The Bloodforged (10 page)

“Sensible. That way, you can keep an eye on me. You never know what foul mischief a priestess might get up to.”

Rig wasn't quite sure what to make of that.

The woman laughed again. It was as if she enjoyed his discomfort. He couldn't imagine why, but he had more important things to do, so without further preamble, he swung himself up and nestled in behind her. Putting his arms around her didn't seem like a good idea, so he grabbed the back of the saddle instead.

They rode in silence for a while. Rig's mind started to wander, thinking through his next move now that he knew the Oridians were poised to strike. He'd thought to have more time. He'd have prayed for it, were he the praying sort. Two weeks early meant two extra weeks of trying to hold the enemy off while the bloody Onnani tried to patch together a fleet, something they seemed curiously incapable of managing.
I can't do it
, he thought darkly.
It isn't possible.
He'd told Erik as much, not that it made any difference.

After a time, the woman broke in on his musings. “The enemy will strike soon, I suppose.”

He stiffened.

She must have felt it, because she clucked her tongue impatiently. “Relax, soldier. It is common sense, not magic, that showed me your mind. Your armour is decorated with the blood of an enemy scout. You are plainly an officer. What else would occupy your thoughts just now?” Her voice turned wry. “Unless it is your unsettling proximity to a priestess.”

“How do you know I'm an officer?”

“I speak Erromanian well enough to know a highborn accent when I hear one.”

Plausible enough, he supposed, but that didn't mean he was going to answer her question, not until he knew who she was. “I don't think I caught your name, by the way.”

“You did not ask it.”

He waited, but she didn't elaborate. Casting a glance skyward, he said, “What's your name, Daughter?”

“I am called Vel.” There was something almost musical
about her voice, something intimate, like humming a private tune.

He waited for her to ask his name, but she didn't, so he took his cue from her and didn't offer it. “What brings you to these parts, my lady? It's not safe this close to the front.”

“I am no lady. We have no such affectations in Onnan.”

The real thing, then. He'd thought so, from the accent. “Onnan, is it? Now I'm even more curious. I feel compelled to warn you that it's not an idle curiosity. We're at war. Foreigners wandering around this close to the front is not a matter we take lightly.”

She drew herself up in the saddle. “We are allies, soldier. We are here at the invitation of your king.”

“
We
, is it? Are you with the Onnani battalion?”

“I am. I minister to their ranks.”

“They arrived two days ago. What are you doing out here alone?”

“I fell behind in the Greylands when I remained in a village to help deliver a baby.”

“A courageous decision,” Rig said.
A foolhardy one
, he was thinking. “It's not safe to travel the Imperial Road alone, especially for a woman.”

“Even for a priestess of Eldora? Would Aldenian bandits not fear my dark powers?” The sarcasm again. It seemed to be a favourite tune.

“They might,” Rig said, “if you were lucky.”

“And if I was unlucky?” She turned her head so that he could see the sardonic twist of her mouth. “Would they rape me, do you think? Set me aflame?”

“Most likely,” Rig said flatly. “They've been doing it to their own women, so a foreigner wouldn't trouble them overmuch.”

She fell silent for a moment. When she spoke again, the sarcasm was gone. “Is that true? Are your women being attacked on their own soil?”

“And our men, though they generally have the good fortune to die before anything worse befalls them.”

“Can your lords not protect them? Is that not the duty by which they justify their privilege?”

“Every man and woman who can hold a sword, and a few who can't, are already deployed. We're training more, but they're
needed at the front, or elsewhere. We're stretched to the brink, and if we make it through the summer, it will be by the grace of the gods alone.” He risked nothing in telling her this; it wasn't anything the Warlord didn't already know.

Another silence. “I did not realise things were so grave,” she said at length.

“I'm not sure your Republicana realises it either, or we'd have a fleet coming to our rescue by now.” Without waiting for a reply, he grabbed the reins and drew the horse to a halt. He jumped down just as a pair of archers stepped out from the trees on either side of the road.

The priestess sucked in a breath, her hand reaching inside her cloak. For a dagger, presumably, as though that would do her any good.

“Afternoon, chaps,” Rig said.

The archers lowered their bows and saluted, fists to their chests.

“Blindfold the lady until we can confirm her identity.”

Vel went rigid in the saddle. “I beg your pardon? How dare you—”

“Where are your horses?” Rig asked the men, ignoring her.

One of the archers pointed. “Half an hour's walk.”

“I'll send someone back with it once I reach the fort.” Rig gestured behind him at the outraged priestess of Eldora. “Gently, now. She's a friend, I think.”

“Is this how you treat your friends?” Vel asked coldly.

“Until I'm sure they are who they claim to be, yes.” To the archers, he said, “See to it that she has whatever she needs. As soon as her people confirm her identity, she's free to go.” He bowed. “I thank you for the assistance, Daughter Vel, and I hope to see you again. Until then . . .”

Until then, he had a battle to plan, and if he was any judge at all, less than two days to do it.

The season had begun.

“H
ere,” Rig said, pointing at the map. “Or maybe here.”

Morris grunted. “Not sure, General. If what we've heard about the Resistance is true, maybe the Warlord will want to steer clear of their strongholds. It would leave his rear vulnerable. He might decide to try his luck farther west.”

“The Resistance won't take on an army on the battlefield. It would be suicide. They'll do like we used to, go for his supply lines, or some other soft spot deeper in their own territory. Sadik will have his pick of the crossings, and if it were me, I'd ford the Gunnar here. Then, once I had enough men across, I'd take Whitefish Bridge.” It was the only bridge the Kingswords hadn't destroyed, simply because they couldn't. It had been built by the Erromanians, vexingly wide and stubbornly solid, enough to last through centuries of steady use. It would take a barrel or two of the priests' black powder to bring it down. Even if Rig was willing to use the last of his stock, they'd never get near the bridge with it. Anyone brave enough to attempt it would be blown to dust by a flaming arrow long before he got the barrels into position. The Oridians had been caught unawares by black powder once before; they wouldn't be caught again.

“Still,” Rig said, “the bridge is a choke point. They can't get more than—what, fifteen abreast?”

“Fifteen is a lot, especially with their catapults having a go at us from the far bank.”

He was right, of course. “Sadik wouldn't even need to cross,” Rig said, thinking aloud. “Even a feint would cost us
dearly. He could grind us down by attrition and then step over our corpses on his way to Erroman.”

They exchanged a grim look and stared at the map some more.

“General.” A guard appeared in the doorway. “Battalion Commander Wright is here.”

Wonderful. The last thing Rig needed was to play nursemaid to a novice Onnani commander.
I should have just refused
, he thought sourly. A foolish notion, and fleeting; he needed the men, even if they came with such a thick string attached. “Show him in.”

Commander Amis Wright strode into the war room, armour glinting in all its unused glory. And he was not alone. A priestess stood at his side, looking cold and proud—and extremely surprised.

“You.” She blinked at Rig, eyes round, lips parted.

“Hello, Daughter.” He was more than a little surprised to see her too. In his
war room
.

Commander Wright looked from one to the other. “You know each other?”

“Daughter Vel was kind enough to offer me a ride back to the fort yesterday,” Rig said. Inclining his head, he added, “Thank you again.”

He expected a barbed reply, but it seemed the priestess was too muddled to give one. Rig enjoyed that more than he ought to have.

“Ah!” said Wright. “You were the soldier she rescued on the road?”

Rig frowned. “Well, I'm not sure I would use the term—”

“General.” The guard appeared at the door again. “The scouts have returned.”

“Thank you. I'll send for them presently.”

“General.” It was Vel who spoke, warily, as though testing the word. She let out a short laugh and shook her head.

Morris didn't like that. “With all due respect, Commander Wright, this is a war room, and no place for a . . . priestess.”

The hesitation was slight, but it was enough to give Morris away. Not that Rig blamed him. A priestess would unnerve any Aldenian, but soldiers were superstitious, especially when it
came to planning a battle. Having a priestess in the room was like calling a curse down on them.

“I must disagree with you there, Commander,” Wright said. “Daughter Vel does more than minister to my men. She is my advisor in all things, that I might be certain my decisions follow the teachings of the Holy Virtues.”

Rig checked a sigh.
Bloody fishmen and their bloody piety.
But he could do nothing about it, not unless he wanted to get off to a bad start with his new ally. He forced a smile. “I might have balked at a priestess of Ardin, but a daughter of Eldora will no doubt give good counsel.”

The priestess's mouth quirked, as though she saw right through him. Which she probably did. Well, that was too bad. He might be obliged to let her stay, but he didn't have to like it.

He turned back to the map. “We were just discussing where the enemy is likely to strike. I make it the day after tomorrow, though of course that's just a guess.”

“An informed one, judging from the Warlord's pattern,” Wright said, leaning over the table. At Rig's enquiring glance, he added, “We've studied everything there is on Sadik's movements to date. Onnan may have only lately entered the war, but we have been following it closely, and there are enough refugees in our lands to piece together much of the story so far. Sadik prefers to rely on speed and surprise rather than giving his enemies time to plan.”

“Ardin is clearly his sign,” the priestess added. “He is bold and impulsive, and if we plan accordingly, it will be his undoing.”

Rig gave a thin smile. “Unfortunately, Ardin is also my sign.”

“So I had observed,” she returned dryly.

“Do we know whether Sadik has learned the location of the fort?” Wright asked.

Rig shook his head. “He'll have it narrowed down, but nothing firm enough to take action on, or we wouldn't be standing here. I've tried to organise our deployments so as to keep him guessing.”

“And what about Sadik's location?”

“We have a rough idea,” Morris said. “But with thirty thousand at our border, and another ten holding down Andithyri, there's not much room for our scouts to manoeuvre.”

“Are you in contact with the Andithyrian Resistance?” Vel asked.

The question surprised Rig. The Resistance was a relatively new phenomenon, and not openly discussed. If an Onnani priestess had heard of them, it was a safe bet that the Warlord's spies knew a lot more. Not good news. “We've tried,” he said, “but we can't find them. They're understandably shy.”

“A pity.” The priestess's tone was distracted; Rig could see the waterwheel turning in her head.

“What about a preemptive strike?” Wright suggested.

Morris scoffed. “With half the enemy's strength?”

“Actually,” Rig said, “it's not a bad idea.”

The priestess raised her eyebrows. “Ardin truly is your sign.”

Rig shrugged. “It wouldn't be the first time we went at the enemy with a fraction of his numbers.”

“Indeed not,” Wright said, “which is why I suggested it. You spent the better part of a season harrying an Oridian host with a force of barely six hundred men, to great success. Of course, you did have your famous horse archers, and I'm told each one of them is worth twice an ordinary cavalryman.” Seeing Rig's expression, he laughed. “Don't look so surprised, General Black. I told you we've studied the war. We did not confine ourselves to the Oridians.”

Rig was beginning to wonder if perhaps he hadn't misjudged the Onnani commander. What Wright lacked in experience, he seemed to make up for in study. Which made him more or less the opposite of Rig, a balance that might come in handy. “If we hit them when they don't expect it,” Rig said, “we could make a mess of their plans. It might buy us some time.”

“Hardly a sustainable solution,” said the priestess.

“Sustainability is a luxury I can't afford with what I have on hand. A well-managed strike will earn us a few more days to plan. It'll also give us a look at their deployment, something a little more up close than what the scouts have managed.”

Morris scanned the map, his brow stitched. “What're you thinking, General?”

“Whitefish Bridge.” Rig tapped the map. “We're going to blow it.”

“But I thought . . .” It took Morris only a moment more to
figure it out. His expression turned rueful. “Can we afford to waste the black powder?”

“We won't be wasting it. This is it, Morris. No point in holding anything back now. Either we'll survive the summer, or we won't. And if we don't, I don't want anything left behind for those animals, not a single rotten leaf of cabbage. Certainly not a barrelful of black powder.”

Morris swore quietly. “We need that fleet, General.” As though Rig didn't know. As though he could think about anything else.

“It will be here soon.” Wright looked embarrassed—as well he might.

“It had better be,” Rig said. “Or come harvest, we'll all be speaking Oridian.”

*   *   *

Rig passed his
sword over the whetstone, steady and methodical, listening to the familiar rasp of a blade finding its edge. The rhythm was a kind of meditation for him, like the breathing of a priest going into trance. It helped him to think.

Unless, of course, he was interrupted.

“Do you not have people to do that for you?”

Somehow, he was not surprised to find the Onnani priestess darkening his door.

“I suppose I do,” Rig said, “but a man who lets anyone else polish his bloodblade is not worthy of the weapon.”

“Ah, yes, the famous bloodblade. I have never actually seen one. I have never known anyone wealthy enough to own one.” She entered his chamber—uninvited—and came over for a closer look. “My, that is a large weapon. One might almost think you were compensating for your . . . shortcomings.”

Rig snorted softly. “You have a quick tongue for a priestess.”

“You have no idea.”

He resisted the urge to look up. She was baiting him, just as she'd done yesterday, trying to get a rise out of him. He thought he knew why. Vel had pegged him as a nobleman from the moment they'd met. Most Onnani had little time for the Aldenian aristocracy, and she'd proven no different; when he'd called her
my lady
, she'd dismissed it as an affectation. Now she was going out of her way to offend his delicate highborn
sensibilities. That amused him. It would have amused anyone who knew him.

“What can I do for you, Daughter?” he asked, exchanging the whetstone for another with a finer grain. He ran a thumb over it to make sure there was enough oil before setting to work.

“I could see you felt cornered earlier,” she said. “Obligated to let me stay. You needn't be. If you wish me gone, say so. I will find a reason to excuse myself from the planning. I can minister to the men and Commander Wright in their encampment. You and your men need never see me.”

Rig ran the blade back and forth, his touch feather light. Not the easiest manoeuvre with a greatsword, but he'd had years of practice. “Why should I want you gone?”

She laughed bitterly. “I am well used to it, General. In my own country, and especially in yours. I am a
priestess
.” She fairly spat the word, and there was enough acid in it that Rig half expected his floor to start smoking. “A witch, or a harlot, or both. Fear and derision have followed me all the way from Onnan City.”

“I'm surprised it bothers you. From what I've seen, you court it.”

Her gaze settled on his, dark and unreadable. “I would not expect you to understand,
Lord Black
.”

“Oh, good. I do so hate not living up to people's expectations.”

She frowned. “A glib reply.”

“I'm known for them.” Rig grabbed a cloth and wiped his blade down. He set it across his knees. “Look, Daughter, I'll not deny I was surprised to find you in my war room this morning. I've never been much of a religious man, and it's not common practice in Alden to have a priest, much less a priestess, involved in military planning. But I'm not a superstitious man, either. I'm a pragmatist, and if it makes Commander Wright feel better to have you there, absent any practical concerns of my own, it makes no sense to banish you.”

“What about Commander Morris?”

“Oh, he dislikes you enormously,” Rig grinned. “He generally feels that way about things that terrify him.”

“And?”

Rig shrugged. “And he's a good officer. He focuses on the
task at hand. Don't worry about Morris.” He rose, propping his sword against his chair. “Wine? It's mulled.”

“Yes, thank you. I'm freezing.”

“Spring's late this year. I thought that might buy us more time, but . . .” When Rig turned, he found her trailing a finger lingeringly along the garnet embedded in the pommel of his sword. “Pretty rock, isn't it?”

She straightened suddenly, as if he'd caught her with a hand in his money purse. “It's huge,” she said coolly. “It could feed a village for a year.”

“Maybe it could, if there was any grain to buy.” He handed her a cup.

“Another glib answer.”

He shrugged. “Like I said—”

“You are known for them, yes. I'm beginning to see.” She sipped her wine. Hummed in satisfaction. “Andithyrian.”

“Do I detect a familiarity with fine wine? Not to mention a fascination with large gemstones. Better not let that get out, Daughter. Someone might think you weren't a proper republican.”

That earned him a withering look. “Just because I admire fine things does not mean I approve of a system that hoards them in the hands of a privileged few.”

“Relax, Daughter, I was only teasing.”

She wouldn't be placated so easily. He'd piqued her pride; now she had to put him in his place. She pointed at his greatsword, then at the shortsword propped in a corner of the room. “Two bloodblades. I do not even care to speculate what they cost. Meanwhile, most of your men lack even one. Does that strike you as fair?”

He regarded her in amusement. “The military isn't known for being egalitarian.”

“So it has nothing to do with you being highborn?”

“It has everything to do with it. Are you telling me there's no concept of rank in Onnan? I doubt that very much, Daughter.”