The Bloodbound (11 page)

The knight handed the folded colour of Greenhold over to his squire, exchanging it for a bundle of white. At first glance, it seemed only to be the banner of the Kingswords: a simple square of pure white. But as the flag unfurled from the spike, the golden sunburst flared as brash as dawn, and all around her, Alix heard sharply drawn breaths.

“Oy!” One of the guards stepped forward angrily—the same who had spoken before. He was a bull of a fellow, short and broad. An easterner, by the look of him, with more than a drop of Onnani blood. “If you're going to fly that, at least have the decency to add a mourning band!”

The knight looked down from the ramparts with a smug little grin. “The king is in residence.”

“I never saw no one ride in,” the second guard said in an undertone. “Must've come overnight.”

“The Craven ain't been crowned yet. They got no right to fly that flag.”

Alix smiled darkly.
The Craven.
Now there was a sweet bit of wordplay. Few would dare to openly name Tomald's retreat at Boswyck treachery, but fighting men would call it cowardice, at least among their own kind. Whatever happened, the Raven would have trouble regaining the loyalty of a large segment of the king's army.

The guard's voice must have carried on the wind, for the knight on the battlements only smiled wider and said, “I do not speak of Prince Tomald. I speak of His Majesty King Erik, who reclines in your lord's solar even now.”

The guard flushed an ugly red. “You trying to be funny?”

He had a bold tongue on him, to address a knight so.
Must be his Onnani side
, Alix thought wryly.
Rebellion is in the blood.
But before the Kingsword could reply, a voice over Alix's shoulder said, “Alas, Commander Marvyn is not known for his sense of humour.”

The guards turned, blanched, and fell to their knees.

“Your Majesty!” The easterner glanced up furtively, as if fearing that if he looked too squarely, the mirage might vanish. “You . . . you're . . .”

“Alive?” Erik came to stand beside Alix on the lowest step. “Most assuredly.”

“The gods are good,” the second guard said, his hand going to his heart.

“I will join you in that sentiment when the war is done, and the Oridians driven back to their own lands with their tails between their legs.”

“Aye, sire,” the guards said together.

“Please rise.” They did so, Erik eyeing the bolder of the two appraisingly. “What is your name, soldier?”

“Smith, Your Majesty. Birk Smith.”

Gods, he
was
bold. Not only had he taken a second name, he'd used it in front of the king. It was a brazen political statement.
I'm Onnani first and Aldenian second, and I believe every man has a right to a second name.
He must have been a blacksmith before joining the Greenswords. Fresh from the docks, this one.

Erik smiled benignly, as though the significance of
Smith
had passed him by entirely. “You strike me as a man of initiative, Birk. Is that so?”

The easterner drew himself up. “I like to think so, Your Majesty.”

“Then I can entrust to you an important task?”

The man looked fit to burst with pride. “Aye, sire.”

Alix felt a surge of admiration for her king. In the space of a few heartbeats, Erik had the rebellious self-named Smith eating right out of his hand. Charisma like that couldn't be learned. Erik had a gift.

“Go now,” the king told Birk Smith, “and tell your comrades what you've seen here. Speak to as many of them as you can. I would correct this unfortunate gossip about my demise.” The easterner bowed deeply, and he and his companion headed off for the barracks.

Erik lowered himself down beside Alix, watching the guards cross the bailey. She took in his sable-lined cloak and rich brocade doublet with a smirk. Throughout his stay at Greenhold, the king had kept himself well trimmed, but this was something of a different order. He positively
reeked
of royalty. “You enjoyed that,” she said.

“Maybe a little.” Rubbing his hands together, he said, “It's blasted cold out here. What are you doing?”

Alix glanced down at the sword dangling in her hand. She'd forgotten it entirely.

Erik followed her gaze. “Ah, yes. I've been meaning to ask you about that.” He gestured at the egg-sized garnet embedded in the pommel. “Bloodforged, obviously. Is that the sword Rig had made for you?”

“For my sixteenth birthday,” she said, surprised. “How did you know?”

“Who do you think gave Nevyn permission to travel all the way to Blackhold?”

Of course.
She should have realised. Even in peacetime, the bloodbinders were jealously guarded by the crown, so rare and valuable were their talents. Rig would have needed permission to tempt one away from the royal forges, even temporarily. He could have taken his sister to Erroman, but that would have ruined the surprise. He'd been incredibly proud of himself for pulling it off.

Alix turned the shortsword over in her hand, admiring the way the sunlight licked the blade. “I was completely ungrateful at the time. I wanted a diamond necklace.”

“Understandable. It's tradition, after all.”

“I thought he was trying to send a message about my lack of devotion to my training. And I wasn't very excited about the idea of having my blood drawn, either.” She flicked her wrist, slicing the air in a perfectly precise arc. “Now I can't imagine being without it.”

Erik grimaced. “I don't have to imagine it. I'm living it. Every time I lift one of those practice swords, I feel like I might as well be fighting left-handed.”

“Me too.” Alix supposed that was one disadvantage of owning a bloodforged weapon. One grew to rely on the enchantment. So long as she wielded her own sword, forged with her own blood, she might as well have wielded an extension of herself. The bloodblade obeyed her utterly. It never slipped, never jarred, never threw her off balance. Striking with it was as natural as throwing a punch. But if she should become separated from her sword, the way Erik had, she would find it awkward to fight with an inert chunk of metal. How would she cope with that on the battlefield? She hoped she never had to find out.

“Have you ever tried to use someone else's bloodweapon?” Erik asked.

She laughed at the memory. “Once. I took Rig's bow, just to see what would happen. I thought that since I was his sister, since we shared the family blood, maybe I could use it.”

“And?”

“I couldn't even hit the wall of the armoury. The arrows just twisted around like a sow's tail, or bounced off the wood. I told Rig I thought it was defective, and he took it out of my hands and shot a fly from a pile of horse dung at twenty paces. I couldn't believe it. Apparently being siblings doesn't make any difference at all.”

Erik shook his head. “Not unless you're identical twins. The blood has to be exactly the same. Otherwise, the enchantment works in reverse, just like it would with anyone else. I learned that lesson the hard way too, with my father's greatsword. Tom and I sneaked into the royal armoury. He wanted to try on my father's ceremonial plate, but I only had eyes for that sword.” His smile widened, lost in the memory. “I must have been about fifteen—almost a man—but I couldn't even heft the thing. I managed to get the hilt off the ground, but the tip of the blade felt like it weighed a thousand stone. It wouldn't yield to me, even when I threw all my weight against it. Tom watched me struggle, but he never tried to help. I think he enjoyed seeing me so humbled.”

His smile faded as quickly as it had come. Alix wasn't surprised. “They say the Priest knows the bloodbond,” she said. Not exactly a cheerful change of subject, but at least it would draw his mind away from his brother.

“I'm certain of it. If not him, someone else who travels with that army. It seemed like half the men at Boswyck had bloodswords.”

“It won't help them.” Her voice was armoured with confidence, but inside, her guts twisted over themselves, as they did at least once an hour, whenever she thought of Liam.

Gods keep him safe
, she prayed silently.

If only she believed.

A
lix peered down from the ramparts overlooking the road to town. It was quieter today, thank the gods. Only a few villagers clustered near the gate, laying sprays of winter flowers. The bouquets lined the curtain wall, nearly two weeks' worth, stacked waist deep in some places. Crocuses and pansies, roses and witchhazel, snowdrops and coralberry and chrysanthemums, many of them tucked in woven wreaths of wheat or rye. Alix's favourite were the dried lavender; whenever she saw them, she stole outside the gate to bring them inside, letting their rich, sleepy fragrance fill her room in the keep. The perfume wafting up to the ramparts was not quite as pleasant, the sweet scent of the new flowers lending a sugary coating to the decay of the old.

“We'll have to remove those,” Commander Ormond said, as though reading her thoughts.

“Leave them awhile yet,” she said. “The people deserve to express their joy. Gods know there's little enough of it to be had.”

The garrison commander grunted. “At least they've left off the swarming. It doesn't do to have hundreds of peasants pressing in on my walls, however joyful they may be.”

On that score, Alix agreed. She understood why they came, of course. Their king had been miraculously restored to them in the midst of war. Erik's triumphant return had the quality of myth, and he the mythical hero. Understandable as the enthusiasm might be, however, it still made Alix nervous. Last week, when Erik had ventured forth into the throng (over Alix's strong objections), she'd lost sight of him immediately, and she'd been on the brink of ordering the royal guardsmen to extract him. But it proved unnecessary. Erik's casual charisma blunted the edge of the crowd's frenzy, inspiring a relaxed, festive mood. He traded well-wishes and anecdotes, flattered the women and joked with the men. And then he took his leave, without so much as an unwanted grab of his hand.

“The people must see me, Alix,” he'd told her as they headed back through the gate. “They are my shield, and I am their hope.”

Since then, the crowds had thankfully dwindled. “It looks quiet enough out there,” Alix said. “I'm going.”

Commander Ormond did not trouble to conceal his disapproval. “How many times is that now?”

“Four.”

“Four evenings spent in that stinking tavern. And for what? To listen to ale-sodden oafs telling tales?”

“Taverns are a good place to hear news,” Alix said, as though she were an expert on the subject. She'd never set foot in a tavern before the Crooked Mast. Her mother would have died all over again if she knew.

“And what news have you heard, pray?”

She shrugged. “Nothing much, but I choose to regard that as a good sign. It means people don't care enough about the Raven to gossip about him.”

“And yet you go anyway.”

“Someone needs to. We're blind and deaf behind these walls, Commander.”

Ormond snorted, but he'd said his piece. “Do as you will, Captain.”

As though I need your permission.
She descended the steps from the wall walk, leaving Ormond to his thoughts. Two of her guardsmen trailed behind her. “Remember,” she said, “four on the king at all times, and don't take your eyes off him for a moment. If any man so much as relieves himself without finding a replacement first, I'll have his head. Understood?”

“Understood, Captain.”

The guardsmen left her, probably muttering to themselves about being taken for fools. Alix had given that particular speech several times over the past few days, but she still felt nervous about leaving the king alone. If only she could trust one of her men to do the reconnaissance work, she could stay with Erik, where she belonged. She'd tried sending some of her guardsmen into town, but it had proved to be a waste of time. The knights couldn't blend in to save their lives, and the common-born men didn't seem to know what they were listening for. All Alix ever got from them was drivel.

She found the Crooked Mast packed to the crow's nest, as usual. It seemed like every man in the Greenlands had decided to make the place a second home. Gratified as she was to see the people toasting their king, Alix wondered how much longer they intended to use Erik's miraculous resurrection as a pretext for public drunkenness. She bumped and jostled her way between the tables, her eyes already watering from the stench of sweat, beer-soaked rushes, and smoke. Wedging herself at a discreet corner of the bar, she slapped down a few coins and said, “Ale.” She'd already tried the wine, and the experience did not bear repeating.

“Your money's no good here, milady!” The innkeep, beaming, sloshed a draught of amber liquid into a mug.

Alix eyed him warily. “And what have I done to deserve such a boon?”

“You should've told me who you were.” He treated her to a theatrical wink. “The Hero of Boswyck can drink free for life.”

“The
what
?” Heat crept into her cheeks as she leaned across the bar. “Listen, don't call me that. And keep your voice down.”

He touched his finger to the side of his long, crooked nose. “Understood, milady. Keeping a low profile. You can count on me.” He shoved the mug at her, winked again, and went off whistling.

Alix swore into the froth of her ale and resisted the urge to glance around and see who might have overheard.
The Hero of bloody Boswyck. Isn't that just perfect.
So much for catching people with their tongues unguarded. After all the trouble she'd gone to making sure that her clothing wouldn't mark her out for notice, the innkeep had practically announced her to the room like a sodding herald.

Fortunately, most of the patrons were too far into their cups to notice. Alix listened as they traded jibes and tales of the road, as they toasted their king and mocked their wives, as they cursed Oridians and foreigners in general. Everyone seemed to know someone who'd fallen at Boswyck, and many a tribute was drunk. Through all of it, Alix heard nothing of use.

She soon grew bored. Absently, she picked up one of the coins she'd left on the bar, running her thumb and forefinger over its textured surfaces. One side was stamped with a sunburst, the other with the king's profile. Alix had never really looked at it closely. It was an acceptable likeness, she decided, though it didn't do Erik justice. He looked regal, certainly, but not quite as handsome as he ought. Something about the mouth was off, and the cast of the brow looked cold and arrogant. The strong jaw was there, though, and they'd gotten the nose right. Or was it more like Liam's nose? And the cheekbones, too, were like Liam. The more Alix considered the coin, the more she fancied she saw Liam's features.

She sighed, putting the coins away. Liam had been gone so long that she was beginning to see his face everywhere. Her mind was in constant pursuit of an excuse to think of him.
As though I have nothing better to worry about.

She lingered another hour or so before giving up. On her way to the door, she elbowed past a raucous group of fellows with long blades and well-worn bows.
Sellswords
, she thought contemptuously.
On their way to the front, no doubt.
She wondered where they'd come from. Not that it mattered—the hard truth was that the Kingswords alone could not hope to defeat the Oridians, not with their numbers divided between the Blacklands and Erroman. They would need all the help they could get, even if it came from brigands and knaves like these.

She spilled out of the tavern into the crisp-smelling air of late winter. The road to the castle looked deserted, a welcome reprieve from the press of filthy bodies inside. A pale winter sun slumped over the horizon as its watch came to an end. Somewhere over the edge of the world, the moon prepared to take over. Alix shivered against a blade-sharp wind, wishing she had her armour. The plate itself would do little to warm her, but the padding beneath would have been a welcome extra layer.

She was halfway home when a figure materialised at the crest of the road. A peasant on his way back from the castle, she presumed, though he didn't seem to be in any particular rush. On the contrary, he dawdled along, and as she drew nearer, she saw the outline of a sword at his hip. She tensed, reaching under her cloak to feel the reassuring presence of her own steel.

“Good evening, milady,” the man called to her.

“Good evening to you.” Her tone was standoffish enough to deter further courtesies.

Or so she thought. “Pleasant weather,” he said, slowing.

Alix flexed her cold-stiffened fingers under her cloak. Either he hailed from the extreme north, or he was trying to get her to stop. She thought she knew which. “I'm in a hurry, friend.”

“All right, then.” The man flashed an oily smile. “Let's get this over with.”

He was on her so quickly that she scarcely had time to react. She spun out of his path, drawing her blade as she moved. The man turned deftly and faced her, a shortsword gleaming in his hand. Alix flung her cloak over her shoulder and crouched.

Her attacker was left-handed, she noted uneasily. Rig had been nagging her for years to practice more with left-handed foes. She couldn't remember the last time she'd faced one. She would have given anything for a shield at that moment, but she didn't even have her armour.
Fool.
What kind of bodyguard leaves herself so vulnerable?

Her attacker dove in, but Alix was ready. She mirrored his movements as though he led her in a dance, pivoting her body away from his before rocking forward and slamming her blade down, driving the tip of his sword into the dirt. If only she'd had a dagger in her off hand, she could have ended it then and there. But she didn't, and he recovered quickly, leaping back and coiling for another strike. He lunged at her shoulder. The unfamiliar angle threw her off; instinctively, her arm flew up as though to block with her hand. Metal rang as the tip of her blade met the edge of his, knocking it aside. Alix staggered back, swallowing a thick knot of panic. If her sword hadn't been bloodforged, she would surely have missed that parry. Only the enhanced dexterity bestowed by the enchantment had saved her life.

Her fear made her reckless. She dove in too soon, hoping to tie him up at close range, and he lashed out with the hilt of his sword and clubbed her in the mouth, sending her reeling. Alix tasted blood. Her vision swam, and for a terrifying moment she thought she might swoon. A blur of movement brought her back to her senses; she swung out blindly, letting the bloodbond guide her hand, tuning her sword to the pitch of her subconscious. Her blade met resistance. The man cried out. A lucky shot, but as her vision cleared, Alix saw that it wasn't much. She'd drawn blood on his forearm, but not deeply. She gave her head a firm shake, spat a mouthful of blood at the dirt, and planted her feet.

Settle, damn you. You're the king's bodyguard, trained by the best master-at-arms in the realm. Your blade is enchanted to obey your every instinct. And who is this cretin? Some whoreson from the back alleys of Erroman? Quit flailing like a wounded goose and
fight
.

When he came at her again, she held her ground.
He is not my equal. He is nothing.
Her sword rang out once, twice, a third time, and went silent, its metal throat buried to the hilt. Blood ran warm over the pommel, over the dark red jewel that marked it as bloodforged. The man slumped into her, wide-eyed and gasping, one hand planted against her shoulder, the other clutching at the sword in his breast. Slowly, Alix turned aside and let him fall off her blade.

She left him twitching in the dirt, knowing that if she looked back, if she even paused to think, she might come undone.
Too close. You let that get way, way too close.
The man had been a mediocre swordsman equipped with an ordinary weapon, yet he'd almost had her. She'd nearly panicked herself into an early grave.
Learn from it
, Master Alvan's voice rumbled in her head. That's what he'd always told her in the yard, back when she was still learning. He would pick her up from the dirt and say,
Don't cry about it, girl, learn from it.
And so she would.

The sun had nearly set by the time she reached Greenhold. The far side of the bridge was deserted but for a single peasant crouched by the wall, perusing the flowers. Instinctively, Alix tensed, even though the wall walk teemed with guards. Her encounter on the road had left her shaken.

“Evening, Lady Black,” the man said, rising. “Had a spot of trouble on the road, I see. I thought you might.”

Alix's sword sang out of its scabbard.

The man smiled and raised his hands. “That seems a little hasty.” He spoke with a dark, rasping voice that might have been soothing had it not been cold as stone. Alix was certain she would have recognised that voice if she'd heard it before.

“All right down there, Captain?” One of the guards leaned out over the ramparts of the gatehouse. He'd seen her draw her blade. Perhaps he could even see the bloodstains on her forearm, though the light was failing.

“We'll see,” she called. “Have archers ready.”

The man's smile didn't waver. “Hasty
and
overdone.”

Alix looked him over. Clad in black from hood to heel, he was difficult to make out against the slab of grey stone behind him. Other than that, there was nothing remarkable about his person—medium height, medium build, simple clothing. His features were bland and forgettable, the sort of man you could meet half a dozen times and still take for a stranger. He didn't appear to be armed, but he could easily have a dagger concealed somewhere. Alix kept her distance. “Who are you?”

“Best not to think of me as some
one
, Lady Black. Rather some
thing
.”

“Some
thing
?” she echoed incredulously.

“That's right. Something very useful.”

She scowled. “I'll ask you again, and I warn you not to test my patience.
Who are you?
”