Chapter 24
They were farmers and trappers, wheelwrights and smiths. They had lived their lives under the Curse of Rheyle, coaxing livings from a stingy, blighted land. They weren't wealthy or powerful, but they were her people. They had left families behind in Lifarsa, men and women, boys and girls who prayed every night for their safe return to the village.
And now more than two dozen of them were lost, crushed as if by the war goddess herself. It had happened in an instant, without warning. That was the power of Qirsi magic. No blood, no earth, no spell. Just a thought, and in an instant more than a score were dead. If Fayonne and Mander had been standing with the others, they would have died as well. Being eldest didn't impart to her any special powers-she was no Qirsi Weaver. She would have been as helpless as the rest. But she was the leader of these people, and she felt their deaths in her heart in ways no one else on this plain could imagine.
And when she heard the cheer go up from that small party of Fal'Borna that had ridden forward on the left side of the battle plain, she knew that they were responsible.
It was a rash choice, especially after what had happened by the river in their encounter with the last Fal'Borna army. Fayonne didn't care. These white-hairs had killed her people, and now they were celebrating.
She bent down and grabbed a handful of earth, then held it over her head for just an instant.
"Blades!" she called to the Mettai who were still with her. "The poison spell!"
"Mother, no!" Mander said, whirling to face her.
"You heard me!" she said, ignoring him.
The others stared at her. A few of them exchanged troubled looks.
"You saw what they did!" she said, her voice carrying over the din of battle. "You saw how many of our people fell. And now you can hear the white-hairs cheering. We'll be next, unless we stop them, unless we avenge those we lost."
Mander strode to where she was standing and planted himself right in front of her. "Mother, you can't-!"
It happened so fast that she didn't realize she'd slapped him until he raised his hand to his cheek. She saw the imprint of her hand forming there, red and stark on his pale skin. Fayonne felt her own face coloring, but she didn't apologize.
"Blades!" she said again, stepping around him and cutting her hand.
She caught the blood on her knife, mixed it with the dirt she held, and began to recite the poison spell. Some of the others merely stood there, watching her. She didn't need them. Enough of the others were speaking the spell with her to take care of that small company of Qirsi.
"Mother, you can't do this!" Mander said from behind her, his voice tight with rage and humiliation.
She glanced back at him. "I have to do it."
"But the curse-"
"The curse is not absolute!" she said. "I know what happened last time, but you know that it's not that predictable." The eldest actually laughed, though she sounded slightly mad to her own ears. "I wish that it was so predictable! Our people would have overcome it generations ago."
"There will be a cost!" Mander said.
Fayonne nodded. "Perhaps. But there must be a cost for the Fal'Borna as well."
She faced forward again, spoke the spell once more from start to finish as the others completed reciting it, and sent the deadly silvery mist at the Qirsi.
The effect was immediate and absolute. The white-hairs who had been gloating over the deaths of her people moments before now clawed at their throats and toppled off their horses. Their animals fell, too, which was unfortunate but unavoidable.
Seeing the Fal'Borna die, Fayonne knew a moment of satisfaction, though it was fleeting. When it had passed, she felt terror take hold of her heart, like a cold, taloned hand. There will be a cost.
Suddenly she was aware of the tumult that surrounded her: The attacks of the wolves and snakes and eagles, the Qirsi wind that swirled around them, the moans and cries of the wounded.
She scanned the Eandi army for the marshal and, unable to find him, felt another wave of fear crash over her. She wasn't overly fond of the man, but she trusted him far more than she did any of the other leaders of this army.
To her relief, she spotted him after a moment. He was stiffly climbing to his feet, looking around as if dazed. And then he looked up, his mouth falling open.
Fayonne raised her eyes as well.
One of the magical eagles was beating its wings above him, struggling to keep aloft. It had been struck by so many arrows she found it hard to believe that it could still fly. But more remarkable, it held a soldier in one of its clawed feet.
He was struggling to break free; Fayonne could see his sword flashing as he struck at the bird's foot repeatedly.
A voice reached her. A woman's voice. Captain Onjaef.
"Enly!" she cried out over and over.
"Gods!" Mander said. "It's Captain Tolm."
No sooner had he spoken the words than the eagle let the man drop.
It hadn't seemed such a long way-other eagles were circling far higher than this one. But it seemed to take Enly forever to fall. Fayonne felt rooted to the earth. She couldn't bring herself to move. It seemed none of them could, until he smashed into the ground.
Fayonne didn't think she'd ever forget that sound, or the scream that came from Tirnya when he hit.
Then all of them were running: Tirnya, Jenoe, Mander and Fayonne, and a dozen other soldiers the eldest barely noticed. Jenoe reached the captain first, but Tirnya pushed past all of them and fell to her knees beside the man, tears streaming down her face.
Fayonne felt certain that Enly was already dead. He had to be after that fall. He lay on his side. His shoulder and back were a bloody mess, and blood oozed from his nose and ear. His legs were splayed at odd angles-she could only assume that the bones were shattered in a dozen places. But his chest rose and fell, each breath sounding wet and labored. After a moment, his eyes fluttered open and, though they looked dull and lifeless, he seemed to recognize Tirnya.
"Your father?" he whispered.
She was sobbing, but she nodded. "He's here; he's all right. You saved him."
"Don't tell my father," he said. A faint smile touched his lips, but then he began to cough and he winced, closing his eyes.
"We need a healer," Tirnya said. And then she shouted it. "We need a healer!"
"Tirnya," Jenoe said, and shook his head. "There's nothing a healer can do."
"There has to be!"
Fayonne had never cared for the woman, but her heart ached for her nevertheless.
"There has to be!" Tirnya said again.
She looked up at Fayonne, their eyes locking.
With Q'Daer's name still on his lips, Grinsa sprinted to his mount, intending to ride to the young Weaver and his men. Perhaps… He didn't complete the thought. He had to see for himself.
Before he could get on the horse, however, the animal reared, kicking out with its front hooves. Grinsa jumped back, then turned a quick circle. Someone had made the horse do that with language of beasts. Having used that magic many times himself, he was certain of it.
O'Tal was staring at him, still sitting his mount a short distance away. "You did that!" Grinsa shouted.
"Yes. And I'll do it again if you try to ride to Q'Daer."
The Forelander glared at him for another moment before turning back to his mount and trying to climb into his saddle again. He used his own magic to keep the animal calm, but with O'Tal wielding his power, too, the horse remained jumpy.
"Damnit!" Grinsa faced the a'laq again, his fists clenched.
"I don't know what that spell was," O'Tal said. "But it killed them in an instant. And I'm not letting you or anyone else get near them."
Grinsa opened his mouth to argue, but then stopped, a vision of Cresenne and Bryntelle flashing through his mind. What would Cresenne have wanted him to do? If this was one of the spells Besh had described for him, there was nothing to be done for Q'Daer. O'Tal might well have saved his life.