of these—a ring that would magnify its bearer for war.
Whatever the purpose of the weave, only those included in its covenant could wear it. And then only the specific weave given them by the Divine. To use a weave outside a specific covenant was high treason and punished by death. And none of these men would want to be accused of even the slightest infraction.
Argoth turned to ride back to Varro.
Just a little more than a year ago Varro had been recommended by the Shoka warlord to become a dreadman. It was a great honor to him and his family, but it was also a burden. Dreadmen wielded immense powers, but they were expected to fight more frequently and with greater valor. Placing oneself in so many battles exposed a man to enormous risk, even for a dreadman. And so it was that while a weave might claim a long genealogy of heroes, it also claimed many who had ended up maimed or dead.
Argoth hoped Varro had escaped that fate today. He was one of the best men Argoth had ever commanded, and that was well before he’d been called to the covenant.
A Bone Face with a wounded leg tried to crawl away through the grass. “Bind him for questioning,” said Argoth. Then he went to Varro, dismounted, and knelt at his side.
Varro was more than just another fine asset, he was a friend. His hands and feet were bound and he bled from a deep slice in his gut. He obviously had not gone down without a fight.
Argoth looked for Varro’s bodkin, but it was not in its sheath. So he used a stick to work loose Varro’s knots.
Varro groaned and looked up at Argoth.
“Are you alive, man?” Argoth asked. It was a joke among his troops to ask this. For if the man were dead, it was said Argoth would reach through to the other side and punish the man for slacking. Not even death would hide his men from discipline and drilling.
“Skewered, Captain,” said Varro. Then he winced. “Only a scratch, mind you. I’ve got a jig”—another wince—“or two still in me.”
Argoth smiled grimly. The cut into Varro’s bowels might prove to be his death. Yet another life consumed by this weave.
“What were you doing, running like that?” Argoth demanded.
“The weave,” said Varro. He took in a sharp breath. “It failed.”
But that was impossible.
Argoth picked up Varro’s hand and looked at his ring.
The ring was gold. Cursed gold. Not black with magic, not even gray. Grass, silver, or gold, it didn’t matter what the weaves were made of; when the Kains drew Fire into them, the device turned as black as a crow. The more power that went into it, the blacker the weave. But this one was now nothing more than a ring.
Argoth finished untying Varro. It was possible to damage a weave so that it leaked Fire. Argoth asked Varro if he might remove it, and Varro consented. Argoth held it up in the light, acting as if he were inspecting it, and probed it with his own magic. There was no flaw. The Fire had simply been used up. The magic was gone.
There were only three other such weaves among the Nine Clans with any blackening at all. All the rest had run dry. And Argoth could not fill them. Not because he didn’t know the secrets. He knew the forbidden lore and had secretly bled his Fire into a number of the weaves they had. No, he simply didn’t have any more Fire to give. He’d already sacrificed enough Fire to reduce his life by tens of years. Measuring the Fire of a man’s days was an inexact art; he feared if he gave any more, he would forfeit his life. And he couldn’t gather the Fire publicly. The Clans would rise up and kill him for that.
“There will be more,” said Varro. “What are we going to do?”
He meant the Bone Faces, coming in the dead of night, with only a crust of moon in the sky, dozens of galleys scraping up on the beach. They would come, their dark faces painted as white as bone. They would come as they had for the last four years.
Except this time they would easily overpower the force of the Nine Clans because the Nine had no Divines. They didn’t need those who were Kains or Skir Masters. They just needed one Fire Wizard, a Divine who could fill their weaves of might. But they