Weavers of War (62 page)

Grinsa’s attempts to use the magic of the enemy to his own advantage—apparently a tactic suggested by Tavis—had worked at first, disrupting the Weaver’s initial attacks and costing the man a good number of his warriors. But the enemy had recovered quickly, reforming his lines and using the awesome power he wielded to devastating effect. The Eandi archers had inflicted some damage on the Qirsi army, but their ranks had been decimated by the Weaver’s shaping and fire power; fewer than a hundred remained alive and uninjured. Thus far Grinsa had managed to keep the enemy from doing the same to the Eandi swordsmen, but Fotir sensed that the gleaner’s strength was failing. Each new Qirsi assault exacted a greater toll than the previous one, and every time Grinsa reached for the minister’s power to defend the Eandi lines the effort seemed more desperate.

Grinsa stood quite close to where Fotir and his duke were watching the battle progress, but it might as well have been forty leagues. Having rid themselves of most of the archers, the Weaver and his servants had closed the distance between themselves and the Eandi lines. The Qirsi remained far enough away so that any advance by Kearney’s swordsmen would leave the Eandi soldiers exposed to the Weaver’s lethal power, but they were close enough to give the gleaner precious little time to respond to each new attack that Dusaan unleashed. All of Grinsa’s attention was directed forward, his gaze never straying from the Weaver.

“Damn them!” Hagan MarCullet growled, standing near Javan and Fotir. “Why won’t they just fight us and be done with it?” He cupped a hand to his mouth. “Fight, ye cowards!” he shouted.

Fotir glanced at the duke, who was already eyeing him, his expression bleak.

“Perhaps it is time we took the battle to them,” Javan said. “This doesn’t seem to be working.”

Hagan nodded. “Couldn’t the gleaner and the rest of you raise a mist? With the proper cover, we might be able to attack.”

The minister started to respond, but before he could say a word, Grinsa was in his mind again, drawing on his shaping power. Fotir could see nothing of the Weaver’s magic, of course, nor could he sense it, as Grinsa apparently could. But there could be no mistaking the panic in the gleaner’s thoughts.

“Get behind your shields!” Fotir called to all who could hear. “This is going to be bad.”

It was.

Even with Grinsa wielding the magic of so many, Fotir felt the collision of the gleaner’s power with that of the Weaver as if it were a body blow. He staggered, reaching out to steady himself on whatever was nearest, which turned out to be his duke’s shoulder. Grinsa touched his mind a second time, sending out another pulse of power. Nevertheless, when the Weaver’s magic hit the Eandi lines, it was like a storm tide rushing over castles of sand. The Qirsi attack shattered the bodies of hundreds of warriors, crashing through the King’s Guard, the soldiers of Sanbira, and the forces of Kentigern, Thorald, Heneagh, Labruinn, Tremain, and even Curgh. No army was spared.

Those who were able to raise their shields in time found themselves holding mangled pieces of wood and steel. But at least they were alive.

“The gleaner’s weakening, isn’t he?” the duke said.

“There are just too many of them,” Fotir answered, feeling that he needed to defend his friend.

“I’m not finding fault, First Minister, I’m merely making an observation.”

Reluctantly, Fotir nodded. “I can feel his weariness.”

“We should attack them,” Hagan said, echoing the duke’s words from a moment before. “Standing here waiting to die is not my idea of waging war.”

Javan cast a hard look at the Qirsi army. “We should at least suggest as much to the gleaner and the king, while there’s still time.”

Fotir nodded his agreement, and they hurried to where Grinsa and Kearney stood.

Grinsa’s face was as white as Panya’s glow, and sweat ran like tears down his cheeks.

“Please pardon the intrusion, Your Majesty,” the duke said, “but we’ve been wondering if it might not be time to alter our tactics.”

Kearney wore a pained expression, as if hope had long since abandoned him. “To what end, Javan?”

“We should take the fight to them. Have the gleaner raise a mist to conceal an assault on the Qirsi lines.”

“Any mist I raise the Weaver will defeat with a wind. I haven’t enough Qirsi to sustain both a mist and an opposing gale. It would be a slaughter.”

“It’s becoming that already,” the duke said.

Fotir thought the gleaner would argue, but he merely shrugged.

Kearney looked at Grinsa. “Can you keep the Weaver occupied for a time? Give us an opportunity to advance on him unseen?”

“Not without—” He faltered, his eyes widening slightly, though they never left the Weaver. “Actually there may be a way to give you that opportunity and perhaps win one for me, as well. Fotir, gather the Qirsi as quickly as you can. Bring them all to me. We haven’t much time before the Weaver attacks again.”

The minister glanced at his duke, who nodded immediately.

He sprinted off, running first to the west and then back to the east before returning to the gleaner. At one point he had to stop so that Grinsa could draw upon his power again and ward off another attack. Somehow, the gleaner was able to project more magic this time, and the Weaver’s assault had little effect. It seemed that whatever hope Grinsa had glimpsed had strengthened him, at least for the moment.

By the time he returned, there were a dozen Qirsi gathered around the king and gleaner.

Still, Grinsa frowned when he saw the minister had returned.

“Where’s Keziah?”

Fotir felt the blood drain from his face. “I don’t know. I didn’t see her.”

“What do you mean you didn’t see her?” Kearney demanded. “Where could she have gone?”

“It doesn’t matter right now!” the gleaner said, though there could be no mistaking the concern in his pale eyes. “I need all of you who have mists and winds to raise a mist together. Summon the mist from the center of the battle plain and when the Weaver raises a wind to counter it—”

“Wait,” Evetta said. “Aren’t you going to be weaving us?”

Somehow Grinsa managed a grin. “No, I’m not. The Weaver will think I am, and when he pits his magic against yours, I’ll strike at him.” He turned to the king. “Your warriors won’t have much time, Your Majesty. They must attack swiftly.”

“Should we use the horses?”

“I still think that would be a mistake. Especially in a mist. With the Qirsi on horseback, your warriors will have no doubt as to who the enemy is. And with your men on foot, the Weaver will have one less magic at his disposal.”

“Very well.”

“We should begin immediately.”

Kearney nodded. “We await the mist.”

Grinsa eyed his fellow Qirsi once more. “When the Weaver raises his wind, you’ll have to work together to fight against it. If this is to work, I can’t help you.”

“We’ll do our part,” Fotir said.

The gleaner smiled faintly. “I’m sure you will. Begin.”

Fotir faced the battle plain and began to draw upon his power of mists and winds. Without the gleaner in his mind, bolstering his magic, blending it with his own and that of the others, he felt weak and small. But among the Qirsi standing with him, several wielded this magic, and in just a short time a heavy fog had settled over the moor.

“Your Majesty?” Grinsa said.

Kearney drew his sword, as did Javan, Tavis, Hagan MarCullet and his son, and Gershon Trasker.

“Our lives are in your hands, gleaner,” the king said. “May the gods be kind to us all.”

“I’ll do all I can to protect you, Your Majesty. If by my death, I can insure your survival, and that of the others, then so be it.”

“I hope it doesn’t come to that.” Kearney faced his swordmaster. “Gershon, signal the attack.”

The swordmaster began barking commands, which were echoed along the Eandi lines in both directions. Within moments, soldiers were surging forward, their swords raised, war cries on their lips. It seemed that they had been waiting for this, impatient for the opportunity to fight back against this maddening, deadly foe.

The king and duke started forward as well, although not before Tavis turned to face the gleaner.

“When this is over,” Tavis said, “I want a new Fating.”

“What?”

The young lord was smiling, the scars he carried from Kentigern appearing to vanish for just a moment. Grinsa’s brow was furrowed as if he were frowning, but there was a smile on his lips as well.

“I’ve never had a real one, you know, and I think I’ve earned it.”

Grinsa laughed. “Fine. A Fating it is. Now go.”

Tavis gazed at the gleaner a moment longer, then turned and ran to join the rest.

Fotir and the other Qirsi continued to weave their mists and soon the Eandi warriors had vanished in the grey cloud they had created, though their shouts could still be heard.

“Why isn’t the Weaver doing anything?” Xivled jal Viste asked. “Why hasn’t he raised a wind yet?”

Grinsa was frowning, his eyes on the mist. “Where in Qirsar’s name is Kezi?” he muttered. Then, as if finally realizing that Xiv’s question had been directed at him, he shook his head, as if rousing himself. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“I was wondering why the Weaver hadn’t raised a wind yet.”

“A good question. I think he may be confused. He’s probably wondering if this is a feint of some sort, or an act of desperation.”

“Little does he know that it’s both.”

Grinsa smirked. “Indeed.”

“Can he sense that you’re not weaving us?” Fotir asked.

“Probably, but even so, his lines are about to be attacked by more than two thousand men. He has to do something. The question is, will he strike out blindly, or try first to defeat the mist.”

*   *   *

For the first time since leaving Braedon’s Imperial Palace in the Weaver’s company, Nitara felt herself growing truly afraid. The mist itself was nothing to fear. The Weaver would have little trouble sweeping it away with a wind; he had far more sorcerers at his disposal than did the Eandi.

But it soon became apparent to her that he was making no effort to do so. Did he want the mist to remain in place? If so, what was it he expected of the rest of them? And if not, why had he allowed it to remain? Was he engaged in some other struggle? Or worse, had he been hurt or killed? Nitara tried to tell herself that this was impossible, but the night before she had seen blood on his face and robe, and this very morning another Weaver—another Weaver!—had taken hold of her magic and made her tumble from her mount. She had tried to convince herself otherwise, but this was the only explanation for what had happened to her, and for what had been done to others in the Weaver’s ranks. Where once, not more than a day ago, a mist like this one would have been of no concern at all, it now chilled her to her heart, as if Bian himself had summoned the vapor from his dark realm.

She could hear soldiers approaching. Hundreds of soldiers, perhaps more.

Abruptly she found herself helpless. She was on horseback, and she carried a blade, but she was no fighter. And without the Weaver, she had no magic with which to defend herself. She could raise a wind to blow away the mist, but what if the Weaver didn’t want that? Her other magics—gleaning and language of beasts—were of little use to her. She’d heard it said long ago that her people weren’t meant to be warriors, that their magics were not those of a conquering race. Indeed, these were words ascribed to Carthach himself, the traitor whose treason ended the first Qirsi War nine centuries before. But until this moment, she had never understood what he meant.

There were other Qirsi near her, barely visible through the dense mist, but none of them had said a word to her, and again, she wasn’t certain what the Weaver expected of them.

She actually had started to consider retreat, when at last a wind rose, gathering speed swiftly and stirring the fog so that it began to dissipate. Still the mist surrounded them, and other winds blew, clearly intended to counter the one raised by the Weaver. In the next instant, though, the Weaver’s gale died away, just as abruptly as it had appeared. Nitara began to hear voices calling out along the Qirsi front, the words impossible to make out at first. But it seemed this was a message that traveled the lines.

“Summon your own winds!” she heard. “Defeat this mist!”

She repeated the words, shouting them as well, listened as the command traveled past her and was lost in the wind and fog.

Before she could reach for her magic, the Eandi soldiers reached her. Nitara kicked at her mount, driving the beast directly at the men, hacking at them with her sword. There was no grace in her attack, no method. She was impelled by fear, and the certainty that if she didn’t kill the men they would kill her. From all around her came the cries of warriors and the clash of steel. Winds rose and fell, stirring the mist into a frenzy so that it seemed wraiths were dancing all around the battle, but failing to clear the air.

She could hear the chime of shattering metal and the muted snapping of bone, and she knew that there were shapers nearby. She nearly gagged on the smell of charred flesh, saw dark grey smoke mingling with the sorcerous fog. There were other Qirsi nearby who were better suited than she to fighting these men. She lashed out with her blade, doing little damage to the enemy, but keeping them at bay at least for the moment. As she fought, she turned her mount once more and kicked the beast to a gallop, retreating from the combat.

“Where are you going?” a man’s voice called to her. She stared into the swirling mist, unable to see more than a vague form, mounted and crowned with white hair.

“My magic won’t avail me in battle,” she answered. “From further back I can summon a wind.”

She heard no reply, but thought she saw the rider nod before he vanished.

As soon as Nitara felt that she was safe from Eandi steel she halted and added her own wind to the muddled gale that raged over the battle plain. Still the mist lingered, giving an unearthly quality to the sounds of battle—the screams and moans, the clang of steel, and the dull pounding of horses’ hooves. She tried to shift the direction of the wind she had summoned, but amid the magic of so many Qirsi, nothing she did seemed to have much effect.