by DAVID B. COE
More darts fell around Aindreas, and more were sent hurtling toward the enemy.
“This is madness,” the duke muttered.
“I quite agree.”
Gershon was closer than Aindreas had known.
“I didn’t mean—”
“It’s all right, my lord. I believe I understand. But I’m at a loss as to what to do. It’s too dark and too dangerous to send the swordsmen forward, particularly with both armies loosing arrows blindly at one another.”
“What if we set one volley aflame?”
“My lord?”
“We wouldn’t even have to light all of them. We wouldn’t want to, because it would make them too easy to avoid. But if we light some of them, we might be able to see where the enemy is.”
“A fine idea, my lord,” Gershon said, sounding as if he thought Aindreas a genius. “I’ll speak with the captains right away.”
It took some time to get the arrows wrapped in oilcloth and lit, and in the meantime the armies traded volley after volley. Finally Eibithar’s archers loosed the flaming arrows and the duke followed their arcing flight wondering what their fires would reveal.
Only when they struck, though, did he understand how badly he and the others had miscalculated. Several of Aneira’s bowmen lay dead on the ground and perhaps two hundred others could be seen dodging the arrows that continued to fall. But the rest of the army was gone.
“Demons and fire!” Gershon rasped. “They’ve gone on. It was all a ruse.”
The Aneiran archers turned and ran, and after a moment’s hesitation, the swordmaster called for his men to attack. Instantly the king’s army surged forward, followed closely by the soldiers of Labruinn, Tremain, and Kentigern.
“How far ahead do you think they are?” Caius asked, as the soldiers overran Aneira’s men.
Gershon had already remounted. “They could have gained an hour on us. Maybe more.” He spat a curse. “I’m a fool!” He rubbed a hand over his face. “We’ll have to drive the men even harder now, keep them at a trot for as long as we can.”
The dukes climbed onto their horses, and Eibithar’s army resumed its pursuit of the Solkarans. There were fewer of the enemy ahead of them now, but still enough to make a difference in Kearney’s battle with the empire. The soldiers, heartened by their easy victory over the archers, maintained a remarkably brisk pace for some time before finally flagging as the night wore on. As dawn approached, Gershon was forced to call a respite. The soldiers seemed utterly spent, and Aindreas felt what little hope he had left wither and die.
But when the sky began to brighten at last, revealing the Solkaran army, the duke’s spirits lifted. It seemed that the Aneiran swordsmen had not left their bowmen as early as Aindreas had feared. Or perhaps they too had taken some time to rest during the night. The Aneirans had increased their advantage, but not so much that they could not still be caught. He sensed that the soldiers behind him realized this as well and he felt the lethargy of a long night being lifted from Eibithar’s army.
Looking past the enemy, the duke saw far in the distance several thin plumes of pale smoke rising into the morning sky. He thought he could see tents as well, and a great host of men. The battle plain. It would still be several hours before the Aneirans reached the other armies gathered there—he could only assume that Kearney’s forces held the southern ground—but that made the morning’s pursuit even more urgent.
“It seems the king has held them,” Lathrop said, already mounted and ready to ride on.
Gershon gave a curt nod, his expression grim. “All the more reason to keep moving.”
Lathrop eyed him in the dim grey light. “I quite agree, swordmaster,” he said pointedly. “I was merely observing what I suppose was already obvious to you.”
The swordmaster’s mouth twitched. “Forgive me, my lord.”
“I already have. I believe it’s time you forgave yourself. We all shared equally in what happened during the night. And to be honest, I’m not certain there was anything else we could have done. The Solkaran’s deception didn’t make their arrows any less deadly. Until we defeated the archers, we couldn’t resume our pursuit. I thought you dealt with them as well as anyone could have. And your decision to light our arrows aflame was quite brilliant.”
“That was Lord Kentigern’s idea, my lord.”
Lathrop looked at Aindreas, raising an eyebrow. “Really.”
“Don’t look so surprised, Tremain. I still have occasional lucid moments.”
“So it would seem.”
Aindreas had to grin. Truth was, he had always liked Lathrop.
Gershon rode back to address the men, and though Aindreas couldn’t hear all that the swordsmaster said, he could imagine well enough. He had rallied armies himself, and the words never changed much. Judging from the earsplitting roar that greeted Trasker’s words, it seemed to work on this morning.
They started forward again moments later, and almost immediately began to gain on the enemy. It seemed that the Aneirans were slowing their pace deliberately, as if they suddenly understood that they were to be crushed between the two armies of Eibithar. Throughout the morning Gershon’s forces drew nearer to them, his soldiers singing so loudly that the Solkarans could not help but hear.
Aindreas kept an eye on the distant armies as well. They were fighting again, and though the distance was too great to make out much of what was happening, it didn’t seem that the battle lines moved at all. He could only imagine the carnage.
“Our soldiers may well tip the balance.”
He turned to find Lathrop riding beside him.
“They may indeed, if there’s anyone left alive when we get there.”
“I’m sorry to have to ask this, Lord Kentigern, but I feel that it is my duty as a loyal subject of the king. Can you be trusted not to betray us at the end?”
He should have expected this. It shouldn’t have stung at all. Just because he had chosen to turn from the path he had been on did not mean that the arrogance and self-righteousness of Glyndwr and his allies would magically disappear. Yet the question cut his heart like a blade, perhaps because he had always thought that Tremain was different from the rest, that he might have understood, even as he continued to stand with the king.
“Yes, Lord Tremain. I can be trusted. Before leaving Kentigern, I swore to you on Brienne’s memory that I would keep faith with you and your king. Do you honestly think that I would dishonor her in that way?”
“Aindreas, I’m sorry. But I had to—”
“No,” the duke said. “You didn’t.” He kicked at his horse’s flanks and rode ahead of the man. And for the rest of the morning he kept to himself.
By midday, they were once again as close to the Aneirans as they had been the previous evening. They were also near enough to the battle to make out the colors of the pennons fluttering in the wind above the armies of the realm. The purple and gold of Eibithar flew over the King’s Guard, and Aindreas also saw the colors of Thorald, Heneagh, and, of course, Curgh.
Seeing the brown and gold of Javan’s house, the duke felt his chest tighten with old, familiar pains—grief, fury, bloodlust. Maybe Lathrop had been justified in asking about his intentions after all. Could he really fight beside Curgh’s duke, beside his son?
His son didn’t kill your daughter. The Qirsi did.
He knew this to be so, but his hatred for the men of Curgh ran deep.
As the Solkarans drew ever nearer to Kearney’s army, they began to slow, then halted altogether. Aindreas saw a small group of Aneiran archers—perhaps a hundred—position themselves between their army and Gershon’s force. He could only assume that the enemy’s other bowmen had gone to the far side of their army to loose their arrows at the king’s men.
“Archers!” Gershon cried, and the word was echoed by the captains marching behind them. Within moments, several hundred of Eibithar’s bowmen had come to the front of the column, arrows already nocked.
At Gershon’s command th
e army resumed its advance until it seemed that the bowmen were within range of the enemy. Then the swordmaster called a halt and ordered the archers to begin their assault. The Solkarans tried to answer, but there were few of their bowmen left to face those of Eibithar.
“They’ll attack His Majesty first,” Gershon said, his voice taut. And it did seem that they would. Though their archers sent volleys of arrows at Gershon’s force, the swordsmen behind them appeared to be massing for an attack northward. “If they can fight through to the empire’s army all is lost.”
Before the Aneirans could strike, however, a great gale began to rise from the north, abrupt and unnatural.
Many of Gershon’s archers, who had been about to fire again, paused, glancing at one other with puzzled expressions. The swordmaster stared up at the sky, as if expecting to see some great beast swoop down upon them from the clouds. The squall continued to gain power, until Aindreas felt that he would be swept off of his mount.
“This is no natural wind,” the duke said, shouting to be heard. “It’s sorcery. I’m certain of it.”
The swordmaster nodded, staring up at the sky. “Aye, but who among the Qirsi is powerful enough to summon such a gale?”
Chapter Fourteen
Grinsa could see now that this was in fact two armies—the Aneirans had another force following on their heels—and even without seeing the banners of this second army, the gleaner had an idea of who they were.
“They’re trapped now,” Keziah said over the roar of their gale, reasoning it out for herself. Fotir gave a puzzled look and she added, “That’s Gershon behind them.”
“You’re certain?”
“I’d know the swordmaster from any distance. They must have followed the Solkarans from Kentigern.”
“Then we’ve hope after all.”
Grinsa nodded, his eyes fixed on the Aneiran captains riding at the head of the column. “There’s hope for the king and his men, yes, but our situation hasn’t improved much at all.” He glanced about quickly before staring at the captains again. The three of them had ridden a fair distance from Kearney’s lines to meet the Aneiran threat, thinking to protect the king from an attack on the rear of his lines. They were quite alone on this side of the Solkaran army.
Keziah frowned. “Of course it has. They’ll have to fight off Gershon’s assault as well as ours. How can that not help us?”
“We’re still three against hundreds.”
“When we first rode to meet them we thought we were three against thousands. Or had you forgotten that?”
“That was when I thought we had no choice!”
She glared at him. “So now you’ve changed your mind?”
“Can you do this?” Fotir asked. “Or are they too many?”
“We can do it.”
Keziah was still eyeing him, the wind howling all around them, though her hair remained still. “Then why does it sound like you’ve lost your nerve?”
He rounded on her. “Have you ever used your powers to kill a thousand men, Keziah? Or a hundred? Or even one?” She appeared to waver. “I thought not! Until you have, do not presume to judge me or my nerve!” Grinsa had never spoken to her so and he could see the hurt in her eyes, but at that moment he couldn’t have cared less. “If we choose to fight now, it will be my weaving that kills, and Fotir’s shaping! Even now, down to the three of us, you won’t bear the cost of this battle! So I’ll thank you to keep silent and do as I say!”
A tear rolled down her smooth cheek and she looked away, back toward the army of Solkara.
“Grinsa, she didn’t mean—”
“It’s all right, First Minister,” she said, her voice steady. “I shouldn’t have said what I did.” She swiped at the tear and faced the gleaner again. “Should we retreat then?”
Before he could answer, a swarm of arrows rose from the Aneiran army, arcing toward them. The wind they had summoned ensured that the darts would fall well short of them, but Grinsa sensed that Solkara’s bowmen were merely testing the gale.
“We need to decide now, Grinsa!”
She was right, of course. Not only about needing to make his choice immediately, but also about the rest of it. They had ridden forth to oppose an army of thousands, and though the Aneirans presented less of a threat than they first thought, he and the others still needed to protect the king’s army from any assault. More to the point, it was time to stop this killing, to make the Eandi see that they were wasting lives and strength warring with each other while the true enemy bided his time, waiting until they were too weak to resist his magic.
“We’ll stay.”
The Solkarans loosed their arrows again and instantly Grinsa could tell that this second volley would reach them. Still drawing on Fotir and Keziah’s power, he shifted the wind a quarter turn, so that it blew the arrows to the side.
Before the archers could fire a third time, cries rose from the far side of the Aneiran force. Gershon’s men had attacked.
“Damn!” If he could have shattered every weapon held by the two armies, he would have, but even a Weaver’s power was not so precise. A burst of magic that strong would splinter bone as well.
“No, it’s all right,” his sister said. “The king’s men can defeat them, even without our help.”
“Don’t you understand, Keziah? That’s not what I want! We have to stop thinking like Eibitharians! These men aren’t the enemy! Neither are the Braedony soldiers fighting your king to the north! We have to find a way to end the fighting, before Gershon’s force kills them all.”
“How?” Fotir asked.
Grinsa shook his head, his desperation growing with every scream that came from the warring armies. “I don’t know.”
A large contingent of Eibitharian soldiers had moved up from the rear of Gershon’s company and flanked the Aneirans to the east. They fought under a green and white banner and appeared to be led by Lathrop of Tremain. No doubt the swordmaster had sent Labruinn’s men to the west—few understood military tactics better than did Gershon Trasker. It would be a slaughter.
Keziah gazed toward the fighting with a crease in her brow. “What about a mist? Perhaps if they can’t see, they’ll break off their assault.”
“I don’t want the Aneirans fleeing so that they can join with the empire’s men and attack again. A mist might allow them to escape. I just want to stop them from killing each other.”
“A wind then,” she said, turning to face him. “Like at the Heneagh.”
A year before, when they had sought to keep the armies of Curgh and Kentigern from destroying one another on a battle plain near the Heneagh River, the two of them had summoned a powerful wind. It hadn’t been so strong as to keep the men from fighting, but it had gotten their attention long enough for Kearney to place himself between the two armies. Perhaps it would work again. First though, Grinsa had to be close enough to make himself seen and heard.
“Follow me,” he called, kicking his mount to a gallop and steering the beast around those fighting on the west and then toward the center of the battle.
Keziah and Fotir rode after him, and together the three Qirsi plunged into the fighting, Grinsa drawing on their magic once more to summon a staggering wind. He made it build swiftly, so that to the soldiers it would seem that it had risen without warning. As he and Kezi had hoped, it did force many of the men to break off their combat, including Gershon Trasker, who sat on his horse, his sword still poised to strike, his hot glare directed at Grinsa and the others. Already many warriors had fallen, most of them Solkaran. Only a few hundred Aneirans remained alive, and the gleaner guessed that they would not survive long if the fighting resumed.
“Break off your attack, swordmaster!” Grinsa called as he drew nearer.
“I will not! These men are invaders. Their lives were forfeit as soon as they crossed the Tarbin.”
The soldiers around them were eyeing each other warily, their weapons ready. The merest twitch by one of them would launch all into combat on
ce more, no matter the wind that raged about them.
“We’ve a more dangerous foe, swordmaster,” Keziah said, drawing the man’s eye. “You know that as well as anyone. We’ll need these men before all is done.”
Gershon said nothing, the expression on his blunt features and in his hard blue eyes offering little promise that he would relent.
“Men of Aneira!” Grinsa called. “Lower your weapons! Surrender now, or all of you will die!”
“Never!” came a reply. Others echoed the sentiment, and Eibithar’s men began shouting for their deaths. They were a heartbeat away from bedlam.
“Fotir, their swords. Quickly.”
The minister nodded. A moment later an Aneiran blade shattered, and then another. Grinsa broke several as well.
“We’ll break them all if we have to! Now put them down, and perhaps you’ll survive this day!”
Reluctantly, the nearest of the Aneiran captains dropped his blade to the ground. Slowly, other men began to follow his example.
After several moments, Gershon nodded to his captains, who began ordering their men to lower their weapons.
“I do this against my better judgment, Archminister.”
From what Keziah had told him, Grinsa gathered that she and the swordmaster had feigned many conflicts recently in order to maintain the illusion that her fealty to the king had wavered. Now, however, he sensed no trickery in the man’s tone. He was deadly serious.
“I understand,” Keziah said. “I had to be convinced as well.”
Gershon’s eyes flicked toward the gleaner, then back to her.
“You spoke a moment ago of another foe, Archminister. Of whom do you speak?”
Grinsa turned toward the voice. A stout man with yellow hair and a trim beard was leaning forward in his saddle, regarding the gleaner with obvious distrust. It took Grinsa a moment to recognize him as the duke of Labruinn. But his eye was drawn beyond this young duke to the towering figure who sat just behind him on the largest stallion Grinsa had ever seen. Aindreas of Kentigern, his ruddy face flushed to crimson, and his jaw clenched tight.