The Dark-Eyes War bots-3

by DAVID B. COE

  "The captain wants us to keep this quiet for now," she said. "He hasn't spoken of it with Marshal Onjaef, and he's not certain that the marshal or his captains are ready to go so far."

  "All right," Mander said softly.

  "He'll have to decide soon," she told him. "We're close to S'Vralna and it won't be long before we reach D'Raqor. He'll make up his mind in the next day or two. I'm sure of it."

  Mander might have nodded; she wasn't certain.

  They walked the rest of the way in silence and before long had unrolled their blankets and were settling down to sleep. Fayonne felt exhausted, as she did after every march. She was too old to be out here on the plain with the Snows coming on. But on this night sleep didn't come easily. A north wind was rising, and the air smelled like snow. She lay awake for a long time trying to think of ways the curse might make the spell she was contemplating go wrong. But none of the possibilities she considered seemed too terrible, and this actually frightened her. The truth was, the curse never affected magic the way she and her people anticipated. It was almost always worse.

  She fell at last into a deep slumber, and though she knew that she dreamed of terrible, bloody battles, she could remember nothing specific when she woke to the first faint glimmerings of dawn.

  The Eandi soldiers had started to stir, and even at a distance Fayonne sensed both their excitement and their trepidation. She well understood what they must have been thinking. The armies had reached the Thraedes. Beyond it lay the Horn; to the south lay Sivralna. This war was about to begin in earnest.

  It was a chill morning, and that north wind had grown stronger. A light snow fell upon them, clinging to the grass and dampening Fayonne's hair. The eldest wasn't certain where Jenoe intended to lead them from here, but she didn't relish the idea of braving those swirling waters. She folded away her blankets and walked to the Eandi camp. She sensed that Mander was watching her, perhaps waiting for her to ask him to join her. She didn't.

  The marshal stood with his captains, surveying the river, his face still puffy with sleep, his expression grim. Seeing her approach, he nodded a greeting, but at first he didn't say anything.

  "If we go straight on, we leave ourselves open to an attack from the rear," the marshal from Waterstone said, seeming to continue a conversation that Fayonne hadn't heard.

  "I tend to agree," Jenoe said. "Deraqor is the prize, but we can't risk ignoring Sivralna. And I don't wish to cross the river if we'll just have to find a way back across eventually."

  Sivralna? Fayonne cast a quick look at Captain Ballidyne, but he had his eyes trained on the ground in front of him, his lips pursed. He had told her of Sivralna's destruction, which the merchant had described for him in detail, but apparently he had yet to share this information with the marshal.

  "So then we're to march on Sivralna?" asked Enly Tolm, his gaze flicking toward the marshal's daughter.

  "I think so," Jenoe told him. "I believe that's the safest course. Ready the men." He turned to Fayonne. "We could encounter the Fal'Borna at any time, Eldest. I want you and your people marching at the head of the army again. And I'd like you to give some thought to how we might take the city when we reach Sivralna."

  "S'Vralna is yours already," came a voice from behind Fayonne.

  All of them turned. The merchant was lumbering in their direction through the falling snow, his one good eye flitting from one face to the next.

  "You can cross the river north of here," he went on. "That will save us all a day on foot, maybe more."

  "What are you talking about, Torgan?" the marshal demanded. He regarded the man with manifest distaste. Then he cast a quick look at his daughter as if chastising her for allowing the merchant to come near him.

  "You didn't tell him?" the merchant asked Gries.

  The captain glared back at him, a warning in his dark eyes.

  Torgan turned to Enly and then Tirnya. "You didn't, either?"

  Jenoe seemed to be growing angrier by the moment. "Tell me what?"

  "S'Vralna is destroyed, Marshal," the merchant said. "I've been there. It was struck by the white-hair plague. The city lies in ruin and most of its people are dead. Taking it will be as simple as riding through the gates. You'd be wasting your time marching south from here."

  "You're certain of this?" Jenoe asked.

  "Yes. That's why I'm convinced that-"

  Torgan stopped, and Fayonne had seen why. Gries had caught his eye and given a slight shake of his head.

  "Convinced that what, Torgan?" Jenoe asked.

  "That the Relics Bridge is your best route across the river," the merchant said.

  Fayonne was certain that he'd intended to say something else; probably he was going to mention the cursed basket.

  Jenoe eyed him briefly, seemingly trying to decide whether the merchant was an annoyance or an asset. "Do I understand you correctly? You're saying that we should bypass Sivralna, that it's already defeated. And that this Relics Bridge offers us the quickest path to Deraqor."

  "That's right." Torgan looked around, appearing to mark their position in relation to the mountains that were barely visible on the northern horizon. "The nearest span would be White Bridge, which lies south of here, maybe two leagues. But Relics Bridge is the broader span, and it's to the north. Five leagues. No more. That'll be the easier crossing for an army this size."

  "And all of you knew about this?" Jenoe asked, looking at Tirnya, Enly, and Gries.

  For several moments none of them answered.

  "I asked a question," the marshal said, his voice hardening.

  "Torgan mentioned it to us," Enly said.

  Gries took a breath. "And to me."

  "I see." Jenoe turned back to the merchant. "Why would you choose to speak of this with my captains, but not with me?"

  Torgan looked at Enly and the marshal's daughter, but his gaze came to rest on Gries. Fairlea's lord heir stared back at him, but didn't say anything.

  "Answer me, Torgan! I want to know what's going on here."

  "I've been waiting for your decision, Marshal. I want to know if you're going to use the plague against the Fal'Borna. You've refused to speak with me, and you've seemed content to let me wonder what you'll eventually decide to do. So I went to the captains, hoping they'd help me convince you."

  "And you thought that telling them this tale about Sivralna would do that.

  Torgan's face reddened. "It's no tale! It's the truth! If you want to waste two or three days marching down there, go ahead! You'll find exactly what I've told you! They were destroyed by the plague! Twice, actually. The survivors returned to their city, and when they found some of these baskets, half burned and buried in the rubble, they got sick. For all I know there's nothing left of the walls or gates or buildings. It might just be a pile of rock now."

  Fayonne thought that Jenoe might argue further, but he seemed to hear the truth in Torgan's words. Just as she did.

  "Why would you keep this from me?" the marshal asked Tirnya. "Don't you think I should have been told?"

  "I'm sorry, Father. I thought that if you simply heard this-if you thought that we could take the city without losing a man-you'd use the plague as a weapon to take back Deraqor. But I hoped that if you actually saw Sivralna lying in ruins it would show you how dangerous this plague could be."

  "This was your thinking as well?" he asked Enly.

  Qalsyn's lord heir nodded.

  Jenoe turned to Gries. "And yours?"

  Gries didn't hesitate for long, but it seemed to be enough for Tirnya to discern the truth.

  "You wanted him to use it," she said.

  "Of course he did," Torgan broke in before the Fairlea captain could answer.

  "Torgan-" Gries began.

  But the merchant cut him off. "They're being fools! We both know it!" He faced Jenoe again. "The Mettai can help us with this. They have a way of spreading the plague over the entire city. I could only reach a few white-hairs with this basket. But with their magic, they can
reach every one of them."

  "You knew of this, too?" Jenoe asked, fixing Fayonne with a hard glare.

  The eldest straightened. "Captain Ballidyne asked for my help," she said. "All I did was tell him what our magic was capable of doing."

  Jenoe shook his head. "So let me see if I understand this. My daughter, and the lord heir of Qalsyn, both of them captains in my army, knew that Sivralna had been destroyed and failed to tell me, in the hope that my shock at seeing the damage would keep me from using a weapon I hadn't even decided to use. And the lord heir of Fairlea, also a captain under my command, has conspired with this merchant and the eldest to use that weapon without my consent. Is that about right?"

  "No, Marshal," Gries said. "I didn't conspire to do anything. I spoke with them both. I tried to determine if we could in fact spread this plague to the Fal'Borna. But I never would have done anything without your approval. You have my word on that."

  "I'm not sure what your word is worth right now, Captain," Jenoe told him. "But I'll consider what you've said."

  The Fairlea captain's cheeks colored, but he nodded.

  Jenoe turned to Fayonne. "You and I will speak later, Eldest," he said, with more courtesy than he'd shown to the captain.

  "You're not going to use it, are you?" Torgan said.

  They all looked at him, the captains wearing angry expressions, the marshal looking proud to the point of haughtiness.

  "This was never your decision to make, Torgan," Jenoe said.

  "Without the plague, you'll lose this war," Torgan said. "They'll shatter your army and run you down as you retreat. Without me, you're doomed."

  "I want you gone," Jenoe told him. "I want you to get on your horse and ride away from here, and I never want to see your face again."

  The merchant regarded them all with disgust. "This is why we lost the Blood Wars. We're weak. We're not willing to do what's necessary to win, and so we lose, again and again. You'll be no different." He shook his head and gave a harsh laugh. "Very well, Marshal. I'll leave. Good riddance to you all."

  He turned on his heel and started to walk away. But before he'd gone far, he stopped again, staring eastward.

  An instant later, Fayonne heard it, too: voices shouting at the edge of the camp. The sound was growing by the minute, and there was a note of panic in every voice she heard. Men were running toward them, shouting for the marshal.

  The first to reach them was a young man with black hair and dark eyes. He was out of breath, and his face, damp with melted snow, looked pale except for red spots high on each cheek.

  "What's happened, Crow?" the marshal's daughter asked.

  "There's a white-hair army," he said, looking back and forth between the woman and her father. "It's headed this way. They're on horseback an' they're close."

  "How many?" Jenoe asked.

  "Hundr'ds," the man said. "Maybe a thousand."

  The marshal looked as if he'd been kicked in the stomach. "Damn," he whispered. "And we're backed up against this river." He looked at the captains. "Muster your men," he said, his voice suddenly crisp. "There's nothing to do but fight." He turned to Fayonne. "Eldest, we'll need every bit of magic you can give us."

  She nodded. "You'll have it, Marshal." And she ran to find Mander.

  Chapter 20

  In mere moments, all was tumult in the army camp. Soldiers ran in every direction, gathering their weapons and mustering into their units. The two marshals and their captains shouted for the archers and tried to arrange the men into some semblance of a formation.

  Tirnya's men had been among the first to come together, thanks in large part to the efforts of Oliban and her other lead riders. Tirnya herself had remained close to her father, dispatching soldiers to relay his orders to commanders throughout the army. But the Qirsi were almost upon them, and she needed to take her men to the right flank of the army, where Jenoe had already positioned Stri and Enly.

  "You should go, Tirnya," her father said.

  "Yes, all right." Her heart hammered in her chest, and she was sweating, despite the cold. Their other battles against the Fal'Borna had gone relatively well, but if there really were a thousand sorcerers in this army…

  "Tirnya!"

  "I'm sorry, Father. About before, I mean."

  For just an instant, his expression softened. "We'll talk about this after the battle is over. I promise. Now go."

  She nodded, gazing at him for one more moment. Then she turned and ran to where her soldiers awaited her.

  Most of her soldiers, even those not trained as archers, had sheathed their blades and taken up bows. Tirnya's father, along with Hendrid Crish and the captains and lead riders left their horses tethered where they were, knowing that the animals would be susceptible to the Fal'Borna's language of beasts magic. They had been on foot for the other battles as well, but Tirnya hadn't yet grown used to this. She preferred to be on her horse, where she had a view of the entire battlefield.

  She moved to the front of her company, near where Enly and Stri stood with their men, and not that far from her father, who had positioned himself at the center. The eldest and her people were with him, as was Hendrid. The grass had grown slick with the snowfall. If it came to close fighting, the footing would be treacherous.

  Tirnya could now see the Qirsi clearly. They were on horseback, their white hair damp and limp, giving them a ghoulish look. Tirnya couldn't help thinking that Crow had understated the size of their force. There had to be more than a thousand of them, and she assumed that they had enough Weavers to destroy her father's army.

  They weren't yet within range of the bowmen, but it seemed that they had halted. With a sudden rush of fear Tirnya realized that they had no intention of coming closer.

  "Their magic can reach us from there," she said. And then, before Oliban could ask her what she'd said, she shouted the same thing to her father.

  Jenoe nodded and said something to the eldest. Immediately all of the Mettai pulled their knives free and bent as one to grab handfuls of dirt. An instant later, Tirnya heard them mumbling their spells and then the creatures began to appear. Eagles first, then wolves, then more eagles. After a time, something new: giant serpents that flew from the hands of the Mettai as the eagles and wolves did, but landed low on the ground and slithered away with unnatural speed. The Mettai kept grabbing more dirt and drawing more blood, and the creatures continued to materialize until there was an army of them. This time, at least for now, the creatures seemed intent on the white-hairs.

  The eagles soared toward the Qirsi army, keeping pace with the wolves that loped below them. Before any of the animals could reach the Fal'Borna lines, however, they began to fall. It was as strange and terrifying a sight as Tirnya had ever seen. The eagles seemed to be swatted out of the sky like overgrown flies smote by some great, unseen hand. One moment the wolves were running with effortless grace, and the next they collapsed in heaps, as if those same hands had crushed them. Tirnya could hear the yelps of the animals, the piercing shrieks of the birds. They were creatures of magic-moments before they hadn't even existed-and yet, watching them die, she felt hot tears on her cheeks.

  And still the Mettai conjured more of them.

  The serpents proved more difficult for the white-hairs to kill, perhaps because they remained so low to the ground and thus were harder to see. Whatever the reason, several of them reached the Qirsi lines, lashing out with curved fangs at the legs of the Fal'Borna's mounts. The horses went down, taking their riders with them. And instantly the serpents struck at the white-hairs.

  Screams of men and horses filled the air, mingling with the cries of the eagles and wolves to create a horrible din. Fayonne shouted something to her people and suddenly all of them were conjuring the giant snakes.

  Tirnya knew little about Mettai magic, but Fayonne and her people had been conjuring for several minutes now without rest, and she doubted that they could keep this up for much longer.

  Looking at the white-hairs again, she saw t
hat the grasses in front of the Qirsi had begun to blacken. A pale yellow fire rushed toward the Stelpana army, fanning out as it went, melting away the snow and then searing the grass. Tirnya could see serpents writhing in the flames, but she could also see that the fire wasn't intended just for the snakes. Fayonne appeared to understand this as well. She called to the other Mettai, who stooped once more for handfuls of earth. The fire swept swiftly across the plain, killing snakes and wolves, and filling the air with a dark, choking smoke. The Mettai barely had time to speak their spells and throw the mixture of dirt and mud. Torrents of water flew from their hands, dousing most of the flames and sending a great cloud of steam into the morning air.

  Where their conjured water failed to stop the white-hairs' magic, Eandi soldiers were enveloped in flame, including several men in Enly's company and Stri's. Many of them screamed, thrashing wildly, desperate to extinguish the fires on their clothing and hair. Others succumbed to the flames before they could do anything at all.

  Several eagles still circled over the Qirsi riders, but in mere moments they had been destroyed by the white-hairs' shaping power. For all the conjuring that the Mettai had done, they had precious little to show for it. The blood wolves, eagles, and serpents were dead, only a handful of Qirsi warriors had been unhorsed and killed, and a greater number of Eandi had died. The Mettai could begin their conjuring again, but even from a distance Tirnya could see how exhausted the eldest looked. She could only imagine how much the Mettai's hands ached.

  Yet they began to conjure again anyway. Serpents, wolves, eagles. They created more of the beasts and sent them forth. And in doing so, they saved their lives and those of countless Eandi, including Tirnya's father.

  The wolves and snakes were halfway to the Qirsi lines when the pulse of magic hit them. The way their bodies crumpled, there could be no doubt that it had come from the Fal'Borna shapers. It seemed clear as well that it was aimed not at the animals but at the Stelpana army. The eldest shouted something to her people, and at the same time dropped to her knees. She grabbed for dirt, rubbed it on the back of her bloodied hand, and, mumbling once more, flung it in front of her. The other Mettai did the same.