by DAVID B. COE
She whistled for Zetya again, and this time the horse trotted to her.
“You’re just going to leave me?” Evanthya asked in a ragged whisper.
“You’ve given me no choice.”
She started to swing herself onto her mount, but the horse reared again and danced away from her.
“Stop it, Evanthya!”
She reached for the reins, but Zetya evaded her again.
“Stop it!” she cried, whirling toward her love, tears flying from her cheeks. “Can’t you just let me go? Do you want me to have to kill you?”
“I won’t let you go to him. You’ve done enough damage.”
“Then I’ll have to end this now.”
“You have already. How long do you think I can survive out here with a shattered shoulder and leg?”
Fetnalla considered this. She wasn’t certain that it was true, but it did give her a way out, something she could tell the Weaver when he asked how she had dealt with Evanthya.
“Fine then.” She grabbed Zetya’s reins before her love could touch the beast again with her magic. Climbing into the saddle, she glanced back at Evanthya once more, cringing at what she saw.
Perhaps she should have ridden away then. She would never be able to explain to the Weaver why she hadn’t, though probably she wouldn’t have to. Already, he knew her quite well.
Dismounting again, she walked back to Evanthya and knelt beside her. Her love tried to flinch away, but Fetnalla placed her hands on the broken shoulder.
“It’s all right,” she whispered, probing the mangled bone with her mind. “This will hurt for just a moment.” With a quick jerk she set the bone back in place. Evanthya howled, but she managed to lie still. A moment later, Fetnalla began to pour her magic into the woman’s shoulder, mending the splintered bone. After a time, she moved to Evanthya’s leg and did the same. This was a cleaner break and setting the bone proved much easier.
She didn’t do much more than knit the bones together and start the healing process. If she healed Evanthya too thoroughly, the two of them would be right back where they began. This way, the leg and shoulder remained weak and tender. Perhaps that would be enough to keep Evanthya from following her, at least for a while.
“Why did you do that?” Evanthya asked, when she had finished.
Fetnalla stood. “I’ll leave that for you to figure out.”
“I’ll come after you.”
“I know. Don’t put too much weight on the leg or strain the shoulder. The bones need time to heal or they’ll just snap again.”
She walked back to Zetya, who stood perfectly still while she climbed onto her back.
Evanthya sat up, wincing.
“Don’t come to the Moorlands. The Weaver will kill both of us if you do.”
Her love said nothing.
“I know you won’t believe this, but I love you. I’ve never stopped loving you.”
Expecting no response, unable to bear the silence, Fetnalla turned her mount immediately and kicked her to a gallop. The sun was high over the Moors of Durril by now, warming the air. But the wind felt cold against her tears, and for a long time she couldn’t swallow past the aching in her throat.
She rode Zetya hard for the rest of the day, resting only when she had to, eating nothing, drinking little. She kept her eyes fixed on the northern horizon, and her thoughts fixed on the Weaver and the war he had promised her. The past was lost to her; all that mattered now was the future—hers, that of the Qirsi, that of the Forelands. Not once did Fetnalla look back, not even when she thought she heard the pounding of hooves pursuing her.
Chapter Thirteen
The Moorlands, Eibithar
Slash. Parry. Duck. Parry again. Lash out with the right foot and chop downward with the blade arm. Wipe blood from the blade if time allows, and then start again. It seemed to Tavis that Hagan MarCullet was beside him, shouting instructions as he fought, exhorting the young lord to draw on all the lessons he had learned in the sunlit wards of Curgh Castle.
Hagan was fighting his own battles, of course—he had no time to offer instruction to a young noble far out of his depth. Somewhere to the west his son, Tavis’s liege man and closest friend, fought as well, summoning memories of the same training. Nor could there be any mistaking his own weapon or those around him for the wooden practice swords with which he and Xaver had exercised not so very long ago. Wooden swords didn’t gleam so in the sun, they didn’t ring like a smith’s hammer when they met. They didn’t even sound quite the same as they whistled past his head. And of course, wooden swords didn’t draw blood; they didn’t sever a man’s arm from his shoulder, or cleave his head in two. Since killing the assassin Cadel on the shores of the Wethy Crown, Tavis had prayed for the opportunity to fight in this war, to prove himself in battle. “Beware the boons you ask of the gods,” it was said in the streets of Curgh, “for the great ones might just be listening.” Indeed.
He battled to survive, to kill the man in front of him before he himself was killed, and to do the same to every Braedony warrior who took the place of those he slew. Though Grinsa fought only a few fourspans from where he stood, the boy was but dimly aware of him. He would have liked to believe that if the gleaner was in trouble, or if, gods save them all, he fell, Tavis would sense it, and would be able to leap to his aid. But in truth, the young noble wasn’t even certain of this much. He had no idea how the rest of Eibithar’s army was faring.
The empire’s assault on the second day of fighting had been even more ferocious than its initial attack. Braedon’s archers had loosed volley after volley into the morning sky, until it seemed that a constant storm of arrows rained down on Kearney’s army forcing the men to huddle beneath their shields. Eibithar’s bowmen could not return fire without imperiling themselves, and her swordsmen could only watch, helpless, fearing for their lives, as Braedon’s warriors marched toward them, under cover of the archers’ barrage. Grinsa, Fotir, and Keziah raised a powerful wind to knock the arrows back, but the empire’s Qirsi raised a countering gale. Tavis knew Grinsa could have done more, but he also knew the gleaner didn’t dare, for fear of revealing himself too soon.
Braedon’s men halted just short of where the arrows were falling and let out an earsplitting cry. A moment later, the last of the darts rose into the pale blue and fell. And when it hit, embedding itself in a soldier’s shield, the empire’s army surged forward, swords raised, helms glinting in the sunlight.
Once again, as they had the previous morning, Eibithar’s soldiers gave ground, fighting desperately to keep from being overrun. For a time it seemed to Tavis that they could do nothing against such an onslaught. He fought desperately, as did those around him, but he felt that he was taking a step back with every parry. The young lord was sure that had it not been for the timely arrival of Thorald’s army under the command of Marston of Shanstead, Kearney’s army would have been defeated before midday. As it was, the addition of Marston’s men only served to stop Braedon’s advance. When Heneagh’s remaining soldiers were overrun late in the day, the Thorald army rushed to take their place on the western lines and succeeded in keeping the enemy from flanking the king. Under the circumstances, that was all anyone could have asked.
Sundown brought an end to the fighting, mercifully. Tavis wasn’t certain how much longer Eibithar’s men could have gone on. For a second consecutive day, the two armies had fought viciously with neither side making significant gains.
The following morning, Kearney’s captains, and those of his dukes, roused the soldiers before dawn and made preparations for the coming day’s battle. But the warriors of Braedon did not attack, and given the opportunity to allow his men to rest and heal, the king did not take the fight to the invaders. The armies rested a second day as well, forcing Tavis and the others to wonder what new horror the empire had in store for them.
Late that day, a mounted army came into view from the south. Fearing that Kearney and his men faced some new threat, Tavis and Xaver called out
in alarm, causing several hundred men to scramble into formation. Only when the king joined them, chuckling in amusement, did the young lord and his friend see that this army was accompanied by two of Kearney’s scouts.
“I believe that’s the queen of Sanbira,” the king told them. “I’m sure she’ll be grateful for the welcome you’ve arranged.”
Many of the men laughed at them. Others, who already hated Tavis and thought him a butcher, merely glared at them. Tavis felt a fool, as did Xaver. But the liege man’s father offered them some comfort.
“Don’t worry about them,” Hagan said, waving a dismissive hand at the warriors. “Better you should be shouting warnings that amount to nothing, than ignoring threats that get men killed.”
The queen’s force was small—eight hundred warriors, more or less. But riding on Sanbiri horses, and wielding Sanbiri steel, they were a formidable sight. The armies of Eibithar made the soldiers welcome, particularly when they realized that there were women warriors in the Sanbiri ranks. Kearney greeted the queen and her nobles, inviting them to share a meal with his dukes and launching almost immediately into a long description of all that had happened so far on the battle plain.
“We’ve seen no sign of reinforcements,” Kearney said, when the queen asked him about Braedon’s decision not to attack in the past two days. “I suppose it’s possible that they arrived under cover of darkness, or will do so tonight, but I think it more likely that the emperor’s captains are doing as we are: healing the wounded, giving their men time to rest, preparing for the next battle.”
Olesya nodded thoughtfully, staring into a bright fire. “That may be,” she said. “But they might also be awaiting support from the south. My scouts have seen an army marching north from Kentigern, a thousand men strong. They burn crops and villages as they go, and march under banners of red and gold.”
“Numar’s men.”
“I’m afraid so. We thought to fight them south of here, but decided to ride on instead. That way we could warn you of their approach and fight them off as part of a larger force. We should be a full day ahead of them. Perhaps a bit more.”
Kearney nodded. “I would have done the same.”
No one else spoke, and Tavis felt much of his relief at the queen’s arrival giving way to a renewed sense of dread. He had wanted to believe that the Aneirans would never be able to fight their way past Kentigern, but he should have known better than to place such faith in the fealty of Aindreas and his men.
After a time, the king sent most of the Qirsi and lesser nobles away, staying up late into the night to discuss tactics with Hagan and his dukes, and the queen and her nobles. Tavis wished that he could have been party to the discussion, and he tried to remain awake so that he might ask his father what was said. But before long this day’s fighting caught up with him and he fell asleep. He slept fitfully, as he always seemed to these days, his slumber disrupted by every unexpected noise and troubled by strange dreams.
On this, the fifth day of the war, Braedon’s archers renewed their assault, allowing the empire’s swordsmen to advance on Eibithar’s lines. Once again, however, Kearney and Queen Olesya had readied their armies before sunrise. The soldiers of Eibithar and Sanbira were prepared for the attack. Kearney’s bowmen matched those of Braedon volley for volley, and when Braedon’s soldiers finally began their charge, the warriors of Eibithar and Sanbira rushed forward to meet them. Battle cries from both armies pierced the stillness of morning, and the first crash of steel upon steel, flesh upon flesh, seemed to cause the ground beneath their feet to buck and roll.
That had been hours ago. At least Tavis thought it had been. The sun had turned a slow arc overhead and now was beating down on the armies and the dead, harsh and relentless. But time had lost meaning for him. His life at this moment was measured in sword strokes and blood, the sweat soaking his face and hair and clothes, the screaming muscles in his back, shoulders, and arms.
He knew that he was fighting well, that his father would be proud of him. During his first battle, at the siege of Kentigern, he had acquitted himself poorly, allowing cowardice to get the better of him. There was none of that now. He had killed and had nearly been killed himself. Bian’s realm didn’t frighten him anymore, at least not as it once had. He wouldn’t call it courage—that was a word reserved in his mind for men like Grinsa and Kearney, for Keziah, who dared offer herself to the Weaver so that she might defeat him, and oddly, for Cresenne, whose treachery had cost Tavis so much and whose redemption had come at a far higher price to herself. In the absence of true bravery, though, it was all he could ask of himself. Anyway, it kept him fighting.
The soldier before him now was a large man, more powerful than he, just as all the others had been. And like the others, his strength could not hide his lack of skill with a blade and shield. Hagan had always told Tavis and Xaver that brawn was not always an asset, that in fact it could be a hindrance at times.
“If your opponent is stronger than you are, but unskilled with a sword, he’ll rely on his power to beat you. His attacks will be slower, more obvious. In a contest between two men, one quick and clever, the other big and strong, I’ll take the former every time.”
Once Tavis had asked, “What if we find ourselves fighting someone who’s both stronger and quicker?”
To which the swordmaster replied, “Run.”
That wasn’t the case here. After eyeing Tavis for just a moment, the Braedony swordsman lunged forward swinging his weapon with all his might and leaving himself open to the young lord’s counter. Tavis didn’t hesitate. Dodging the man’s sword, he leveled a blow of his own at the man’s side. The soldier’s mail coat kept Tavis’s weapon from cutting into his flesh, but he doubled over with a grunt, and Tavis hacked at his neck, knocking him to the ground and loosing a torrent of blood that stained the grass and soil.
The boy spun, dropping into his crouch in anticipation of the next assault, but no one stepped forward to take the soldier’s place. After a moment he straightened and turned toward the gleaner. Grinsa was standing in a circle of dead warriors and shattered blades, leaning heavily on his sword, his face damp, his breathing labored. There was a gash on his cheek, but otherwise he appeared unhurt.
“You’re bleeding,” Tavis said.
“So are you.”
Tavis frowned, having no memory of being wounded.
“On your brow,” Grinsa said. “And on your left shoulder.”
He glanced at his shoulder, then lifted a hand to his forehead and dabbed at it gingerly with his fingers. They came away sticky and crimson.
“It seems our army is making progress.”
Tavis looked at the gleaner again before following the line of his gaze. Perhaps twenty paces to the north, soldiers of Eibithar were still fighting a pitched battle.
He started in that direction. “We should help them.”
“Tavis, wait. Rest a moment.”
“They’re not resting,” he said over his shoulder, not bothering to stop.
“Some are. All of them should, as should you.”
“We’ll rest when the fighting’s over.” But even as he spoke, he felt fatigue crash down upon him like a wave. When was the last time he had eaten or taken a sip of water? When had he last slept a full night without awakening to strains of Braedony war songs? He slowed, then stopped, facing the gleaner again.
“Just for a moment,” Grinsa said. “You don’t look well.”
“I feel fine.” Yet he made no move to rejoin the battle. How had has throat gotten so dry so quickly?
Grinsa walked to where Tavis stood, eyeing him closely. “You’re pale as a Qirsi.”
“I’ve been spending too much time with you.”
“You’ll get no argument from me.”
Tavis had to grin, though he quickly turned serious again. “Truly, gleaner, I’m fine. Now let me go and fight for my realm.”
He shrugged. “Go, then.”
Before the young lord could start forward ag
ain, however, shouts went up from the south. Both of them turned, and what Tavis saw nearly made his stomach heave.
An army was approaching, marching under a red, black, and gold banner bearing the panther of Solkara. The queen had said that Aneira’s army consisted of a thousand men, but the column Tavis saw seemed to stretch for miles. How could there be so many, and how could they have arrived so soon?
“Demons and fire!” the gleaner murmured.
Tavis scanned the lines, looking for anyone who might hold off this new force. But the Sanbiri warriors were fighting alongside the King’s Guard, and all of Eibithar’s men were engaged as well. “They’ll carve right through us,” he said, looking at the Solkarans once more.
“Perhaps not. Go find Fotir and bring him to me. Quickly, Tavis.”
“Where are you going?”
“To get Keziah.”
Comprehension hit him like a fist. “You’re going to weave their magic with yours.”
“We haven’t a choice. Now go, before their archers are close enough to attack!”
Tavis had never run so fast. He could see his father atop his mount leading the Curgh army, and sprinted toward him, knowing that Fotir would be nearby. Already the soldiers battling at the front had noticed the Solkarans’ approach. Tavis could hear cries going up from both sides and the fighting seemed to have taken on new urgency, particularly among the empire’s men. Heartened by the appearance of their allies, the Braedony swordsmen pushed forward, shouting wildly, like demons from the Underrealm. Within moments, the small gains made in the past few hours by the armies of Eibithar and Sanbira were almost completely erased.
Reaching his father, he found Fotir and Xaver doing battle side by side. Both of them were bleeding, but at least they were alive.
Xaver was fending off two men, giving ground quickly, and Tavis rushed to his aid, his sword held high. One of the men broke off his attack on the liege man aiming a swift, chopping blow at Tavis’s head. Tavis blocked the sword with his shield, his knees nearly buckling. Still, he managed to strike back at the man, hitting only his shield.