Weavers of War (11 page)

“Gorlan?”

The minister grinned. An instant later there was a sound like the chiming of a bell and the soldier’s blade splintered like glass.

Other men came forward, weapons readied.

“Call them back, Captain, or the same magic that shattered your blade will break their necks.”

“Stand your ground, men.”

The soldiers halted, though they kept their swords up.

“What is this, High Chancellor?”

Dusaan held up the parchment. “The emperor has surrendered this palace and this realm to me. From now on, I am your sovereign.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Look for yourself.” He handed the parchment to the captain and waited while he read it.

“You made him sign this. That’s the only explanation that makes sense.”

“Such documents are often coerced. That doesn’t make it any less valid.” He held out his hand for the parchment, ready to use mind-bending power if the man refused to return it to him. But the captain handed it back without a fight.

“It means nothing to me, or to my men. You’ll have to defeat the emperor’s army to take Braedon.”

“I’m prepared to do just that. I assure you, Captain, my powers, and those of my friends here, are more than enough to destroy your army. And if you’re not convinced, I suggest that you look up at the prison tower.”

The captain turned toward the tower, as did Dusaan. Clearly Nitara had anticipated this, for Harel was already standing there, peering out through the narrow window.

“Demons and fire,” the captain muttered.

“I’ll kill him if I have to, though I’d rather not.”

“What do you want us to do?” he asked, still gazing up at the emperor.

“Surrender your weapons and leave the palace. If you and your men do that, all of you will be spared. The emperor, too. If you choose to fight, you’ll die.”

“There’s only four of ’em, Captain,” said one of the men. “How much can four Qirsi do?”

“I need to talk to my men,” the captain said.

Dusaan nodded. “Of course.”

The captain led his men a short distance off, and began talking to them in low tones.

“What do you think they’ll do?” Rov asked.

“They’ll attack. Rov, Gorlan, we’ll strike first with shaping power. Just reach for your magic and let me do the rest. After that we’ll try fire. Rov, you’ll be doing both, so you’re likely to tire first. Give me what you can, and I’ll draw the rest from B’Serre.”

“Yes, Weaver.”

Dusaan saw two men slip away from the captain’s group and run back toward the guard house. There would be more men coming.

“Be watchful,” he said. “They’ll try to flank us.”

“Are you certain that we can do this?” Gorlan asked.

“You’ve never fought beside a Weaver before. Savor this moment. We’re about to win the first battle in a glorious war.”

The assault began abruptly. The captain shouted something—Dusaan couldn’t make out the words—and perhaps two hundred men charged toward them, battle cries echoing off the palace walls, swords and battle hammers glittering in the sun.

Dusaan reached for his magic and then for that of Gorlan and Rov. Both were young and powerful, just the sort of warriors who would help him to destroy all the armies of the Eandi courts. He didn’t bother to aim the blow; he didn’t care whether he cleaved steel or bone. He merely struck at the soldiers, his power slicing through the cluster of Eandi like an invisible scythe. Steel shattered in sweet ringing tones, bones fractured in rapid succession so that the sound resembled the snapping of a great fire. Men screamed in pain, dropping to the ground, writhing pathetically.

A second wave of attackers, at least a hundred strong, rushed from the towers to their left and right.

“B’Serre! Rov!” Dusaan called, his voice carrying over the war cries.

Again they offered their power to him, willingly, even eagerly. No doubt they had never felt so strong, had never realized that they could be such fearsome warriors. Rov, who had already given her shaping power, showed no sign of weariness. She would serve the movement well.

The fire Dusaan conjured radiated out in all directions, a glowing yellow ring of power, rampant, indiscriminate, deadly. It hit the soldiers like an ocean wave, knocking them backward, hammering some of them to the ground. And every man it touched was consumed by the flames—clothing, skin, hair. The shrieks of Eandi warriors filled the courtyard; the stench of their charred flesh made the Weaver’s eyes water.

There would be archers on the ramparts soon. Dusaan was certain of it. And they would be harder to kill.

“Hear me!” he called over the death cries and the groans of the wounded. “I can kill all of you if I have to. And your emperor, too. Or you can surrender to me as he has and spare yourselves. This is your last chance to live. Lay down your weapons before me and you may leave the palace today as free men. Continue to resist, and you’ll die as these men have.”

For a long time nothing happened. Dusaan eyed the ramparts watching for the archers. He could shatter the arrows if he had to, but that demanded a more precise use of shaping power, and he wasn’t certain how much more his companions could give him.

After several moments, however, soldiers began to emerge from the towers and guard house. They held their weapons low, swords pointing toward the ground, bows hanging from their hands. And one by one, they laid the weapons at Dusaan’s feet, eyeing him with unconcealed hatred, but with fear as well. Swords, hammers, bows and arrows, daggers, and pikes lay in a pile before him. And a column of men filed toward the palace gate and the freedom he had promised them.

The first battle was his, and with it the Imperial Palace.

He looked up at the tower. Harel was no longer by the window, but Nitara was there, gazing down at him. He could imagine her expression, the look of adoration in her eyes. Just this once, he didn’t mind.

Chapter Five

The Moorlands, Eibithar

The skirmish had begun without warning, just like the others. One moment all had been quiet; the next the silence was riven by war cries and the clash of steel on steel, the rhythmic shouts of army commanders and the whistle of arrows soaring high into the hazy sky before beginning their deadly descent. Once again, the encounter was initiated by the Braedon army, which seemed capable of striking at any given moment, anywhere on the battle plain.

Eibithar’s king had arrayed the three armies—his own guard, as well as the soldiers of Curgh and Heneagh—as best he could. But they were outnumbered, and would be until the soldiers of Thorald, Labruinn, and Tremain arrived. Add to that the fact that Heneagh’s men lacked the discipline and skill of the other two armies, and it was something of a miracle that they hadn’t been overrun already. Had Galdasten sent soldiers, or Sussyn, or Domnall, or any of the other houses that stood with Kentigern in defiance of the king, matters would have been different. As it was, it seemed to Tavis that the survival of the kingdom was in doubt.

The previous night, Braedon’s warriors had struck at Kearney’s lines, on the eastern front, nearest to the river. The battle had been short-lived—a few volleys of arrows exchanged and a brief, fierce engagement between swordsmen which left several men dead and many more injured—and had ended as abruptly as it began, with the soldiers of Braedon breaking away and retreating. The morning before that, the enemy had staged a similar attack on the Curgh lines, striking and withdrawing with astonishing swiftness.

This time, the empire’s men were attacking the western end of the Eibitharian lines, which were defended by the army of Heneagh.

“They’re testing us,” said Tavis’s father, the duke of Curgh, his face grim and etched with concern as he watched this latest skirmish unfold. “They’re looking for weaknesses in our lines, trying to decide where to concentrate their assault when it begins in earnest.”

“Can Heneagh hold them?” Xaver MarCullet asked, standing beside his father, Hagan, Curgh’s swordmaster.

Hagan shrugged. “I don’t know. But if the duke’s right, I think they’ve probably found what they were looking for.”

Within just a few minutes, the Braedon raiding party had withdrawn. They were pursued briefly by a large group of Heneagh’s men, but Welfyl’s swordmaster quickly called them back. It had seemed to Tavis that this skirmish was even briefer than the previous night’s, but he couldn’t say if he thought this boded well or ill for Eibithar’s forces.

“We should check on them,” the duke said, swinging himself onto his mount. “They may need healers.” Javan glanced down at Tavis. “Come with me?”

The young lord nodded, a smile springing to his lips. Then he climbed onto his horse. Grinsa followed, as did Xaver and Hagan.

Tavis and Grinsa had finally caught up with Kearney’s army four days before, finding the king some ten leagues north of Domnall, where he waited for the armies of Curgh and Heneagh to join his own. From there they had ridden northward with the king and dukes for two days until finally encountering the empire’s invading force on this plain in the northeastern corner of the Moorlands, within sight of Binthar’s Wash and only seven leagues or so from Galdasten Castle. The skirmishes had begun almost immediately, and though Tavis’s father had brought most of the Curgh army and also commanded five hundred men of the King’s Guard, the duke had been alarmed by his army’s showing during their brief encounter with the enemy. A number of his men had been wounded. Qirsi healers had little trouble mending most of their injuries, but Curgh’s soldiers should have fared better.

Still, even under these extraordinary circumstances, Javan had clearly been pleased to see his son; Tavis, in turn, had been surprised by how happy he was to be with his father again. Theirs had never been an easy relationship, even before the brutal murder of Tavis’s promised bride, Lady Brienne of Kentigern, and the young lord’s imprisonment in Kentigern. Tavis hadn’t been certain how the duke would receive him. But Javan had openly welcomed both Grinsa and the boy, and Kearney had done much the same.

The soldiers of the King’s Guard, however, had made it clear from the moment Tavis and Grinsa joined them that they still considered the young lord a murderer who had lost all claim to nobility. Since his arrival, they had offered naught but glares and vile comments uttered just loud enough for Tavis to hear. The boy had thought, or at least hoped, that once he proved his innocence their hostility toward him would abate. But though Cresenne ja Terba had confessed to hiring an assassin to kill Brienne, and Tavis had managed to kill that assassin on the shores of Wethyrn’s Crown, little had changed.

“It’s going to take them some time,” Grinsa had whispered that first day, as they rode past the soldiers, Tavis’s face burning as if it had been branded. “Not all of them will have heard yet that you killed the assassin, and even after they do, some of them will never accept your innocence.”

Tavis had simply nodded, unable to bring himself to speak.

Curgh’s men had been far more welcoming. As word of his encounter with the assassin, Cadel, spread through his father’s army, men began to treat him like a hero, a conquering lord returning to his homeland. This made Tavis nearly as uncomfortable as the rage he saw on the faces of Kearney’s men. He had been fortunate to survive his battle with Cadel, and the man had been defenseless when Tavis killed him.
I’m no hero,
he wanted to yell at them.
And I’m not a butcher, either. I’m just a man. Let me be.
But that, he was beginning to understand, would never be his fate.

Still, despite all of this, he was glad to be with his father again, and also with Hagan and Xaver MarCullet, and Fotir jal Salene, his father’s first minister. For a year he had been an exile, denied the comfort of his friends and family, denied the right to claim his place as a noble in the House of Curgh. Now his life as a fugitive was over. He had told Javan all that he could remember of his final encounter with the assassin, and though he knew that many in the realm might be slow to believe him when finally his story was told to all, he had no doubt that his father did. He longed to see his mother, to set foot once more in the castle of his forebears, but already he felt that this was a homecoming of sorts.

Just as Tavis’s father had expected, the Braedon attack, brief as it was, had taken a heavy toll on Heneagh’s army. At least two dozen men lay dead in the long grass; most of them bore ugly, bloody wounds. Nearly three times that number had been injured. Already healers were tending to them, but Tavis could see immediately that they had need for more.

“Go to the Curgh camp,” Javan told the nearest of Heneagh’s uninjured men. “Tell them to send all our healers.”

“What of the king’s healers?” the man asked.

“Curgh’s should be enough. Go. Quickly.” As the man ran back toward the Curgh lines, Javan surveyed the Heneagh army, shielding his eyes with an open hand. “Where is Welfyl?” he muttered.

“You don’t suppose he fell in the battle.”

The duke glanced at his son. “He shouldn’t have been anywhere near the battle.” He made a sour face. “He shouldn’t be here at all.”

Welfyl was by far the oldest of Eibithar’s dukes. Indeed, he came to power the same year Aylyn the Second, Kearney’s predecessor, began his reign as king of the realm. Javan, Tavis knew, had always liked Heneagh’s duke, but there could be no denying the fact that the man was simply too old to be riding to war. He was frail and bent—Tavis wondered if he could even raise a sword, much less fight with one. But he had led his army to the Moorlands, and unless the king said otherwise, he would lead them into battle.

“My lord, look.” Fotir was pointing farther west, his white hair gleaming in the sun, his bright yellow eyes seeming to glow like coals in a fire.

Following the direction of his gaze, Tavis saw the old duke kneeling in the grass, cradling a man in his arms, a stricken expression on his bony face.

Kicking at his mount, Javan rode toward the man, Tavis and the others following close behind.

“Get a healer!” the old duke cried as they drew nearer. “He’s dying!”

It was true. Even Tavis, who knew little of such things, could see that the man in Welfyl’s arms had lost too much blood. He had a deep gash on the side of his neck, and another that had nearly severed his leg just above the knee. Blood pulsed weakly from both wounds and already the man’s uniform was soaked crimson, as was the duke’s.