by DAVID B. COE
Again Jastanne laughed. “And she can’t be killed by the likes of you.”
There was a chiming sound, and the duke’s blade splintered like bone. An instant later Keziah heard the rending of wood, and Aindreas’s shield broke in two. Three soldiers raised their blades as if to charge her. There were three muffled cracks, and the men toppled to the grass, two of them howling and writhing in pain. One of them didn’t move at all. A sheen of sweat had appeared on Jastanne’s face, and she was breathing heavily, as if she had run a great distance, but she seemed to have her strength still.
“I’ve wanted to kill you for some time now, Kentigern,” she said, “but you’ve been too valuable to us. The Weaver wouldn’t allow it. Now, though…” She shrugged and grinned. “The duke is a traitor,” she said, pitching her voice to carry. “He pledged himself to the Qirsi cause, believing that your king was somehow responsible for the death of his daughter.”
“That’s a lie!” one of the men shouted back at her.
But Aindreas didn’t deny it. He just glowered at her, gripping the useless hilt of his weapon.
“Is it?” she said. “Notice the duke’s silence. Don’t you think he would protest if he could?”
The soldier blanched, looking from the woman to Aindreas. The other men stared at the duke as well.
Jastanne, however, eyed Keziah once more. She said nothing. She didn’t have to. Keziah knew that she was about to die.
Perhaps Aindreas sensed this as well. With a roar that would have made the bravest warrior quail, he charged the woman, his dagger drawn, his eyes wide and wild. And Jastanne didn’t even flinch. She made a small grunting sound, as if pushing hard with her magic, but otherwise she didn’t move. At least not at first.
Aindreas staggered before he reached her, his enraged bellow rising, changing to something more desperate, more awful. Keziah could hear the bones in his body breaking in rapid succession. The dagger fell from his hands. But he didn’t fall, nor did he stop. Perhaps it was just the force of his initial steps, or maybe the force of his will. He continued toward the woman, flailing now, his face red, his steps unsteady.
Jastanne took a step back, pulling her sword free, and as the duke stumbled into her she thrust the blade into his chest. Still he tumbled forward, but now the woman simply stepped to the side, allowing him to stagger past her before he fell to the ground, driving the blade deeper. The other soldiers vaulted toward her, thinking that at last they had her defeated. But their swords broke in quick succession, and their necks after that.
Keziah was alone.
Except that when she looked at Jastanne again, she saw that another had come, one the woman hadn’t noticed.
“How did you turn him?” Keziah asked, keeping the woman’s gaze on herself, needing just a bit more time.
Jastanne’s face had grown pale, and her hair, damp with sweat, clung to her brow. Keziah had no doubt, though, that she had strength enough to finish this.
“It was easy, if you must know. He came to us.”
“I don’t believe you,” the archminister said, only half listening.
“I don’t particularly care. It’s the truth. He hated your king that much.”
Keziah didn’t answer. Her thoughts were fixed entirely on Jastanne’s horse, which had wandered close, perhaps following the sound of the woman’s voice. In these few seconds, the archminister had managed to bring him even closer. Hearing his steps, seeing the direction of Keziah’s gaze, Jastanne spun. And at that very moment Keziah summoned an image of fire, thrusting it into the creature’s mind as if it were a blade. The beast reared, kicking out with its front hooves. One smote the woman on the head, and she collapsed, sprawling on the ground beside Keziah. She let out a low groan and stirred, but the archminister grabbed a nearby rock and silenced her with a second blow.
Keziah closed her eyes briefly, taking a long, deep breath. Then, in a haze of pain, she forced herself into motion and crawled to the duke.
Aindreas lay on his side, his chest a bloodstained mess, his breath coming in great wet gasps, flecks of blood at the corners of his mouth. His eyes were open, but he seemed not to see her, even when her face was just in front of his.
“My lord?” Keziah said.
“Is it over?” he rasped.
“Not yet, my lord.”
“Jastanne?”
“She’s wounded, but she lives still.”
“Kill her now, while you can. She’s…” His voice gave way, and his enormous frame was racked by terrible coughs.
“I’ll call for a healer, my lord.”
“I’m dead already.”
“No, my lor—”
“Yes.” For the first time, his grey eyes seemed to focus on her face. “Tell the king … tell him that I died well.”
“My lord—”
“It was a mistake. I know that now. The shame of it will stain my house for centuries. But perhaps dying this way … I’m sorry.”
She heard footsteps behind her, the jangling of swords and armor. Turning with an effort, Keziah saw soldiers running toward her.
“Archminister!” one of them called.
“Get healers! Quickly!”
One of the men started back toward the camp, but the others hurried to her side.
“Is he dead?” one of the men asked, his gaze fixed on the duke.
Keziah didn’t answer. Aindreas coughed again, weakly this time. His breathing had slowed, his skin was the color of high clouds on a warm harvest morning.
“Brienne,” he whispered. “Forgive … me.”
His mouth opened slightly, as if he intended to take another breath. But his chest was still, and what little life had remained in his eyes faded to nothing.
Keziah reached out and closed his eyes for him, wincing as she did. She couldn’t bring herself to shed tears for the man, not after all that he had done. But she grieved for his family and his house.
“Thank you,” she said softly, “for saving my life.”
“Archminister?”
“He died a hero,” she said. “He saved me from certain death.” She glanced up at the man. “Make certain that your comrades know that.”
“I will, Archminister.” He hesitated. “Are you hurt badly?”
“My leg is broken, and my ribs. But I’ll be all right once the healers arrive.”
He nodded, then looked at the other soldiers, some of whom yet lived. At last his gaze came to rest on Jastanne, whose chest rose and fell, despite the darkening bruises on her head.
“What about her?” the man asked.
“Bind her hands and feet,” Keziah said, ignoring Aindreas’s words and the warning that echoed in her own mind. “Use silk if you can find it. Otherwise cord will have to do. And have her watched by at least four men.”
“Four?”
“She’s a shaper. I only hope that four will be enough.”
Chapter Twenty-five
It was a disconcerting way to fight a war. Fotir had no idea from one moment to the next whether he should be advising his duke and the king or lending his magic to Grinsa. Several times already this day, the gleaner had entered his mind without warning, taking hold of his shaping magic to counter one of the Weaver’s attacks. It was disorienting enough having the man in his mind wielding his power. But to have this happen seemingly at random, with no time to prepare himself, left the minister dazed, his thoughts addled as if from a sharp blow. He could hardly follow the course of the battle unfolding on the plain before him. He knew only that it was going poorly.
Grinsa’s attempts to use the magic of the enemy to his own advantage—apparently a tactic suggested by Tavis—had worked at first, disrupting the Weaver’s initial attacks and costing the man a good number of his warriors. But the enemy had recovered quickly, reforming his lines and using the awesome power he wielded to devastating effect. The Eandi archers had inflicted some damage on the Qirsi army, but their ranks had been decimated by the Weaver’s shaping and fire power; fewer than a
hundred remained alive and uninjured. Thus far Grinsa had managed to keep the enemy from doing the same to the Eandi swordsmen, but Fotir sensed that the gleaner’s strength was failing. Each new Qirsi assault exacted a greater toll than the previous one, and every time Grinsa reached for the minister’s power to defend the Eandi lines the effort seemed more desperate.
Grinsa stood quite close to where Fotir and his duke were watching the battle progress, but it might as well have been forty leagues. Having rid themselves of most of the archers, the Weaver and his servants had closed the distance between themselves and the Eandi lines. The Qirsi remained far enough away so that any advance by Kearney’s swordsmen would leave the Eandi soldiers exposed to the Weaver’s lethal power, but they were close enough to give the gleaner precious little time to respond to each new attack that Dusaan unleashed. All of Grinsa’s attention was directed forward, his gaze never straying from the Weaver.
“Damn them!” Hagan MarCullet growled, standing near Javan and Fotir. “Why won’t they just fight us and be done with it?” He cupped a hand to his mouth. “Fight, ye cowards!” he shouted.
Fotir glanced at the duke, who was already eyeing him, his expression bleak.
“Perhaps it is time we took the battle to them,” Javan said. “This doesn’t seem to be working.”
Hagan nodded. “Couldn’t the gleaner and the rest of you raise a mist? With the proper cover, we might be able to attack.”
The minister started to respond, but before he could say a word, Grinsa was in his mind again, drawing on his shaping power. Fotir could see nothing of the Weaver’s magic, of course, nor could he sense it, as Grinsa apparently could. But there could be no mistaking the panic in the gleaner’s thoughts.
“Get behind your shields!” Fotir called to all who could hear. “This is going to be bad.”
It was.
Even with Grinsa wielding the magic of so many, Fotir felt the collision of the gleaner’s power with that of the Weaver as if it were a body blow. He staggered, reaching out to steady himself on whatever was nearest, which turned out to be his duke’s shoulder. Grinsa touched his mind a second time, sending out another pulse of power. Nevertheless, when the Weaver’s magic hit the Eandi lines, it was like a storm tide rushing over castles of sand. The Qirsi attack shattered the bodies of hundreds of warriors, crashing through the King’s Guard, the soldiers of Sanbira, and the forces of Kentigern, Thorald, Heneagh, Labruinn, Tremain, and even Curgh. No army was spared.
Those who were able to raise their shields in time found themselves holding mangled pieces of wood and steel. But at least they were alive.
“The gleaner’s weakening, isn’t he?” the duke said.
“There are just too many of them,” Fotir answered, feeling that he needed to defend his friend.
“I’m not finding fault, First Minister, I’m merely making an observation.”
Reluctantly, Fotir nodded. “I can feel his weariness.”
“We should attack them,” Hagan said, echoing the duke’s words from a moment before. “Standing here waiting to die is not my idea of waging war.”
Javan cast a hard look at the Qirsi army. “We should at least suggest as much to the gleaner and the king, while there’s still time.”
Fotir nodded his agreement, and they hurried to where Grinsa and Kearney stood.
Grinsa’s face was as white as Panya’s glow, and sweat ran like tears down his cheeks.
“Please pardon the intrusion, Your Majesty,” the duke said, “but we’ve been wondering if it might not be time to alter our tactics.”
Kearney wore a pained expression, as if hope had long since abandoned him. “To what end, Javan?”
“We should take the fight to them. Have the gleaner raise a mist to conceal an assault on the Qirsi lines.”
“Any mist I raise the Weaver will defeat with a wind. I haven’t enough Qirsi to sustain both a mist and an opposing gale. It would be a slaughter.”
“It’s becoming that already,” the duke said.
Fotir thought the gleaner would argue, but he merely shrugged.
Kearney looked at Grinsa. “Can you keep the Weaver occupied for a time? Give us an opportunity to advance on him unseen?”
“Not without—” He faltered, his eyes widening slightly, though they never left the Weaver. “Actually there may be a way to give you that opportunity and perhaps win one for me, as well. Fotir, gather the Qirsi as quickly as you can. Bring them all to me. We haven’t much time before the Weaver attacks again.”
The minister glanced at his duke, who nodded immediately.
He sprinted off, running first to the west and then back to the east before returning to the gleaner. At one point he had to stop so that Grinsa could draw upon his power again and ward off another attack. Somehow, the gleaner was able to project more magic this time, and the Weaver’s assault had little effect. It seemed that whatever hope Grinsa had glimpsed had strengthened him, at least for the moment.
By the time he returned, there were a dozen Qirsi gathered around the king and gleaner.
Still, Grinsa frowned when he saw the minister had returned.
“Where’s Keziah?”
Fotir felt the blood drain from his face. “I don’t know. I didn’t see her.”
“What do you mean you didn’t see her?” Kearney demanded. “Where could she have gone?”
“It doesn’t matter right now!” the gleaner said, though there could be no mistaking the concern in his pale eyes. “I need all of you who have mists and winds to raise a mist together. Summon the mist from the center of the battle plain and when the Weaver raises a wind to counter it—”
“Wait,” Evetta said. “Aren’t you going to be weaving us?”
Somehow Grinsa managed a grin. “No, I’m not. The Weaver will think I am, and when he pits his magic against yours, I’ll strike at him.” He turned to the king. “Your warriors won’t have much time, Your Majesty. They must attack swiftly.”
“Should we use the horses?”
“I still think that would be a mistake. Especially in a mist. With the Qirsi on horseback, your warriors will have no doubt as to who the enemy is. And with your men on foot, the Weaver will have one less magic at his disposal.”
“Very well.”
“We should begin immediately.”
Kearney nodded. “We await the mist.”
Grinsa eyed his fellow Qirsi once more. “When the Weaver raises his wind, you’ll have to work together to fight against it. If this is to work, I can’t help you.”
“We’ll do our part,” Fotir said.
The gleaner smiled faintly. “I’m sure you will. Begin.”
Fotir faced the battle plain and began to draw upon his power of mists and winds. Without the gleaner in his mind, bolstering his magic, blending it with his own and that of the others, he felt weak and small. But among the Qirsi standing with him, several wielded this magic, and in just a short time a heavy fog had settled over the moor.
“Your Majesty?” Grinsa said.
Kearney drew his sword, as did Javan, Tavis, Hagan MarCullet and his son, and Gershon Trasker.
“Our lives are in your hands, gleaner,” the king said. “May the gods be kind to us all.”
“I’ll do all I can to protect you, Your Majesty. If by my death, I can insure your survival, and that of the others, then so be it.”
“I hope it doesn’t come to that.” Kearney faced his swordmaster. “Gershon, signal the attack.”
The swordmaster began barking commands, which were echoed along the Eandi lines in both directions. Within moments, soldiers were surging forward, their swords raised, war cries on their lips. It seemed that they had been waiting for this, impatient for the opportunity to fight back against this maddening, deadly foe.
The king and duke started forward as well, although not before Tavis turned to face the gleaner.
“When this is over,” Tavis said, “I want a new Fating.”
“What?”
“I’ve never had a real one, you know, and I think I’ve earned it.”
Grinsa laughed. “Fine. A Fating it is. Now go.”
Tavis gazed at the gleaner a moment longer, then turned and ran to join the rest.
Fotir and the other Qirsi continued to weave their mists and soon the Eandi warriors had vanished in the grey cloud they had created, though their shouts could still be heard.
“Why isn’t the Weaver doing anything?” Xivled jal Viste asked. “Why hasn’t he raised a wind yet?”
Grinsa was frowning, his eyes on the mist. “Where in Qirsar’s name is Kezi?” he muttered. Then, as if finally realizing that Xiv’s question had been directed at him, he shook his head, as if rousing himself. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“I was wondering why the Weaver hadn’t raised a wind yet.”
“A good question. I think he may be confused. He’s probably wondering if this is a feint of some sort, or an act of desperation.”
“Little does he know that it’s both.”
Grinsa smirked. “Indeed.”
“Can he sense that you’re not weaving us?” Fotir asked.
“Probably, but even so, his lines are about to be attacked by more than two thousand men. He has to do something. The question is, will he strike out blindly, or try first to defeat the mist.”
* * *
For the first time since leaving Braedon’s Imperial Palace in the Weaver’s company, Nitara felt herself growing truly afraid. The mist itself was nothing to fear. The Weaver would have little trouble sweeping it away with a wind; he had far more sorcerers at his disposal than did the Eandi.
But it soon became apparent to her that he was making no effort to do so. Did he want the mist to remain in place? If so, what was it he expected of the rest of them? And if not, why had he allowed it to remain? Was he engaged in some other struggle? Or worse, had he been hurt or killed? Nitara tried to tell herself that this was impossible, but the night before she had seen blood on his face and robe, and this very morning another Weaver—another Weaver!—had taken hold of her magic and made her tumble from her mount. She had tried to convince herself otherwise, but this was the only explanation for what had happened to her, and for what had been done to others in the Weaver’s ranks. Where once, not more than a day ago, a mist like this one would have been of no concern at all, it now chilled her to her heart, as if Bian himself had summoned the vapor from his dark realm.