the captain muttered.
“I’ll kill him if I have to, though I’d rather not.”
“What do you want us to do?” he asked, still gazing up at the emperor.
“Surrender your weapons and leave the palace. If you and your men do that, all of you will be spared. The emperor, too. If you choose to fight, you’ll die.”
“There’s only four of ’em, Captain,” said one of the men. “How much can four Qirsi do?”
“I need to talk to my men,” the captain said.
Dusaan nodded. “Of course.”
The captain led his men a short distance off, and began talking to them in low tones.
“What do you think they’ll do?” Rov asked.
“They’ll attack. Rov, Gorlan, we’ll strike first with shaping power. Just reach for your magic and let me do the rest. After that we’ll try fire. Rov, you’ll be doing both, so you’re likely to tire first. Give me what you can, and I’ll draw the rest from B’Serre.”
“Yes, Weaver.”
Dusaan saw two men slip away from the captain’s group and run back toward the guard house. There would be more men coming.
“Be watchful,” he said. “They’ll try to flank us.”
“Are you certain that we can do this?” Gorlan asked.
“You’ve never fought beside a Weaver before. Savor this moment. We’re about to win the first battle in a glorious war.”
The assault began abruptly. The captain shouted something—Dusaan couldn’t make out the words—and perhaps two hundred men charged toward them, battle cries echoing off the palace walls, swords and battle hammers glittering in the sun.
Dusaan reached for his magic and then for that of Gorlan and Rov. Both were young and powerful, just the sort of warriors who would help him to destroy all the armies of the Eandi courts. He didn’t bother to aim the blow; he didn’t care whether he cleaved steel or bone. He merely struck at the soldiers, his power slicing through the cluster of Eandi like an invisible scythe. Steel shattered in sweet ringing tones, bones fractured in rapid succession so that the sound resembled the snapping of a great fire. Men screamed in pain, dropping to the ground, writhing pathetically.
A second wave of attackers, at least a hundred strong, rushed from the towers to their left and right.
“B’Serre! Rov!” Dusaan called, his voice carrying over the war cries.
Again they offered their power to him, willingly, even eagerly. No doubt they had never felt so strong, had never realized that they could be such fearsome warriors. Rov, who had already given her shaping power, showed no sign of weariness. She would serve the movement well.
The fire Dusaan conjured radiated out in all directions, a glowing yellow ring of power, rampant, indiscriminate, deadly. It hit the soldiers like an ocean wave, knocking them backward, hammering some of them to the ground. And every man it touched was consumed by the flames—clothing, skin, hair. The shrieks of Eandi warriors filled the courtyard; the stench of their charred flesh made the Weaver’s eyes water.
There would be archers on the ramparts soon. Dusaan was certain of it. And they would be harder to kill.
“Hear me!” he called over the death cries and the groans of the wounded. “I can kill all of you if I have to. And your emperor, too. Or you can surrender to me as he has and spare yourselves. This is your last chance to live. Lay down your weapons before me and you may leave the palace today as free men. Continue to resist, and you’ll die as these men have.”
For a long time nothing happened. Dusaan eyed the ramparts watching for the archers. He could shatter the arrows if he had to, but that demanded a more precise use of shaping power, and he wasn’t certain how much more his companions could give him.
After several moments, however, soldiers began to emerge from the towers and guard house. They held their weapons low, swords pointing toward the ground, bows hanging from their hands. And one by one, they laid the weapons at Dusaan’s
“I’ll kill him if I have to, though I’d rather not.”
“What do you want us to do?” he asked, still gazing up at the emperor.
“Surrender your weapons and leave the palace. If you and your men do that, all of you will be spared. The emperor, too. If you choose to fight, you’ll die.”
“There’s only four of ’em, Captain,” said one of the men. “How much can four Qirsi do?”
“I need to talk to my men,” the captain said.
Dusaan nodded. “Of course.”
The captain led his men a short distance off, and began talking to them in low tones.
“What do you think they’ll do?” Rov asked.
“They’ll attack. Rov, Gorlan, we’ll strike first with shaping power. Just reach for your magic and let me do the rest. After that we’ll try fire. Rov, you’ll be doing both, so you’re likely to tire first. Give me what you can, and I’ll draw the rest from B’Serre.”
“Yes, Weaver.”
Dusaan saw two men slip away from the captain’s group and run back toward the guard house. There would be more men coming.
“Be watchful,” he said. “They’ll try to flank us.”
“Are you certain that we can do this?” Gorlan asked.
“You’ve never fought beside a Weaver before. Savor this moment. We’re about to win the first battle in a glorious war.”
The assault began abruptly. The captain shouted something—Dusaan couldn’t make out the words—and perhaps two hundred men charged toward them, battle cries echoing off the palace walls, swords and battle hammers glittering in the sun.
Dusaan reached for his magic and then for that of Gorlan and Rov. Both were young and powerful, just the sort of warriors who would help him to destroy all the armies of the Eandi courts. He didn’t bother to aim the blow; he didn’t care whether he cleaved steel or bone. He merely struck at the soldiers, his power slicing through the cluster of Eandi like an invisible scythe. Steel shattered in sweet ringing tones, bones fractured in rapid succession so that the sound resembled the snapping of a great fire. Men screamed in pain, dropping to the ground, writhing pathetically.
A second wave of attackers, at least a hundred strong, rushed from the towers to their left and right.
“B’Serre! Rov!” Dusaan called, his voice carrying over the war cries.
Again they offered their power to him, willingly, even eagerly. No doubt they had never felt so strong, had never realized that they could be such fearsome warriors. Rov, who had already given her shaping power, showed no sign of weariness. She would serve the movement well.
The fire Dusaan conjured radiated out in all directions, a glowing yellow ring of power, rampant, indiscriminate, deadly. It hit the soldiers like an ocean wave, knocking them backward, hammering some of them to the ground. And every man it touched was consumed by the flames—clothing, skin, hair. The shrieks of Eandi warriors filled the courtyard; the stench of their charred flesh made the Weaver’s eyes water.
There would be archers on the ramparts soon. Dusaan was certain of it. And they would be harder to kill.
“Hear me!” he called over the death cries and the groans of the wounded. “I can kill all of you if I have to. And your emperor, too. Or you can surrender to me as he has and spare yourselves. This is your last chance to live. Lay down your weapons before me and you may leave the palace today as free men. Continue to resist, and you’ll die as these men have.”
For a long time nothing happened. Dusaan eyed the ramparts watching for the archers. He could shatter the arrows if he had to, but that demanded a more precise use of shaping power, and he wasn’t certain how much more his companions could give him.
After several moments, however, soldiers began to emerge from the towers and guard house. They held their weapons low, swords pointing toward the ground, bows hanging from their hands. And one by one, they laid the weapons at Dusaan’s
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