Weavers of War (19 page)

In the next instant it came. An arrow buried itself in Ewan’s shoulder, tearing a gasp from the man. Before the duke had time to act a second barb hit Renald in the thigh, the pain stealing his breath. An instant later, arrows were whistling all around them. It was as if they had disturbed a nest of hornets.

“Shields!” the swordmaster roared through clenched teeth. “Take cover!”

The men broke formation, scattering in all directions. And even as the arrows continued to fly, Renald heard the ring of steel and saw that the enemy had been waiting for his army to do just this. Abruptly he was surrounded by a melee. Everywhere he looked, men were fighting and falling. Soldiers in Braedon’s gold and red pressed toward him, and he hacked at them with his blade, making his horse rear again and again so as to keep them at a distance. Ewan battled as best he could, though he had taken the arrow in the right shoulder and so was forced to fight with his weaker hand.

Another arrow struck the duke’s shield and others streaked past him, making him cringe repeatedly. He would have liked to jump off his horse—as it was he presented Braedon’s bowmen with an inviting target—but he didn’t dare descend into the maelstrom of steel and flesh that swirled all around him. All he could do was fight, clinging desperately to his mount with his legs, the wound in his thigh screaming agony, his back and buttocks aching, his sword arm flailing at the enemy time and again until the muscles in his shoulder seemed to be aflame. Time came to be measured by the rise and fall of his blade. He thought nothing of the realm or the throne or the renegade Qirsi. He cared only for his own survival, not for years to come, nor even for this night, but for each moment as it passed. Would he live long enough to kill this man in gold and red who sought to pull him off his mount? Would he survive the next volley of Braedony arrows? Would the next pulse of anguish from his leg make him fall to the street?

He had thought to lead Galdasten’s army into battle, but there was nothing for him to do other than live and fight; there was no command he could give, no plan he could follow. All around him, men fought and died. They would decide the outcome of this conflict; in pairs and skirmishes they would write the history of Galdasten’s war. Even in pain, in battle fury, in this madness that passed for war, Renald had the sense to see that it had always been thus, that his forebears who claimed war’s glory as their own had done little more than live to declare victory. The realization sobered and humbled him, made his struggle more bearable even as it forced him to admit that its outcome mattered little. And still he fought on.

After a time that shaded toward eternity, it occurred to the duke that there were fewer men around him, that he had more room in which to turn his mount, and that the clashing of swords and cries of dying soldiers had somewhat abated.

Ewan was still beside him, his face damp with sweat, his skin ashen and his lips shading to blue. The arrow was still in his shoulder and a second jutted from his right side, blood staining his shirt of mail. His grey eyes had a glazed look to them, and yet he continued to fight, turning his horse in circles, looking for more of the enemy to strike.

“Swordmaster!” Renald called. And when the man stared back at him, seeming not to recognize his face, he said, “Ewan.”

The man blinked and looked at him again, tottering in his saddle. “My lord,” he said, his voice weary and hoarse.

“You need a healer.”

“No, my lord. I’m all right.”

“I think it’s ending. I can’t tell who’s won, but the fighting appears to have ebbed.”

Ewan glanced up and down the street, nodding. He sat a bit straighter in his saddle, the color returning to his cheeks. It almost seemed that he drew strength from the mere suggestion that the fighting might be over. “We’ve won.”

“You know this?”

The swordmaster faced him again. “You and I are alive. We wouldn’t be if your army had been defeated.”

Indeed, the arrows had stopped flying, and now soldiers began to wander back into the lane, all of them wearing the bronze and black of Galdasten. One of the captains approached Renald and the swordmaster, a deep gash on his upper arm, and several smaller ones on his face, hands, and neck.

Ewan sheathed his sword, grimacing at even this small movement. “Report,” he said.

“Most of the enemy are dead, sir. Those who still live have fled to their ships. Some of our men pursued them—there’s still fighting at the piers.”

“And our losses?”

“I don’t know for certain yet. If I had to guess, I’d say several hundred, but fewer than half.”

“All right, Captain. Go back to the piers. Tell the men there to let the rest go. We’ve won already; I don’t want to lose any more men. Then get yourself to a healer.”

“Yes, sir.” He looked at the duke and bowed. “For Galdasten, my lord.”

Renald nodded. “Thank you, Captain.”

“You need a healer, too, my lord,” Ewan said, as the man walked back toward the quays.

“No more than you do.”

“Shall we go together, then?”

“That would be fine. Pillad can minister to us both.”

Ewan grimaced again. It took Renald a moment to realize that he was grinning. “Yes, my lord.”

They found a soldier who had come through the fighting relatively unscathed and sent him back to the castle to fetch the healers.

“Assuming that your captain was right,” the duke said after the man had gone, “and that we lost several hundred men, how long will it be before we can march to the Moorlands?”

“It depends upon how many men you wish to take, my lord. If you’ll be satisfied to take seven or eight hundred, we can leave in three days. Perhaps two, if the quartermaster works quickly.”

“Then let’s plan on that.” Renald glanced down at the arrow protruding from his thigh. His leggings were soaked with blood, and the wound throbbed mercilessly. He could hardly believe that he was already contemplating his next battle, but what choice did he have? For better or worse, at long last, he had become a warrior.

Chapter Eight

Curtell, Braedon

On the morning following their capture of the emperor’s palace, Dusaan sent Nitara and several of the other ministers to Curtell City with instructions to scour the inns and taverns and marketplace for all the Qirsi they could find.

“For now, you’re simply to tell them that the emperor’s high chancellor wishes to speak with them,” he said, sitting in the middle of what had been Harel’s imperial chamber.

Nitara had stared back at him, her pale eyes wide, still so afraid of giving offense. “But Weaver, they know that you’ve taken the palace. Everyone does. Many will have heard that you’re … that you lead our movement.”

“They still know me as the high chancellor,” he told her, keeping his voice low so that she would know that he wasn’t angry. “And I’m not ready to announce myself as Weaver to all in Curtell.”

“What if the Qirsi refuse to come with us?” another asked.

The Weaver considered this briefly. “For now, that’s their right, though if they’ve heard of our victory over Harel’s guards, I don’t think they’ll refuse you. Now go.”

Nitara had bowed then, lovely and eager to please, despite her fear of him, and she had led her small band of Qirsi out into the lanes of the imperial city.

A short time later, Gorlan came to him, a grin on his lean face. “The emperor is demanding to speak with you.”

Dusaan barely looked up from the treasury accountings—not much had changed in the short time they had been out of his control, but he wanted to make certain he knew just how much gold was at his disposal.

“Is that so?” he said evenly. “About what?”

“I believe he’s dissatisfied with his quarters.”

At that Dusaan did look up, nearly laughing aloud. “You’re not serious.”

“Yes, Weaver, I am. He’s also demanding a healer. It seems you wounded him last night.”

He shook his head and turned his attention back to the accountings. “I’ll deal with it later. In the meantime, take some of the others and gather whatever weapons are left in the guard house and armory.”

“Weapons, Weaver? Do you mean to destroy them?”

“No. I plan to use them.”

“But our magic—”

“I mean to lead a conquering army, Minister.” He had decided that he would allow the Qirsi to keep their titles for now. For many of the older ones, the changes of the past few days had been difficult; best to let them hold on to a few harmless remnants of the old ways. “While you and I know that our magic is the only weapon we need, the Eandi do not. I want them to see us as warriors. Besides, it never hurts to be too careful. I happen to be quite skilled with a blade, and I expect the same of those who serve me.”

“Yes, Weaver. I’ll do it right away.”

Dusaan had much to occupy his day, and even had he not, he would have gone out of his way to make Harel wait. He wasn’t even certain he ought to go to the man at all, but in the end curiosity got the better of him. Late in the day, some time after the ringing of the prior’s bells, the Weaver made his way to the prison tower.

There were no Eandi guards in the corridor of course—all who had survived the previous day’s battle were gone—and Dusaan hadn’t enough Qirsi to leave even one to watch over the emperor. In all likelihood, Harel had been alone in his chamber since Gorlan’s visit several hours before. Even before he opened the door to the sparse, round chamber, Dusaan knew that the emperor would be in a foul temper. He would enjoy this.

“It’s about time!” Harel said, as soon as the Weaver turned the lock. “I called for you hours ago!”

Dusaan stepped inside, saying nothing, but walking a slow circle around the perimeter of the emperor’s prison. A platter of half-eaten food sat on the floor near the door—a rind of hard cheese, a few scraps of stale bread, and a small, empty cup that might once have held water. Closer to the lone window, a chamber pot sat unattended, foul-smelling and buzzing with flies. Dusaan wrinkled his nose as he walked past.

“You see what I’ve had to put up with?”

The Weaver said nothing. Pausing by the window, he gazed down on the palace courtyard where the battle had taken place the day before. His Qirsi had used fire magic to dispose of the bodies, but the soldiers’ weaponry still lay in an enormous pile on the bright grass.

“They’ve brought me only the one meal.”

Dusaan turned to face the man. Harel looked a mess, his round face flushed, his brown curls sticking out at odd angles, his imperial robes disheveled.

“There’s little I can do about your food,” the Weaver said. “It seems your kitchenmaster and all your cooks have fled the palace.”

Harel held up his hand, which was swollen and purple around the little finger, the bone of which Dusaan had snapped the previous night. “And what of the healers? Surely your own people didn’t flee.”

“No, they didn’t. But they’ve been busy attending to other matters.”

“Other matters?” the emperor repeated, his voice rising.

“Yes. But allow me.”

Dusaan crossed to where Harel stood, and gently taking hold of his maimed hand, closed his eyes and began to mend the bone with his healing magic. It was a clean break and a small bone—it healed quickly. After just a few moments he looked at Harel again and released his hand. “Is that better?”

The emperor gazed at his hand with unconcealed wonder. “Yes, it is. Thank y—”

The dry sound of cracking bone echoed in the chamber. Harel dropped to his knees with a shriek, clutching his arm to his chest and whimpering like a beaten dog.

Dusaan stood over him, fighting an urge to kick him in the gut. “I told you last night that if you defied me again I’d break your arm. Next time it will be your neck.”

“But all I did—”

“Don’t ever summon me again. It’s not your place to make demands of me or my Qirsi. You’re no longer emperor, Harel, and I’m no longer your chancellor. You ceded the realm to me, in writing. I am your sovereign, and I will be treated as such. Do you understand?”

Harel nodded.

“Good.” Dusaan started for the door.

“But what about my food? And my arm? What about…?” He glanced at the chamber pot. “What about that?”

“If I think of it, I’ll send a healer for your arm. As for the rest, so long as you don’t eat, the pot shouldn’t be a problem.”

He let himself out of the chamber to the sound of the emperor’s sobbing, and descended the stairs. When he reached the courtyard, Nitara was there with the five Qirsi who had accompanied her, and well over a hundred more. Dusaan strode to where she stood smiling at him, her pride evident in her stance, the squared shoulders and straight back. He had never seen her look more beautiful.

“Report,” the Weaver said.

“We’ve brought one hundred and fifty-four Qirsi to serve you, Weaver. There were even more who were willing, but many were the husbands and wives of those you see before you, and they had children who couldn’t be left alone.”

“Of course. Did you have any trouble?”

“Just a bit at first. We encountered a group of soldiers, the emperor’s men. They attacked us, but B’Serre used fire magic on their leader, and the rest ran off. We saw them again later, but by then we were a far larger group—they didn’t dare come near us.”

“Very good, Minister. Very good indeed.”

She fairly beamed as he stepped past her to address the newcomers.

“Welcome,” he said, opening his arms wide, “to what is now my palace, the seat of power for what will soon be a Qirsi empire extending the length and breadth of the Forelands. I know that a great deal has happened here in the past day, and no doubt you’ve heard much from the former emperor’s soldiers. You have questions, I’m sure. I’ll be happy to tell you what I can.”

For several moments no one said anything. Most of the Qirsi before him simply stared at the ground, fidgeting like embarrassed children. After a time, however, one man stepped out from the middle of the group, glancing about nervously, but eventually meeting Dusaan’s gaze. He looked old, particularly for a Qirsi. He was bald save for a few wisps of white hair that clung to the back of his head, and his face was bony and thin. Yet his eyes were bright, the color of elm leaves during the harvest, and he narrowed them now as he regarded the high chancellor.