Weavers of War wotf-5

by DAVID B. COE

  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 again, 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.

  The soldier came at him a second time, weapon raised, shield held ready. A simple attack-no feint. As if sparring with probationers in the Curgh wards, Tavis stepped around the assault, allowing the man’s blade to glance off his shield, and slashed at the man’s gut. As with the last Braedony soldier, this man’s mail coat saved his life, but only for the moment. The blow staggered him, and before he could recover Tavis thrust his sword through the soldier’s throat.

  Without hesitating, the young lord sprang toward Xaver’s other attacker. But seeing how his friend died, this soldier retreated.

  “Thanks,” Xaver said, sounding winded and slightly awed. “What are you doing here, I mean other than saving my life?”

  “I need Fotir.”

  There was a chiming sound, which Tavis recognized as the splintering of a blade, and then the harsh cry of a dying man.

&
nbsp; “Did I hear you say that you needed me, my lord?”

  “Yes. You’ve seen the Solkarans?”

  The first minister nodded, glancing southward. “The duke ordered his archers to the rear to hold them off.”

  “That might help, but Grinsa was hoping you and he might join that fight as well.”

  The man’s bright eyes widened, owllike and eager. “Are you certain?”

  “What can they do?” Xaver asked, brow creasing.

  “Right away, First Minister. There isn’t much time. He’s at the rear of the king’s line.”

  “Yes, my lord. The duke-”

  “I’ll explain it to him as best I can.”

  “I think you’d be better off telling him nothing, my lord. I’ll think of something later.”

  Tavis nodded and watched as the minister ran off toward where Grinsa and Keziah awaited him.

  “What’s going on, Tavis?”

  “It’s best you don’t know, Stinger.”

  “Why? Because I haven’t been through all that you have? Because I’ve just been in Curgh all this time, while you’ve been traveling the length and breadth of the Forelands?”

  He faced his friend, who, despite his cuts and bruises, looked terribly young. “Grinsa is a Weaver, Xaver,” he said wearily. What did it matter anymore? With that army approaching, all was lost. “Do you know what that means?”

  Xaver’s face paled, his green eyes widening much as had Fotir’s a few moments before. “A Weaver?”

  “Yes.”

  “The conspiracy…” He stopped, shaking his head.

  “Grinsa has saved my life more times than I care to count. He’s no traitor. In fact, I believe he’s the only person in the Forelands who can defeat the Weaver who leads the renegades.”

  “Then why not tell your father?”

  “Because he’s not ready to understand all of this. He’ll hear the word ‘Weaver’ and nothing else.” He looked southward again, marking the progress of Solkara’s army. “Until the nobles in this land see for themselves what this other Weaver can do, they won’t be willing to put their trust in Grinsa.”

  “Does Kearney know?”

  “Yes. As I understand it, he’d pretty much figured it out for himself. Grinsa had no choice but to admit it.”

  “A Weaver,” Xaver said again, as if the word were new to him. “I suppose I should be pleased. Having one on our side evens matters a bit, doesn’t it?”

  Tavis looked to the south again. “It might. He’s still our only chance of defeating the Weaver. I hope he doesn’t get himself killed.”

  “Should we go after him now?”

  Tavis shook his head. “Fotir and the archminister are with him. They won’t let anything happen to him.”

  “Wait a moment. How does Fotir know? Surely if your father-”

  “You remember how I escaped from Kentigern?”

  “The hole in the castle wall!” the liege man said, breathless, a look of wonder on his face. “Grinsa did that?”

  “Grinsa and Fotir did it together.”

  “Demons and fire!”

  “He risked a great deal saving me from Aindreas.”

  “How does the archminister know?”

  Tavis hesitated, then shook his head. “Some secrets aren’t mine to tell. I’m sorry.”

  Xaver dismissed the apology with a wave of his hand. The resentment he had expressed just a short time before seemed to have vanished. “Thanks for telling me as much as you did.”

  The young lord grimaced. “I suppose you feel that I’ve been keeping a lot from you.”

  “I understand,” his friend said, shrugging.

  “I’ve wanted to tell you more, Stinger. Really. But I couldn’t. I probably shouldn’t have even told you this, but you were bound to find out eventually, I expect sooner rather than later.”

  “I won’t tell anyone.”

  “I know. It’s never been a matter of my not trusting you. As I said before, they’re just not my secrets to tell.” He gazed southward once more. He couldn’t be certain, but it appeared that the Solkarans had halted their advance. “I never knew that so many people in this realm had so much to hide.”

  “What’s going on back there?” Xaver asked, shielding his eyes from the sun as he gazed toward the Aneirans.

  “I’m not sure. It looks like they’re fighting.”

  “You’re right, but against who? Surely not Grinsa and the others.”

  “No, there’s another army behind them.” They shared a look, the realization hitting both of them at once. “Come on!” Tavis said, breaking into a run. “We need to tell my father!”

  * * *

  It galled him to ride under Kearney’s banner and Gershon’s command. Aindreas knew that he deserved far worse, having defied the king at every opportunity, having betrayed the realm, though none of his companions knew this. Still, he led one of the realm’s leading houses. Surely he deserved to ride under his own colors, as did Tremain and Labruinn. But with all that he had done, with the prospect of admitting his treachery hanging over him like the black smoke of siege fires, he couldn’t bring himself to protest. Gershon, Lathrop, and Caius had saved his castle from Aneira’s siege before setting out after the Solkaran army, which had marched northward to join forces with Braedon’s warriors. And Aindreas, faced with the prospect of remaining behind with his wine and the ghost of his daughter, or riding to war with these men, had chosen the latter. He had sensed Gershon’s reluctance to let him join the king’s army, and truly, he could hardly blame the man. What choice did he have but to submit to the swordmaster’s authority? He ordered his men to march at the rear of the King’s Guard, and he rode beside Gershon and the other dukes, saying little, enduring their sidelong glances and strained courtesy as best he could. In the rush to leave Kentigern Tor, he hadn’t thought to bring any wine. A pity. Not a night went by when he wouldn’t have sold his dukedom for a cup of Sanbiri red.

  He had no cause to resent Gershon. The swordmaster had treated him civilly since their departure from Kentigern, though clearly it pained him to do so. Nor did he have any right to hate the king. Hadn’t Kearney’s decision to grant asylum to the Curgh boy been vindicated long ago? Hadn’t the man given Aindreas every opportunity to redeem himself and his house? Hadn’t he saved Kentigern from the Aneirans twice now, despite Aindreas’s continued defiance? Kearney’s grace, his willingness to forgive, left Aindreas humbled and ashamed, which might well have been why he did it. No doubt it was the source of the duke’s bitterness. For when he asked himself if he would have been so generous being in the king’s place, he was forced to admit that he would not.

  Despite his hostility toward the swordmaster, Aindreas could not help but admire the man’s qualities as a leader. He pushed the armies hard as they pursued the Aneirans northward, resting only when absolutely necessary, and marching well into the night. It was hard to say whether the enemy knew they were being followed-they set a punishing pace for themselves as well. Still Gershon and the dukes gained on them, slowly but steadily.

  As demanding as Gershon was of the men under his command, his orders never provoked a single complaint, at least none that the duke heard. Perhaps it was because Caius and Lathrop and Aindreas himself deferred to the man. Perhaps the soldiers understood that the very survival of the realm was at stake. Or perhaps it was just that Gershon looked so formidable on his mount, with his clean-shaven head, blunt features, and icy blue eyes. Whatever the reason, Aindreas had seen few swordmasters who were as revered by their men as Gershon Trasker was by his.

  By the end of the seventh day of their march, the Aneirans certainly knew that they were being followed. Gershon had brought his vast army within sight of the invaders, and though the enemy didn’t flag or turn to face the Eibitharians, neither could they increase the distance between the two forces. Like wild dogs snapping at the heels of a stag, the armies of the realm drove the enemy across the Moorlands. The Aneirans might reach the rest of the Eibitharian arm
y first, but they would barely have time to raise their swords before Gershon’s force struck at them.

  Eibithar’s army continued to close the distance throughout the following day. By the approach of dusk, as the sun was balanced huge and orange on the western horizon, they were close enough to the Aneirans for Aindreas to make out the red Solkaran panther on the army’s banner. With luck, they would catch the enemy the next day.

  “Still no sign of the empire’s army,” he heard Gershon say, as they continued to ride.

  For a moment he thought to answer himself, but Lathrop responded before he could say anything. They hadn’t gone out of their way to speak with him thus far. Why should they start now?

  “I’d been thinking the same thing,” Tremain said. “Perhaps it means that the king withstood the first assault.”

  “And more, I’d guess. If the empire’s army had overrun the king and his allies, they’d be farther south by now.”

  “I hope you’re right, swordmaster.”

  “In either case, we have no choice but to keep moving until we catch the Solkarans. We must be getting near to the king’s army and we can’t allow the enemy to reach them first. With the empire attacking from the north, they’ll cut through his lines like a sword through parchment. And if by some chance Braedon’s forces have already defeated him, we’d do well to defeat the Aneirans before they can join with a larger force. Tell your men that we march through the night. We’re not going to stop until we catch the enemy.”

  Lathrop nodded, as did the duke of Labruinn. A moment later, they both turned their mounts and headed back to speak with their men. Gershon glanced over his shoulder at Aindreas, as if expecting him to comply with the order as well.

  “Do you disagree, my lord?”

  “Not at all.”

  “You just don’t like the idea of taking commands from a man who’s common-born.”

  Aindreas opened his mouth, then closed it again.

  “I thought so,” Gershon said, a thin smile springing to his lips and vanishing as quickly.