The Bloodbound (5 page)

“Olan is late today,” he said absently.

Alix glanced up at the sky. Sure enough, the moon lurked, pale and round, behind a wisp of cloud. If Gwylim were here, he would call it an ill omen. Olan had prolonged his patrol into the day, when it ought to have been his twin brother's sole watch. Worse, his battered shield was in full view. Olan only raised his shield when the dragon was near; the rest of the time, it dangled casually at his side, showing only a slim silver arc.

“Do you believe, sire?” she found herself asking. An impertinent question, maybe, but she thought she knew the answer. Few noblemen would claim to be believers. Faith was for the common classes, quaint and unfashionable. Noblemen swore by the gods, and some even prayed, but it tended to be more out of habit than faith.

Still, the king seemed to consider his answer carefully, the horses' steady hoofbeats counting out a long pause before he spoke. “Do I believe the moon and sun are all that stands between us and destruction? Most assuredly. Do I think that literally means that the moon and sun are divine weapons wielded by gods to defend us from evil? I can't say that I do, but I would be very put out if you mentioned that to the priests.”

She smiled. “Noted.”

“And you?”

Now it was her turn to pause. “I don't know. Most of the time I think it's all nonsense, but every now and then something happens that I can't explain, and I wonder. Like the Priest. They say the Oridian army has never lost a battle when he rides with them.” Hesitantly, she added, “The men say he was spotted at Boswyck.”

“I'd heard that.” The king's voice was unreadable.

“They say he knows magicks that can bend a man's will.”

“I have heard that too.” This time, the chill in his voice was unmistakable. He knew exactly where Alix was going with this, and he didn't like it. She swallowed and looked away.

The king fell into a sullen silence after that, and Alix knew she had only herself to blame.

*   *   *

Greenhold scowled down
at them from under a darkening sky. A pair of towers flanked the gatehouse, their rough stone faces slashed with arrow slits that glowed faintly with torchlight, lending the impression of a great, many-eyed reptile. Alix could almost
feel
the archers watching them from above, as though they stretched her nerves for bowstrings. The gate stood firmly closed.

Arran Green turned to the knight riding beside him. “What are you waiting for, Commander? It grows darker by the moment.”

The Greensword seemed to take the commander general's brusqueness in stride, as though it were nothing new. Perhaps he had met his master's cousin before. He was a blocky fellow with a broad, flat nose and a square jaw. Onnani, Alix guessed. She'd been staring since he rode out to meet them. It wasn't as if she'd never seen one before; there were plenty of easterners in the Kingswords, and even a few living as far west as the Blacklands. But an Onnani knight was something new. She wondered how a lowly fishman had managed to rise so high in the Greenswords—and what hint that might offer about the banner lord they rode to meet.

The knight called out to someone on the wall walk, and a face lit by torchlight appeared over the battlements. “Open the gate! It is indeed General Green and his host!”

Alix pursed her lips grimly. Apparently, the lord of Greenhold had not been prepared to take Liam's word for it. The Onnani knight wasn't an honour escort, but a scout sent to confirm the identity of the men at the gates. Such caution could only mean that Lord Green was expecting trouble.

A ponderous groan heralded the opening of the gate, and the great doors swung aside to reveal a scene of fear and disarray. Peasants crowded the bailey, along with their pigs and goats and such meagre belongings as they had been able to carry on their backs. Alix traded a look with the helmed knight at her side. King Erik had dismounted from the supply wagon just before they reached the bridge, not wanting to draw attention to himself. Now he and Alix stood behind Arran Green and his knights, only a handful of whom would ride into the compound. Even the vast bailey of Greenhold wasn't large enough to admit a host of five thousand, especially not now that it sheltered hundreds of peasants.

“It is as we feared,” Erik murmured behind his visor.

“So it would seem, Your—” Alix caught herself in time. “Commander.” From now on, she would have to be careful how she addressed him in public.

The king started forward, leaning heavily on his crutch. “Let's make straight for the keep. I want to know everything, and quickly.”

Arran Green had just dismounted when his cousin appeared, striding across the bailey with a greatsword strapped to his back. Alix knew him immediately by the long, thin face and dark brows that seemed to crowd his eyes. Raibert Green, Lord of the Greenlands, was younger than his cousin—in his midthirties, Alix judged—but he had the same permanently stern look that made him seem wise beyond his years. He had the same pale eyes too, though Raibert's were fringed with laugh lines that his kinsman's were entirely lacking.

“Cousin.” Lord Green clasped arms with the commander general. “Thank the gods you're well. When I heard what happened at Boswyck, I feared the worst.”

“What exactly did you hear?” Arran Green asked.

“Why, that the Kingswords were routed. The Raven and some of his men managed to escape, but most of the rest were slaughtered.” Lord Green dropped his gaze. “Including the king, may he find peace in his Domain.”

“I think he will have to wait awhile for peace,” the helmed knight remarked.

Raibert Green didn't seem to know what to make of that, so he ignored it. To his cousin, he said, “Come inside, you and your knights. You must be hungry. The rest of your men should be safe outside, tonight at least.”

“What do you mean, tonight at least?” asked the helmed knight. “Why do your people shelter at the castle?”

Lord Green regarded the disguised king bemusedly. Erik wore simple plate and mail, sturdy but unadorned, nothing that would signify him as anything more than an ordinary knight. Yet he spoke with authority, in a clear, crisp accent that suggested the highest breeding. Alix didn't blame Raibert Green for being puzzled. “The Oridians are all but upon us,” he said. “We expect them in a day or two at the most.”

“How can that be?” The helmed knight gestured vaguely to the south. “We left them far behind, and at last report, they were holding near the border.”

Lord Green regarded the impudent knight coolly. “Do I know you, Commander?”

Alix was suddenly very conscious of the crowded bailey. “Pardon me, my lords, but may I suggest we discuss this somewhere private?”

Lord Green's gaze shifted to her, and he cocked his head slightly. “Now here is someone familiar,” he said, a slow smile spreading over his face. “You're Riggard Black's sister, or my eyes deceive me.”

She bowed. “Alix Black, at your service, my lord.”

“You don't remember me, do you? I suppose I can't be offended—you were only five.”

“I'm surprised you recognise me, my lord.”

“Don't be. Not one girl in a thousand has those flaming locks, my lady, and I mean that as a compliment.” He extended an arm toward the keep. “Please, allow me to escort you.”

Alix glanced uncertainly at the king, but his eyes twinkled through the slats of his visor. He was enjoying this. He inclined his head discreetly, giving her leave. She took Raibert Green's proffered arm.

“The Oridians have divided their forces,” Lord Green explained as they walked. “The main host remains near Boswyck, but a second crossed the Spearfish near Darton less than a week ago. Three thousand swords, I'm told.” He sighed. “A small enough force, but with so many Greenswords lost at Boswyck, I fear we don't have enough to repel them. It will be a siege, and our stocks are already depleted this far into the winter.”

“How many Greenswords are left?” Arran Green asked.

“Two thousand, camped just outside the walls on the far side.”

“We have five.”

Raibert whirled. “
Five?
By the Virtues, that's wonderful news!”

Arran Green permitted himself a thin smile. “If the enemy is wise, he'll turn back. If not, Greenhold will be the last stop on his journey.”

Raibert closed his eyes in relief. “I'd thought the surviving Kingswords scattered over half the realm by now. This is . . . well, far more than I dared to hope for.”

“Nor is that the whole of it,” Arran Green said. “Take us to your study.”

They ascended the steps into the keep, passing down long, echoing halls until they arrived at the study, a small but well-appointed room with a single window facing onto the bailey. Alix noticed the way King Erik's gaze lingered appreciatively over the well-stocked bookshelves, much as a stable master might examine fine horseflesh.

“Here we are,” said Raibert when the four of them were alone. “And now, pray, who is this mysterious knight?”

“Have you not guessed it?” Without waiting for an answer, the king tore free his helm, grinning like a mischievous boy.

Raibert blanched. For a moment he just stood there, swaying a little, as though unsure whether to embrace his king or recoil from a ghost. “Your Majesty, is it really you?”

The mirth died in Erik's eyes. “It's true, then. You thought me dead.”

“Everyone thinks you dead, sire, including your brother! I am overjoyed it isn't so!”

“My brother,” the king echoed numbly, as though the word were foreign to him.

Raibert's gaze shifted to his cousin in a silent question. Slowly, dispassionately, Arran Green explained it all. Alix scarcely heard him. She was too busy watching King Erik as he leaned against Lord Green's desk, massaging his thigh with a flat expression. She saw no hint of denial in his eyes, no flicker of anger. He'd resigned himself to the harsh truth at last. Alix knew she should be glad of it, but instead she found herself fighting the impulse to put her arms around him.

“Gods' blood,” Raibert said when his cousin had finished. “I can't believe it.”

“Nevertheless,” the king said, “it's the truth. My brother has shown himself a traitor, and what he lacks in legitimacy, he makes up for in strength. And that is only the beginning of our troubles, as you know too well. I need the Greenswords at my back, Lord Green, and more besides. Can I count on you?”

Raibert fell to one knee and bowed his head. “Unequivocally, sire. The Greenswords are yours, and whatever else is in my power to give.”

“A bed, a warm fire, and something to eat,” King Erik said with a smile. “Most of all, your counsel. If I may have that, I am content.”

“At your humble service, sire. Once the enemy at our gates is defeated, we can rest here awhile, and then ride forth together.”

Arran Green went to the mantel above the hearth and picked up a large ornamental timeglass. With great ceremony, he turned it over, watching as the sand began to trickle in a slow spiral into the empty vial at the bottom. “And so the countdown begins.”

The king frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

“We cannot hope to keep the secret of your survival for long, sire. The Kingswords are loyal, but they are men. Sooner or later, someone's tongue will slip, and the Greenswords will know of your presence. Then the whole castle will know of it, and the town, and so on, until the Raven himself hears it. We must be prepared.”

He's right
, Alix thought.
It's only a matter of time.

“That may be,” the king said, “but every day we keep the secret is another day we rebuild our strength. We must be content to steal whatever time we can.”

“And there are measures we can take here at the castle to conceal your identity,” Lord Green added.

“Good. Now, let us repair to your solar and plan tomorrow's battle.”

As they quit the study, Alix touched the king's arm, handing over his discarded helm. “Ah,” he said, “thank you.” He started to put it on but paused when he caught Alix's eye. “What is it?”

“I . . . Nothing, Your Majesty.”

He smiled. “Not very convincing, Captain. Out with it.”

After a moment's hesitation, she said, “I trust you aren't considering fighting tomorrow?”

His blue eyes clouded over. “I hadn't really thought about it. I suppose I can't.”

“No, you can't.” She avoided his gaze, uncomfortable with her own boldness. “Not even from the rear lines. Your leg is not yet healed, and we can't afford any setbacks.”

“You're right, of course.” Erik donned his helmet quickly, as though to hide his displeasure. “And what of you, Captain? Are we to deny Greenhold your sword as well?”

“My sword is yours, sire.”

She'd meant it to sound resolute, but apparently she was more transparent than that. “At least we will be miserable together,” the king said as he turned to go.

A
lix stood on the ramparts of the gatehouse, watching as Arran Green addressed his men from astride his great grey warhorse. The commander general's words were lost to the wind, but every now and then, the men would raise their swords and pikes and give a rousing cry. Meanwhile, Raibert Green rode up and down the line, inspecting the ranks. Everywhere he paused, men tightened up or rearranged themselves while he gestured and pointed. At this distance, Alix could see little of the front lines—just the tips of their pikes glinting in the sun. She couldn't tell how deep the pikes ran, but the heavy cavalry at the flanks and the thick band of bowmen at the rear suggested that Arran Green expected to face mainly infantry.

“They look ready,” the king said. He leaned so far out over the parapet that Alix's stomach squirmed.

“Yes, sire,” she said, “and now that you've seen them, can I persuade you to join me inside the tower?”

“We're well out of range, and the view is much better from here.”

Alix's sigh was too soft for him to hear. She turned back to the field, scanning the distant tree line. The Oridians could not be far. Any moment now, Arran Green would order the advance. The Kingswords would meet their foes on the open field, counting on their vastly superior numbers to make short work of the advancing host. They could fall back to the castle in case of need, but the Greens considered it so unlikely that barely two hundred archers remained on the ramparts.

Alix glanced down at them. They lined the wall walk, daughters of houses great and small, plus a few men who were either too weak or too talented with a bow to be placed elsewhere. She wondered how many wielded bloodbows. In the scramble to prepare for war, the Raven had ordered the royal bloodbinders to focus their efforts on equipping the archers, since the bloodbond conferred a far greater advantage on bows than blades. Cavell and Nevyn had worked night and day for weeks, drawing the blood of hundreds of archers to enchant their bows. But the Kingswords had marched before they could finish, and the gods only knew how many archers had fallen at Boswyck. Cavell had marched with them, but he'd been slain at Three Skulls. Only Nevyn remained, and he was back in the capital. It occurred to Alix that she might wield one of the few remaining bloodforged weapons in the king's army. It was not a comforting thought.

Below, Arran Green wheeled his horse about and started across the field. The destrier looked fearsome in its shining plate and stark white war paint, and the commander general sat as stiff and proud as the stone knights along the Gallery of Heroes. The men marched behind him in straight, disciplined ranks. Within moments, they had covered half the distance to the tree line, and there, Green held them. A wave of silver rolled in the distance as the pikes were set. The Kingswords were ready.

They did not have long to wait.

“Here they come,” said the king.

Alix gripped the parapet and peered out at the dark mass of the tree line. Sure enough, flashes of light pierced the shadows where sunlight caught metal, and the breeze carried the distant whinny of a horse. For a moment, the forest itself seemed to advance, the trees marching forth as one, until gradually the forms of men took shape, marching behind the great golden trident of Oridia.

They had scarcely gained the field before a flock of arrows burst into the sky from the Kingsword ranks. The battle had begun.

“I should be there,” the king growled as the missiles rained down on the enemy.

Alix felt the same way, but it would do no good to say so.
Liam can take care of himself
, she told herself firmly.
They all can.

A shrill brass horn sounded the charge, and the enemy swarmed forward. The Kingswords answered; cavalry surged from either flank. The armies bled into each other, clotting into a single, dark mass on the field, and once again, Alix found herself standing at a distance, guessing at the fate of her friends and comrades.

The king started to pace, his crutch skidding precariously along the uneven stone. “Blast it, I can't see a thing!”

Alix had a sudden, sickening vision of King Erik plummeting to his death from the ramparts. Fate seemed to have a fondness for such irony. “Please, Your Majesty, there's loose rock here, and the parapet is low. Your crutch . . .”

He scowled, but he stopped pacing, and even moved away from the crenels. Alix dared to take her eyes off him long enough to glance at the battlefield—for all the good it did her. She could make nothing of the seething mass of metal and men.

The king sighed. “It's no use. They're too far away.”

She started to answer, but suddenly he hissed in pain and sagged against the wall, his hand going to his thigh. “Bloody leg.” He let himself slide down, armour scraping against stone, until he dropped onto his rear with a loud
clank
. “I need to rest.”

“We could go inside,” Alix suggested, but she knew what he would say.

“Not yet.”

With a final glance at the inscrutable battlefield, she lowered herself down at his side. “I'll look again in a little while,” she said in answer to his questioning gaze. “Staring at it will just drive me mad.”

Instead they listened as the distant echo of battle drifted, dreamlike, over the walls of Greenhold. The sound drew bile to Alix's throat.

“I hate this,” Erik said after a while. “A king belongs with his men.”

“Does he?” Alix glanced at him shyly. “We almost lost you at Boswyck, Your Majesty.”

He made a wry face. “I remember. That should not have happened, of course. I was supposed to be well behind the front lines.” He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. “One of several deviations from the plan, as I recall.”

Alix didn't know what to say to that, so she said nothing.

“Have you ever been betrayed, Alix?”

The question caught her off guard. She hesitated long enough that he opened his eyes and looked over at her expectantly. Swallowing, Alix said, “Not really, no. Small things, of course, but certainly nothing compared to . . .”

“Compared to my brother leaving me to die?”

The air left her lungs in a wordless gust. It wasn't the bitterness of the words, but the raw pain in the king's eyes that knocked the wind from her. This wasn't the Erik White she had ridden alongside this past week, the golden-haired king with the ready smile. She'd wondered how much of that was for show. Here, it seemed, was her answer. “I'm sorry,” she said quietly. It felt ridiculously inadequate.

“I wonder, is that the worst of it? Has my brother betrayed his country as well? Has he sold us to the enemy?”

So it has occurred to him.
It was the first he'd spoken of it, but Alix suspected it had been on his mind for some time. How not?

An aching silence fell. The king looked away, lost in his own thoughts. Alix couldn't help watching him, wishing she could think of something comforting, or at least wise, to say. If he noticed her staring, he didn't seem to care.

After a time, he said, “I keep asking myself how I failed to see it.”

“See what, sire?”

“The hatred. How could I look into his eyes day after day and not see it? It must have been there. A hate that strong can't be invisible.”

Alix felt compelled to say something, but what? She knew nothing of the king's relationship with his brother. “Maybe it wasn't hate that made him do it.”

“The Priest?” he said dryly.

She left that alone. “Ambition, maybe, or envy.”

“Envy . . . Perhaps. But what is envy but a path to hatred? I should have seen that he was getting desperate. I should have acted sooner. I thought he would trust me, that my word would be enough . . .”

Alix didn't know what he was talking about, but it didn't matter. “You can't blame yourself,” she said, all propriety forgotten. “Whatever happened between you, you couldn't have known he was capable of such treachery. What kind of man would suspect that of his own brother?”

“A wiser man than I, apparently.”

If that was wisdom, Alix wanted no part of it. “That kind of distrust has a way of bearing itself out.”

He looked over at her, his gaze shadowed and thoughtful. So much was going on behind those eyes, but it was a mystery to Alix, as inscrutable as the battlefield. Then, abruptly, he smiled. “Listen to me, brooding like an adolescent. Please forgive me.”

Alix blinked, taken aback. “There's nothing to forgive, Your Majesty.”

“You don't have to do that. Not when we're alone, anyway. You're a Black and a friend; we need no titles between us.”

“As you wish . . .”

“Erik.”

She dropped her gaze. “Erik.”

“Good.” He gave the ground a little thump. “I feel much better. You are an excellent bodyguard, Alix.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“But a slow learner,” he laughed, winking. “Come, help me up. Let's have a look at how the battle fares.”

Alix helped him to stand, feeling a little unsteady herself. Erik had vanished behind the royal mask as abruptly as if he had snapped down the visor of his helm. She wondered how long it would be until she saw him again, the man behind the king.

Just as they reached the parapet, a great cheer went up from the walls below. The archers thrust their bows in the air, brandishing them in time with their shouts. Shading her eyes against the waning sun, Alix looked out over the battlefield.

The Oridian lines had broken. The banners were down, the men scattering as they fell back into the woods. The Kingswords had almost reached the tree line. Cavalry circled the enemy stragglers, cutting off their escape while the infantry bore down on them.

“It's over,” Erik said. “The day is ours.”

Alix knew she should be giving thanks to the gods, but she couldn't. Not until she knew Liam was safe.

As though he'd read her thoughts, Erik said, “Let's go down and meet them at the gate.”

Smiling, Alix lent him her arm.

*   *   *

“Good morning,” Alix
said, her voice echoing in the vast emptiness of the chamber. Though the assembled royal guardsmen numbered more than twenty, the oratorium was designed to accommodate Lord Green's entire court, a gathering that could easily reach into the hundreds. Alix and her knights were swallowed by the space, a school of shiny silver minnows in the belly of a whale. They'd had little choice—they were too numerous for most of the other chambers in the castle, and they could not very well hold this gathering outside, not when there were so many pairs of ears about. At least this way, they could be sure of not being overheard.

“This meeting is long overdue,” Alix said, “but it could not be helped. Nevertheless, I hope you have found occasion to meet one another in the course of your duties. You will need to rely on each other in the days ahead, and it's important that you know and trust your comrades.”

The faces that stared back at her were impassive. They were men, mostly, and young. That wasn't surprising, Alix supposed. Female knights were few, and the older, more experienced knights who had once made up Erik's personal guard had all perished at Boswyck. The men standing before her had been appointed in the aftermath of the battle. Some of them might have even been knighted since then. Alix wondered how many battles they'd seen between them.

Not that you're in a position to throw stones . . .

She continued. “As you know, most of the kingdom believes that His Majesty King Erik fell at the Battle of Boswyck. For the moment, we cannot allow anyone to learn otherwise, and that includes our good hosts. Maintaining this secret is a matter of great strategic importance, and quite possibly a matter of life and death. That is a heavy responsibility, and it falls to you more than anyone, for you must go about your duties discreetly, without alerting the men and women of Greenhold to the situation. Needless to say, that will not be easy.”

Still the faces before her remained blank. Was it just good discipline, or were her words really so uninspiring? She'd seen Rig address his men once or twice, and she'd stood with the rest of the Kingswords as Arran Green rallied them for battle. Alix had been struck by how much presence they had. They were no great orators, either of them, but they'd sounded . . . commanding. Alix didn't feel commanding. She felt like an impostor.
Barely a fledgling
, Arran Green had called her. Was that what her men saw when they looked at her? A fledgling, younger than most of them and just as inexperienced?

If they do, you'll only make it worse by worrying about it. They'll smell the doubt on you, and they'll never respect you.
She cleared her throat. “Before we continue, are there any questions?”

Commander Kilby stepped forward. He was something of an elder among the guardsmen, the first to be appointed by Arran Green after Boswyck. He'd been in charge until Alix herself was named captain—a position lasting a total of three days. Alix was considering appointing him her second, but she hadn't seen enough of him yet to be sure.

“Speak, Commander Kilby.”

“When will we begin drilling, my lady?”

“Captain.”
My lady
was her rank by birth.
Captain
was her military rank, a title she'd actually earned—or so she kept telling herself.

He inclined his head. “Forgive me. When will we begin drilling, Captain?”

“As soon as I can determine an appropriate venue for it.” She meant to leave it at that and move on, but Kilby spoke up again.

“But, Captain, the men need to begin training as soon as possible. Guarding the king is a special skill.”

“I'm aware of that, Commander, but we can't simply start drilling in the bailey, in full view of the entire castle. As you say, guarding the king is a special skill, and it would raise a few eyebrows if we started tackling each other in the yard.”