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?”
