Weavers of War (60 page)

It did seem that they were under attack. She was about to say so when her horse reared and at last she understood the nature of this assault, though she didn’t know how the enemy managed it. For as she toppled off her mount, landing hard on the ground and just barely missing a hulking boulder, Nitara realized that she had unhorsed herself. Or, to be more precise, someone had used her magic to make the beast throw her.

Someone other than her Weaver.

*   *   *

That it was such a simple question did nothing to diminish its brilliance. It had never even crossed Grinsa’s mind, though he had been thinking of nothing but the coming war for longer than he could say. But Tavis had a nimble mind and a unique way of looking at the world. And in this instance, he had given them cause for hope, slim though it was.

“Is it possible,” he had asked Grinsa the night before, “for a Weaver to use the magic of another Qirsi even if he doesn’t want you to?”

The answer, of course, was yes.

It wasn’t easy. A Qirsi who knew that the Weaver was about to try such a thing could close his or her mind and resist the intrusion. But a Weaver could usually overcome the defenses of a less powerful sorcerer, and on those occasions when the sorcerer wasn’t prepared there was little he or she could do to ward off a Weaver’s assault.

He and the young lord had gone to Kearney immediately, and Grinsa and the king had spent much of the night devising their strategy for this day’s fight. It was simple really—there remained little for them to do against so formidable an enemy. But with the archers spread as Grinsa had recommended earlier in the evening, it was possible that he could create enough confusion among the Weaver’s army to allow the bowmen to have some effect.

“You say this was Tavis’s idea?” the king asked him after they had spoken for some time.

“Yes, Your Majesty, it was.”

“He’s come far in the past year.”

“I think the promise was always there, but yes, he’s grown considerably since your offer of asylum.”

Kearney had smiled at that. “You put it most generously, gleaner, but you and I both know that I had nothing to do with his transformation. He’s spent this past year in your company and to the degree that anyone other than Tavis himself deserves such credit, it should go to you.”

“I suppose. In the end, I think I’ve learned as much from Tavis as he has from me.”

“Well, he’s given us an opportunity at least. Let’s make certain that we put it to good use.”

In the light of morning, watching how the Weaver’s advance slowed and then stalled, his lines crumbling in a tumult of flame and anguished screams, Grinsa found himself believing that they were on the verge of doing just that. Already he had killed or wounded nearly three dozen of the Weaver’s servants, and now he waved an Eibitharian banner over his head, signaling to Kearney that the king should begin his attack.

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.