Weavers of War

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 armies 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.

On this, the fifth day of the war, Braedon’s archers renewed their assault, allowing the empire’s swordsmen to advance on Eibithar’s lines. Once again, however, Kearney and Queen Olesya had readied their armies before sunrise. The soldiers of Eibithar and Sanbira were prepared for the attack. Kearney’s bowmen matched those of Braedon volley for volley, and when Braedon’s soldiers finally began their charge, the warriors of Eibithar and Sanbira rushed forward to meet them. Battle cries from both armies pierced the stillness of morning, and the first crash of steel upon steel, flesh upon flesh, seemed to cause the ground beneath their feet to buck and roll.

That had been hours ago. At least Tavis thought it had been. The sun had turned a slow arc overhead and now was beating down on the armies and the dead, harsh and relentless. But time had lost meaning for him. His life at this moment was measured in sword strokes and blood, the sweat soaking his face and hair and clothes, the screaming muscles in his back, shoulders, and arms.

He knew that he was fighting well, that his father would be proud of him. During his first battle, at the siege of Kentigern, he had acquitted himself poorly, allowing cowardice to get the better of him. There was none of that now. He had killed and had nearly been killed himself. Bian’s realm didn’t frighten him anymore, at least not as it once had. He wouldn’t call it courage-that was a word reserved in his mind for men like Grinsa and Kearney, for Keziah, who dared offer herself to the Weaver so that she might defeat him, and oddly, for Cresenne, whose treachery had cost Tavis so much and whose redemption had come at a far higher price to herself. In the absence of true bravery, though, it was all he could ask of himself. Anyway, it kept him fighting.

The soldier before him now was a large man, more powerful than he, just as all the others had been. And like the others, his strength could not hide his lack of skill with a blade and shield. Hagan had always told Tavis and Xaver that brawn was not always an asset, that in fact it could be a hindrance at times.

“If your opponent is stronger than you are, but unskilled with a sword, he’ll rely on his power to beat you. His attacks will be slower, more obvious. In a contest between two men, one quick and clever, the other big and strong, I’ll take the former every time.”

Once Tavis had asked, “What if we find ourselves fighting someone who’s both stronger and quicker?”

To which the swordmaster replied, “Run.”

That wasn’t the case here. After eyeing Tavis for just a moment, the Braedony swordsman lunged forward swinging his weapon with all his might and leaving himself open to the young lord’s counter. Tavis didn’t hesitate. Dodging the man’s sword, he leveled a blow of his own at the man’s side. The soldier’s mail coat kept Tavis’s weapon from cutting into his flesh, but he doubled over with a grunt, and Tavis hacked at his neck, knocking him to the ground and loosing a torrent of blood that stained the grass and soil.

The boy spun, dropping into his crouch in anticipation of the next assault, but no one stepped forward to take the soldier’s place. After a moment he straightened and turned toward the gleaner. Grinsa was standing in a circle of dead warriors and shattered blades, leaning heavily on his sword, his face damp, his breathing labored. There was a gash on his cheek, but otherwise he appeared unhurt.

“You’re bleeding,” Tavis said.

“So are you.”

Tavis frowned, having no memory of being wounded.

“On your brow,” Grinsa said. “And on your left shoulder.”

He glanced at his shoulder, then lifted a hand to his forehead and dabbed at it gingerly with his fingers. They came away sticky and crimson.

“It seems our army is making progress.”

Tavis looked at the gleaner again before following the line of his gaze. Perhaps twenty paces to the north, soldiers of Eibithar were still fighting a pitched battle.

He started in that direction. “We should help them.”

“Tavis, wait. Rest a moment.”

“They’re not resting,” he said over his shoulder, not bothering to stop.

“Some are. All of them should, as should you.”

“We’ll rest when the fighting’s over.” But even as he spoke, he felt fatigue crash down upon him like a wave. When was the last time he had eaten or taken a sip of water? When had he last slept a full night without awakening to strains of Braedony war songs? He slowed, then stopped, facing the gleaner again.

“Just for a moment,” Grinsa said. “You don’t look well.”

“I feel fine.” Yet he made no move to rejoin the battle. How had has throat gotten so dry so quickly?

Grinsa walked to where Tavis stood, eyeing him closely. “You’re pale as a Qirsi.”

“I’ve been spending too much time with you.”

“You’ll get no argument from me.”

Tavis had to grin, though he quickly turned serious again. “Truly, gleaner, I’m fine. Now let me go and fight for my realm.”

He shrugged. “Go, then.”

Before the young lord could start forward again, however, shouts went up from the south. Both of them turned, and what Tavis saw nearly made his stomach heave.

An army was approaching, marching under a red, black, and gold banner bearing the panther of Solkara. The queen had said that Aneira’s army consisted of a thousand men, but the column Tavis saw seemed to stretch for miles. How could there be so many, and how could they have arrived so soon?

“Demons and fire!” the gleaner murmured.

Tavis scanned the lines, looking for anyone who might hold off this new force. But the Sanbiri warriors were fighting alongside the King’s Guard, and all of Eibithar’s men were engaged as well. “They’ll carve right through us,” he said, looking at the Solkarans once more.

“Perhaps not. Go find Fotir and bring him to me. Quickly, Tavis.”

“Where are you going?”

“To get Keziah.”

Comprehension hit him like a fist. “You’re going to weave their magic with yours.”

“We haven’t a choice. Now go, before their archers are close enough to attack!”

Tavis had never run so fast. He could see his father atop his mount leading the Curgh army, and sprinted toward him, knowing that Fotir would be nearby. Already the soldiers battling at the front had noticed the Solkarans’ approach. Tavis could hear cries going up from both sides and the fighting seemed to have taken on new urgency, particularly among the empire’s men. Heartened by the appearance of their allies, the Braedony swordsmen pushed forward, shouting wildly, like demons from the Underrealm. Within moments, the small gains made in the past few hours by the armies of Eibithar and Sanbira were almost completely erased.

Reaching his father, he found Fotir and Xaver doing battle side by side. Both of them were bleeding, but at least they were alive.

Xaver was fending off two men, giving ground quickly, and Tavis rushed to his aid, his sword held high. One of the men broke off his attack on the liege man aiming a swift, chopping blow at Tavis’s head. Tavis blocked the sword with his shield, his knees nearly buckling. Still, he managed to strike back at the man, hitting only his shield.

The soldier came at him a second time, weapon raised, shield held ready. A simple attack-no feint. As if sparring with probationers in the Curgh wards, Tavis stepped around the assault, allowing the man’s blade to glance off his shield, and slashed at the man’s gut. As with the last Braedony soldier, this man’s mail coat saved his life, but only for the moment. The blow staggered him, and before he could recover Tavis thrust his sword through the soldier’s throat.

Without hesitating, the young lord sprang toward Xaver’s other attacker. But seeing how his friend died, this soldier retreated.

“Thanks,” Xaver said, sounding winded and slightly awed. “What are you doing here, I mean other than saving my life?”

“I need Fotir.”

There was a chiming sound, which Tavis recognized as the splintering of a blade, and then the harsh cry of a dying man.

“Did I hear you say that you needed me, my lord?”

“Yes. You’ve seen the Solkarans?”

The first minister nodded, glancing southward. “The duke ordered his archers to the rear to hold them off.”

“That might help, but Grinsa was hoping you and he might join that fight as well.”

The man’s bright eyes widened, owllike and eager. “Are you certain?”

“What can they do?” Xaver asked, brow creasing.

“Right away, First Minister. There isn’t much time. He’s at the rear of the king’s line.”

“Yes, my lord. The duke-”

“I’ll explain it to him as best I can.”

“I think you’d be better off telling him nothing, my lord. I’ll think of something later.”

Tavis nodded and watched as the minister ran off toward where Grinsa and Keziah awaited him.

“What’s going on, Tavis?”

“It’s best you don’t know, Stinger.”

“Why? Because I haven’t been through all that you have? Because I’ve just been in Curgh all this time, while you’ve been traveling the length and breadth of the Forelands?”

He faced his friend, who, despite his cuts and bruises, looked terribly young. “Grinsa is a Weaver, Xaver,” he said wearily. What did it matter anymore? With that army approaching, all was lost. “Do you know what that means?”

Xaver’s face paled, his green eyes widening much as had Fotir’s a few moments before. “A Weaver?”

“Yes.”

“The conspiracy…” He stopped, shaking his head.

“Grinsa has saved my life more times than I care to count. He’s no traitor. In fact, I believe he’s the only person in the Forelands who can defeat the Weaver who leads the renegades.”

“Then why not tell your father?”

“Because he’s not ready to understand all of this. He’ll hear the word ‘Weaver’ and nothing else.” He looked southward again, marking the progress of Solkara’s army. “Until the nobles in this land see for themselves what this other Weaver can do, they won’t be willing to put their trust in Grinsa.”

“Does Kearney know?”

“Yes. As I understand it, he’d pretty much figured it out for himself. Grinsa had no choice but to admit it.”

“A Weaver,” Xaver said again, as if the word were new to him. “I suppose I should be pleased. Having one on our side evens matters a bit, doesn’t it?”

Tavis looked to the south again. “It might. He’s still our only chance of defeating the Weaver. I hope he doesn’t get himself killed.”

“Should we go after him now?”

Tavis shook his head. “Fotir and the archminister are with him. They won’t let anything happen to him.”

“Wait a moment. How does Fotir know? Surely if your father-”

“You remember how I escaped from Kentigern?”

“The hole in the castle wall!” the liege man said, breathless, a look of wonder on his face. “Grinsa did that?”

“Grinsa and Fotir did it together.”

“Demons and fire!”

“He risked a great deal saving me from Aindreas.”

“How does the archminister know?”

Tavis hesitated, then shook his head. “Some secrets aren’t mine to tell. I’m sorry.”

Xaver dismissed the apology with a wave of his hand. The resentment he had expressed just a short time before seemed to have vanished. “Thanks for telling me as much as you did.”

The young lord grimaced. “I suppose you feel that I’ve been keeping a lot from you.”

“I understand,” his friend said, shrugging.

“I’ve wanted to tell you more, Stinger. Really. But I couldn’t. I probably shouldn’t have even told you this, but you were bound to find out eventually, I expect sooner rather than later.”

“I won’t tell anyone.”

“I know. It’s never been a matter of my not trusting you. As I said before, they’re just not my secrets to tell.” He gazed southward once more. He couldn’t be certain, but it appeared that the Solkarans had halted their advance. “I never knew that so many people in this realm had so much to hide.”

“What’s going on back there?” Xaver asked, shielding his eyes from the sun as he gazed toward the Aneirans.

“I’m not sure. It looks like they’re fighting.”

“You’re right, but against who? Surely not Grinsa and the others.”

“No, there’s another army behind them.” They shared a look, the realization hitting both of them at once. “Come on!” Tavis said, breaking into a run. “We need to tell my father!”

* * *

It galled him to ride under Kearney’s banner and Gershon’s command. Aindreas knew that he deserved far worse, having defied the king at every opportunity, having betrayed the realm, though none of his companions knew this. Still, he led one of the realm’s leading houses. Surely he deserved to ride under his own colors, as did Tremain and Labruinn. But with all that he had done, with the prospect of admitting his treachery hanging over him like the black smoke of siege fires, he couldn’t bring himself to protest. Gershon, Lathrop, and Caius had saved his castle from Aneira’s siege before setting out after the Solkaran army, which had marched northward to join forces with Braedon’s warriors. And Aindreas, faced with the prospect of remaining behind with his wine and the ghost of his daughter, or riding to war with these men, had chosen the latter. He had sensed Gershon’s reluctance to let him join the king’s army, and truly, he could hardly blame the man. What choice did he have but to submit to the swordmaster’s authority? He ordered his men to march at the rear of the King’s Guard, and he rode beside Gershon and the other dukes, saying little, enduring their sidelong glances and strained courtesy as best he could. In the rush to leave Kentigern Tor, he hadn’t thought to bring any wine. A pity. Not a night went by when he wouldn’t have sold his dukedom for a cup of Sanbiri red.

He had no cause to resent Gershon. The swordmaster had treated him civilly since their departure from Kentigern, though clearly it pained him to do so. Nor did he have any right to hate the king. Hadn’t Kearney’s decision to grant asylum to the Curgh boy been vindicated long ago? Hadn’t the man given Aindreas every opportunity to redeem himself and his house? Hadn’t he saved Kentigern from the Aneirans twice now, despite Aindreas’s continued defiance? Kearney’s grace, his willingness to forgive, left Aindreas humbled and ashamed, which might well have been why he did it. No doubt it was the source of the duke’s bitterness. For when he asked himself if he would have been so generous being in the king’s place, he was forced to admit that he would not.

Despite his hostility toward the swordmaster, Aindreas could not help but admire the man’s qualities as a leader. He pushed the armies hard as they pursued the Aneirans northward, resting only when absolutely necessary, and marching well into the night. It was hard to say whether the enemy knew they were being followed-they set a punishing pace for themselves as well. Still Gershon and the dukes gained on them, slowly but steadily.

As demanding as Gershon was of the men under his command, his orders never provoked a single complaint, at least none that the duke heard. Perhaps it was because Caius and Lathrop and Aindreas himself deferred to the man. Perhaps the soldiers understood that the very survival of the realm was at stake. Or perhaps it was just that Gershon looked so formidable on his mount, with his clean-shaven head, blunt features, and icy blue eyes. Whatever the reason, Aindreas had seen few swordmasters who were as revered by their men as Gershon Trasker was by his.

By the end of the seventh day of their march, the Aneirans certainly knew that they were being followed. Gershon had brought his vast army within sight of the invaders, and though the enemy didn’t flag or turn to face the Eibitharians, neither could they increase the distance between the two forces. Like wild dogs snapping at the heels of a stag, the armies of the realm drove the enemy across the Moorlands. The Aneirans might reach the rest of the Eibitharian army first, but they would barely have time to raise their swords before Gershon’s force struck at them.

Eibithar’s army continued to close the distance throughout the following day. By the approach of dusk, as the sun was balanced huge and orange on the western horizon, they were close enough to the Aneirans for Aindreas to make out the red Solkaran panther on the army’s banner. With luck, they would catch the enemy the next day.

“Still no sign of the empire’s army,” he heard Gershon say, as they continued to ride.

For a moment he thought to answer himself, but Lathrop responded before he could say anything. They hadn’t gone out of their way to speak with him thus far. Why should they start now?

“I’d been thinking the same thing,” Tremain said. “Perhaps it means that the king withstood the first assault.”

“And more, I’d guess. If the empire’s army had overrun the king and his allies, they’d be farther south by now.”

“I hope you’re right, swordmaster.”

“In either case, we have no choice but to keep moving until we catch the Solkarans. We must be getting near to the king’s army and we can’t allow the enemy to reach them first. With the empire attacking from the north, they’ll cut through his lines like a sword through parchment. And if by some chance Braedon’s forces have already defeated him, we’d do well to defeat the Aneirans before they can join with a larger force. Tell your men that we march through the night. We’re not going to stop until we catch the enemy.”

Lathrop nodded, as did the duke of Labruinn. A moment later, they both turned their mounts and headed back to speak with their men. Gershon glanced over his shoulder at Aindreas, as if expecting him to comply with the order as well.

“Do you disagree, my lord?”

“Not at all.”

“You just don’t like the idea of taking commands from a man who’s common-born.”

Aindreas opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“I thought so,” Gershon said, a thin smile springing to his lips and vanishing as quickly.

“Actually that’s not it either.”

“Then what? You feel you’ve been treated unfairly? To be honest, my lord, I believe you’re fortunate to be a free man. I don’t mind telling you that if I’d had my way, you would have been thrown in your own dungeon and left there to rot. But I had orders from His Majesty, and unlike you, I do as my liege tells me.”

He should have been outraged. Had his soldiers been nearby, they would have had to be restrained from killing the man. At least, the duke wanted to believe that this was so. The truth was that he deserved to be spoken to in this way. He hadn’t seen Brienne’s ghost-or whatever it was that haunted his days and nights-since leaving Kentigern, but he didn’t need her to tell him that he had placed the realm at risk with all he had done since her murder, and for no good reason at all.

“You think me impudent for speaking to you so.”

“Please stop putting words in my mouth, swordmaster. The truth is, I wish that I hadn’t done so much to deserve your contempt. I’ll see to my men right away.”

He wheeled his mount, intending to do just as he had said.

“My lord, wait.”

Aindreas would have liked to ride away and leave this insolent swordmaster to chew on whatever it was he wished to say. But something stopped him-the man’s tone, his own surety that he had already done too much to drive a wedge between his house and the Crown. Reluctantly, he faced the swordmaster again, saying nothing.

“I’m-” Trasker looked away briefly. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you so. It was … inappropriate.”

The duke could think of no reply. After several moments, he simply nodded and rode back to his men.

Aindreas had left his swordmaster, Villyd Temsten, in Kentigern, refusing to trust anyone else with the protection of his castle and family. The captains he had brought with him were good men-brave, loyal-but they were not deep thinkers, and they had even less sense of what the duke had done to earn the king’s enmity than did Villyd. Clearly they did not feel that soldiers of Kentigern should be marching under the king’s banner. They accepted their duke’s orders, and began immediately to convey them to the rest of the Kentigern army, but they made it clear to the duke, with their expressions and their flat voices, that they disapproved of his willingness to yield to Gershon’s authority. Returning to the head of the great column, Aindreas was forced to wonder anew if he had been wrong to make this journey.

An image of Jastanne ja Triln entered his mind, pale and lithe and lovely. He saw her as she had appeared that night he forged his alliance with the conspiracy, looking young and unassuming, an illusion she shattered, along with a wine goblet, using her shaping power. What would she do when she learned that he had marched with Kearney’s army? Would she and her Qirsi allies reveal his treachery immediately? Would they seek vengeance against Ioanna or his children, or would they content themselves with destroying his name? Perhaps these fears should have given him pause, made him wonder how he might aid the conspiracy here on the Moorlands. Instead they emboldened him.

For so long he had allowed his shame and fright to render him helpless. Not anymore. Casting his lot with the Qirsi had been the greatest mistake of his life, a desperate gambit born of grief and rage and drunken foolishness. He would pay for that error until his death, and long after he was gone his family would continue to pay. But maybe he could mitigate some of the harm he had done by making a hero of himself in the coming war. Not this one with Aneira and Braedon, but the real war against the Qirsi renegades, the one that would decide the fate of all the Forelands. That was the hope that drove him onward, that left him unmoved by the dismay of his captains. They couldn’t possibly understand. Up until a few days ago, he hadn’t either, though he should have. It remained to be seen if the realization had come to him too late.

True to his word, Gershon kept the army moving well past sundown, stopping only long enough to feed and water the horses, allow the soldiers to eat, and light their torches. The Solkarans didn’t stop for long either, but they could not increase their lead on the Eibitharians. When the two moons finally rose high enough into the star-filled sky to illuminate the grasses and boulders of the moor, Eibithar’s men doused their torches and quickened their pace, but it seemed the Solkarans did the same, for the enemy’s torch fire had vanished.

Their first indication that the Aneirans had halted was the barrage of arrows that pelted down just in front of the column. Aindreas’s horse reared, more because of the duke’s startled response than because of the arrows themselves, but Aindreas managed to keep himself from falling.

“Damn!” Gershon spat, fighting to control his mount as well. More arrows struck the ground before them, but all of them fell short.

“We were fortunate,” Lathrop said.

“We were careless. I was careless,” Gershon corrected. He peered ahead, eyes narrowed, trying to see the enemy in the dim glow of Ilias and Panya. Then he beckoned to one of his captains, who was marching a short distance behind the dukes and swordmaster. Immediately the man hurried forward. “Call our archers forward,” he said quietly.

The man nodded and ran back toward the king’s soldiers.

Lathrop frowned. “Do you think they mean to fight us here?”

“I’m not certain what they have in mind. But they’ve loosed two volleys now to no avail. I expect they’ll move their bowmen closer and try again. I want to be ready when they do.”

It didn’t take long for Kearney’s archers, three hundred strong, to reach the front of the column.

“I’d suggest you move back, my lords,” Gershon said. “I don’t want a chance dart to strike one of you.”

Caius shook his head. “I have a better idea.” He waved Gershon’s captain to his side. “Please, Captain, have my bowmen brought forward as well.”

The captain glanced at Trasker, who, after a moment’s pause, nodded.

“Mine as well, Captain,” Lathrop said.

Aindreas twisted his mouth for just an instant. “Better call for mine as well.” The others regarded him silently. “Well, I can’t let it be said that Kentigern shied from a fight, can I?”

“Thank you, my lords,” Gershon said, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “Though I’d still feel better if the three of you moved back a bit.”

Lathrop glanced briefly at Aindreas and the duke of Labruinn before looking at Gershon again. “It would seem, swordmaster, that your authority over us only goes so far.”

Gershon’s smile broadened. “Yes, my lord. May I at least ask that you dismount and ready your shields?”

This the dukes did.

Soon the king’s archers were joined by six hundred more from the dukes’ armies. Moments later, another swarm of arrows descended upon them, and this time many of them struck true. Eibithar’s bowmen had brought shields as well as their bows and quivers, but still a number of them fell, their screams making Aindreas flinch beneath his shield.

“Loose your arrows at will!” Gershon called.

And a moment later the moor seemed to sing with the thrumming of so many bows. Cries of pain rose from the Aneiran army, like a distant echo of those that had come from Eibithar’s sons a few seconds before.

More darts fell around Aindreas, and more were sent hurtling toward the enemy.

“This is madness,” the duke muttered.

“I quite agree.”

Gershon was closer than Aindreas had known.

“I didn’t mean-”

“It’s all right, my lord. I believe I understand. But I’m at a loss as to what to do. It’s too dark and too dangerous to send the swordsmen forward, particularly with both armies loosing arrows blindly at one another.”

“What if we set one volley aflame?”

“My lord?”

“We wouldn’t even have to light all of them. We wouldn’t want to, because it would make them too easy to avoid. But if we light some of them, we might be able to see where the enemy is.”

“A fine idea, my lord,” Gershon said, sounding as if he thought Aindreas a genius. “I’ll speak with the captains right away.”

It took some time to get the arrows wrapped in oilcloth and lit, and in the meantime the armies traded volley after volley. Finally Eibithar’s archers loosed the flaming arrows and the duke followed their arcing flight wondering what their fires would reveal.

Only when they struck, though, did he understand how badly he and the others had miscalculated. Several of Aneira’s bowmen lay dead on the ground and perhaps two hundred others could be seen dodging the arrows that continued to fall. But the rest of the army was gone.

“Demons and fire!” Gershon rasped. “They’ve gone on. It was all a ruse.”

The Aneiran archers turned and ran, and after a moment’s hesitation, the swordmaster called for his men to attack. Instantly the king’s army surged forward, followed closely by the soldiers of Labruinn, Tremain, and Kentigern.

“How far ahead do you think they are?” Caius asked, as the soldiers overran Aneira’s men.

Gershon had already remounted. “They could have gained an hour on us. Maybe more.” He spat a curse. “I’m a fool!” He rubbed a hand over his face. “We’ll have to drive the men even harder now, keep them at a trot for as long as we can.”

The dukes climbed onto their horses, and Eibithar’s army resumed its pursuit of the Solkarans. There were fewer of the enemy ahead of them now, but still enough to make a difference in Kearney’s battle with the empire. The soldiers, heartened by their easy victory over the archers, maintained a remarkably brisk pace for some time before finally flagging as the night wore on. As dawn approached, Gershon was forced to call a respite. The soldiers seemed utterly spent, and Aindreas felt what little hope he had left wither and die.

But when the sky began to brighten at last, revealing the Solkaran army, the duke’s spirits lifted. It seemed that the Aneiran swordsmen had not left their bowmen as early as Aindreas had feared. Or perhaps they too had taken some time to rest during the night. The Aneirans had increased their advantage, but not so much that they could not still be caught. He sensed that the soldiers behind him realized this as well and he felt the lethargy of a long night being lifted from Eibithar’s army.

Looking past the enemy, the duke saw far in the distance several thin plumes of pale smoke rising into the morning sky. He thought he could see tents as well, and a great host of men. The battle plain. It would still be several hours before the Aneirans reached the other armies gathered there-he could only assume that Kearney’s forces held the southern ground-but that made the morning’s pursuit even more urgent.

“It seems the king has held them,” Lathrop said, already mounted and ready to ride on.

Gershon gave a curt nod, his expression grim. “All the more reason to keep moving.”

Lathrop eyed him in the dim grey light. “I quite agree, swordmaster,” he said pointedly. “I was merely observing what I suppose was already obvious to you.”

The swordmaster’s mouth twitched. “Forgive me, my lord.”

“I already have. I believe it’s time you forgave yourself. We all shared equally in what happened during the night. And to be honest, I’m not certain there was anything else we could have done. The Solkaran’s deception didn’t make their arrows any less deadly. Until we defeated the archers, we couldn’t resume our pursuit. I thought you dealt with them as well as anyone could have. And your decision to light our arrows aflame was quite brilliant.”

“That was Lord Kentigern’s idea, my lord.”

Lathrop looked at Aindreas, raising an eyebrow. “Really.”

“Don’t look so surprised, Tremain. I still have occasional lucid moments.”

“So it would seem.”

Aindreas had to grin. Truth was, he had always liked Lathrop.

Gershon rode back to address the men, and though Aindreas couldn’t hear all that the swordsmaster said, he could imagine well enough. He had rallied armies himself, and the words never changed much. Judging from the earsplitting roar that greeted Trasker’s words, it seemed to work on this morning.

They started forward again moments later, and almost immediately began to gain on the enemy. It seemed that the Aneirans were slowing their pace deliberately, as if they suddenly understood that they were to be crushed between the two armies of Eibithar. Throughout the morning Gershon’s forces drew nearer to them, his soldiers singing so loudly that the Solkarans could not help but hear.

Aindreas kept an eye on the distant armies as well. They were fighting again, and though the distance was too great to make out much of what was happening, it didn’t seem that the battle lines moved at all. He could only imagine the carnage.

“Our soldiers may well tip the balance.”

He turned to find Lathrop riding beside him.

“They may indeed, if there’s anyone left alive when we get there.”

“I’m sorry to have to ask this, Lord Kentigern, but I feel that it is my duty as a loyal subject of the king. Can you be trusted not to betray us at the end?”

He should have expected this. It shouldn’t have stung at all. Just because he had chosen to turn from the path he had been on did not mean that the arrogance and self-righteousness of Glyndwr and his allies would magically disappear. Yet the question cut his heart like a blade, perhaps because he had always thought that Tremain was different from the rest, that he might have understood, even as he continued to stand with the king.

“Yes, Lord Tremain. I can be trusted. Before leaving Kentigern, I swore to you on Brienne’s memory that I would keep faith with you and your king. Do you honestly think that I would dishonor her in that way?”

“Aindreas, I’m sorry. But I had to-”

“No,” the duke said. “You didn’t.” He kicked at his horse’s flanks and rode ahead of the man. And for the rest of the morning he kept to himself.

By midday, they were once again as close to the Aneirans as they had been the previous evening. They were also near enough to the battle to make out the colors of the pennons fluttering in the wind above the armies of the realm. The purple and gold of Eibithar flew over the King’s Guard, and Aindreas also saw the colors of Thorald, Heneagh, and, of course, Curgh.

Seeing the brown and gold of Javan’s house, the duke felt his chest tighten with old, familiar pains-grief, fury, bloodlust. Maybe Lathrop had been justified in asking about his intentions after all. Could he really fight beside Curgh’s duke, beside his son?

His son didn’t kill your daughter. The Qirsi did.

He knew this to be so, but his hatred for the men of Curgh ran deep.

As the Solkarans drew ever nearer to Kearney’s army, they began to slow, then halted altogether. Aindreas saw a small group of Aneiran archers-perhaps a hundred-position themselves between their army and Gershon’s force. He could only assume that the enemy’s other bowmen had gone to the far side of their army to loose their arrows at the king’s men.

“Archers!” Gershon cried, and the word was echoed by the captains marching behind them. Within moments, several hundred of Eibithar’s bowmen had come to the front of the column, arrows already nocked.

At Gershon’s command the army resumed its advance until it seemed that the bowmen were within range of the enemy. Then the swordmaster called a halt and ordered the archers to begin their assault. The Solkarans tried to answer, but there were few of their bowmen left to face those of Eibithar.

“They’ll attack His Majesty first,” Gershon said, his voice taut. And it did seem that they would. Though their archers sent volleys of arrows at Gershon’s force, the swordsmen behind them appeared to be massing for an attack northward. “If they can fight through to the empire’s army all is lost.”

Before the Aneirans could strike, however, a great gale began to rise from the north, abrupt and unnatural.

Many of Gershon’s archers, who had been about to fire again, paused, glancing at one other with puzzled expressions. The swordmaster stared up at the sky, as if expecting to see some great beast swoop down upon them from the clouds. The squall continued to gain power, until Aindreas felt that he would be swept off of his mount.

“This is no natural wind,” the duke said, shouting to be heard. “It’s sorcery. I’m certain of it.”

The swordmaster nodded, staring up at the sky. “Aye, but who among the Qirsi is powerful enough to summon such a gale?”