Weavers of War: Book Five of Winds of the Forelands

by DAVID B. COE

  Immediately, the king shouted orders to his lead bowmen, one of whom unfurled a banner of his own. A moment later, a swarm of arrows leaped into the sky, soaring toward the Qirsi army from several directions at once.

  Grinsa felt a wind begin to rise from the north, but he knew it wouldn’t gain strength fast enough to block the assault. And just to make certain of this, he now reached out with his power, sensing where the Weaver had positioned those among his horde who possessed mists and winds. Seizing the power of as many of them as he could tear away from the Weaver—about twenty in all—he robbed their gale of much of its strength.

  Seconds later, the arrows struck, bringing new cries of pain from the Qirsi and panicked whinnying from their mounts. Many fell—Grinsa and the loyal Qirsi were still vastly outnumbered, but the Weaver’s advantage was shrinking by the moment.

  Dusaan himself remained seated on his mount, which he steered from side to side, making the beast dance as he shouted commands to his foundering warriors. Another volley flew from the bows of the Eandi archers, but already the Weaver had coaxed a wind from his sorcerers, one that built rapidly and began to swirl, weakening the flight of the arrows. Grinsa tried once more to use his power on Dusaan’s Qirsi, but they were ready for him now. Not only did the sorcerers resist him, but he could feel Dusaan tightening his hold on their magic. Gazing across the battle plain, he saw that the Weaver was staring back at him. Their eyes met, and Dusaan shook his head, a feral grin springing to his lips.

  Grinsa knew that he wouldn’t catch the Weaver unaware again.

  Most of the second wave of arrows fell short of Dusaan’s army, and those that did reach the Qirsi did little damage. Kearney’s archers sent up another barrage, but the Weaver defeated this one with ease.

  Grinsa reached again for Dusaan’s shapers and managed to wound several more of them. But he could hear the Weaver shouting at his warriors once more, and when the gleaner tried to use the enemies’ fire magic against them, he encountered too much resistance.

  “Damn!” he muttered.

  Tavis looked at him sharply. “What is it?”

  “Dusaan has warned them against me. It’s going to be far harder now to turn their magic back on them.”

  “You can still try.”

  He faced the young lord, shaking his head. “It’s not worth the effort, and if I don’t start weaving the others now Dusaan will use the same tactic against us.”

  Tavis frowned, staring across the plain once more.

  Grinsa knew what he was thinking. In the first few moments of the battle they had managed to destroy nearly a third of the Weaver’s army, but it wasn’t enough. Not nearly.

  “We made a good start, Tavis, in large part thanks to you.”

  “Yes, but now what?”

  Before Grinsa could think of a response, Dusaan offered one of his own. The gleaner sensed the magic as it surged toward them, feeling it on his skin as one might a close lightning strike, tasting it as one might blood, and he reached desperately for the shapers along the Eandi lines—Fotir and Xivled, Evetta ja Rudek, who was Tremain’s first minister, and Dyre jal Frinval, who served in Kearney’s court with Keziah. With an effort that stole his breath and brought beads of sweat to his brow, he sent forth his own burst of power that he hoped would meet the Weaver’s. But Dusaan’s magic and that of his servants overwhelmed the meager power that Grinsa could muster. Had the gleaner done nothing nearly half of the Eandi soldiers might have been killed. As it was, he was able to save a good number of them.

  Still, Dusaan’s onslaught crashed into the soldiers as an ocean wave would a wall of sand. Hundreds were lost, many of them screaming in agony, others silenced before they even knew what had happened to them.

  “Gleaner!” he heard Kearney shout, but Grinsa had no time to answer.

  Dusaan and his army were advancing on them once more, and already the gleaner could see the next attack building. A glimmering flame that rose from the land like a wraith and began to speed toward them. Drawing on the power of his fellow Qirsi—Evetta again, as well as Labruinn’s first minister, the old minister from Brugaosa, whose power had diminished to almost nothing, and a number of the healers who also possessed fire magic—Grinsa countered with a blaze of his own. He’d had more warning this time, and his fire met Dusaan’s a good distance from the Eandi lines. Still, he could only hope to diminish the potency of the Weaver’s assault. When Dusaan’s fire crashed into the Eandi army it killed scores, and wounded many more. But it didn’t obliterate Kearney’s force, and Grinsa could ask for little more.

  “At this rate it won’t be long before our entire army is gone.”

  Grinsa cast a withering glare at Tavis, but said nothing. The boy was right.

  He couldn’t allow the Weaver to continue his offensive against the Eandi soldiers, and there seemed to be only one way to stop him. Reaching for his shapers once more, the gleaner directed an attack against Dusaan himself. The Weaver would be expecting this—Grinsa had little hope that he could actually hurt the man. But at least Dusaan would have to defend himself, making it impossible for him to launch attacks of his own.

  As he expected, the Weaver turned his magic away with ease. Grinsa thought he actually heard the Weaver laughing, but he didn’t falter even for an instant. He reached for the fire magic again, sending a ball of flame at the man. Again Dusaan blocked the attack, but already Grinsa was drawing on Keziah’s magic, language of beasts. This, it seemed, Dusaan had not expected, for his mount suddenly reared, neighing loudly. For just a moment, Grinsa thought that he might succeed in unseating the Weaver. But Dusaan quickly calmed the beast. Again the gleaner drew upon his shaping magic.

  By this time though, he was beginning to tire. Here was the flaw in this tactic. It was born of desperation and it demanded a great deal of effort on Grinsa’s part with little opportunity for rest. In time he would grow too weary to fight at all, and then all would be lost. In truth, he had known all along that he would have to resort to these attacks eventually. He just hadn’t known that his plight and that of his allies would grow so dire so quickly.

  “What can I do?” Tavis asked.

  Grinsa shook his head, having no answer at first. His teeth were clenched, his mind fully occupied by the weaving of magic and his mounting exhaustion. “Wave the flag,” he said at last, tossing the Eibitharian banner to the boy. “Maybe the archers can do some good.”

  “There aren’t many of them left. Most died by the Weaver’s magic.”

  “Those who are left then. Quickly, Tavis!”

  The young lord raised the flag over his head and moments later arrows soared into the morning air. There were pitifully few of them, and the Weaver’s Qirsi managed to defend themselves with winds and shaping even though Dusaan couldn’t weave their powers together.

  “Again!” the gleaner called.

  He saw Tavis wave the flag, but he never knew for certain whether the archers fired. At that same moment Dusaan retaliated with an attack of his own. Shaping at first, then fire, then back to shaping once more. Grinsa held tightly to his magic, easily resisting the Weaver’s assault. Unlike Dusaan, the gleaner wasn’t on horseback, meaning that there were fewer powers for the Weaver to try to control. Except that in the next instant, Dusaan had taken hold of Grinsa’s power of mists and winds—Grinsa hadn’t even thought to guard that magic.

  A gale started to rise, and the gleaner struggled to regain control of his magic.

  “Grinsa?” Tavis’s voice seemed to come to him from a great distance. He didn’t reply.

  In the span of a single heartbeat, Dusaan released the one power, trying once more for shaping and then fire. Grinsa fought to ward himself, attempting to anticipate the Weaver’s attacks. But he was weary, and with each moment that passed it grew harder for him to keep the Weaver from taking hold of his shaping power, the one Dusaan seemed to want most of all.

  How had the Weaver turned the tide of their battle so quickly? Just a few moments before Grinsa had
Dusaan reeling, clinging desperately to his mount and laboring to maintain control of his magics. Now Grinsa was the one scrambling simply to stay alive.

  He heard Tavis say something else, but he couldn’t make out what it was. Abruptly though, his battle with the Weaver ceased. He stared at the boy, astonished.

  “What happened?”

  “The archers finally managed to aim a salvo at the Weaver,” the boy said. “He had to raise a wind to protect himself.”

  Grinsa nodded. His respite wouldn’t last long, but he was grateful for any rest at all.

  “How are we doing?” he asked.

  “Our archers aren’t having much effect on them,” Tavis said, “and they won’t come close to our swordsmen. But as long as you keep the Weaver occupied, they don’t seem capable of doing much damage to our lines.”

  Right.

  “I’ll keep after him as long as I can,” he said. “But you have to understand, Tavis: I’m merely delaying the inevitable. I can’t keep this up forever.”

  “Neither can he. Just make certain that his strength fails first.”

  “You don’t understand. With so many Qirsi on his side, the damage he’s done thus far demanded far less of him than what I’ve had to do. I’m already weary—wearier than he. I can’t win a battle on these terms.”

  Tavis merely stared back at him, the look in his eyes asking the obvious question. What choice did they have?

  Grinsa looked across the battle plain once more. Dusaan called to his warriors, then glanced back at the gleaner. No time to waste.

  He reached for the Weaver’s magic again. Language of beasts, fire, shaping. Dusaan brushed him away as if he were no more than an irksome child. Before Grinsa could try a second time, the Weaver began to draw upon the vast power of his army. Shaping. Grinsa could see the magic shimmering before him, making the grasses and boulders of the moor waver, as if from the heat of a planting sun. He reached for the others again, wondering how much longer they could contend with the might of so many Qirsi.

  But his allies were there—Fotir, Xivled, and the rest—and the stream of magic they sent back at the Weaver seemed stronger than any he had woven that day. It almost seemed that Fotir and the others, sensing his fatigue, had given more of themselves, offering their strength where his was failing. By the time the Weaver’s magic reached the Eandi lines, it had dwindled to nearly nothing. A few soldiers were wounded, crumpling to the ground, but not nearly as many as Grinsa had feared.

  “We were fortunate that time,” he said.

  Tavis eyed him, seeming at last to understand just how bleak was their situation. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

  After a moment, Grinsa faced Dusaan again and tried once more to take control of the Weaver’s power. He had little hope of succeeding. But he didn’t know what else to do.

  * * *

  She felt useless, as she always did during these battles. A part of her had hoped that this day might be different, that despite the lingering pain in her hands she might prove herself as a warrior. Her brother was leading them to war. At last she had her chance to strike back against the Weaver, to repay the man for all he had done to her, and to Cresenne, and to everyone else who had suffered at the hands of his conspiracy. Finally, she could avenge the murder of Paegar jal Berget, who had once been her friend, despite his ties to the Weaver’s movement.

  But Keziah found that she could be of no help at all, even in a war of magic, a war between Weavers. Grinsa did draw upon her magic once, when he used language of beasts against Dusaan’s horse, but little came of that effort, and almost immediately both Weavers turned back to the more menacing powers: shaping and fire. Ironically, had she truly been a part of the Weaver’s army, she would have been called upon to raise a wind, but as of yet, Grinsa hadn’t tried to raise an opposing gale.

  She could only watch and wait, and hope that eventually, before all was lost, she would have her opportunity to strike at the enemy.

  As Dusaan’s warriors drew nearer to the Eandi lines, Keziah began to push her way forward, past astonished Eandi soldiers. She wasn’t fool enough to fancy herself a skilled swordswoman, but possessing language of beasts, she thought that she ought to be where her magic would do Kearney’s army the most good. She might not be able to strike a killing blow either with steel or Qirsi power, but she could make a horse rear at an opportune time, or coax a falcon out of the sky as she had done when Fotir saved her. No matter what she managed to do, it would be better than standing behind Kearney’s men wondering how she might make herself useful.

  Before she reached the front lines, however, she spied something that made her stop. It was a Qirsi woman riding in a wide arc around the eastern flank of the Eandi lines. Had there been more than this lone rider Keziah would have raised the alarm immediately. But it was just the one woman, and something in her manner gave the archminister pause. Keziah was watching her from some distance, but the rider appeared to be scanning the Eandi armies, as if searching for something, or someone. She was beautiful and so young in appearance, with golden eyes so much like those of the Weaver, that Keziah wondered for just a moment if she might be Dusaan’s daughter. She knew it was impossible, but she was equally sure that the woman was powerful in her own right, no matter the nature of her ties to the Weaver. She moved confidently, as if she had complete faith in her abilities and her magic.

  “Probably a shaper,” Keziah muttered to herself, marking the woman’s progress. Her hands throbbed at the mere suggestion. For as she stood watching the rider, Keziah sensed that the woman was searching for her. The Weaver had vowed to punish her and somehow she knew that he had chosen this woman to mete out whatever retribution he had chosen.

  Her first thought was to flee. Perhaps she had time to find her horse and ride away from the plain. Abeni had hurt her so badly; she would rather die instantly by a warrior’s blade than face such agony again. As quickly as the notion came to her, however, she dismissed it. If the Weaver wanted her dead, he would find a way to kill her. Better to face her doom now. Besides, she sensed that this woman would cut a swath through the ranks of Kearney’s men to reach her if forced to do so. If Keziah was to die this day, she didn’t want to face Bian the Deceiver with any more deaths on her head.

  She made her way back through the soldiers to the rear of the lines and then walked a short distance from the battle plain, all the while watching the rider. The woman continued to scan the Eandi lines until at last her eyes fell on Keziah. As soon as the rider spotted the archminister, she kicked her mount to a gallop and rode directly toward her, white hair dancing in the wind.

  The archminister kept her eyes locked on her attacker, readying herself to use language of beasts on the woman’s mount. It seemed, though, that the Weaver had warned this woman against her. Long before she was close enough for Keziah’s magic to have much effect on the creature, the woman halted and dismounted, continuing her approach on foot. Two soldiers charged her, but both collapsed to the ground before they were within ten fourspans of her. Keziah thought she heard the muffled snapping of bone as they fell.

  This time fear got the better of her. Keziah turned, intending to run, but before she could take even a step, her leg gave way. She fell to the grass, pain clouding her vision. Her stomach heaved and she clenched her teeth to keep from being ill.

  “Not so fast, Archminister,” the woman called to her, killing another soldier without so much as a glance. “The Weaver wanted me to convey a message to you.”

  Keziah braced herself, knowing what was coming. Why does it always have to be shapers? she had time to wonder. Then torment. Not the hands this time, nor even a limb. She heard the cracking of bone, and felt as though a fire were burning within her body. She gasped, her agony only worsening. One rib. Then another. This time she couldn’t keep herself from vomiting, though that too brought new anguish.

  Several more Eandi soldiers converged on the woman, swords drawn, but before they reached her they were hammered t
o the ground, their bodies collapsing in grotesque positions as if they had been mauled by some terrible demon of the Underrealm. For just an instant the archminister thought that her attacker had done this herself, but when the woman looked back over her shoulder Keziah knew that it had been the Weaver, that he was watching them, waiting to see her die.

  “He wanted you to suffer,” the woman said, facing her once more, smiling faintly. “But I’m afraid there’s no time for that now.”

  At least it would be quick.

  “Hold, Jastanne!” came a voice from beside Keziah. “You’ll not be killing anyone today.”

  Keziah looked up and, to her amazement, saw Aindreas, the duke of Kentigern, towering over her, his sword held loosely in one hand, a shield in the other.

  Her first impulse was to warn him away, to tell him that the woman was a shaper and that no Eandi warrior, no matter his size, could contend with her. Then the full import of what he had said finally reached her. Jastanne. He had called the woman by her name.

  The Qirsi laughed.

  “Yes, Archminister. He knows me. You find that odd, don’t you?”

  A few others had gathered around them, though most on the battle plain remained oblivious of this second, lesser conflict. The handful of men who had followed the duke were soldiers wearing the colors of Eibithar: Kearney’s men, who had treated Keziah with suspicion and contempt for so many turns, who had been told of Kentigern’s defiance of the Crown, who had come to this plain to do battle with the empire’s soldiers only to find themselves at war with a Weaver and his army. Most of them probably didn’t know what to make of the scene unfolding before them. Keziah wasn’t even certain that she did.

  “How do you know this woman?” she asked, through gritted teeth.

  The woman was smiling still. “Yes, my Lord Duke, can you explain that?”

  Aindreas tightened his hold on the sword, his knuckles whitening. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, his gaze flicking from Jastanne’s face to the faces of the soldiers. “This woman is a shaper,” he said loudly. “She’s more dangerous than any of you know. She can’t be allowed to live.”