“The Siyee are like archers,” Jayim said. “Flying archers.”
“Yes,” Arleej agreed. “They’re relying on surprise to attack and get away before the Pentadrian archers have time to retaliate.”
“Which is the same strategy the vorns are using,” another Dreamweaver noted. “But they don’t have anything like the black birds to deal with.”
“The Siyee are holding their own against the birds,” Leiard stated. “The birds don’t appear to attack when they’re alone, only as groups, but that makes them more vulnerable to missiles.”
“What happens if the Circlian army loses, but the White win?” Jayim asked.
Leiard smiled grimly. “If the White defeat the Pentadrian sorcerers they can then kill the remaining Pentadrians—or demand they surrender.”
“Would they abandon their own soldiers in order to use all their magic to kill the black sorcerers?”
“Perhaps as a last resort.”
“I…I don’t understand. Why do they bother bringing soldiers into battle at all? I can see how the priests help the White by giving extra magical strength, but I can’t see how soldiers make any difference.”
Arleej chuckled. “You must look to the motive for war. It is nearly always about taking control so the maximum reward can be reaped from the defeated. An invader is thinking beyond the battle. After victory they must maintain control. Even if they are powerful sorcerers, they can’t be in more than one place at once, so they bring helpers. Minor sorcerers. Fighters. People who are lured by the prospect of loot and land.
“The defenders know this and so raise an army as insurance in case they lose. If the defenders’ army kills as many as possible of the invaders’ army there are fewer of the potential conquerers left to impose control on their people. The conquered people have a better chance of rising up against their conquerors later.”
Jayim nodded slowly. “And if they wait until the sorcerers finish their fight, and their side loses, the enemy’s sorcerers will kill them anyway. So they may as well fight now.”
“Yes.” Arleej sighed. “Though most soldiers do not realize this. They do what they’re ordered to do, trusting in their leaders’ judgment.”
“Sorcerers have been known to give the remaining fighters the opportunity to surrender,” Leiard added.
Jayim stared out at the battle and frowned. “Are we…are the Circlians winning or losing?”
Looking at the valley again, Leiard considered the two sides carefully. He had noted that the ordinary soldiers were struggling, but hadn’t been concerned because, as he’d told Jayim, victory or failure did ultimately depend on the White.
The Circlian priests and priestesses appeared to be suffering greater losses than the sorcerers supporting the Pentadrian leaders. There were far more white-robed corpses than black. As he watched, he gradually saw why this was so.
The vorns. They were so quick and effective at killing that from time to time they were able to get behind the Circlians’ defenses and surprise a priest or priestess. In addition, none of the Circlian forces were as effective at removing the enemy’s sorcerers. The Siyee were the only fighters able to attack them, but the black birds were keeping the Siyee in check.
“The Pentadrians have the advantage,” he said.
Arleej sighed. “The hardest challenge a Dreamweaver can ever face isn’t prejudice or intolerance, but to stand back and watch your own country lose in a war.” She looked at Jayim. “We do not take sides. If you step in and fight, you are no longer a Dreamweaver.”
Jayim nodded. His young face was creased with tension and unhappiness—and resolution. Leiard felt a mingled pride and sorrow. The boy would not falter, but he would not like himself for it.
Arleej turned and gave Leiard a direct, assessing look.
“And you?”
Leiard frowned at her. “Me?”
“Not tempted to rush in and rescue anyone?”
Her meaning came to him in a rush. Auraya. Could he stand back and watch Auraya be defeated? Could he watch her die?
Suddenly his heart was racing. He looked out at the battlefield—at the five White. Why hadn’t it occurred to him before? She always seemed so strong, so confident, he thought. I might not have liked that she was one of the Gods’ Chosen, but it meant she was safe. Immortal. Protected by magic and the gods.
The gods…Surely they wouldn’t allow their chosen human representatives to lose?
If you believe that, you are a fool, Mirar whispered.
“What could I do to save them?” Leiard said honestly. “One single sorcerer? I doubt I’d make the slightest difference.” Aware that his voice was betraying his distress, he looked at Arleej. “Except, as always, as a healer.”
Arleej gave his shoulder a sympathetic squeeze. “And a fine one at that.”
As she walked away, Leiard sighed heavily. He no longer wanted to watch the battle. Not if it meant watching Auraya die and not being able to do anything about it.
I could spare you the ordeal, Mirar offered.
No. I am here to heal, Leiard replied.
I can do that for you.
No. When this is over with we will go to Somrey and I will be rid of you.
You think Arleej can fix you? I’m not sure you’ll like having her poking around in your mind. I’m not sure I like the idea, either.
I thought you wanted to be gone?
That depends on whether the White win this battle or not. If they do, I’ll let you go to Somrey. We’ll see if Arleej can do something about our situation.
And if the White lose? Leiard asked.
Mirar did not answer.
46
Tryss glided in a wide circle in the hope of getting a chance to view the battle. Without an immediate target, a black bird to contend with, or something else to occupy his attention, he was suddenly aware of how tired he was. Every muscle ached. He realized he was bleeding from several cuts and scratches, though he could not remember how he’d got them. They stung.
Half of his flight followed him. He looked at them critically, noting wounds and signs of weariness. Tyssi was bleeding heavily from a deep cut that worried him. The rest looked fit but tired. He surveyed the battle in the sky. The number of black birds was noticeably smaller—he gained a grim satisfaction from that—but the number of Siyee had also diminished. By about half.
Some had flown away to rest or replenish their supply of darts, but not the majority. His stomach sank. Most of the missing were dead. People he knew. People he liked. People he didn’t. His heart ached with loss. It all seemed so stupid now.
Why did we agree to come here? Why did we sign the treaty? We could have stayed at home. Given up the southern lands to the settlers. Retreated to the highest peaks.
And starved.
He sighed. We fight because the Circlians were the better choice of ally at a time when we could no longer hope that world events weren’t going to affect us. Better to be part of them and suffer the consequences, than not be and suffer the consequences of them anyway.
A whoop of triumph drew his attention down. He saw a flight of Siyee swoop upward, having unleashed a rain of poisoned darts and arrows on the enemy. The leader, he saw, was Sreil. Remembering that Drilli was with Sreil’s flight, he searched for her. She was flying close behind Sreil, grinning fiercely.
Relief and gratitude washed over him. Just seeing her lifted his mood. She was still alive. And so am I, he thought. And while I am, I will fight.
Looking down at the rows of darts and arrows attached to his harness he estimated that less than a third remained. He would use them up, then take his flight out to the camp to collect more. Glancing at his companions, he gave the signal to follow. Then he dived toward the enemy below.
He’d learned to read from the landwalkers’ posture and movements what their attention was on. The Pentadrians’ pale faces were easy to see against the black of their robes, especially when they looked up. He aimed for a group looking intently toward o
ne of the black sorceresses.
Suddenly all of the faces turned toward Tryss in unison. He glimpsed hands in the same position holding bows and whistled a warning while dodging to the left. The rush of arrows was frighteningly close. Something scraped past his jaw. He arced away, heart pounding.
So they’ve learned to watch for us, he thought. And to pretend they haven’t until we get close. Clever.
He looked down and felt a shock as he realized how low he was flying. Fortunately the men and women below him now had their backs turned to him. Their attention was on something ahead. He looked up and felt his heart stop.
The black sorceress. He was about to fly over her into the magical battle. Twisting away, he flapped frantically and managed to reverse his flight and gain some height.
Only then did he realize he was alone.
Casting about, he forgot about potential archers below. Where was his flight? Had they turned in the other direction to avoid the archers. Or had they…were they…?
Looking down, he saw broken, winged bodies lying on the ground. All but one was still. Tyssi was feebly dragging herself away from advancing Pentadrians, an arrow protruding from one of her thighs.
Several men reached her and began kicking.
A fury flared inside Tryss. Ignoring any danger from below, he set himself on a straight path toward her attackers. He concentrated on their backs. When he was just within range he sent two darts flying. Two of the Pentadrians fell. Tryss saw the others turn toward him and dodged away. When he looked back, Tyssi lay still, blood spreading rapidly from a wound over her heart. He felt his eyes blur with tears. Blinking them away, he turned toward the front and realized he was flying toward the black sorceress once more.
He began to turn, then stopped himself.
Even as he straightened and took aim, he knew what he was doing was utterly pointless. He did not give himself time to think. Darts shot from his harness. He saw them fly through the air. He expected them to scatter away from a magical shield.
Instead they embedded themselves in the back of the black sorceress.
Disbelief was followed by delight. He gave a whoop of glee as the woman staggered forward. Circling away, he looked back. She had turned to stare at him. As her hand moved, his stomach began to sink with realization.
Something smashed into him.
It knocked the breath from his lungs. The world rushed past, faster than he had ever flown before, then something else hit his back. The ground. He heard a crack and almost blacked out at the pain that ripped through his body.
What did I just do? he thought as he lay there, gasping. Something really, really stupid, he answered. But I’ve killed her. I poisoned the black sorceress. We’ll win now. I’ve got to see that. He opened his eyes. Lifting his head sent bolts of pain down his back, and what he saw made him feel queasy. His legs were bending in places they shouldn’t.
That should hurt, he thought. But I can’t feel anything at all. Nothing below my waist. He knew he was badly hurt—probably dying—but he could not quite believe it. Black-clothed men and women loomed over him. They looked angry.
He smiled. I killed your leader.
One said something. The others shrugged and nodded. They walked away.
Gritting his teeth, Tryss raised his head again. Through the black-robed figures he could see the sorceress. As he watched she reached back and pulled one of the darts out, then another, and tossed them aside.
She should have been affected by the poison by now.
Instead, she turned back to rejoin the battle.
If he could have made his jaw work, he would have cursed. Instead he closed his eyes and let his head drop. Drilli’s going to be so angry with me.
And he let blackness take him.
Throughout the day the White had moved slowly toward the center of the valley, always seeking a fresh source of magic. The black sorcerers, too, had advanced step by step. The army between them grew ever smaller, as if diminishing due to their unrelenting advance.
Auraya could see the faces of her adversaries now. To move forward, however, meant stepping over or around dead and injured men and women. The link with her fellow White kept her mind focused on fighting, but she was conscious of a growing tension at the back of her thoughts. She had begun to fear the end of their link, when she was no longer protected from the bleak and terrible reality that surrounded her.
Perhaps she would not have to endure it for long. She knew that the Circlian army was losing. She knew that the vorns had taken too many priests and priestesses and that this was finally tipping the balance of magical strength in the Pentadrians’ favor. She knew that there were too few Siyee left flying above.
Juran’s frustration imbued them all. He clung to the hope that the enemy would make one mistake. A single error that they could take advantage of.
When it came, the source was so unexpected they did not see it at first.
The more powerful sorceress faltered. At once Juran directed an attack on the weaker of the Pentadrian sorcerers, hoping his companions would not shield him in time. The man protected himself but left his own people vulnerable. Auraya felt relief and triumph as several of the enemy fell.
Then bodies rained from the sky.
She gasped in horror. The enemy had sacrificed their own in order to spare enough magic to strike at the Siyee. But why the Siyee? They were only a minor threat now.
She realized the Pentadrian leader was looking upward. He was directing the attacks. He glanced at her and smirked. Hatred welled up inside her.
:He still believes Auraya will ignore an opportunity in favor of protecting the Siyee, Juran said. I’ll protect them, Auraya. You strike at the leader.
She gritted her teeth and drew magic faster than she had attempted before. It came to her, swift and potent. She could feel it around her, feel it respond to her will and her anger, feel it gathering and gathering within her. She closed her eyes, overwhelmed by a new sense of awareness. Time stopped. She understood that this sensing of the magic around her was not unlike the sense she had of her position in relation to the world.
:Now, Auraya!
Juran’s mental shout brought her back to the physical world with a jolt. She opened her eyes and blasted the power within her at the Pentadrian leader.
The Pentadrian’s smug expression vanished. She felt his defense fail. He flipped backward, knocking men and women behind him to the ground.
Auraya waited for him to rise again. Waited for Juran’s next instruction. Slowly she grew aware of the other White’s surprise and the diminished force of the enemy. Pentadrians crowded around their leader. A cry went out.
:They’re saying he is dead, Dyara said. Kuar is dead!
Auraya stared at her fellow White.
:Surely not. He must be unconscious. They must think him dead. He is trying to trick us into lowering our guard.
:No, Auraya, Rian said. I doubt anyone could survive that blow.
:But…
:He made the mistake we were hoping for, Juran decided, his words laced with triumph. He didn’t anticipate such a powerful attack and didn’t put all his strength into defending himself. Maybe he was protecting something else. Something we aren’t aware of.
:We’ve won! Mairae exclaimed. Yet her smile quickly faded. What do we do now?
:Kill them, Rian answered. If we don’t they will always be a danger to us.
:Rian is right, Juran agreed. We have no choice. But there is no need to kill any other than the leaders. The rest of them may live…
:So long as they surrender, Dyara added.
Auraya felt Juran and the others gathering magic. She did the same.
:No!
The voice boomed through Auraya’s thoughts. Shocked, she nearly let her protective shield fall.
:Chaia! Juran replied.
:It is I. Do not kill the enemy leaders. If you do, others will take their place. You know these people now. You know how they fight. They know you are superior to
them. Let them go.
:We will, Juran replied. Auraya could sense his relief and puzzlement. As the god’s presence faded, Juran turned to regard the enemy sorcerers. The four were expressionless, but they were no longer attacking.
:We will move forward to meet them, Juran decided.
As they walked through the remaining Circlian army a stillness slowly spread over the battlefield. Fighting stopped and the two sides retreated from each other. The four Pentadrian sorcerers drew closer together.
Then Auraya became aware of a new sound. Yelling and shouting. She looked around, afraid this was a new attack.
And realized the Circlians were cheering.
47
As the two armies stopped fighting and retreated to either side of the valley, Emerahl let out a long sigh.
I knew it was too good to be true, she thought. For a while there I thought these Pentadrians were going to solve my problem with the Circlians for me.
But the gods would never allow invading heathens to wipe out their followers. No doubt they had intervened in some way to ensure the White’s victory.
Why they had waited until the end of the day was a mystery. The low sun bathed the valley with a gentle light. It glinted off weapons and shields and turned white robes to gold. Most of those were on the ground, the belongings of the dead, dying and wounded.
Soon the Dreamweavers would begin their work.
She could sense a growing tension among the men and women standing nearby. They were waiting for the two armies to leave. She had never known Dreamweavers to be so hesitant or so fearful. Link memories of the slaughter of their kind had taught them to be cautious, she guessed.
After leaving the brothel caravan she had continued back down the road toward Toren for a few hours before leaving it and starting across the plains. Even if Rozea decided to keep the loss of her favorite to herself, stories of the whore who turned out to be a sorceress were bound to spread—and become exaggerated with each telling. If a Circlian priest decided to investigate, Emerahl wanted searchers to think she’d headed back to Toren. The last move they’d expect from her would be to continue following the army. At least she hoped that was the last move they’d expect.