by DAVID B. COE
The man raised an eyebrow. “Really? I’ve always thought you an arrogant bastard, who was more smug than he was intelligent.”
Dusaan blinked. After a moment, he tried to laugh away the remark, but he felt as though he’d been slapped. And perhaps sensing that he had caught the Weaver off guard, Uriad chose that moment to launch himself forward, his dagger in hand, his arm cocked to strike at Dusaan’s heart. Recovering quickly, the Weaver battered the man with his shaping power, fracturing not only the blade, but also Uriad’s wrist and forearm.
The master of arms staggered back, clutching his arm to his belly and gritting his teeth against the pain.
“You’re a fool, Uriad. You could have escaped with a quick, painless death.”
The man glared at him. Then he opened his mouth, taking a breath as if he intended to shout for help. Dusaan never gave him the chance. He lashed out with his foot, catching Uriad full in the face. The master of arms sprawled backward onto the floor, bleeding from his nose and mouth. And as he lay there, Dusaan reached once more for his shaping power, applying pressure slowly to the man’s head. Uriad clawed at his temple with his good hand, a moan escaping him. Still pushing with his magic, Dusaan stepped forward and put his foot on the armsmaster’s throat to keep him from screaming. Uriad’s mouth was stretched open in a silent wail, his eyes were squeezed shut, his fist was closed tight around a handful of hair. After a time Uriad began to flail with his feet.
“Stop it!” the emperor cried. “Let him go.”
Dusaan eyed him briefly. “No. But I will end his pain.” With a final push, he crushed the man’s skull. Uriad’s struggles ceased abruptly, a thin trickle of blood seeping from his ear and staining the floor.
The Weaver removed his foot from Uriad’s neck and strode toward the emperor. “Now it’s your turn, Your Eminence.”
Harel dropped to his knees, tears streaking his face. “No, please! I beg you!”
Dusaan grabbed him by the hair and hauled him to his feet. “Do you know how long I’ve dreamed of killing you?”
“Why? Haven’t I always treated you well? Haven’t I paid you more than any noble in the Forelands pays his Qirsi?”
The Weaver slapped him, leaving a bright imprint of his hand on Harel’s corpulent face. “You don’t understand, do you? I don’t aspire to being the wealthiest minister in the land, nor am I willing to have myself hooded, like some sort of common brigand, so that I can continue to earn your gold. I intend to rule the Forelands myself.”
“You what?”
“Before the snows return to Braedon, every Eandi noble in the land will bow before me, or they’ll suffer the same fate as poor Uriad.”
“You can’t be serious!”
He slapped Harel a second time. “Do you think I jest?”
“What is it you want from me?”
“Your empire, Harel. Isn’t that clear? You’ve given me everything else I could want. A position of authority from which to make my preparations, gold for my movement, an invasion that is destined to weaken the fleets and armies of Braedon, Eibithar, Aneira, Wethyrn, and Sanbira. You’ve been most helpful, Your Eminence, but I’m afraid you’ve outlived your usefulness.”
“No, I haven’t! I can give you more! I can keep my soldiers from harming you.”
Dusaan laughed, and Harel’s face fell. “Do you have any idea what a Weaver does, Harel? I can bind together the power of other Qirsi. I’m but one man, and I’ve killed seven of your warriors. Think what I can do with the other ministers and chancellors by my side. I have nothing to fear from your army.”
“The others?”
“Yes. They’ve all joined with me. Well, not all. Stavel and Bardyn have fled the palace, but the rest have pledged themselves to my cause. I suppose that’s one more thing you’ve given me, Your Eminence. Before you began to treat all of us like we were traitors, a good number of them might have refused to join me. In essence, you’ve made my movement stronger.”
“I’ll abdicate to you! I’ll sign whatever you want me to sign! I’ll tell my men to fight on your behalf! You’d command an army of both Eandi and Qirsi!”
He had been ready to kill the emperor. Indeed, he had been eager for Harel’s blood. But for the second time that day he was forced to wonder if he might be better served by showing mercy. He doubted that the emperor’s men would willingly fight on behalf of the Qirsi movement. On the other hand, he was certain that they would lay down their arms if they thought that it would save the emperor’s life. Wouldn’t it be better to win the surrender of the emperor’s men peacefully, than to risk a battle that might cost the lives of his new adherents?
“All right, Harel. I accept your offer. I’ll spare your life, and in return you’ll surrender the empire to me. If you renege on this arrangement, or if you try to turn even one of your men against me, you’ll suffer a fate far worse than that of your master of arms. Do I make myself clear?”
The emperor nodded, dread filling his small green eyes.
Dusaan smiled. “I’m glad to hear it.” He crossed to the emperor’s writing table and quickly drafted a statement of surrender. “Come here, Harel,” he said when he had finished. “I want you to sign and seal this.”
The emperor joined him at the table and read the statement, tight-lipped and pale. His hand trembled as he penned his name, dripped a small puddle of red wax below, and pressed his seal into it.
Dusaan started toward the door. “Now follow me.”
“Why? You said you’d spare me! You gave me your word!”
“Calm yourself, Harel. I’m not going to kill you. But I am going to place you in the prison tower.”
“No! I want to stay here!”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible. You’re not a brave man, but you just might be fool enough to try to escape through those glazed windows of which you’re so proud.”
“I swear, I wouldn’t.”
“I don’t believe you. Now come along.”
Harel crossed his arms over his chest, managing to look Dusaan in the eye. “No.”
He didn’t have time for this. With a quick thought, he snapped the bone in Harel’s little finger. The emperor cried out, cradling his maimed hand with his whole one.
“Defy me again and the next thing I break will be your arm.”
Harel nodded, and when Dusaan opened the door and entered the corridor, the emperor followed closely.
They went first to Dusaan’s chamber, where the other Qirsi were waiting for him. They passed two guards, but at Dusaan’s instruction, the emperor said nothing to them. When they entered the chamber the other Qirsi stood, looking first at Harel and then at the Weaver, as if uncertain of what they should do.
“The emperor has surrendered Braedon to me.” He held up the rolled parchment. “I have his written word right here.” He paused, regarding the others. He could sense what powers they possessed simply by looking at them. He would need to face the soldiers next, and so he sought out those with shaping and fire magic. “I’ll take B’Serre, Gorlan, and Rov with me. Nitara, I want you and the rest to gather the emperor’s wives and servants and take them, along with Harel here, and put them in separate chambers in the prison tower. If they give you any trouble at all, kill them.”
“Yes, Weaver.”
“I want the emperor in the highest chamber. When he’s there, place a flame in the window that faces into the courtyard. That will be our signal to begin. At some point I’ll also want you to put Harel in front of the window so his men can see him. Can you do all that?”
She nodded and smiled, her cheeks flushed with excitement.
“Good. Now go.”
“Yes, Weaver.”
Harel stared back at him as he was led away, but he said nothing. Dusaan worried that they might encounter guards along the way, but there were several in Nitara’s group who had fire magic, and one other who was a shaper. They would be able to meet any challenge that presented itself.
“The three of you come with me,
” he said, returning to the corridor and going in the direction opposite that taken by the others. They walked to the nearest of the tower stairways and descended to the courtyard, remaining in the archway. There they could conceal themselves, while watching the windows of the prison tower.
They waited a long time, and still the narrow windows remained dark. Dusaan began to fear that something might have gone wrong. Perhaps Nitara and the others had encountered more guards than they could handle. Perhaps Harel had managed somehow to win his freedom. Still they waited, and still they saw no sign of Nitara and her company.
“Weaver,” Gorlan began.
Dusaan shook his head. “Not yet. Give her a few moments more.”
The minister nodded and fell silent.
They had to wait a bit longer, but at last their patience was rewarded. A bright flame appeared in the highest window of the prison tower, and a moment later windows in the other chambers began to glow softly as well.
At the same time, however, shouts went up from the guard house in the upper courtyard. Soldiers began gathering in a tight knot near the building, many of them bearing torches.
“Let’s go,” Dusaan said. He and his three companions left the tower and strode to where the men stood.
“Where’s your captain?” Dusaan demanded as they drew near the soldiers.
A man stepped forward, his sword drawn. “I’m the day captain, High Chancellor.” He raised his weapon. “I’d suggest you stop right there.”
“Gorlan?”
The minister grinned. An instant later there was a sound like the chiming of a bell and the soldier’s blade splintered like glass.
Other men came forward, weapons readied.
“Call them back, Captain, or the same magic that shattered your blade will break their necks.”
“Stand your ground, men.”
The soldiers halted, though they kept their swords up.
“What is this, High Chancellor?”
Dusaan held up the parchment. “The emperor has surrendered this palace and this realm to me. From now on, I am your sovereign.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Look for yourself.” He handed the parchment to the captain and waited while he read it.
“You made him sign this. That’s the only explanation that makes sense.”
“Such documents are often coerced. That doesn’t make it any less valid.” He held out his hand for the parchment, ready to use mind-bending power if the man refused to return it to him. But the captain handed it back without a fight.
“It means nothing to me, or to my men. You’ll have to defeat the emperor’s army to take Braedon.”
“I’m prepared to do just that. I assure you, Captain, my powers, and those of my friends here, are more than enough to destroy your army. And if you’re not convinced, I suggest that you look up at the prison tower.”
The captain turned toward the tower, as did Dusaan. Clearly Nitara had anticipated this, for Harel was already standing there, peering out through the narrow window.
“Demons and fire,” the captain muttered.
“I’ll kill him if I have to, though I’d rather not.”
“What do you want us to do?” he asked, still gazing up at the emperor.
“Surrender your weapons and leave the palace. If you and your men do that, all of you will be spared. The emperor, too. If you choose to fight, you’ll die.”
“There’s only four of ’em, Captain,” said one of the men. “How much can four Qirsi do?”
“I need to talk to my men,” the captain said.
Dusaan nodded. “Of course.”
The captain led his men a short distance off, and began talking to them in low tones.
“What do you think they’ll do?” Rov asked.
“They’ll attack. Rov, Gorlan, we’ll strike first with shaping power. Just reach for your magic and let me do the rest. After that we’ll try fire. Rov, you’ll be doing both, so you’re likely to tire first. Give me what you can, and I’ll draw the rest from B’Serre.”
“Yes, Weaver.”
Dusaan saw two men slip away from the captain’s group and run back toward the guard house. There would be more men coming.
“Be watchful,” he said. “They’ll try to flank us.”
“Are you certain that we can do this?” Gorlan asked.
“You’ve never fought beside a Weaver before. Savor this moment. We’re about to win the first battle in a glorious war.”
The assault began abruptly. The captain shouted something—Dusaan couldn’t make out the words—and perhaps two hundred men charged toward them, battle cries echoing off the palace walls, swords and battle hammers glittering in the sun.
Dusaan reached for his magic and then for that of Gorlan and Rov. Both were young and powerful, just the sort of warriors who would help him to destroy all the armies of the Eandi courts. He didn’t bother to aim the blow; he didn’t care whether he cleaved steel or bone. He merely struck at the soldiers, his power slicing through the cluster of Eandi like an invisible scythe. Steel shattered in sweet ringing tones, bones fractured in rapid succession so that the sound resembled the snapping of a great fire. Men screamed in pain, dropping to the ground, writhing pathetically.
A second wave of attackers, at least a hundred strong, rushed from the towers to their left and right.
“B’Serre! Rov!” Dusaan called, his voice carrying over the war cries.
Again they offered their power to him, willingly, even eagerly. No doubt they had never felt so strong, had never realized that they could be such fearsome warriors. Rov, who had already given her shaping power, showed no sign of weariness. She would serve the movement well.
The fire Dusaan conjured radiated out in all directions, a glowing yellow ring of power, rampant, indiscriminate, deadly. It hit the soldiers like an ocean wave, knocking them backward, hammering some of them to the ground. And every man it touched was consumed by the flames—clothing, skin, hair. The shrieks of Eandi warriors filled the courtyard; the stench of their charred flesh made the Weaver’s eyes water.
There would be archers on the ramparts soon. Dusaan was certain of it. And they would be harder to kill.
“Hear me!” he called over the death cries and the groans of the wounded. “I can kill all of you if I have to. And your emperor, too. Or you can surrender to me as he has and spare yourselves. This is your last chance to live. Lay down your weapons before me and you may leave the palace today as free men. Continue to resist, and you’ll die as these men have.”
For a long time nothing happened. Dusaan eyed the ramparts watching for the archers. He could shatter the arrows if he had to, but that demanded a more precise use of shaping power, and he wasn’t certain how much more his companions could give him.
After several moments, however, soldiers began to emerge from the towers and guard house. They held their weapons low, swords pointing toward the ground, bows hanging from their hands. And one by one, they laid the weapons at Dusaan’s feet, eyeing him with unconcealed hatred, but with fear as well. Swords, hammers, bows and arrows, daggers, and pikes lay in a pile before him. And a column of men filed toward the palace gate and the freedom he had promised them.
The first battle was his, and with it the Imperial Palace.
He looked up at the tower. Harel was no longer by the window, but Nitara was there, gazing down at him. He could imagine her expression, the look of adoration in her eyes. Just this once, he didn’t mind.
Chapter Five
The Moorlands, Eibithar
The skirmish had begun without warning, just like the others. One moment all had been quiet; the next the silence was riven by war cries and the clash of steel on steel, the rhythmic shouts of army commanders and the whistle of arrows soaring high into the hazy sky before beginning their deadly descent. Once again, the encounter was initiated by the Braedon army, which seemed capable of striking at any given moment, anywhere on the battle plain.
Eibit
har’s king had arrayed the three armies—his own guard, as well as the soldiers of Curgh and Heneagh—as best he could. But they were outnumbered, and would be until the soldiers of Thorald, Labruinn, and Tremain arrived. Add to that the fact that Heneagh’s men lacked the discipline and skill of the other two armies, and it was something of a miracle that they hadn’t been overrun already. Had Galdasten sent soldiers, or Sussyn, or Domnall, or any of the other houses that stood with Kentigern in defiance of the king, matters would have been different. As it was, it seemed to Tavis that the survival of the kingdom was in doubt.
The previous night, Braedon’s warriors had struck at Kearney’s lines, on the eastern front, nearest to the river. The battle had been short-lived—a few volleys of arrows exchanged and a brief, fierce engagement between swordsmen which left several men dead and many more injured—and had ended as abruptly as it began, with the soldiers of Braedon breaking away and retreating. The morning before that, the enemy had staged a similar attack on the Curgh lines, striking and withdrawing with astonishing swiftness.
This time, the empire’s men were attacking the western end of the Eibitharian lines, which were defended by the army of Heneagh.
“They’re testing us,” said Tavis’s father, the duke of Curgh, his face grim and etched with concern as he watched this latest skirmish unfold. “They’re looking for weaknesses in our lines, trying to decide where to concentrate their assault when it begins in earnest.”
“Can Heneagh hold them?” Xaver MarCullet asked, standing beside his father, Hagan, Curgh’s swordmaster.
Hagan shrugged. “I don’t know. But if the duke’s right, I think they’ve probably found what they were looking for.”
Within just a few minutes, the Braedon raiding party had withdrawn. They were pursued briefly by a large group of Heneagh’s men, but Welfyl’s swordmaster quickly called them back. It had seemed to Tavis that this skirmish was even briefer than the previous night’s, but he couldn’t say if he thought this boded well or ill for Eibithar’s forces.