First Rider's Call

  Karigan and Telagioth stood in wonderment, their own reflections on the mirrorlike water mingling with that of the gods, the light of the muna’riel somehow cleansing the darkness that had gripped this place for centuries.

  Telagioth’s cerulean eyes glittered as they followed the walls. Then with a shake of his head he continued across the room toward the stone slab at its center.

  “Do you comprehend what has happened here?” he asked Karigan.

  Karigan drew her eyebrows together as she trudged through the water after him, remembering all the dead up above. “I think I have a sense of it.”

  Telagioth halted before the slab. “Truly?” He gestured toward it.

  It was not unlike other funerary slabs she had seen. It was inscribed with pictographs and incomprehensible runes, but unlike the others, it lacked Westrion’s image. Broken, rusted chains lay in pieces across its surface. Manacles. She began to understand.

  “This was not so much a tomb,” she said, “but a prison.”

  “Yes.”

  “The wards . . . ” she murmured. The wards above had been meant to keep “something” in, just as she had surmised when she and Ty found the clearing. Had it been only yesterday afternoon? It seemed like years ago. A prison would explain many things—the covered entrance, the seals Telagioth spoke of, the absence of Westrion’s image, and the chains.

  “The folly of your people,” Telagioth said, “released a great evil back into the lands.”

  Karigan looked sharply at him. “What do you mean?”

  “Your encampment diminished the wardings of the tomb.”

  “Those wards were already dying.”

  “Yes, but they might have held for at least a time longer, and the tragedy averted.”

  Karigan found it hard to believe the delegation alone could have brought such disaster upon itself. She closed her eyes remembering a sensation or force traveling through the forest just before the cairn ruptured: Varadgrim, Varadgrim, Varadgrim . . . Had this been the power that ignited the clearing and enabled the wraith’s escape? She was uncertain for her sense of it was more that it had been a calling of some sort. Perhaps a calling that had awakened the wraith. If so, who—or what—had been doing the calling?

  “The wards were not maintained, as the D’Yer Wall has not been,” Telagioth said. “Your people believed they would be maintained in perpetuity, but strength, knowledge, and magic faded over the generations, and so did memory. The discontinuity of mortal lives endangers the world.”

  So many emotions entangled Karigan, though dulled by shock and exhaustion, and the Eletian had sparked another in her: anger. The wave hovered above her, threatening to crush her with its full fury lest she lose her grip.

  “Certainly the Eletians would have done better,” Karigan said. “Yet evidently they did not take responsibility.”

  Telagioth did not react to the anger in her voice. Instead his fair features drooped into sadness. “It is true, but we were a broken and defeated people after the Long War. We had not the strength, except to succor our own wounds. I remember. Even now as your kind prospers and spreads its influence, we work to recover.”

  Karigan hugged herself, not sure if it was against the chill or his words.

  “The break in the D’Yer Wall has stirred powers on both sides of the wall, Galadheon. Our own time of tranquility and rest is over, and this you must tell your king. The warning is before us.” He gestured at the abandoned funerary slab and broken chains. “This creature that escaped, it was once a man. A man given an unnatural, unending existence by his master in exchange for his allegiance and his soul. I faced one such as he in battle long ago. And now he has found his way back into the world, as will others. Dark powers are awakening.”

  Telagioth shifted his stance and a quizzical expression crossed his features. He bent over and plunged his arm into the water up to his shoulder. “My toe nudged something,” he said. He pulled himself erect, holding at arm’s length, a dripping object. “This is an evil thing.”

  Looking more closely, Karigan saw it was the rusted guard and shard of a sword blade, with a broken, moldy wooden hilt. The hilt had probably been wrapped in leather at one time.

  “Your people did think to break it,” Telagioth said. “It was a sword used to steal souls, one of this creature’s cruelest weapons. Broken, it will serve him no more.”

  The wood of the hilt must have come from Blackveil Forest. Such a weapon would have given the creature the ability to command the dead. Now there was little question in her mind as to who the wraith’s master had been.

  Telagioth nodded as though he could detect her thoughts. “Yes, this creature was, long ago, a favored servant of Mornhavon the Black.”

  CRANE

  When Karigan and Telagioth returned to the world above, gentle summer night air wrapped around them. The scents of fresh forest growth mingling with that of blood and viscera clung to the back of Karigan’s throat, leaving an acrid taste she could not swallow away.

  Soldiers called out to one another through the woods, and the chirruping of crickets rose and fell in erratic waves. The startling beauty of silvery moonstones alight in the clearing and among the trees revealed, once again, the carnage. It was too much of a sensory assault after the dank, cold silence of the tomb. It unbalanced her, and Telagioth placed his hands on her shoulders to steady her.

  Just then, soldiers approached, carrying a body in a makeshift stretcher made of two pikes and a blanket. An arm swung lifelessly over the side with the motion. When they passed, Karigan saw it was Lady-Governor Penburn they bore.

  I warned her . . . But the thought brought Karigan no solace. Nor was there anger. Not even for the woman whose decision it was to camp in the clearing against the advice of a seasoned bounder. The price had been paid, and Karigan was too tired to lash out at a dead woman.

  “You may tell your king our passage through his lands is peaceful,” Telagioth told Karigan. She had almost forgotten his presence. “We merely watch. Sacoridia lies in the immediate path of anything that should pass through the D’Yer Wall. Tell him he must turn his attention there, and not to seek out Eletia. Eletia shall parley with him when the time is deemed appropriate.” He hesitated, then added, “We shall meet again, Karigan Galadheon.”

  “G’ladheon,” she murmured, but Telagioth had already left her to join some of his fellows at work in the clearing. Karigan watched after him for a moment, then shook her head at Eletians and their enigmatic ways.

  Enigmatic or not, it appeared the Eletians had done much to assist with the removal of bodies and the mending of the injured. She would help, but not until she sought out Condor and Ty and learned their fates. She strode from the clearing trying to steel herself against what she might find.

  Along the horse pickets there was more carnage; many horses and mules that had been slaughtered by the groundmites piled up against one another, as though they had fallen panicking and fighting to the last. Her steps quickened as she passed them. Those animals still alive whinnied and lunged, frenzied by the death that surrounded them. They received little attention, however, for that was being focused on the human faction of the delegation.

  Among the dead horses Karigan found Bard’s lightfooted gelding, Swift. She broke into a run, frantic to reach Condor, praying he had not met a similar fate. She grew disoriented, thinking she should have seen him by now. It was difficult to distinguish between horses in the dark. Shouldn’t she have come to his picket by now? Where was he? Heart pounding, she paused, thinking to go back and take a closer look at the dead horses. No, she did not even dare contemplate it. . . .

  Then, a little farther down the picket, one horse raised his nose above the others as if checking the wind, and whinnied. Condor!

  She ran to him, wrapping her good arm about his neck and pressing her face into his unruly mane. He lipped at her hair, and after a time, started rubbing his head on her hurt shoulder to get at an itch.

  “Ow!” Karigan pulled awa
y laughing and sniffing at the same time, her shoulder throbbing. “You oversized meal for a catamount.” Condor gazed at her guilessly.

  She stepped back, sizing him up. He appeared fine, but when he shifted, he favored his left rear leg.

  “Oh no.” She felt down his leg, lifting his hoof and cradling it in her hand. It was difficult to make out in the dark, but it appeared he had a gash across the fetlock joint. Such a thing might appear minor, but if not treated well and swiftly, it could cripple him. Already it swelled. She would need to soak it in cold water and prepare a poultice. . . .

  She and Condor were suddenly showered with the light of a muna’riel, and she saw the extent of the gash. It was ugly. She released his hoof and straightened, finding herself face to face with another Eletian, this one a woman with raven hair tied tightly back.

  “Mending needs poor beast, mmm?” The woman’s accent was much stronger than Telagioth’s had been.

  “Yes,” Karigan said.

  The Eletian then took Karigan’s chin in her fingers and tilted her face, surveying the wound on her cheek. “Messenger, too.” She set aside her muna’riel and dug into a satchel she wore over her shoulder. A small pot emerged in which she dipped her fingers. She brought her fingers, now covered by goo, up to Karigan’s face.

  Karigan pulled away. “What is that?” Too many times her aunts had insensitively slathered stinging potions onto scrapes and cuts when she was a child.

  In the struggle to find the right words, the Eletian screwed up her perfect features. Under different circumstances, the effect would have been comical. It did, at least, seem to demystify the Eletians somewhat; put a more human face on them. Karigan sensed that this Eletian was much younger than the others she had met, but that still meant she could be hundreds of years old.

  Ultimately the Eletian gave up trying to find a common name for the healing salve, and said, “We call it evaleoren. It’s leaf. Healing it is.” The woman made a crushing motion with her hand as if to illustrate the process of its making, but quickly gave up with a slight frown.

  Karigan nodded and allowed the Eletian to dab the salve on her face. It did not sting at all, and in fact dulled the pain. It possessed a pleasant herby scent, and she felt her cares lightened, as though the salve mended more than the wound on her cheek, but her spirit, as well.

  “Good for horse, too,” the Eletian said.

  Karigan lifted Condor’s hoof so the salve could be smeared across his wound. He bent his neck around, trying to see what was going on.

  When the Eletian finished, she smiled. “Heal he will. A poultice—I will make it.”

  “Thank you,” Karigan said with genuine relief. It was the first moment of sanity she had felt all night.

  The Eletian then glanced down the picket line, and her bright smile faded. “Other messenger . . .” She shook her head, again unable to express herself.

  “Ty?” Without another word, Karigan sprinted down the picket line.

  She found Ty soon enough. He squatted next to Flicker, who lay on her side weakly thrusting out her legs. Her mouth foamed with blood. There was a deep wound in her belly. Ty ran his hand along her neck, again and again.

  An Eletian knelt next to Ty at Flicker’s head, his hand beneath her forelock, rubbing between her eyes. He spoke to her softly in his own language, calming her. She stopped thrusting her legs, but her sides heaved, and labored breaths gurgled in her throat.

  “She will stay quiet,” the Eletian told Ty.

  He nodded. With his back to Karigan, she could not see his expression, but Flicker’s ears moved, listening to words he whispered. He stroked her neck once more, then clenched a knife in both hands and raised it above his head. He stabbed downward, throwing his whole body into the stroke.

  Karigan reeled away with a sob. She squeezed her eyes shut and clapped her hands over her ears. She couldn’t bear to hear Ty’s grunt of effort, the knife thudding into Flicker’s neck again and again. She could not bear to witness Flicker’s crazed screams and thrashing. The mare would not understand why her Rider was hurting her, why he was using brute strength to saw through the thick layers of flesh and muscle of her strong neck. She would not understand he was doing her a mercy.

  Karigan prayed he found and severed the crucial artery quickly.

  Blind and deaf to Ty’s plight, her mind carried her to other dark imaginings. What if it had been Condor? What if it was she kneeling there at his side, having to wield a knife into his neck? She bit her lip to force the images away and tasted blood.

  It was a long time before she mastered herself and dared to open her senses to the scene she had turned away from. Ty stood over the still form of Flicker, his uniform blackened by blood. Some had splattered his face. Fleetingly she thought how unusual it was to see Ty disheveled, to see any stain on his uniform. It was surreal.

  Light from distant muna’riel gleamed in Flicker’s dulling eye. Her tongue lolled slack from her parted mouth. The blood still gushed from her neck, forming a river in the soil.

  Ty did not weep. He merely stared down at her. Karigan stood beside him and put her hand on his shoulder.

  “The Eletian knife,” he said. “It was very sharp. Made it quick. The Eletian kept her calm, magic I think.”

  Karigan closed her eyes and released a slow breath. There had been mercy after all.

  “She was in great pain and mortally wounded,” he said. “I had to.”

  “I know.” Karigan spoke comforting words that eventually trailed off into silence. There was, she realized, nothing she could say.

  Karigan did not know how long she stood there with Ty when a soldier approached them.

  “Captain Ansible asks that one of you ride to Sacor City to take the news to King Zachary,” the soldier said.

  “My horse is injured,” Karigan said, and then she glanced significantly at Ty and Flicker.

  “There’re other horses.”

  At first Karigan bristled, then forced herself to cool off. There was no way the soldier could know the bond between Green Rider and messenger horse, and she could not blame him for the callousness of his words. He looked just as weary and strained as anyone else after the night’s events, and had likely lost close companions. One dead horse would mean little to him by comparison.

  “I’ll do it.” Ty’s words were so quiet, Karigan wasn’t sure she heard them. “I’ll ride to Sacor City.” This time they came more strongly.

  “Ty—” Karigan began, but his look of pain and resolve silenced her.

  “One of your messenger horses is over yonder,” the soldier said, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder. “Won’t let us near one of the corpses.”

  “Oh gods,” Karigan murmured.

  They found Crane standing over Ereal. He must have slipped his halter during the melee with the groundmites and come in search of her.

  He nudged Ereal’s shoulder with his nose, but of course she did not respond. He stood forlornly there with head lowered, until he detected their approach. He ran at them, ears locked down and teeth bared, and stopped before them, scraping his hoof on the ground.

  “Oh, Crane,” Karigan murmured.

  Crane whirled on his haunches and returned to Ereal to stand guard over her. He clamped her sleeve between his teeth and shook her arm trying to awaken her. Ereal had once told Karigan that Crane was better than a rooster. When encamped during a message run, he would unfailingly awaken her this way every sunrise. Karigan remembered Ereal’s laughter as she told of the time Crane had actually pulled off her blanket. “He loves to run,” Ereal had said, “and he’s eager to go every morning.”

  Ty’s face blanched as Crane tugged at Ereal’s sleeve. “I can’t do this,” he said, and he walked away.

  Karigan sighed. There were several reasons why Ty needed Crane, not least was Crane’s experience as a messenger horse. Messenger horses were trained for endurance and cross country travel in ways that ordinary horses were not, and of course, Crane was the fastest messenger ho
rse. King Zachary needed to know what had happened here as soon as possible.

  And there were the other reasons.

  She started toward Crane, cautiously. He peered at her from beneath his forelock, watching closely, tensing his body. As she neared he snorted and the ears went down again. Karigan halted.

  “You know me, Crane. Easy, boy.”

  She inched toward him, talking to him all the time, trying to explain to him how things were. Messenger horses were intelligent, but she had no idea how far that intelligence went. Was it asking too much for Crane to understand what she said? Or, was it simply the tone of her voice that calmed him, and allowed her to approach? When finally she was within reach, he gently breathed on her outstretched hand, took a tentative step forward, and rested his head on her shoulder.

  “Poor boy,” Karigan said. “I’ll see to Ereal. I promise.”

  She caressed him for a time, then slipped the halter she had brought over his nose and ears, and led him away from his slain Rider.

  Karigan watched Ty and Crane ride off and disappear into the night. She sank to the ground and huddled her knees to her chest, staring into the dark long after they were gone.

  When she had returned to Sacor City to become a Green Rider, she had a better idea than most new Riders of what dangers messengers faced in the daily execution of their duties. The danger ranged from riding accidents to coming face to face with cutthroats seeking king’s gold. And of course, there was battle.

  Even so she had not been prepared for this. Trained for fighting, yes. Trained to deal with burying friends, no.

  Karigan thought back to the murals of the gods down in the tomb, their faces averted, their hands up in denial. Maybe they had abandoned the delegation, for hadn’t they allowed all this to happen?

  I do not regret this life, Bard had said just hours ago, but he said it thinking ahead to the future when he’d finally pursue his dream of studying at Selium. Now he would never fulfill that dream. It had all been cut short. Cut short by his duty as a Green Rider.