by DAVID B. COE
“We fight as well for our duke, who is to be king.”
Again, they shouted their agreement.
“But most of all,” he said, facing Shonah, and drawing his sword. “We fight for our queen.” He raised the flat edge of his blade to his forehead and bowed to her.
This time the Curgh army gave a full-throated cry that reverberated across the plain like thunder.
Kentigern’s army shouted as well, as if answering Curgh’s challenge, and an instant later, a single arrow arced into the sky from the center of Aindreas’s army. The last echoes of both armies’ war cries faded away and it seemed to Hagan that all eyes were on that barb as it paused high above the open ground before beginning its swift descent to the earth. And when it struck, burying itself in the ground between the two camps, both armies surged forward, the roar of hoarse voices and the ring of drawn steel shattering the brief silence.
Chapter Twenty-eight
It was what she imagined it would be like to be caught in a whirlwind. Amid the fearsome din of screaming men and clashing steel, the dizzying tumult of flailing limbs and slashing weapons, Shonah could barely remember where she was and which men were hers. There was something terrifyingly arbitrary about the violence that surrounded her. This wasn’t war, at least not as she had thought it would be. This was a maelstrom of blood and pain and death. There was no control here, no tactics were at work. Men were maiming and killing each other, bleeding until the grasses of the plain were darkened and slick. Call it frenzy. Call it madness. But to make more of it than that would have been a lie.
The duchess held her sword in her hand and there was blood on the blade. Riding beside Hagan as the battle began, she had fought alongside the men of Curgh just as Javan might have, hacking at the foot soldiers of Kentigern who grabbed at her and tried to pull her from her mount. She was so close to Aindreas that she could see the spittle flying from his mouth as he shouted commands to his men. Atop his enormous horse, the duke fought like one of Bian’s demons, whirling his horse from side to side with astonishing agility and leveling blow after bloody blow at Javan’s men.
Shonah had told Hagan the night before that she hoped her presence on the battlefield would force Aindreas into a mistake. Instead, it appeared to embolden Kentigern and his men. They surged in her direction, as if they believed her death alone would bring them victory. After only a few minutes—though it seemed far longer than that—Hagan’s defense began to sag under the weight of their assault and the swordmaster screamed for her to go.
She tried to turn away, to ride back toward the rear of their lines, still swinging her sword at the men who reached for her. But she saw no path of retreat. Arrows hissed by her head and still more men pressed toward her.
I’m going to die here, she thought, fear seizing her heart like a taloned hand.
But in that instant a voice cut through the bedlam, so calm that it startled her.
“This way, my lady.”
She turned and saw Danior at her side, a reassuring smile on his pale lips. He gestured toward a small gap in the fighting, and as he did, the duchess suddenly found herself surrounded by a rising mist, as cool as rain, and as impenetrable as mail. She could still see the minister, but little else. Even the cries and the clatter of weapons were muffled by the Qirsi’s cloud.
“Follow me,” he said. “And stay close.”
The duchess hesitated, straining to see Hagan through the swirling mist. She didn’t want to leave him, though she knew that she was of no help in this fight, that indeed she was endangering everything.
“My lady, please.”
“Yes, I know.”
Still she lingered. In her mind’s eye, Shonah could see the swordmaster fighting, his sword dancing, wraithlike, a blur of glittering steel and bright blood. He hadn’t Aindreas’s bulk and brawn, but he was quicker than the duke, and, she believed, smarter as well. Long ago, Javan had told her that when it came to battle, he would always trade strength for speed and wits.
“Duchess, we must go!”
This time she kicked at her horse’s sides, following the Qirsi back toward safety. There was a tangle of men in their path, all of them locked in combat, and the minister wound his way through them as quickly as possible, like a man trying not to be noticed. Seeing Shonah ride past, a few of Aindreas’s soldiers tried to extract themselves from their battles to strike at her, but the men of Curgh wouldn’t allow it. When one man did manage to take hold of her leg and try to pull her from her mount, Shonah hacked at him with her sword. He howled in pain and she sped forward, out of his reach.
Once she and the minister were finally beyond the last of Curgh’s men, Danior’s mist began to dissolve and fade, allowing the duchess to see the battle once more. The war cries still reached her, as did the howls of the wounded and dying. But she could see little of the fighting and so had no sense of how the battle was going.
“Are we winning?” she asked the minister, not taking her eyes from the knot of men before her.
“I don’t know, my lady. Kentigern appeared to be pushing back our center, but I believe our flanks are holding.”
It was more than she could tell. She should have been up there still. This was her army. She had said so again and again since leaving Curgh, to Aindreas as well as Hagan. Yet here she was hiding at the rear of the army, waiting for a victory or a defeat in which she would have no part. She would have given anything in that moment to have Javan beside her.
He’d be beside Hagan, as you should be.
“I should go back.”
“You’ll be killed, my lady. And dozens of men will die trying to protect you.”
She bit off a curse that would have shocked her husband, galled by the truth she heard in the minister’s words.
“My apologies, my lady,” he said quietly.
Shonah shook her head, closing her eyes briefly. “You have no reason to apologize, Danior. You’re merely telling me what I know to be true.” She glanced at him, making herself smile. “You saved my life, and you have my thanks.”
“The duke would have expected no less of me, my lady. He expects—” The Qirsi stopped, his eyes widening and his narrow face turning even whiter than usual. “Demons and fire,” he whispered.
Turning in her saddle to see what had come, Shonah felt her stomach heave. A long column of soldiers was approaching the battle plain from the east, following the course of the river. They bore a banner of black, silver, red, and white. The wolf and the moons. Glyndwr.
Javan had never had any quarrel with Kearney, but neither had they ever been friends. Kearney’s father, on the other hand, had been closely allied with the House of Kentigern.
“It’ll be a slaughter,” Shonah said. “Hagan hasn’t a chance.”
“Shall I raise—?”
She didn’t wait for the Qirsi to finish his question. Spurring her mount to a full run, the duchess rode toward the Glyndwr army, her sword raised, her golden hair falling free so that it trailed behind her. She might not have been a warrior, but she knew how to ride, and she knew that she could get to Kearney long before he joined the battle. She had no idea what she’d say or do once she reached the duke, but that seemed far less important than just getting to him. She could hear Danior calling to her, trying to convince her to turn back, but she didn’t even look at him.
It was only when she drew near the Glyndwr army that she realized there was more to Kearney’s appearance than she had ever imagined possible. He had two Qirsi with him rather than one, and another man who looked oddly familiar.
She reined her mount to an abrupt halt, her hands suddenly trembling so fiercely that she dropped her sword. It was Tavis. Kearney had Tavis.
The duke rode toward her, as did the two Qirsi, her son, and one more man who she guessed was Kearney’s swordmaster.
Tavis reached her first, dropping himself off his mount almost before the creature had halted. Shonah dismounted as well and ran to him, wrapping her arms around him and burying
her face against his shoulder, her body racked by sobs. At length, she pulled back, looking at him through her tears. He had scars all over his face, as though he had already been through a battle. He flinched slightly as she looked at him, his dark eyes flicking away, his own tears dampening his cheeks. She couldn’t begin to imagine how he had suffered. Just the thought made her chest ache.
“Are you … are you well?” she asked, forcing him to meet her gaze.
“As well as I’m likely to be.”
She opened her mouth, shut it again, unsure of how to ask what she wanted to know most. But it seemed words weren’t necessary.
“I didn’t kill her, Mother. I give you my word as a Curgh.”
She embraced him again. “I believe you.” She truly did, though only now, feeling relief warm her heart like sunlight, did she realize how deeply she had doubted him.
“Why are you here?” she asked a moment later, releasing him once more. “Why are you with Glyndwr?”
Tavis shook his head. “I couldn’t possibly explain all of it right now. It’s enough to say that the duke has granted me asylum.”
“Asylum?” She looked up at Kearney, who had stopped his mount a few strides from where they stood. “You give him asylum and then you bring him here?”
“Mother—”
She held up a hand, silencing the boy. “What is this, Kearney? Are you playing games with my son’s life?”
“Hardly, my lady,” the duke said. He was a handsome man, his youthful face belying the silver of his hair, even now with his expression so grave. “Lord Tavis is here at his own insistence and that of his companion.”
“His companion?”
“That would be me, my lady,” one of the Qirsi said.
She had barely taken note of him before, but now, eyeing him closely, she saw that he was unlike any other man or woman of the sorcerer race she had ever seen. He sat tall on his mount, with broad, powerful shoulders that gave him the look of a soldier rather than a minister. Like all the others of his kind he had yellow eyes and pale skin, but rather than giving him an appearance of ill health as these features so often did, they made him look formidable, almost frightening. He wore his hair long and loose, and it danced around his face now in the freshening wind.
“And who are you?” Shonah asked.
“My name is Grinsa jal Arriet. I’m a gleaner with the Revel.”
“And how have you come—?” She stopped, staring at him. “A gleaner? Are you the one who attended his Fating?”
“Yes, my lady.”
His eyes had wandered beyond her, and for a moment the duchess thought he was avoiding her gaze.
“What role have you played in all that’s happened to my son?”
“I’d be happy to answer that, my lady. Later. But right now, men are dying before my very eyes. I think it’s time we stopped this war.”
Reminded of the fighting, Shonah turned to face the battlefield. She wasn’t thinking clearly. Tavis, the war, Javan. It was all too much for her. Of course they had to do something. It shouldn’t have taken this strange Qirsi to remind her of that.
The men of Kentigern and Curgh showed no sign of having seen the Glyndwr army. They were far too intent on slaughtering each other.
Shonah retrieved her sword and climbed back onto her horse. Tavis remounted as well.
Kearney steered his horse next to hers and stared toward the battle. “How do we stop them?”
“Your army?” she suggested.
“No,” the Qirsi said. “That will only add to the carnage.”
Shonah regarded the man through narrowed eyes. There was something about him that commanded her consideration. She couldn’t help thinking that he was more than he claimed to be. Certainly he didn’t speak with the voice of a mere Revel gleaner.
“Then what?” Kearney demanded.
“A wind.” This time it was the other Qirsi who spoke. She was as attractive as Grinsa was impressive. She wore her hair tied back in twin braids and she wore mail and a sword that looked slightly foolish on one as slight and delicate as she. Then again, she was no smaller in stature than Shonah herself. Is this how I appear to the men? the duchess asked herself.
“My first minister,” Kearney said, glancing quickly at Shonah. “Explain yourself, Keziah. What would we do with a wind?”
“Draw their attention, at least for a moment. That may be all we need.”
Glyndwr nodded. “Do it.”
The woman glanced for just an instant at the gleaner, before closing her eyes and taking a long breath. At first there was nothing, indeed an unnatural stillness fell over the plain, so that it seemed to Shonah that the only sounds in the world were the clashing of blades and the cries of dying men. In the next moment, however, the air around her began to stir, as if Morna herself had waved her hand over the three armies. It built quickly, until it was a gale racing over the grasses. Shonah’s hair whipped around her face, and she felt her horse pushing back against the wind just to stand upright.
Within a few seconds it had reached the two armies, hammering at them so forcefully that they couldn’t help but pause in their fighting to look in the direction from which the tempest had come. Seeing the banner of Glyndwr, many of Kentigern’s men let out a cheer. But Aindreas and Hagan sat unmoving on their mounts, glaring at one another, as if each was trying to gauge what the other intended to do next.
“It worked, Keziah,” Kearney said, hollering to be heard over the roar of her gale. “You can stop.”
Almost immediately the wind began to slacken. The woman opened her eyes, glancing once more toward the gleaner and favoring him with a small smile.
Aindreas shouted an order to his men, and though Shonah couldn’t hear what he said, his tone was such that she half expected the armies to resume their fighting. Instead, men on both sides lowered their swords.
Kentigern started toward them, to be joined a moment later by his first minister. Hagan followed close behind. All of them had sheathed their swords, but when the duke spotted Tavis, he drew his again and kicked at his horse’s flanks.
Glyndwr rode forward to meet him, drawing his blade as well.
“Yield, Kearney!” Aindreas said as he approached. “I’ve no quarrel with you. It’s the boy I want.”
“Stop where you are, Aindreas. Lord Tavis is under my protection now.”
Kentigern halted abruptly, his face contorting with rage and disbelief. “What?”
“I’ve given him asylum. Until all this is resolved, any harm you do to him will bring vengeance from the House of Glyndwr.”
Aindreas stared at him, his face reddening. Finally, he lifted his sword and raised himself in his saddle. “So be it.”
“Gershon!” Kearney said sharply.
Suddenly there were six archers standing beside the duke of Glyndwr, all of them with arrows nocked and their bows drawn back. Kearney’s swordmaster had done little more than move his hand.
“The House of Kentigern has lost too much already, Aindreas. Don’t make me take its duke as well.”
“Bian throw you to the fires!” the large duke said. “Why would you protect him? After what he did to my daughter—”
“He claims to be innocent.”
“And there are whores is Kentigern who claim to be virgins!”
“You tortured him, and still he wouldn’t confess. Doesn’t that tell you something?”
Shonah looked at her son again, feeling herself wince at the sight of what had been done to the boy’s face. To his credit, her son was not shying from Aindreas’s glare. He sat straight-backed on his mount, his cheeks pale, but his gaze steady. She had once thought of his features as handsome in a boyish way, but the scars Aindreas had given him changed all that. He still didn’t look old; his skin was smooth and he hadn’t anything resembling a beard. But he would never look young again.
“All it tells me,” Aindreas said, “is that you’re a far greater fool than I ever imagined you could be.”
Kearne
y’s swordmaster opened his mouth, but the silver-haired duke silenced him with a quick shake of his head.
“Perhaps you’re right, and I am a fool. But I won’t allow you to destroy this kingdom.”
“Do you think you can stand against my army, Kearney? If I choose to take the boy from you, do you honestly believe that you can stop me?”
“He can with Curgh’s men fighting beside him,” Shonah said, drawing a withering look from Aindreas. “If you move against Glyndwr, our two houses will crush you.”
“Lord Kentigern,” Tavis began.
But Aindreas held out his sword, its point aimed straight at the young lord’s heart. “Not a word, boy,” he said, shaking his head. “Not a word, or I swear I’ll cut you down where you sit. Let them kill me if they wish. Better to die with your blood on my blade, than to live knowing that you’re free.”
“Aindreas—”
“How can you do this, Kearney? What of the alliance forged by our fathers? Does that mean nothing to you?”
“On the contrary. It means a great deal to me. But the boy—”
“The boy is a murderer! Damn you, man! Don’t you understand that? He killed my girl. I saw her blood on his hands and his clothes. I saw his dagger in her—” His voice broke, his body heaving with sobs. He squeezed his eyes shut, tears streaming down his cheeks into his red beard. Shonah could see him gritting his teeth, as if the struggle to regain his composure pained him.
No one said a word. Kearney and the gleaner kept their eyes trained on the ground in front of them. Even Tavis had the good sense to look away. Shonah looked past the duke to Hagan, who shook his head slightly. She understood. More than anything, she wanted to hate this man. He had tortured her son, imprisoned her husband, and brought her to a war she didn’t want. But she had lost a babe herself, and she remembered the grief with a clarity that made her eyes sting. True the child had been a turn short of being born, but that hardly diminished the pain she had felt. She couldn’t begin to guess how Aindreas and Ioanna had suffered since Brienne’s death. If it turns out that the boy is guilty, she told herself, I’ll have him hanged myself.