“Demons and fire,” the captain muttered.
“I’ll kill him if I have to, though I’d rather not.”
“What do you want us to do?” he asked, still gazing up at the emperor.
“Surrender your weapons and leave the palace. If you and your men do that, all of you will be spared. The emperor, too. If you choose to fight, you’ll die.”
“There’s only four of ’em, Captain,” said one of the men. “How much can four Qirsi do?”
“I need to talk to my men,” the captain said.
Dusaan nodded. “Of course.”
The captain led his men a short distance off, and began talking to them in low tones.
“What do you think they’ll do?” Rov asked.
“They’ll attack. Rov, Gorlan, we’ll strike first with shaping power. Just reach for your magic and let me do the rest. After that we’ll try fire. Rov, you’ll be doing both, so you’re likely to tire first. Give me what you can, and I’ll draw the rest from B’Serre.”
“Yes, Weaver.”
Dusaan saw two men slip away from the captain’s group and run back toward the guard house. There would be more men coming.
“Be watchful,” he said. “They’ll try to flank us.”
“Are you certain that we can do this?” Gorlan asked.
“You’ve never fought beside a Weaver before. Savor this moment. We’re about to win the first battle in a glorious war.”
The assault began abruptly. The captain shouted something-Dusaan couldn’t make out the words-and perhaps two hundred men charged toward them, battle cries echoing off the palace walls, swords and battle hammers glittering in the sun.
Dusaan reached for his magic and then for that of Gorlan and Rov. Both were young and powerful, just the sort of warriors who would help him to destroy all the armies of the Eandi courts. He didn’t bother to aim the blow; he didn’t care whether he cleaved steel or bone. He merely struck at the soldiers, his power slicing through the cluster of Eandi like an invisible scythe. Steel shattered in sweet ringing tones, bones fractured in rapid succession so that the sound resembled the snapping of a great fire. Men screamed in pain, dropping to the ground, writhing pathetically.
A second wave of attackers, at least a hundred strong, rushed from the towers to their left and right.
“B’Serre! Rov!” Dusaan called, his voice carrying over the war cries.
Again they offered their power to him, willingly, even eagerly. No doubt they had never felt so strong, had never realized that they could be such fearsome warriors. Rov, who had already given her shaping power, showed no sign of weariness. She would serve the movement well.
The fire Dusaan conjured radiated out in all directions, a glowing yellow ring of power, rampant, indiscriminate, deadly. It hit the soldiers like an ocean wave, knocking them backward, hammering some of them to the ground. And every man it touched was consumed by the flames-clothing, skin, hair. The shrieks of Eandi warriors filled the courtyard; the stench of their charred flesh made the Weaver’s eyes water.
There would be archers on the ramparts soon. Dusaan was certain of it. And they would be harder to kill.
“Hear me!” he called over the death cries and the groans of the wounded. “I can kill all of you if I have to. And your emperor, too. Or you can surrender to me as he has and spare yourselves. This is your last chance to live. Lay down your weapons before me and you may leave the palace today as free men. Continue to resist, and you’ll die as these men have.”
For a long time nothing happened. Dusaan eyed the ramparts watching for the archers. He could shatter the arrows if he had to, but that demanded a more precise use of shaping power, and he wasn’t certain how much more his companions could give him.
After several moments, however, soldiers began to emerge from the towers and guard house. They held their weapons low, swords pointing toward the ground, bows hanging from their hands. And one by one, they laid the weapons at Dusaan’s feet, eyeing him with unconcealed hatred, but with fear as well. Swords, hammers, bows and arrows, daggers, and pikes lay in a pile before him. And a column of men filed toward the palace gate and the freedom he had promised them.
The first battle was his, and with it the Imperial Palace.
He looked up at the tower. Harel was no longer by the window, but Nitara was there, gazing down at him. He could imagine her expression, the look of adoration in her eyes. Just this once, he didn’t mind.
Chapter Five
The skirmish had begun without warning, just like the others. One moment all had been quiet; the next the silence was riven by war cries and the clash of steel on steel, the rhythmic shouts of army commanders and the whistle of arrows soaring high into the hazy sky before beginning their deadly descent. Once again, the encounter was initiated by the Braedon army, which seemed capable of striking at any given moment, anywhere on the battle plain.
Eibithar’s king had arrayed the three armies-his own guard, as well as the soldiers of Curgh and Heneagh-as best he could. But they were outnumbered, and would be until the soldiers of Thorald, Labruinn, and Tremain arrived. Add to that the fact that Heneagh’s men lacked the discipline and skill of the other two armies, and it was something of a miracle that they hadn’t been overrun already. Had Galdasten sent soldiers, or Sussyn, or Domnall, or any of the other houses that stood with Kentigern in defiance of the king, matters would have been different. As it was, it seemed to Tavis that the survival of the kingdom was in doubt.
The previous night, Braedon’s warriors had struck at Kearney’s lines, on the eastern front, nearest to the river. The battle had been short-lived-a few volleys of arrows exchanged and a brief, fierce engagement between swordsmen which left several men dead and many more injured-and had ended as abruptly as it began, with the soldiers of Braedon breaking away and retreating. The morning before that, the enemy had staged a similar attack on the Curgh lines, striking and withdrawing with astonishing swiftness.
This time, the empire’s men were attacking the western end of the Eibitharian lines, which were defended by the army of Heneagh.
“They’re testing us,” said Tavis’s father, the duke of Curgh, his face grim and etched with concern as he watched this latest skirmish unfold. “They’re looking for weaknesses in our lines, trying to decide where to concentrate their assault when it begins in earnest.”
“Can Heneagh hold them?” Xaver MarCullet asked, standing beside his father, Hagan, Curgh’s swordmaster.
Hagan shrugged. “I don’t know. But if the duke’s right, I think they’ve probably found what they were looking for.”
Within just a few minutes, the Braedon raiding party had withdrawn. They were pursued briefly by a large group of Heneagh’s men, but Welfyl’s swordmaster quickly called them back. It had seemed to Tavis that this skirmish was even briefer than the previous night’s, but he couldn’t say if he thought this boded well or ill for Eibithar’s forces.
“We should check on them,” the duke said, swinging himself onto his mount. “They may need healers.” Javan glanced down at Tavis. “Come with me?”
The young lord nodded, a smile springing to his lips. Then he climbed onto his horse. Grinsa followed, as did Xaver and Hagan.
Tavis and Grinsa had finally caught up with Kearney’s army four days before, finding the king some ten leagues north of Domnall, where he waited for the armies of Curgh and Heneagh to join his own. From there they had ridden northward with the king and dukes for two days until finally encountering the empire’s invading force on this plain in the northeastern corner of the Moorlands, within sight of Binthar’s Wash and only seven leagues or so from Galdasten Castle. The skirmishes had begun almost immediately, and though Tavis’s father had brought most
