A moment later, Q'Daer faced forward once more. Grinsa watched him and his men, though from this distance it was hard to tell what they were doing. Then it became obvious. The Mettai were no longer all together at the front of the Eandi lines. But several of them stood in a cluster, and now every one of them in this group collapsed to the ground, as if they had been smitten by some great unseen fist. A cheer went up from Q'Daer's men and was echoed by those warriors closer to Grinsa.

Almost immediately, the Forelander saw another, smaller group of Mettai reach for their blades and for handfuls of dirt. He knew what they were going to do and he shouted, "Fire!"

But he could also see from the trajectory of their spell that he'd be helpless to stop it. He threw a ball of flame at the shimmering mist, but it had already started to settle over Q'Daer and the others. He roared the young Weaver's name, and then watched the man fall to the ground.

Enly spun to see what had put that horrified expression on Tirnya's face, and felt the breath leave his body in a rush, as if he had been punched in the stomach. The eagle plummeting toward Jenoe looked to be the size of a small house. A house with talons like dagger blades and a beak that could swallow a horse whole.

Arrows jutted from its body in every direction, and more were hitting it even as it dove. But they wouldn't be enough to stop the creature. Tirnya was screaming to her father and now Enly did, too, even as he pulled out his sword and started sprinting toward the marshal. It was hard to hear anything above the tumult of all that was happening around them, but at last Jenoe seemed to grasp the danger. Not that there was much he could do about it.

The marshal began to run, peering back over his shoulder to see what the great bird was doing. The eagle adjusted its course with little more than a flick of its tail and the subtle shift of a wing. Even as Enly continued his desperate run, he was startled to note how much this creature of magic had in common with the normal eagles he had seen in the foothills of the Aelind Range. He also saw that Jenoe's attempt to escape had bought them both another moment or two. Enly never would have made it otherwise.

Just as the eagle reached out to grab the marshal in its claws, Enly caught up with Jenoe and shoved him to the side, out of reach of the eagle. An instant later the bird's talon closed, not around Jenoe, but around Enly, tearing a gasp from his chest.

The creature's grip was as strong as iron; he felt a rib break, and then another. One of the claws punctured his back just below the shoulder. The pain blinded him, stole his breath, and nearly made him pass out. It was a miracle beyond reckoning that he managed to hold on to his sword.

The bird started to rise, its wings pounding the air, its hold on Enly tightening even more. He felt and heard another rib crack. He knew he couldn't allow the beast to get too far off the ground, and so he drew back his blade, the pain in his side and back making his stomach heave, and he hacked at the talon that held him.

The bird let out a deafening cry.

Enly hacked at the foot again, and then a third time. Then he stabbed at the bird's leg with the point of his weapon.

The eagle shook him; it clutched him even tighter, crying out again. Enly stabbed at its leg a second time and then a third. The eagle bent its head down and for one terrifying moment Enly thought that it would tear into him with its beak right there in midair. Instead it tried to take hold of him with the other talon. He hacked at this one, too, with as much force as he could muster.

The talon gripping him opened and he started to slip from the eagle's grasp. He rolled, and let out a howl of pain as the flesh below his shoulder tore away. The eagle grabbed at him with the other talon, but only managed to knock him out of reach.

It was only then, as he started to fall, that Enly realized how high he already was. He'd thought that he'd kept the eagle from taking him too far, but he was wrong. This was like falling from one of the towers on his father's palace.

He was spinning, tumbling. It seemed to take forever. And as he saw the ground coming to meet him, he thought, I'm dead.

Chapter 24

They were farmers and trappers, wheelwrights and smiths. They had lived their lives under the Curse of Rheyle, coaxing livings from a stingy, blighted land. They weren't wealthy or powerful, but they were her people. They had left families behind in Lifarsa, men and women, boys and girls who prayed every night for their safe return to the village.

And now more than two dozen of them were lost, crushed as if by the war goddess herself. It had happened in an instant, without warning. That was the power of Qirsi magic. No blood, no earth, no spell. Just a thought, and in an instant more than a score were dead. If Fayonne and Mander had been standing with the others, they would have died as well. Being eldest didn't impart to her any special powers-she was no Qirsi Weaver. She would have been as helpless as the rest. But she was the leader of these people, and she felt their deaths in her heart in ways no one else on this plain could imagine.

And when she heard the cheer go up from that small party of Fal'Borna that had ridden forward on the left side of the battle plain, she knew that they were responsible.

It was a rash choice, especially after what had happened by the river in their encounter with the last Fal'Borna army. Fayonne didn't care. These white-hairs had killed her people, and now they were celebrating.

She bent down and grabbed a handful of earth, then held it over her head for just an instant.

"Blades!" she called to the Mettai who were still with her. "The poison spell!"

"Mother, no!" Mander said, whirling to face her.

"You heard me!" she said, ignoring him.

The others stared at her. A few of them exchanged troubled looks.

"You saw what they did!" she said, her voice carrying over the din of battle. "You saw how many of our people fell. And now you can hear the white-hairs cheering. We'll be next, unless we stop them, unless we avenge those we lost."

Mander strode to where she was standing and planted himself right in front of her. "Mother, you can't-!"

It happened so fast that she didn't realize she'd slapped him until he raised his hand to his cheek. She saw the imprint of her hand forming there, red and stark on his pale skin. Fayonne felt her own face coloring, but she didn't apologize.

"Blades!" she said again, stepping around him and cutting her hand.

She caught the blood on her knife, mixed it with the dirt she held, and began to recite the poison spell. Some of the others merely stood there, watching her. She didn't need them. Enough of the others were speaking the spell with her to take care of that small company of Qirsi.

"Mother, you can't do this!" Mander said from behind her, his voice tight with rage and humiliation.

She glanced back at him. "I have to do it."

"But the curse-"

"The curse is not absolute!" she said. "I know what happened last time, but you know that it's not that predictable." The eldest actually laughed, though she sounded slightly mad to her own ears. "I wish that it was so predictable! Our people would have overcome it generations ago."

"There will be a cost!" Mander said.

Fayonne nodded. "Perhaps. But there must be a cost for the Fal'Borna as well."

She faced forward again, spoke the spell once more from start to finish as the others completed reciting it, and sent the deadly silvery mist at the Qirsi.

The effect was immediate and absolute. The white-hairs who had been gloating over the deaths of her people moments before now clawed at their throats and toppled off their horses. Their animals fell, too, which was unfortunate but unavoidable.