The Dark-Eyes War bots-3

by DAVID B. COE

  The last time this happened, Grinsa had anticipated the blow and allowed the man to hit him. He didn't allow it this time.

  Grinsa reached up and grabbed the a'laq's wrist before E'Menua could strike him. The a'laq's eyes widened. He tried to wrench his arm out of Grinsa's grasp, but Grinsa held him firm. E'Menua was a powerful man, and in his youth he might have been able to defeat Grinsa in a battle of physical strength. But not anymore, not at his age, despite the old injury to Grinsa's shoulder that had left him slightly deformed. Grinsa sensed that E'Menua was gathering himself to use shaping magic against him, and he reached forth with his own magic to stop him, just as he had done to B'Vril.

  "Let go of me!" the a'laq demanded, his voice low, menacing.

  "No, not yet."

  E'Menua threw a punch with the other fist, but Grinsa seized that arm, too. He felt the a'laq grappling for control of his other magics, and he blocked him. He had no doubt that the Fal'Borna were skilled warriors, but based upon his confrontation with B'Vril and now this encounter with the a'laq, he sensed that their command of Qirsi magic lacked precision. Or perhaps battling the renegade Weaver back in the Forelands had honed Grinsa's skills so well that few Qirsi anywhere could stand against him in a contest of magic. Whatever the reason, his mastery of the man's magic was even more complete than his physical advantage.

  "I'll call for the others," E'Menua said. "D'Pera, Q'Daer, L'Norr. You can't defeat four Weavers."

  Grinsa shook his head, though he kept his expression neutral. He didn't wish to humiliate the man. He only wanted to prove to him once and for all that he couldn't be controlled. "It's an empty threat," he said, "and we both know it. You don't want them to see you like this, and neither do I."

  Still E'Menua fought him. He struggled to free himself from Grinsa's grasp. He fought for control of his magic. All to no avail.

  "Damn you!" he finally said through clenched teeth. But an instant later he seemed to surrender. He stopped trying to pull his arms free, and he ceded all control of his magic to Grinsa.

  Grinsa let go of the man's wrist and arm but held fast to E'Menua's magic. The a'laq continued to glare as he rubbed his wrist with the other hand. It was red where Grinsa had held him.

  "You can release my magic, too."

  "I don't trust you," Grinsa said. "If you'd care to throw down the blades you carry, I might consider it. Otherwise…" He shrugged.

  E'Menua regarded him again, his eyes narrowing slightly and a faint smile touching his lips. "You'll be a Fal'Borna yet, Forelander." But he didn't pull out his weapons, and Grinsa didn't relinquish his hold on the man's magic.

  The a'laq walked around the fire ring in the z'kal and sat. He gestured for Grinsa to do the same.

  "What is it you want?" he asked as Grinsa lowered himself to the ground.

  "You know what I want."

  By Fal'Borna law, all Weavers were to be joined to other Weavers. E'Menua and his people didn't recognize Cresenne as Grinsa's wife; in the days immediately following their arrival in the sept, the Fal'Borna had referred to her again and again as Grinsa's concubine. The a'laq had demanded that Grinsa be joined to a Weaver, and of course Grinsa had refused.

  "We had an arrangement," E'Menua said. "You were to find the Mettai witch who made the curse. You were to kill her and prove the innocence of those merchants. Instead, the merchants are gone and the woman was killed by the Mettai. You failed, and now you must live with the consequences of that failure. You're Fal'Borna. You're a member of this sept. That's what we agreed to. You'll marry a Fal'Borna Weaver, just as you said you would."

  Grinsa shook his head and laughed. "The Mettai woman is dead. Besh and I found a way to defeat the plague, and Besh went so far as to make the cure contagious, so that soon every man and woman in your sept will be immune. You're the only man in the Southlands who could look at all this and conclude that we failed."

  "What about the merchants?"

  "The merchants are no longer your problem," Grinsa said. "As I told you, Jasha is dead. And Torgan is alone on the plain. You've met the man. How long do you think he can last on his own? He'll be killed by a Fal'Borna war party long before he reaches the Silverwater."

  E'Menua stared at the fire ring. Whatever flames had burned there had long since burned out, but the embers still glowed faintly, and a thread of smoke rose from them, undulating each time one of them exhaled.

  "I don't want those Mettai in my sept. We're at war with their kind. You shouldn't have brought them here."

  "Those Mettai saved my life and Q'Daer's. And if we spread their new spell quickly enough, we can protect every Qirsi on the plain from the plague. Your sept will forever be remembered as the one that saved the Fal'Borna nation."

  At that, E'Menua looked up. Grinsa felt him test his magic. He did it lightly, as if hoping that Grinsa wouldn't notice. The Forelander grinned, to show E'Menua that he had.

  "You can't hold my magic forever," the man said.

  "No, I can't. But I can defeat you in a battle of power any time I wish. I think we both know that."

  "As I said before, you can't defeat all of my Weavers. We both know that as well."

  Grinsa nodded, conceding the point.

  "So we're at an impasse."

  "Perhaps not," Grinsa said.

  E'Menua regarded him with obvious curiosity. "What do you mean?"

  "The Fal'Borna are at war. I wouldn't leave your sept now even if you let me. It would be too dangerous for Cresenne and our child. And if your people come under attack, I'll stand with you."

  "Will you ride to war with us?"

  Grinsa hesitated. But then he nodded. "Your people didn't start this war. The Eandi are taking advantage of the damage done by Lici's plague. There's no honor in that, no justification that I can see. I'll fight with you to drive them off the plain. But if Fal'Borna warriors cross into Eandi land, they'll do so without me."

  "All right."

  "But that's as far as I'll go. Cresenne is my wife. You'll treat her as such, and you'll drop your insistence that I marry a Weaver."

  "How do I know you won't go back on your word?" E'Menua asked. "We had one arrangement, and I have nothing to show for it."

  "I disagree. Q'Daer is alive. Your people are safe. You have much to show for it. Besides, I could easily ask you the same question. I'm still holding on to your magic because I'm convinced that as soon as I let go, you'll attack me."

  "As I said: an impasse."

  They stared at each other for several seconds. E'Menua's face was in shadow, but his eyes seemed to glow with the dim light cast by the embers.

  At last, Grinsa relinquished his hold on the a'laq's magic, drawing a smile from the man.

  "Does this mean you trust me now?" E'Menua asked.

  "It's my way of saying that you can trust me. I have no desire to harm you or any of your people. And I know that you don't want to admit to any of your Weavers that you need their help to defeat me."

  The a'laq's mouth twitched slightly. But he nodded again. "Very well, Forelander. You'll fight with us as a Fal'Borna warrior. And I'll accept that the woman is your wife."

  "You'll acknowledge it in front of the others. Everyone in the sept is to know.

  "Yes, very well," the a'laq said shortly.

  Grinsa stood. "Thank you."

  He turned, intending to leave, and as soon as his back was to E'Menua, he felt the power building behind him. He'd expected something like this, and had been prepared for the a'laq to attack him with shaping power. E'Menua chose fire instead, and his touch was light. It seemed the man could be trusted. He wasn't trying to kill or maim. He just wanted to make a point.

  But if Grinsa, Cresenne, and Bryntelle were ever to leave this sept, Grinsa couldn't even allow the a'laq that much. Without turning to face him again, Grinsa took hold of E'Menua's magic once more and redirected it. He also amplified the power with his own, so that flames erupted from the fire pit, blazing brilliantly. He heard the a'laq cry out.

&nbs
p; Glancing back over his shoulder, Grinsa saw E'Menua sprawled on his back, staring up at him.

  Grinsa didn't say anything. He merely grinned. Then he left the z'kal, and went in search of his family.

  Chapter 6

  CENTRAL PLAIN, BETWEEN S'VRALNA AND N'KIEL'S SPAN

  He had become a creature of the night, a man who hid in shadows and walked with wraiths at his shoulder. Not long ago Torgan Plye had been a successful merchant, renowned throughout the Southlands for the quality of his wares and his refusal to back down when bargaining. He'd been wealthy, comfortable, and respected, if not liked.

  Now his gold was all but gone. His wares had been taken from him by the Fal'Borna. Every a'laq in the clan lands wanted him dead; every Qirsi warrior on the plain wanted to be the one to kill him. He himself had killed; he'd snapped Jasha's neck with his own hands, and he had exposed Q'Daer of the Fal'Borna and Grinsa, the Forelander, to the deadly plague that had taken the lives of so many white-hairs. Their deaths were on his head as well.

  Torgan should have been miserable. Until the night when he killed his fellow merchant and the Qirsi, he had considered himself a coward. The Torgan of old would have been paralyzed with fear, ashamed of his actions. He would have been waiting to die.

  It was enough to make this new Torgan, a man he barely recognized, laugh out loud. For too long he had allowed himself to be controlled by his fears and browbeaten by the white-hairs, of whose magic he was so afraid. Two turns ago-it seemed so much longer!-when he first realized that he had been responsible for spreading the plague to S'Plaed's sept, Torgan had been racked by guilt. His time as a prisoner of the Fal'Borna had changed him, made him bolder. He had never felt so alive, so free, so strong.

  It had been several days since he left Jasha's limp form lying on the plain-he'd lost track of the exact count. His nose still hurt from the blow he'd received from Sirj, the young Mettai, but the pain had dulled. He probably looked a mess, but that was a small price to pay for his freedom. He'd gotten away from the white-hairs and the Mettai early in the waning. Now the waning had progressed far enough that the moons did not rise until well after nightfall. Yet in just these few days, Torgan, who had never been much of a horseman before, and who had lost one eye to a coinmonger in his youth, had grown perfectly comfortable riding by starlight. It almost seemed that sleeping during the day and traveling at night had improved the vision in his remaining eye, allowing him to see in darkness, something that in the past would have bewildered him.

  On this night, by the time Panya, the white moon, appeared on the eastern horizon, Torgan had already covered nearly a full league. He had been navigating by the stars. Seeing the moon rise, a bright sickle carving through the darkness, he realized that he'd been angling slightly toward the south. He adjusted his course a bit and rode on.

  He'd been fortunate so far. He had avoided Fal'Borna septs and had managed to steer clear of any white-hair riders. The truth was, though, he didn't know what he'd do when he finally encountered the Qirsi. War was coming to the plain. He'd learned that much from Q'Daer before sickening the man with the small scrap of Mettai basket that he still carried. He wanted to make his way to the safety of Eandi land as quickly as possible, but a part of him also wanted to exact some revenge on the sorcerer race. The Fal'Borna had robbed him of his wealth, humiliated him time and again, and threatened so often to kill him that Torgan had come to doubt that he'd ever see his native Tordjanne again. He wanted vengeance beyond what he'd reaped by killing Q'Daer and Grinsa. He wanted to be part of the war, to be counted among the Eandi soldiers who would soon be fanning across the plain.

  So when he spotted the sept ahead and slightly to the north, he stopped, his eves fixed on the faint glow of spent cooking fires, and the small shelters illuminated by Panya's light. Then he turned and rode toward the settlement.

  It was late, and no one stirred in the sept. Still, he stopped well short of the first shelters and covered the remaining distance on foot. He'd named the horse the Qirsi had given him Trey, after a farrier he'd known as a boy. The beast, like all Fal'Borna horses, was well trained and obedient. He left it behind, confident that it would stay put and keep quiet.

  Torgan wasn't entirely certain what he intended to do once he reached the village, but he'd brought the scrap of Mettai basket with him. Now, as he walked, he pulled out his knife and cut away a small piece from that scrap, and tried to decide what to do with it.

  He had sickened Q'Daer by hiding the piece of basket in the Fal'Borna's sleeping roll. Clearly he wouldn't be able to get that close to any of the Fal'Borna living in this settlement. Instead, he scanned the sept for a place he could leave the cutting where it wouldn't be noticed but would infect as many as possible. As soon as he spotted the grinding stones, it came to him. The grain, of course. What better way to spread the plague than through their food supply?

  He stayed clear of the paddock at the west end of the sept, fearing that if he frightened the horses they'd wake the Fal'Borna. As it was, his mere presence in the settlement drew a few low whinnies from the beasts. Three wild dogs searching for food at the fringe of the sept growled at him. But though Torgan stopped in his tracks, his heart hammering as he watched for movement, no one awoke. After several moments, he went on toward the grinding stones and the large baskets of unground grain just beside them.

  He didn't place the basket cutting in the largest of the grain baskets, but rather in the one nearest to the grinding stones. He didn't leave it where it could be seen, but neither did he bury it too deeply in the grain. The women who worked the stones would find it soon enough, and by the time they did it would be too late.

  Satisfied that he had placed it as well as he could, Torgan began to retreat into the darkness. He slipped what was left of the basket scrap back into his pocket and sheathed his blade.

  The dogs growled at him again as he slipped past them.

  And that was when he heard the voices.

  "There it is again!" one of them said. A man's voice, youthful, but strong. "The dogs, you mean."

  "Yes. Over this way. Near the grain."

  "It's probably rabbits, or something of that sort."

  Torgan had to resist an urge to run, knowing that they'd hear him. He slowly backed farther into the shadows and lowered himself to the ground. He could see the men now. Both of them were broad and muscular, their white hair tied back in the way of Fal'Borna warriors. They reminded him of Q'Daer.

  As they approached, one of the men shouted something at the dogs and scared the animals off.

  "You see anything?" the other man asked.

  The first man peered into the darkness, his gaze passing right over Torgan. After a moment he shook his head. "No, nothing."

  "A rabbit or two won't eat much grain," the second man said. "We should get back to the horses in case those dogs come back."

  His companion nodded, but continued to stare in Torgan's direction. A lone cloud drifted in front of Panya, darkening the plain somewhat.

  "What is it?"

  "I thought I saw something. Did the a'laq say anything to you about one of the horses getting loose?"

  Torgan felt his mouth go dry, even as he thanked every god he could name for that stray cloud.

  "Not that I remember. You see a horse?"

  "I thought I did. I was probably imagining it, or looking at another dog." One of the horses whinnied again.

  "Come on. Let's get back to the paddock."

  Still the first man stared Torgan's way for another second or two. Then he gave up and followed his companion in the opposite direction.

  Torgan closed his eyes and took several long, deep breaths, enjoying the smell of the plain grass and the very fact that he was still alive. At last, when he was certain that the men were far enough away, he climbed to his feet. Keeping in a low crouch, he crept back to Trey. He led the beast away on foot, repeatedly glancing over his shoulder, half expecting at any moment to see a Fal'Borna war party bearing down on him.


  When he could no longer see the shelters or the dim glow of the fires, he remounted and rode on.

  He rested a few times, but still managed to cover another two leagues or so before the sky in front of him began to brighten with the approach of dawn. Then, as he had each of the last several nights, he began to search for a place to bed down for the day. There were few copses in the central plain, but the closer he came to the Silverwater, the more he found. On this morning he found a small, dense cluster of trees along a rill that fed into the stream he'd been following. He dismounted, walked Trey to the center of the copse, and pulled out his sleeping roll.

  Before lying down, he ate a small bit of dried meat and the last of his hard cheese. He'd left the company in a rush. Grinsa and Q'Daer were sickened but alive, and the two Mettai would have used their magic against him if he'd given them the chance. So Torgan had been forced to flee without much food in his travel sack. He'd managed to salt away a bit during their journeying, but he hadn't expected that he would wind up alone on the plain. Thus far he had rationed what little he had, and supplemented it with roots that he found along the way. At this point he would have paid handsomely for some meat, if only he had some gold and somewhere to spend it. But he wasn't starving, and he actually felt himself growing leaner.

  "All part of the new Torgan," he muttered to himself.

  Trey shook his head and snorted.

  Torgan lay down, wrapped himself in a blanket, and soon fell into a deep slumber. He awoke once to the sound of hoofbeats when the sun was high overhead. He heard no voices, though, and the footfalls sounded relatively light. He assumed that a herd of rilda had gone past. In moments he was asleep again.

  When next he woke, the sky had begun to darken and a cold wind had risen from the west. Was his mind playing tricks on him, or did he smell a hint of smoke riding that wind? Torgan threw off his blankets, hurried out of the copse, and scrambled up the bank of the rill back onto the plain. Looking westward, back the way he had come, he saw several small smudges of smoke rising from the ground. The sept? Had he actually managed to spread the Mettai woman's plague to that small settlement?