“Damn!” he muttered.
Tavis looked at him sharply. “What is it?”
“Dusaan has warned them against me. It’s going to be far harder now to turn their magic back on them.”
“You can still try.”
He faced the young lord, shaking his head. “It’s not worth the effort, and if I don’t start weaving the others now Dusaan will use the same tactic against us.”
Tavis frowned, staring across the plain once more.
Grinsa knew what he was thinking. In the first few moments of the battle they had managed to destroy nearly a third of the Weaver’s army, but it wasn’t enough. Not nearly.
“We made a good start, Tavis, in large part thanks to you.”
“Yes, but now what?”
Before Grinsa could think of a response, Dusaan offered one of his own. The gleaner sensed the magic as it surged toward them, feeling it on his skin as one might a close lightning strike, tasting it as one might blood, and he reached desperately for the shapers along the Eandi lines-Fotir and Xivled, Evetta ja Rudek, who was Tremain’s first minister, and Dyre jal Frinval, who served in Kearney’s court with Keziah. With an effort that stole his breath and brought beads of sweat to his brow, he sent forth his own burst of power that he hoped would meet the Weaver’s. But Dusaan’s magic and that of his servants overwhelmed the meager power that Grinsa could muster. Had the gleaner done nothing nearly half of the Eandi soldiers might have been killed. As it was, he was able to save a good number of them.
Still, Dusaan’s onslaught crashed into the soldiers as an ocean wave would a wall of sand. Hundreds were lost, many of them screaming in agony, others silenced before they even knew what had happened to them.
“Gleaner!” he heard Kearney shout, but Grinsa had no time to answer.
Dusaan and his army were advancing on them once more, and already the gleaner could see the next attack building. A glimmering flame that rose from the land like a wraith and began to speed toward them. Drawing on the power of his fellow Qirsi-Evetta again, as well as Labruinn’s first minister, the old minister from Brugaosa, whose power had diminished to almost nothing, and a number of the healers who also possessed fire magic-Grinsa countered with a blaze of his own. He’d had more warning this time, and his fire met Dusaan’s a good distance from the Eandi lines. Still, he could only hope to diminish the potency of the Weaver’s assault. When Dusaan’s fire crashed into the Eandi army it killed scores, and wounded many more. But it didn’t obliterate Kearney’s force, and Grinsa could ask for little more.
“At this rate it won’t be long before our entire army is gone.”
Grinsa cast a withering glare at Tavis, but said nothing. The boy was right.
He couldn’t allow the Weaver to continue his offensive against the Eandi soldiers, and there seemed to be only one way to stop him. Reaching for his shapers once more, the gleaner directed an attack against Dusaan himself. The Weaver would be expecting this-Grinsa had little hope that he could actually hurt the man. But at least Dusaan would have to defend himself, making it impossible for him to launch attacks of his own.
As he expected, the Weaver turned his magic away with ease. Grinsa thought he actually heard the Weaver laughing, but he didn’t falter even for an instant. He reached for the fire magic again, sending a ball of flame at the man. Again Dusaan blocked the attack, but already Grinsa was drawing on Keziah’s magic, language of beasts. This, it seemed, Dusaan had not expected, for his mount suddenly reared, neighing loudly. For just a moment, Grinsa thought that he might succeed in unseating the Weaver. But Dusaan quickly calmed the beast. Again the gleaner drew upon his shaping magic.
By this time though, he was beginning to tire. Here was the flaw in this tactic. It was born of desperation and it demanded a great deal of effort on Grinsa’s part with little opportunity for rest. In time he would grow too weary to fight at all, and then all would be lost. In truth, he had known all along that he would have to resort to these attacks eventually. He just hadn’t known that his plight and that of his allies would grow so dire so quickly.
“What can I do?” Tavis asked.
Grinsa shook his head, having no answer at first. His teeth were clenched, his mind fully occupied by the weaving of magic and his mounting exhaustion. “Wave the flag,” he said at last, tossing the Eibitharian banner to the boy. “Maybe the archers can do some good.”
“There aren’t many of them left. Most died by the Weaver’s magic.”
“Those who are left then. Quickly, Tavis!”
The young lord raised the flag over his head and moments later arrows soared into the morning air. There were pitifully few of them, and the Weaver’s Qirsi managed to defend themselves with winds and shaping even though Dusaan couldn’t weave their powers together.
“Again!” the gleaner called.
He saw Tavis wave the flag, but he never knew for certain whether the archers fired. At that same moment Dusaan retaliated with an attack of his own. Shaping at first, then fire, then back to shaping once more. Grinsa held tightly to his magic, easily resisting the Weaver’s assault. Unlike Dusaan, the gleaner wasn’t on horseback, meaning that there were fewer powers for the Weaver to try to control. Except that in the next instant, Dusaan had taken hold of Grinsa’s power of mists and winds-Grinsa hadn’t even thought to guard that magic.
A gale started to rise, and the gleaner struggled to regain control of his magic.
“Grinsa?” Tavis’s voice seemed to come to him from a great distance. He didn’t reply.
In the span of a single heartbeat, Dusaan released the one power, trying once more for shaping and then fire. Grinsa fought to ward himself, attempting to anticipate the Weaver’s attacks. But he was weary, and with each moment that passed it grew harder for him to keep the Weaver from taking hold of his shaping power, the one Dusaan seemed to want most of all.
How had the Weaver turned the tide of their battle so quickly? Just a few moments before Grinsa had Dusaan reeling, clinging desperately to his mount and laboring to maintain control of his magics. Now Grinsa was the one scrambling simply to stay alive.
He heard Tavis say something else, but he couldn’t make out what it was. Abruptly though, his battle with the Weaver ceased. He stared at the boy, astonished.
“What happened?”
“The archers finally managed to aim a salvo at the Weaver,” the boy said. “He had to raise a wind to protect himself.”
Grinsa nodded. His respite wouldn’t last long, but he was grateful for any rest at all.
“How are we doing?” he asked.
“Our archers aren’t having much effect on them,” Tavis said, “and they won’t come close to our swordsmen. But as long as you keep the Weaver occupied, they don’t seem capable of doing much damage to our lines.”
Right.
“I’ll keep after him as long as I can,” he said. “But you have to understand, Tavis: I’m merely delaying the inevitable. I can’t keep this up forever.”
“Neither can he. Just make certain that his strength fails first.”
“You don’t understand. With so many Qirsi on his side, the damage he’s done thus far demanded far less of him than what I’ve had to do. I’m already weary-wearier than he. I can’t win a battle on these terms.”
Tavis merely stared back at him, the look in his eyes asking the obvious question. What choice did they have?
Grinsa looked across the battle plain once more. Dusaan called to his warriors, then glanced back at the gleaner. No time to waste.
He reached for the Weaver’s magic again. Language of beasts, fire, shaping. Dusaan brushed him away as if he were no more than an irksome child. Before Grinsa could try a second time, the Weaver began to draw upon the vast power of his army. Shaping. Grinsa could see the magic shimmering before him, making the grasses and boulders of the moor waver, as if from the heat of a planting sun. He reached for the others again, wondering how much longer they could contend with the might of so many Qirsi.