Weavers of War wotf-5

by DAVID B. COE

  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 once 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.

  “You need to ask, my lord?” Fotir answered.

  “The conspiracy.”

  “Yes, my lord. Many of us believe that this war-”

  “Yes, I know. You think the Qirsi have, through treachery and deception, led us to this conflict so that we’ll weaken ourselves.” Labruinn looked at Grinsa again. “I just wonder if keeping the Aneirans alive is intended to strengthen us, or weaken us.”

  “Why would I want to weaken us, my lord?”

  “He’s not questioning your motives, First Minister,” Grinsa said. “He’s questioning mine.”

  “I don’t know you, sir,” the duke said. “I have no reason to question the first minister’s loyalty, but in these times all strange Qirsi are suspect. And for many turns I’ve been hearing of odd behavior on the part of the archminister.”

  Gershon started to sa
y something, but a glance from Keziah silenced him.

  “I know this man,” Aindreas said, murder in his voice. “I know all three of them.”

  “This is Grinsa jal Arriet, Lord Labruinn,” Fotir said, with the merest of glances toward Aindreas. “And I assure you, he’s no stranger to me. If it wasn’t for Grinsa, Lord Tavis might still be a prisoner in Kentigern’s dungeon. He has as much reason to hate the conspiracy as any man in the Forelands. For that matter, so does the archminister, and I have every reason to believe that she serves our king loyally and always has.”

  “I’d like to believe you,” Caius said. “But I’m afraid even your word on the matter isn’t enough.”

  “Nor should it be,” Aindreas said. “The Qirsi can’t be trusted.”

  Grinsa met the duke’s glare, their eyes locking. “Last I heard, my lord, you were saying much the same thing about all men of Curgh and Glyndwr. Yet here you are fighting in the service of the king. Isn’t it possible that you’re as wrong about me as you were about them?”

  Aindreas pulled his sword free. “You white-hair bastard!”

  “That’s enough from both of you,” Gershon said, eyeing one of them and then the other. “It doesn’t matter now. The Aneirans have surrendered.” He faced his captain again. “Collect their weapons, see to their wounds, and prepare them for review by the king. I don’t want them mistreated, but neither will I tolerate any resistance on their part.” He cast a look at Keziah as he said this last, but she offered no response. As the king’s men began to herd the Solkarans into a tight cluster, Gershon regarded Caius and Lathrop. “Take your armies forward to the king,” he said. “I don’t know how his soldiers are faring, but I’m certain he’ll welcome your aid.”

  “There’s no need,” Fotir said. “The empire’s men have broken off their attack. At least for the moment.”

  They all turned to look northward. Indeed, it did seem that Braedon’s warriors were in retreat.

  “Then perhaps we should find His Majesty, and ask him how he wants us to proceed.”

  The others agreed and after leaving their captains with instructions to make camp and watch over the prisoners, Gershon, the dukes, and the three Qirsi rode to the front lines. They found Kearney with Javan of Curgh, Marston of Shanstead, and Rab Avkar, Heneagh’s swordmaster. The queen of Sanbira was there as well, with four of her nobles, including a dark-haired young woman who the night before had eyed Grinsa and the other Qirsi with manifest distrust.

  Reaching the king, Gershon dismounted and dropped to one knee, as did all the others, including Aindreas.

  Kearney, limping slightly, strode to his swordsmaster, ordered Gershon to rise, and gathered him in a fierce embrace. “Well met, Gershon! Well met!” he said. “All this time I’ve felt like I’ve been fighting with one hand.” He released the man and looked him up and down. “I take it you’re well.”

  Trasker was grinning. “I am, Your Majesty. Thank you. And you?”

  “Well enough.” He looked past Gershon to the dukes. “Lord Tremain, Lord Labruinn, I’m deeply grateful to both of you. I’ve no doubt that your counsel and your men were of tremendous value to the swordmaster. I believe it’s time the people of this realm stopped referring to the ‘minor houses.’ As far as I can tell, there’s no such thing.”

  Lathrop and Caius bowed.

  “Thank you, my liege,” Tremain said. “We did only what any man of the realm would have done for his king.” As soon as he spoke the words, Lathrop paled, casting a furtive look at Aindreas.

  “What do you think of that, Lord Kentigern?” Kearney asked.

  Aindreas glowered at the king, but after a moment he nodded, as if compelled to do so by some unseen hand. “I’m sure my lord duke is correct, my liege.”

  “Is that why you’re here?”

  Neither man had moved, though it seemed that both had weapons drawn.

  “I’m here to defend Eibithar, and to strike back at the men who attacked Kentigern.”

  “No other reason?”

  “None that I can think of, my liege.”

  “I see.” The king held Aindreas’s gaze for another moment, then turned to Keziah, as if dismissing the duke. “How did you end up with Gershon and the others, Archminister? I thought you were behind our lines. When you weren’t there, I…” His face colored briefly. “I grew concerned.”

  “Forgive me, Your Majesty. Grinsa suggested that the three of us ride back to stop the Aneirans’ advance. We didn’t know at the time that the swordmaster was pursuing them.”

  “What?” Javan asked. He had been watching Aindreas all this time, as a seaman might watch an approaching storm. But now he stared at Keziah, a slight frown on his lean face. “The three of you thought you could stand against a thousand Solkaran soldiers? Are you truly that powerful, or just that foolish?”

  “All three of us have mists and winds, my lord,” she said, giving no indication that his question discomfited her. “We were afraid that Aneira’s archers would attack the king’s army from behind. We merely wished to protect His Majesty.”

  “Every time I turn around you seem to grow more powerful,” Javan said, looking directly at Grinsa. “I find myself wondering if your magic knows any bounds at all.”

  Aindreas was staring at Grinsa as well. “I thought you were just a gleaner.”

  “Grinsa’s a bit more than he seems, my lord,” Fotir said. “But there can be no question of his loyalty to the realm.”

  “More than you seem, eh?” Aindreas asked, his eyes narrowing. “Is that how you got the boy out?”

  “What boy?” Javan demanded, though clearly he knew.

  “Yours, of course. This man put a hole in the wall of my castle that I could have walked through.”

  Grinsa opened his mouth to deny it, but before he could Fotir said, “No, Lord Kentigern, that was me.”

  “But you said that you couldn’t have done such a thing. Shurik told me much the same.”

  “Normally I couldn’t have. But that night called for extraordinary measures, and somehow Qirsar gave me the power to win Lord Tavis’s freedom.”

  In strictest terms it wasn’t a lie. Fotir had used his power on the wall, though without Grinsa weaving the minister’s magic with his own, augmenting and controlling it, he never would have succeeded. As for Grinsa’s presence there being an act of the god, the gleaner couldn’t say that he believed this, but neither could he say with complete certainty that it wasn’t so. In any case, Fotir’s confession appeared to satisfy the duke and lay the matter to rest. Or so he thought.

  “It seems that our Qirsi friends are full of surprises,” said Marston of Shanstead, whose distrust of all Qirsi had nearly led the king to banish Cresenne and Keziah from Audun’s Castle.

  Grinsa saw the dark-haired duchess nod slightly, her eyes fixed on Marston.

  “You wish to say something more, Lord Shanstead?” Kearney asked, his voice hardening.

  “Nothing I haven’t said to you before, my liege.”

  “Fine then. I’ve heard it once, I needn’t hear it again.”

  The thane lowered his eyes. “Yes, my liege.”

  The queen of Sanbira cleared her throat. “Perhaps, Your Majesty, we should continue this conversation later. Braedon’s men have retreated for now, but I daresay they could renew their assault at any moment.”

  Kearney nodded. “You’re right, of course, Your Highness.” He looked at Gershon. “I want the soldiers who’ve just arrived added to our lines as quickly as possible. Swordmaster, you’re to assume command of the King’s Guard-take the men who have been under your authority and combine them with those I took north from the City of Kings.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Lord Tremain, I’d like your men to join with the Curgh army. Lord Curgh, with Gershon’s men joining my own, the King’s Guard will take the center. I want you and Lathrop on the eastern flank.”

  “Of course, my liege.”

  “Lord Labruinn, I want your force
in the west, along with Thorald’s army and what’s left of the army from Heneagh.” He paused, looking at Aindreas. “Lord Kentigern, you and your men will go with Caius. For now you’ll be under his command.”

  “Very well.”

  “You and I have a good deal more to discuss. But I’m afraid that’ll have to wait.”

  Aindreas’s face reddened, but he merely nodded. “As you wish, my liege.”

  “Your Highness, I would ask you to keep your army where it’s been today, unless of course you have another idea.”

  “We are here at your request, Your Majesty,” Olesya said. “Use us as you will.”

  The king smiled and bowed. “My thanks. That’s all,” he said, looking at the others. “I hope the empire’s men will think twice before attacking again. They’ve seen how easily their Aneiran allies were defeated, and they know that we’ve added several thousand men to our defenses. Still, I agree with the queen that we must remain watchful. I want your armies positioned quickly. They’ve surprised us before and may well do so again.”

  Eibithar’s dukes and their ministers bowed to the king and began to move off, Grinsa following Fotir so that he might thank the first minister for helping him keep his secret a bit longer. Before he had gone far, however, Kearney called to him.

  “A word please, gleaner.”

  Keziah was beside the king, her face colorless, her lips pressed together in a taut line. Grinsa returned to where they stood.

  “Yes, Your Majesty?”

  Kearney hesitated. “Walk with me.”

  They started away from the armies, skirting the portion of the moors where the battle with the Solkarans had been fought, and where bodies were now being piled. Glancing back, Grinsa noticed that Marston and the dark-haired duchess were watching them. They were too far away for the gleaner to see their expressions, but he could guess.

  “The first minister didn’t make that hole in Aindreas’s castle, did he?” the king asked, drawing Grinsa’s gaze.

  “Not alone, no. He couldn’t have without my help.”

  “So he’s the other.”

  “Your Majesty?”