“The Eletian!” Karigan said.
Eletian, Eletian, Eletian, the ghosts babbled.
“I see the shades have come to your aid again, Karigan G’ladheon, but to what end? Here they have placed you within my grasp. Of you I shall make another slave.”
The ghosts shrieked like the winter wind in the fury of a tempest; their otherworldly voices rose in a crescendo to an unbearable, piercing whine, and they began to spin around Karigan, Alton, and the Shadow Man, in a dizzying blur of white like a cyclone. The faster they revolved, the more high-pitched their voices rang, until it was almost beyond the hearing of living beings. Alton and Karigan covered their ears, the horses dancing beneath them and rolling their eyes.
The Shadow Man stood still, undismayed by the spirits’ display, and uttered quietly words that had not been heard for hundreds of years, words of evil summoning that had never been spoken since the end of the Long War. And yet he spoke these words with ease.
The wail of the ghosts died abruptly, and they split apart, fell away, and reassembled in a mass behind Karigan and Alton, waiting. Waiting for what?
A new moaning grew as if from the very earth, and resonated in the air all around them. The trees trembled, and a gloom materialized behind the Shadow Man. Shawdell spoke the harsh words again, and the Green Rider ghosts seemed to cringe.
“What—” Alton began. His hair twisted and turned in a spirit wind. “What could ghosts be afraid of?”
“Other ghosts,” Karigan said.
A host of the dead formed behind Shawdell, merging and separating among themselves. Their moaning was worse than a dirge, low and leaden and despairing. Slowly they passed around and over Shawdell intent on facing the Green Rider ghosts. They were young and old, some in uniforms, others dressed in the plain clothes of commoners.
Karigan and Alton put their hands in front of their faces as if to ward off the spirits as they surged toward them. But the ghosts passed by and between them. Karigan uncovered her eyes, but too soon. A spirit with the visage of a matronly, older woman, walked straight through her. Karigan felt the spirit as a blast of cold, like stepping into a winter cold room.
Each of Shawdell’s spirits was impaled by two black arrows.
The faint trumpet of a battle horn could be heard, muffled as if an echo of time, and then there was the distant ring of blades being drawn, and still the low dreadful moan. The spirits streamed all around them like a fog on a hilltop shaped and reshaped by the wind.
Shawdell stood unflinching as the ghostly battle was waged around him.
The horses trembled, their necks lathered in a foamy sweat, barely tolerating the spirits that swarmed and moaned about them. Karigan watched as Alton slid off his unsettled horse and grimly dodged the ghosts to put himself in front of her and Condor. He stood erect and proud before the Eletian and drew his blade. Karigan wished he wouldn’t put himself in the line of fire, further endangering himself. She jumped off Condor to stand beside him and lend support. They were in this together. He glanced briefly at her and she saw the apprehension in his eyes.
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!