David Coe - Weavers of War

Kicking at his mount, Javan rode toward the man, Tavis and the others following close behind.

“Get a healer!” the old duke cried as they drew nearer. “He’s dying!”

It was true. Even Tavis, who knew little of such things, could see that the man in Welfyl’s arms had lost too much blood. He had a deep gash on the side of his neck, and another that had nearly severed his leg just above the knee. Blood pulsed weakly from both wounds and already the man’s uniform was soaked crimson, as was the duke’s.

“More healers are on the way,” Javan said, dismounting and crouching beside Welfyl. “I’ve sent for all the Qirsi who accompanied my army.”

“Can you help him?” the duke asked Fotir, seeming to ignore Javan. “Please.”

Fotir looked pained as he shook his head. “I haven’t that power, Lord Heneagh. I’m sorry.”

It had to be Welfyl’s son. Looking at the face of the wounded man, Tavis saw that he had the duke’s nose and chin. The man’s hair was yellow, rather than white, and his face was fuller than Welfyl’s, but the resemblance was strong. He glanced back at Grinsa and read desperate frustration in his friend’s eyes. No doubt he wanted to try to heal the man, but couldn’t without giving away who and what he was.

A moment later, one of Heneagh’s Qirsi arrived, breathless, her cheeks flushed.

“Ean be praised,” the duke said, looking up at her. “Save him! I beg you!”

She frowned. “I’ll do what I can, my lord.”

Javan placed a hand on Welfyl’s shoulder. “Perhaps we should leave them-”

“No!” The duke seemed to tighten his hold on the man.

“Your healer will do all she can for him.”

“I’m not leaving him!”

Javan gave a low sigh and nodded. “Very well.” Straightening, he stepped away a short distance, gesturing for his company to follow.

“He won’t make it,” Hagan said, his voice low.

“Probably not.” Javan closed his eyes and ran a hand over his face. “Damn.”

“That’s his son, isn’t it?” Tavis said, careful to keep his voice down as well.

Javan eyed him briefly, then nodded. “Dunfyl, thane of Cransher. He’s a good man, and a fine warrior.”

“Why isn’t he duke?”

Tavis’s father looked over his shoulder, as if to make certain that Welfyl couldn’t hear, then he walked a bit farther from where the thane lay dying. “That’s a good question. The two of them had a falling-out many years back-I never learned what caused it. But Welfyl is given to pride, and the son doesn’t step far from his father’s shadow. For years they didn’t even speak to each other. To be honest, I never thought I’d see the day when they rode together to battle. It seems they reconciled none too soon.”

They heard horses approaching and turned, seeing Kearney and his archminister riding toward where they stood. Behind them, on foot, came several more Qirsi and a small contingent of soldiers.

“What’s happened?” the king asked, as he climbed off his mount. His eyes fell on Welfyl then quickly darted away. “Is that the thane?”

“It is, my liege.”

“Will he live?”

There was an uncomfortable silence.

Kearney shook his head slowly, his lips pressed thin. “Demons and fire. How many others were lost?”

“Twenty-five. Maybe more. I expect many of the wounded won’t make it.”

“Were your losses this high, Lord Curgh?”

“No, my liege. About half, though even that was too many.”

“Yes. Ours were similar.”

“If I may, Your Majesty,” Hagan said, “Heneagh has never been known for her might. And I’ve never seen an army that could strike as quickly as that of the empire.”

“I agree with you, Sir MarCullet. I’ve been thinking that perhaps we’d be better served by giving Lord Heneagh command of the five hundred men I originally gave to you, Javan.”

Curgh’s duke gave a single nod. “Of course, my liege.” But he wasn’t pleased by this. Kearney didn’t notice, but Tavis did. He had spent all his childhood gauging his father’s mood changes by inflections far more subtle than this one.

“You can’t do that, Your Majesty!”

“Hagan!”

“It’s all right, Lord Curgh. Let him speak.” The king faced Javan’s swordmaster, a slight smile on his youthful face. “Why can’t I do this?”

Hagan had colored to the tips of his ears, and he was staring at the ground, looking for all his height and brawn like an abashed child. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. I shouldn’t have spoken.”

“It’s all right, Hagan. Clearly you feel that I’m making a mistake. Why?”

“Th-the Curgh army holds the center, Your Majesty. Braedon’s soldiers have been testing us, looking for where we’re weakest. If they see that we’ve shifted so many men, they’ll strike at where they had been. And if our center fails, we’re lost.”

“Thorald’s army should reach us by tomorrow, Hagan. They can reinforce the center. But right now our weakest point lies here. If Braedon’s army strikes at the western lines, the entire Heneagh army could be lost. Surely you see that I can’t allow that.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Kearney grinned, though the look in his eyes remained bleak. “Don’t humor me, swordmaster. Gershon Trasker has served me for quite a few years now, and whenever he agrees with me in the manner you just did, I know that I’ve done something wrong.”

Kearney’s archminister cleared her throat. “If I may offer a suggestion, Your Majesty: you’ve also given five hundred men to Lord Shanstead. If we wait until nightfall to move the men from Curgh’s army to Heneagh’s, the enemy might not notice. And tomorrow, when the Thorald army arrives, Lord Shanstead can send half of those five hundred men to Lord Curgh.”

The king smiled again, more convincingly this time. “A fine idea, Archminister.”

“It is, Your Majesty,” Fotir said. “But I don’t think we should wait until dark. As the archminister just said, Lord Shanstead should reach here tomorrow. If Braedon’s scouts learn of his approach, the empire will attack today. Certainly that’s what I’d advise them to do. We should move half the men immediately.”

“You make a good point, First Minister.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“What do you think, Hagan?”

The swordmaster smiled as well, though clearly it was forced. “Very well, Your Majesty. We’ll send two hundred and fifty men to the Heneagh lines. I’ll see to it right away.”

The king nodded. “Good.” He glanced at Welfyl, his smile fading. The old duke was weeping, and though his son’s chest still rose and fell, the healer had stopped working on him. It was but a matter of time.

“Excuse me,” Kearney said, his voice hardly more than a whisper. He stepped to where Lord Heneagh still knelt and placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. Welfyl seemed to collapse at the king’s touch, falling against Kearney’s leg and sobbing.

“Two hundred and fifty men is nothing,” Hagan said, pitching his voice so that Javan could hear but Kearney could not.

“I know. But it’s all we have. Half of the King’s Guard is in Kentigern, and half of Eibithar’s houses have chosen not to fight at all. We’re fortunate to have as many men as we do.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“There’s nothing for us to do here,” the duke said, looking once more at Welfyl and wincing, as if the man’s grief pained him. Tavis couldn’t help but wonder if Javan was thinking about how close he had come to losing his own son the previous year. “We should return to the Curgh lines.”

Tavis saw Grinsa and Keziah exchange a look.

“I’ll be along shortly, Tavis,” the gleaner said. Then, facing Fotir, he raised an eyebrow. “Will you join us for a moment, First Minister?”