“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
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
