Weavers of War wotf-5

by DAVID B. COE

  Pillad’s brow creased, and he tipped his head to the side, as if pondering the question. “I’m not certain I know what you mean, my lord.”

  “Well, no matter.”

  “If you refer to his concerns about tiring them, I suppose I do think it odd. He certainly trains them hard enough. Yet he seems reluctant to put that training to the test when it comes time for war.” His yellow eyes were so wide that he looked like some great pale owl. “Please don’t misunderstand, my lord. I have great respect for the swordmaster. But other armies have had to march longer distances over shorter spans of time, and they’ve fought effectively.”

  Despite himself, Renald was swayed by this. “I’ve thought much the same thing,” he said, feeling that by admitting even this much, he was betraying Ewan’s trust. “I would like to cover more ground before we stop for the night.”

  “Of course, my lord. I know how eager you are to join the king. Still, it’s probably best to be prudent under these circumstances.”

  “Perhaps so.”

  Pillad looked back over his shoulder, no doubt to see if Ewan was returning. “It might also behoove you to give some consideration to the swordmaster’s command, my lord.”

  “His command?”

  “Yes. If he’s told the men that they’ll only cover a certain distance in a given day, then any deviation from that plan could undermine his authority. It may even convince the men that you’ve lost faith in him.”

  “So now you believe that we should keep to the swordmaster’s pace?” Renald shook his head. “I’m afraid you have me a bit confused, First Minister. One moment you seem to agree with me that Ewan is being too easy on the men, and the next you tell me that we’d be best off doing as he counsels. It almost seems that you’re trying to confuse me.”

  The duke said this without giving it much thought, but almost as soon as the words crossed his lips, he found himself wondering if this was precisely what the first minister had meant to do. Mightn’t a traitor to the court have reason to do so?

  Pillad replied with an easy laugh, though Renald thought he saw something else flash in those ghostly eyes. “Forgive me, my lord,” he said. “That wasn’t my intent. The fact is, I know little of military tactics and even less about leading an army. Sir Traylee is the expert on such matters, not I.”

  “Well, thank you, First Minister,” the duke said, eager now just to be away from the man. “I’ll give some thought to what you’ve said.”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  Before Pillad had finished saying this, Renald was already kicking at his horse’s flanks, putting as much distance as he dared between the Qirsi and himself. Yes, the man was behind him again, but Renald no longer cared. Just as long as he didn’t have to speak with him, or see the minister’s strange features. Or so he told himself. For some time after he pulled ahead of Pillad he found himself anticipating a sword thrust between the shoulder blades, flinching at every unexpected noise, and turning his head ever so slightly to try to see where the Qirsi was and what he was doing.

  When Ewan finally rejoined him, the duke nearly wept with relief.

  “I’ve spoken with the captains, my lord. They’re in agreement that we can try to march two more leagues after dusk. I knew that you would prefer this, so I told them that we would. I hope that was all right.”

  This was how a man serving in a noble court should speak to his duke, with the clarity and purpose of a soldier. White-hairs seemed always to be weaving mists with their words.

  “Yes, swordmaster. I’m pleased to hear that. Well done.”

  “Thank you, my lord. Shall I leave you?”

  “No!” Renald said, a bit too quickly. “I’d be grateful if you rode with me for a time.”

  “You honor me, my lord.”

  Over the next several hours, riding side by side, the two men said little. But Renald felt far safer with Ewan nearby. Let the minister make an attempt on his life. He’d die before he could raise a weapon or draw upon one of his powers. Thinking this, the duke tried to recall what magics Pillad possessed, but he could only remember healing and gleaning. There was a third, he knew. What was it?

  They stopped just as the sun disappeared below the western horizon, the sky above it aflame with orange and red. Most of the men sat beside a narrow stream that wound past the grasses and stones of the northern Moorlands on its way to Binthar’s Wash. The duke and swordmaster left their horses grazing on the moist grass, and walked among the men, offering words of encouragement. It had been Ewan’s idea-a way to raise the men’s spirits, he said-and it did seem to do his warriors some good.

  At one point, Renald looked up to see Pillad, still atop his mount, gazing northward, as if he could see the towers of Galdasten Castle from this distance. A moment later one of the soldiers said something to him, drawing his attention once more. And when he finally had the opportunity to look for Pillad again, he spotted the minister standing near the soldiers, watching the duke. When their eyes met, the Qirsi nodded and smiled, as if nothing were amiss. But once more Renald had the sense that the man was deceiving him.

  “I want you to send out scouts,” Renald told Ewan, as they returned to their horses.

  “We already have scouts ahead of us, my lord, watching for imperial soldiers or any sign of the King’s Guard.”

  “Fine. But I also want you to send men back to the north. I want to make certain that we’re not followed.”

  The swordmaster looked puzzled. “We left few of Braedon’s men alive in Galdasten, my lord, and fewer still alive and at large. Surely there weren’t enough of them to muster a force of any consequence.”

  “It’s not the empire I fear.”

  “My lord?”

  “Humor me, swordmaster. Send back two men. Tell them to watch the northern horizon.”

  “We have only a few spare mounts left, my lord.”

  “I don’t care.”

  Ewan shrugged, then nodded. “Yes, my lord.”

  They set out again a short time later, the column of men stretching behind Renald in the gathering gloom, so that the duke could barely see the last of his men. Panya, the white moon, appeared in the east soon after nightfall, huge and pale and just a night shy of full. Even low in the sky, her glow was enough to cast long faint shadows across the moors. As she rose, her light strengthened until the grasses and stones themselves seemed luminous. Some time later, red Ilias rose below her, adding his radiance to hers: the lovers, one night before the Night of Two Moons in the turn of Adriel, Goddess of Love. Once more Renald’s thoughts returned to Galdasten and Elspeth. Tomorrow would mark seventeen years since their joining, and tomorrow night seventeen years since the consummation of the their love. According to lore, lying together for the first time on Lovers’ Night ensured a lifetime of love and passion. So much for the moon legends.

  “My lord, listen!” Ewan said, abruptly reining his mount to a halt.

  Renald did the same, and heard it as well. Two faint voices calling, “My lord! My lord!”

  “What could it be?” the duke asked.

  “Scouts,” Ewan said, and kicked his horse to a gallop back toward the end of the column.

  Renald followed, cold panic sweeping over him like an ocean wave in the snows.

  The two men Ewan had sent to scout the north rode into view as the duke and his swordmaster neared the rear of Galdasten’s army. Both men looked terribly young, their faces ashen in the moonlight.

  “Report,” Ewan commanded.

  “We watched th’ northern horizon as ye ordered, swordmaster. An’ at first we saw nothin’. But a few times we heard horses, or thought we did. And so we slows down and waits a bit. And then we sees ’em. A large army of riders followin’ behind us.”

  “Riders?”

  “Not just riders,” the other one said. “White-hairs. Must be two hundred of ’em.”

  “Qirsi?” Ewan said, breathless, fear in his eyes.

  “Where’s Pillad?” the duke asked, looking arou
nd for the man.

  The swordmaster stared at him. “I don’t remember seeing him when we stopped.”

  Renald closed his eyes and ran a hand over his face, fearing that he might vomit. “He wasn’t there,” he said, as certain of this as he was of his own name. “He’s already gone to join them.”

  “You said there’s two hundred of them?” Ewan asked, turning to the men once more.

  “Yes, swordmaster.”

  “We’ve five times that many, my lord. Magic or no, we should be able to defeat them. We’ll marshal the men, make our stand right here. Archers on the flanks, swordsmen in the center.”

  Renald nodded, but said nothing. Let the swordmaster and his men believe this. He knew better. These Qirsi had gotten past the force he left in Galdasten, and perhaps the Braedony fleet, as well. It would be a slaughter.

  “Do you know what powers Pillad possesses?” he asked at last, gazing northward, waiting for a glimpse of the Qirsi army.

  “Not all of them, my lord. I know he can heal, and I once saw him start a fire in his hearth with only a thought.”

  Fire, yes. That was it. They’d all be killed by Qirsi fire.

  * * *

  Slipping away from Renald’s army was laughably easy, though it soured his mood for a time. That none of them should notice or care struck him as insulting, one final indignity among too many to count. Still, had a soldier spotted him, forcing him to fight or flee, it would have made matters considerably more difficult. It might have cost him his life. Better to be ignored than pursued.

  Once he was clear of the Eandi army and the two scouts sent back by the swordmaster, he rode northward at a full gallop. And when at last he spotted the Qirsi army, he raised a hand, summoned a flame and his healing magic, and bore a bright beacon on his palm, announcing himself to his fellow warriors. Abruptly his heart was pounding, not with remorse at what he had done, nor with fear of the battle to come, but rather with anticipation. At long last, he was to meet the Weaver, to bow before the man who would lead the Forelands and guide his people to their rightful destiny. He wondered briefly if he’d recognize this man who he had only encountered previously in dreams.

  He needn’t have worried.

  The Weaver rode at the head of the army, his mane of white hair flying behind him like a battle pennon, his face chiseled as from alabaster. Uestem jal Safhir, the merchant who first recruited Pillad into the movement, rode on one side of him. On the other rode a slight, pretty woman who looked to be no more than a year or two past Fating age. And behind the three of them came an army of his people, mounted as he was, armed as well. The force was a mere fraction of the size of Renald’s, yet they had the look of conquerors from some tale of old.

  Seeing Pillad, the Weaver raised a hand and his army came to a halt. The minister slowed his mount, but didn’t stop until he was only a few paces from the Weaver. Then he dismounted and dropped to one knee.

  “Weaver. I am Pillad jal Krenaar, first minister of Galdasten. I offer myself to your service.”

  “Rise, Pillad.”

  He straightened.

  “Your duke’s army is near?”

  “Yes, Weaver. Perhaps half a league ahead. No more.”

  “Good. You’ve done well. You’ll ride with Uestem, who commands those with shaping and fire.”

  The minister bowed again. “Yes, Weaver. Thank you.” He started to remount, but then hesitated. “My pardon, Weaver. I know that it’s not my place, but I’d ask that you use fire magic against my duke.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s the one magic I wield that can be used as a weapon. I want Renald to know that I was part of the army that destroyed him.”

  The Weaver regarded him briefly, then nodded. “So be it.”

  Pillad climbed onto his horse and fell in behind Uestem. The merchant nodded to him as he rode past, but kept silent. Once the minister would have been desperate for any word of greeting from the man, having harbored affection for him. But he cared now only for war and flame. There would be time for other considerations after their victory. For now, Pillad was just as glad to have the merchant treat him as merely another warrior.

  They started southward and soon encountered the scouts. The woman riding beside the Weaver said something, but he shook his head.

  “Let them go. They’re nothing.”

  Not long after, they saw the army of Galdasten arrayed before them on the Moorlands in a great crescent.

  “There will be archers on the flanks, Weaver!” Pillad cried out.

  The Weaver looked back at him, and for a moment the minister worried that he had angered the man. But the Weaver simply nodded. “I know.” He swept the others with his gaze. “Mists and winds!” he called.

  Immediately a wind started to blow, building swiftly to a gale that howled in the stones and flattened the moorland grasses. Pillad grinned. Let Renald’s archers contend with that!

  The Weaver turned to Uestem and his warriors. “Fire!”

  An instant later, Pillad felt something tugging at his mind. It took him only a moment to understand that it was the Weaver reaching for his magic and that of the others. He made no attempt to resist and abruptly felt power flowing through his body like sunlight through glass.

  At the same time, a flame appeared just in front of the Qirsi army, brilliant blue at its center, bright yellow above that, and orange at its top. For a single heartbeat it remained where it was, seemingly suspended in midair. Then it began to move toward the Eandi soldiers, slowly at first, but building speed quickly. As it rushed forward, it grew larger as well, until it towered over the battle plain like a huge fiery cloud. It lit the faces of Galdasten’s warriors, so that all the Qirsi could see their fear and despair.

  Pillad saw his duke then. The man’s mouth was open as if he were wailing, the killing blaze shining in his eyes. The minister almost hoped that Renald would look at him, so that he might know that Pillad had killed him, that he had contributed his magic to this spiraling storm of flame. But the duke seemed incapable of looking away from the fire. He was still staring up at it when the full force of the magic crashed down upon his army, swallowing him and the soldiers around him, blackening the ground, lighting the Moorlands as if a piece of Morna’s sun had fallen to the earth. Renald hadn’t even drawn his sword.

  Pillad wanted to laugh aloud. Never before had he felt so strong, so alive. Never before had he been so free.

  Chapter Eleven

  Glyndwr Highlands, Eibithar, Adriel’s Moon waning

  Abeni ja Krenta, archminister of Sanbira, lay on the damp ground, staring up at the few pale stars that still lingered in the brightening blue sky. Around her, the camp was coming to life slowly, warriors awakening, horses nickering in anticipation of another day’s ride.

  The archminister had been awake for some time. Her encounters with the Weaver always left her too unsettled to sleep, and on this past night he had come to her when the sky was still black, speaking to her only briefly before leaving her, no doubt to walk in the dreams of another of his servants. She had not entertained any hope of falling asleep again, but neither did she think it prudent to leave her sleeping roll and walk, as she often did back in Yserne after the Weaver came to her. So she lay where she was, trying to still her racing heart and slow her breathing, and turning over in her mind all that the man had told her.

  Any doubts that might have lingered in her mind as to the purpose of this war in the north to which she and Sanbira’s army were riding had been dispelled tonight. Braedon’s invasion of Eibithar had been contrived by the Weaver’s movement-he had all but said so. The armies of the Eandi were destroying one another, so that when the Weaver and his army struck at them, they would be too weakened to defend themselves. That Sanbira’s queen had elected to join this war pleased him greatly.

  “Your army should arrive at nearly the same time as the Solkarans,” he had said. “With so many of the Foreland’s powers there, making war on one another, our task grows simpler by t
he day. By convincing the queen to fight you’ve made our victory that much more certain. You’re to be commended.”

  Abeni explained that she had little to do with the queen’s decision, but he continued to praise her, particularly after learning that the first ministers of Macharzo and Norinde, both of whom served his movement as well, rode with her.

  “Three of you together,” he said. “Truly the gods must be with us.”

  There was little she could say, except, “Yes, Weaver.”

  “Don’t reveal yourselves yet. Do nothing to delay your queen’s arrival at the battle.” She could hear the excitement in his voice, and she found that she felt it, too. They were approaching the culmination of their efforts, the final battle for which they had been preparing these long years. Yet, even recognizing this, she hadn’t been prepared for what he said next.

  “Look for me when you reach the battlefield.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll be there. I’m not going to reveal myself to you now, but you’ll know me, you’ll feel me as I reach for your power. Be prepared to give your magic to me so that I can wield it as my own against the enemy. Tell the other two to do the same. Our time is at hand. The Forelands will soon be ours.”

  The archminister had nodded, too overwhelmed to speak.

  “One more thing. There’s a man with Eibithar’s army, a Qirsi named Grinsa jal Arriet. He claims to be a mere gleaner, but he’s far more. This man is dangerous. Keep away from him. When the time comes, I’ll deal with him myself. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Weaver,” she whispered. “Do we also have allies among the Eibitharians?”

  For a moment the Weaver said nothing, and Abeni wondered if she had angered him. When he did answer, however, his tone was mild. “Actually, yes. Usually, I don’t reveal such things, but it may be time that I started to bring together those who serve me in different realms. There is a woman-your counterpart actually.”

  “The archminister?”

  “Yes. But don’t approach her unless you absolutely must. The risks are far too great.”