Green Rider (54 page)

To Shawdell, he said, "You will stop this, traitor."

"Traitor?" Shawdell chuckled. "I owe allegiance to none, and certainly not to a mortal kingdom like Sacoridia."

The spirit of a young boy tottered by, and reached out to unravel an old Green Rider. Karigan rubbed her eyes and tried to put the ghosts out of her mind. "Then why were you trying to court favor with King Zachary?"

"Court favor? Sacoridia borders
Kanmorhan Vane
, the single, greatest concentration of power left in this world. Your king refused to take advantage of the situation, but Prince Amilton comprehends what it means."

"What has Eletia to gain?" Alton asked, his eyes'betraying incredulity.

"Eletia? A land of fools always hiding, always hiding among their trees. I serve myself, but never Eletia. It is time for old powers to rise again. And you, my lord Alton D'Yer, threaten those powers. You possess the skills to repair the breach in your ancestral wall."

Faster than the eye could follow, and with the spirits aswirl about him, Shawdell raised his bow, speaking in whispers as if to himself, and loosed his arrow. Karigan cried out. Alton dropped his sword and raised his hand, palm outward, as if to stop the arrow. And he did. An arm's length from his breast, the arrow smacked some invisible barrier and dropped to the ground. All three looked at the arrow in utter amazement.

"I… I imagined a granite wall," Alton said.

"Your Greenie defenses are impressive," Shawdell said, "but like the D'Yer wall, they are not enough."

Before Alton had time to react, Shawdell nocked another arrow, drew it back, and shot. This time the arrow skimmed across the invisible wall and penetrated, piercing Alton's side. Alton wavered on his feet before crumpling to the ground.

With a cry of dismay, Karigan knelt by his side. The arrow had not pierced him deeply, but who knew what magic was at work?

The trumpeting of a horn shattered the air—not the trumpet of the dead—but clear, ringing notes of the living, and Karigan felt hope build inside her. Shawdell glanced down into the valley where five still defended the king. Their swords slashed at more than twice as many of the enemy, and as the horn sounded again, the fighting seemed to pause. Watching the scene through the embattled ghosts was like looking through a veil.

Nine Green Riders flew from the north end of the valley. Unmistakable red hair streamed behind the first and foremost Rider. Behind her, another Rider blared the horn. Somehow they had known to come!

"A handful of Greenies," Shawdell said, "should not change my plans overmuch."

Karigan grabbed Alton's sword and with an angry growl, lunged at Shawdell. He dropped his bow and met her with his own sword. When the two blades pinged together, Karigan felt shock waves tingle through her arms. How stupid, she thought, to use a saber against a long sword. He easily countered every move she made, his pale blue eyes steady, and his lips curved up in a parody of a smile. He was enjoying this!

He toyed with her, let her exert herself. He parried her blows, neither defending himself, exactly, or attacking. Just playing. He had the reach of her, and in quick succession, sliced the brass buttons off her greatcoat. Karigan tried harder, tried to remember everything she had learned, but the harder she tried, the more Shawdell looked like laughing. He could have killed her long ago.

Then the saber snapped. She looked stupidly at the jagged shards.

"Those sabers are no match for a sword wrought Ages ago by the smiths of Mornhavon the Black," Shawdell said, slipping his into its sheath. "And your fledgling skills are nothing to me. I've been at the sword four hundred years and twice that, and I've access to power none of you can reach.
I broke the D'Yer Wall
."

A
black orb like the one Karigan had seen in her room at the Fallen Tree Inn in North formed just above Shawdell's upturned palm. It pulsated and rotated, and repelled the light. He hurled it at her.

Karigan dodged to the side, but the ball struck her shoulder. The sensation was like the shattering of a glass window, fragments flying through the air, flying through
her
. Pain crackled through every nerve ending in her body and she crashed to the ground in agony. Black, ropy fire wrapped around her and she tried to scream, but her voice was stuck in her throat.

"This should hold you for a time," Shawdell told her, "while I attend to other matters." He took up the bow and faced the valley, gazing intently at the scene below.

Laren Mapstone and her Riders had blown past Tomas Mirwell and his aide and guard. Mirwell may have masterminded this ambush on King Zachary, but he did not pose a serious threat in the immediate battle. She would deal with him later, and gladly. The groundmites, on the other hand, pushed hard on King Zachary and his guards. Only the skill of the remarkable Weapons had set back the crude slashing of the snarling groundmites.

A great mist had settled on the ridge to the east. It shifted in some unnatural way. Then, in response to a blast from Patrici's horn, a distant sequence of notes, the battle call of the Green Riders, sounded from the mist. A figure loomed out of the mist, like a rider on a rearing horse, her hair flowing behind her, and she held her horn high as if in salute.

Fly, Riders, fly, a
chorus of far-off voices chanted.

What was it Laren had said about the First Rider?

She didn't know how much time had elapsed since then, for they had engaged the groundmites. The mud-colored, hulking creatures cowered beneath the flying hooves of enraged messenger horses. Several fell to Rider sabers. Then the king's banner fell, was trampled underfoot, and the groundmites rallied and fought back. They growled through sharp teeth and beat their swords on black shields in defiance. Before the Long War, Mornhavon the Black had bred these creatures to be unthinking killers.

Laren was aware of some of her people being hauled from their saddles and falling beneath the blades of groundmites. Horses were hacked down, their Riders never re-emerging. Grimly she fought on, pounding through the thick skull of one groundmite, and slashing the throat of another. Her sword notched on the black breastplate of one, and when his sharp claw rent through her trousers and into the flesh of her calf, she drove the sword through his eye.

It seemed to rain blood, and Laren lost count of how many of the enemy she killed. One grabbed for Bluebird's bridle, she hacked his claw off. The din of metal against metal was punctuated by grunts and shouts. Foremost in Laren's mind was to stand by the king's side and defend him, and she mindlessly hacked at groundmites to reach her goal.

She wondered in some distant corner of her mind if all her training, all her years in the messenger service, had come down to this base savagery, of indiscriminant thrusts and hacks. There was no fine technique here as was taught by the arms masters, and no sense of time. Just forward momentum and another groundmite to kill.

When there were quite suddenly no more before her, she stopped, blinking in surprise. The few remaining groundmites fled, throwing down their weapons as they ran, in the end no match for the mounted Riders. One of the surviving Green Riders began to chase after them, but Laren yelled, "Halt. Enough. We need your help here." She set him to helping the wounded.

Just two of her people remained mounted. All around her lay the dead and wounded, and it wasn't easy to know which was which. She shook her head in disbelief. Her people… She was responsible for them, for
this
. She swallowed, forcing back emotions that must wait for another, private time. She was still a captain of the messenger service, and there was work yet to be done.

She glanced at the king who was leaning wearily against his horse. Of his original hunting party, only one haggard Weapon stood beside him. She saw the lines of grief and pain on Zachary's face, and when his eyes met hers, he said, "Mirwell."

Laren nodded in understanding and wheeled Bluebird around. She galloped her exhausted horse across the valley, fearing Mirwell would escape.

She found him sitting calmly upon his horse watching her approach with interest. She pulled Bluebird up before him.

"Well, well, Captain," he said.

Laren pointed her bloody saber at him. "I know your part in this,
Lord-Governor
."

The guard D'rang sat nervously playing with his reins, but Beryl sat there unmoving, her eyes glassy and empty. Her winged horse brooch was missing. The captain tried to read her, but found nothing but a barrier, a very dark barrier.

"I have anticipated the moment when we could meet this way," Mirwell said, "when I didn't have to hide my thoughts from you."

"Oh, I've known well enough how you've felt about me," Laren said with a tight smile. "I just had to read the expression on your face, but you kept your other secrets well enough. It's all over."

"I daresay it is not." Mirwell glanced up at the ridge and Laren followed his gaze.

Through the gloom of ghosts, two figures could be seen battling one another. Gold hair flashed on one of the combatants—the Eletian of course. The other was not so easy to make out at first, but then the clash of ghosts shifted, and through a thinning of the supernatural fog, she could see her.

"Karigan," she whispered.

"Yes, the very same Greenie who made off with the message," Mirwell said. "I'll be very glad when the Gray One finishes her off, for all the trouble she has caused me. Her family will suffer when I take L'Petrie Province, you can believe that. Merchant clan, humph."

Laren wasn't paying attention. She considered riding up the ridge to help Karigan, but somehow, she felt that it was beyond her, that in the end, she would be of no help. It was Karigan's battle. Hers and the Eletian's. Instead, she looked to Mirwell again.

"Dismount," she told him. Only D'rang complied, and the governor glared at him.

"Spence," Mirwell said. "The captain has annoyed me for the last time. Do you understand?"

"Yes, my lord." Beryl drew her long sword.

Laren looked incredulously from Beryl to Mirwell. "What have you done to her?"

Mirwell smiled at Beryl like an indulgent parent. "Nothing," he said. "Or at least, less than I would have liked. But the Gray One wished to ensure her loyalty to the great province of Mirwell and its lord."

Beryl held her sword at the ready, her expression deadpan.

"Beryl," Laren said. "It's me, Captain Mapstone."

Beryl did not even blink before she swung the blade. The captain barely deflected the blow. Bluebird backed off to help weaken its force. Laren licked her lips. Beryl had been on the verge of initiating swordmaster training when the brooch had called her. Her skill with the sword was well known.

"Kill her, Spence," Mirwell said.

"Yes, my lord."

Beryl jammed her heels into her horse, and she sprang broadside into Bluebird. Laren felt the strain of bones in her leg, reawakening the pain of the bloody wound inflicted on her by the groundmite. Bluebird fought to maintain his footing.

The long sword came again, swinging like a scythe. Laren backed and backed under the assault. The exhausting run and the melee with the groundmites had tired her beyond reason, slowing her reflexes. Oh, how her body hurt.

A hard blow jangled the nerves all the way to Laren's teeth, and she knew that soon, Beryl would take her. The tip of the long sword swished perilously close to her chest and when she brought her saber in closer to guard herself, she realized her mistake, for the move was not completed. It was an advanced technique swordmasters called the "curve." It took great strength and control, after sweeping the sword across the opponent's chest, to reverse the momentum of the slash and bring it back across the opponent's neck.