s ears. Without signals, Shir flew in Jennelle’s direction, while Lor veered toward Malley.
Goflin clicked, and Famere signaled back, glimpsing his steady eyes as he looked at her, his shining hair blowing back over his shoulders, his sinewy body taut. It would have to be enough.
Cresh saw the approaching shadows, left Malley, and fled to his maqal. Famere hoped Goflin and Yameen wouldn’t have to fight that monster. Her friends flicked their thrips at the fangors and maqal riders charging Malley, and then Famere had to ready herself as Shir passed the soldiers galloping toward Jennelle.
Shir caught the fangors from behind, snapping at the legs of two of them, sending them tumbling into the grass. And then the shadow spun around and stopped.
The red fangor raced past them, but Famere had to focus on the twelve soldiers thundering toward her. She slid off Shir to the ground; two targets were more difficult to fight than one.
Shir growled and jumped at the first rider, knocking him back into another maqal. Famere threw grayblade into another rider, ducked a swung blade, and arced her thrip at yet another slayer. But eight soldiers pounded past her. Whirling and running after them, she leapt atop a riderless maqal among the soldiers, snapping her whip left and right into riders.
She froze. A fangor leapt for Jennelle’s throat, but the red fangor ran into it from the side with snapping teeth. They sprawled away in a wild fight.
Jennelle’s maqal wheeled and pierced another fangor in the torso, lifting and throwing it aside.
Jennelle slumped to her knees as the last fangor bowled into her chest, knocking her back.
“Jennelle!” With words choking her throat, Famere spurred her maqal.
Shir jumped onto the back of another maqal, whose rider jumped off. The shadow sprang to another mount.
Five slayers surrounded Famere, ready to swing their blades at her. One soldier slashed at her neck and she leaned back so it missed her; she knew the only way to avoid the rest was to slide off the maqal.
But a thrip coiled around another swung blade, holding it, and Famere saw a second mirage; Bosho on Basir, flying over the slayer riders. Her baethe-brue’s black shield slammed the soldier off his maqal, and the remaining riders fled.
Famere’s maqal shrieked and reared, so she jumped off it, painfully running toward Jennelle, her injuries slowing her.
Shir and Bosho fought other slayers, preventing them from pursuing her.
Staring at Jennelle, Famere cried, “No!”
Jennelle lay on her back, struggling wildly with the fangor. Famere envisioned the beast ripping out her throat. Another slavering fangor appeared near the commander’s head.
Famere shouted again, “Jennelle!”
It was the red fangor. The beast licked the commander, then growled and dragged the fangor lying on Jennelle’s chest to the side. The dead beast had Jennelle’s blade hilt sticking out of its mouth. Finished, the red fangor dropped beside Jennelle, and the commander fell back onto the dirt.
Famere ran the last steps, still fearing Jennelle might bleed to death. The commander rolled to her side, trying to rise to one elbow, when her gaze was drawn west.
Famere twisted to look. An atlatl dart sailed at Jennelle, and Cresh leaned sideways on his large black maqal, his blade raised as he galloped toward Famere.
“Famere!” Goflin shouted from across the field. The atlatl thrower was loading another dart, and Goflin threw his dagger into him.
“Baethe!” yelled Bosho.
Dropping her thrip, Famere threw herself lengthwise in front of Jennelle, her hands catching the atlatl dart as it pounded into her chest. “Ahh!”
She fell, and Cresh’s blade missed her neck and hit the dart, cutting it in two. Landing hard on her back beside Jennelle, Famere slid in the grass.
Shir roared and bolted forward, but Cresh spurred his maqal and fled south across the meadow toward the minister’s cavalry. The shadow stopped, letting him go, but hurled an eerie growl after him.
Famere groaned and dropped the atlatl shaft to the side. Her chest ached. She was scared to inspect her wound.
“Famere.” Jennelle sounded weak.
Lifting one of her hands, Famere gingerly touched her chest, but instead of a bloody hole, her fingers found stone tester. “Blessings, Beloved,” she murmured.
“Famere,” Jennelle whispered again.
“I’m alive.” Slowly, painfully, she propped herself up on an elbow, assessing the battlefield. She lifted a weak hand to Bosho and Goflin. Mists partially hid them, but G
oflin had run halfway to her. Bosho lifted an arm, then wheeled on Basir and flew west. Goflin ran back to fight soldiers near Malley.
Six hundred maqal thundered into the meadow from the south, led by Sparks, crashing into the rear of the minister’s cavalry. Shrieks, cries, and pounding hooves blended with the eerie howls of shadows. The stench of mists covered the scent of blood. Basture’s soldiers were in disarray, their formation breaking apart
To the west, the staves formed lines of cloak shields, the sahr lord behind them backing up as Bosho raced toward them, his glittering shield flickering in and out of the death mists. When the mists broke apart, Famere was relieved to see Yameen atop Lor, and Goflin helping Malley mount his maqal.
The battle ended quickly, the staves and sahr lord fleeing west with their wounded, while Lask’s soldiers scattered east. Cresh led their retreat.
Bosho signaled his riders to let the staves go, and instead they dismounted and helped wounded wyshea and Northerners. Menders from Hope Citadel and Prosperus were also tending the injured.
Hearing the dying and wounded in the meadow made Famere queasy, and she found it alarming that it had ever seemed anything except horrible to her. Her vision of a meadow covered in blood had come true. Cries for help came from all directions, saddening her. Even the minister soldiers’ moans disturbed her. They were following orders, as her warriors had followed her orders for nearly a year, killing so many. She wanted it all to end.
Thunder echoed and the sky turned darker, making her wonder if they would ever see the blue sky. What had they achieved?
Light flickered at the edge of the meadow among the trees. Riveted, she watched it, suddenly aware that mril were present in the forest all around them. From all directions Beloved’s daughters cascaded from the woods into the grass, their bodies hidden in their brightness and their silvery-white wings flashing as they created winding ribbons throughout the meadow, flying around Basture’s wounded soldiers, wyshea, and Northerners.
Famere had never seen so many mril in one place, dancing in a weaving pattern around the shocked survivors. She knew then that the goddess watched over them even south of the Wild Lands.
“We’re protected,” she murmured.
“Beautiful,” said Jennelle, her eyes bright.
“We call them mril,” said Famere. “Beloved’s daughters.”
The presence of the mril quieted everyone in the meadow, including the injured, as if their beauty eased their pain or gave them hope. Looking closely, Famere spied tiny drops of sahr falling from the mril’s wings over Jennelle and all the wounded, including fangors and maqal, many of whom then settled into the grass in slumber. She had never heard of such a thing and resolved to ask Mereeth about it.
For several minutes the mril flitted about the meadow over the injured, eventually trickling back into the woods.
“Blessings, Beloved.” Falling to her back in the grass, Famere realized how preposterous it all must appear. She, the wyshea butcher, lay as a fellow fighter next to a slayer commander, while the red fangor wagged his tail near the monstrous shadow, Shir, who lowered his great jaws to lick the beast.
Jennelle coughed. “You came back.”
“Both of us have to stay alive for any chance of peace.” Slayers healed much slower than wyshea, so Famere rolled her head sideways to scrutinize Jennelle’s wounds.
Jennelle blinked at her. “I owe you my life.”
Slayers had the same code of life-debt as wyshea, and Famere finally accepted that their races were more alike than different. It made the idea of peace seem stronger.
Tuffs rode up, staring at them. “Isn’t that the strangest sight?”
Sparks galloped up on her mount, stopping near Jennelle’s feet. “Should we pursue the minister’s soldiers, sir?”
Tuffs waved in their direction. “Let them go. We’ve all had enough.”
Famere was glad the Northerner didn’t want revenge.
Sparks jumped off her mount, grabbing her bag of mender supplies. Hurrying to Jennelle, she paused to stare at the last of the mril leaving the meadow, her eyes bright with wonder. “What did they want?”
“To give us Beloved’s blessing for peace,” said Famere.
“Incredible.” Sparks knelt by Jennelle to tend her wounds. “Sir, you should have called us sooner.”
“Maybe,” whispered Jennelle.
Camette cantered up on the big yellow, her shoulders sagging when she saw Jennelle. She regarded Famere. “Blessings, wyshea. It seems you were worth the risk, after all.”
Famere heard sadness. She found it odd that Camette had no blood on her clothing and no weapon in her hand or belt. “Peace is worth any risk,” she said.
Camette nodded. “Yes. We’re all tired of death and war.”
The two mageen, Raif and Whippet, walked their maqal a little closer, staring at Famere. Famere saw Camette’s expression sour. Without any signal, the yellow one-horn turned and plodded south.
Malley cantered toward them on Chisel. Loping alongside the Northerner’s maqal, Lor carried Goflin and Yameen. The shadow favored her injured side, but otherwise looked healthy. It was another image Famere never expected to see: a shadow escorting a maqal rider.
Goflin slid off Lor and ran to her, kneeling to embrace her, his arms gently circling her. “Oh, Fam.” He helped her sit up, and then softly kissed her cheeks and lips.
“I’m all right, Gof.” She slid a tired arm around him, enjoying his arms around her, his hair against her cheek. “Jennelle first,” she said to Yameen.
“Of course.” Yameen knelt by Jennelle, reaching into her medicine pouch for healing herbs. Sparks made room for her, talking with Yameen with great interest. It made Famere feel anything was possible.
Malley exhaled, slumping on Chisel, blood on his tunic and trousers. “Time to go home.”
The care in his eyes for Jennelle was obvious. It made Famere curious that he didn’t show it.
Jennelle’s eyes shone at Malley. “Time to go home.”
The battlefield calmed, the mists slowly leaving. Truly sick of war, Famere believed it could all finally end. In the distance, Bosho lifted his glittering shield from where he sat on Basir. Famere beckoned him over to meet the Coyote, Jennelle.
32
Peace
Jennelle rested against the backboard, observing Malley, who sat on the foot of her bed.
He was dressed in a clean tunic and trousers, his feet bare.
His washed hair lay on his shoulders. She wanted to run her hands through it and almost giggled at that.
Sahr bulbs lit the room, and for once she was satisfied with the dim light, conscious of how she must look with her hair a mess and wearing a white shift. It irked her that she cared what he thought of her appearance.
He smiled. “You have to be an invalid a bit longer. Get used to it.”
“A few days,” she muttered. “Yameen said the healing herbs should help me recover enough to get out of bed by then. You’re not a hundred percent, either.”
“I can walk, Jennelle.” He limped around the bed and took the empty food tray from her lap, setting it on the nightstand. Leaning over, he drew the blanket from the bottom of her bed to her waist.
“I’ll do it, Malley.”
She leaned forward to assist, but he gently put a hand on her shoulder and pushed her back. “You’re not supposed to bend.”
“Thanks.” She covered his hand with hers, leaning closer to him.
He paused while her lips brushed his cheek, and then finished pulling up the blanket. Coughing, he stepped back.
Her hand fell to the bed and she smiled at him.
“I’m glad Camette’s alive to cook for us.” He shook his head. “Northerners consider her a hero after what she did in the battle.”
“A woman of mystery. I’m glad she didn’t faint on the battlefield and get trampled. I’d still like to know how she got the one-horn.” She sighed. “What do you think about Basture wanting a peace treaty sig
ned in a few days?”
“I don’t trust him. He’ll want revenge.”
“We haven’t done anything except defend ourselves.”
“In case you’ve forgotten, we killed his military coordinator, Lask, and many of his soldiers—our allies. Not to mention some staves, also allies.”
“We lost Northerners too,” she said softly.
Malley winced. “We did our best not to.”
She adjusted her position in bed. “Famere said her people believe that their dead journey with their goddess, Beloved, to the sahr meadows in the afterlife.”
“Seems like another name for the forever life with Dosh and Deve.”
“They believe Beloved is alive now. I like the idea of a living goddess. Famere said Beloved used to talk to her people through the sahr, and now does so through their seers.”
Malley sat on the chair next to the bed. “Famere said the mril dripped sahr onto you and all the wounded on the battlefield. It seems to be helping everyone heal faster.”
“Amazing.”
Malley shrugged. “Who’s to say? If Beloved’s alive, maybe Dosh and Deve are working with her.” He cleared his throat. “Tuffs gave a nice talk in front of the statues, asking the gods to help our fallen to the sweet land. Everyone brought flowers.”
“It sounds beautiful. I’m glad you didn’t wait for me.”
Malley nodded. “Men and women are arriving daily from Prosperus, some abandoning their posts in Basture’s army to join us, without his blessing, of course. Some of those we fought in the meadow want to stay with us. The others we’re sending home when they’re able to move. And staves from High Lord Baennel sent word that Sahr Lord Raeleen, who led the attack against us, doesn’t speak for the staven kind. I allowed Raif and Whippet to stay here. They said they want to be near Famere.”
“Good.” She settled back against the backboard, excited and determined to learn more about the mageen. “Basture’s army is torn apart and his citizens are in revolt in Prosperus. The sendars sent word they want no more fighting. Basture doesn’t have any options left. His forces and allies are defeated. The war’s over, Malley. It’s time to celebrate. We’ve done it. Famere succeeded.”
Wyshea Shadows Page 27
