by DAVID B. COE
Grinsa’s face was as white as Panya’s glow, and sweat ran like tears down his cheeks.
“Please pardon the intrusion, Your Majesty,” the duke said, “but we’ve been wondering if it might not be time to alter our tactics.”
Kearney wore a pained expression, as if hope had long since abandoned him. “To what end, Javan?”
“We should take the fight to them. Have the gleaner raise a mist to conceal an assault on the Qirsi lines.”
“Any mist I raise the Weaver will defeat with a wind. I haven’t enough Qirsi to sustain both a mist and an opposing gale. It would be a slaughter.”
“It’s becoming that already,” the duke said.
Fotir thought the gleaner would argue, but he merely shrugged.
Kearney looked at Grinsa. “Can you keep the Weaver occupied for a time? Give us an opportunity to advance on him unseen?”
“Not without-” He faltered, his eyes widening slightly, though they never left the Weaver. “Actually there may be a way to give you that opportunity and perhaps win one for me, as well. Fotir, gather the Qirsi as quickly as you can. Bring them all to me. We haven’t much time before the Weaver attacks again.”
The minister glanced at his duke, who nodded immediately.
He sprinted off, running first to the west and then back to the east before returning to the gleaner. At one point he had to stop so that Grinsa could draw upon his power again and ward off another attack. Somehow, the gleaner was able to project more magic this time, and the Weaver’s assault had little effect. It seemed that whatever hope Grinsa had glimpsed had strengthened him, at least for the moment.
By the time he returned, there were a dozen Qirsi gathered around the king and gleaner.
Still, Grinsa frowned when he saw the minister had returned.
“Where’s Keziah?”
Fotir felt the blood drain from his face. “I don’t know. I didn’t see her.”
“What do you mean you didn’t see her?” Kearney demanded. “Where could she have gone?”
“It doesn’t matter right now!” the gleaner said, though there could be no mistaking the concern in his pale eyes. “I need all of you who have mists and winds to raise a mist together. Summon the mist from the center of the battle plain and when the Weaver raises a wind to counter it-”
“Wait,” Evetta said. “Aren’t you going to be weaving us?”
Somehow Grinsa managed a grin. “No, I’m not. The Weaver will think I am, and when he pits his magic against yours, I’ll strike at him.” He turned to the king. “Your warriors won’t have much time, Your Majesty. They must attack swiftly.”
“Should we use the horses?”
“I still think that would be a mistake. Especially in a mist. With the Qirsi on horseback, your warriors will have no doubt as to who the enemy is. And with your men on foot, the Weaver will have one less magic at his disposal.”
“Very well.”
“We should begin immediately.”
Kearney nodded. “We await the mist.”
Grinsa eyed his fellow Qirsi once more. “When the Weaver raises his wind, you’ll have to work together to fight against it. If this is to work, I can’t help you.”
“We’ll do our part,” Fotir said.
The gleaner smiled faintly. “I’m sure you will. Begin.”
Fotir faced the battle plain and began to draw upon his power of mists and winds. Without the gleaner in his mind, bolstering his magic, blending it with his own and that of the others, he felt weak and small. But among the Qirsi standing with him, several wielded this magic, and in just a short time a heavy fog had settled over the moor.
“Your Majesty?” Grinsa said.
Kearney drew his sword, as did Javan, Tavis, Hagan MarCullet and his son, and Gershon Trasker.
“Our lives are in your hands, gleaner,” the king said. “May the gods be kind to us all.”
“I’ll do all I can to protect you, Your Majesty. If by my death, I can insure your survival, and that of the others, then so be it.”
“I hope it doesn’t come to that.” Kearney faced his swordmaster. “Gershon, signal the attack.”
The swordmaster began barking commands, which were echoed along the Eandi lines in both directions. Within moments, soldiers were surging forward, their swords raised, war cries on their lips. It seemed that they had been waiting for this, impatient for the opportunity to fight back against this maddening, deadly foe.
The king and duke started forward as well, although not before Tavis turned to face the gleaner.
“When this is over,” Tavis said, “I want a new Fating.”
“What?”
The young lord was smiling, the scars he carried from Kentigern appearing to vanish for just a moment. Grinsa’s brow was furrowed as if he were frowning, but there was a smile on his lips as well.
“I’ve never had a real one, you know, and I think I’ve earned it.”
Grinsa laughed. “Fine. A Fating it is. Now go.”
Tavis gazed at the gleaner a moment longer, then turned and ran to join the rest.
Fotir and the other Qirsi continued to weave their mists and soon the Eandi warriors had vanished in the grey cloud they had created, though their shouts could still be heard.
“Why isn’t the Weaver doing anything?” Xivled jal Viste asked. “Why hasn’t he raised a wind yet?”
Grinsa was frowning, his eyes on the mist. “Where in Qirsar’s name is Kezi?” he muttered. Then, as if finally realizing that Xiv’s question had been directed at him, he shook his head, as if rousing himself. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“I was wondering why the Weaver hadn’t raised a wind yet.”
“A good question. I think he may be confused. He’s probably wondering if this is a feint of some sort, or an act of desperation.”
“Little does he know that it’s both.”
Grinsa smirked. “Indeed.”
“Can he sense that you’re not weaving us?” Fotir asked.
“Probably, but even so, his lines are about to be attacked by more than two thousand men. He has to do something. The question is, will he strike out blindly, or try first to defeat the mist.”
* * *
For the first time since leaving Braedon’s Imperial Palace in the Weaver’s company, Nitara felt herself growing truly afraid. The mist itself was nothing to fear. The Weaver would have little trouble sweeping it away with a wind; he had far more sorcerers at his disposal than did the Eandi.
But it soon became apparent to her that he was making no effort to do so. Did he want the mist to remain in place? If so, what was it he expected of the rest of them? And if not, why had he allowed it to remain? Was he engaged in some other struggle? Or worse, had he been hurt or killed? Nitara tried to tell herself that this was impossible, but the night before she had seen blood on his face and robe, and this very morning another Weaver-another Weaver! — had taken hold of her magic and made her tumble from her mount. She had tried to convince herself otherwise, but this was the only explanation for what had happened to her, and for what had been done to others in the Weaver’s ranks. Where once, not more than a day ago, a mist like this one would have been of no concern at all, it now chilled her to her heart, as if Bian himself had summoned the vapor from his dark realm.
She could hear soldiers approaching. Hundreds of soldiers, perhaps more.
Abruptly she found herself helpless. She was on horseback, and she carried a blade, but she was no fighter. And without the Weaver, she had no magic with which to defend herself. She could raise a wind to blow away the mist, but what if the Weaver didn’t want that? Her other magics-gleaning and language of beasts-were of little use to her. She’d heard it said long ago that her people weren’t meant to be warriors, that their magics were not those of a conquering race. Indeed, these were words ascribed to Carthach himself, the traitor whose treason ended the first Qirsi War nine centuries before. But until this moment, she had never understood what he meant.
She actually had started to consider retreat, when at last a wind rose, gathering speed swiftly and stirring the fog so that it began to dissipate. Still the mist surrounded them, and other winds blew, clearly intended to counter the one raised by the Weaver. In the next instant, though, the Weaver’s gale died away, just as abruptly as it had appeared. Nitara began to hear voices calling out along the Qirsi front, the words impossible to make out at first. But it seemed this was a message that traveled the lines.
“Summon your own winds!” she heard. “Defeat this mist!”
She repeated the words, shouting them as well, listened as the command traveled past her and was lost in the wind and fog.
Before she could reach for her magic, the Eandi soldiers reached her. Nitara kicked at her mount, driving the beast directly at the men, hacking at them with her sword. There was no grace in her attack, no method. She was impelled by fear, and the certainty that if she didn’t kill the men they would kill her. From all around her came the cries of warriors and the clash of steel. Winds rose and fell, stirring the mist into a frenzy so that it seemed wraiths were dancing all around the battle, but failing to clear the air.
She could hear the chime of shattering metal and the muted snapping of bone, and she knew that there were shapers nearby. She nearly gagged on the smell of charred flesh, saw dark grey smoke mingling with the sorcerous fog. There were other Qirsi nearby who were better suited than she to fighting these men. She lashed out with her blade, doing little damage to the enemy, but keeping them at bay at least for the moment. As she fought, she turned her mount once more and kicked the beast to a gallop, retreating from the combat.
“Where are you going?” a man’s voice called to her. She stared into the swirling mist, unable to see more than a vague form, mounted and crowned with white hair.
“My magic won’t avail me in battle,” she answered. “From further back I can summon a wind.”
She heard no reply, but thought she saw the rider nod before he vanished.
As soon as Nitara felt that she was safe from Eandi steel she halted and added her own wind to the muddled gale that raged over the battle plain. Still the mist lingered, giving an unearthly quality to the sounds of battle-the screams and moans, the clang of steel, and the dull pounding of horses’ hooves. She tried to shift the direction of the wind she had summoned, but amid the magic of so many Qirsi, nothing she did seemed to have much effect.
The thought came to her with the brutal swiftness of a blow, stealing her breath and making her totter in her saddle.
What had happened to the Weaver? She and her fellow Qirsi were fighting this mist and their soldiers on their own, without his magic to bolster their power, without his vision to direct their efforts.
Was he dead? Was he locked in a battle of his own?
A second blow, even more potent than the first. The second Weaver. Who else could hope to engage him in combat for any length of time?
Before she knew what she was doing, Nitara was riding along the Qirsi lines searching for the Weaver, straining to see through the mist, desperate to catch sight of his chiseled face and regal mane. Gods, let him be alive!
She wasn’t certain how she could help him-of what use could she be in a battle between Weavers? She knew only that she needed to be with him. Nothing else mattered. Without Dusaan, this war was lost. And even if Nitara and her fellow Qirsi managed to prevail without him, what would be left of their movement? Who would rule the Forelands if not her Weaver? He was their strength, their cunning. He was their future. So Nitara rode, standing in her stirrups, gazing intently into the maddening white mist, her eyes tearing with the effort. She sensed that he was close, and also that he was in danger. More, it seemed that no one else understood this. It all fell to her. She could save him and so save the movement. Or she could fail and bring all to ruin.
* * *
As soon as he sensed the wind rising, Grinsa attacked. Shaping, fire, language of beasts, delusion, shaping again, healing, fire, language of beasts. Each time Dusaan warded one magic, Grinsa reached for another. He was weary and fear had crept deep into his heart. But he refused to despair, and he fought the Weaver with all the fury he had held within himself over the past year. Was Dusaan stronger than he? Perhaps. Grinsa didn’t care anymore. He struck at the man as a battle-crazed warrior hammers at the shield of his foe. He abandoned all to cruelty and vengeance, hatred and bloodlust. Shaping, healing, delusion, fire, language of beasts. Pity was weakness. Mercy might prove fatal. For this one moment, this final battle, he knew only malice and savagery.
For good or ill, this was his last onslaught. He would spend all destroying this man and crushing his movement. For Cresenne and Bryntelle, for Keziah and Tavis, for this land and its people, so imperfect and yet so deserving of his protection despite their flawed humanity. He drew upon his love of all, of life itself, and through a dark and perverse alchemy transformed it into power more fell and terrifying than any he had wielded before.
Fire, healing, language of beasts, delusion, shaping.
Magic coursed through his body, hot and terrible, searing his limbs, his lungs, his veins. He was ablaze with it, incandescent, as if Morna’s sun burned within him. Never before had he wielded power such as this; he had never even tried.
And within mere moments he knew that it wouldn’t be enough. Not nearly.
No matter how quickly he shifted from one magic to the next, Dusaan responded, altering his defenses to match every assault. Grinsa gave the Weaver no chance to fight back and kept him from weaving the magic of the sorcerers in the Qirsi army, but other than that, his attacks had no effect. Still he fought on, looking for an opening, hoping that just once he would reach for a magic that Dusaan had left unguarded. He didn’t.
Not even a Weaver could maintain such an attack forever. Already Grinsa sensed that he was nearing the limits of his endurance, and he knew that when his strength failed him, Dusaan would be ready. A voice within his mind-was it Cresenne’s? — called for him to break off his offensive, to save some of his strength for whatever would come after this gambit failed. Yet, he didn’t dare. He had sent Kearney, Tavis, and the rest of the Eandi forward under the cover of mist to bring war to the Qirsi army. As soon as he stopped trying to take control of Dusaan’s power, there would be nothing to stop the Weaver from slaughtering them.
Instead, he continued to pound at Dusaan’s mind with his own. Fire, shaping, delusion, fire, language of beasts, shaping. He could feel himself growing weaker. For a time, Dusaan had struggled to hold him off, like a swordsman parrying the attacks of a crazed foe. Now the Weaver seemed to be toying with him, as the same swordsman might play with a child, turning away his assaults with ease and unnerving confidence.
Still, when Dusaan’s reprisal came, Grinsa was utterly unprepared. One moment he was attempting to seize the Weaver’s healing magic, and the next he was on his back, the bones in both of his legs splintered like dry wood. Awash in a sea of pain, he never had the chance to scream. Suddenly he couldn’t draw breath. It seemed that some great demon from the Underrealm was kneeling on his chest.
Cresenne! he thought, silent tears on his face. I’ve failed! Forgive me!
He heard laughter in his mind, and then a voice.
“No, gleaner. You’ll not have such an easy death. You’ll see it all before the end. My victory, the destruction of your Eandi friends, the broken body of your sister. All of it. You’ll know torment and despair and humiliation before the sweet release you seek.” Dusaan laughed again. And then, out of spite, or simply because he could, the Weaver smashed the bone in Grinsa’s shoulder, the same one broken by the merchant Grinsa battled on the Wethy Crown. “That’s for Tihod,” he said, before leaving the gleaner with his agony and his sorrow.
Yes, there had been harrowing moments.
Years from now when he looked back on this day, relishing once more his victory over the gleaner and the armies of the Eandi courts, he would admit that much to himself. Grinsa’s attack, while not unexpected, had been far more furious than he thought it would be. In its first few moments, Dusaan truly feared for his life. It didn’t take him long, however, to realize that the gleaner couldn’t hurt him. Perhaps if this had been Grinsa’s first attack it might have worked. But the gleaner was weary, his power diminished by all that had come before. The Weaver knew that he needed only to ward himself and wait. Eventually Grinsa’s strength would fail, and then the war would be Dusaan’s.
He would remember for the rest of his days how it felt to take hold of Grinsa’s power and turn it against the gleaner. No vengeance had ever tasted so sweet. It almost seemed that he could hear the bones shattering, that he could feel Grinsa’s hope wither and die. Was there risk in allowing the man to live? Of course, but not much. He was spent, broken, beaten. And he would die soon enough.
The Weaver could see nothing while the mist hung over the battle plain. It seemed that his warriors had managed to withstand the Eandi charge, but he couldn’t be certain of this so long as he battled the gleaner. After defeating Grinsa, however, Dusaan summoned a gale that swept away the fog, revealing a pitched battle between his Qirsi riders and the soldiers of Eibithar and Sanbira. The dead and wounded lay everywhere. Most were Eandi, their bodies broken or charred or bloodied by a sword stroke. But there were Qirsi dead as well, stark crimson stains on their pale skin and white hair.
As soon as the mist vanished, warriors on both sides faltered, as if uncertain as to what to do next.
Dusaan wasted no time. “Shapers!” he cried.
There would be no magic to oppose him this time, no pulse of power to match his own. He could destroy the Eandi at will. Grinsa was trying to take hold of his magic again. Dusaan sensed the attack coming and started to ward himself, but the gleaner’s attempt amounted to nothing. Grinsa had no strength left. His assault was so pitiful that Dusaan nearly laughed aloud. There was no one left to oppose him, at least no one who mattered.