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?”
Chapter Fourteen
Grinsa could see now that this was in fact two armies-the Aneirans had another force following on their heels-and even without seeing the banners of this second army, the gleaner had an idea of who they were.
“They’re trapped now,” Keziah said over the roar of their gale, reasoning it out for herself. Fotir gave a puzzled look and she added, “That’s Gershon behind them.”
“You’re certain?”
“I’d know the swordmaster from any distance. They must have followed the Solkarans from Kentigern.”
“Then we’ve hope after all.”
Grinsa nodded, his eyes fixed on the Aneiran captains riding at the head of the column. “There’s hope for the king and his men, yes, but our situation hasn’t improved much at all.” He glanced about quickly before staring at the captains again. The three of them had ridden a fair distance from Kearney’s lines to meet the Aneiran threat, thinking to protect the king from an attack on the rear of his lines. They were quite alone on this side of the Solkaran army.
Keziah frowned. “Of course it has. They’ll have to fight off Gershon’s assault as well as ours. How can that not help us?”
“We’re still three against hundreds.”
“When we first rode to meet them we thought we were three against thousands. Or had you forgotten that?”
“That was when I thought we had no choice!”
She glared at him. “So now you’ve changed your mind?”
“Can you do this?” Fotir asked. “Or are they too many?”
“We can do it.”
Keziah was still eyeing him, the wind howling all around them, though her hair remained still. “Then why does it sound like you’ve lost your nerve?”
He rounded on her. “Have you ever used your powers to kill a thousand men, Keziah? Or a hundred? Or even one?” She appeared to waver. “I thought not! Until you have, do not presume to judge me or my nerve!” Grinsa had never spoken to her so and he could see the hurt in her eyes, but at that moment he couldn’t have cared less. “If we choose to fight now, it will be my weaving that kills, and Fotir’s shaping! Even now, down to the three of us, you won’t bear the cost of this battle! So I’ll thank you to keep silent and do as I say!”
A tear rolled down her smooth cheek and she looked away, back toward the army of Solkara.
“Grinsa, she didn’t mean-”
“It’s all right, First Minister,” she said, her voice steady. “I shouldn’t have said what I did.” She swiped at the tear and faced the gleaner again. “Should we retreat then?”
Before he could answer, a swarm of arrows rose from the Aneiran army, arcing toward them. The wind they had summoned ensured that the darts would fall well short of them, but Grinsa sensed that Solkara’s bowmen were merely testing the gale.
“We need to decide now, Grinsa!”
She was right, of course. Not only about needing to make his choice immediately, but also about the rest of it. They had ridden forth to oppose an army of thousands, and though the Aneirans presented less of a threat than they first thought, he and the others still needed to protect the king’s army from any assault. More to the point, it was time to stop this killing, to make the Eandi see that they were wasting lives and strength warring with each other while the true enemy bided his time, waiting until they were too weak to resist his magic.
“We’ll stay.”
The Solkarans loosed their arrows again and instantly Grinsa could tell that this second volley would reach them. Still drawing on Fotir and Keziah’s power, he shifted the wind a quarter turn, so that it blew the arrows to the side.
Before the archers could fire a third time, cries rose from the far side of the Aneiran force. Gershon’s men had attacked.
“Damn!” If he could have shattered every weapon held by the two armies, he would have, but even a Weaver’s power was not so precise. A burst of magic that strong would splinter bone as well.
“No, it’s all right,” his sister said. “The king’s men can defeat them, even without our help.”
“Don’t you understand, Keziah? That’s not what I want! We have to stop thinking like Eibitharians! These men aren’t the enemy! Neither are the Braedony soldiers fighting your king to the north! We have to find a way to end the fighting, before Gershon’s force kills them all.”
“How?” Fotir asked.
Grinsa shook his head, his desperation growing with every scream that came from the warring armies. “I don’t know.”
A large contingent of Eibitharian soldiers had moved up from the rear of Gershon’s company and flanked the Aneirans to the east. They fought under a green and white banner and appeared to be led by Lathrop of Tremain. No doubt the swordmaster had sent Labruinn’s men to the west-few understood military tactics better than did Gershon Trasker. It would be a slaughter.
Keziah gazed toward the fighting with a crease in her brow. “What about a mist? Perhaps if they can’t see, they’ll break off their assault.”
“I don’t want the Aneirans fleeing so that they can join with the empire’s men and attack again. A mist might allow them to escape. I just want to stop them from killing each other.”
“A wind then,” she said, turning to face him. “Like at the Heneagh.”
A year before, when they had sought to keep the armies of Curgh and Kentigern from destroying one another on a battle plain near the Heneagh River, the two of them had summoned a powerful wind. It hadn’t been so strong as to keep the men from fighting, but it had gotten their attention long enough for Kearney to place himself between the two armies. Perhaps it would work again. First though, Grinsa had to be close enough to make himself seen and heard.
“Follow me,” he called, kicking his mount to a gallop and steering the beast around those fighting on the west and then toward the center of the battle.
