Weavers of War (59 page)

Nitara was awake at first light, as were the Weaver’s other warriors. Jastanne returned to her side of the camp soon after the minister awoke, but she would not meet Nitara’s gaze. It was all the confirmation Nitara needed that the chancellor had spent the previous night in the Weaver’s arms.

She had expected to be enraged and aggrieved, to feel jealousy gnawing like wood ants at her mind. But on this day no such emotions could reach her. Today, she rode to war, a soldier in the Weaver’s army, a servant of his movement, an apostle of his vision. Tomorrow, perhaps, she would lament that he had chosen to love Jastanne rather than her. Or maybe their victory today would purge her of envy and resentment.

The vision of Kayiv that had darkened her sleep remained fresh in her mind, but even this memory could not distract Nitara from her purpose. Jastanne had chosen to make her a commander in the Weaver’s force, a decision to which Dusaan himself had assented. She intended to justify the faith they had shown in her. The Weaver’s army might yet be defeated—although she could not imagine how or by what force—but it would not be through any failure on her part.

In many respects hers was the most dangerous command of all. The other powers—fire, shaping, mists and winds—could all be wielded to good effect from afar. Language of beasts worked best at close distance. The other magics lent themselves naturally to the Weaver’s power; the greater the number being woven into a single force, the more devastating the magic. But language of beasts had to be wielded with precision and usually was most effective when used individually, one Qirsi whispering to one animal. That was why Nitara and the Qirsi under her command would be positioned close to the center, as far as possible from the Eandi archers. Bowmen would not be on horseback, and Nitara and her soldiers could do little to block the enemy’s arrows. They would be at the heart of this battle, facing down Eandi riders, doing all they could to evade the steel of Eibithar and Sanbira’s warriors.

It was a role she relished and as she called her soldiers to her, she saw the same eagerness on many of their faces. She saw fear as well, but this was to be expected.

“You know what the Weaver expects of us,” she said. Several of them nodded, but most of them merely stared at her, waiting.

“Ours is a unique mission in this war. We cannot depend upon the Weaver’s magic to bolster our own, nor can we watch this battle unfold from a safe distance. We may not wield the deepest magic in the Weaver’s army, but we will stand at the core of his force and keep the riders of the Eandi at bay.”

A murmur of agreement and more nods. A few of them smiled, the fierce, courageous smiles of warriors.

“It will be dangerous work,” she said, feeling more and more like a commander with every word she spoke. “Some of us may not live to see the end. No doubt that frightens many of you. I’d be scared as well, were it not for one simple truth: I’d rather die in the service of our Weaver, wielding my powers on his behalf, than live out the rest of my days in a world ruled by the Eandi.”

She expected more nods and mumbled assent. Instead, these last words were greeted by a deafening cheer that startled Nitara and made her horse whinny and rear.

The minister glanced about and saw that the other commanders were watching her. So was Jastanne, an amused grin on her pretty face.

“That’s all,” Nitara said, abruptly feeling self-conscious. “Go ready your mounts. We ride at my signal.”

The others turned away, their expressions grim but determined. Whatever fear she had seen in them before seemed to have vanished.

“What in Qirsar’s name did you say to them?”

Nitara turned. Jastanne was approaching, still grinning.

She shrugged. “I’m not really sure. I just told them that I’d rather die for the Weaver than grow old in a land ruled by the Eandi.”

The chancellor nodded. “I like that. Do you mind if I use it, too?”

“Not at all.”

Jastanne stopped in front of her, but then stared down at her feet, seemingly unsure of what she wanted to say. For the first time since the day they met, Nitara felt that she had the woman at a disadvantage, and though she had already resolved not to give in to her jealousy, she couldn’t help but be pleased. “Was there something you wanted, Chancellor?”

Jastanne nodded, meeting her gaze for a moment before looking off to the south. “Yes. I’ll be leading our half of the army into war, just as we planned, but once we reach the battle plain, I may have to leave you and the others for a time.”

“What?”

“The Weaver has asked me to see to a matter of some importance, and it may require that I relinquish command. Just for a short while. I want you to be ready to assume command in my place.”

Nitara gaped at her. “I’m … I’m not sure I can. Leading a part of this army is one thing, but leading all the Qirsi under your command is another entirely.”

“No, it’s not. There’s really very little difference.”

“Can’t the other chancellor—?”

“He has his own force to command, Nitara. Besides, as powerful as he is, he doesn’t possess both mists and language of beasts, as you do.” She smiled, though only for an instant. “For that matter, neither do I. No, you’re the logical choice.”

Nitara nodded, taking a breath. “All right.”

“Just follow the Weaver, as always. And allow your instincts to guide you.”

Another cheer went up from the far side of the camp. Both women turned toward the sound, and Nitara saw that several Qirsi were already on their mounts.

“You’ll be fine,” Jastanne said, facing her again.

“What is it the Weaver’s asked you to do?”

The chancellor hesitated. “He wants me to kill a woman who betrayed the movement. It shouldn’t take me long.”

“Very well,” Nitara said. “Qirsar guard you, Chancellor.”

“And you, Nitara.”

Jastanne started away.

“Did you and he—?” She stopped, ashamed of herself for blurting out anything at all.

The chancellor turned slowly, her brow knitted. “Nitara—”

“Forget that I said anything. Please. I’m happy for you. For both of you.”

“It was one night, Nitara. That’s all. Who knows what today is going to bring?” She turned again and walked away, leaving Nitara feeling alone and terribly young.

After a moment, the minister glanced about to see if any of the others were watching her, or had heard their exchange. No one appeared to be paying her any attention at all.

She strapped on her sword, saddled her mount, and swung herself onto the stallion’s back. Surveying the camp again, she saw the Weaver on his horse, sitting motionless, his hair gleaming in the early morning light, his eyes fixed on the southern sky. He said nothing, but all of them seemed to sense that he wanted them to gather around him. Within just a few moments a tight cluster of Qirsi had surrounded him, their gazes fixed on his regal face. Nitara wished that she could be next to him, but she made no effort to press forward. She merely waited for him to speak.

“This is the day we’ve been planning for,” he said at last, his voice even, but loud enough to be heard by all. “This is the day we fulfill our destiny. Nine centuries ago our people came to the Forelands as would-be conquerors. Like you, they were willing to die for their cause. Like you, they lent their power to a Weaver. They were the greatest army ever to ride on these moors, and they scattered Eandi armies before them in their march toward dominion. They nearly succeeded; they would have had it not been for the betrayal of one man.” He regarded them all. “Carthach,” he said, echoing the name that resounded in Nitara’s mind, no doubt in the minds of all who had assembled around him.

“I speak his name not to open old wounds, but to remind you of how close we once came to victory, and of how long we have waited for redemption. For nine hundred years we have suffered for his treachery. For nine hundred years we have waited to fulfill the promise of that first Qirsi army. Today our long wait finally ends. Today we cleanse our history, we wipe away the stain of Carthach’s treason. Today, we begin anew. From this day forward we will rule the Forelands, just as we should have so long ago. Together, you and I will remake the world.” He raised himself out of his saddle, standing in his stirrups. “We fight for the glory of Qirsar!” he shouted, drawing a mighty roar from his warriors.

“Our magic is yours, Weaver,” Jastanne said, after the din had subsided. “Weave us well.”

Dusaan nodded once. “Into your units,” he said. “It’s time to ride.”

The Qirsi quickly returned to their brigades, and were soon thundering southward across the Moorlands. Nitara and Yedeg, Jastanne’s other commander, rode just behind the chancellor; Rov and Gorlan followed Uestem. Two more Qirsi had joined them during the night. One, a tall, thin man with an angular face, Nitara understood to be the archminister of Aneira. The other was a lanky woman with a haunted look in her pale eyes. Both of them were shapers; they took positions in Gorlan’s force.

At the head of the army rode the Weaver, his white hair flowing in the wind like the great mane of a god. From all that Nitara had ever heard about war and armies, she knew that the morn of a battle was the most difficult time for a warrior. This was when thoughts of death entered a soldier’s mind, when fear took hold of the heart. But none of the men or women around her seemed frightened. With the Weaver leading them, they appeared confident, at ease. It was as if he was already using his magic to impart to them his courage. Nitara doubted that the Eandi soldiers awaiting them on the plain felt so certain of their fates.

After only a brief ride the Qirsi encountered a small force of Eandi soldiers, all of them wearing the white, gold, and red of Braedon. One of the men, a captain no doubt, rode forward from the others, most of whom were on foot. He had his hand raised in greeting, as if calling for a parley.

“The remnants of the emperor’s army!” the Weaver called, a grin on his face. “Shapers!” he said, turning toward Uestem’s force. The captain reined in his horse, a puzzled look on his face.

“High Chancellor?” he called to Dusaan.

The Weaver offered no reply, and an instant later, the Eandi fell, his body appearing to break like a child’s toy. The Qirsi rode on, bearing down on the other soldiers who now tried to flee. Many of them died without drawing their weapons. The Weaver and his warriors didn’t even bother to slow their charge.

A short time later, the Qirsi army topped a small rise, and Nitara saw before them the armies of the enemy. Confident as she was, the minister couldn’t help but be daunted by the size of the Eandi force. There were thousands of them, their helms and armor glittering in the sunlight. They were spread wide across the plain, in a vast crescent, so that they appeared ready to block a Qirsi advance in any direction. Already, the Weaver and his warriors had defeated armies far bigger than their own, but never had they faced anything like this.

After a moment, Dusaan raised a hand and his riders halted. He turned in his saddle, glancing back at Jastanne and Uestem, and beckoned them forward.

“Commanders,” Jastanne said quietly, as she spurred her mount forward.

Nitara and the others followed, stopping just behind Dusaan.

“What do you see, Chancellor?” the Weaver asked.

Jastanne eyed the Eandi armies for a moment before responding. “None of them are on horseback.”

“Meaning?”

“We’ll have to fold those with language of beasts into the other units.”

“Yes, those with other powers of use to us. Very good. What else?”

“They’ve spread the archers along the breadth of their lines,” Uestem said.

“Yes, they have. Why?”

“To keep us from using a single wind against them.”

“I expect so. Jastanne, we’ll have to keep the winds turning, give them no time to adjust.”

“Yes, Weaver.”

Dusaan looked back at Nitara. “Commander, I understand that you may find yourself leading the chancellor’s army for a time.”

“But my unit—”

“Your unit may be blended into the others, but that doesn’t change the fact that you’re a commander, and that you possess mists and winds, as well as language of beasts. You should be prepared to lead the others. Do you understand?”

She nodded, her throat suddenly dry. “Yes, Weaver.”

For a few frenzied moments Nitara and Jastanne divided those Qirsi who had been in the minister’s unit among the other brigades. A few, those who didn’t have mists, or shaping, or fire, were told to remain behind, but the others quickly took their places behind the other commanders. Nitara remained with Yedeg and Jastanne.

“The enemy has been clever,” the Weaver said, when they were ready. “No doubt the Qirsi among them—all of them traitors to our people—aided the Eandi with their preparations. But none of what they’ve done changes anything. Mounted or on foot, spread wide or clustered like a herd of drel, the Eandi can’t defeat us. These are the last desperate measures of a foe we’ve already defeated.” He pulled his sword free and raised it over his head. “We ride to war!”

With a full-throated cry, the other Qirsi kicked at their mounts and rode forward, following Dusaan and pulling their weapons free as well. Nitara had time to remark to herself how curious a gesture this was, considering that the only weapon the Qirsi hoped to use was their magic.

And then everything began to go horribly wrong.

They were quickly closing the distance between themselves and the Eandi lines. Nitara was eyeing the bowmen to her right—the closest of the Eandi archers—waiting for them to launch their first volley of arrows, when she felt a sudden pulse of heat. She looked to her left in time to see several of Rov’s riders fall to the ground flailing at flames that had engulfed their hair and clothing. In front of her, Dusaan halted, incredulous and enraged.

“What in Qirsar’s name is happening?” he demanded.

“We’re under attack!” came the reply, although Nitara never saw who it was who spoke.

An instant later, she heard a rapid succession of muffled cracks and then howls of pain. On the far side of the Weaver’s army, where Gorlan sat at the head of his brigade, at least a dozen more warriors fell, many of them writhing in pain, a few completely motionless.