First Rider's Call (20 page)

HUNGER!

The avian attempted to carry the woman away, but its wings had not the strength. It dropped her, and landed atop her back, spreading its wings over her to protect its prey from interlopers, screeching threats at the men who rushed toward it with shining, sharp weapons.

Survival!
the sentience screamed in the avian’s mind, but the scent of warm blood overcame all else. It reared its head back, ready to lunge its raptor’s beak into the whimpering prey beneath it for the kill.

Fly! Survival!
Panic allowed the sentience to exert the whole of its will upon the avian.

SURVIVAL—FOOD!

The men had projectile weapons among them, but the sentience comprehended their fear of using them lest they inadvertently kill the woman. They feared the avian, too. The sentience encouraged the avian in a fierce display to keep the men off.

The man the avian had attacked initially advanced with grim resolve. He wore green, and this sparked some memory of hatred.

The avian recognized him, too, saw its own black blood on his blade, and remembered pain. It launched from the woman.

Yes, survival,
the sentience crooned.
Safety.

The avian started winging toward the gap in the wall.

And now the guardians welcomed the sentience’s return in song,
Come back to us, ancient one, come sleep in peace. . .

A volley of arrows hissed past the avian, arcing over the wall. The avian swung its head around to screech at the men below.

Safety,
the sentience urged.
Seek safety.

Just as the avian glided through the gap in the wall, there came another flight of arrows. A barbed head drove into the avian’s side, tearing muscle and tendon, crushing bone, piercing lung.

The avian careened into the mist of the forest and plummeted, trees coming at it in a mad rush. It crashed through branches. Wing bones snapped. It hit one bough, and tumbled to another, until finally it fell into a heap on the ground.

There it lay with neck limp, and wings splayed and rumpled. Nictitating eyelids peeled back, and the avian drew one last rattling breath.

The sentience flowed from the avian in its blood, soaking into the moss beneath. Exhausted by its striv ings with both the avian and the guardians, it let itself be drawn into sleep with one final lingering thought:
What am I?

SWORDPLAY

Captain Mapstone dipped her pen into the inkwell, but paused before signing off on the sheaf of papers before her.

“Is there anything else you wanted to add to the report?”

“I think that’s all.” Karigan hoped the captain didn’t detect any hesitance in her voice.

“I know it hasn’t been easy regurgitating those terrible events over and over, but the king appreciates your efforts to provide a detailed and accurate record.”

Karigan nodded, glancing down at her hands folded across her lap. She had stood before the king and his inner circle three times to be grilled about the delegation’s journey and its disastrous end. The king’s advisors thrust question after question at her.

The king questioned her more quietly, more gently than his advisors, as if more sensitive to what she had endured. More than he spoke, even, he listened. He listened intently to her answers, or perhaps “intensely” was a better description. He sat there on his throne, his chin propped on steepled fingers, his eyes focused on her as though he could discern more from watching her closely than by simply listening.

The questioning had gone on for hours each time, with no one any more satisfied than when they had begun.

Now Karigan sat in Captain Mapstone’s quarters going over the whole thing once again. The captain hadn’t exactly grilled her, after all she’d been present during the other questionings, but she wished to verify the events as described in Karigan’s written report.

Every time Karigan had to revisit that night of terror by the cairn, images of carnage flashed back to her. So did images of broken shackles on a funerary slab, and the wraith pointing its bony finger at her, its voice rasping, “Betrayer.”

She tried to answer the questions as thoroughly as possible, but one thing she did hold back, even from the captain, was the failure of her special ability during the battle. She didn’t know why she didn’t—
couldn’t
—bring it up. Maybe it was shame, or maybe she felt the problem would rectify itself in time. Maybe she was too frightened to admit aloud her ability had failed her.

There had been a time when she wished her ability would go away forever so she could have the life she planned for herself, but now that it had, it unnerved her. Something had changed, and whether her lack of ability was a personal failing, or something else was going on in the world, it couldn’t mean anything good—could it?

For now she would keep it to herself. There was no use in getting anyone overly concerned in case it was nothing.

“Karigan?”

She shook herself from her reverie. “No, Captain, I really can’t think of anything else to add.” She hoped the captain interpreted her long silence as a pause to go over events in her mind, as if searching for something new.

The captain nodded in satisfaction and signed off on the report. With a tinge of guilt, Karigan knew the captain would not call on her own ability to check the honesty of her words. She trusted her Riders.

The captain set her pen down and turned to gaze squarely at Karigan. “I want you to know how very proud the king and I are of your actions while you were with the delegation. Major Everson was so impressed with your comportment during the ride home, he has offered to sponsor you into the light cavalry.”

The distaste must have been so evident on Karigan’s face, that Captain Mapstone, absently fingering the ragged brown scar that slashed down her neck, said, “I take it you’re not interested.”

“If I had a choice of going anywhere, I’d return to my clan,” Karigan replied, “but I don’t think the call would let me go. Not even to join the light cavalry.”

Captain Mapstone looked positively relieved—she’d actually been worried! Her hand fell away from her scar. “I would hate to lose you,” she said in a quiet voice. “I think you have developed into a fine Green Rider.”

Karigan tried to look anywhere but at the captain. She glanced down at her hands again, over at the map spread on the captain’s worktable, its curling edges held down by a half-filled mug of cold tea and a crust of bread, and at the shelves on the far wall piled with books. Pleasure and guilt both warmed her cheeks. Pleasure at receiving a rare bit of praise from the captain whom she respected. Guilt of being unworthy because she had never truly embraced being a Green Rider.

The captain sighed. “The business of the kingdom does go on, and so does the king’s correspondence. If you are feeling up to it, I’d like to ease you back into the work schedule. No strenuous or lengthy rides to begin with, just some simple, short-range message errands to help you catch your wind again. What do you think?”

“I’m ready.” Karigan had been back a couple weeks now and was itching to return to work. Currently she had too much free time to think about things, those terrible things that had happened to the delegation. The loss of her colleagues who were also friends.

Captain Mapstone smiled. “Excellent. I’ll let Mara know. You are dismissed.”

 

Karigan decided to stroll about the castle grounds to stretch her legs after her long session with Captain Mapstone. The wind blew through her unbound hair. The afternoon sky was fair, but the clouds and a change in wind direction indicated the weather might take a new tack by daybreak.

She wandered by the barracks of the regular militia, and the outdoor riding arena where horses and riders alike were trained. Sometimes contests of fighting and riding skill were held here, where various divisions of the military competed against one another. The competitions were friendly, but serious. No division wished to experience the dishonor of losing.

Some members of the light cavalry were currently using the arena to exercise their horses. Karigan shook her head, unable to imagine herself in the deep navy uniform and wearing a helm with a ridiculous red plume. Even if the Rider call released her, she had no desire to serve with a bunch of aristocrats, who during their escort duty of the remnant delegation spent their evenings in their tents, sipping brandy and being attended to by servants, while the delegation’s survivors—many exhausted and injured—slept fitfully on the bare ground.

No, she could not serve with a group for which she held so little respect.

She walked on, passing stables and more barracks, the parade field, and the quartermaster’s storehouses. All the while, the castle stood tall and imperious to her left. The castle was huge, and its grounds vast, once garrisoning hundreds upon hundreds of troops and other inhabitants. Those days were long ago, in less peaceful times.

Though the grounds were fairly quiet, she did find two men in sword combat practice on a field set aside for such training.

They raised puffs of dirt about their ankles as they scuffed around one of the small, worn practice rings. To Karigan’s surprise, they did not use simple wooden practice swords, but true edged steel blades. She paused to watch, transfixed.

One of the combatants was Arms Master Drent, unmistakable even from this distance. He was a huge hulking man who had something of the look of a groundmite about him, with thick features and hair cropped close to his skull. Mere mention of his name was enough to instill fear in the stoutest of trainees. Even after swordmasters finished training at the academy, they must face Drent if they wished to join the elite ranks of the Weapons. Drent oversaw one of their final cullings.

The arms master fought as fearsomely as he looked, and his size did nothing to slow him down. Blades blurred in a rapid
cling clang
of blows.

His opponent, dressed in black trousers and a white shirt that allowed free movement, did an admirable job of keeping up with Drent. His back was to her, but she could still admire his grace, and the shirt did nothing to conceal broad shoulders strong enough to block Drent’s blows. His footwork was pretty good, too.

Then Drent feinted, and drove his blade so swiftly and at such an angle that the trainee’s sword flew right out of his hand.

“Must I go back to basics with you?” Drent shouted. “How many times must I go over it?”

Karigan grimaced at Drent’s tone. It was severe enough to make anyone want to slink away into a dark corner and hide, yet his trainee didn’t even flinch, not even during the demeaning upbraiding that followed.

“Fastion,” Drent called, “I need your assistance for a moment.”

Karigan was surprised to see the Weapon emerge from the shadow of a nearby maple. Weapons excelled at hiding in shadows. The trainee must be a swordmaster he was mentoring.

Fastion and Drent exchanged some words she couldn’t quite make out, then Drent turned in Karigan’s direction.

“You there, come over here.”

It was like being struck by lightening, having Drent’s attention on her like that. She wanted to shrivel into her boots. When the trainee turned to look, too, she nearly fainted. The man whose physical form she’d been admiring was none other than King Zachary.

“I—”

“Come here
now.
”

One did not dare disobey a direct order from Drent of all people, unless they wanted a verbal flaying. Karigan’s legs trembled as she approached the practice ring and bowed to the king.

“Fastion’s job is to guard the king,” Drent explained, “and as he rightly pointed out, he can’t put his full attention to that duty if he’s practicing with the king. Therefore,” and Drent’s little eyes stabbed into her, “you shall help illustrate what is being done wrong, and how to correct it.”