Weavers of War wotf-5

by DAVID B. COE

  “You make him sound evil,” she said. “And he’s not. We’re living in a land ruled by despots. You can’t think that it would be easy to win our freedom.”

  “Our freedom? We’re not slaves, Fetnalla!”

  “We might as well be. But,” she went on, cutting off Evanthya before she could reply, “it’s not too late to change all that. He wants you to join us. He wants you to be part of his movement and the new world he’s creating.”

  The color drained from her love’s face. “He knows of me?”

  “Of course.”

  “You told him about us?”

  “He walks in my dreams, Evanthya. He can read my thoughts.” She smiled. “And many of my thoughts are of you.”

  “Does he know that we hired the assassin to kill Shurik?”

  “Well, yes.” She lied. She had yet to muster the courage to tell him this, and somehow he had yet to read it in her thoughts. “But he’s forgiven us for that.”

  “He’s forgiven you.”

  “He wants to forgive you, too. He wants you to join him.”

  “I don’t believe you. He has no reason to forgive me, or to care for me at all. He only has reason to want me dead-indeed, he has several.”

  “That’s not true!” Fetnalla spoke the words forcefully, but she couldn’t look her love in the eye as she did.

  “You’re lying. I can always tell.” Evanthya looked about, as if noting their surroundings for the first time. “That’s why you’re waiting for me here, isn’t it? He’s ordered you to kill me, just as you did Brall.”

  “If only you’d join us, everything would be all right.”

  “Knowing me as you do, do you really think I could ever join you in serving this Weaver?” Her love actually managed a smile as she said this, though she still looked sad, and heartrendingly beautiful.

  “You have to,” Fetnalla whispered. “It’s the only way.”

  “No, it’s not. You and I have fought the conspiracy before and we can still fight it now. Renounce your Weaver and come back to me.”

  “I can’t do that. He’ll kill me. And if he doesn’t, the Eandi will. I murdered Brall, Evanthya. I couldn’t leave the movement even if I wanted to. So long as the Eandi rule the Forelands, I have no future. Only the Weaver can save me now. But there’s room in his world for both of us, if only you’ll come with me.”

  Evanthya shook her head. “No.”

  “Don’t make me do this.”

  “If you love your Weaver this much, you’ll have to prove it by killing me. Because I have no intention of letting you go any farther.”

  Fetnalla felt panic well in her chest. In spite of all she knew of her beloved, she had continued to hope that Evanthya’s love for her would prove stronger than her loyalty to Aneira and her duke. “You know you can’t stop me,” she said. “Your magic runs deep, Evanthya, but I’m a shaper. If you force me to do this, you’ll die right here.”

  That sad smile returned. “You won’t hurt me.”

  “I will. The Weaver will kill me if I don’t. There’s no escaping him. I told you, he walks in my dreams. He can find me anywhere in the land, and he knows how to hurt me, how to punish me if I fail him.”

  “He sounds like a fine man,” Evanthya said, her voice dripping with sarcasm, “a worthy leader for this new world of which you dream.”

  “I told you not to speak of him that way!”

  “Yes, you did. But I don’t give a damn. You say that you won’t allow me to mock him. Well, I won’t allow you to join him.”

  “And how do you intend to stop me? Will you raise a mist or summon a gale? Do you really believe that you can keep me from going north?”

  “No. But I can slow you down.” She turned to Fetnalla’s horse and stared at her. An instant later Zetya reared, then bolted southward.

  Language of beasts.

  “Damn you!” Fetnalla said, running after her mount briefly. Realizing that she couldn’t catch the animal, she faced Evanthya again. “Call her back!”

  “I won’t. And if you refuse to come back to Dantrielle with me, I’ll send her off to where you’ll never find her. You can walk to Galdasten.”

  “Zetya!” Fetnalla called. The horse didn’t move. She whistled sharply, which nearly always brought the beast back to her. Still Zetya stood there, nibbling on grass and ignoring her.

  “Call her back, Evanthya!”

  “She’ll return eventually. The commands don’t work forever. But if you don’t want to lose her for good, you’re going to have to do as I say.”

  “I don’t want to have to hurt you.”

  “You’re supposed to kill me. If you really want to join the Weaver, you’ll do so now. As I say, your horse will come back to you after a time, and you can be on your way.”

  “This isn’t a joke!” Fetnalla said, growing more desperate by the moment. “I will kill you if you force me. I have to. That’s what he wants.”

  “Then do it.”

  She felt tears on her face, and she wiped them away quickly. “Please, Evanthya. Just…” She took a breath, knowing how she would suffer for this when next she stood before the Weaver. “Just go. Leave me now and I won’t have to hurt you.”

  “I thought he expected you to kill me.”

  “He does.”

  “But you can’t.”

  “No. Now leave me.”

  Evanthya smiled. “I knew it. You’re no traitor. I know how much Brall hurt you, with his mistrust and his accusations. But you’re still one of us. This Weaver can’t change that.”

  “You’re wrong. I’m glad Brall is dead. I’ve pledged myself to the Weaver and to his movement. No matter what you say, or what you think you know about me, I’m not going back with you. Now leave-please-before it’s too late.”

  “You have to come back with me.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Then you leave me no choice.” Evanthya turned toward Zetya, who was watching them now, still standing off amid the grasses.

  “No!” Fetnalla shouted. And before she knew what she had done, the magic flew from her, hot and angry and wild. She heard the muffled crack of bone, saw Evanthya fall, crying out in pain, clutching at her shoulder.

  “Demons and fire!” Fetnalla sobbed, rushing to Evanthya’s side. Her love writhed on the ground, gritting her teeth, her eyes squeezed shut. “Do you see what you made me do? I warned you!”

  “Just finish it, damn you! He wants me dead, so go ahead and kill me.”

  Fetnalla glared at her. So stubborn, even now. So be it. “No, I won’t kill you. I’ve done enough. Stay away from me, Evanthya. The next time I see you, I’ll have no choice.”

  “Then you might as well do it now,” Evanthya said, her jaw clenched against the pain. “Because as soon as you ride, I’ll follow. You can no more escape me than you can your Weaver.”

  Fetnalla stood, still staring down at her, still crying. “You’re a fool.” Reaching for her magic a second time, she shattered the bone in her love’s leg, wincing at the sound of cracking bone and at the scream she tore from Evanthya’s lips. “Try following me now.”

  She whistled for Zetya again, and this time the horse trotted to her.

  “You’re just going to leave me?” Evanthya asked in a ragged whisper.

  “You’ve given me no choice.”

  She started to swing herself onto her mount, but the horse reared again and danced away from her.

  “Stop it, Evanthya!”

  She reached for the reins, but Zetya evaded her again.

  “Stop it!” she cried, whirling toward her love, tears flying from her cheeks. “Can’t you just let me go? Do you want me to have to kill you?”

  “I won’t let you go to him. You’ve done enough damage.”

  “Then I’ll have to end this now.”

  “You have already. How long do you think I can survive out here with a shattered shoulder and leg?”

  Fetnalla considered this. She wasn’t certain that it was true, but
it did give her a way out, something she could tell the Weaver when he asked how she had dealt with Evanthya.

  “Fine then.” She grabbed Zetya’s reins before her love could touch the beast again with her magic. Climbing into the saddle, she glanced back at Evanthya once more, cringing at what she saw.

  Perhaps she should have ridden away then. She would never be able to explain to the Weaver why she hadn’t, though probably she wouldn’t have to. Already, he knew her quite well.

  Dismounting again, she walked back to Evanthya and knelt beside her. Her love tried to flinch away, but Fetnalla placed her hands on the broken shoulder.

  “It’s all right,” she whispered, probing the mangled bone with her mind. “This will hurt for just a moment.” With a quick jerk she set the bone back in place. Evanthya howled, but she managed to lie still. A moment later, Fetnalla began to pour her magic into the woman’s shoulder, mending the splintered bone. After a time, she moved to Evanthya’s leg and did the same. This was a cleaner break and setting the bone proved much easier.

  She didn’t do much more than knit the bones together and start the healing process. If she healed Evanthya too thoroughly, the two of them would be right back where they began. This way, the leg and shoulder remained weak and tender. Perhaps that would be enough to keep Evanthya from following her, at least for a while.

  “Why did you do that?” Evanthya asked, when she had finished.

  Fetnalla stood. “I’ll leave that for you to figure out.”

  “I’ll come after you.”

  “I know. Don’t put too much weight on the leg or strain the shoulder. The bones need time to heal or they’ll just snap again.”

  She walked back to Zetya, who stood perfectly still while she climbed onto her back.

  Evanthya sat up, wincing.

  “Don’t come to the Moorlands. The Weaver will kill both of us if you do.”

  Her love said nothing.

  “I know you won’t believe this, but I love you. I’ve never stopped loving you.”

  Expecting no response, unable to bear the silence, Fetnalla turned her mount immediately and kicked her to a gallop. The sun was high over the Moors of Durril by now, warming the air. But the wind felt cold against her tears, and for a long time she couldn’t swallow past the aching in her throat.

  She rode Zetya hard for the rest of the day, resting only when she had to, eating nothing, drinking little. She kept her eyes fixed on the northern horizon, and her thoughts fixed on the Weaver and the war he had promised her. The past was lost to her; all that mattered now was the future-hers, that of the Qirsi, that of the Forelands. Not once did Fetnalla look back, not even when she thought she heard the pounding of hooves pursuing her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Moorlands, Eibithar

  Slash. Parry. Duck. Parry again. Lash out with the right foot and chop downward with the blade arm. Wipe blood from the blade if time allows, and then start again. It seemed to Tavis that Hagan MarCullet was beside him, shouting instructions as he fought, exhorting the young lord to draw on all the lessons he had learned in the sunlit wards of Curgh Castle.

  Hagan was fighting his own battles, of course-he had no time to offer instruction to a young noble far out of his depth. Somewhere to the west his son, Tavis’s liege man and closest friend, fought as well, summoning memories of the same training. Nor could there be any mistaking his own weapon or those around him for the wooden practice swords with which he and Xaver had exercised not so very long ago. Wooden swords didn’t gleam so in the sun, they didn’t ring like a smith’s hammer when they met. They didn’t even sound quite the same as they whistled past his head. And of course, wooden swords didn’t draw blood; they didn’t sever a man’s arm from his shoulder, or cleave his head in two. Since killing the assassin Cadel on the shores of the Wethy Crown, Tavis had prayed for the opportunity to fight in this war, to prove himself in battle. “Beware the boons you ask of the gods,” it was said in the streets of Curgh, “for the great ones might just be listening.” Indeed.

  He battled to survive, to kill the man in front of him before he himself was killed, and to do the same to every Braedony warrior who took the place of those he slew. Though Grinsa fought only a few fourspans from where he stood, the boy was but dimly aware of him. He would have liked to believe that if the gleaner was in trouble, or if, gods save them all, he fell, Tavis would sense it, and would be able to leap to his aid. But in truth, the young noble wasn’t even certain of this much. He had no idea how the rest of Eibithar’s army was faring.

  The empire’s assault on the second day of fighting had been even more ferocious than its initial attack. Braedon’s archers had loosed volley after volley into the morning sky, until it seemed that a constant storm of arrows rained down on Kearney’s army forcing the men to huddle beneath their shields. Eibithar’s bowmen could not return fire without imperiling themselves, and her swordsmen could only watch, helpless, fearing for their lives, as Braedon’s warriors marched toward them, under cover of the archers’ barrage. Grinsa, Fotir, and Keziah raised a powerful wind to knock the arrows back, but the empire’s Qirsi raised a countering gale. Tavis knew Grinsa could have done more, but he also knew the gleaner didn’t dare, for fear of revealing himself too soon.

  Braedon’s men halted just short of where the arrows were falling and let out an earsplitting cry. A moment later, the last of the darts rose into the pale blue and fell. And when it hit, embedding itself in a soldier’s shield, the empire’s army surged forward, swords raised, helms glinting in the sunlight.

  Once again, as they had the previous morning, Eibithar’s soldiers gave ground, fighting desperately to keep from being overrun. For a time it seemed to Tavis that they could do nothing against such an onslaught. He fought desperately, as did those around him, but he felt that he was taking a step back with every parry. The young lord was sure that had it not been for the timely arrival of Thorald’s army under the command of Marston of Shanstead, Kearney’s army would have been defeated before midday. As it was, the addition of Marston’s men only served to stop Braedon’s advance. When Heneagh’s remaining soldiers were overrun late in the day, the Thorald army rushed to take their place on the western lines and succeeded in keeping the enemy from flanking the king. Under the circumstances, that was all anyone could have asked.

  Sundown brought an end to the fighting, mercifully. Tavis wasn’t certain how much longer Eibithar’s men could have gone on. For a second consecutive day, the two armies had fought viciously with neither side making significant gains.

  The following morning, Kearney’s captains, and those of his dukes, roused the soldiers before dawn and made preparations for the coming day’s battle. But the warriors of Braedon did not attack, and given the opportunity to allow his men to rest and heal, the king did not take the fight to the invaders. The armies rested a second day as well, forcing Tavis and the others to wonder what new horror the empire had in store for them.

  Late that day, a mounted army came into view from the south. Fearing that Kearney and his men faced some new threat, Tavis and Xaver called out in alarm, causing several hundred men to scramble into formation. Only when the king joined them, chuckling in amusement, did the young lord and his friend see that this army was accompanied by two of Kearney’s scouts.

  “I believe that’s the queen of Sanbira,” the king told them. “I’m sure she’ll be grateful for the welcome you’ve arranged.”

  Many of the men laughed at them. Others, who already hated Tavis and thought him a butcher, merely glared at them. Tavis felt a fool, as did Xaver. But the liege man’s father offered them some comfort.

  “Don’t worry about them,” Hagan said, waving a dismissive hand at the warriors. “Better you should be shouting warnings that amount to nothing, than ignoring threats that get men killed.”

  The queen’s force was small-eight hundred warriors, more or less. But riding on Sanbiri horses, and wielding Sanbiri steel, they were a formidable sight. The a
rmies of Eibithar made the soldiers welcome, particularly when they realized that there were women warriors in the Sanbiri ranks. Kearney greeted the queen and her nobles, inviting them to share a meal with his dukes and launching almost immediately into a long description of all that had happened so far on the battle plain.

  “We’ve seen no sign of reinforcements,” Kearney said, when the queen asked him about Braedon’s decision not to attack in the past two days. “I suppose it’s possible that they arrived under cover of darkness, or will do so tonight, but I think it more likely that the emperor’s captains are doing as we are: healing the wounded, giving their men time to rest, preparing for the next battle.”

  Olesya nodded thoughtfully, staring into a bright fire. “That may be,” she said. “But they might also be awaiting support from the south. My scouts have seen an army marching north from Kentigern, a thousand men strong. They burn crops and villages as they go, and march under banners of red and gold.”

  “Numar’s men.”

  “I’m afraid so. We thought to fight them south of here, but decided to ride on instead. That way we could warn you of their approach and fight them off as part of a larger force. We should be a full day ahead of them. Perhaps a bit more.”

  Kearney nodded. “I would have done the same.”

  No one else spoke, and Tavis felt much of his relief at the queen’s arrival giving way to a renewed sense of dread. He had wanted to believe that the Aneirans would never be able to fight their way past Kentigern, but he should have known better than to place such faith in the fealty of Aindreas and his men.

  After a time, the king sent most of the Qirsi and lesser nobles away, staying up late into the night to discuss tactics with Hagan and his dukes, and the queen and her nobles. Tavis wished that he could have been party to the discussion, and he tried to remain awake so that he might ask his father what was said. But before long this day’s fighting caught up with him and he fell asleep. He slept fitfully, as he always seemed to these days, his slumber disrupted by every unexpected noise and troubled by strange dreams.