Weavers of War (32 page)

Braedon’s men halted just short of where the arrows were falling and let out an earsplitting cry. A moment later, the last of the darts rose into the pale blue and fell. And when it hit, embedding itself in a soldier’s shield, the empire’s army surged forward, swords raised, helms glinting in the sunlight.

Once again, as they had the previous morning, Eibithar’s soldiers gave ground, fighting desperately to keep from being overrun. For a time it seemed to Tavis that they could do nothing against such an onslaught. He fought desperately, as did those around him, but he felt that he was taking a step back with every parry. The young lord was sure that had it not been for the timely arrival of Thorald’s army under the command of Marston of Shanstead, Kearney’s army would have been defeated before midday. As it was, the addition of Marston’s men only served to stop Braedon’s advance. When Heneagh’s remaining soldiers were overrun late in the day, the Thorald army rushed to take their place on the western lines and succeeded in keeping the enemy from flanking the king. Under the circumstances, that was all anyone could have asked.

Sundown brought an end to the fighting, mercifully. Tavis wasn’t certain how much longer Eibithar’s men could have gone on. For a second consecutive day, the two armies had fought viciously with neither side making significant gains.

The following morning, Kearney’s captains, and those of his dukes, roused the soldiers before dawn and made preparations for the coming day’s battle. But the warriors of Braedon did not attack, and given the opportunity to allow his men to rest and heal, the king did not take the fight to the invaders. The armies rested a second day as well, forcing Tavis and the others to wonder what new horror the empire had in store for them.

Late that day, a mounted army came into view from the south. Fearing that Kearney and his men faced some new threat, Tavis and Xaver called out in alarm, causing several hundred men to scramble into formation. Only when the king joined them, chuckling in amusement, did the young lord and his friend see that this army was accompanied by two of Kearney’s scouts.

“I believe that’s the queen of Sanbira,” the king told them. “I’m sure she’ll be grateful for the welcome you’ve arranged.”

Many of the men laughed at them. Others, who already hated Tavis and thought him a butcher, merely glared at them. Tavis felt a fool, as did Xaver. But the liege man’s father offered them some comfort.

“Don’t worry about them,” Hagan said, waving a dismissive hand at the warriors. “Better you should be shouting warnings that amount to nothing, than ignoring threats that get men killed.”

The queen’s force was small—eight hundred warriors, more or less. But riding on Sanbiri horses, and wielding Sanbiri steel, they were a formidable sight. The armies of Eibithar made the soldiers welcome, particularly when they realized that there were women warriors in the Sanbiri ranks. Kearney greeted the queen and her nobles, inviting them to share a meal with his dukes and launching almost immediately into a long description of all that had happened so far on the battle plain.

“We’ve seen no sign of reinforcements,” Kearney said, when the queen asked him about Braedon’s decision not to attack in the past two days. “I suppose it’s possible that they arrived under cover of darkness, or will do so tonight, but I think it more likely that the emperor’s captains are doing as we are: healing the wounded, giving their men time to rest, preparing for the next battle.”

Olesya nodded thoughtfully, staring into a bright fire. “That may be,” she said. “But they might also be awaiting support from the south. My scouts have seen an army marching north from Kentigern, a thousand men strong. They burn crops and villages as they go, and march under banners of red and gold.”

“Numar’s men.”

“I’m afraid so. We thought to fight them south of here, but decided to ride on instead. That way we could warn you of their approach and fight them off as part of a larger force. We should be a full day ahead of them. Perhaps a bit more.”

Kearney nodded. “I would have done the same.”

No one else spoke, and Tavis felt much of his relief at the queen’s arrival giving way to a renewed sense of dread. He had wanted to believe that the Aneirans would never be able to fight their way past Kentigern, but he should have known better than to place such faith in the fealty of Aindreas and his men.

After a time, the king sent most of the Qirsi and lesser nobles away, staying up late into the night to discuss tactics with Hagan and his dukes, and the queen and her nobles. Tavis wished that he could have been party to the discussion, and he tried to remain awake so that he might ask his father what was said. But before long this day’s fighting caught up with him and he fell asleep. He slept fitfully, as he always seemed to these days, his slumber disrupted by every unexpected noise and troubled by strange dreams.

On this, the fifth day of the war, Braedon’s archers renewed their assault, allowing the empire’s swordsmen to advance on Eibithar’s lines. Once again, however, Kearney and Queen Olesya had readied their armies before sunrise. The soldiers of Eibithar and Sanbira were prepared for the attack. Kearney’s bowmen matched those of Braedon volley for volley, and when Braedon’s soldiers finally began their charge, the warriors of Eibithar and Sanbira rushed forward to meet them. Battle cries from both armies pierced the stillness of morning, and the first crash of steel upon steel, flesh upon flesh, seemed to cause the ground beneath their feet to buck and roll.

That had been hours ago. At least Tavis thought it had been. The sun had turned a slow arc overhead and now was beating down on the armies and the dead, harsh and relentless. But time had lost meaning for him. His life at this moment was measured in sword strokes and blood, the sweat soaking his face and hair and clothes, the screaming muscles in his back, shoulders, and arms.

He knew that he was fighting well, that his father would be proud of him. During his first battle, at the siege of Kentigern, he had acquitted himself poorly, allowing cowardice to get the better of him. There was none of that now. He had killed and had nearly been killed himself. Bian’s realm didn’t frighten him anymore, at least not as it once had. He wouldn’t call it courage—that was a word reserved in his mind for men like Grinsa and Kearney, for Keziah, who dared offer herself to the Weaver so that she might defeat him, and oddly, for Cresenne, whose treachery had cost Tavis so much and whose redemption had come at a far higher price to herself. In the absence of true bravery, though, it was all he could ask of himself. Anyway, it kept him fighting.

The soldier before him now was a large man, more powerful than he, just as all the others had been. And like the others, his strength could not hide his lack of skill with a blade and shield. Hagan had always told Tavis and Xaver that brawn was not always an asset, that in fact it could be a hindrance at times.

“If your opponent is stronger than you are, but unskilled with a sword, he’ll rely on his power to beat you. His attacks will be slower, more obvious. In a contest between two men, one quick and clever, the other big and strong, I’ll take the former every time.”

Once Tavis had asked, “What if we find ourselves fighting someone who’s both stronger and quicker?”

To which the swordmaster replied, “Run.”

That wasn’t the case here. After eyeing Tavis for just a moment, the Braedony swordsman lunged forward swinging his weapon with all his might and leaving himself open to the young lord’s counter. Tavis didn’t hesitate. Dodging the man’s sword, he leveled a blow of his own at the man’s side. The soldier’s mail coat kept Tavis’s weapon from cutting into his flesh, but he doubled over with a grunt, and Tavis hacked at his neck, knocking him to the ground and loosing a torrent of blood that stained the grass and soil.

The boy spun, dropping into his crouch in anticipation of the next assault, but no one stepped forward to take the soldier’s place. After a moment he straightened and turned toward the gleaner. Grinsa was standing in a circle of dead warriors and shattered blades, leaning heavily on his sword, his face damp, his breathing labored. There was a gash on his cheek, but otherwise he appeared unhurt.

“You’re bleeding,” Tavis said.

“So are you.”

Tavis frowned, having no memory of being wounded.

“On your brow,” Grinsa said. “And on your left shoulder.”

He glanced at his shoulder, then lifted a hand to his forehead and dabbed at it gingerly with his fingers. They came away sticky and crimson.

“It seems our army is making progress.”

Tavis looked at the gleaner again before following the line of his gaze. Perhaps twenty paces to the north, soldiers of Eibithar were still fighting a pitched battle.

He started in that direction. “We should help them.”

“Tavis, wait. Rest a moment.”

“They’re not resting,” he said over his shoulder, not bothering to stop.

“Some are. All of them should, as should you.”

“We’ll rest when the fighting’s over.” But even as he spoke, he felt fatigue crash down upon him like a wave. When was the last time he had eaten or taken a sip of water? When had he last slept a full night without awakening to strains of Braedony war songs? He slowed, then stopped, facing the gleaner again.

“Just for a moment,” Grinsa said. “You don’t look well.”

“I feel fine.” Yet he made no move to rejoin the battle. How had has throat gotten so dry so quickly?

Grinsa walked to where Tavis stood, eyeing him closely. “You’re pale as a Qirsi.”

“I’ve been spending too much time with you.”

“You’ll get no argument from me.”

Tavis had to grin, though he quickly turned serious again. “Truly, gleaner, I’m fine. Now let me go and fight for my realm.”

He shrugged. “Go, then.”

Before the young lord could start forward again, however, shouts went up from the south. Both of them turned, and what Tavis saw nearly made his stomach heave.

An army was approaching, marching under a red, black, and gold banner bearing the panther of Solkara. The queen had said that Aneira’s army consisted of a thousand men, but the column Tavis saw seemed to stretch for miles. How could there be so many, and how could they have arrived so soon?

“Demons and fire!” the gleaner murmured.

Tavis scanned the lines, looking for anyone who might hold off this new force. But the Sanbiri warriors were fighting alongside the King’s Guard, and all of Eibithar’s men were engaged as well. “They’ll carve right through us,” he said, looking at the Solkarans once more.

“Perhaps not. Go find Fotir and bring him to me. Quickly, Tavis.”

“Where are you going?”

“To get Keziah.”

Comprehension hit him like a fist. “You’re going to weave their magic with yours.”

“We haven’t a choice. Now go, before their archers are close enough to attack!”

Tavis had never run so fast. He could see his father atop his mount leading the Curgh army, and sprinted toward him, knowing that Fotir would be nearby. Already the soldiers battling at the front had noticed the Solkarans’ approach. Tavis could hear cries going up from both sides and the fighting seemed to have taken on new urgency, particularly among the empire’s men. Heartened by the appearance of their allies, the Braedony swordsmen pushed forward, shouting wildly, like demons from the Underrealm. Within moments, the small gains made in the past few hours by the armies of Eibithar and Sanbira were almost completely erased.

Reaching his father, he found Fotir and Xaver doing battle side by side. Both of them were bleeding, but at least they were alive.

Xaver was fending off two men, giving ground quickly, and Tavis rushed to his aid, his sword held high. One of the men broke off his attack on the liege man aiming a swift, chopping blow at Tavis’s head. Tavis blocked the sword with his shield, his knees nearly buckling. Still, he managed to strike back at the man, hitting only his shield.

The soldier came at him a second time, weapon raised, shield held ready. A simple attack—no feint. As if sparring with probationers in the Curgh wards, Tavis stepped around the assault, allowing the man’s blade to glance off his shield, and slashed at the man’s gut. As with the last Braedony soldier, this man’s mail coat saved his life, but only for the moment. The blow staggered him, and before he could recover Tavis thrust his sword through the soldier’s throat.

Without hesitating, the young lord sprang toward Xaver’s other attacker. But seeing how his friend died, this soldier retreated.

“Thanks,” Xaver said, sounding winded and slightly awed. “What are you doing here, I mean other than saving my life?”

“I need Fotir.”

There was a chiming sound, which Tavis recognized as the splintering of a blade, and then the harsh cry of a dying man.

“Did I hear you say that you needed me, my lord?”

“Yes. You’ve seen the Solkarans?”

The first minister nodded, glancing southward. “The duke ordered his archers to the rear to hold them off.”

“That might help, but Grinsa was hoping you and he might join that fight as well.”

The man’s bright eyes widened, owllike and eager. “Are you certain?”

“What can they do?” Xaver asked, brow creasing.

“Right away, First Minister. There isn’t much time. He’s at the rear of the king’s line.”

“Yes, my lord. The duke—”

“I’ll explain it to him as best I can.”

“I think you’d be better off telling him nothing, my lord. I’ll think of something later.”

Tavis nodded and watched as the minister ran off toward where Grinsa and Keziah awaited him.

“What’s going on, Tavis?”

“It’s best you don’t know, Stinger.”

“Why? Because I haven’t been through all that you have? Because I’ve just been in Curgh all this time, while you’ve been traveling the length and breadth of the Forelands?”

He faced his friend, who, despite his cuts and bruises, looked terribly young. “Grinsa is a Weaver, Xaver,” he said wearily. What did it matter anymore? With that army approaching, all was lost. “Do you know what that means?”

Xaver’s face paled, his green eyes widening much as had Fotir’s a few moments before. “A Weaver?”