Green Rider

by Kristen Britain

  “D’rang?” Mirwell queried. “Why are you restraining your superior officer?”

  D’rang glanced at the other soldier, and then back at Mirwell. But before he could speak, the Gray One stepped from the stone wall as if he had been a part of it. Mirwell shuddered involuntarily. For all he knew, the Gray One had done just that.

  “Do you still seek a spy?” the Gray One asked in his melodious voice, a beautiful voice that disguised something ugly.

  Mirwell felt his scrutiny from beneath the hood. He slid into the cushioned chair across from Beryl, next to a little table that held his game of Intrigue. He had set the pieces exactly the way they had been before they left his keep. “Of course I still seek the spy.”

  The hood turned toward Beryl.

  “Spence? You must jest, Master Gray One. She’s my most trusted aide.”

  “Who else better to betray you?”

  Mirwell’s eyes shot to his aide. “Spence?”

  “I’m no spy,” she said. Her features remained neutral.

  Then, in a swift sudden move, the Gray One swooped upon her and tore something from her surcoat. She jerked back with a stifled scream which sounded more like a snarl. The Gray One held out whatever he had snatched to Mirwell.

  “What do you see?” he hissed.

  “Why her medal of valor, for when she served in the king’s militia.”

  “Look more closely.”

  Mirwell squinted his eyes. The medal, a gold oval imprinted with the firebrand and the crescent moon, wavered in his vision for a moment, as if suddenly transformed, and then resolidified into its usual composition. My eyes, he thought. “I see nothing unusual.”

  “It is a Green Rider brooch,” the Gray One said. “Mundanes cannot see them properly, but I can. This spy had it well-shielded just so I would not, but my magic is stronger, far stronger, and eventually I saw it for what it was. I expect, through questioning, you will find I speak the truth.”

  Mirwell ran his fingers through his beard completely aware of what kind of questioning the Gray One meant. “I-I don’t know.”

  “My lord,” D’rang said, “we found her over by the Greenie barracks talking to someone.”

  The Gray One slapped the medal down on a table. “She is a spy. There is no question of it. If you wish to see your plans through, kill her. If there is a question in your mind, torture her. Find out the truth.”

  I’ve become a doting old fool, Mirwell thought. I’ve allowed this woman to get to me. I’ve grown weak. Perhaps he had known the truth all along. “We will not kill her, nor will we torture her.”

  An expression of triumph flashed across Beryl’s face before it turned neutral again.

  Mirwell picked up the green spy from his game board and shook it in his hand as if he were about to roll dice. “Tie her up,” he said with a heavy sigh.

  Now Beryl frowned.

  D’rang found some lengths of cord and proceeded to truss her up and gag her. Beryl took it all silently.

  “I want all to appear as normal,” Mirwell said, “so the king doesn’t suspect anything. She will attend me at every moment, just as the king would expect.”

  “My lord,” said D’rang, “what if she should try to pass word on to the king’s folk?”

  “That is a consideration,” Mirwell said.

  The Gray One bent over Beryl, and she shrank in her chair. “I believe I know a way,” he said. “I shall teach you some words which will give you power over her.”

  Mirwell tipped the green spy in the red court onto its side. “D’rang, go find the castellan and ask if he has heard anything about our plans. That is the simplest way, I think, to find out if Spence has betrayed us.”

  The Gray One placed his hands on either side of Beryl’s head. She rammed her back into the chair and squirmed.

  “By all means,” the Gray One said, “seek Crowe out. But this one is still a liability.”

  Beryl screamed, and though it was muffled by the gag, Mirwell could feel it down to his toes.

  Bright silver moonlight fell through the close network of interlacing branches of the forest canopy, dappling the overgrown track—once a woods road—with strange and moving patterns. The moonlight served not as an omen, but as a suitable light source for Prince Amilton Hillander and his host of soldiers.

  They were Mirwellton regulars, scruffy mercs, conscripted peasants, and no few thieves and scoundrels among them looking for opportunity. They were a rogue army, and Amilton rode at their head. The notion of a rogue army appealed to him. He was, after all, a rogue prince. Hadn’t his brother stripped him of his titles, his lands, his destiny? Yet here he was, about to grab the highest seat in the land, and there would be even more beyond that according to the Gray One.

  Amilton ground his teeth together. His forces would prevail and Zachary would burn. He dreamed a hundred torments for his brother and how he would delight in his brother’s screams. Such thoughts warmed his belly as he and the rogue army, some five hundred soldiers, plodded along.

  The isolated track would lead them to Sacor City with little notice. All they encountered along the way were killed so they would not spread the word and alert Zachary’s minions of their approach. So far, only a few hunters had perished, their bodies far behind, bristling with Mirwellian arrows.

  Mounted warriors rode up front, followed by draft horses straining at their collars to haul siege engines and supplies. Infantry toiled through the churned earth at the very end. The plan was not so much to hold siege, but to create a show of force at the sleeping city. It was also a precaution should Mirwell’s man in Zachary’s court not have the gates open to welcome them as planned.

  Amilton’s forces would ride right up to the castle gates, enter, and secure it.Then Mirwell would bring him his brother, dead or alive. If dead, he would bring Zachary’s head. The rightful king would then take his place on the throne.

  Five hundred was not a great number of soldiers, but it was far more than the one hundred and fifty to two hundred garrisoned at the castle.

  “You think of your throne, my prince?” the Mirwellian captain who rode with him asked.

  “Just so,” Amilton said. He clasped the black stone that hung from his neck on a gold chain. It had been a gift, a great gift, from the Gray One. It was a gift of power. The Gray One said it would strengthen them both. The more he used it, the stronger they would become. “It will not be long before you address me as your king,” he told the captain.

  The captain inclined his head. “With pleasure, Sire.”

  The man was an ingrate, Amilton thought. Already he sought favor with the new king.

  Two riders appeared down the track—a Mirwellian scout and someone mounted on a big battle horse. Amilton held his hand up to stay the army. The order was shouted down the length of the host. The captain rode forward to meet the scout as the thud of hoof, clack of armor, and grind of wagon wheels drew to a halt. Quiet settled over the army, interspersed by the shift of horses, ring of harness, and the occasional cough.

  The captain rode back at a canter and halted before the prince. “The scout has found someone, my lord,” he said.

  “Why isn’t he dead?”

  “She says she knows you. She rides a battle horse branded with the mark of the Talon company.”

  Amilton raised his brow. “Interesting.” Mirwell had hired a squad of Talon mercs to supplement the infantry. Perhaps this rider carried a message. “Bring her here.”

  The captain rode back to the scout and the mystery woman. After a moment, they approached at a slow jog. When they were just two horse lengths away, the stranger swung off her horse and fell to her knees before the prince.

  “My lord,” she said, keeping her face turned to the ground.

  Amilton started in surprise. He dismounted and threw his reins to the captain. Placing his fingers beneath the woman’s chin, he tilted her face upward. Moonlight splayed across a swollen and off-center nose. Dried blood was crusted near her hairline though it
looked as if she had tried to scrub it away. Her face was thin, but it was unmistakable.

  “Jendara,” he whispered.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  He caressed her face, his fingers trailing against her sharp cheekbones. “I’ve missed you more than you know. What has happened? Where is Torne?”

  “Dead. The Greenie, my lord. We had the Greenie, but there was more to her than we knew. . . . She escaped. We have failed you.”

  He moved his hand as if to comb it through her lush hair, but instead he grabbed a handful and yanked her to her feet.

  “Failed? Do you know what your failure may cost me?”

  “Yes, my lord,” she whispered.

  He struck her hard across the face, and struck her again. His blows fell repeatedly, and blow after blow she stood mute, never crying out, never pleading for him to stop. She did not run away or resist. She simply accepted the pummeling, her body knocked this way and that from the blows. The smack of his fist against her face punctuated the relative quiet of the forest.

  Amilton paused. She still stood, though barely, when such a beating would have rendered any ordinary woman or man unconscious. She wobbled from side to side as if she might drop at any moment, but never fell. Blood flowed freely from her nose and a split lip. The flesh around her eyes purpled and swelled.

  Amilton wiped Jendara’s blood off his knuckles with a cloth handed to him by his squire.

  Why this violence, he wondered, when he could test his gift from the Gray One? He shut his eyes and touched the cold stone. His thoughts delved into dark regions as the Gray One had instructed him. He searched, reached, and called upon the power of Kanmorhan Vane. It surged through him with a cold, sinuous tingle. When he opened his eyes, currents of black energy licked his hands.

  He grasped Jendara’s shoulders and the energies bore into her. Jendara’s scream rang through the woods, and she dropped to her knees.

  Amilton removed his hands from her and watched in fascination as the currents of energy crackled on his palms and around his fingers. He let the magic dissipate, then his hands fell to his sides.

  “What now, my lord?” the captain asked. All blood had drained from his face.

  “We go on.”

  “But what if the Greenie has alerted the king? What if we march into a trap?”

  “Immerez may have stopped the Greenie. Even if he has not, we go on. We are equipped for a siege if need be.” The prince turned to the captain, and in an uncompromising tone he said, “No matter what, we shall proceed. It is all I have left, and I shall take it. If I hear one murmur of dissent, we will have an immediate execution. Do I make myself clear?”

  The captain bowed his head hastily. “Yes, my lord.”

  Amilton placed his hands on Jendara’s shoulders again, and she shrank from him though he did not call on the magic. He pulled her close. “I am glad you have returned to me.” He kissed her with greatest tenderness on her swollen cheek.“Now you will ride beside me and protect me as you have sworn.”

  “As I have sworn,” she whispered through her broken mouth.

  “Then take your place beside me.”

  She staggered to her feet and stumbled to the battle horse’s side as if in a daze. She tried several times before her toe found the stirrup and she dragged herself into the saddle. She reined her horse beside Amilton’s. Hunched over the saddle horn, she whispered to him, “I serve with my life.”

  THE HUNTING

  A day slipped by, and another, and still Karigan heard nothing about the letter, nor did she see Captain Mapstone at all. In fact, no one in particular, not even a single Weapon, paid her any attention except for Alton, who had nothing else to do, and Mel, who was as cheerful as ever, but for once couldn’t shed any light on the situation.

  “Just as I told you before, I haven’t seen the captain since the night before last,” Mel said, plopping on Karigan’s bed.

  Karigan secured her bedroll to her pack which the kitchen servants had filled with food. She slung the pack over one shoulder and a water skin over the other. “I’m out of it, then. I’ve done my part, and I’m going home.”

  “Do you have to?” Mel’s eyes looked sad. “I haven’t had another girl to talk to in so long.”

  How lonely it must be for her to live in a world of adults who possessed adult problems and no imaginations whatsoever. “I have to go home. My father will be expecting me. Maybe . . . maybe he will come trading here in the fall and I can come with him.”

  “Maybe the captain will let me visit you.” There was the sound of hope in Mel’s voice.

  “I don’t see why not.” Such an excursion would be good for her. Maybe Mel hadn’t even been outside of the city walls before. “Guess I’m ready.”

  Karigan walked down the main corridor of the barracks, Mel in tow behind her. The corridor was empty; Green Riders were scattered across the countryside on messenger errands.

  They emerged outdoors, the sun falling warmly on their shoulders more like summer than spring. Karigan walked along the railing that lined the horse pasture, squinting her eyes to pick out a familiar friend, to say good-bye.

  “What are you looking for?” Mel asked.

  “The Horse. All of the others seem to be out, but not him.”

  “Condor? He’s in the stable.”

  Karigan wondered about that, and about the mischievous smile on Mel’s face. They walked on into the stable, blinking until their eyes adjusted to the sudden dark. Alton D’Yer stood in the aisle between the stalls, holding the reins of his tall black gelding, who, with white socks and a white blaze down his nose, had earned the name Night Hawk. As always, Alton looked immaculate, as did his horse and gear. He gave her a lopsided grin and patted Night Hawk’s neck. “Where are you going?” he asked.

  Karigan frowned. Corsa, of course. She had told him time and again. “Home.”

  “Must be a long walk.”

  Karigan placed her hands on her hips in annoyance. “I’ll catch a ferry down on the river.”

  “But you have a Green Rider uniform on. It wouldn’t look right for you to be traveling on foot.”

  “What do you want me to do? Go in the nude?” Alton snickered at that, but Karigan ignored it. “I suppose I have enough currency left to buy something so I can get rid of this green outfit.”

  “Green is your color.” This time Alton was not joking. “Why not ride instead?”

  “I can’t afford a horse.”

  “I don’t know what Condor would say to that.”

  Mel had disappeared into an adjacent section of the stable, only to return with a tacked and groomed Condor. He whickered in greeting. “He’s all set to go to Corsa,” Mel said.

  “What?” Karigan looked at Mel, then at Alton, her mouth hanging open. “But he’s not mine.”

  Alton said, “These messenger horses are particular about their Riders. You are Condor’s Rider, whether you choose to join the messenger service or not. Captain Mapstone said giving him to you was the least we could do to thank you for delivering F’ryan’s message.”

  Karigan took the reins from Mel and looked up at Condor. “So you think you can put up with me?”

  Condor snorted and shook his head, the bridle jingling.

  Karigan smiled broadly. “I guess he will.” A mount would make her journey far easier. She would still find a way to get rid of the green uniform, though.

  “Karigan,” Alton said, “I would . . . I . . . well, it would please me . . .What I want to say . . .”

  One moment he was speaking as a polished aristocrat should, the next he couldn’t speak at all. She wished he would just blurt out what it was he wanted.

  Mel rolled her eyes, apparently wishing the same thing. “He wants to ride down to the river with you.”

  Alton blushed.

  “Oh!” It would be the last time she got to see him, and it would be pleasant to have company—to have him—along the way. “I don’t see why not.”

  Alton exhaled in relief.
“Very good,” he said, taking on a confident air again.

  Karigan thought she heard Mel mutter something about “males.” The two girls said their good-byes, and Karigan left Mel standing forlornly in the shadows of the stable, the drone of flies filling the air.

  At first Alton and Karigan rode in silence, he glancing at her covertly. They passed beneath the portcullis and through the castle gates. The horses’ hooves clunked on the wooden drawbridge. Two guards on duty watched them sourly as they passed through. Relations between the militia and messenger service, she learned, were strained by the misconception of the soldiers that Green Riders led uncomplicated lives.

  Part of the castle wall that faced outward into the city was scaffolded. Workers on break sat idly on the wood scaffolding and passed around a jug. Alton scowled.

  “What’s wrong?” Karigan asked.

  “There is nothing wrong with that wall.”

  “Then what are they doing?”

  “Supposedy reinforcing it. Hah! That wall has survived since the Long War, and not a nick in it. D’Yers built it.”

  “The king seems to think it needs reinforcing.”

  “Evidently. I don’t know what he expects is going to happen. It wouldn’t be so bad if their work wasn’t so sloppy. He could have used D’Yers if he wanted the job done correctly. Granted, we’ve lost some of our skill since the castle was built, but Clan D’Yer still has the finest stone workers in all of Sacoridia.” He sighed. “I suppose the king wanted to generate local work.”

  From the gates they followed the cobble-paved road that led from the castle into Sacor City. The cobbles, stones rounded for a millennium by the ocean, were harvested from the shores of King Zachary’s own province of Hillander.

  As they descended the sloping road, Karigan looked over her shoulder, and for the first time, truly saw the castle as a whole, a view she had been denied during the Wild Ride. It stood high on a rounded hillock, turrets casting solid shadows across its gray granite facade. Blocky walls anchored the castle to the earth. It looked indestructible, unmovable, almost as if it had been hewn from the raw earth itself.