Abruptly the gleaner’s sword was in his hand, though Grinsa didn’t remember pulling it free. The man’s eyes widened at the sight of his steel, but Grinsa didn’t even give him a chance to speak. He grabbed Lenvyd by the shoulder with one hand, and drove the point of his blade into the healer’s heart with the other. Lenvyd opened his mouth, as if to scream, but he could only manage a wet gasping sound, as his eyes slid briefly toward Grinsa’s face, then rolled back in his head.
“You didn’t kill her,” the gleaner said, pushing the man off his blade. “You failed. You’re lucky I got to you first. Your Weaver would have been far more cruel in meting out his punishment.”
Perhaps he should have been ashamed. Against him, Lenvyd had been defenseless, an old healer, with barely enough magic to be a threat to anyone. As Grinsa himself had said, the man had only succeeded in making Cresenne ill. He was but a foot soldier in the Weaver’s army.
Yet in that one moment, he had been the embodiment of all that had been done to Cresenne in the Weaver’s name. There was no real vengeance to be found in the killing; only an outlet for rage and frustration and grief. Had Tavis done something similar, Grinsa would have railed at him. But in this case the gleaner couldn’t bring himself to care. It was a murder, nothing more, and certainly nothing less. Given the opportunity to do it again, he would have, without hesitation.
He stooped to wipe the man’s blood from his sword, glancing briefly at the healer’s body. Then he turned and strode toward the soldiers who were fighting for Kearney’s life.
* * *
They had chosen to fight near the king because they didn’t dare remain too close to their fathers, who were fighting at the head of the Curgh army, west of Kearney’s force. Had Hagan seen Xaver with a sword in his hand, blood trickling from a small cut above his eye, he would have flown into another rage. And since Tavis had fought and marched with both the king’s army and that of his father in recent days, none would think it strange to see the young lord and his liege man fighting under Kearney’s banner.
They remained on the fringe of the battle, both of them putting to use all that Xaver’s father had taught them in the wards of Curgh Castle as they tested their skills against the brawny swordsmen of the empire. Tavis had done his share of fighting in recent days and felt confident enough to wade farther into the melee. He sensed, however, that while Xaver was glad to be fighting, he remained unsure of himself. Tavis made no effort to take them closer to the center of the battle, and his friend gave no indication that this troubled him.
At least not until Kearney fell.
They were resting when the king’s horse first reared. Tavis had just succeeded in wounding his foe and had turned his blade on the young soldier Xaver was fighting. Faced with two adversaries, this man retreated, a gash on his thigh and another high on his sword arm. Xaver had done well.
“Thanks,” the liege man said, lifting a hand to the cut on his brow and wincing slightly. “I was getting tired.”
“I couldn’t tell.”
Xaver smirked. “Right.”
“No, I’m serious. You fought well.”
His friend regarded him for several moments, as if surprised by the compliment. “Thank you,” he finally said. “I’d say the same about you, but I was too scared to look away from the man I was fighting.”
Tavis laughed, but before he could say anything more, he saw Xaver’s eyes go wide and his face blanch. Following the line of his gaze, the young lord looked just in time to see the king tumble from his mount into a sea of warriors.
Xaver didn’t falter for even an instant. Tavis was still trying to decide what he ought to do when he saw his friend running to the king’s aid, his sword raised, a cry on his lips. There was nothing for the young lord to do but follow.
The two boys quickly found themselves surrounded by scores of Eibithar’s men, all of them pushing forward, trying to reach the king. And for once, their slight builds helped them. Squeezing past several of the other men, all the while keeping the king’s horse in view, as if the beast’s regal head were a beacon, they soon found the king. He was on his back still, kicking out with both feet, parrying chopping blows from the empire’s men with his sword. Several soldiers of Eibithar were with him already, some fighting off the enemy, others trying to help Kearney to his feet. But the press of Braedon’s men was relentless. The king and his guards had little room in which to maneuver.
Xaver leaped forward, joining those who were opposing the empire’s men. Tavis, with another of the realm’s soldiers, bent over the king, took Kearney by the arm, and hoisted him to his feet.
“My thanks to both of you,” the king said, looking a bit shaken.
They didn’t have time for more. Braedon’s warriors were everywhere. It seemed that when they saw Kearney fall, they concentrated their assault on the very center of Eibithar’s army. Within moments Tavis realized that he, Kearney, Xaver, and a small number of the king’s guards were surrounded, cut off from the rest of Eibithar’s army.
None of them spoke. They didn’t have to; all of them knew it. Wordlessly they formed a tight circle, their backs to one another, their weapons held ready, glinting in the sunlight. Two of the larger soldiers stood on either side of Kearney, as was appropriate. Tavis and Xaver stood together on the opposite side of their small ring. There was a soldier on Tavis’s other side, no doubt one of the many among the king’s men who still thought him a butcher who had murdered Brienne and earned every one of the scars given to him by Aindreas of Kentigern. Tavis wondered briefly if the man would see this as an opportunity to get the young lord killed.
“Don’t break formation,” the king said, his voice low and taut. “If the man next to you falls-no matter who he is-don’t stoop to help him. Close the gap as quickly as possible and keep fighting.”
Xaver and Tavis exchanged a brief, silent look. An instant later, they were battling to stay alive, outnumbered by the empire’s men and unable to give ground without endangering the lives of the others in the circle. Braedon’s warriors weren’t fools. Seeing the two boys standing shoulder to shoulder, thinking them the weakest swordsmen in the ring, they concentrated their attack on the young lord and his liege man.
Tavis found himself fending off several enemy soldiers at once, their blades hacking at him from all angles. Had he not been wearing a coat of mail, he would have died in those first few moments. As it was, he soon had gashes on his neck, face, and both hands, and welts covering much of the rest of his body. Yet he also realized early on that again his was the quickest sword-the men facing him were larger and stronger, but they fought sluggishly, without imagination. Once more, as he had so many times in this past year, he found himself silently thanking Xaver’s father for all the years of training. He might have cursed Hagan a thousand times for his exacting sword drills and the extravagant punishments he devised for laziness and lapses in technique, but the swordmaster had taught them well. After a time, Tavis found that his foes were tiring, their sword strokes becoming less precise and forceful, their defenses slackening. He was able to parry more and more of their blows, and on several occasions he even had opportunity to lash out with his own attacks, surprising the Braedony soldiers with his speed. He wasn’t able to kill any of them, or even drive them to the ground, but he did keep them at bay.
Even as his confidence grew, he didn’t dare look away for the merest instant. He sensed rather than saw that Xaver was still beside him, on his feet, his blade dancing. The soldier on his other side was also still standing, his shoulder nearly touching Tavis’s. Whatever the man thought of Tavis, he seemed to understand that if one of them fell, they all might die. In fact, as far as the young lord could tell, all in their circle were still alive, including the king and his guards. When at last Tavis’s father and Hagan MarCullet reached them, fighting through the horde of enemy soldiers and forcing into retreat those they left alive, every man in the ring greeted the Curgh warriors with a hoarse cry.