Green Rider

At the sight of merchants, whether they were of a clan or not, Karigan felt pangs of homesickness. All merchants longed for spring after a winter of little or no travel and no haggling or dealing. Spring brought increased commerce and an opportunity to see old friends. Karigan had accompanied her father on many spring journeys which often included fairs. She would sit proudly with her father atop the foremost wagon of a long wagon train on its way from one town to the next. But she was not with her father. She was alone on a dangerous road and fairs were a distant dream.

Other armed travelers passed down the road, but she couldn’t decide if they were brigands, mercenaries, or both. They were male and female, some jolly and lighthearted in conversation, others grim and stern like the merchants’ guards, and yet others possessed a downright disreputable air. Their clothing was soiled and their bodies reeked, even off the road where she stood.

What conversation she picked up was more often foul than not. She didn’t know whether to feel glad to see others on the road, or alarmed. Carrying the life-or-death message, given to her by a murdered Green Rider, made her suspicious of all who passed by.

The message. The all important message. What did it say? She was dying to take a look at its contents. She had already risked her life to carry it—didn’t she have a right to read it even though F’ryan Coblebay had told her not to?

Karigan pulled The Horse to a halt, disregarding the cloud of biters that massed around her head. She unfastened the message satchel and drew out the envelope. “King Zachary” had been written on the front in quick, uneven strokes. She frowned. This isn’t for me.

She turned it over and took a look at the wax seal. It remained uncracked and unblemished despite its hard journey. A bead of sweat glided down her forehead and pattered onto the envelope. She wiped it away carefully with her sleeve.

I could say it broke along the way. . . .

Maybe she could slip the tip of the saber beneath it, then after she read the message, soften the wax and reseal the envelope. But that would distort the perfect imprint of the flying horse and it would be obvious she had tampered with it.

There’s only one way, she decided.

She held the wax seal between her thumbs ready to crack it, one eye closed and a grimace on her face as if she didn’t want to see it happen. Then The Horse shifted beneath her and flicked his ears back and forth. Voices, barely audible, floated to her from behind. She sighed, actually relieved by the diversion, and dropped the intact message back into the satchel.

She guided The Horse into the woods and tied him up well out of range of the road. She crept back to the road and crouched behind a rock. Two people, a man and a woman, walked into view. They moved as smoothly as cats, their ease of movement belying powerful shoulders and sword arms, and legs rippling with muscles.

They were both dressed in the same plain leather jerkins. Gray cloaks, patched and travel-stained, hung from their shoulders. They wore no devices to identify militia or mercenary company.

Bandits or plainshields, Karigan thought. Poor bandits if that is what they are.

Despite the drab and worn look of their gear, the patches had been carefully sewn and the leather was oiled. Long swords bumped against their hips as they walked.

Their poor state probably had little to do with their prowess as fighters. They did not waste movement with superfluous gestures even though they appeared to be in deep discussion. . . . Deep, heated discussion.

“I tell you, Jendara,” the man said, “I caught a whiff of a horse.”

His partner looked at him askance. Ringlets of russet hair flowed down her back. “You’re just hungry,” she said. “You are imagining things.”

“What about those droppings we saw back there?”

“Look, there’ve been several travelers up and down this road. Who’s to say that last pile of horse manure belonged to the one we’re looking for?”

The man’s face was grim. It was coated by the beginnings of a spiky yellow beard, and the lines of tension could be seen clearly beneath it. “I’m tired of this walking. We should be with our lord.”

The couple drew abreast of Karigan’s hiding spot and walked by.

“I don’t like it either,” the one called Jendara said. “But we must do as we are told.”

“Chasing ghosts and horses. It is not what we swore to do.”

“The sooner we’re done, the sooner we return to our true duty.”

Then the two were gone. Karigan stood up and brushed pine needles from her trousers. Their conversation was enough to convince her she had no desire to encounter them on the road, especially with the reference to chasing ghosts and horses. She would stay here this night, and maybe the next, but she liked having them ahead of her less than behind.

A few days later on a sweltering afternoon, Karigan gave in to the heat. She folded up the greatcoat and fastened it behind the saddle with the bedroll. It was like midsummer in the southlands in the shade, and even the biters seemed to wane in the heat. She rolled up her shirt sleeves and squeezed The Horse on.

All at once, the bushes beside the road shook and The Horse swerved out of the way, nearly unseating Karigan. She held onto his mane, but a man burst out of the bushes and seized The Horse’s bridle. The Horse jerked back, but the man’s hold was secure.

“Dismount,” he said.

Karigan cursed silently. This was the man she had observed on the road the other day, but where was the woman, Jendara? She reached for her saber, but felt the pressure of a sword tip against her spine.