David Coe - Bonds of Vengeance

“Grinsa!” he shouted. “Shatter his blade! Quickly!”

Nothing happened. They continued to roll, toward the raging surf now, the uneven stone digging into his back and legs. He could feel the assassin’s hot breath on his face, he could smell the stale sweat in his clothes. They rolled again, and for just an instant Tavis found himself above Cadel. He fought to pull his arm free, but before he could raise his blade the assassin pushed off with his foot and they were turning again.

This time, however, as Tavis was forced down once more, he realized that he had reached the edge of the boulder. He let out a panicked gasp, trying with all his strength to halt their momentum. Cadel seemed to sense the danger as well, for he grunted a curse. For just a second, they tottered on the edge, both now fighting as one to keep their balance. But to no avail. A moment later they dropped off the boulder, releasing each other to try to break their fall.

Tavis landed hard on his side and shoulder, his head snapping down onto the wet stone. He sensed that Cadel had fallen beside him, but he was too dazed to strike at the man or flee. He saw a flash of light, almost immediately felt the thunder clap, as if it were a war hammer.

And then the rain began, instant and harsh, filling his mouth and nostrils as if he had been submerged in the gulf. He started to sit up, realized that he still held his dagger. Clawing the rain from his eyes, he tried to find the assassin.

He saw movement-the rain was too thick to see more-and raised his blade to stab at the man. He felt something crash into his temple-white pain blinded him as if lightning. Before he could recover, a fist crashed into his cheek and he sprawled onto the rock. The assassin was on him immediately, hitting him a third time, this blow to his jaw leaving him addled. He felt himself being heaved off the rock, but he couldn’t seem to fight back.

Then Cadel released him and he fell, his chest smashing into the stone, but his head finding water. Shockingly cold. Salt stung the wound on his neck and another on his cheek. He tried to push himself up, but the assassin was on him again, his knee on Tavis’s back, one hand like a vise, clamped on his neck, and the other holding Tavis’s face in the water.

Fear seized his heart like a clawed demon. Tavis fought with all his strength to throw off the assassin, thrashing wildly, flailing with his arms and legs. But Cadel had him. He could hit the man, but not hard enough. He twisted his neck from side to side and managed for just an instant to lift his mouth out of the water. He gasped at the precious air, taking in some, but swallowing a mouthful of briny water as well. And before he could try again, or cough the water out of his lungs, Cadel had pushed him under again, tightening his grip on the young lord’s neck and grasping a handful of Tavis’s hair.

He whipped his limbs about, desperate now, his chest starting to burn, his head spinning. Something in the water gleamed and Tavis tried to reach for it, but it was too far. He groped around in the pool, searching for a rock or anything else he might use as a weapon. Nothing. His lungs screaming, consciousness starting to slip away, he reached for Cadel one last time. To no avail. He thought he heard laughter. The assassin’s, or perhaps Bian’s.

“I’ve bested a Weaver.”

Grinsa heard the words. He felt the gathering magic. And so even without opening his eyes, even through the miasma of pain, he knew just where to direct his power. He would only have the one chance. If he failed here, he would die. He didn’t need gleaning magic to tell him that.

He reached out with his mind, fighting off agony and fear, thoughts of Tavis and Keziah, Cresenne and Bryntelle. At his first touch, the man tried to resist him, and because Grinsa was so weakened, his attacker nearly succeeded. But the gleaner held fast to the magic he found, as if it were a scrap of wood and he adrift in a violent sea. Shaping, gleaning, mists and winds. The shaping magic was the only real threat, and once Grinsa had control of it, even this couldn’t hurt him.

But he had forgotten how close the man was. Just as he opened his eyes to see his assailant’s face, the man kicked his maimed shoulder. A wave of pain crashed down upon him, stealing his breath, nearly making him retch. For a moment he feared that he might lose his hold on the man’s magic, but he clung to it, desperate and enraged.

Before the man could hurt him again, Grinsa hammered at his leg with shaping power. He heard the muffled crack of bone, a wail of pain from his attacker, and, a moment later, the sound of the man’s body hitting the ground. Somehow the man kicked at Grinsa a second time, his boot missing the gleaner’s shoulder, but striking him in the side of the head. Still drawing upon the man’s shaping power, he broke the other leg as well. Hearing him cry out, Grinsa smiled grimly.

The gleaner wanted to shatter every bone in the man’s body. He wanted to kill. But he needed answers first. Forcing his eyes open, fighting through his pain to sit up, he crawled to where the man lay.

The attacker was powerfully built for a Qirsi, lean, but broad in the chest and shoulders, with muscled arms. His face was ruddy, even tanned, at least compared to the skin of most Qirsi. His beard was full and he wore his long white hair tied back.

As Grinsa came closer, the man attempted to crawl away, his eyes fixed on the gleaner’s face. With barely a thought, Grinsa shattered his wrist. The man collapsed to the ground once more, swearing through clenched teeth.

“Who are you?” the gleaner rasped. “Do you work with Cadel?”

The man reached for the blade strapped to his belt. Drawing on his own magic, Grinsa conjured a flame, which he held to the man’s arm.

“Damn you, Weaver! Kill me already, and be done with it!”

“Not until-” Grinsa stopped, gaping at the man. “Weaver,” he repeated. “You knew from the start that I was a Weaver-I sensed no surprise from you when I reached for your magic. In fact, you were prepared for it. You were warding yourself. You’re with the conspiracy, aren’t you? You were sent by the other Weaver.”

He felt the man struggling to use his magic, not as a weapon, Grinsa realized, but against himself.

“You’d rather die that talk?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Then explain it to me.” And speaking the words, Grinsa pressed hard on the man’s mind.

Usually Qirsi with mind-bending magic only used it on the Eandi. It worked best when the person at whom it was directed didn’t suspect that any magic was being used, and most Qirsi could tell immediately when the power of another touched their minds. But the practice of this particular magic was predicated on two notions. One was that the Qirsi wielding the power didn’t want his victim to perceive that any magic had been used. And the other was that he didn’t wish to do any lasting damage to the victim’s mind. In this instance, neither was true.

The man cried out in pain, his head cradled against his good hand.

“The other Weaver sent you,” Grinsa said again. “Isn’t that right?”

“Yes.” It came out as a sob.

“Who are you?”

“Tihod jal Brossa, a merchant.”

“How long have you been with the conspiracy?”

“Since the beginning.”

The gleaner squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, trying to clear his vision. Then he looked at the man more closely. “Since the beginning,” he repeated. “When was the beginning? When did all this start?”

“Long ago. The Weaver spoke to me of taking the Forelands from the Eandi before Galdasten.”

“You mean before that madman brought the pestilence to Galdasten Castle?”

“Yes.”

“Was the conspiracy responsible for that?”