Weavers of War wotf-5

by DAVID B. COE

  But Keziah found that she could be of no help at all, even in a war of magic, a war between Weavers. Grinsa did draw upon her magic once, when he used language of beasts against Dusaan’s horse, but little came of that effort, and almost immediately both Weavers turned back to the more menacing powers: shaping and fire. Ironically, had she truly been a part of the Weaver’s army, she would have been called upon to raise a wind, but as of yet, Grinsa hadn’t tried to raise an opposing gale.

  She could only watch and wait, and hope that eventually, before all was lost, she would have her opportunity to strike at the enemy.

  As Dusaan’s warriors drew nearer to the Eandi lines, Keziah began to push her way forward, past astonished Eandi soldiers. She wasn’t fool enough to fancy herself a skilled swordswoman, but possessing language of beasts, she thought that she ought to be where her magic would do Kearney’s army the most good. She might not be able to strike a killing blow either with steel or Qirsi power, but she could make a horse rear at an opportune time, or coax a falcon out of the sky as she had done when Fotir saved her. No matter what she managed to do, it would be better than standing behind Kearney’s men wondering how she might make herself useful.

  Before she reached the front lines, however, she spied something that made her stop. It was a Qirsi woman riding in a wide arc around the eastern flank of the Eandi lines. Had there been more than this lone rider Keziah would have raised the alarm immediately. But it was just the one woman, and something in her manner gave the archminister pause. Keziah was watching her from some distance, but the rider appeared to be scanning the Eandi armies, as if searching for something, or someone. She was beautiful and so young in appearance, with golden eyes so much like those of the Weaver, that Keziah wondered for just a moment if she might be Dusaan’s daughter. She knew it was impossible, but she was equally sure that the woman was powerful in her own right, no matter the nature of her ties to the Weaver. She moved confidently, as if she had complete faith in her abilities and her magic.

  “Probably a shaper,” Keziah muttered to herself, marking the woman’s progress. Her hands throbbed at the mere suggestion. For as she stood watching the rider, Keziah sensed that the woman was searching for her. The Weaver had vowed to punish her and somehow she knew that he had chosen this woman to mete out whatever retribution he had chosen.

  Her first thought was to flee. Perhaps she had time to find her horse and ride away from the plain. Abeni had hurt her so badly; she would rather die instantly by a warrior’s blade than face such agony again. As quickly as the notion came to her, however, she dismissed it. If the Weaver wanted her dead, he would find a way to kill her. Better to face her doom now. Besides, she sensed that this woman would cut a swath through the ranks of Kearney’s men to reach her if forced to do so. If Keziah was to die this day, she didn’t want to face Bian the Deceiver with any more deaths on her head.

  She made her way back through the soldiers to the rear of the lines and then walked a short distance from the battle plain, all the while watching the rider. The woman continued to scan the Eandi lines until at last her eyes fell on Keziah. As soon as the rider spotted the archminister, she kicked her mount to a gallop and rode directly toward her, white hair dancing in the wind.

  The archminister kept her eyes locked on her attacker, readying herself to use language of beasts on the woman’s mount. It seemed, though, that the Weaver had warned this woman against her. Long before she was close enough for Keziah’s magic to have much effect on the creature, the woman halted and dismounted, continuing her approach on foot. Two soldiers charged her, but both collapsed to the ground before they were within ten fourspans of her. Keziah thought she heard the muffled snapping of bone as they fell.

  This time fear got the better of her. Keziah turned, intending to run, but before she could take even a step, her leg gave way. She fell to the grass, pain clouding her vision. Her stomach heaved and she clenched her teeth to keep from being ill.

  “Not so fast, Archminister,” the woman called to her, killing another soldier without so much as a glance. “The Weaver wanted me to convey a message to you.”

  Keziah braced herself, knowing what was coming. Why does it always have to be shapers? she had time to wonder. Then torment. Not the hands this time, nor even a limb. She heard the cracking of bone, and felt as though a fire were burning within her body. She gasped, her agony only worsening. One rib. Then another. This time she couldn’t keep herself from vomiting, though that too brought new anguish.

  Several more Eandi soldiers converged on the woman, swords drawn, but before they reached her they were hammered to the ground, their bodies collapsing in grotesque positions as if they had been mauled by some terrible demon of the Underrealm. For just an instant the archminister thought that her attacker had done this herself, but when the woman looked back over her shoulder Keziah knew that it had been the Weaver, that he was watching them, waiting to see her die.

  “He wanted you to suffer,” the woman said, facing her once more, smiling faintly. “But I’m afraid there’s no time for that now.”

  At least it would be quick.

  “Hold, Jastanne!” came a voice from beside Keziah. “You’ll not be killing anyone today.”

  Keziah looked up and, to her amazement, saw Aindreas, the duke of Kentigern, towering over her, his sword held loosely in one hand, a shield in the other.

  Her first impulse was to warn him away, to tell him that the woman was a shaper and that no Eandi warrior, no matter his size, could contend with her. Then the full import of what he had said finally reached her. Jastanne. He had called the woman by her name.

  The Qirsi laughed.

  “Yes, Archminister. He knows me. You find that odd, don’t you?”

  A few others had gathered around them, though most on the battle plain remained oblivious of this second, lesser conflict. The handful of men who had followed the duke were soldiers wearing the colors of Eibithar: Kearney’s men, who had treated Keziah with suspicion and contempt for so many turns, who had been told of Kentigern’s defiance of the Crown, who had come to this plain to do battle with the empire’s soldiers only to find themselves at war with a Weaver and his army. Most of them probably didn’t know what to make of the scene unfolding before them. Keziah wasn’t even certain that she did.

  “How do you know this woman?” she asked, through gritted teeth.

  The woman was smiling still. “Yes, my Lord Duke, can you explain that?”

  Aindreas tightened his hold on the sword, his knuckles whitening. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, his gaze flicking from Jastanne’s face to the faces of the soldiers. “This woman is a shaper,” he said loudly. “She’s more dangerous than any of you know. She can’t be allowed to live.”

  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, lo
oking 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 th
em,” 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.