Weavers of War (63 page)

The thought came to her with the brutal swiftness of a blow, stealing her breath and making her totter in her saddle.

What had happened to the Weaver? She and her fellow Qirsi were fighting this mist and their soldiers on their own, without his magic to bolster their power, without his vision to direct their efforts.

Was he dead? Was he locked in a battle of his own?

A second blow, even more potent than the first. The second Weaver. Who else could hope to engage him in combat for any length of time?

Before she knew what she was doing, Nitara was riding along the Qirsi lines searching for the Weaver, straining to see through the mist, desperate to catch sight of his chiseled face and regal mane.
Gods, let him be alive!

She wasn’t certain how she could help him—of what use could she be in a battle between Weavers? She knew only that she needed to be with him. Nothing else mattered. Without Dusaan, this war was lost. And even if Nitara and her fellow Qirsi managed to prevail without him, what would be left of their movement? Who would rule the Forelands if not her Weaver? He was their strength, their cunning. He was their future. So Nitara rode, standing in her stirrups, gazing intently into the maddening white mist, her eyes tearing with the effort. She sensed that he was close, and also that he was in danger. More, it seemed that no one else understood this. It all fell to her. She could save him and so save the movement. Or she could fail and bring all to ruin.

*   *   *

As soon as he sensed the wind rising, Grinsa attacked. Shaping, fire, language of beasts, delusion, shaping again, healing, fire, language of beasts. Each time Dusaan warded one magic, Grinsa reached for another. He was weary and fear had crept deep into his heart. But he refused to despair, and he fought the Weaver with all the fury he had held within himself over the past year. Was Dusaan stronger than he? Perhaps. Grinsa didn’t care anymore. He struck at the man as a battle-crazed warrior hammers at the shield of his foe. He abandoned all to cruelty and vengeance, hatred and bloodlust. Shaping, healing, delusion, fire, language of beasts. Pity was weakness. Mercy might prove fatal. For this one moment, this final battle, he knew only malice and savagery.

For good or ill, this was his last onslaught. He would spend all destroying this man and crushing his movement. For Cresenne and Bryntelle, for Keziah and Tavis, for this land and its people, so imperfect and yet so deserving of his protection despite their flawed humanity. He drew upon his love of all, of life itself, and through a dark and perverse alchemy transformed it into power more fell and terrifying than any he had wielded before.

Fire, healing, language of beasts, delusion, shaping.

Magic coursed through his body, hot and terrible, searing his limbs, his lungs, his veins. He was ablaze with it, incandescent, as if Morna’s sun burned within him. Never before had he wielded power such as this; he had never even tried.

And within mere moments he knew that it wouldn’t be enough. Not nearly.

No matter how quickly he shifted from one magic to the next, Dusaan responded, altering his defenses to match every assault. Grinsa gave the Weaver no chance to fight back and kept him from weaving the magic of the sorcerers in the Qirsi army, but other than that, his attacks had no effect. Still he fought on, looking for an opening, hoping that just once he would reach for a magic that Dusaan had left unguarded. He didn’t.

Not even a Weaver could maintain such an attack forever. Already Grinsa sensed that he was nearing the limits of his endurance, and he knew that when his strength failed him, Dusaan would be ready. A voice within his mind—was it Cresenne’s?—called for him to break off his offensive, to save some of his strength for whatever would come after this gambit failed. Yet, he didn’t dare. He had sent Kearney, Tavis, and the rest of the Eandi forward under the cover of mist to bring war to the Qirsi army. As soon as he stopped trying to take control of Dusaan’s power, there would be nothing to stop the Weaver from slaughtering them.

Instead, he continued to pound at Dusaan’s mind with his own. Fire, shaping, delusion, fire, language of beasts, shaping. He could feel himself growing weaker. For a time, Dusaan had struggled to hold him off, like a swordsman parrying the attacks of a crazed foe. Now the Weaver seemed to be toying with him, as the same swordsman might play with a child, turning away his assaults with ease and unnerving confidence.

Still, when Dusaan’s reprisal came, Grinsa was utterly unprepared. One moment he was attempting to seize the Weaver’s healing magic, and the next he was on his back, the bones in both of his legs splintered like dry wood. Awash in a sea of pain, he never had the chance to scream. Suddenly he couldn’t draw breath. It seemed that some great demon from the Underrealm was kneeling on his chest.

Cresenne!
he thought, silent tears on his face.
I’ve failed! Forgive me!

He heard laughter in his mind, and then a voice.

“No, gleaner. You’ll not have such an easy death. You’ll see it all before the end. My victory, the destruction of your Eandi friends, the broken body of your sister. All of it. You’ll know torment and despair and humiliation before the sweet release you seek.” Dusaan laughed again. And then, out of spite, or simply because he could, the Weaver smashed the bone in Grinsa’s shoulder, the same one broken by the merchant Grinsa battled on the Wethy Crown. “That’s for Tihod,” he said, before leaving the gleaner with his agony and his sorrow.

*   *   *

Yes, there had been harrowing moments. Years from now when he looked back on this day, relishing once more his victory over the gleaner and the armies of the Eandi courts, he would admit that much to himself. Grinsa’s attack, while not unexpected, had been far more furious than he thought it would be. In its first few moments, Dusaan truly feared for his life. It didn’t take him long, however, to realize that the gleaner couldn’t hurt him. Perhaps if this had been Grinsa’s first attack it might have worked. But the gleaner was weary, his power diminished by all that had come before. The Weaver knew that he needed only to ward himself and wait. Eventually Grinsa’s strength would fail, and then the war would be Dusaan’s.

He would remember for the rest of his days how it felt to take hold of Grinsa’s power and turn it against the gleaner. No vengeance had ever tasted so sweet. It almost seemed that he could hear the bones shattering, that he could feel Grinsa’s hope wither and die. Was there risk in allowing the man to live? Of course, but not much. He was spent, broken, beaten. And he would die soon enough.

The Weaver could see nothing while the mist hung over the battle plain. It seemed that his warriors had managed to withstand the Eandi charge, but he couldn’t be certain of this so long as he battled the gleaner. After defeating Grinsa, however, Dusaan summoned a gale that swept away the fog, revealing a pitched battle between his Qirsi riders and the soldiers of Eibithar and Sanbira. The dead and wounded lay everywhere. Most were Eandi, their bodies broken or charred or bloodied by a sword stroke. But there were Qirsi dead as well, stark crimson stains on their pale skin and white hair.

As soon as the mist vanished, warriors on both sides faltered, as if uncertain as to what to do next.

Dusaan wasted no time. “Shapers!” he cried.

There would be no magic to oppose him this time, no pulse of power to match his own. He could destroy the Eandi at will. Grinsa was trying to take hold of his magic again. Dusaan sensed the attack coming and started to ward himself, but the gleaner’s attempt amounted to nothing. Grinsa had no strength left. His assault was so pitiful that Dusaan nearly laughed aloud. There was no one left to oppose him, at least no one who mattered.

The Weaver had thought to have the king of Eibithar murdered before this battle began, and his first thought now was to kill Kearney and thus deny the Eandi their leader. An instant later he reconsidered. By killing the king, he gave the man’s soldiers reason to fight and others reason to resist his advance across the land in subsequent days. Better to destroy the army and force Kearney’s surrender. He would ride at the head of Dusaan’s army a prisoner, stripped of his sword, his head bent, his hands bound. Let any others who might think to stand against the Qirsi see that.

He glanced at his warriors, gathering their power so as to strike at the enemy. The Qirsi were watching him. Fatigued, but expectant. They, too, knew that victory was near. He saw pride in their pale eyes, a desire to finish this, to realize the vision of which he had spoken so often.

The Eandi eyed him as well, terror and loathing on their faces. How long had he waited for this moment? It was all that he had imagined it would be, and more. He was as strong as a god, as indomitable as Qirsar himself. Power filled him—his own, and that of his servants. He had only to choose where to strike. He surveyed the battle plain for just an instant. Yes, there. A smile touched his lips, and he let the magic fly.

*   *   *

It was like fighting in a dream. He knew that others were nearby—the king, his father, Xaver—but he couldn’t see them and he hadn’t time to search for them in the mist. Qirsi horsemen appeared before him, and Tavis fought. Twice his clothes had been set ablaze. The first time, he had dropped to the ground, rolled back and forth until he extinguished the flames, and stood once more to fight on. The second time he didn’t bother with the fire on his shirt until after he had pulled the Qirsi from his saddle and killed him. He had burns on his neck and arm, but he didn’t care. He had been lucky to face Qirsi with fire magic. Shapers would have killed him.

The soldiers who saw what he had done cheered him, and after that they fought alongside him, guarding him from attacks, treating him as one of their own. At long last he had earned the trust of Kearney’s men-at-arms, perhaps even their respect. It was a shame that none of them would live out the day.

Even before the mist drifted away, borne on the sorcerer’s wind, Tavis sensed that the battle wasn’t going Grinsa’s way. It was intuition, nothing more—a cold, sour feeling in his stomach—but he took it as prophecy. He had often heard Grinsa speak with frustration of his gleaning power, of how uncertain it could be at times, and it occurred to him to wonder if this was what it was like: elusive, insubstantial glimpses of the future. When the air cleared, he wasn’t at all surprised.

The battle slowed, then ceased altogether, warriors on both sides staring up at the Weaver atop his mount, some of them with blades poised to strike. They remained that way for what seemed an eternity, though it was probably only a few moments. The young lord glanced to his left, saw Xaver standing motionless, his sword held loosely in his right hand, his eyes already fixed on Tavis. He opened his mouth and took a breath, as if intending to say something. And in that moment the Weaver struck.

Had Tavis been standing with his friend, he would have died as well, his entire body shattered as if some unseen fist had battered him to the earth. As it was, the Weaver’s magic reached only so far, stopping just a few fourspans from where Tavis was watching, helpless and aggrieved.

Heedless of all else, he bounded to his friend’s side, but it was already too late. Xaver lay lifeless on the grass, his body mangled, though there didn’t appear to be a mark on him. His eyes were closed, his face so utterly composed that one might well have thought him asleep and lost in a dream, had it not been for the small trickle of blood that seeped from his nose.

Tavis cradled the boy’s head in his lap, tears pouring down his cheeks and falling like rain on Xaver’s brow.

After a moment, he looked up, glaring at the Weaver. “You bastard!” he shouted. “You cowardly bastard!”

The Qirsi gazed back at him serenely, saying nothing. Then he turned toward Kearney.

“Surrender now, Your Majesty, and I’ll spare the rest of your men.”

Standing just a short distance from where Tavis knelt in the grass, Kearney gripped his sword and stood straight-backed, a gentle wind stirring his silver hair. “I’ll not surrender to you.”

The Weaver raised an eyebrow and gave a slight shrug. A moment later a sudden torrent of fire crashed into the other side of the Eandi army, searing flesh, hair, and clothing, scattering bodies as a gust of wind scatters seeds from a harvest flower.

The Weaver started to say something else, but Tavis heard none of it. At that moment Hagan MarCullet arrived, dropping to his knees beside his son’s shattered form, sobs racking his body, his voice breaking as he said the boy’s name again and again. Tavis laid the boy’s head in Hagan’s lap, drawing the swordmaster’s gaze.

“I’m so sorry, Hagan,” he managed to say. “If I hadn’t convinced you to let him fight—”

“Hush, boy. It wasn’t you or me. I know that; you should, too.”

Tavis nodded, wanting only to kill the Weaver, even if he died doing so. He heard more screams, reaching him as if from far off. Perhaps the Weaver had struck at them again.

The young lord hardly cared. He couldn’t take his eyes off Xaver, nor could he seem to stop crying.

“Lord Curgh,” a voice said from just behind him.

Tavis didn’t answer. This was the end. They’d die here on the Moorlands, or they’d be made slaves to the Qirsi. Either way, they had lost.

“Lord Curgh.” More insistent this time. Still Tavis refused to turn. Why couldn’t they just leave him alone?

“Tavis.”

It was his name that reached him. Turning, he saw Marston of Shanstead standing over him, a look of deepest concern on his youthful face.

“What do you want?”

“It’s your father. I think you’d better come quickly.”

Tavis glanced quickly at Hagan, his blood turning cold. “Stay here,” he said.

He stood and hurried after Marston, his apprehension mounting with every step, his legs trembling so badly he expected to stumble at any moment. The thane led him past living soldiers and then past dead ones. No one spoke, or if they did, Tavis didn’t hear them. He just walked, following the man to where his father lay.

The duke lived still, but only barely. Like Xaver, he was unmarked. Shaping. How did one fight such an enemy?