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.
Keziah and Fotir rode after him, and together the three Qirsi plunged into the fighting, Grinsa drawing on their magic once more to summon a staggering wind. He made it build swiftly, so that to the soldiers it would seem that it had risen without warning. As he and Kezi had hoped, it did force many of the men to break off their combat, including Gershon Trasker, who sat on his horse, his sword still poised to strike, his hot glare directed at Grinsa and the others. Already many warriors had fallen, most of them Solkaran. Only a few hundred Aneirans remained alive, and the gleaner guessed that they would not survive long if the fighting resumed.
“Break off your attack, swordmaster!” Grinsa called as he drew nearer.
“I will not! These men are invaders. Their lives were forfeit as soon as they crossed the Tarbin.”
The soldiers around them were eyeing each other warily, their weapons ready. The merest twitch by one of them would launch all into combat once more, no matter the wind that raged about them.
“We’ve a more dangerous foe, swordmaster,” Keziah said, drawing the man’s eye. “You know that as well as anyone. We’ll need these men before all is done.”
Gershon said nothing, the expression on his blunt features and in his hard blue eyes offering little promise that he would relent.
“Men of Aneira!” Grinsa called. “Lower your weapons! Surrender now, or all of you will die!”
“Never!” came a reply. Others echoed the sentiment, and Eibithar’s men began shouting for their deaths. They were a heartbeat away from bedlam.
“Fotir, their swords. Quickly.”
The minister nodded. A moment later an Aneiran blade shattered, and then another. Grinsa broke several as well.
“We’ll break them all if we have to! Now put them down, and perhaps you’ll survive this day!”
Reluctantly, the nearest of the Aneiran captains dropped his blade to the ground. Slowly, other men began to follow his example.
After several moments, Gershon nodded to his captains, who began ordering their men to lower their weapons.
“I do this against my better judgment, Archminister.”
From what Keziah had told him, Grinsa gathered that she and the swordmaster had feigned many conflicts recently in order to maintain the illusion that her fealty to the king had wavered. Now, however, he sensed no trickery in the man’s tone. He was deadly serious.
“I understand,” Keziah said. “I had to be convinced as well.”
Gershon’s eyes flicked toward the gleaner, then back to her.
“You spoke a moment ago of another foe, Archminister. Of whom do you speak?”
Grinsa turned toward the voice. A stout man with yellow hair and a trim beard was leaning forward in his saddle, regarding the gleaner with obvious distrust. It took Grinsa a moment to recognize him as the duke of Labruinn. But his eye was drawn beyond this young duke to the towering figure who sat just behind him on the largest stallion Grinsa had ever seen. Aindreas of Kentigern, his ruddy face flushed to crimson, and his jaw clenched tight.
“You need to ask, my lord?” Fotir answered.
“The conspiracy.”
“Yes, my lord. Many of us believe that this war-”
“Yes, I know. You think the Qirsi have, through treachery and deception, led us to this conflict so that we’ll weaken ourselves.” Labruinn looked at Grinsa again. “I just wonder if keeping the Aneirans alive is intended to strengthen us, or weaken us.”
“Why would I want to weaken us, my lord?”
“He’s not questioning your motives, First Minister,” Grinsa said. “He’s questioning mine.”
“I don’t know you, sir,” the duke said. “I have no reason to question the first minister’s loyalty, but in these times all strange Qirsi are suspect. And for many turns I’ve been hearing of odd behavior on the part of the archminister.”
Gershon started to say something, but a glance from Keziah silenced him.
“I know this man,” Aindreas said, murder in his voice. “I know all three of them.”
“This is Grinsa jal Arriet, Lord Labruinn,” Fotir said, with the merest of glances toward Aindreas. “And I assure you, he’s no stranger to me. If it wasn’t for Grinsa, Lord Tavis might still be a prisoner in Kentigern’s dungeon. He has as much reason to hate the conspiracy as any man in the Forelands. For that matter, so does the archminister, and I have every reason to believe that she serves our king loyally and always has.”
“I’d like to believe you,” Caius said. “But I’m afraid even your word on the matter isn’t enough.”
“Nor should it be,” Aindreas said. “The Qirsi can’t be trusted.”